Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The classroom is laid out like a real, adult science lab. Sinks at every desk, with separate taps for hot and cold water. Nozzles for gas, which are clearly marked and almost exclusively obsolete, present to serve decorative purposes only. Safety posters on every square inch of spare wallspace. Keep your nostrils, wear your goggles! That one’s Jason’s favorite. Everything is clean, polished, and worth more than Jason’s old apartment.

A chemical shower occupies the back right corner, a big red head and nozzle looming over a wide circular drain. In the event that a student should come into contact with dangerous chemicals, protocol mandates a hasty trip to the chemical shower, where they can thoroughly scrub down and enjoy the luxurious benefits of ruining their clothes, embarrassing themselves for the next eight years, and, on the once-in-a-blue-moon off-chance that the shower was necessitated by a substance with any real danger, avoid sustaining chemical burns.

School policy is pretty tight--it’s a rich school for rich kids with rich parents and lawsuit-happy attorneys, on call at any moment to sue every school official and their grandmother on the shortest notice. As such lawsuits are obviously avoided like the plague, safety at Gotham Academy is enforced to a ridiculous degree. Exhibit A) the fact that the biology booklet of safety regulations, eighty-seven small-print pages long, instructs that everything is a chemical . Everything should be treated as dangerous.

“Everything is a chemical,” Ms. Jones likes to remind them before, during, and after every lab experiment. “Everything is dangerous.”

Well, Jason’s just about had enough of that bullshit. If the teachers cared so much about their students’ safety, they’d do something about the rampant drugs and bullying. They’d protect their students. No. It’s clear that their care only extends so far as the expensive lawyers and overabundant liability waivers require them to. Every time Jason thinks about it, he gets so angry he has to clench his fists and grit his teeth so he doesn’t start cussing out whichever teacher is nearest--he’s done it before and been suspended enough times to know it doesn’t change anything.

Nothing changes. Jason hates it.  Jason wants out.

“Everything is a chemical!” Ms. Jones declares as her students fasten their safety goggles and tie up their hair for today’s biology lesson. They’re dissecting kitten fetuses. Fun. Jason can already name three students who’ve mysteriously found themselves dreadfully ill for the duration of this unit, and one more who suddenly remembered her urgent appointment on the other side of town upon walking into the classroom and realising what the lesson outline consisted of. “Everything should be treated like a chemical.”

“So,” Jason suggests with a lazy raise of his hand, having found himself struck by a lightning bolt of inspiration, “like, water is a chemical?”

“That’s right, Mr. Todd.” Ms. Jones seems pleasantly surprised to see Jason taking an interest in the lesson, raising her perfectly groomed eyebrows and turning her eyes in his direction for the first time all day. Surprised and wary. Jason isn’t the type of guy who likes to participate in class, typically. Looks like his sudden attitude adjustment is making her nervous.

Good, Jason thinks. 

He nods, trying to school his expression into one of polite interest. He’s just a student getting his education on. No funny business here. “What should we do if we ever spill chemicals on ourselves, then?” Jason inquires. “Sounds dangerous.” His careful control of his facial expression has not been entirely successful, and a snarky grin spreads across his face to the obvious worry of Ms. Jones.

“We use the chemical shower,” she instructs, pointing to it with one outstretched hand. He curls his lips at the sight of her manicure. Her fingernails probably cost a grand each. “It will rinse off the chemicals to avoid immediate burns. No student should ever hesitate to use it if they need to.”

“Gotcha.” Jason gives her two finger guns to demonstrate his appreciation. “Chemical shower. Sounds handy.” Very handy, indeed.

The lesson resumes with a suspicious side eye from Ms. Jones, and with it, makes the comeback of Jason’s dedicated inattention. He’s not planning on going into any bio-related field. He doesn’t understand why he needs this class, anyways. What Jason wants to do, much more than any sort of science-related bullshit, is make a difference. He just doesn’t know how yet.

When he’d been younger--really young, young enough to still be happy--he’d wanted to be a cop. Something about the job seemed so glamorous. He’d cruise around in his sleek, black police cruiser, badass K-9 German Shepherd poking its head out the other window, and he’d rescue people. Save the day. Be a hero. 

Then, Jason got older, and realized there were no heroes. His father finally got caught--a matter of time, really--and the cops came knocking on the door to arrest him. Jason’s dad had cooperated with their every order, had put his hands up when they yelled and then behind his back when they grabbed him to put the cuffs on. All that careful compliance, not a single finger out of line, and the officers had still knocked him to the floor and held him there to be beaten, just because his drug-related offenses and gang affiliations had been nothing compared to his single most heinous crime of being an immigrant, of being different, and different made him dangerous so they beat him up before carting him off to prison.

Jason doesn’t visit him there. He’d been a shitty dad, all things considered. But the injustice still rankles.

Jason grew up a little more after that. He lived with his mother and went to school at an underfunded public school in the bad neighborhood of Gotham, and his dreams had altered course around that time, because apparently so far he’d learned nothing. Jason was going to be the President. Because if Jason’s dad could be bad and the officers arresting him even worse--if the people were bad and the people helping the people were, too, then the person up top would have to be good for there to be any hope of change.

That hope died as well, around the same time Jason’s mother did. And then he came to live with Bruce Wayne. And then he started going to school in the illustrious, distinguished halls of Gotham Academy, home of the Knights, drug-addicted rich kids, and bullies who clamor for attention because they’re probably neglected at home.

Jason looks around at the expensive, pristine classroom, and thinks maybe he’d have been better off at his old public school. At least there, the kids understood him. He was one of them, they were one with him, and so on, etcetera. Brotherhood--or as close as one could get to it in Gotham.

There is no risk of anything resembling brotherhood here, Jason notices with a scoff. Adam Wellington (the lucky, spoiled son of multibillionaire parents) and his sidekick Geoffrey White (a lowly, regular billionaire, no multi to be found) are picking on Lachelle Anderson again. She’s here at Gotham Academy on one of the much-sought-after Wayne Enterprises scholarships, and though she’s only been here three months, it’s clear that that’s been more than enough time to thoroughly piss off Adam and Geoffrey.

Their harassment is like a rite of passage at Gotham Academy. You know you’ve made it as a scholarship kid if they take valuable time out of their packed schedules to torture you a little bit.

Unfortunately, while Jason probably had earned their animosity (having observed their bullshit early on and made it his goal to fuck them over before they did the same to him) Lachelle’s only crime is having been too studious. She’s got the highest grades in the class, and in a brilliant moment of truly inspirational insight, the teacher had seen fit to pair her with Adam and Geoffrey for the cat dissection in the hopes that her good grades might rub off or perhaps be absorbed via osmosis. They’re now flicking particles of cat brain into her afro puffs while she desperately combs them out and, judging from her face, staves off tears. 

Jason stands up and very casually saunters over to their table. “‘Sup, bros,” he says with a casual nod. He puts a hand on Lachelle’s shoulder. “How’s it goin?”

“Fuck off, man,” replies Adam dismissively. “Get your hands off Lachelle. Ain’t you gay or something, anyways?” One note about Gotham Academy culture: they don’t need to use slurs like fag here, because the connotation of gay and the way they spit it out like poison gets the point across just as effectively.

“Yeah,” agrees Geoffrey quickly, “Don’t be touchin’ our girl Lachelle.”

“I’m not your girl,” Lachelle asserts, standing up and stomping away with her arms angrily crossed. “You fucking shitbags.”

The assholes’ eyes go wide with comical offense. “Don’t you fucking call us shitbags,” Adam commands, standing up to follow her away. Jason directs a cursory glance over to the teacher, who has found herself very conveniently absorbed in helping another group locate their cat’s liver. He scoffs. Figures. 

“Yeah.” Geoffrey cracks his knuckles and reaches out to grab Lachelle by the elbow. Gripping her harder than a vice, he yanks her towards him sharply, and she stumbles, yelling angrily.

All of a sudden, Jason’s simmering annoyance bubbles over and before he knows it, he’s seeing red. Before he can even consciously decide to take action, his teeth are gritted, his face is red with apoplectic rage, and in each fist, he’s scooped up a juicy handful of cat brains, which he wastes no time in hurling at the unsuspecting faces of Adam and Geoffrey.

His aim is true--the disgusting, squishy organs hit their marks and splatter all over, covering each of their faces, shirts, and backpacks like paintballs. Adam and Geoffrey both double over, howling in miserable disgust. “MISS!” shouts one of them, “MISS, HE’S THROWIN’ BRAINS AT ME!”

“GET THIS SHIT OFF ME!” hollers another desperately, wiping at it frantically with his hands and gagging when the slimy substance coats them--he, unlike Jason, has neglected to don his protective gloves. His next move is to frantically shake his fingers out to, hopefully, scatter the brains away, but they end up all over his expensive shoes, and that seems to appall him even more. “MISS, THEY’RE ON MY SHOES, THERE’S BRAINS ON MY SHOES! GET IT OFF!”

“Oh, I can get it off you,” Jason promises grimly as one of them wails about how he’s going to get brain stains on his white shirt. His anger is not yet spent, and the declaration sparks a lightbulb of glorious inspiration. Jason hadn’t intended to utilize this particular secret weapon so soon, but another look at Lachelle has his rage returning in full and nothing he can do enables him to control it. He’s always had rage issues. 

Vision tunneled in on the bullies, Jason steps forward to grab each boy by the handles of their backpacks and, in one sharp movement, propels them straight into the chemical shower. With a push of the foot pedal, he’s turned it on, and icy-cold water is pouring over both of them in a torrent. Their clothes, fancy Gotham Academy uniforms with crisp collars and neatly done-up buttons, are instantly soaked through, and Jason notices with satisfaction the shapes of cell phones in their pockets. Good. He hopes they’re ruined, and no amount of putting them in rice will help. The boys continue to howl dramatically and it’s like music to Jason’s ears. He wonders why he hasn’t done something like this before.

By then, the entire classroom has turned to look and observe the confrontation with wide eyes, and Jason, breathing heavily with leftover rage and exertion, holds his hands up, fully meaning to make good use of his moment in the spotlight. “Everything is dangerous,” he snarls mockingly, clenching his fists. “How about these fucking assholes? You gonna treat them like they’re dangerous?” He punches a desk and answers his own question. “Of course you’re fucking not! Nothing’s ever gonna change as long as you let the shitheads stomp all over everyone else.”

Dropping his backpack like a microphone and relishing in the weight off his shoulders, Jason makes two peace signs and grins like a shark. “Well,” he finishes, making eye contact with the shell-shocked Ms. Jones, “fuck that. I’m done with this shit.”

He takes the back door right out of the classroom and into the parking lot. 

*

The halls of Wayne manor are, generally speaking, quiet. The lavish mansion is egregiously underpopulated--the only occupants on any given day are Jason, Bruce, Alfred the butler, and Damian the demon child. None of them are particularly loud people. Damian keeps to his room a lot of the time, and with the noteworthy exception of his screaming tantrum meltdowns, he likes to keep his voice very prim and proper like he’s perpetually in a library with angry old ladies looking over his shoulder. Alfred seems to live by the same general principle--something like the help should be seen and not heard even though he knows he’s as much a part of the family as anyone. Jason, while he does enjoy blasting loud rock music and yelling at Bruce on occasion, prefers to restrict those activities to the confines of his room, and Bruce himself is very soft-spoken when he’s not putting on a face for press conferences or galas.

So the manor is quiet like usual when Jason walks in that day after school to find Bruce already seated on the sofa with his we’re-going-to-have-a-serious-chat-young-man face on. That’s an expression Jason’s been privy to time and time again, and generally, it’s not as unbearable as one might expect. Bruce’s talks are usually short, interspersed with lost-sounding grunts, and eventually taken over by Alfred, who by all means does more than his fair share of the parenting in the manor. What is unusual about Bruce’s expression today is that, beyond resigned, he looks thunderous. Absolutely thunderous. 

Jason shudders at the sight of it. “‘Sup, B,” he tries in his most winning tone, directing Bruce with two friendly finger guns before turning casually to make his way to the kitchen. “I’m getting snacks, you want some, bro?”

“I am not your bro,” Bruce intones in his deepest, most gravelly growl. So Jason supposes it’s a no on the snacks. “Why don’t you sit down.”

It’s not a question. Jason gulps apprehensively. He’d known this was coming, of course, but he’d been hoping to avoid it for another hour or two at least to prepare his appeal. “Uh, I’m a little busy at the moment,” Jason attempts, pointing at the kitchen. “I can pencil you in for an appointment tomorrow, though, busy schedule permitting. Maybe Wednesday.”

“Now,” Bruce commands, and like a puppet on strings, Jason abruptly changes course to plop down onto the couch. That’s not a tone he feels particularly prepared to argue with.

Once Jason is seated across from Bruce, fixing him with his most politely perplexed stare, Bruce clasps his hands together and sends a God-help-me glance to the ceiling like he’s about to start praying. Not that Jason’s ever seen him do that before, but he wouldn’t be opposed to the concept it buys him some more time.

“Before I get mad,” Bruce begins, sounding dangerously as though he’s already gotten mad, “I would like to hear your side of the story. Maybe,” he grits out, sounding doubtful, “there was a misunderstanding?”

“Ain’t no misunderstanding about it,” Jason bursts out angrily the moment Bruce shuts his mouth. He’s not sure how long Bruce will tolerate his sorry tale, so he’s got to get as much out as possible before Bruce reaches the end of his rope and the real argument commences. “They were flicking brains at Lachelle,” he begins. “You know Lachelle, super nice, super smart? The dumbass teacher paired Wellington and White with her so she could do their fucking project for them, and as if that wasn’t fucking enough, they started flicking bits of goddamn cat brain at her hair like it was some sort of game. So I stood up and walked over there, all casual, and was like, ‘Hey bros, how’s it goin?’ Real diplomatic, you know me. And they told me to get away from Lachelle, as if they hadn’t been tormenting her just one goddamn minute ago! And then one of them grabbed her! So I threw brains at them,” Jason explains, as though any logical person in that scenario also would have reached for their own cat-gut arsenal. “And they started screaming. Little pussies if you ask me. So I was like, jeez, alright, I’ll get the damn brains off you. So I take ‘em over to the chemical shower. And give ‘em a nice little rinse. Okay? That’s all that happened.”

Jason says it all as quickly as he can, feeling the fury begin to build up again as he recounts the story. He clenches his fists, almost wishing there were some brains he could throw at Bruce. He knows all too well how this is gonna go. Bruce is gonna be all, that was unacceptable, you need to learn a lesson, and Jason’s gonna resist, because there is no lesson to learn. He doesn’t regret what he did. Not even for a second. The only thing he’s sorry about is that he didn’t whip out his phone to record the magic show. Imagine how many upvotes he could have gotten on Reddit.

Bruce pinches his nose, looking very lost. “Why,” he asks, “was anyone throwing cat brains? I don’t understand where the brains come in.”

Relieved to be getting off topic, Jason explains with emphatic, helpful hand gestures. “It was cat fetus day,” he says informatively. “We were dissecting them in AP Bio. And everyone had to, like, remove their brain, label it with their name, and set it out on a platter, so they could be graded, you know? I just borrowed ‘em off the brain platter.”

Perhaps, thinks Jason hopefully, Bruce will be too distracted by the idea of a brain platter to be able to refocus his anger on Jason. Perhaps the topic of biology will interest him. Does Wayne Enterprises have a scientific research branch? Yes, Jason is sure that it does.

Jason has no such luck. “Do you know,” Bruce begins, in that quiet, dangerous voice, “how they preserve corpses for classroom dissections?”

“Um.” Jason pretends to rack his brain. “I, uh, must have missed that part of the lesson. Teach musta forgotten to mention.”

"Formaldehyde," Bruce says, voice colder than ice. “And I don’t suppose you paid attention to the effects of formaldehyde on the human body?”

Jason gulps, like he’s just swallowed a frozen-solid lump of snow. It settles in his stomach like an icy weight. He hadn’t meant to actually hurt anyone. The lawsuits will be brutal if he managed to accidentally kill those dudes. “Must have missed that part, too,” he manages in a squeaky tone.

“In large enough doses,” Bruce says, “it can be fatal. You were lucky enough that in this case, it was not. Misters Adam and Geoffrey were wearing their eye and nostril protection.”

Jason breathes out a relieved sigh and wipes a bead of sweat from his brow. “So, we’re good then,” he concludes hopefully. “I’ll just make sure not to do that again, okay? My brain-throwing days are officially over.”

“We are not good, then,” Bruce mocks. “Both sustained minor chemical burns on the lower portions of their faces and necks.”

Jason gulps. He still doesn’t feel bad for White and Wellington, of course. They deserved everything they got, and more. But he didn’t mean to cause trouble for Bruce. His lawyers will be up to their elbows trying to keep the fallout under control, and his PR team will be working overtime for weeks to prevent details of the assault from leaking out to the press. He can see the headlines already: dozens of puns about how Jason turns to throwing brains because he is sad that he, himself, possesses none.

“Oh,” says Jason intelligently, feeling the weight of Bruce’s disappointment like a ton of bricks on his shoulders.

“Yes, oh,” replies Bruce chillingly, and Jason’s guilt increases exponentially.

Jason stares down at his shoes for a moment or two, and Bruce says nothing. The guilt settles on him, tight like a second skin and heavy like it’s made entirely of lead.

After a minute of excruciating silence, Bruce speaks. “As you can imagine, you will no longer be welcome at Gotham Academy. I am under no illusions that this wasn’t your intention from the very beginning.”

Jason scoffs. Of course it was his intention. He’s told Bruce time and time again how much he hates that God-forsaken school. Those pristine white halls, decorated with golden trophies, patrolled by teachers who don’t give a shit about the kids. They don’t respect the kids.

More specifically, they don’t respect Jason. Why would they? It’s not like he’s ever made any effort to do anything but return the vitriol.

“I hate that fucking school,” Jason says, clenching his fists in his lap and turning his head up to meet Bruce’s eyes dead-on. His gaze is clear, cold, and sharp like pointy icicles of anger. “If they didn’t kick me out, I’d’a left.”

Bruce grits his teeth in an angry snarl. “Do you understand how much I pay for you to go to that school?” he demands. “It’s the best school in Gotham. I am trying to give you an education, so that you can have a future.”

Offended, Jason stands. “And you think I wouldn’t have a future anyways?” he shouts, taking a step forward to get in Bruce’s face. Bruce stands to meet him and suddenly it's a faceoff between two bulls, neither willing to back down. “I don’t need your help, old man. I never fuckin’ did.”

“I give you everything and you throw it right back at me,” Bruce hisses, grabbing Jason by the shoulder. “You are spoiled. You are entitled. You are going to the best academy in the state and it’s still not enough for you. Do you know how many kids would just die to take your place?”

“I don’t want to go to the best academy in the state,” Jason bursts out, hands in the air. That’s been the point all along. Of course Bruce wouldn’t be able to understand. To Bruce, money equals happiness. Money is the only thing he has, the only thing he fully understands, and it’s always been that way. Jason is different. Jason doesn’t need money--any more than it takes to get by, at least. So it hurts that Bruce called him spoiled and entitled. All his life, Jason’s looked down on people like that. “I want to go somewhere they understand me. Somewhere I fit in. And there ain’t no school like that. ”

Bruce inhales bracingly, and then his hand falls from Jason’s shoulder, and there is quiet except for Jason’s heavy breathing. “I understand,” Bruce says finally, shocking Jason into complete silence. “Would you like me to find you a public school in Gotham?”

Jason shakes his head. “No,” he says emphatically. He wonders why Bruce just doesn't get it. He can't do it. He won't do it. He gives up. “I don’t want to go to any school, okay. You don’t need a fancy diploma to have a future.”

Bruce tilts his head like he’s thinking, but Jason knows Bruce understands. He hires plenty of people without diplomas. He gives them a chance.

That’s all Jason wants. A chance.

“I will not let my son drop out of high school and then sit around doing nothing all day,” Bruce says finally, spurring Jason into another bout of anger. He opens his mouth to argue, but Bruce silences him by speaking first. “You are too intelligent not to make something of your life. You will either go back to school or you will get a job. Do you understand?”

Jason exhales and bites the inside of his cheek to try to keep his anger from spilling out. “At Wayne Enterprises?” he guesses, looking up to meet Bruce’s eyes. He supposes that wouldn’t be so bad. If he works hard, he could get a promotion in a year or two, and start a career, all without having to go back to school. He knows Bruce’s company has many different departments. He could find one he enjoys. Maybe the one in charge of the charities, or something.

“No,” Bruce says cuttingly, sending a sharp slice of hurt through Jason’s chest. “It wouldn’t be fair to my employees or my applicants to hire you, my unqualified eighteen year old son, as a reward for somehow managing to get kicked out of the school I fund.”

Jason looks away, focusing his gaze on the wall next to Bruce. That’s… fair. Still, he feels rejected. Bruce doesn’t think he’s good enough to work for him. Bruce is ashamed of him. “Where, then?” he asks scornfully. “You hire everyone. If you won’t take me, who the fuck will?”

Bruce is disappointed in him.

Bruce sighs and sits back down on the sofa. “I’ll figure something out, Jason. Until then--” he pauses for a moment, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he’s got a headache coming on. “Please just go to your room.”

Jason goes, the waves of Bruce’s disappointment washing over him like a riptide of shame he can’t escape.

*

Jason is still sitting in the spinning desk chair in his room, playing some very agitated Terraria on his PC, when Damian lets himself into the room without knocking.

“I hear they have finally tired of your shenanigans at Gotham Academy,” he announces unceremoniously.

Jason doesn’t look up from his game. He’s in the middle of kicking Skeletron’s ass at the moment, and could do without the distraction. Though, he supposes, now that he’s dropped out of school, he’ll have plenty of free time to throw hands with Skeletron as often as he wants. In no big hurry he hits pause and swivels his chair lazily to face Damian.

Damian’s still in his school uniform--a mini version of the same one Jason has to wear. Pressed black slacks, blue blazer, and white, long-sleeved button-down. Damian, despite having made his distaste for school quite clear, takes a lot of pride in his appearance and makes sure to have his clothes carefully cleaned and ironed every single day. Jason suspects that Damian’s wardrobe maintenance makes up around half of Alfred’s paycheck any given week.

Beyond that, his short black hair has been combed back tastefully, and unlike the average ten-year-old, his face is clean and non-sticky. If he weren’t so small, he’d look like a regular little businessman. Jason wants to spit in his face. If it were anyone but Damian, he probably would. After today, though, he really doesn’t need to face Bruce’s wrath for a second time. 

“They were tired of me the moment I stepped through the doors,” Jason corrects, spinning idly in his chair. “Just, now they have an excuse to kick me out.”

Damian nods attentively, crossing his arms across his chest. “I was appraised of the events by Safiya,” he explains, referring to the office secretary at school. How he came to be on a first-name basis with her when he still calls Jason by his last name, the world will never know. “While your methods were crude, I admit I had a certain… admiration for your boldness.”

Jason snorts, beginning to feel himself grin. Things with Damian haven’t always been smooth sailing. When his mother dumped him on their doorstep a year and a half ago, Jason swore he experienced the unprecedented emotion of hate-at-first-sight. What followed were six months of non-stop arguments that often devolved into physical assault, several escape attempts (by both Damian and Jason himself) and then finally, a truce. Only now are they making efforts to tolerate each other. It’s new and, quite frankly, weird, but not altogether unwelcome.

“Well, you would, at least,” Jason agrees. “Add it to the mood board for your own jailbreak inspo. Got any ideas yet?”

“Nothing that tops yours,” Damian admits with a scowl. “And I still disapprove of the use of animals for class when perfectly adequate digital alternatives exist. The cruelty--”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it, Dr. Doolittle,” Jason interrupts. He’d tried to hide it behind a front of outrage and righteous fury, but he’s pretty sure Damian cried when he found out the AP Biology class would be dissecting real kittens.

The one thing that brings Jason and Damian together as brothers is their shared loathing of all things educational. While Jason’s issues originate from the disrespectful, every-man-for-himself environment created by the academy, Damian’s are rooted in his abiding belief that he is above the American education system. All specific grievances aside, the opinion that Gotham Academy is a dumpster fire inside a shithole rolled up in a trainwreck is the only thing the two brothers agree on and one of their very few bonding points.

Damian’s probably jealous, Jason realizes. He managed to escape their nefarious, educational clutches, while Damian has to keep on attending class like a peasant. The epiphany fills him with deep satisfaction.

“In the spirit of fairness,” Damian confides, “I believe Father should cut me the same deal he offered you.”

“What,” Jason asks, flicking a piece of lint off his sleeve to demonstrate his disinterest in the conversation. “About either school or a job?”

“That is the one,” Damian confirms, looking hopeful. “I believe he would--”

Jason interrupts him with a burst of raucous laughter. “Yeah, sure,” he snorts, “start handing out your resume. Damian Wayne, ten years old, previous job positions including demon child and general menace. People will be begging to hire you."

Damian scrunches up his nose, offended. “I’ll have you know,” he begins, holding up a finger, “I have experience in--”

“Torturing people, tormenting senior citizens, and making babies cry,” Jason lists gleefully. “You should bolster it a bit, add your proficiency at temper tantrums and--”

“I DO NOT HAVE TEMPER TANTRUMS!” Damian explodes, eyes bugging out in his outrage. His face is almost entirely red and his little fists are clenched at his sides. “If I applied for jobs I would be swimming in offers! I just need Father to agree!”

“Oh, he’ll agree alright,” Jason says, wiping a single tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. “He’ll say--”

“What will I say?” asks a deep, intimidating voice from the door.

Jason whirls his chair around. Bruce is standing in the doorway, phone clutched at his side and paperwork clasped on a clipboard in the other. Jason quickly wipes all signs of laughter from his face. Damian storms past him out of the room, probably to prepare his sales pitch. His loud, angry footsteps echo down the halls.

“I hope you weren’t picking on your brother,” Bruce warns, closing the door behind him. 

Jason rolls his eyes. “I’d never,” he says.

“Good,” Bruce concludes, effectively putting an end to that branch of conversation. He sets the paperwork down in front of Jason and places a pen down firmly on top of that. “I have found somewhere with a position open willing to hire you. Fill this out, please.”

Jason looks down at the clipboard. It’s a job application form for some place called GOTHAM COFFEE. Not the most creative name he’s ever heard, all things considered. He picks up the pen, but doesn’t uncap it. “A coffee shop?” he asks, twirling the pen around between his fingers. “Never heard of it.”

“It’s in Old Gotham,” Bruce divulges. His voice has not lost the rumbly texture that means he’s pissed off. “It is an independently owned business with a small staff. The owner is being kind enough to offer you a position.”

Jason rolls that thought over in his brain. A coffee shop. Could be worse, to be sure. He’s always been a sucker for caffeine, and there are worse ways to spend time than making fancy-ass lattes for rich people all day. He’s never been there before, though. For all he knows, it could be a total shithole.

He glances up at Bruce to gauge his expression. Hard, unyielding, and insurmountable as a brick wall. “Any other choices?” Jason asks, just because he doesn’t want to comply with the system so easily.

“Gotham High,” Bruce says bluntly. 

Jason uncaps the pen and begins to write.

Chapter Text

Jason’s not sure what strings Bruce pulls or what kind of leverage he has over the business owner, but his job application is accepted in record time and his first shift is scheduled for bright and early the next morning. He scowls when he hears the news. He’d been hoping for a transitional period of a few days or something before he’s shoved head-first into the deep end.

That said, Jason surprises himself with a bout of unexpected anxiety the morning of his first shift. This is his first job, after all. As little choice as Jason has in the matter, he still wants to make at least a semi-alright impression on his new boss and coworkers. He changes his outfit approximately four times (from all black, to black and red, to an adventurous black and blue, and then finally back to the tried and true Jason Classic of black and red) and brushes his teeth twice. His hair is a depressing sort of mess, so he combs it with growing despair for fifteen helpless minutes before slapping on a beanie and hoping his new place of employment doesn’t uphold a no hats policy.

His wardrobe debacle finally put firmly behind him, Jason checks his watch to realize he’s in serious danger of becoming tardy if he doesn’t get his ass in gear, stat. He speed-walks down the stairs and out to the garage, stopping along the way for an unsolicited chat with Bruce.

“If I find out you’ve gone anywhere other than to work--” Bruce begins, displaying a dazzling show of his boundless confidence in Jason.

Jason, who by now knows the drill, grabs his sunglasses from the coffee table where he’d left them the afternoon before and uses them to hide his eye roll. “Where else would I go?” he asks rhetorically. “Narnia?” He’s a little tempted to slack off, just because Bruce warned him not to, but in all honesty, he’s not eager to incite any more parental disappointment than he already has.

Bruce takes in a preparatory breath. “I just--”

“Don’t wanna be late,” Jason interrupts sarcastically with a wave goodbye, resuming his power walk through the manor and reaching his destination: the garage.

Jason doesn’t own a car--he’d flat out refused to allow Bruce to buy him one for his sixteenth birthday, and has for every gift-giving occasion since--but that just means he gets to take his pick of Bruce’s sizable collection whenever he wants to go somewhere. He’s not dumb enough to invite grand theft auto by driving anything too cool through the sketchy streets of Gotham, so his favorite vehicle is a sleek black sedan. Not too flashy, nothing that will catch any unwanted eyes, but respectable all the same. Plus, it fits his general aesthetic of black, black, and black. Last year he dented it in the school parking lot, throwing down with Brock Webber over the parking space nearest to the back exit. He won the parking spot but lost a chunk of paint and, temporarily, his bumper. Jason repaired it himself with duct tape, and while Alfred seems to practically itch with the urge to take it to a professional every time he sees it, he hasn’t gone against Jason’s wishes yet. Jason doesn’t know why he’s so resistant to the idea of fixing it. Only that, in mint condition, the car had seemed too nice. Something that someone like Jason shouldn’t be seen driving. He’d almost been relieved to have it tarnished. A car with a few dents suits Jason much better than a shiny new one.

Alfred is standing beside it with the keys and a jacket. “‘Sup, Alf,” greets Jason with a nod.

Alfred, well accustomed to Jason’s traditional choice in greeting, returns the nod. “‘Sup, indeed, Master Jason,” he agrees. Jason isn’t sure if he fails to understand the proper use of slang, or if he butchers it on purpose to prove a point. Either way, its a longstanding theme in their conversations, and it never fails to bring a grimace to Jason’s face.

Jason accepts the keys Alfred holds out to him, but scoffs when Alfred tries to put the jacket over his shoulders. “It’s, like, seventy degrees,” he protests, shrugging it off with an incredulous glance towards Alfred.

“Sixty-eight,” Alfred corrects. “And a young man should never be caught out in Gotham without a good coat.” He opts instead to fold the jacket and place it, with a pointed glance at Jason, onto the passenger seat. That particular nugget of wisdom is served up often enough in the Wayne household that Jason is almost tempted to ask what kind of trouble Alfred, himself, had gotten into as a young man in Gotham without a good coat. He’s sure the story is riveting. “Have a sickytight day at work.”

“Alfred, no!” Jason exclaims, thoroughly horrified. He sputters. “You’re so-- that’s just-- that’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard, that’s not even slang.”

Alfred’s mustache twitches into the traditional Pennyworth appropriation of a smirk. “Should I use sick and tight separately, in that case?”

“Yes,” Jason exclaims with a frustrated hand gesture. God. Alfred can be so embarrassing sometimes. “But you can’t use either of them,” he orders as an afterthought. “Even separately.”

“I shall adopt an alternate vocabulary, then,” Alfred agrees. Jason breathes out in relief, opening his mouth to say goodbye, when Alfred beats him to it.

“Have a litty day at work then, Master Jason.” Jason’s jaw drops all the way through the floor.

Alfred, with a prim nod, is clearly aware he’s won this particular encounter. He pats Jason’s shoulder and takes his leave back into the house, and Jason is left cringing at his retreating form, utterly lost for words. His face is completely red. Alfred is such a fucking grandpa sometimes. It’s mortifying.

Once he finally manages to get his ass in the vehicle, the drive is wonderfully short, and the traffic gods are on his side. By the time Jason’s parked the car in front of his new workplace, he’s got three minutes to fuck around until he’s officially late. He makes efficient use of that time scoping out the place from the outside and employing some good-old-fashioned breathing exercises. He feels stupid after about thirty seconds of those, so he quits with a grimace and proceeds to squint suspiciously at the building he’ll work in.

The building is wedged between two others on a street bustling with other shops and businesses. It’s in the downtown of Old Gotham, which is definitely not the worst location Jason could have imagined, but it fits the theme of old a little too well--even a quick glance at the shopfront reveals that it’s egregiously outdated. The bold, circular sign above the door that advertises the shop’s name is peeling and faded, and the lights for the letters G, O, and T have burned out, leaving a logo that advertises an enticing, HAM COFFEE. Jason thinks they should try that out as a special one day. Then he thinks, no wait, that would taste like shit.

Beyond that, the front of the building is made out of beige painted cinderblocks, with two glass doors that swing open below a little bell. In front there are two round, rickety-looking tables. One is occupied by a young couple, sipping out of paper to-go cups with facial expressions that radiate pretentiousness, and the other seats a very suspicious looking old man that Jason thinks he might prefer to avoid.

Jason wrinkles his nose, unimpressed by what he sees so far. But a glance at his watch reveals he’s going to be unfashionably late if he loiters any longer, and he steels himself with the reminder that perhaps he shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Maybe the inside is nicer than the outside? Perhaps his initial sweep was inaccurate.

The inside is not nicer than the outside, and his initial sweep didn’t even begin to cover the atrocities committed by whichever so-called architect designed this hellscape of a shop. The floor is made out of a squeaky sort of tile that protests loudly beneath Jason’s shoes, and it’s so cramped inside, there is no room for indoor seating. Just a condiment table, a pastry case, a cash register, and room for maybe two or three people to line up. The kitchen area is visible beyond the counter, a rectangular space lined by metal countertops, various types of equipment, and more refrigerators than Jason would have imagined necessary.

There are no employees to be seen and for a moment Jason wonders if this whole thing has all been a big prank. “Um,” he says, leaning over the counter to peer behind it in case someone is hiding from him or waiting to jovially announce he’s been duped, “Hello?”

Nice, Jason thinks. Bruce is teaching him a lesson by… playing a practical joke? Maybe the employees will burst out of the fridges to scare him, or something. Maybe there are no employees, and the moral of the story is that without education, there is nothing! Just sadness and squeaky tiles and fucking death.

Jason walks backwards to the doorway, and aggressively opens and closes the door a bunch of times so the bell above it jingles loudly.

Finally, an employee is summoned. Poking his head out from another door in the kitchen area is a skinny boy with shaggy, longish black hair and blue eyes who looks a little younger than Jason. He’s wearing a red hoodie, black jeans, and a dark gray apron, and Jason’s first thought upon seeing him is, how dare you appropriate my aesthetic?

“Oh, hi,” says the kid, slowly making his way up to the register. There is no rush about him, like whether or not the customer actually gets their coffee before they die of old age is irrelevant to him. “What can I get for you?”

Resignation papers, Jason thinks. His lip curls in an involuntary expression of scorn. “I’m supposed to be the new guy,” he says. “Jason.”

“Oh,” says the kid again, looking minutely more engaged in the conversation. “Sick. I’m Tim.”

The slang reminds Jason of Alfred, which inspires a new wave of annoyance, because Jason is just not in the mood to deal with any shit today, thank you very much. Jason shakes Tim’s hand only because it seems like the professional thing to do, and not because he in any way likes this guy so far. No sir. Jason can smell bullshit from a mile away, and his professional prediction is that Tim is full of it.

Tim opens up a little swinging door in the counter so Jason can come through to the kitchen, and then he disappears again. “I’m getting dick,” he says with a vague wave before the door swings shut behind him.

Jason stares after his retreating form, thoroughly horrified. Why would Tim feel the need to tell him that? Has the man ever heard of too much information? Not to mention, he’s on the clock! Tim is ditching Jason on his first fucking day just so he can go get some action while he’s supposed to be working. Unbelievable! Only in Gotham, he laments.

He’s unsure whether to be relieved or disgusted when Tim appears only a minute later with another man in tow. Is he going to be getting dick… in the middle of the shop? he wonders, feeling an odd mix of admiration and appallment. This is definitely not your everyday sort of coffee shop. He wonders briefly if Tim was trying to make Jason jealous, or if it was an invitation of some sort. Jason wishes he’d read his contact more carefully.

His questions are all answered when Tim, with a slow flourish, points at the other man. “This is Dick,” he introduces, and suddenly all is clear.

“Humbly at your service,” Dick confirms with no small amount of drama, reaching out a hand for Jason to shake. “You’re Jason, right?”

Jason accepts the handshake, dryly says, “Yeah, nice to meet you,” and then stares for a moment more before he’s unable to contain himself any longer. A snort bursts out against his will. “I’m sorry,” he says in a tone that very much implies he is no such thing, eyeing Dick with a mirthful stare, “but your name is Dick? Because Tim said he would be getting dick and I thought--”

“Oh my God, Timmy,” says Dick, doubling over with laughter at the expense of his coworker, whose face is as red as a tomato. “You didn’t say, like, Dick the employee? Dick the supervisor? Seriously? Richard. You could have just said Richard.”

“I didn’t think!” Tim exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air with a defensive pout. “How was I supposed to know he’d have a dirty mind like that?”

“How was I supposed to know your supervisor is a dude with a name from the fuckin’ thirties?” Jason demands, embarrassed. He’s pissed that he’s already managed to make a bad impression, no more than two minutes in. Maybe, he theorizes, they’ll fire him today, and this whole clusterfuck will be done with. Bruce said he had to either have a job or an education while under the manor’s roof, but… life on the run can’t be that bad, right? He’s heard that public transportation is a blast.

“Whatever!” Tim announces loudly, like he and Jason are dreaming of the same epic escape. He unties his apron to hang it up on a set of hooks. The first hook he tries falls to the floor upon contact with the apron, and neither Tim nor Dick blink as he relocates it to a different peg. “I can leave now, right? Now that he’s here?”

Dick waves a hand dismissively, smiling fondly at Tim. Jason would think they were brothers, but they look too different. Tim is much paler, and with a skinnier frame. Dick is tanned like he’s just arrived from a vacation to the Bahamas, and annoyingly muscular. “Yes, you can go. Meeting up with Steph?”

“If she doesn’t cancel again,” Tim agrees, checking his phone with a worried-looking scowl.

“Come on,” Dick says encouragingly, slapping a hand on Tim’s back, “I’m sure it really was just a series of convenient coincidences that she couldn’t make it to any of your dates in the last week.”

Tim looks up at Dick with hopeful eyes. “Do you think so?”

Dick just smacks Tim’s back one last time, gives him a nondescript grin and a noise that could be interpreted a hundred different ways, and turns to Jason without answering the question. “I’ll show you where to clock in,” he says, opening up the door he’d entered through. “Come on.”

Dick directs Jason through the hallway to the clock. Jason is shown how to clock in, provided with an itchy apron in a smoky dark gray, and led back to the kitchen. All the way there and back, his shoes squeak on the annoying-ass floor tiles, and because Jason’s never been the sort of guy to hold his tongue, he bursts out, “These fuckin’ floors are so annoying.”

Dick laughs ruefully like his place of work hasn’t just been unduly insulted. “Yeah,” he agrees, “Kind of. But,” he adds optimistically, “this way you can always hear when a customer comes in.”

“So that asshole had no excuse,” Jason mutters under his breath. Tim totally knew Jason was there the whole time! He just decided to take forever, wanted to leave Jason in anxious limbo, all because he felt like it.

“What was that?” Dick asks.

Jason doesn’t reply, embarrassed by the way his complaint had just burst out. He feels his face going red. Pissed off by his own faux pas, Jason scowls and crosses his arms.

The problem isn’t that Jason usually cares about manners or social standards--he’s got other, much more useful principles. For one, he firmly believes that honesty is the best policy. Jason’s philosophy is to speak his mind--if anybody can’t handle that, it’s a personal problem. The brutally honest attitude usually proves itself surprisingly rewarding--it got him out of school, after all. The only time it causes issues is when he cares what someone thinks of him, and now that his mom’s gone, Bruce is the only person in that category.

That doesn’t explain why Jason finds himself suddenly feeling inadequate, awkward, and eager to impress his new coworker. He feels uncharacteristically ashamed of his negative attitude. In the spirit of attempting to rectify his mistakes before he can manage to make any more, Jason claps his hands together and announces loudly, “Alrighty. Where the fuck do I start?”

Was the f-bomb too much? Jason might have to tone that down.

Dick grins approvingly. “Right the fuck over here,” he shoots back, making his way over to the cash register and indicating it with a flourish. “I’ll show you the register so you can take the next customer’s order.”

Jason raises a suspicious eyebrow at Dick-- is he making fun of me? Seems plausible. But regardless, he agrees and lets Dick show him how to work the cash register. It is, like most everything else in the shop, outdated, and Jason pokes at different buttons, fascinated by how old they are. “When did you guys get this?” he asks, awed. This must be what dinosaurs used to count money. Although they might have had difficulty reaching the little buttons with their tiny t-rex arms. 

Dick appears to ponder the quandary for a moment. “It’s been here longer than I have,” he replies after a moment with a shrug. “You’d have to ask the owner. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s older than him, too.”

Just as Jason’s tutorial has reached its exciting conclusion, the bell jingles and a little old lady walks in. Jason’s first thought is, what the fuck is this tiny, old-ass woman doing alone in Gotham?

Dick sees her, and his face lights up with a grin. But instead of taking Jason’s place at the register to write down her order, he just tells Jason, “You can take this one.” Jason, feeling lost and out of his depth, watches helplessly as Dick makes his way over to the espresso machine and starts… doing espresso things. Jason doesn’t know how they work, and right now, figuring that out can’t be his top priority. Resigned, he turns to face the customer.

“What can I get for you?” he asks, tone harsh. He cringes internally at himself and wonders if he should have thrown in a pleasantry or two. Luckily, the woman doesn’t seem offended by the lack thereof.

“The usual,” she says, pulling a pink frilly wallet out of her purse and unclasping it with wrinkled, manicured fingers. She slaps a fifty dollar bill on the counter.

“Uh,” says Jason, not having any idea what this woman’s usual is. He glances helplessly to Dick, who is still busy making coffee.

The lady’s mouth shapes into a surprised, “Oh!” She takes off her glasses to squint at Jason. “Well, you’re new, aren’t you, dear?”

Relieved, Jason confirms, “Yeah. First day.”

“How lovely,” she says, beaming. “What’s your name, dear?”

Jason, mostly because he still has no clue how to ring this woman up and wants to delay as long as possible, sticks out a hand to shake hers and says, “Jason.”

She shakes it with a very prim, delicate grip, pushes the fifty further towards him, and says with a wink, “Keep the change.” Then she ambles a few feet over to where she can get a better view of Dick, and asks, “And how are you, dear?”

While Dick chats it up with the elderly woman, Jason stares, dumbfounded, at the fifty dollar bill she’s slid across the counter. Holy fuck. Fifty dollars? How expensive can this latte possibly be?

Jason turns the key to open the register, and turns to face Dick just as he slides a cup across the counter to the customer. Jason points at it. “What’s that?” he asks.

Dick tilts his head, looking bemused, before he identifies the source of Jason’s confusion. “Oh. You can ring it up as a small vanilla latte.”

It takes a moment for Jason to find all the correct buttons, and once he does some of them need to be aggressively pressed several times before they respond. Once he has beaten the old cash register into submission and it looks like the machinery is going to cooperate, a price pops up on the screen. $3.25.

A slow grin spreads across Jason’s face, like the cat who caught the canary. A laugh slips out, disbelieving and excited. He puts the fifty into the register and withdraws a little over forty-six dollars in change. Then he inserts that fat wad of cash into the tip jar. Little old ladies know how to tip, apparently. If the tips are always this good, Jason might enjoy this job a little more than he'd expected.

Dick stares at him, looking dumbfounded, and Jason is quick to realize how it looks. “She said keep the change,” he explains. “And she paid with a fifty.”

His words have the opposite of the desired effect, and Dick’s jaw drops further. He reaches into the tip jar and grabs the forty-six-seventy-five, fingers stretching for the last quarter. He talks quickly. “She has eyesight problems.” Dick wads up the money and opens the door in the counter so he can chase after the customer. “I think she meant to give us a five.”

The bell on the door jingles as Dick leaves, and Jason is left staring after him in a rising fog of anger and acute embarrassment. How was Jason supposed to know she was a little old dumbass who couldn’t tell a fifty from a five? He wasn’t stealing. How could Dick even think-- She said to keep the change! She specifically told him to. His anger grows, and Jason clenches his fists, face redder than a beet. He wasn’t stealing. He would never.

A minute ticks by, and Dick doesn’t return. No more customers show up, either, so Jason is left scowling, gritting his teeth, and mentally rehearsing the furious speech he will unleash upon Dick when he gets back. How dare Dick assume Jason would ever purposefully rip off an old lady? Does he understand how offensive that is? Fuck him. Fuck him! Jason has half a mind to rip off his apron and quit right now.

The bell jingles, the floorboards squeak, and Dick is back, wiping a bead of sweat off his brow. “Sorry,” he says, “she’d left already, but she works down the street, so I went there--anyways. She said thanks, and to keep this.” Dick places a five dollar bill into the tip jar.

Though Jason’s tirade had been carefully rehearsed, he can’t remember a single word. Instead, he crosses his arms, and scowls. “I wasn’t trying to rip her off,” he says, voice tight.

Dick looks up. “I know,” he says, “You’re fine. Just, next time, it’s probably best to double-check.”

Jason’s mortification doubles in strength and intensity, but his anger has been redirected inwards. Dick is right--Jason should have checked. It was probably the common-sense thing to do. The idea that Dick not only identified the problem that had gone right over Jason's head, but gone entirely out of his way to rectify it--

The idea that Dick might be a better person than Jason rankles. So he spares Dick his furious, accusing lecture, and tamps all his shame down. He’s just here to do his job. He’s making coffee here, not friends. 

The rest of the shift passes uneventfully. Dick continues to be helpful and easygoing and Jason continues to be awkward and easily annoyed. It’s in the last hour of Jason’s shift that the door opens with a jingle and the man who comes through is ostensibly not a customer. He’s dressed way too nicely for that in a black suit and tie. In the outdated old shop, he looks out of place and sharp. Also, he has an eyepatch, so he closely resembles a business-casual pirate. 

“How’s my money?” he asks with a sharp grin, opening the counter door to come into the kitchen. “I mean, my employees.” Jason watches apprehensively from where he’s been washing dishes. This guy looks way too amused by his own joke.

“Slade,” Dick greets, looking like he shares none of the same mirth. He pauses what he’s been doing to say hi. “Have you met Jason yet?”

“That’s what I was here for,” says the owner, turning to face Jason at the sinks. Awkwardly, Jason removes his hands from the soapy water, wiping them off hastily on a paper towel so the inevitable handshake won’t result in an impromptu hand-washing for Jason’s new boss. “Slade Wilson,” he introduces gruffly. He shakes Jason’s hand so tightly, Jason’s genuinely concerned that by the time they let go, amputation will be the only option. “The owner.”

Generally Jason isn’t one for manners, but the handshake has thoroughly (if secretly) intimidated him. So he says, “Thank you for having me,” in a tone that he hopes conveys extreme confidence. “I’m glad to be here.” That’s a professional thing to say, right?

“Mm,” says Slade, sounding entirely indifferent. “Is my apprentice showing you the ropes?”

Jason tilts his head and furrows his brows, confused. Dick, behind him, appears visibly as though he might facepalm. He says nothing.

“Yeah?” tries Jason, entirely out of his depth within the conversation. He feels awkward, and as though he’s suddenly taking up too much space in the small kitchen. He shoves his hands in his pockets and cringes, because they’re still wet and now there’s pocket lint sticking to his damp hands. He thinks Slade might still be waiting for Jason to continue, but he has no idea what to say.

Luckily, Dick has apparently made a speedy recovery from his bout of irritation, and cuts in with a helpful, “Anything you need, Slade?”

Slade sighs in an exasperated sort of way and shakes his head, almost condescendingly, at Dick. “No, just stopping by to meet our newest… teammate. I will be in my office the rest of the day.”

“Doing anything important?” asks Dick, expression oddly eager. He leans forward ever so slightly.

“Yes,” he growls, “so don’t interrupt if you can help it.” Slade begins to reach for the door--the one that leads to the hallway with the bathroom, storage closet, clock-in station, and presumably the owner’s office, but Dick steps forward to stop him, expression a strange mixture of hesitant and hopeful.

“I was thinking, if you had a moment, we could talk more about… what I asked you about? I had this idea--”

“Boy,” interrupts Slade in a slow, deliberate tone, sounding again like this is a topic they’ve broached many times before and that he is thoroughly sick of, “We already talked about that. The budget is--”

“And if I could expand the budget?” Dick’s eyes are wide and hopeful as he wrings his hands. “I was talking to--”

“There is no way to expand the budget,” Slade snaps, sounding frustrated. He runs a hand over his head and sighs exasperatedly. “It’s the off season and the damn health inspector is coming next Monday, no doubt for the sole purpose of finding things he has to demand I pay out the ass to fix. You think I’m going to spare my valuable finances just so you can--what, renovate? Like hell.”

A flash of annoyance flickers across Dick’s face. “I’m not renovating ,” he disagrees, eyes narrowed. “I’m trying to fix things that are broken. The floors squeak, two blenders have exploded in the last month, our reviews on Yelp are--”

“We’re doing fine,” Slade snaps, and Dick’s mouth falls shut. “And the day I put you in charge of the budget is the day you can tell my ex-wife to come back and have another try.” He barks out a dry laugh and points at his eyepatch. “I’ll be in my office,” he repeats, turning to Jason one last time. “Good meeting you.” His voice is still tinged with leftover annoyance from his conversation with Dick. All in all, it doesn’t actually sound like it’s been good meeting Jason. Jason tactfully opts not to call him out on it. “If you have any questions, ask Dick.”

The door closes behind him. Dick sags defeatedly against the wall, looking disappointed, and Jason is left feeling oddly guilty, like he’s witnessed a conversation he shouldn’t have been privy to. Still. So many questions. So many.

“Um,” says Jason, mostly to remind Dick of his presence. And then, because, sue him, he’s nosy, he manages to overcome his lingering trauma from the old lady incident to ask, “the fuck was that about?”

Dick looks up, sparing the floor from his angry glare, and his face softens when his blue gaze lands on Jason. He runs a tired hand through his hair and readjusts his apron. He gestures at his surroundings, nondescript. “Where to start.”

“His ex-wife?” Jason prompts, morbidly curious.

“Shot his eye out.”

“And the finances?”

“The only thing he talks about more than he talks about how his ex-wife shot his eye out. I swear. He’s like Mr. Krabs. Money money money.”

Jason grimaces. So far, his new boss’ positive attributes appear to be few and far between. “The apprentice thing?”

This time, Dick really does facepalm. “I keep trying to tell him that the coffee industry doesn’t really lend itself to apprenticeships,” he grumbles with a cringe. “I don’t think he gets the idea.”

That pretty much clears up all of Jason’s confusion. All except for one last question: “The renovation shit? What’s all that about?”

Dick slumps back against the wall. “I had these ideas for how to improve the place,” he explains, looking resigned. “I mean, it’s falling apart. You know what I’m talking about.” Dick waves his hands demonstratively at the squeaky floors, the falling hooks, the peeling walls and the stone-age register. Sure enough, everywhere Jason looks, is something in dire need of repair or replacement. “You’ve been here a day and you’re probably counting every minute waiting to get out.”

Jason cringes, feeling caught. Dick’s not wrong. The way things are, it might honestly be easier to just take a wrecking ball to the place and rebuild than to individually fix each problem. “So?” he asks.

Dick just shakes his head, like that isn’t the point. He continues, “Place is ugly and outdated. The menu’s been the same since the stone age when people were grinding coffee beans by, like, banging them between some rocks. We don’t get business anymore because we’ve got all these competitors, and you know what? The competitors are better! You know where I get coffee on my day off?” he asks, putting his hands on his hips as if to better emphasize his argument’s validity, “Not here.”

Jason huffs out a breath of laughter. Dick makes a lot of very good points, actually. Jason had wondered if he was the only one who thought the place was, well, kind of dumpster chic, but it seems like at least Dick is aware of it, too. “You like Starbucks?” he asks, halfway teasing.

“I hate Starbucks!” Dick exclaims, throwing his hands into the air. “And I’d still go there instead of here!” His face reads utter defeat. “I hate Starbucks,” he mutters mutinously, as if concerned that Jason doesn’t fully appreciate the scope of his passion.

“Well, I get why he won’t let you totally renovate,” Jason muses, nodding, “‘cause that shit’s expensive. But isn’t there something you can do? A few cosmetic fixes, change up the menu a bit, stuff like that?”

“God, I wish,” Dick says, crinkling his nose in annoyance and crossing his arms. He leans against a fridge. “Can’t because Slade has also been here since the stone age. He doesn’t like change. And he doesn’t trust me.”

That, Jason can relate to all too well. What with everything that’s been going on with Bruce, it feels lately like no one trusts Jason. He nods in sympathetic agreement. “Total bullshit” he says helpfully.

“Bullshit indeed,” Dick agrees. Then he’s perking up like nothing ever happened, and the smile is back on his face like it never left. “Come along, young grasshopper,” he implores with an inviting wave of his arm, “let me show you the ancient art of mopping the floor.”

---

When Jason returns from work, Bruce is sitting on the couch, reading the same newspaper as this morning. Jason has a slight suspicion it’s just there to act as a prop, or maybe a buffer between Bruce and Jason should Jason start throwing things. 

“How was work?” Bruce asks, lowering the newspaper ever so slightly to peer up at Jason.

Jason ponders it for a moment. Runs through the day’s strange events in his mind. He’d almost accidentally robbed an old woman. His new boss is more of a penny pincher than the stars of Extreme Couponing. His new manager is... interesting.

“Whatever,” Jason grumbles. He throws his keys and sunglasses onto the coffee table.

He supposes it would be a waste to quit just yet.

Chapter Text

Why, Jason wonders, a growing wave of horror rising up inside him, why me?

He stands in the center of a pastel pink murder scene. Not just one murder. A massacre. An utter, absolute, undeniable tragedy. From his hair, speckled across his face, splattered all over his shirt and dripping down his pants onto his shoes, drip the remains of what had once been a tasty strawberry banana smoothie. Or, Jason assumes it would have been tasty. No one’s going to test that theory now, though. Rest in peace little smoothie. Rest in peace.

Unfortunately, the smoothie itself is not the only casualty that has been suffered on this dark day. The blender, which had been valiantly chugging along to blend the drink despite the concerning plumes of smoke rising from its base, has been demolished by a small, frankly terrifying, explosion. Generally if things blow up in Jason’s presence it’s his own fault, but in this case, he can genuinely say he has no idea what went wrong. One minute he’s chilling, living his best blending life, and the next? Boom. Scraps of blender and puddles of smoothie all over the damn place. 

The next thought that occurs to Jason, standing in the puddle of his own devastating failure, is, Oh sweet Jesus how the fuck am I going to explain this to Dick? 

Dick is a pretty chill guy, all things considered. But even Jason would have a hard time believing it if the newest employee, wearing a customer’s smoothie like a rejuvenating face mask, tried to claim the blender just randomly blew up. Blenders don’t do that. They just don’t. When was the last time Jason witnessed a spontaneous blender detonation? Never, that’s when.

But this one did! Oh God! Jason is fired. He’s so, totally, completely fired.

It’s been a good day and a half, he thinks. Explaining this to Dick seems easy in comparison to the inevitable conversation he will need to have with Bruce. Bruce was surprisingly chill in the aftermath of the brain-throwing debacle, but Jason would be lying if he said he was confident Bruce would believe the blender’s bursting was an accident.

In all honesty, Jason is disappointed. When he’d arrived home from his first shift, sweaty, exhausted, and covered in coffee grinds, Bruce had looked up at him over his laptop, fixed him with an inscrutable gaze, and nodded approvingly. It was slight--imperceptible to the untrained eye. The sight was uncommon enough that Jason almost didn’t recognize it for what it was. He blinked, startled, and stared at Bruce like he’d never seen him before in his life. And there it still was--a smile.

Jason knows the small token of approval doesn’t erase Bruce’s disappointment over Jason’s recent behavior. But seeing it--seeing that, despite everything, Bruce could still be proud of him--made something inside Jason glow. And now he’ll have to disappoint Bruce all over again. Can’t stay in class. Can’t keep a job. What can Jason do?

Not fucking much, if the broken plastic scattered around him is any indicator. He’s really not sure where he went wrong.

Still standing in the strawberry, banana, and plastic flavored puddle and hoping that glaring at it hard enough will inspire its spontaneous disintegration, Jason freezes in horror when he hears the door down the hallway swing open. That’s Dick, returning from the supply closet. He’d gone in for thirty seconds to find napkins. Jason really can’t be left alone for a second in this place. Maybe this is why the coffee shop can’t have nice things. 

Jason, heart pounding, gives a nervous grimace and a swallow when Dick meets his eyes. His arms are full of napkins. Dick freezes and one flutters depressedly to the floor.

“Awwww, man,” says Dick, tipping his head back to the ceiling in utter exasperation. “Not again.”

“I swear!” Jason exclaims, waving his arms around wildly. Droplets of smoothie fly off his arms and onto the walls and floor. “It just exploded! I was blending, the way you said to, just, you know, vibing, and then it started making this noise, and then there was smoke, and then-- boom! I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear!”

Dick sets down his mountain of napkins--although Jason suspects they’re about to come in handy--and picks up a mop in their stead. “I know,” he sighs. He gestures for Jason to move out of the way, and he scurries off to the other side of the room like a chastised child, leaving little pink footprints. “Believe it or not, this is actually the third time a blender has spontaneously combusted. In a month.”

Dick begins to mop up the puddle with an expression that can only be described as devastation. “This was our last blender.” 

Seized by a wash of guilt, Jason helpfully offers Dick a bottle of cleaning spray. Dick accepts the token of appreciation and mournfully sprays it over the area. 

He just looks so depressed for some reason, and Jason thinks their boss is going to take one look at that downtrodden face and fire Jason harder than anyone’s ever been fired before. Suddenly, he’s desperate to make it better.

“It could have been worse,” Jason tries, leaning over Dick’s shoulder, ready to help in any way he can. Unfortunately, mopping up the scattered remains of what had once been a full blender is kind of a one-man job. “The blade could have taken someone’s eye out.”

Dick gives him an indeterminable look. “Still could,” he manages to threaten. “‘Oh no, Slade, the blade was in Jason’s eyeball when I got here!’”

Jason, encouraged by the attempt at banter, struggles to keep it going. “Almost as believable as telling him the blender just randomly blew up.”

“Oh, he’ll believe that,” Dick tells him flatly, wringing out the mop into a bucket. “It’s happened twice before. We used to have three blenders.”

Jason cringes guiltily. “So, it’s not my fault, then?” he asks hopefully. Seized by a fleeting snatch of optimism, he suggests, “Maybe Slade will finally let you buy better blenders now.”

Dick relocates his mopping operation to the walls, where Jason has spattered flecks of smoothie and singed plastic. He gives Jason a doubtful look. “Not your fault,” he agrees in a grumble. “Poor blender was so sick of living in this god awful dump, it took the easy way out and just--” Dick sets down the mop, raises his hands to his head, and mimes an epic explosion, complete with sound effects.

“You think the blender committed suicide?” Jason snorts, taken aback. “The blender is a mood,” he decides.

“Most relatable blender I’ve ever encountered,” Dick agrees. “Apart from the other two, of course.” He mops in silence for a moment, before dropping his head dramatically. “Oh my God. We have no more blenders. What are we gonna do? We’re gonna need to, like, headbutt the fruit into smoothies. Jesus Christ.”

Jason, lacking any better idea, grabs a towel and begins to wipe at a spot of wall Dick had missed. “We’d need hair nets for that,” he points out.

Dick’s mopping increases in intensity. “I don’t wanna wear a hairnet,” he complains. “This is awful. My hair is my best feature!”

In response, Jason scrutinizes Dick while making a concentrated effort to appear like he’s looking elsewhere. His hair, admittedly, is a good feature. Whether it’s his best, Jason couldn’t say. He’d need to think about it more.

Not that Jason would spend time thinking about Dick, of course. No sir.

Dick is clearly doing his best to rally for Jason’s sake, but the frustration in the tense set of his jaw and eyebrows makes his defeat obvious. Jason, all of a sudden, feels terrible. He wonders how difficult it must be for Dick to manage a shop with a boss who keeps him on a tighter leash than a disobedient dog. To have no budget, no freedom, no trust.

No wonder the shop is such a dump.

Dick hands the mop to Jason so that he can head over to the register and explain to the customer why they will require a refund for their smoothie. Jason mops aggressively, trying to act like he’s not listening in on that conversation.

“I’m so sorry, sir, our last blender exploded. Can I offer you a different drink, or would you like a refund? ...No, we can’t do a frappuccino. Unfortunately, our last blender has exploded. Like, boom. No blending today. Or ever, possibly. Yes. Okay. $4.50 has been refunded to your card. Yes. Thank you. I am the manager, yes. No, you can’t speak to a different manager, the manager is me. Okay. Goodbye.”

Jason glances over just in time to see Dick drop his head into his hands. Jason looks away just as quickly. Though he’s been repeatedly assured that the blender’s suicide was due to no fault of his own, he can’t help feeling guilty.

Hopefully this will provide the excuse Dick needs to upgrade the shop’s blender arsenal. It shouldn’t be hard for Dick to convince Slade that investing in non-explosive blenders is in the shop’s best interest, after all. Sure, Slade is a penny-pincher, but even he cannot deny that this is a safety hazard at the very least.

When Jason has finished mopping up the mess, he wrings the mop out into the bucket and sets it back on its hook. Then he awkwardly steps out into the main section of the kitchen, hating the way his shoes squeak against the tiles. It’s even worse now that they’re wet.

“You take reg until Babs gets here,” Dick instructs, striding past Jason to the espresso machine. “I think I’ll take care of making drinks for the rest of the day.”

Jason can’t fault him for that, but regardless, he hopes Babs will be arriving soon. Working the register is his least favorite part of the job so far. So many people. So much social interaction. Disgusting. And anyways, he hasn’t met Babs yet, but if she’s even a little more experienced than Jason, it’s help Dick could probably use today. The shop is inexplicably busy, and their equipment is practically falling apart. He’s obviously stretched thin.

Before Babs can arrive, however, Slade does, authoritatively striding through the front doors in his usual suit, tie, and eyepatch, and parting the sea of customers with ease. 

Jason looks away and begins folding and unfolding rags with great concentration so that if Slade glances his way, it’ll seem like he’s doing something useful. Dick, meanwhile, takes a different approach, setting down his equipment to talk to the owner. 

“Hey, Slade?” Dick asks, stopping him before he can disappear through the back door into his office.

“Yes?” Slade turns to face Dick, looking annoyed. Dick powers through regardless.

“You know how the blenders have been exploding?”

As if this concern doesn’t quite qualify as memorable, Slade tilts his head thoughtfully. “I recall you mentioning something like that,” he says slowly. “Why?”

“It happened again,” Dick says. “And that was our last blender. Can I put in an order for some new ones?”

Slade scowls quizzically. “How do blenders keep exploding? That makes no sense.”

Dick sighs patiently, like they’ve had this discussion before. It’s reminiscent of Jason’s teachers, who often had to repeat the instructions to him several times following repeated failures to listen adequately. Jason suddenly sympathizes with them, which is unexpected, because he never thought he’d feel that way. “They put in a recall order for that brand,” he explains. “This model’s been exploding for everyone. We should have replaced them months ago, before this happened.”

“They were working just fine before they exploded,” Slade reasons, as if the latter portion of his statement doesn’t entirely negate the former. “Just order some more of those.”

Dick is silent for a moment, staring at his boss in utter incredulity. In front of him, behind Slade’s back, a tall woman with red hair slips into the shop. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but Dick makes forceful, meaningful eye contact with her, and she cringes and slips silently out into the hallway, tiptoeing away as silently as possible. So Jason supposes that’s Babs, then.

For another moment, Dick gapes like a fish, mouth opening and closing as if he’s got no idea how to respond to Slade’s ridiculousness. Then he takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes for a brief moment, and places his hands on his hips. “Could I maybe try… ordering a brand that doesn’t explode?”

Slade tilts his head like he’s never heard anything more ridiculous in his life. “Well, that just sounds unnecessary. If they were exploding, it was an operator failure.” He crosses his arms over his chest purposefully, glancing around the shop with his single, piercing eye. “Is Barbara here?”

“Yeah,” Jason blurts out mindlessly, just as Dick casually says, “Haven’t seen her.” Dick meets Jason’s eyes with a cringe, and sighs. Jason grimaces guiltily.

“I guess she is here, then,” Dick agrees through gritted teeth.

On cue, Babs sticks her head out the doorway, giving the shop a cursory once-over before stepping in. She’s put her hair in a ponytail and adopted a green apron. “I just got here,” she explains.

Slade nods, hopefully unaware of the odd exchange between his employees. “Barbara, you’re good with tools, right?”

“Um,” says Barabara, clearly aware she’s about to walk into a trap but unsure what the trap is or how to avoid it. “Yes?”

“Perfect,” declares Slade, clapping his hands together. “You can fix the blender.”

“Uhhhhh,” Jason intones.

Dick does the same, looking like he rather wants to facepalm. “I don’t think it’s fixable.”

“Of course it’s fixable,” Slade argues, adopting the tone of a teacher explaining something to a very stupid child. “I paid good money for it--”

“When dinosaurs walked the earth,” Barbara cuts in under her breath, looking like she’s very much on the same page as Dick.

“--and I don’t see the need to spend more on a new one. You didn’t throw away any of the pieces, right?” Slade turns to Dick.

Dick points at the mop bucket. “They’re in there.” He reaches down and grabs a two-inch shard of plastic from the soapy water. “And they’re about this big.”

Slade studies it for a moment, and nods decisively. “Jason, can you cover Barbara for a bit while she works on this? Shouldn’t take too long.”

“Uh,” Jason says again. He wouldn’t call himself a blender repair man by any stretch of the imagination, but it shouldn’t take an expert to see that this blender is beyond repair in numerous ways. He’s about to decline, to say his shift actually ended a minute ago and he’s got plans elsewhere, but one glance at Dick’s tired face has him agreeing with a grimace. “Sure,” he says. “Sounds great.”

“Glad we got that taken care of,” Slade says, slapping Dick’s shoulder with one hand and Jason’s with the other. It’s a bit awkward, because Jason is actually the same height as Slade instead of shorter like the condescending gesture attempts to imply, but the owner’s imposing presence makes up for the missing intimidation factor. “I’ll be in my office. Don’t bother me. It’s tax week.”

And with that, he strides away.

*

While Barbara stands over the mop bucket, cursing and making silent, aggravated hand gestures, Dick serves the customers and Jason takes their orders. Despite the day’s rocky beginning, he’s learning a lot, and gaining confidence in his new position. His mood gradually improves.

Dick is clearly not so fortunate. His perpetually sunny smile has apparently gone into hibernation, and his face is frustrated and unhappy as he robotically performs his job. Jason feels at a loss for what to do or how to help. Historically, Jason is not great at helping people.

But he’d be a jerk if he didn’t try.

When the line of customers dies down to a slow trickle and Jason is able to take some time away from the register, he relocates to Dick’s station, hovering helpfully over his shoulder. “Anything I can do?” he asks, glancing around for ways to offer assistance.

Dick frowns. “No thanks,” he says, wiping off his hands on a towel and placing them over his chest. “I’m…” he laughs ruefully. “I really don’t know what to do right now.”

Worriedly, Jason asks, “With what?”

Dick gestures at the shop around them. “With everything. The way we’re going, we’re not going to be able to stay in business. The health inspector is coming on Monday and I have to fix things up to make sure we pass, but I can’t fix things in any permanent way because Slade won’t give me a budget.”

That does sound like an issue, Jason deduces. Wiping his hands off on his apron, he decides, “Then we just have to convince him to raise the budget, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Dick agrees. “But even then I understand where he’s coming from. There really isn’t the money. We don’t get enough business.”

“Then we need a way to bring in more customers.”

Dick shakes his head. “How do you suggest we do that? The competitors are just better.”

Jason puts his hands on his hips. “I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully. “Let me think.”

“You’d better do it quickly,” calls Babs from the back. “I may not be Bob the builder, but things aren’t going great over here.”

The blender is no closer to being fixed than the extinction of dinosaurs is.

So things are pretty urgent, then.

*

The safety inspector comes on Monday, exactly a week after Jason was hired, and Barbara, Tim, and Jason spend the morning cleaning the shop until it sparkles while Dick tugs on his own hair, unravels the threads on his apron, and stresses the fuck out. His stress makes Jason stressed by association, but no matter how many times he grimaces and says, “Cool it, man, things are gonna be fine,” it doesn’t work.

He’s got a checklist of all the things the inspector will be looking for, and he hasn’t taken his eyes off it since probably before Jason arrived for his shift. “He’s gonna shut us down,” Dick groans multiple times, each upon discovery of a new health and safety hazard.

“No, he’s not,” Barbara says calmly each time. Even Tim looks up from his phone to reassure Dick. But he looks more stressed than Jason has ever seen him. Is he sweating? Jason has never seen him perspire before. It looks out of place.

Finally, when the clock hits twelve and the inspector is scheduled to arrive any time, Barbara sighs in exasperation and pulls Dick into a forceful-looking hug. He melts into it, letting her wrap strong arms around him, and she says, “All else fails, we pay him off.”

“Yeah,” Jason agrees, ignoring the way Dick and Barbara’s closeness makes his heart sink in inexplicable jealousy. “With all our boatloads of cash.”

Dick snorts sadly. Barbara removes herself from the hug but Dick stays propped up against her, clingy like a dog. “Yeah, right,” he mutters.

“We can bribe him with our fresh, delicious coffee,” Tim suggests.

“Or an explosive blender to give as a present to his ex,” Jason agrees.

“Or just let him take the tip jar, which contains--” Barbara examines it quickly, “--three dollars and eight cents.”

“We’re doomed,” Dick moans, “I’m putting in my two weeks--”

The bell on the door jingles and shoes squeak across the linoleum floor. Dick removes himself from Barbara’s side at speeds approaching sonic and stands straighter than a pole. He grins.

“You must be the health inspector! Welcome in!”

The health inspector, standing stiffly in the doorway, gives Dick an inscrutable look, glances from Barbara, to Tim, to Jason, and back again, and then raises his eyebrows. “Thank you,” he says, not sounding very thankful at all.

And thus the tour begins. Dick, with a mixture of impeccable formality and celebrity-like charm, guides the inspector around the shop, and the inspector looks up from his clipboard only to cringe, sigh, and shoot Dick questioning side-eyes. He makes a lot of notes on his clipboard, and Jason swallows nervously each time. He doesn’t look pleased, per say, but at the very least, he doesn’t look angry either. Maybe he’s just aggressively neutral?

He makes his exit thirty minutes later on the dot, and it’s only then that Dick sags in exhausted failure. “There’s no way we passed,” he despairs.

“Don’t say that,” argues Tim hopefully.

The day continues on slowly, and Dick’s mood does not improve until Slade walks in through the doorway and the little bell jingles. Dick’s head perks up.

“We did not pass,” says Slade with no preamble. “We have a month to fix all of our failures or else we will be shut down.”

Tim freezes, looking shocked, and Jason’s shoulder’s drop in defeat. Barbara’s expression is hard and it’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking, but her gaze shoots straight to Dick. His eyes are glittering with panic.

“We can’t shut down,” he says faintly, staring at Slade incredulously.

“So fix it,” Slade snaps. “It is your management that has allowed the shop to fall into such miserable disrepair. It is your responsibility to fix things by the end of this month or else we all will be out of a job and it will be on you.”

“I’ll fix it,” Dick promises desperately, staring at Slade with wide, pleading eyes. “Just give me— I’ll draw up a spreadsheet with all the problems and how much it’ll take to fix them. Give me that money and I’ll get it done, I swear.”

“Unless money falls from the sky,” Slade interrupts coldly, “there is nothing I can give you.”

He shoulders his way through the kitchen and disappears down the hallway to his office, leaving the four dumbfounded employees in his wake. Dick stares after him, completely speechless, and Barbara puts a hand between his shoulder blades. 

“Well fuck,” says Tim, looking pissed. “College ain’t gonna save for itself.”

Jason feels the familiar haze of rage building behind his eyes, making his hands clench into fists and jaw tense. He tries for fruitless seconds to hold his tongue, but goddamnit, rage control has never been one of Jason’s strengths, and the words burst out. “How the fuck can he be over here blaming Dick when he does more work than the rest of us combined?”

Dick shakes his head. “He’s right. I’m the manager, I should--”

“Fuck that!” Jason declares. He wants to punch something, to throw something at the wall-- and, given the state of their surroundings, a fist-shaped hole in the wall would actually blend right in-- but instead he takes in several deep breaths, chest heaving, and continues to Dick, “I don’t see why you don’t just quit. It’d serve that wrinkly old fucker right. Maybe he’d have to do some actual work instead of sitting in his office all day doing taxes or whatever the fuck else excuses he’s making! He doesn’t value you or anything you do! I’ve only been here a week and it’s as clear as fucking day!”

“I’m not gonna quit,” Dick asserts, disgruntled by the suggestion. “And Slade does value my work.”

Jason narrows his eyes, and, in a voice both colder and quieter than before, asks, “How much does he pay you?”

Looking shocked, Dick shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Same as you,” he ends up saying after a beat of awkward silence.

Jason’s mouth falls open in abject horror. “We make minimum wage!” he exclaims, appalled. “There’s no way you could possibly be living off that--”

“Plus tips,” Dick tries to add. The point falls on disapproving ears. They make ten dollars each in tips on an average day. “I don’t want to be making more than you guys when you all work so hard. That wouldn’t be fair.”

“Dick,” interjects Tim, quiet and serious. He looks into Dick’s eyes but his thoughts are clearly elsewhere. His eyes are distracted. Or maybe he's just angry and trying not to let it show. “None of this is fair.”

Jason makes an effort to keep his mouth shut after that, because there’s a thin line between practicing his first amendment freedom of speech and losing his job for yelling at the manager. He’s still upset, though. All of this feels horribly, unforgivably unfair. It reminds Jason of in school, receiving bad grades even when he put in the effort just because his teachers didn’t like him. It reminds Jason of the way his dad never got promoted at the grocery store he worked at, even as newer, younger employees earned raises before him. It reminds him of unfairness and injustice and fills him with so much potent emotion that he doesn’t know how to express. It wants to come out in the form of violence. He wants to punch Slade in the face, to yell at him and demand how he could do this. He wants to punch Dick in the face for tolerating it. 

He turns away. He takes deep breaths. He grabs a paper cup off the stack and crumples it, then shotputs it vengefully into the trashcan and misses by a mile.

He breathes.

Behind Jason, Barbara rubs a hand up and down Dick’s back as he stands in the center of the shop, frozen and speechless. Tim gets to work cleaning so he can clock out, and with a hand on his back, Barbara guides Dick down the hallway to the restroom, maybe to calm down or take a moment or have a private conversation.

Soon, Tim and Barbara clock out and depart, and Jason and Dick are left to handle the rest of the afternoon. Dick goes the extra mile for each and every customer. He helps Jason whenever he’s confused-- which is often-- and cleans the whole floor and all the dishes without asking for Jason’s assistance because one time Jason complained that he hates the way soapy water feels on his hands, and Dick remembers it.

Dick walks out having made eight dollars in tips and seven hours worth of minimum wage. He gives Jason a bright, genuine smile as they part in the parking lot, and gets into his ancient, dented, falling-apart car.

Jason gets into his own, and wonders how the world could possibly be like this. 

He knows injustice-- he’s seen it firsthand, close up, all his life. He’s been the object of it more times than he could possibly count. He knows unfairness and impossible situations and suffering and discrimination.

But he also knows that if there is one thing, one thing at all, that the world is indiscriminate about, it’s which of the good people it chooses to screw over.

*

When Jason gets home from work, he forgoes his usual relaxing routine of bullying Damian and gaming in his room. Instead, he knocks on Bruce’s office door, and lets himself in before Bruce answers.

“Yo, B-man,” Jason says, depositing himself on Bruce’s leather couch. Bruce sits at his desk, typing away on his computer, and when Jason invites himself in, he glances up for all of three seconds before returning to his work.

“What’s up, Jason,” asks Bruce. There is no pause in his rhythmic typing.

“What would you do,” Jason attempts slowly, employing his most convincing voice, “if I told you I needed… a few thousand dollars.”

Bruce’s eyebrows rise, his typing slows to a gradual halt, and finally, he swivels his office chair to regard Jason. “I would wonder why,” he responds after a pause, “and I would inquire who you were aiming to bribe or bail out of jail.”

With an incredulous stare, Jason glares at Bruce. “None of the above!” he exclaims, offended. “It’s for a good cause.”

Bruce’s eyebrows rise, if possible, even further. “Define good,” he bids Jason, voice still dripping with doubt. “I don’t want to accuse you of anything here, but you have just dropped out of high school, and that is not typically a precursor for smart, well-thought-out decision-making.”

Jason rolls his eyes, because of course Bruce has to make everything about school again.

“Buying drugs to donate to needy children?” Jason tries.

“No.”

“Trucking in enough gasoline to douse the entire school and then burning it to the ground?”

“Enormous no.”

“Making an anonymous donation to a struggling local business so they can get back on their feet and make the necessary changes to get more business?”

“No--huh? Hm. Hmmmmmm.”

Jason grins winningly. “Consider it,” he says, adopting his very best puppy-dog eyes. “Aren’t you all about supporting people in need? They just need a little something to kickstart them.”

“I mean, in theory, that’s a fine idea,” Bruce allows, taking off his glasses to rub thoughtfully at his eyes and drag a hand through his hair. “What business, though?”

“Gotham Coffee.”

Bruce pauses, and for a moment, his mouth drops open, like he’s speechless. As always, though, he recovers quickly, straightening up in his seat and removing his glasses to fix Jason with one of those piercing stares. “Really,” he says thoughtfully.

Instantly defensive, Jason crosses his arms and retorts, “Really. Why is it so hard to believe that I want to help out my boss and coworkers?”

Bruce tilts his head, looking like he still has no idea what to make of the situation. “I mean-- that’s not hard to believe at all. You’ve always been generous, it’s just-- I thought you didn’t even want to work there in the first place. And now it’s been one week and you suddenly want to give them thousands of dollars?”

Jason rolls his eyes and stares at the wall. He doesn’t know why, but Bruce calling him generous makes his cheeks go red with deep embarrassment. He’s not generous. That’s not why he’s doing this. The coffee shop is a shithole, and if Jason absolutely has to work there, then he wants it to be nicer. That’s all. Does he want to be caught in the crossfire of another blender explosion? No, he does not.

“They’re slowly going out of business,” says Jason. No one at work had phrased it like that, but it’s clear to see. “And the owner is kind of a jerk. But the manager--” He stops, because he doesn’t quite know what he wants to say about Dick. “Every day, he comes to work earlier than everyone else and leaves later, too. All the regulars love him and he does more for the shop than everyone else combined. He gets paid next to nothing, but is he asking Slade for a pay raise? No. All he wants is money to spend renovating the shop. You know, new equipment. Better menu items. Better quality in general. But Slade keeps saying they don’t have the money for that. So I was thinking, you know, just… give them the money.”

All of a sudden, Bruce is staring at Jason as if with new eyes. Like he’s never seen him before. Jason squirms away from the scrutiny, suddenly feeling awkward and uncomfortable.

“And if I’m gonna work there, I want it to be nice, too,” Jason adds, because all this talk of kindness and altruism is really making him feel weird. “If another blender tries to blow me up, I’m gonna lose it.”

Bruce cracks a sharp grin, and Jason realizes all of a sudden that it’s pride in his eyes. He places a hand on Jason’s shoulder and squeezes. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promises. 

Jason can’t help his smile. “Good,” he says roughly, trying to play it like he doesn’t care.

But he does care, and Bruce can clearly see it.

*

“Employee meeting,” announces Slade the next morning. Barbara is taking orders on the register, Tim is tangling with the antique drip coffee machine (so old that Pa from Little House on the Prairie had probably used one more modern) and Dick and Jason have just clocked in, pulling on their aprons and getting ready for their shift.

“When?” asks Dick. “You didn’t mention--”

“Now,” says Slade.

“Um,” says Tim, expression apprehensive. “I kind of have to go. I have class at two, and--”

“Now,” repeats Slade.

Tim grimaces and rolls his eyes, and Dick shoots him a sympathetic shrug. “I guess I’ll have fun explaining to my teacher why I’m absent for the third time this week.”

“I’m sure you will,” Slade agrees, voice smooth and agreeable. “Now. Meeting.”

Everyone files down the thin hallway into Slade’s office, which is definitely not big enough to contain five people at once. There’s a desk with a spinny office chair and a laptop--which, Jason notices with annoyance, all look perfectly modern and nothing like the crumbling equipment in the shop--and no seating for the four employees.

“We have received an anonymous donation from a member of the community,” begins Slade. Jason stares at the wall, shuffling his feet, doing his best not to appear too proud or suspicious.

Dick’s mouth drops open. “What,” he says. “How much?”

“Several thousand dollars,” Slade says. His voice is flat and monotone, like he doesn’t really care one way or the other, but his single eye is gleaming and Jason doesn't like the way it looks.

Dick has apparently become speechless, mouth opening and closing over and over again like a fish, so Barbara asks in a dry, suspicious tone, “What will we be spending it on?”

Jason holds his breath. If Slade lets Dick spend the money the way he wants to, by improving the equipment and the menu and, well, everything-- then this could be the opportunity he’s been waiting for. They could bring in more customers, make more money, and maybe Dick could get a pay raise, because Jason has seen Dick’s car and whatever Slade is paying him is clearly not enough.

Jason isn’t sure why, after only a few days, he’s already so invested in Dick’s dream. But that’s just the thing about Dick-- he has this charming, open aura that pulls people in, whether they want to be or not. It’s too late to save Jason now-- he’s invested not only in heart but now in finance, too.

Longsuffering, Slade draws in a breath and lets it out. He focuses his single eye on Dick and says, “I hope you drew up that spreadsheet.”

Chapter Text

It is not bring your little brother to work day. It is not bring your miniature hell demon to work day. It is not even make Jason want to drive off a bridge day. In fact, on the current, official calendar, none of these days even exist (although Bruce regularly celebrates the third one).

Nevertheless, Damian tags along on Jason’s way to work. 

“I have an appointment in town,” he sniffs haughtily at breakfast. “Since Jason is already going that way, I will join him.”

It’s a little too early in the morning to be having a conversation that’s bound to be as infuriating as this one. Sun shines bright through the dining room’s grand windows, casting golden squares of light over the table. Alfred bustles around, spreading out platters of breakfast and pouring cups of coffee and juice. Jason accepts his hungrily. In contrast to Alfred, who is already dressed in sensible slacks, a button down, and his signature vest, Jason rocks a pair of ratty old sweatpants and no shirt. He’s only, like… seventy five percent awake. Twenty five percent too tired to deal with Damian. 

“Fine by me,” says Bruce, who, after only one cup of coffee and about a third of his morning newspaper, is also not yet awake enough to make rational adult decisions.

Jason reels backwards in his chair, outraged, suddenly feeling very awake. Alfred tsks at his dismal table manners, but Jason is submerged too deeply in confusion and anger to care. “What? No. I have work, I can’t be chauffeuring hell babies all over the city.”

“Not a baby,” gripes Damian, although he lets the hell part slide.

“What time are you working?” asks Bruce, folding up his newspaper to set it beside his plate on the table. Instantly, Alfred sweeps it away and replaces it with a bowl of fruit--a subtle clue towards what he thinks Bruce should be consuming as opposed to Gotham’s depressing morning news.

“Eight,” says Jason. The clock right now says seven fifteen.

“Can you be ready on time?” Bruce asks Damian.

Damian stands. He’s dressed in his school uniform even though it’s a Saturday, and as usual, not a single button or thread is out of place. “I’ve been ready, Father,” he drawls. Jason is strikingly reminded of a tiny Draco Malfoy.

“Then that sounds fine to me,” Bruce says, turning to Jason, looking pleased. Jason scowls at him and stabs his oatmeal demonstratively with his fork, trying to prove a point. “Damian, where is your appointment?"

“The used book store next door to Jason’s work,” he says. “Myself and a classmate are researching for a project.”

“Have you heard of a library?” Jason snarks. “Or the internet?”

Truth is, he’d rather do just about anything than take Damian anywhere near his place of employment. It’s not that he’s embarrassed about the coffee shop’s state of disrepair. It’s just that, if he’s completely honest with himself, he’d rather let Damian think he’s working somewhere… cool. Somewhere clean and modern with cooler-than-thou coworkers who have lots of tattoos and who are certainly paid much more than eleven dollars an hour. 

The illusion will be shattered the very instant Damian lays eyes on Gotham Coffee.

Well, fuck it all to hell, Jason decides. It might not be much, but for the past couple weeks, it’s been Jason’s. If Damian has anything to say about it, he can shove his prissy opinions right up his ass.

“We’re leaving at seven forty,” Jason snaps. “I’m not tryna be late. And don’t even think about coming in,” he warns. “If I have to deal with a caffeinated demon brat on top of everything else, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill myself.”

“Master Jason!” exclaims Alfred.

Ever so slightly abashed, Jason scowls, and stands. He pushes in his chair and abandons his half-eaten bowl of blueberry oatmeal. It wasn’t even that tasty anyways, he tells himself. Nutrients, who?

Much to Jason’s despair, Damian is buckled into the passenger seat of Jason’s car no later than seven thirty-nine. To demonstrate his rage against the system, Jason turns the radio up as loud as it’ll go and blasts Damian’s least favorite genre of music--screamo pop punk. 

It’s an annoyingly beautiful day outside--or, as beautiful as Gotham can get. The temperature outside is a perfect seventy five degrees, and the sun is fully visible in a clear sky. Jason speculates that the weather is only acting this pleasant to spite him. Screw you, Mother Nature. Gotham’s skies don’t deserve to be pretty.

“My brain cells are detonating one by one,” Damian complains over the music.

“What,” says Jason loudly.

“I SAID MY BRAIN CELLS ARE--”

“Shut up, we’re here.”

Nothing more therapeutic than chipping away at a ten year old’s sanity, Jason thinks happily as he turns off the music and puts the car in park. He’s parked sideways across two parking spots. Damian stares incredulously at where the tires not only pass the line, but ignore the line’s very existence. Jason cannot be bothered to fix it.

“Todd,” Damian exclaims, horrified. “You’ve parked illegally.”

“So?” Jason says, twirling his keys on one finger.

“So, you’re going to get a parking ticket. You’re preventing another person from parking in this spot.”

“They can thank me later,” Jason says. “I’ve rescued them from coming into Gotham Coffee.”

Sure enough, that’s when Damian’s eyes fall upon the shopfront. Though it had seemed as though his horror could not possibly be more complete, his eyes widen further as they rake across the dilapidated cafe. “No wonder they hired you,” is all he says after maybe thirty seconds of mute scrutiny.

Jason flicks him on the head. “What time’s your nerd appointment?” he asks.

“Eight thirty,” says Damian, suddenly looking evil. “The perfect amount of time to get some refreshments first.”

“I’ll give you a refreshment,” Jason threatens, “of your fucking memory. I already told you, don’t come in.”

“Who made you the coffee police?” Damian swaggers towards the door and swings it open with all the confidence of an A-list celebrity. It jingles incriminatingly. Jason wonders if it’s too late to call in sick.

“I need coffee,” Damian announces to Dick, who is working the register inside.

Behind his brother, trudging into the shop, Jason begins, “We reserve the right to refuse service--”

But, tragically, it’s already too late. “Of course!” Dick exclaims behind the register. Goddamnit. Jason’s seen him talk to children before--bastard loves them. In the two minutes it takes a kid to order a cookie, they go from shy and quiet to practically begging Dick to adopt them on the spot. Jason doesn’t get it. He can’t be that charming. Can he? 

“What can I get for you?”

Jason scowls. If Dick’s stupid blue eyes sparkle any harder, they’ll all go blind. 

Damian wrinkles his nose, clearly taken aback by the unexpected intensity of Dick’s friendliness. Meanwhile, Jason slinks through the door in the counter into the kitchen, trying to make himself as small as possible in the hopes that Dick won’t notice him. There is no acknowledgement--Dick would never jeopardize the special sanctity of a customer interaction by interrupting one--but he holds no illusions that Dick hasn’t seen him go by.

“I’m still deciding,” Damian says. “Your menu is…”

“It can be a little… difficult,” Dick agrees diplomatically. “Tell you what. I’m gonna make up a drink for you, and if you don’t like it, it’s free.”

Damian’s eyes go narrow. “I highly doubt you could--”

“Doubt all you want,” Dick challenges with a big, charming grin. Jason watches from his hiding spot behind the pastry case, and wants to groan. He can already see Damian softening. “If you don’t like it, it’s free,” he reminds him. “Just answer a couple questions first. Milk or no milk?”

“I’m vegan,” Damian pretentiously declares. Jason rolls his eyes.

Dick is unfazed. “Any allergies?”

“Cauliflower.”

Dick makes a note on his cup. “I’ll try to work around that.”

Jason goes to clock in and put on his apron. In the back, washing dishes, is Rose, Slade’s daughter and part-time employee. She’s probably the most relatable of the bunch. Washing dishes, she had once confided in Jason, is the perfect excuse to avoid social interaction, because the sinks are hidden in the back. Jason has taken this advice to heart and been very pleased with the results.

Her attendance is often questionable, and more than once has Dick or Barbara shown up in her place when she was scheduled but couldn’t be bothered to make an appearance. But Jason likes her alright. She’s chill. If Jason were the type of person to make friends, Rose might be a candidate.

Today her hair is in a high ponytail, all the better to accentuate her incredibly threatening set of earrings that look like tiny dangling daggers. Her apron is orange. On the corner of it, just below the strap, is a pink, white, and blue pin that reads she/her.

She waves at Jason with one soapy hand, and rolls her eyes at Dick. “Is he charming the children again?”

“My fuckin brother,” mutters Jason, quietly mortified.

Rose’s eyes go wide, and she leans around past Jason to get a look. Luckily, Damian is too short to be seen past the counter and register. All that is visible is his spiky gelled hair.

“Jason!” Dick, looking very loud today in a magenta apron and pink shirt, has finally concluded his conversation with Damian. “Would you take register so I can concentrate on making this important drink for our esteemed patron? It’s very important.”

Behind the counter, Damian’s cheeks go red, and he looks secretly pleased. Jason sighs. “Okay.”

It’s a slow morning, because even though eight a.m. Saturday should be a rush hour, business has been steadily dwindling since news of the failed safety inspection came out. So Jason only helps one or two customers and earns three lonely quarters in tips before Dick is done making Damian’s drink. He slides it across the counter, looking proud.

Damian, staring at Dick with new eyes like he’s not quite sure what to make of him, grabs the drink and takes a mute sip.

His mouth drops open.

“What is in this?” he asks, eyes wide.

“Oat milk dark chocolate mocha with cinnamon sugar,” Dick says. “Do you like it?”

Damian takes another sip and, face almost entirely pink, shoves a ten dollar bill at Dick.

Delighted, Dick makes change, and passes the remainder to Damian. “What’s your name?” he asks.

Clasping the drink with both hands and looking up at Dick like an owl, Damian says, “Damian.”

Jason is almost as shocked as Damian. He’s never seen his brother so… shy before. He’s staring at Dick like he’s just solved world hunger. 

“Come back soon, okay?” asks Dick. “It’s not every day you meet someone who appreciates creativity like you.”

Aw, fuck, Jason thinks. Dick has said exactly the right words. 

Damian, pretentious little brat that he is, fancies himself an artist . There is no better way to his heart than to compliment him on his creativity or artistic vision or whatever the fuck else. 

“I will be back,” promises Damian, looking very serious. “Todd.” He nods at Jason. “I’ll be at my appointment if you need me.”

He leaves his change on the counter.

Jason watches him leave, dumbstruck. Dick bites his lip.

“I don’t feel right taking this much from a little kid,” he says. Damian’s tip totals in at over five dollars.

“He’s my brother,” Jason says, pocketing the money. “I’ll bring it back to him.”

He doesn’t. When Dick is looking away, he slips all of it into the tip jar--not for himself, but for Dick. Whether or not Jason’s stomach sinks with inexplicable jealousy at his little brother admiring someone else so openly, Dick deserves it. 

Goddamnit, he thinks.

He wonders why he feels the need to be so fucking mean to Damian all the time. 

Dick makes kindness look like a breeze. 

*

One o’clock is time for the openers’ shift change. Since Jason arrived a few hours after them, at eight, his shift will end at four. 

When the clock strikes one, Rose hurls her apron at the wall and whoops. “Fuck yeah! Get me outta this bitch! I was ready to throw cowboy on some of those Karens.”

Dick gives her an elder-brotherly look. “Where do we put our aprons, Rose?”

She rolls her eyes but obediently picks up her apron and hangs it on the least-wobbly hook, which still tilts a little, but does not fall. 

Dick grins. “Thank you. Counted tips yet?”

Rose clocks out, and then she pulls out her phone, which is encrusted in sparkly magenta rhinestones, to use as a calculator. Jason hovers over her shoulder as she works. His excuse is that he needs to verify the accuracy of her division. 

“Have you ever actually thrown down with a customer?” Jason asks, morbidly curious and cautiously impressed.

Behind them, Dick snorts. He’s cleaning out the espresso machine so that the closing shift will have a more usable workspace. The rest of the shop is still a mess. “Too many times to count,” he mutters.

“It’s never gotten physical,” Rose allows, sounding a little disappointed. “But I’ve scared them away. At home, on the refrigerator, I like to print and hang up all the Yelp reviews about me.”

“Quite the collection,” Dick chimes in. “My favorite was the one where they accused you of discrimination because you wouldn’t serve them because they discriminated against you first.”

Rose sighs fondly. “A treasured memory and my greatest pride,” she says. Turning to Jason, she mutters, “Just wait for your first review. We’ll bake you a cake.”

“Does Dick get mentioned in reviews?” Jason asks, curious.

Rose rolls her eyes and puts on a high, ridiculous voice. “I have never encountered such delightful customer service in my life! I would hire this young man on the spot if he weren’t already working here! I wrote eighty-two emails to his boss about how hospitable he is! I asked him to marry me!”

“What can I say,” Dick agrees primly. “It’s a gift.”

When Tim pulls up, four minutes fashionably late, he slams the jingly door shut behind him and stomps loudly across the floor. “Whoever that black car out front belongs to,” he declares, “They have never taken a single driving lesson in their life and should have their license revoked.”

“Really?” Dick asks, curious. “Let me see. Which one?”

Tim points out the window and Dick gasps, looking scandalized. “They’re blocking a parking spot!”

“My spot!” exclaims Tim, throwing his hands up. “I had to park around the corner and walk here! That’s why I’m late, I should still be paid for these last four minutes.”

“Noted,” Dick says. “I’m sure Slade will care a lot.”

“Worth a try,” says Tim.

Jason, meanwhile, takes a leaf out of Rose’s book and retreats to the back to go wash dishes. His face is burning with shame that he tries to convince himself is actually anger. His success is mild.

“Is that your car?” Rose whispers.

Jason grimaces and Rose nods.

“Mood.”

When Rose leaves, it’s one ten, because she’d needed to chat with Tim and make herself an atrociously complicated iced latte first. Usually, the employees are expected to pay for their drinks. As the owner’s daughter, the rules evidently do not apply to Rose.

“Shouldn’t you be going?” Jason asks Dick when he’s run out of dishes to clean. He’s sure he could find more, if he really worked for it, but Tim’s impassioned critique of Jason’s driving skills has finally concluded, so he figures it’s safe to emerge. 

Dick grimaces. “I wish,” he says. “But the exterminator’s coming today and Slade’s not around to meet up with him, so he asked me to.”

Jason wrinkles his nose. “Exterminator?” he demands. “To exterminate what?”

Dick just shakes his head. “You do not want to know,” he promises.

“There’s cockroaches in the closet!” Tim pipes up helpfully. “And probably elsewhere!”

“What time is the exterminator coming, then?” Jason demands. It can not possibly be soon enough. Last week would not have been soon enough.

“Five,” says Dick.

Jason makes a mental note to avoid the closet… and probably elsewhere… until then.  “That’s a long time,” he says. “When did you arrive?”

“Five,” Dick says again.

“That’s… a twelve hour shift. Jesus fuck. Are you at least getting overtime?”

Looking uncomfortable, Dick shrugs. “‘Til then,” he redirects, “since we have time, we should be working on the smaller things. I’m gonna send you both a spreadsheet. There’s lots of things on there that’ll take professionals, but some things we can take care of ourselves.”

The Wi-Fi is atrocious, so it takes an eon for Jason to download the Google Sheets app. When it’s finally loaded and he’s able to access the file Dick has sent, he decides that the wait was worth it. This is the most involved spreadsheet he’s ever seen in his life.

It’s color-coded based on level of importance, and arranged in descending order of urgency. Cockroaches, highlighted in bright red, is priority number one. Dick has taken the liberty of inserting a little bug emoji. Classy, Jason thinks. An organizational accomplishment by all accounts.

Tim swipes through it on his own phone. “How about the apron hooks?” he asks. “That sounds easy enough.”

“Good idea,” says Dick. Jason agrees. The row of hooks in the wall to hang up their aprons is falling apart, and getting worse each day. Several times, Jason has gone to hang up an apron, and had the hook just straight up fall right out. He usually shoves it back into the hole and busts ass out the door before anyone notices something’s amiss. He suspects he isn’t the only perpetrator, either.

Turning to Jason, Dick asks, “Can you go to the hardware store down the street and buy some new wall hooks? Keep the receipt and we’ll reimburse you.”

“Why can’t Tim?” Jason asks. He’s still pissed off about the parking job thing. 

“Someone,” Dick says, grinning teasingly at Tim, “does not have a driver’s license.”

Tim’s face goes red. “Through no fault of his own!”

Jason’s mouth falls open. “Then how the fuck are you out here complaining about my parking job?”

“That was your car?” Tim and Dick demand at the same time.

“No! Yes. I’m getting the damn hooks,” Jason grumbles. He grabs his backpack, which contains his wallet and keys, off one of their current hooks, and is unsurprised when it flings itself off the wall to its doom. This time, he lets it stay on the floor. Its reign of terror over the coffee shop is coming to a close. 

Outside, Jason spots a little yellow paper wedged on the front of his car, beneath the windshield wipers. Perplexed, he pulls it out, and sits in the driver’s seat to read.

What he sees inspires outrage. “A fucking parking ticket?” he demands out loud after a moment of dumbfounded reading. “You’ve gotta be fucking shitting me.”

Sixty five fucking dollars. All because he parked a tiny bit over some dumb fucking line? Which dumbass decided that was gonna be a law? Why the fuck is Jason expected to shell out his own hard-earned cash over it?

Beyond his anger, shame wells up in his chest, and he knows there’s nothing he can do to escape it. The violation, Jason realizes with a sinking stomach, was entirely his own fault. Jason could have re-parked the car. He could have parked elsewhere if that particular spot was too challenging. But he made the deliberate decision not to, just for the purpose of--what? Spiting his ten year old little brother?

For the first time, it occurs to Jason why Bruce accuses him so regularly of immaturity. Why that word, more frequently than any other, has shown up on every report card he’s ever earned.

Immature. 

Fuck it all to hell, Jason thinks, biting the inside of his cheek. To his immense shame, his eyes burn, and his throat closes up. Jesus Christ. He’s not gonna cry over sixty five dollars.

Then again, he’s already immature enough. What’s one more temper tantrum in a series of many?

He can’t dwell on it now. He has some hooks to pick up.

He focuses on that as opposed to how disappointed he knows Bruce will be.

*

When Jason returns from the hardware store, he parks the car like a goddamn driver’s ed instructor. He’s pulled himself together a little after his emotional moment, so he walks into the shop with new resolution. 

“Did you get them?” Dick asks when the jingling door proclaims his arrival. 

Triumphantly, Jason holds up his bag. 

Dick gives him two thumbs up. “Hand over the receipt,” he says. “I’ll put it in Slade’s box.”

That done, Jason sets down the bag and ventures into the apparently cockroach-infested closet to locate the right tools. He’s never installed hooks before, or done much in the way of home improvement. But, he reasons, he’s put together IKEA furniture. Nothing can be more challenging than that.

Since the single hooks had proven significantly more effort than they were worth, Jason had opted to invest in a wall-mounted board of hooks. It should only take two screws to adhere it to the wall, and once it’s on, it shouldn’t fall off again.

Methodically, Jason lays out all his supplies on the floor. Hooks, screws, screwdriver, Sharpie. Mise en place-- everything in its place.

He starts by making two marks on the wall where the screws will go, but it’s hard to tell whether they are perfectly even. Jason stares at them for a while, and adjusts their placements, but it’s difficult to say for sure.

“Dick,” he calls over his shoulder, “these look good?”

Dick squints helpfully at the dots. “Ask Tim,” he suggests. “I can’t tell.”

Jason inwardly scowls at the idea of having to work with Tim after his hypocritical driving tirade of that afternoon. But, he tells himself, a mature coworker would be able to accept Tim’s help, even if he is an annoying kid. So he scoots aside and gestures at the wall.

“Do we have a leveller?” Tim asks.

“If there is one, it’s in the closet,” Dick says.

Tim turns to Jason, and for a moment, they glare at each other as if trying to nonverbally convince the other to brave the closet. Tim is madly persistent--in the end, Jason throws his hands in the air and stands, making his way to the closet of cockroaches.

He has to venture in pretty deep to find a leveller--it makes sense that they don’t have much use for them in a shop where maintenance is nothing but a fond memory. In the deepest corners of the closet, the cockroach infestation is disgusting and undeniable. They crawl up the walls and over supply boxes. They disappear before Jason can think about stepping on them, but even then, it’s just an idea. Squished cockroaches are possibly even more disgusting than live ones. 

Finally, he finds the leveller, and retreats as quickly as possible. He closes the door behind him as if to trap the bugs in. Good god. That exterminator is gonna be a hero.

When the marks are finally even, Jason picks up a long screw and presses it to the drywall. With the screwdriver, he slowly screws it in, until to his immense surprise, it punches straight through the wall into thin air beyond.

“Shit,” says Tim. “Gotta find the studs.”

Feeling like a bit of an idiot, Jason scowls at the wall. “Got a stud finder?” he asks, mostly managing to keep the snark out of his voice.

“Do you?” Tim drawls.

For a moment, they are at a standstill. Then, Jason whips out his phone for a quick Google search. 

“Apparently,” he tells Tim, “electrical boxes are usually attached to studs, and they’re usually spaced sixteen inches apart. So. Tape measure?”

This, Tim is able to procure. From the nearest lightswitch, Jason measures sixteen inches, and makes a mark with his Sharpie. Then, Tim holds the tape measure while Jason uses it to puzzle out the right distance for the other screw. He finds it, marks it, and then adjusts using the leveller, feeling pleased with himself.

And that’s on being a problem solver, Jason tells himself, unable to hide his smirk. Damn. He just about deserves a raise.

Well, he allows. Not any more than Dick does. Jason glances over his shoulder to see Dick at the register, explaining their menu to a customer. He’s friendly and helpful as always, but beyond that, Jason thinks he actually looks kind of exhausted.

No shit, Jason inwardly scoffs. He’s been here since five a.m., which means he probably had to wake up around four thirty. He’s worked longer than his scheduled shift.

How many days a week does he have to do this? Month after month after month? How long have things been this way?

The grim realization only steels Jason’s resolve. For Dick’s sake, he’ll make this the best wall of hooks ever installed anywhere. Dick deserves somewhere nice to hang his apron, but even beyond that, he deserves a load off his back. It’ll be satisfying to be able to check the hooks off the spreadsheet. To make tangible progress towards their goal of total improvement.

When Jason presses the screw into the wall this time, it sticks. Grinning with the satisfaction of a job well done, he makes two even holes in the wall. Then, he enlists Tim’s help to hold the mount in place. He tightens the two screws, and when that’s done, puts his hands on his hips.

“I just about think that’s that,” Jason pronounces.

“Nice,” Tim says. He smiles hesitantly at Jason, like he’s not sure how Jason will respond. But Jason’s feeling charitable, even proud, after their successful mission. He holds up his hand for a high five.

Tim takes his hand off the mount to return the high five. It’s loud and incredibly satisfying.

Maybe Tim’s not so bad, Jason thinks. He’s young and awkward and doesn’t know how to drive. But the kid can install a row of hooks, that’s for sure. 

“Come look at my hooks,” Jason orders Dick. Maybe it will brighten his tiring day to be able to cross an item off his list. 

Dick follows Jason obligingly to the wall where the hooks are mounted. He glances between them and Jason. Slowly, his expression becomes ecstatic. “Woah! Look at that!”

To demonstrate, Jason takes off his apron, and places it delicately on a hook. They all hold their breaths, waiting for the mount to fall.

But it doesn’t. “See!” Jason declares, gesturing at the hooks with an open hand. “Pro-level installation. I might have missed my calling as a hook installer. Got any hooks you need screwed in? Call me. I got you.”

Dick gives a round of applause. “They’re the most functional hooks this shop has ever seen,” he agrees, nodding. He pulls out his phone, a battered old iPhone five, and makes a big production of highlighting “HOOKS” in green. For good measure, he even takes a picture of the finished product. Jason wonders if he’ll post it on Instagram, or something.

Suddenly, he wonders why he doesn’t have Dick’s social media. Would it be appropriate to ask? He doesn’t know.

They all share a round of high fives once Dick tucks his phone away, and it lasts until a customer walks in and gives them a judgemental expression of what the fuck. Dick goes to help them, Tim retreats to the espresso machine, and Jason puts his hands on his hips to marvel some more.

He puts his apron on again, but by then it’s almost three, and there’s not much left for him to do. He counts his tips for the shift and divides the correct amount between himself, Dick, and Tim. He stocks the cabinets so the closers won’t have to do it later. He refills the napkin dispenser.

By the time the end of Jason’s shift rolls around, he’s feeling pretty good about today’s work. The pride helps him forget about the parking ticket, and the dread looming over his shoulders. But it’s impossible to ignore entirely.

He doesn’t want to tell Bruce. Doesn’t want to see the disappointed frown.

He considers briefly the prospect of hiding the situation from Bruce entirely. Jason could pay the ticket on his own, now that he has a job.

But, he realizes with a sinking feeling, that won’t work. The car is registered under Bruce’s name. Bruce will find out, one way or another. And lying to his face would only compound the severity of Jason’s offense.

“Y’ever got a parking ticket?” Jason asks Dick, hoping his tone achieves nonchalance.

Dick looks startled by the question. “What?”

“You know,” says Jason, taking the little yellow paper from his pocket and waving it around. “One of these. I think they’re bullshit.”

Dick’s shoulders, which had been drawn up taut, untense, and he gives Jason a rueful grin. “Park like you did, man, and you’re asking for it.”

“Whose business is it how I park my own damn car?” Jason fumes. He shoves the paper back into his pocket.

Dick’s reaction, Jason muses to himself, was odd. How could parking violations be a touchy subject to someone? He doubts there’s a single driver on the road who hasn’t had one at some point. Weird.

Jason’s anger has not waned by the time the clock ticks over to three. He crams his tips into his pocket along with the ticket, and pulls his apron off. After he clocks out, he carelessly throws his apron onto the hooks.

And the whole damn thing falls down.

It crashes to the floor with a concerning puff of drywall, and Jason stares in mute horror at the spot of wall where it had hung. The drywall is all cracked and crumbling. The studs beneath it look no better.

Dick’s head turns to the sound almost instantly, and as he rushes over to the site of the disaster, Jason’s shame becomes complete.

“Shit,” says Dick. “How’d that happen?”

He looks haggard and exhausted, clothing stained with coffee and milk and hair a mess after running his hand through it over and over. There are dark bags beneath his eyes.

Jesus Christ. Jason looks at him and feels awful. The horrible suspicion that this is all his fault churns his stomach.

He doesn’t know how to handle feeling so helplessly guilty. He hates feeling this way. He’d much rather be angry--that, he knows how to channel with deadly accuracy.

“How the fuck do you explain this?” he growls at Tim. 

“What?” demands Tim, stepping closer with his arms crossed tightly. “It’s not my fault you broke them.”

“I didn’t break them, they were poorly installed,” Jason snaps. “I asked you to help me. Why the fuck didn’t you prevent this?”

He knows he’s being irrational--he’s being immature. But he’s so deeply entrenched in shame and embarrassment, that he can’t help his anger from flooding out. His chest feels tight and heavy. His eyes are doing the horrible burning thing again, and it just makes him even angrier--he’s not going to fucking lose it in front of his coworkers. In front of Dick. 

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” says Tim. “You need to calm the fuck down, man.”

“I don’t need to do anything you tell me!” 

He doesn’t know why he’s freaking out so thoroughly over the stupid hooks. They aren’t that important. If there’s one thing in this whole damn shop that makes it through the renovations without being fixed, he’d rather it was them.

But the sinking feeling of failure is tugging him down in a spiral. First, his little brother makes best friends with his manager when Jason can’t even get a smile from him. Then, the damn parking ticket--which he still has to tell Bruce about, an occasion that he dreads more than words can express. Now the hooks--the only thing he’d thought he’d done right. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fuck it all to hell.

“Just be quiet, guys,” says Dick. He rubs at his eyes then drags the hand through his hair, and instantly, Jason’s guilt multiplies exponentially. Poor guy still has another two hours of work. Probably more after that, depending on how long the exterminator stays.

“The drywall’s chipping,” Dick says, when Tim and Jason’s argument has died down to silence. “I can see the studs behind it.”

Tim and Jason watch over Dick’s shoulder as he pokes at it with a finger. “But the hooks should have stayed up,” he continues. “It’s not the drywall holding them in place, it’s the studs.”

“Are the studs bad, too?” Tim suggests.

“I hope to god they fucking aren’t,” Dick mutters. He realizes with a chill down his spine that this is the most frustrated Jason’s ever heard him. It’s jarring and uncharacteristic and awful. In this moment, Jason would give anything in the world for this not to be happening. For it to be happening to anyone in the world but Dick.

Dick presses at the holes in the drywall. “It’s hard to see,” he says, squinting at the damage. Jason hands him his phone with the flashlight on, feeling like it’s the least he can do. Dick takes it and holds it up close to the holes.

“I can’t tell for sure,” he says, “but I think it’s wood rot.”

Jason sucks in a breath and holds it, hands clenched in anxious fists. 

Beside him, Tim breathes out, “Shit.”

That about sums it up, Jason thinks. Dick brushes off his hands, which are covered in powder from the flaky drywall, on his apron, and runs one through his hair again--he does that a lot when he’s frustrated, Jason has noticed. It leaves a white streak on his forehead that Jason wants to brush off. It makes him look older.

“I’m gonna need to call in a contractor,” Dick says, staring at the wall. He looks close to despair, and no less exhausted than before. Jason’s heart aches for him. “It could be an easy fix, but… Jesus. If all the studs are like this…”

Then it’ll cost a lot more to fix than their budget can reasonably afford, Jason infers. 

“I’m sorry,” tries Jason helplessly, as if the wood rot was the fault of his own handiwork. He wishes there was something--anything--he could do to fix it. He feels awful witnessing Dick’s misery. Hardworking Dick. Why is this happening to him?

“Not your fault,” Dick says. A trace of his warmth has returned, and Jason breathes out softly, relieved. He doesn’t look angry at Jason. Just defeated in general. “Good thing we found the problem. Maybe we’ll catch it before it’s too late.”

Jason’s worry is not alleviated in the slightest, and the look on Dick’s face shows that he’s in the same boat.

He doesn’t want to leave when things are falling apart like this. But at the same time, he can’t stand the depressing atmosphere for even a second longer. It feels like the ceiling is going to fall down and crush him. He feels like he’s going to suffocate.

“I have to go,” Jason says, inching towards the door.

“See you tomorrow, Jason,” says Dick. He pauses, looking sad. "Thank you for--I know you worked hard today."

Tim says nothing. 

Jason makes his escape.

“I’m gonna call Slade,” he hears Dick mutter on the way out. “Fuck. I don’t know what to fucking do.”

*

Damian had gotten a ride home with Bruce earlier, so Jason drives home alone. He’s extra observant of all the traffic laws--which makes him the exception among the other drivers of Gotham--but the parking ticket is still a heavy weight in his pocket.

He thinks if he can sneak up to his room before Bruce sees him, he’ll be able to delay the inevitable chat for at least a couple hours longer. But his plans are tragically foiled when he walks in through the garage to run straight into Bruce on the staircase. 

“Good day at work?” asks Bruce, turning into his office.

Jason shrugs. His heart is pounding with anxiety. He doesn’t want to tell Bruce.

“I got…” He reaches into his pocket and feels the yellow paper on his fingers, but it’s difficult to pull it out into the light. He grips it hard, until the crinkling of crumpling paper is audible. Then he decides to rip off the bandaid. 

He thrusts the paper into Bruce’s face.

Bruce takes it, and reads the words in silence. Then he opens the door to his office, and in an unreadable voice, says, “I think you should come in.”

With much trepidation, Jason enters the office. Midafternoon light streams in through the window, filling the space with friendly light. He wishes it matched his mood better--gloomy and gray. 

Bruce sits down in his office chair and gestures to the little leather sofa across from it. Jason sits obediently. He can’t bring himself to speak--doesn’t even know what he would say--but finds the defiance within himself to stare Bruce in the eye.

“How did this happen?” asks Bruce. His tone is still difficult to read. Maybe he’s angry. Maybe he’s disappointed. Maybe he doesn’t give a shit--it’s not like sixty five dollars will be a hardship for them.

Somehow, though, Jason doubts the last one is the case.

“I double parked,” he says sullenly.

Bruce just looks confused. “Why?” he asks. “Was a car parked over the line on the other side, or…”

“No,” Jason mutters. It quickly becomes too painful to meet Bruce’s eyes, and he lowers his gaze to the intricate rug on the floor. “I just parked badly.”

“Why didn’t you fix it?” he asks. “I taught you how to park. I know you know how to do it.”

Shame wells up in Jason’s throat, burning like acid.

He was fifteen when Bruce adopted him officially, and sixteen when he got his learner’s permit. All that year, he spent hours on the road with Bruce, learning to drive. It was the first time he’d thought he could really relate to Bruce--or maybe that Bruce could relate to him . 

It was the first time he thought Bruce might be his dad, and not just his guardian. 

“I didn’t realize,” Jason tries, realizing even as he speaks that the excuse is flimsier than tissue paper. 

“You didn’t realize,” Bruce repeats slowly.

Jason nods.

Bruce shuts his eyes and raises his head to the ceiling. Jason’s inside’s squirm. He wants, in this moment, to be anywhere other than Bruce’s office. He feels like he’s in the spotlight, but he didn’t practice his performance. And now the person whose opinion matters to him most is watching. Judging every move.

“Jason,” begins Bruce, “I feel like you aren’t taking your life very seriously.”

“What?” Jason demands. Instantly, all of his shame boils over into anger, and he stands, feeling like he can’t stay still on that goddamned expensive-ass leather sofa for even a second longer. “How could you fucking say that?”

“You get yourself thrown out of school. You drive carelessly when I know you know better. You bully your little brother at every turn--”

“Damian doesn’t care! He’s meaner than I am!”

“He looks up to you!” Bruce shouts. “He follows your example! Of course he’s mean!”

For one terrible instant, Jason’s chest is so tight he can’t even take a breath. Then his fists are clenching so hard his fingernails bite into his palms, and he can’t even look at Bruce’s face without wanting to punch him right in his fucking teeth.

“Fuck you,” Jason says. “I got a job. I did what you asked. You didn’t say nothing about Damian. You didn’t say nothing about driving. I’ll pay the damn ticket myself. But don’t you tell me I don’t take this shit seriously.”

“Get out of my office,” Bruce says. His voice has never sounded colder. “I’m disappointed in you.”

It hurts even worse than Jason thought it would. A blade right through his stupid, dumb heart.

Chapter Text

When the schedule for the next week is posted, Jason first verifies with Dick that no mistake has been made, and then ponders the prospect of faking a terrible injury to get out of it.

But faking an injury is exactly the sort of stunt that Bruce would categorize as immature, and straight-up ditching work is the sort of stunt that Slade would designate as fireable. So, as mandated by the schedule, Jason shows up to work at five a.m. on Monday morning. 

The sun hasn’t even risen by the time Jason parks in front of the shop. The street is unusually empty--Jason’s car is the only one on this block apart from Dick’s, which is a couple spaces away.

Jason steps out of the car and shivers. Not only is it chilly, the early-morning fog having not yet dissipated, but the empty streets remind him of a ghost town. He wishes Alfred had been awake to force Jason to bring a coat. His thin windbreaker is not getting the job done when it comes to keeping Jason warm. But even Alfred had not beaten Jason’s alarm clock at the ripe, early hour of four-thirty in the fucking morning.

When Jason walks through the door, he is shocked to discover music already playing over the speakers and the lights all on. Dick, already aproned-up, is chugging a mug of cold brew and swiping through his phone.

He looks up and smiles brightly when the jingly door announces Jason’s arrival. “Woah, four fifty-eight,” he says, glancing at the clock. “How punctual of you.”

Jason smirks. “I try,” he says modestly. His brain is not yet awake enough to formulate a more complete response.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why we’ve summoned you here so early,” says Dick. He looks at his phone again and snorts. “In fact, I know you’re wondering, because you texted me like three times.”

“Once,” Jason corrects, feeling his cheeks go red. “And I just wanted to make sure I was coming in at the right time. Is that a crime?”

Dick slides his phone into his pocket. “Nope! Clock in and I’ll tell you what we’re going to be doing.”

Even with the lights on and the radio playing Spotify’s pop station at the loudest volume, the halls of the shop feel eerie and deserted this early in the morning. Jason clocks in as quickly as possible, grabs an apron from the stack of folded ones in the closet (the hooks still being out of commission) and meets Dick back in the main room.

“Today,” Dick says when Jason returns, “is baking day!”

“Yay,” Jason says. 

“That’s the attitude!”

Dick directs Jason to the back of the shop, by the sinks, where a metal rack holds four trays of uncooked dough. “This,” he says, pointing, “is the croissant rack. If you remember, we prepared the dough yesterday, and left it out to prove overnight. See how it’s all puffy now? That means it’s ready to bake.”

Jason nods studiously. Each tray holds twelve croissants, and each of them is a different type. “Alright.” Jason is confident. If the dough is already prepared, then all he should be required to do is stick it in the oven and make sure nothing burns. “What next?”

Dick points at the rack. “Pick that up,” he says.

“What, the entire rack?” asks Jason. It’s about as tall as his waist and a few feet wide. Plus, with all of the metal trays, it looks heavy. There are no wheels or other aids to mobility. 

“Yup,” says Dick. “I’d offer to help, but you’re going to be doing it alone tomorrow, so I want you to get practice now while I’m watching.”

Jason grimaces, but steels himself for the task. He’s strong, he tries to assure himself. He lifts. He works out. He can carry a rack of croissants. Dick does it almost every day. If he can manage it, then so can Jason.

He grabs the rack on either side and hefts it up. It’s heavy and awkward, but none of the trays fall off, so Jason considers that a win. He has to maneuver very carefully around the shop to make sure he doesn’t bump into anything, but even so, there are a few very near misses.

“Great!” says Dick enthusiastically. Of course he’d be happy--he’s not the one who has to carry the trays. “Follow me.”

Dick directs Jason from the back of the shop, through the kitchen, and into the shopfront. He holds the jingly door open for Jason. When they exit, they’re standing out on the sidewalk in front of the shop, by Jason’s car. Jason is perplexed. The oven isn’t outside, is it? He’s aware that whichever architect designed the shop was missing a few screws, but still. An outdoor oven just sounds atrociously impractical.

“Unlock your car,” says Dick. “Back doors.”

Jason sets the pastry rack down onto the sidewalk and heaves a sigh of relief. He pulls his keys from his pocket and clicks the unlock button obediently.

“Cool,” says Dick. “So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re gonna pop the rack into the backseat of your car. I’m gonna drive to the ovens-- you can follow me.”

Jason furrows his eyebrows in abject confusion. “You have to drive to the ovens?”

“Well, yeah,” says Dick. “We don’t have any at the shop because we don’t have a license for one. Fire safety regulations and all that. There’s a kitchen down the street that lets us borrow theirs.”

Jason’s mouth stays shut because he’s aware that if he opens it, he won’t have anything nice to say. Obediently, he opens the back door of his car. 

“Not sure if it’ll fit,” says Dick doubtfully. “Adjust your passenger seat.”

Obligingly, Jason adjusts his passenger seat so that it’s pushed as far forward as it’ll go. That creates a little more space for the rack to fit. He can already tell it isn’t going to be easy, though.

He marches back to the pastry rack, abandoned on the sidewalk, and picks it up. It feels even heavier and more unwieldy than before, but Jason tries to play it cool. For some reason, it’s important to him that Dick thinks he’s strong.

No time to unpack that now, Jason mentally asserts. None whatsoever.

With Dick’s helpful guidance, and with the narration of his semi-useful, unsolicited advice, Jason maneuvers the tray into the backseat of his car. It’s an incredibly awkward task. The tray is just the wrong size and shape to fit in easily, and he has to wiggle it every which way to ensure that it fits in properly without letting any of the trays slide away.

Once it’s as secure as it’s gonna get, Jason adds the final touch: he buckles the tray in with a seat belt. “Safety first,” Jason explains to Dick.

Dick nods approvingly.

Dick gets into his own car and pulls out of his parking spot. Jason follows him down the street. As promised, the kitchen isn’t far at all. Just down the block a little. They park, Jason taking extra care to emulate a professional driving instructor, and meet outside the kitchen doors. 

“See this?” Dick asks, pulling a key out of his pocket. It’s on it’s own separate keychain, a little purple ring that could fit over someone’s wrist. “This is the baking key. If you lose it, no baking. No pastries. Very bad. Only Slade has a spare and you do not want to call him at five a.m. to ask for it. Okay?”

“Okay,” says Jason apprehensively. He makes a mental note right then, to never ever let that key out of his sight. He’ll supervise it more attentively than he does Damian.

Dick uses the key to get into the kitchen. Inside, it’s pitch dark and very cold, until he hits a switch, and Jason is nearly blinded by bright fluorescent lights.

In the large, rectangular room, there are more kitchen appliances than even the manor can boast. An oven, a stove, several sinks, and even more refrigerators. A counter with drawers, and a big, stainless steel table in the center. 

“Alrighty,” says Dick. “The oven temperature should be three hundred fifty degrees. It needs to warm up for twenty minutes before we put the pastries in. Hit this button.”

Jason presses the button, and the oven comes alive, emanating an orange glow and a horribly loud whirring noise.

“The fuck is that,” Jason demands, raising his voice over the deafening sound.

“The fan,” Dick says.

“Why?” Jason inquires incredulously.

“So it doesn’t catch on fire.”

“Oh,” says Jason. 

They haul the rack of pastries from Jason’s car to the kitchen, but that only takes a couple minutes, which means the oven still has fifteen left to spend preheating. From under the table, Dick grabs two rickety folding chairs, and drags them in front of the oven, so the two of them can sit and stare at the oven like a campfire.

Then, the reality of his predicament hits Jason: for forty minutes, while the oven heats and the pastries bake, Jason will have nothing to do but sit. With Dick. And… talk to him. 

He swallows. He is not prepared for this. 

For some reason, as the weeks of Jason’s employment go by and he finds himself becoming more and more familiar with his job, his drive to impress Dick only increases.

Maybe it’s just his nature-- he’s always been an incredibly competitive person. His relationship with Damian is as blatant proof as any. The confrontation that got him tossed out of school. The damn parking ticket in all of its taunting yellow glory. 

But, as easy an excuse that makes, something tells Jason that his urge to do right by Dick is not just an ill-advised effort to one-up him or any of his other coworkers. For once, he’s not really trying to one-up anyone at all.

His need to impress Dick is… seperate.

It could have something to do with the way his heart somersaults when Dick does that one little smile—the crooked one, with the happy squinty eyes. The way he looks at Jason like he actually sees him. Not a little kid, not an immature teenager. But Jason, as he is, with all of his strengths and most of his flaws.

Jason is working his hardest to grow up into what he can feel certain is the best version of himself. An adult. A mature one, with a job and responsible driving habits and a handle on his temper. But he feels like a little kid again when Dick gives him that smile. Giddy and proud and as light as the butterflies in his stomach.

And then there’s the way Jason heart feels heavier than a thousand boulders when Dick does that other thing—the thing where he sighs and runs a hand through his hair and his shoulders go all weighed down. The way Jason’s ribs squeeze when Dick goes all quiet, crossing his arms like he needs to protect his weary chest—the way Jason can hardly even look at him in those moments, would do anything to make that smile come back.

So maybe that’s why he’s so desperate to make Dick happy. Following the whims of his stupid, earnest heart. His heart doesn't know any better, after all. It never has.

Orange light from the oven spills onto the floor in the dim kitchen. Heat bathes Jason, warming his hands and chest and cheeks, and he stares at his shoes, scuffing them on the linoleum floor, eyes wide. 

Oh shit, he thinks. 

With very little regard to the state of his shell-shocked coworker, coming to terms with a very not-good realization, Dick checks the time on his phone and leans back in his chair, so only two legs touch the floor and the back is supported by the table behind him. Jason cringes, wishing Dick wouldn’t do that. He might fall. His heart squeezes at the very idea.

But, Jason decides abruptly, screw all that. He’s not here to babysit Dick, and he’s not here to live his own life like a hyper-cautious grandma. He and Dick should both just do what they fucking want.

He leans his own chair back to mimic Dick’s and does his best to relax. The position, he soon discovers, requires a difficult amount of balance. He grabs onto the table with one hand and tries to play it cool.

“So,” begins Dick, when Jason finds himself far too lost in thought and distracted by his precarious seating arrangement to begin a conversation. “How’re you liking the job so far?”

Jason’s mouth tilts up in a wry, crooked grin. He nods slowly. “Disregarding the blender suicide, and the wall hook avalanche, and the cockroach invasion?”

“Disregarding those,” Dick agrees.

“It’s pretty a’ight,” decides Jason. He glances over to Dick, hesitantly hopeful, and there it is, illuminated by the warm orange glow: the smile.

Jason’s cheeks suddenly feel too warm, and he looks back down to his shoes. The shoelaces don’t match. One is red, because he’d had to replace the original white one when it got ripped. Why hadn’t he decided to buy another matching shoelace, he wonders. It had been an act of rebellion against society’s pressure to conform. Now it just feels a little dumb.

“A glowing review,” teases Dick. 

“Did you figure out what’s going on with the walls yet?”

Dick frowns and quirks his eyebrows, just once, up and down. “Slade didn’t want to hire a contractor,” he says. “I think he’s afraid of what they’ll find.”

“That’s bullshit,” declares Jason. “First it’s the hooks, next it’s the whole damn wall coming down!”

“That’s what I told him,” says Dick. “He agreed to take a look at it himself. Hopefully it’s just that one section, and we can replace it cheap. Otherwise… I mean, I don’t think Slade knows how to rebuild an entire shop.”

A sudden burst of anger wells up in Jason, and he wants to demand how Slade could possibly let the shop’s maintenance fall so far. How he could let a job that means so much to people—to Dick and Barbara, Rose and Tim and maybe even sorta kinda Jason himself—how he could let something that important fall into jeopardy. 

But, Jason reminds himself begrudgingly, he’s trying to control his anger now. And it’s not Dick’s fault, so yelling right now would be certifiably ridiculous. There’s no reason to yell--no cause to start a confrontation right here and now, when Dick’s always been impossible to drag into pointless fights anyways. Instead, he crosses his arms, and breathes. 

Unfortunately, crossing his arms means he loses the leverage that had kept his chair propped up against the table, and with a skid and a thump, the chair falls. 

Jason manages to catch himself before he’s ejected onto the floor—there could be no embarrassment more severe than that particular horror. Still, he stumbles, and before Dick can so much as open his mouth to inquire if Jason is okay, Jason is striding to his feet. He’s decided to play it cool, like he hadn’t slipped, and had in fact purposefully decided to stand up in a rather theatrical manner.

“Is this the whole place?” Jason asks, trying to come up with an excuse for jumping so suddenly to his feet.

Dick, who looks perplexed and a tiny bit concerned, nods slowly. “It’s a rec center,” he explains. “They do cooking classes here.”

Jason flicks on another light, so the oven’s orange glow is supplemented by fluorescent ceiling fixtures, and makes his way around the kitchen, examining. In one drawer, there are dozens upon dozens of oven mitts. There’s a barrel full of dried pinto beans, and another bursting with uncooked white rice. 

Another cabinet contains what looks like fifty identical saucepans and pots. Folded under the table hides an entire set of folding chairs, exactly the same as Dick and Jason have commandeered. 

“Huh,” says Jason, reluctantly impressed. It would make sense that the coffee shop’s nicest facilities are the ones that don’t even belong to them. 

He snorts when he sees that the trash can in the corner is full of empty cup-o-noodles containers and other cheap, prepackaged meals. “Guess the cooking classes didn’t go so great,” he observes.

Dick glances up at him and grins softly, but the comment doesn’t get the laugh Jason had secretly been aiming for. Before he can lament the failure, the timer on Dick’s phone goes off.

“Alright!” Dick claps his hands together and gracefully lowers his chair back into its intended position. “Time to put the pastries in.” 

Dick puts on a pair of oven mitts and hands another set to Jason, who feels a little stupid in the big red gloves. Then, Dick demonstrates to Jason how to put the trays in the oven.

The blast of heat that rolls over Jason when the oven doors open is second only to the way Jason nearly sweats where Dick touches him. He’s pressed too close—leaning over Jason, into him, right in his space as he helps Jason push the tray in. Jason doesn’t want to move, for fear of breaking the moment, but he can’t stay still either, lest he prolong it unintentionally.

Then it’s over and Dick is sitting back down. Even bathed in the ovens’ heat, he feels suddenly cold. Goosebumps prickle up and down his arms. 

Jason, not knowing what else to do with himself, sits back down. He taps his fingers on his thigh. He glances at Dick, down to the floor, and back again. “How long have you worked here?” he finally asks, satisfied with that as a safe topic of conversation.

“Since I was sixteen,” says Dick. “I moved to Gotham alone, and. For all his other flaws, Slade is really good at hiring people who need it.”

Jason purses his lips. Drums his fingers together. Thinks about Dick’s answer, and swallows against the lump of sympathy growing in his throat. “When you were sixteen?” he asks. “You moved here alone?”

Dick nods.

“Did you finish high school?” asks Jason, suddenly unbearably curious.

Slyly, understandingly, Dick grins, and he cocks his head at Jason. “Nope,” he says.

Jason’s mouth drops open. He snaps it shut again as soon as he realizes. 

Dick’s empathy, he discovers in that moment, is probably why Jason had been hired so quickly. Because Dick could relate to him. Because Dick wanted to give him a chance, before they had even met.

That all is too much for Jason to think about. His poor, stupid heart is already beating hard against his ribs, but it feels a few sizes to big—swollen and clumsy, feeling far too much.

“And you have a pretty good thing going on,” says Jason. “My dad would hate that. He doesn’t think you can be successful without an education. That’s the whole reason I’m here,” he says bitterly. “He’s trying to prove it to me.”

Dick’s expression turns stonier, and his soft grin goes wry. “Aim a little higher than me, Little Wing. I doubt I’m the gold standard of adult success.”

“Little Wing?” sputters Jason. With the nickname’s introduction, his brain has ceased all cognitive function, and all he can do is stare at Dick and gape. “The fuck, man?”

“It’s on your jacket,” Dick protests. He points at Jason’s torso—the unzipped front of his dark, lightweight windbreaker. It’s dark gray, almost black, and on the front, is the form of a dark red bat, with, sure enough, two little wings.

“That’s fucking stupid,” grumbles Jason, curling in on himself to hide the crimson bat from view. But there’s no use—his cheeks are almost exactly as red. 

*

When the pastries are baked and have been hauled back to the shop, Barbara awaits them inside. At six a.m., the streets look a little less dead than an hour earlier, and the sun is just barely beginning to emerge, evidenced by a soft orange glow at the bottom of the indigo sky. 

“How do you like baking?” Barbara asks. Under her apron, she wears a cozy sweater and a short skirt that reveals her one prosthetic leg. Behind her glasses, her green eyes are sharp. She asked her question to Jason, but her gaze is on Dick, calculating. 

“It’s whatever,” says Jason descriptively. He might feel a little more strongly about baking if his entire capacity for having opinions this morning hadn’t been focused on Dick. 

“Of course,” Barbara agrees. She turns to Dick. “Dickie,” she begins in a voice heavy with warning. “Have we heard back from the contractor?”

“We haven’t hired a contractor,” he mutters, looking self-conscious. “You know why.”

She rolls her eyes. “And you know I think that’s bullshit.” 

Jason, who has made himself busy bagging croissants so it doesn’t appear that he’s listening, feels a new glow of respect for Barbara wash over him. 

“I’m gonna call one for you,” says Barbara, patting Dick’s cheek in such a way that makes it clear how little choice he has in the matter. They’re about the same height, but Barbara’s easy authority makes her seem taller. “And they’re gonna check out the walls for us. Okay?”

“What’s Slade gonna say?” asks Dick miserably.

“Something stupid, no doubt. We’re gonna do it anyways.”

Course of action thusly decided, Barbara pulls out her phone to research affordable contractors in Gotham, and Dick, appearing thoroughly cowed, ties on his bright blue apron and goes to help Jason with the pastries. 

Their doors open at six thirty. Despite his extreme disinclination to speak to the general public before the sun has even fully risen, he’s willing to grudgingly take one for the team: if Barbara prepares the drinks, Dick will be left free to work on his newest shop-improvement project. 

Bafflingly, a line quickly forms. Jason has no idea why anyone on earth would want to be up so early, let alone out in the world buying coffee. Nonetheless, there are five or six people queued up as soon as Jason unlocks the door and flips on the open sign.

He helps the customers on autopilot and listens in on Barbara’s conversation with Dick.

“What’s today’s project, Bob the Builder?”

Dick snorts. Jason keeps his eyes on the register, but he’d bet anything Dick is referencing his spreadsheet. “Not building today. Plumbing.”

There is a doubtful silence from Barbara. “I didn’t know you knew how to plumb.”

Dick is concerningly quiet. He fiddles with the ties on his apron. “Well. I mean. I wouldn’t say I know how, per say.”

Jason turns around to see Barbara’s hands find her hips, and she cocks her head in an expression of acute disapproval. Jason quickly turns back to the register. He gets the impression that Barabara is a bit like an older sister to Dick. Whatever reprimand she has in store for him, Jason wants to stay as far away from as possible. He tunes out the conversation.

The sun rises directly facing the shopfront, so as it begins to peek out over the horizon, soft golden rays spill in through the windows and door. The sidewalk outside is beginning to fill up with pedestrians, and parking spots are claimed one by one.

The street outside looks peaceful, almost--maybe it’s just because Jason can’t hear its bustle from his position behind the register. Inside, the shop is busy with sound. Customers talking to Jason and each other. Barbara and Dick, bickering in the background. The coffee grinder running, the sinks filling, the refrigerator slamming shut. It’s a rhythm that Jason can almost lose himself in.

It’s around nine a.m. and Jason’s tolerance for society is waning fast when the front door jingles and a tiny pair of ultra-polished dress shoes squeak their way in across the linoleum floor. Wearing the shoes is none other than Damian Wayne, who looks way out of place in the decrepit shop wearing slacks and a pristine red button-down.

The line is short, so Damian doesn’t have to wait long before it’s his turn to order. He leans up on his tip-toes to peer around the shop, all but ignoring Jason’s presence.

“What can I get for you,” says Jason loudly, by means of attracting Damian’s attention.

“Is… I thought you said Richard would be working today.”

“Why do you care?” asks Jason, genuinely curious.

Damian scowls, crosses his arms, and furrows his eyebrows furiously, face going as red as his crimson dress shirt. “I do not,” he makes sure to assert. “Except that I would have considered it unwise to put you on a shift without adequate supervision.”

“Woah,” says Barbara from behind Jason, at the espresso machine. “Burn.”

Jason clenches his jaw in an effort to avoid cussing out his baby brother in front of Barbara. “It’s a good thing you’re not in charge, then,” says Jason.

Damian sticks his nose in the air and sniffs. It’s so incredibly exaggerated, it’s almost comical, and it helps to remind Jason that Damian is just a kid. Just a little kid who, whether either of them likes it or not, Jason has an influence on.

He rearranges his scowl into an expression of utmost neutrality, the friendliest he can manage, and asks, “So, can I get you something?”

“I want the drink Richard made for me the other day,” replies Damian instantly.

Jason nods and silently punches it into the register. Damian pays, Jason makes change, and all the while, Damian’s little expression of concern only intensifies. Again, he leans over to try to glance around Jason at the kitchen beyond.

“Is he really not here, though?” asks Damian.

Grudgingly, Jason says, “He’s here. He’s just busy in back.”

“Oh,” says Damian. He puts his hands into his pockets, pursing his lips. In his formal attire, he looks very serious and grim. “I needed to speak to him.”

Taken aback by a wave of confusion and dread, Jason asks, “Why?”

Damian’s entire face goes red and tomato-like. “It doesn’t concern you.”

“Is this your brother?” asks Barbara, approaching the counter.

Damian sticks out his hand for her to shake, and Barbara accepts, looking bemused. “Damian Wayne. May I speak to your manager?”

Raising her eyebrows, Barbara nods indulgently. “Of course,” she says. “This sounds serious.” Raising her voice, she yells, “Hey Dick! We got a customer out here who needs to speak to you!”

Dick’s muffled voice replies: “Coming!” Then there’s a thunk and a soft, “Fuck!”

When Dick emerges from the bathroom, where he’d been presumably attempting to learn how to plumb, he’s rubbing his forehead and holding a very large wrench. He hands the wrench to Jason. “Can you hold this for me?”

Jason accepts. Dick grins.

“Which customer?” asks Dick, looking around at the empty shopfront.

Almost empty. Damian peeks up from in front of the counter, and Dick’s face lights up. “Damian!” he exclaims. “Did you want your special drink again?”

Damian nods, staring at Dick with eyes like an owl. Obligingly, Dick commandeers the espresso machine to make the drink. Jason watches as Damian fiddles with something in his pocket. Money to exorbitantly tip Dick? A knife to stick in Jason? Both? With Damian there is really no guessing. 

When the drink is done, Dick slides it across the counter and grins down at Damian. It’s understandable that Damian becomes entirely speechless--Jason regularly suffers from the same condition.

“I’ll see you next time,” offers Dick, turning back around. He retrieves his wrench from Jason and is about to walk away when a voice interrupts him.

“Wait!” says Damian. He pulls something out of his pocket and thrusts it at Dick. It’s small and tightly folded.

Surprised, Dick accepts the offering, and unfolds it very slowly. Jason peers over his shoulder to read.

The top line reads, in large cursive font: Damian Wayne, A Professional 

Just below that is Damian’s email--no phone number, because Bruce thinks ten is too young for an iPhone. 

Then, a list of his entire educational history.

Oh my god , thinks Jason as it dawns on him. Oh my fucking god.

Damian has submitted a resume.

Anxiously, Jason stares at Dick--he wouldn’t actually hire Damian, would he? He’s sure there are laws preventing ten-year-olds from getting jobs. Child labor, and all that. 

Please, let it be a law.

Dick’s eyes have gone all soft as he reads over the paper, and when he finally lowers it to gaze at Damian, his expression is unbearably kind. “Did you make this yourself?” he asks.

Damian nods quickly.

“It’s very good,” says Dick, sounding like he genuinely means it. He sets the resume on the counter to smooth out all of its wrinkles.

“So…” prompts Damian. His little hands are fisted in the bottom of his shirt, and he looks horribly, earnestly hopeful as he gazes up at Dick with uncharacteristic reverence. 

“How about we sit down over there,” suggests Dick, nodding at one of the tables in the corner of the room, “and we can talk?”

“Like an interview?” asks Damian, perking up.

“Sure,” Dick agrees.

They abscond to their little table, Damian clutching his drink in both hands and Dick handling the resume with extreme care. Jason coincidentally decides that now would be an excellent time to mop the shopfront. It’s not gonna mop itself, that’s for sure, and Barbara looks far too busy with other important work to do it. The fact that it would give him the perfect eavesdropping opportunity is purely incidental.

“I wish I could give you a job,” says Dick as Jason mops his way over to them inconspicuously. “But I don’t want to get your hopes up. There are laws against that. We can’t legally hire you until you’re fifteen and a half. And you’re… okay, according to your resume, you’re ten.”

Damian crosses his arms. “I have a higher IQ than any fifteen year old,” he argues mutinously.

“I’m sure,” says Dick. There’s this thing about the way he speaks that Jason can’t wrap his head around--this thing where, when he says things that would come across as insincere from other people, his tone is so genuine that it sounds like he really, truly means it. Like when he asks how Jason’s day is, and Jason is tricked into believing Dick really, actually wants to know about Jason’s day boring. Or when he tells a customer he’d love to hear about their concerns. Or when he tells Slade he understands about the budget. 

Damian is clearly unexempt from the effect, because his anger softens, and his eyes are wide and adoring. Jason wonders if Damian has a little-kid crush on Dick, or if he sees him as the older brother he might have had in another universe. Probably instead of Jason.

“So then why can’t you hire me?” Damian asks. “You say you want to follow the law, when just by looking around, I can observe three health code violations. That’s not legal either,” he points out.

“We’re working on fixing those,” says Dick ruefully. “I totally see your point, though. It’s unfair.”

Damian vigorously nods. “It’s completely unfair,” he agrees, voice becoming dangerously whiny. It’s another abrupt reminder of how old Damian is. He’s pretentious and annoying and intelligent, and he’s still just ten years old. Tremulously, he continues, “Father said Jason could drop out of school if he got a job instead, but he refuses to allow me the same agency! And-- and-- you hired Jason with no experience, and my GPA is better than his, so you should hire me, too!”

Dick listens intently, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his palm. He nods, slow and sympathetic. “Maybe you could get a different kind of job,” he suggests. “What kind of things do you like doing?”

Wilted in the aftermath of his rant, Damian crosses his arms. “Art,” he mutters. 

“That’s so cool,” says Dick, beginning to sound enthusiastic. “What kind of art do you do?”

Damian scowls, although Jason would just bet he’s dying to show Dick his art. Damian’s drawings are his proudest achievements, even beyond his perfect GPA and endless extracurriculars. “I have colored pencils,” he says reluctantly. “And watercolors.”

“Can I see?” asks Dick, leaning eagerly towards Damian.

Damian hesitates.

Dick leans back. “Not if you don’t want to,” he says, softer. “But you don’t need to be self-conscious.”

Silent, Damian pulls out his briefcase and extracts his iPad (because, while Bruce had thought an iPhone was unnecessary for a ten-year-old, a full-on tablet sounded like just the thing). He taps the screen, wordless, for a moment or two, and then turns the screen to face Dick.

Awed, Dick stares at the tablet. Jason tries to adjust his mopping trajectory in such a way that he can see what piece Damian is showing him, but the shop’s lights create a glare on the iPad’s screen that makes it difficult.

After a minute or two, during which time Jason has to mop other parts of the shop lest his continued focus on one section of tile become suspicious, Dick returns the tablet to Damian, and says, “How about this.”

Damian perks up.

“We’re looking for a new logo for our shop. I mean, you’ve seen the old one.”

Damian nods diplomatically. “It’s… ever so slightly outdated.”

Dick grins sheepishly. “Right. So. What if we commissioned you to create some concept art for a new logo?”

Damian’s mouth drops open, and for a moment, he helplessly sputters, looking entirely shellshocked. Jason has to make an effort not to drop his mop.

“Really?” Damian manages to squeak out. Taken aback as he is, his egotistical aura has faded away, and all that’s left is genuine excitement. Jason’s never seen it before, and he realizes very suddenly what a crime that is. Damian is ten. He should be excited every day, for everyday things.

“I’ll email you later today so we can talk about your rates, okay?”

Damian nods, gathering his tablet close to his chest. Dick stands and pushes in his chair, and Damian scrambles up to follow him. 

Dick holds out his arms for a hug.

“That’s unprofessional,” Damian says, looking up at Dick with big eyes.

Dick lowers one arm, and stretches out the other for a handshake--much more Damian’s speed. He accepts with gusto, and then all but runs out of the shop. Dick gazes after him, looking fond and perplexed at the same time.

He turns to Jason after a moment, and says dryly, “I’ll bet the floors are sparkling by now.”

Abashed, Jason lowers his mop and his head. “Sorry,” he mutters. 

Dick smiles, just a little. Then they get back to work.

*

A few days after that, Jason gets a couple days off in a row. They all do--the exterminators are bringing in the big guns to defeat the cockroach invaders, and until they’re done, the shop will not constitute a very fun environment. 

Shockingly, Jason finds himself at loose ends. Without school or work, he doesn’t have a lot to do, and there’s only so much Terraria a person can play before things start to become tedious. He tries to hang out with Damian--he actually, genuinely makes an effort. Unfortunately, the only thing Damian is interested in doing is sketching out ideas for the shop’s new logo. Jason, despite his newfound interest in brotherly bonding, has unfortunately not developed the same feelings for drawing, and finds himself atrociously bored.

Bruce offers to take him out for a drive, and Jason declines, because he’s still a little bitter after the parking ticket argument. Alfred offers to teach him how to cook risotto--he accepts, but discovers quickly that it’s a lot harder than Hell’s Kitchen made it look. 

By his third day off, he’s losing his marbles one by one, and decides to head into town in search of entertainment. Maybe he’ll go shopping--his wardrobe could use an update. Dick likes to wear bright colors, but Jason usually goes for black and gray and red. Should Jason be wearing more blue? More pink?

He’s not sure.

Should Jason stop fucking thinking about Dick Grayson outside of a strictly professional context?

Of that, he’s most fucking certain.

He goes into town with the newly affirmed goal of finding new, but still dark-colored, clothing. Gotham is home to not only the classic monstrous chain stores, but overpriced hipster boutiques, and those are the ones he visits, because he doesn’t think his street cred could survive being spotted clothes shopping in Walmart.

This side of town is a little more upscale: there are healthy, crunchy, vegan restaurants, clothing stores, and other independently-owned businesses. Gotham Academy is actually nearby--just a couple streets down. This is where the rich kids hang out.

Jason’s shopping meets varying degrees of success--on the one hand, he finds a few T-shirts that he likes. On the other hand, he already owns several shirts that are almost exactly identical. He finds some cool Vans with skulls on them, but resists the temptation because Vans seem too mainstream and skulls seem too purposefully edgy. 

He ends up getting back into his car with nothing but a new hoodie, because after the old one had prompted Dick to call him Little Wing, he thinks it should be dead to him.

It isn’t, though. He can’t stop staring at it in the mirror--the little bat with it’s little wings. Had Dick liked it? Does Dick like Jason? Could he, one day?

Pressing questions. Jason isn’t sleeping well because of them. He can’t stop thinking about Dick. 

Jason is parked a block away from his final shopping stop, and on the way back to his car, he wears Airpods and listens to Spotify’s pop hits playlist. He doesn’t know why he’s listening to that all of a sudden--only that it’s Dick’s favorite station, and they always listen to it when they’re working together, and… Jesus fucking Christ. 

Jason stops to take out the Airpods, and as he’s standing in the middle of the sidewalk, something catches his eye.

On a bench outside a restaurant, there sits a familiar, hunched figure. Short. Skinny. Long-ish hair.

“Tim?” asks Jason in disbelief.

Tim glances up, looking offended by Jason’s very presence, and Jason is both horrified and perplexed to spot what he thinks are actually tear tracks on his cheeks. Tim scowls and wipes them away, and Jason convinces himself that he imagined them.

Still, it would be rude to walk away now. Old Jason might have done it, but Old Jason isn’t here right now. This is just New Jason, stumbling upon his coworker in a moment of possible need.

He sits beside Tim on the bench and crams his hands beneath his thighs, awkward.

Tim scowls at him, but quickly looks away again.

“So,” says Jason.

“What are you doing here?” asks Tim.

Embarrassed to have been caught doing something as undignified as shopping, Jason says, “...Y’know. Just vibing.”

Tim turns to him, eyebrows raised in an expression of complete doubt. “That’s nice,” he says sarcastically. 

There are another few moments of silence, and Tim whips out his phone again. Though Jason can’t see what he’s typing, he can see that he’s doing it with extreme speed. He appears to shoot off several rapid fire texts before he looks back up at Jason and asks, “What are you doing here, again?”

Offended, Jason scoots away. “I don’t fucking know,” he snaps. “I wanted to check if you were-- Jesus. I can leave.”

Defeated, he stands, gathering up his belongings and preparing to take his leave. He only takes a few steps before Tim calls out to him.

“Wait,” he says, holding up a hand. 

“What,” says Jason, unimpressed.

Suddenly sheepish, Tim rubs his arm with his other hand. “Can I get a ride?”

*

In the car, the silence is as deafening as it is uncomfortable. Jason toys with the idea of putting on music, but he’d have to sync up his phone to Bluetooth, and he can’t really touch his phone while driving… goddamnit. 

He’s still morbidly curious about what Tim had been doing, crying on a bench out in public. He doubts Tim would tell him if he asked. But it can’t hurt to try.

A direct approach sounds ineffective, though. He tries, aiming for an aura of casual friendliness, “You good, though, man? What were you doing?”

Tim is silent for a few moments, and Jason is convinced he’s completely struck out. Then, sounding utterly defeated, Tim says, “Steph dumped me.”

“Oh,” says Jason, cringing. “Yikes.”

Tim glares. “Yeah.”

Jason feels terrible admitting it to himself, but in the past few weeks he’s been there, he’s gotten the impression that Tim’s teenage romance has been the subject of much lighthearted gossip and teasing among the employees. It seemed like every week, Tim would get his hopes up about a new date, and every week, Steph would come up with an increasingly more creative excuse to explain why she’d be unfortunately unavailable. 

Maybe she’s finally had enough. Maybe she ran out of excuses. Maybe Tim called bullshit, and she decided it wasn’t worth it.

Either way, Jason can’t help feeling bad for him. He thinks it would be helpful to offer some sort of comfort. It’s hard to think of what to say, though. 

Usually, when someone Jason knows has broken up with someone, the most foolproof route is to insult their ex. So, Jason declares with gusto, “What a bitch.”

Tim glares at him, mouth open, looking utterly appalled. To Jason’s horror, new tears are welling up in his eyes. “No, she’s not!” he exclaims.

Jason grimaces. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Usually when people break up, insulting the dumper makes the dumpee feel better.”

“ Nothing could make me feel better,” Tim moans.

“What happened?” Jason urges. Maybe, he theorizes, talking about it will help. At the very least, it’ll satisfy Jason’s hunger for gossip around the shop.

“I was meeting her for lunch,” Tim begins, leaning his head against the window. Jason cringes, hopes it doesn’t leave a smudge on the glass, and then chastises himself for worrying about something so frivolous. “She said she could actually make it for once. But when I got there, she said we needed to talk. I was like, ‘yeah we do, how come you keep bailing on me?’ And she was like, ‘because I needed space!’ And I was like,’ okay, well, you got some, so are we okay now?’ And she said no, because it turns out, she actually really liked space. You know what else she likes? Women! Apparently! Not men!”

For a moment, Jason drives in silence, taking it in. He nods, cringing sympathetically, trying to ignore the way Tim’s outburst had triggered a new wave of despair in his poor coworker.

“That’s rough, man,” says Jason. This time, he genuinely means it. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees. He deflates a little, sagging into Jason’s passenger seat, and suddenly Jason is struck by the urge to help make it better somehow.

But he doesn’t know how. He wishes, not for the first time, that Dick was here. Dick would know what to do. Dick would probably give him a hug, or something.

Jason suspects that a hug would not be comfortable for either himself or Tim, and so with disdain, he abandons that idea. But it feels wrong to just leave Tim to wallow in his own despair.

“Are you gonna be okay?” he asks.

Tim shrugs. “I mean, eventually.”

Jason frowns. “Sorry,” he says, after a moment.

“For what?”

“That that happened.”

“Oh.” For a moment, the only sound is of the car’s motor, and the traffic around them. Tim heaves a gigantic sigh. “Yeah. It’ll be okay. I could tell she wasn’t all that into it anymore.”

Jason nods, and, feeling strangely impulsive and completely idiotic, fishes for his phone in the cupholder and hands it to Tim. “Put your number in and text yourself,” he says. “If you need anything. Another ride, or something.”

Startled, Tim is quiet, and holds the phone in unmoving hands. Then he cracks a tiny grin. “As long as you promise not to double-park.”

“Fuck you.”

Tim puts the number in.

*

When Jason walks into work on the first day post-extermination, he’s excited for his new cockroach-free workspace and pleased to have been scheduled for a shift with Dick and Rose. But, if he’s honest with himself, mostly Dick. Embarrassing as it is to admit, Jason had missed Dick over the days they’d gone apart. He’d wondered if it would be weird to text him, just to see what was up, and decided that yes, it would most definitely be weird. So he had refrained.

It’s been four days without contact and Jason is bursting out of his skin to see Dick.

When he does, though, his heart sinks like a stone in his chest, and he freezes, entirely unsure of what to do.

Dick is sat at one of the tables in the corner of the room, head in his hands. His shoulders are hunched and his back is rigid with tension. It’s only six a.m., and his hair is already all messed up, like he’s been running his hands through it all day.

Jason stares, frozen in the doorway. He knows that if he moves, the door will jingle, and Dick will be rudely awakened from his reverie of apparent despair. He doesn’t want to do that--doesn’t want to walk in on what is clearly a moment of vulnerability.

Still, what’s his other option? Skipping work? Dragging the pastry tray all the way around to the back door? No, Jason’s coming in. 

Dick startles when the bell jingles, and as soon as he sees Jason, he grins, like he thinks he can just erase any evidence of negativity. He stands, takes a quiet, deep breath, and helps Jason with the heavy rack.

The lights in the shop are still all off, and when Jason flicks them on, he discovers they aren’t the only thing that hasn’t been done. In fact, to Jason’s immense surprise, nothing has.

Dick seems to realize it too, right around the moment Jason does, and that’s when he pulls his phone from his pocket to check the time. His eyes widen.

“Fuck,” he breathes, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “It’s six. I didn’t--” He runs his hand through his hair and doesn’t continue speaking. He dashes over to the espresso machine and flicks it on, then begins filling the hoppers with beans. All things that should have been done half an hour ago--but Jason isn’t frustrated with Dick. 

He’s confused. He’s worried. He’s horribly, sickeningly, worried.

“Let me help,” he says, grabbing the bag of coffee beans from Dick. Dick lets him, stares for a moment with wide eyes, and then quickly moves on to the next task.

“What happened?” asks Jason. He’s rushing to start up the espresso machine, sprinting through the cleaning routine that should usually take ten minutes, and Dick is in the same boat, weighing and grinding coffee beans as fast as he possibly can. 

“I… I don’t know. I didn’t check the time.”

“Because you were too busy doing… what?” Jason asks. The horrifying suspicion sets in that maybe Dick hadn’t been doing anything at all. Maybe he’d just been sitting there, head in his hands, looking exhausted for thirty minutes, too caught up in fatigue or despair or whatever else he was experiencing to even remember what he was supposed to be doing.

Dick doesn’t answer. Jason doesn’t press, because god knows if it was him, and the answer is what he suspects it is, he wouldn’t want to tell Dick, either.

Miraculously, in twenty minutes, they’ve managed to complete all of their opening tasks. Dick leans against a counter, exhaustion apparently making a comeback now that he’s got a few minutes to spare, and Jason’s worry redoubles. 

“Seriously, what’s up?” asks Jason. He dares himself to turn towards Dick, to look him in the eyes, and when that’s accomplished, gazes at him with eyes full of sympathy and concern. 

Beneath the weight of it, Dick’s resolve seems to break, and his shoulders slouch. “The exterminator was over budget,” he says.

Jason’s breath catches, and he makes an effort to let it out slowly, calm and strong and steady. “Okay,” he says, nodding for Dick to continue.

“And now there’s no way we can afford a contractor. But the walls are literally falling apart. It’s not only a legal thing, it’s-- it’s a genuine safety hazard. We can’t stay open without getting it fixed.”

Heart sinking, heavy with horror and dread, Jason nods again, numbly schooling his expression into straight-faced neutrality. “Okay,” he says again.

Dick turns his head down, so he’s looking at the floor instead of Jason--and that’s the first time he hasn’t been able to hold Jason’s gaze, instead of the other way around. “Sorry,” he whispers after a moment, almost inaudible. “I just-- sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jason says, even as his chest aches with the lie. The old familiar rage is rising--he wants to yell, to punch someone, to throw something. He wants to rage against the people that did this--the architect who dared to design such poor walls, the cockroach who had the gall to try to start a family here, the owner for not giving a shit about his shop or his employees, even the employee who gives everything he has to his job until there’s nothing left at all but the man who had sat in the corner for thirty minutes, not knowing what to do . Jason wants to make them all hurt. Make them fucking sorry.

But expressing his anger now wouldn’t help. It’s not Dick’s fault. None of this is.

In all of Gotham, in the midst of rampant injustice and tragedy and disappointment, Jason decides in that moment that Dick is the only one out of all of them who’s worth a damn.

Later, he’ll rethink that. Tim had sent him a couple of memes the other day--Jason replied with a TikTok. Barbara gives him that older-sister glare, now, instead of the polite, professional one. Rose commiserated with him over the parking ticket. And Damian spends practically every waking minute working on the stupid logo.

But Dick has tried the hardest out of them all. He’d given this shop everything, only for Slade and circumstances and the rest of the world to throw it right back at his face.

Jason is angry for him--so angry he feels like he might just fucking explode, just like the goddamned blender. But he’s sad, too, and it’s an ache he feels through his bones and in his heart.

There’s a moment where he doesn’t know what to do--where he feels awkward, witnessing Dick’s vulnerability, wondering why his hands feel so useless at his sides.

Then he asks himself: what would Dick do?

Jason holds his arms out for a hug.

Dick, eyes wide, throws his arms around Jason with vigor, like he thinks if he hesitates, Jason will rescind the offer. Jason wraps his arms around Dick in turn. 

His heart beats beats beats so fucking hard against his cracking ribs. His stomach feels like it’s turned to water, and he’s so nervous, his mouth has gone entirely dry. He’s practically buzzing.

He’s hugging Dick. He gets to hug Dick. Jason, out of all the people in the world right now, all seven billion of them, is the one who gets to hug Dick Grayson today.

Why hasn’t he done this before?

After a minute, Dick laughs wetly against Jason’s shoulder, and, self-consciously, he tries to wriggle away. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I feel stupid.”

“No,” says Jason, tugging him right back in. “Shut up.”

Dick does. This time, Jason doesn’t see the smile that makes his heart skip--he feels it, pressed against his shoulder.

Chapter Text

It’s been almost two months since Jason’s first day of work, and it occurs to him as he walks in one day for his five a.m. shift that almost nothing in the shop is the way it used to be.

The realization is pretty sudden, but it dawns on Jason as he stands in the center of the kitchen and absorbs his surroundings, that the change has not been. The change has been gradual. Slow, painstaking progress. 

The ill-fated rack of wall-mounted hooks has been replaced by a coat hanger that stands on the floor. The blenders of doom have vanished without a trace and been replaced by one, singular blender of a brand that, at least according to its Amazon reviews, has no nebulous reputation for spontaneous detonation. The floors don’t squeak, because they’d ordered non-slip rubber mats to put in all the places that used to make noise--the places near the refrigerators and sinks, where water leaks constantly into the linoleum tiles. Or, used to leak--Dick’s questionable plumbing expertise yielded a shocking success, and he was able to fix most of the leakiest pipes. 

The menu has been stripped down to its bare bones. Now, it only includes the drinks that they can guarantee will be done well despite the dubious quality of their equipment. A copy of Dick’s famous spreadsheet is pinned to one of the walls in the kitchen, and a bright yellow highlighter is taped right beside it. An impressive amount of the list has actually been highlighted as complete. Plumbing. Hooks. Menu. Floors. Cockroaches.

But, as Jason examines the list, it’s hard to ignore the items that haven’t. The one, big item that’s hanging over all their heads: the walls. The rotting, crumbling walls and the hundred billion dollars it will undoubtedly take to fix them.

Jason still doesn’t know what Dick intends to do about it. He doesn’t know what they even can do, at this point. Jason won’t pretend the idea of asking Bruce for more money hasn’t crossed his mind. The health department’s deadline is fast approaching--they only have a week left until their next inspection and with the building’s major structural insecurities there is no way they’ll pass. 

But Bruce already did his part chipping in, and Jason has no doubt that another “anonymous donation” of a few thousand dollars would look extremely suspicious. 

The grim knowledge that the shop is fast running out of options hangs over all their heads. But, as much as Jason would love to find some magical solution, he knows there’s nothing they can do now but work with the resources they have and hope for the best. 

Seven Days Before Inspection:

It’s one week before the evil health inspector’s return visit and Jason, Tim, and Dick are opening the shop. Jason is incurably, inexorably worried about Dick. He can’t shake the somber knowledge that if the shop closes down, Dick is the one who will take the hardest hit. 

Maybe, Jason figures, if worst comes to worst, Bruce can offer Dick a job at Wayne Enterprises. But the thought comes without a lot of hope. Somehow, the image of Dick at a desk job is impossible to properly fathom. He’d probably hate it. He’d probably break his ergonomic office chair by balancing it on one wheel, and then die of boredom in the aftermath.

He wonders what kind of job Dick would really like, what sort of career he’d been aiming for when he had to abruptly relocate to Gotham at sixteen, all alone. Maybe Jason will ask him sometime. A couple weeks ago, he wouldn’t have been able to imagine approaching his coworker with a question so personal and direct. But in the last couple of weeks, their relationship has shifted.

While the shop’s changes have been gradual, coming one thing at a time, the relationship between Dick and Jason had shifted all at once, in the space of one day. One two-minute window. 

One hug, Jason realizes, even as he despises how sentimental he’s making the entire thing. 

It’s like that one moment, that minute or so they spent, quiet but in perfect understanding of each other, unlocked some secret companionable urges boiling just beneath Dick’s skin. Now he’s as touchy-feely with Jason as he ever has been with Barbara. Maybe more, because Jason quickly discovers that his bullshit tolerance capacity is a lot higher than Barbara’s. At least in the case of Dick Grayson-related bullshit.

Jason would be pissed off about it if his inner fangirl weren’t too busy preening. The inner conflict is very confusing.  

It’s Monday. A pretty busy day for the shop (at least, as busy as the shop ever gets) because all of the people on their way to work after the weekend need their caffeine fix beforehand. Tim stands at the espresso machine, making drinks, while Dick takes orders and generates what is probably millions of dollars of tips just from his smile alone. Jason is taking care of all the other stuff they’re too busy for.

Such as: Dick turns around from the register holding a bright pink sticky note, and with a pretty, completely deadly, grin-and-eyebrow-quirk combo, sticks the post-it to Jason’s forehead.

“Can you make that?” he asks.

Jason picks the sticky note off his face and reads it. Then, he grumbles a grudging agreement, and gets to work. He can still feel that tingling pinprick of heat from Dick’s touch.

It fills him up like a burst of energy, like a wave of electricity, like a surge of something heady and impossible to define. He grins at Dick--who has already turned around to help the next customer--like a big, giant dumbass. 

That moment gives to Jason the feeling of wholeness. A fullness of heart that propels him forward into the week ahead. 

Six Days Before Inspection:

“What are your plans after work, Dick?”

Rose perches in front of the cash register, sitting primly on a countertop that Dick has decreed multiple times should not be sat upon. She twirls her hair as she asks the question and leans her chin on her hand, probably to draw attention to her appealingly orchestrated eyelash-flutter.

Inexplicably, Jason feels threatened. He crosses his arms. Damn. Why hadn’t he thought to ask what Dick was doing after work? He’ll add that to the social-interaction repertoire, to be used in the near future. 

Dick frowns. “I don’t think I have any,” he admits. “I need to make a call to Slade, and then I think I’m good to go for the night.”

“I haven’t seen Slade around in a while,” Jason points out, only suddenly realizing. “Where’s he been?”

Dick makes a sour face and shrugs. “Not sure,” he admits. Jason waits patiently for Dick to elaborate, but he seems disinclined to explain any further. Jason mimics his scowl.

“You guys got things covered from here?” Dick asks. 

Jason takes a perfunctory glance around the shop. The front is empty--the midmorning rush has dwindled down to nothing, and Jason has taken the opportunity to sweep and mop the entire shopfront. Mostly, he insists to himself, because he’s employee of the month material like that. But also partly because he wanted Dick to see what a good job he could do. He’d made sure to mop extra hard when Dick was looking. In hindsight, Jason finds the entire production unnecessary and mortifying. But it had been worth it to see Dick’s smile.

“We got it on lockdown,” Rose promises, nodding convincingly. “Right, Jay?”

“This shop never saw us coming,” he confirms with a hand on each hip. “It isn’t even ready for a shift this good.”

Dick raises his eyebrows and tilts his head, evidently doubtful. Still, he shrugs. “Can’t argue with that,” he says.

Jason’s stupid heart gets all excited over that, and he tries fruitlessly to convince himself that the feeling is unimportant.

It’s weird, the things that will make Jason’s heart race nowadays. The light from his phone screen when a new notification pops up. His little wing hoodie hanging in the closet. The spreadsheet thumb-tacked onto the wall. Everything Dick does. Everything Dick says. Every time Dick looks at him or touches him or mentions his name.

Those moments are alive and poignant. Thicker than the blood in Jason’s veins and thinner than the air at the top of a mountain. Distinct and unforgettable and significant in a way that is impossible to express. 

All of it is hard to express. Jason couldn’t put these insurmountable emotions to words if he tried. But they fill his mind like splashes of color on a canvas, like the patches of radiant light that penetrate the clouds during sunset.

*

“I called a contractor.”

Dick is pacing in the back hallway, back and forth between the closet door and the entrance to Slade’s office, which he never once breaches. His apron holds onto his waist by a slowly slipping knot, and with every step he takes, it comes further undone.

Jason is not watching. He’s restocking napkins and cups from the closet. Anything he happens to see or hear is purely incidental.

“Tomorrow. He’s gonna--can you just listen?”

A pause. Dick’s footsteps stop. He holds the phone an inch or two from his ear, like he can’t handle any closer proximity. One hand is tangled in the curls at his forehead.

“No, but we can figure it out. I crunched the numbers. I have another spreadsheet, I can--”

The pacing resumes at an increased velocity. The apron knot slips just a little further. Jason visualizes in his mind how it would be if he walked up to Dick right now. Pulled the phone from his hand and said, it’s gonna be okay, you’re doing good. Straightened the apron around Dick’s waist and tied the strings together with gentle firmness.

He does not do any of those things. Dick says, “There’s a cancellation fee.”

Silence, except for the audible mumble of Slade’s voice from Dick’s phone.

“Fine.”

Dick’s jaw is tense--so tense it begins to tremble. Embarrassingly, Jason makes accidental eye contact with him from his hiding spot in the closet, peering out from behind the stacks of cups. Jason cringes away from the intensity of Dick’s stare. Jason can see emotions there that he desperately despises. He wants to hide from them as much as he wants to rush forward to make them better.

Dick abruptly turns around to face the wall. He lowers his phone slowly into his pocket and the motion of his hand finishes the job his restlessness started. The apron falls to the floor. 

Dick stares at it with something burning behind his eyes. Jason, propelled by an urgency he can’t understand, emerges finally from the closet. His heart is aching in his throat, beating hard hard hard.

Jason reaches for the apron on the floor with a slow, hesitant hand. Dick whirls around as if to lunge at him, a fire burning in his gaze, but he meets eyes with Jason and wilts like a dying flower. Jason holds up the apron. 

“You dropped this,” he says. He’s lost the courage that would have inspired him to tie it around Dick’s waist himself. He feels dumb for having fostered that fantasy.

Dick takes the apron and holds it all balled up in one fist. “Thanks,” he says.

He makes no move to put the apron back on and Jason feels his stupid fantasy dying slowly. A balloon with a very small leak—so small it’s impossible to pinpoint. 

But the moment between them is alive and pulsing and full. Whole, despite the little breach.

Five Days Before Inspection:

“So, Dick, what are your plans for after work?”

Rose scowls. Jason is pleased to have beaten her to the initiation of this conversation. 

In a stark contrast to the dread of the day before, Dick’s eyes go sharp and mischievous. “Why, Jason, I’m incredibly glad you asked.” 

Jason smirks at Rose. She scowls and rolls her eyes. 

“Something exciting? Big party? Epic rave?”

“Even better,” Dick says smugly. “I’m going to the hardware store.”

That catches Jason a little off guard. The answer comes a little bit out of left field—he knows what people say about assumptions, but Dick hadn’t struck him as a hardware store type of guy. Maybe Michael’s or Joanns if he’s feeling crafty, but Jason always thought Dick seemed like too much of a himbo to frequent the hardware store. Apparently not. Jason mentally shrugs and readjusts the image of Dick he has in his mind. The image grows clearer every day. Jason’s headstrong heart could not love him more if it tried. 

“Ew,” says Rose, sticking her tongue out rudely. “Why would you go there?”

Only Tim seems excited by the prospect. He sticks his head out from the hallway, broom in hand, and exclaims, “The hardware store? I love the hardware store!”

“I’ve never gone there on purpose before,” Dick divulges like it’s a delicious secret. Jason wonders how someone could accidentally end up in a hardware store and his insides go warm with affection. “But I had an idea for a fun project.”

“Like what?” Rose asks, leaning forward.

“Well, the other day, I had a thought.” 

Jason raises his eyebrows, but Dick is in one of his dramatic storytelling moods, so there is nothing to do but let him finish his tale. Jason steps closer, hoping it will inspire Dick to initiate some sort of contact, and his gambit is a success--Dick places an arm around Jason’s shoulders in one casual motion that makes it seem like nothing at all. Jason holds his breath and tries not to move a muscle lest it cause Dick’s arm to fall from his shoulders. 

“And this thought was?” prompts Rose.

“I’m glad you asked! The other day it came to my attention that our walls here are--”

“Falling down?” asks Tim.

“Crumbling before our very eyes?” suggests Rose.

“A safety code violation waiting to happen and the number one reason we won’t pass our inspection?” tries Jason.

Dick rolls his eyes like those suggestions are the dumbest ideas he’s ever been insulted to hear. “Yes,” he charitably allows, “but more importantly, they’re boring! I want to paint them.”

Rose gasps. “Can they be pink?” she asks, raising her hand like a student volunteering an answer.

“Maybe!” Dick agrees. He looks pleased to have found someone to share in his enthusiasm which, Jason has to admit, is annoyingly contagious. He’s finding himself to be surprisingly compelled by the idea--painting the shop will be like slapping a bandaid on a stab wound. But it’ll be a pretty bandaid. Maybe even a pink one. Jason would rather have a gorgeously decorated stab wound than a hideous one if, all things considered, either way is going to kill him just the same. 

Dick removes his arm from Jason’s shoulders to place it proudly on his own hip. Jason does not allow himself a moment to grieve the loss--instead, his own hand is shooting into the air, the model image of a volunteer.

“I’ll come with you!” 

Dick’s face lights up. He gives Jason a high-five and a beam too bright for the dreary room, and damn, Jason doesn’t care how futile the project is. If it makes Dick happy, it’s not futile at all. 

*

Jason drives them to the hardware store because it’s more practical to take one car. Plus, he wants to demonstrate his pro-level driving skills to Dick--who, for all Jason knows, still frowns upon Jason for the infamous double-parking incident. Dick steals the aux cord to put on music, and every single song is annoyingly trendy and repetitive. He sings along to a couple of them, a couple of choice lyrics, and Jason’s heart just about loses its shit. He tells it to calm down but it can’t.

In the store, Dick selects a shopping cart and sets out on a search for the paint chip section, and Jason follows in a haze, unable to compute how surreal this entire situation is. Jason and Dick, in a hardware store. Jason and Dick, about to paint the shop. How has Jason’s life thus far led him to this moment? What choices has he made correctly to deserve this?

“Green,” Dick says, brandishing an olive colored paint chip, “is symbolic of prosperity.”

“It is also,” adds Jason knowledgeably, “ugly as fuck.”

“Oh, come on,” appeals Dick, handing Jason the offending chip. He selects several more in addition. Olive green, cactus green, lake green.

Dick grabs another one and, perplexingly, holds it up against Jason’s face. He examines it for a moment or two, looking exceedingly deliberative. Then he nods, and his grin is like running unexpectedly into someone you love. 

“This one matches your eyes.”

Jason’s cheeks go dark red, and all he can do is pray that Dick doesn’t miraculously locate a paint chip to match that color, too. “It wouldn’t look good on the walls,” he says, and the tone that he wishes was doubtful is breathless instead. “Too dark.”

“Oh, please,” Dick says, pressing the chip into Jason’s hand. Jason grips it hard, unsure what else to do. The cardstock bends between his fingers. “I think it’s pretty.”

“Then how about this one,” Jason blurts out. He leans past Dick and reaches into the section beside the greens--the blues. He grabs the shade he does not want ever to forget. “This one matches your eyes.”

He holds it out to Dick and swallows, feeling the anxiety rise up in his throat. 

Dick takes it, runs it over with his eyes. Gives Jason a delicate, crooked smile. Says nothing.

Jason continues in a ramble. “I read somewhere that, uh, painting a room blue makes it more calming. You know. Like, relaxing, and chill.”

Dick nods, pocketing the paint chip. “Yeah, little wing?”

There is a lump in Jason’s throat and he swallows it stubbornly down. “Yeah.”

“Doesn't it also mean sad sometimes?"

Jason does not know how to respond to that. He doesn’t ever want to think of Dick being sad. But what could be more depressing than the shop they’ve worked so hard on shutting down? 

“You’re so emo,” is what Jason ends up saying dismissively, an awkward amount of time later. 

“Says the guy in the grommet belt,” Dick points out. 

Jason sputters in horror, and the moment is rescued from sinking sadness and returned to its previous state of precious companionship. It occurs to Jason, surrounded by three walls of paint chips and a man who seems more colorful than all of them combined, that he understands why Damian loves art so much. Thousands of different colors--and every single one means something entirely different. 

They end up picking pale yellow. The color of sunshine--which Jason thinks suits Dick the best of all. 

Four Days Before Inspection:

Jason has the day off and it only takes about two hours post wake-up for him to become afflicted by a case of dreadful boredom. He ponders his possibilities: 

He could visit Gotham Academy with a few cans of spray paint, but honestly, that’s so two months ago. The burning flames of Jason’s love of vandalism, which were actually never that intense to begin with, have died out entirely now that he understands how expensive it is for businesses to clean that shit up. 

He could hang out with Damian; yes, but also, no. Damian still only wants to talk about his shop logo artwork and whether or not Jason thinks Dick will love it, and the problem is, that Dick will, in fact, totally love it. Jason feels threatened. He does not want Dick to love Damian more than him.

He could go smoke weed, but he has no one to smoke it with. He could attempt some father-son bonding with Bruce, but Jason is convinced that trying to have fun with Bruce would be even harder to successfully accomplish than getting away with underage drug use. 

God. Would it be weird to text Dick? Yes, it absolutely would. But Jason is feeling embarrassingly lonely today. Without his companions from school, and without his coworkers, and without his old family--

Who does Jason have?

“Goddamnit,” he grumbles to himself, standing up from his seat at the dining table and stacking his empty plate precariously at the sink. He stomps his way up the many spiraling stairs, pulls on a hoodie and some shades, and yells, “Demon brat! Want to hang out?”

A small, spiky head pokes its way out of the doorframe. 

“Really?” says Damian.

Jason holds up his ring of keys and does his best not to prematurely regret his decision. “Get in the car.”

*

Jason takes them to Damian’s favorite bookstore--which is boring--and Damian’s favorite art store, which is still uninteresting but better by a small degree. Damian takes him on a thorough tour through the watercolor section, and Jason remembers picking out paint with Dick the day before. 

He wonders if Dick has started the painting process yet. He wonders if Slade knows, and if so, whether or not the task has earned his elusive approval--the image of Slade’s single eye widened in appallment as he gazes upon brightly colored walls and paint splattered employees nearly makes him giggle out loud (and the very idea of giggling is mortifying enough to enforce resistance). 

Jason puts his hands on his hips and taps his foot in an attempt to subtly convey his disinterest to Damian, but he’s too enraptured by his paints to notice. Jason purses his lips. Checks his watch. Sighs.

“You wanna go get coffee?” he asks, halfway hoping Damian says no.

Damian’s eyes go wide and his entire face lights up, brighter than the color they’d picked for the shop. “Really?” he asks, clutching firmly to a box of paint with a little round fist. 

Jason does his best to look aloof, even as shameful excitement makes his stomach swoop. “Sure,” he says. “And--” he points to the paint in Damian’s hands “--throw that in the cart. I’ll get it for you. Now that I’m employed and everything.”

Damian looks ready to die from happiness, and Jason scowls because if he doesn’t he knows he’ll smile. Then he decides--what the hell. What would Dick do? Dick would smile.

Jason drops the scowl for the first time in what feels like eighteen years. It feels weird. It feels unfamiliar. It feels--well, it must feel like how people who aren’t angsty teenagers feel.

It feels mature, somehow. A relief.

*

They roll up to the shop in style. Because Jason is a cool older brother like that, he lets Damian sit in the front seat even though technically, according to the laws of both Bruce and the state of New York, supposed to stay in the back. He borrows a pair of Jason’s shades and looks cooler than a cucumber.

Jason opens the door of the shop, and instead of the usual jingle, there is a polite, restrained, Ding! Jason nods, impressed. They can check “doorbell” off their list of incomplete tasks. 

His jaw drops when he takes in the rest of the shop. All of the counters and appliances have been pulled away from the walls and sit in a cluster in the center of the kitchen. Tarps--which look suspiciously like cut-up trash bags--are attached with blue painter’s tape to the floor and walls. Dick, Barbara, and Tim all wear old, tattered aprons and wield paint rollers. The walls are about sixty percent white, and forty percent butter yellow. 

“Woah,” says Jason.

Dick, who’d been so absorbed in his chore he hadn’t even turned when the new doorbell chimed, turns sharply around at the sound of Jason’s voice. There’s a terrifying moment where Jason irrationally fears that Dick will wonder what the fuck he’s doing here on his day off, but the concern is alleviated when Dick smiles. Yeah, that’s what Jason is doing here today.

“Jason!” says Dick. There are flecks of yellow paint in his hair, somehow, and Jason really really can’t handle that. “And Dami!”

Jason waits with bated breath for Damian to declare his disgust at such an egregiously childish nickname, but he only blushes and stares up at Dick with the uncharacteristic sheepishness that frequents their interactions. Dick smiles back, but somehow it doesn’t come off as condescending. Damn. Jason wishes he knew how to do that.

“What can we do for you?” asks Barbara. While Dick and Tim are covered head to toe in specks of yellow, she is miraculously pristine. 

Suddenly, Jason feels awkward. He sticks his hands in his pockets and shrugs in the style of someone who definitely does not care. “Just stopping by, I guess. We were in the neighborhood.”

Damian nods in affirmation. “We wanted to see Richard,” he declares. Jason could practically smack him, and maybe he would if he wasn’t in such a charitable mood today. His cheeks are positively on fire. A long talk with Damian regarding WHAT THE FUCK is in order when they get home.

“Today is paint day,” Dick informs him, as if Jason might not have otherwise been able to tell.

“Does Slade know?” Jason asks, morbidly curious.

“Absolutely not,” says Dick very seriously. “We’re trying to keep things on the down-low. Do you think he’ll be able to tell?”

The joke is dumb but Jason feels like he can’t stop grinning at it no matter how hard he tries. His cheeks ache already. “I think he’ll love it,” Jason optimistically decides. “You know how he feels about spending money on pointless things.”

“His greatest passion,” Dick agrees firmly. 

Damian, in the middle of Jason and Dick’s enrapturing conversation, wanders up through the door in the counter, into the kitchen. No one does anything to prevent the bold move.

“I want to paint,” he declares. 

“The brushes are in the closet,” says Dick automatically, before Jason can even begin to sputter out his impassioned disapproval.

“Really?” asks Barbara flatly. Tim, in the corner, just looks happy to have some help. Between the three employees, his wardrobe situation is the most impacted by the paint. Jason suspects that the greatest dry cleaner in the world couldn’t save his hoodie. He probably needs the help.

“Sure,” says Dick. “Why not?”

Barbara shrugs, and Damian interprets that as all the approval he needs to wander into the closet in search of an appropriate paintbrush. Jason stares after him, aghast. 

Why, on his day off, does nothing in the world sound like more fun than painting the coffee shop with Dick? That should be concerning. Jason needs to go make more friends or find more hobbies. Maybe he needs to visit a therapist. 

“Can I?” he asks, embarrassingly hesitant, after Damian emerges from the closet.

Dick’s expression is welcoming and warm and reminds Jason of something beautiful he can’t put his finger on. “If you want to,” he says.

“I don’t have anything better to do,” Jason mumbles.

Tim hands him a brush.

*

Covering the walls in color is like covering up a layer of history that Jason is only privy to a portion of. There are dents and stains from long before Jason’s time. He covers them over, and they are no more.

There are also the parts that Jason hates to destroy. He knows that painting the shop is like putting a bandaid on a stab wound and trying to kiss it better. It’s symbolic, more than anything. It's not actually going to help.

Places, Jason thinks, even as he paints away the evidence of years of labor in this room, don’t go away like how people and objects do. Even if the shop is burnt down, or torn down, or vanished from existence in some sweeping stroke of malicious magic, the patch of earth upon which it existed will always remain. And the memories. Memories leave echoes like ghostly whispers.

He’s not sure how this place left such a strong impression on him in such a short period of time. But its effect is undeniable, and the feeling of painting over old memories with new color leaves something bittersweet in Jason’s chest. Maybe if he thought this would make a difference. Maybe that would help.

As things are, he’s doing it for Dick, to whom the process is probably a little cathartic. Get rid of the old. Hide all the bad beneath the rug. Take control for a day, even if it will be ripped away tomorrow. 

Jason paints a layer over all the old memories, but the echoes don’t go away. He can’t stop thinking about Dick. It’s not one specific train of thought: it’s a feeling. The warmth and the butterflies and the moment that lives between them, breathing in and out in rhythm, very much alive.

Three Days Before Inspection:

Another day off. The shop is closed today because the paint is still drying and Slade is still recovering from his tantrum when he saw what they’d done without authorization.

Jason comes down the stairs for breakfast in sweatpants and a very old T-shirt. Bruce looks up at Jason from above the iPad on which he reads the news, and asks, “No work today?”

Jason shakes his head. He stacks about a thousand pancakes onto a plate and gives them a refreshing shower of a fuckton of syrup.

“How are things going at work?” asks Bruce. He phrases the question mildly, but his eyes are sharp.

“Good,” illuminates Jason. If he’s honest, he’s still annoyed at Bruce. Bruce’s initial donation was generous and unexpected--but it wasn’t enough.

Then again. When is anything ever enough? So many things in life fall just a little bit short. 

“That’s all?” asks Bruce. He puts down his iPad. That’s how Jason knows he means business.

“The inspection is in three days.”

Bruce raises a single eyebrow in a shockingly delicate expression. “And how are the renovations going?”

“Fine,” Jason says shortly. “But the wood rot is our biggest problem and we don’t have the money to fix it.”

Bruce frowns, just a little. “You think you’re going to be shut down.”

“I’ve told you this,” Jason mutters, beginning to feel annoyed. “Yes.”

Bruce’s frown turns from thoughtful to unusually sympathetic. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You’ve really impressed me at that job. Your work ethic is amazing.”

“Thanks,” says Jason flatly. He stands up, abandoning his pancake mountain, and pushes his chair in. He goes back upstairs. 

Bruce is finally proud of him--proud enough to say it directly, in those words. You've impressed me.

It feels nice, kind of. But mostly it just tugs at the knot in Jason’s stomach. What will Bruce have to be proud of when the shop is closed down and Jason is unemployed and alone again?

Two Days Before Inspection:

Dick is depressed today. Jason tries to deny it, but it's obvious from a quick glance across the room. All of the good vibes afforded by their sunshiney paint color are negated by Dick’s unfortunate attitude. 

Jason does his best to make it better. He makes Dick his favorite drink in a mug shaped like a snowman, which earns a smile. Emboldened by his success, Jason attempts to initiate a conversation.

“What have you been up to lately?” he asks lamely.

“Applying for jobs,” says Dick.

“They’ll be begging to hire you,” Jason declares firmly. Dick huffs a laugh. But Jason is still sorry he asked. He doesn’t want to know about Dick’s alternative job hunt. He doesn’t want it to be necessary in the first place.

Jason quietly adds, “I should start doing that too.”

“I’ll send you some Craigslist ads,” Dick says.

Jason doesn’t want to feel this way anymore. He wants this day to be over--this day, this week, this month. But he also dreads the end of his time at the coffee shop. He knows it’ll mark the end of his time with Dick. 

“Thanks,” he says.

He doesn’t want to feel this way anymore. Hope hurts as much as miserable bleakness.

One Day Before Inspection:

The inspector calls to confirm their appointment. Dick answers the call with pep and then hangs up the phone like he’s laying something precious to rest. He looks depressed again. Jason feels depressed. He feels trapped in this cloud of terrible emotion: he wishes it would stop hurting, he wishes he could stop caring, he wishes he could turn off his heart because it’s crying in his chest and won’t stop.

Jason does the next best thing when he and Dick lock the doors and exit the shop for the last time before the safety inspection. He impulsively asks, “Wanna come smoke with me?”

Dick stares, bewildered, like Jason’s offer doesn’t even compute. “You’re eighteen,” is what he responds with. “And I’m twenty.”

“And the sky is blue,” says Jason. “And up is the opposite of down, and…”

Dick stubbornly rolls his eyes. “It’s illegal.”

“I do it all the time,” Jason says. “Don’t act like you haven’t, either. I know you have.”

“How do you know that?” demands Dick. He’s beginning to grin, albeit sort of guiltily, and that’s how Jason knows his offer hasn’t crossed any lines.

“I just know,” says Jason mysteriously. He raises his eyebrows. “Call it a weedometer.”

He’d never dare to crack a joke so disgustingly lame in the presence of anyone other than Dick, and it’s only because he knows how passionately Dick loves dad jokes. Sure enough, Dick begins to laugh, and he says, “Fine. Fine. Your weedometer can’t lead us astray.”

A very bad idea, thinks Jason with relish. It only spurs him on.

Out back, behind the shop in the little alley between this row of buildings and the shops adjacent, there’s not a lot but a big sink, some dumpsters, and a rack of mops and brooms. The other shops create walls that block the sky above except for a very small sliver. The sun is beginning to set, and everything is bathed in dark pinky-orange.

“Does Slade have cameras back here?” asks Jason curiously.

“Does it matter?” asks Dick. They must be rubbing off on each other, thinks Jason. That’s a very Jason sort of question to ask.

“No, it does not,” Jason decides. 

Jason lights the blunt and they pass it between them like they’ve done it a hundred times. It’s weird and a little surreal. Jason’s heart pounds hard. He doesn’t want to say goodbye to Dick once the shop is shut down and they’re both fired. He feels like, once the shop is closed, the living moments between them will die. Going to the hardware store and painting the walls and smoking weed with Dick will all be memories he can never revisit as hard as he tries. He’s never gonna meet another Dick Grayson. For some reason, that’s devastating.

“I’m a bad influence,” groans Dick at some point. The sun is behind the buildings now, and invisible. The sky is turning dark. 

“I’m the one who suggested this,” protests Jason. 

“I’m supposed to have better judgement,” grumbles Dick. He slides down against the wall and takes a seat criss-cross-applesauce on the concrete. Jason joins him. He feels pleasantly relaxed and lazy and slow. The horrible ache inside his ribcage has faded into a gnawing numbness, which is a little bit more manageable for the moment. He still feels miserably sad. Something irreplaceable is coming to an end.

Something weird happens when Jason sits on the dirty concrete and gets a proper look at Dick in the fading light. He doesn’t see an awe-inspiring paragon of positivity. He doesn’t see an unstoppable force incapable of giving anything up. He just sees a person, sitting against a dirty brick wall, looking tired and high and sad. 

It wounds Jason anew to realize that he still loves Dick, even when he’s just a person.

“I’m really sorry about all this,” says Dick. He waves one hand around, presumably to encompass all this. “I remember when I first started working here. It was shitty--I mean, obviously--but it was really… it was cool to have a purpose. You know. Responsibilities and things. An income. It was nice. I hope you get hired somewhere cool.”

Jason ponders that. He doesn’t know how to respond without revealing things he would rather keep guarded in his chest. But whatever. It doesn’t really matter, he supposes. “Working here wasn’t cool because of the job,” he says. “It was the people.”

Jason’s heart pounds hard against his ribs and he wishes he could unsay it to spare himself some embarrassment. 

“I liked the people too,” Dick says with a slow, wise nod.

The living moment and memory-whispers are especially apparent during the silences between their conversations. There is something powerful in Jason’s chest, in his heart and lungs and throat, and he doesn’t know what it is.

He hates feeling helpless and he hates that Dick is helpless, too. He wishes he could single handedly save the shop. He wishes he could fix it. He wishes his chest would stop fucking hurting like this. He wishes his torturous feelings meant anything. He wishes they would either help or fuck off.

The orangey-pink sky eventually becomes fully indigo, and the lights on the shop walls flicker on. Moths buzz pointlessly around the lightbulbs.

The setting of the sun comes with an air of finality. How unfair that all things have to end. Soon, they’ll go home. Jason will show up for work tomorrow and the inspector will fail them and he’ll never see Dick again.

Maybe, Jason thinks, things have to end because if they didn’t, there’d be no reason to savor them. But that’s bullshit. Why shouldn’t he be allowed to enjoy things for as long as they bring him happiness?  Why is there a night after every day, why is there death after life, why can’t Jason’s dumb fucking heart just get the memo and let him forget how much he cares?

Shit’s tough, Jason tells himself. Get over it.

But it’s hard.

He glances over at Dick and his throat burns. He doesn’t know why he’s letting himself get so worked up, but he feels like he might cry, and nothing in the world could be more embarrassing than that. 

“Thanks for…” Jason swallows and gestures inarticulately. “Letting me work with you. It was really nice."

Dick looks over at him, surprised. “You’re a really cool person, little wing.” He says it slow and soft.

That’s all he says and it’s not what Jason wants to hear. Jason’s own feelings are so thick in his throat, heavy in his heart, that there’s a second where it’s impossible to breathe around them.

You’re a cool person. It hurts but it helps, even as Jason swallows down against the lump in his throat and wills his eyes to stop burning. Time goes on. The day is replaced by the night. Nothing ever stays the same. Whatever. Jason hasn’t stayed the same, either. He’s a pretty cool person, he supposes. 

Chapter Text

Jason wakes up that morning to a text from Slade-- No need for you to come in today. Thanks.

Brief and to-the-point as usual. Classic Slade.

He drives by the shop that morning anyways-- after all, it’s on the way to the grocery store, where he definitely needs to go for extremely relevant reasons. The light up sign which once so proudly proclaimed “HAM COFFEE” is dark. A “closed” sign hangs prominently in the window. The tables and chairs that used to sit outside are nowhere to be seen.

Jason knew this was going to happen, but knowing it conceptually and seeing it with his own two eyes are completely different things. It doesn’t even fully sink in until he checks his email later that day and is met with the bold subject line, SHOP CLOSING. THANKS

He doesn’t bother to read the email-- just clicks mark as read and throws his phone onto the bed. Then he joins it, laying on his back, arms spread helplessly in either direction. 

*

Closure is hard to find. In the fruitless search to achieve it, Jason revisits the shop again the next day. Brand new on the front door is a sign: CONDEMNED FOR CODE VIOLATIONS.

Jason slips his key into the latch anyways. The inside is empty and dark. He flicks on a light, but even that doesn’t help very much. He spends a minute or two standing there, hands shoved into his pockets, looking around the dark building. Then he leaves and locks the door behind him.

*

Jason spends the next couple of weeks floating from day to day in a stormcloud of teenage broodiness and ire. For the first few days, Bruce lets him be. He offers the occasional hand on the shoulder or obligatory “you know you can talk to me about anything, right?” but that is, for the most part, the extent of his intervention attempts.

After a week, Bruce begins to tentatively broach the subject of what Jason will do now. 

“So,” he says at dinner one day. Jason is pushing potatoes around his plate. Damian is chewing his own very slowly so that the sounds of his own eating won’t inhibit his ability to eavesdrop. Alfred is staring very primly at the wall, back straight and eyes locked straight ahead. “What are your plans?”

Jason plays dumb. “Like, after dinner?” he asks. “TV.”

“I meant in terms of your future,” Bruce clarifies.

“Uhh,” says Jason. A scowl begins to creep over his face. His careful slicing of his potatoes devolves into downright violence.

Bruce waits for a few moments, making what could be either a pained smile or repressed cringe, and then elects to poke Jason with another prompt. “Will you try to get your GED? Or another job?”

Jason shrugs. For a terrible second, he is jealous of Dick: No parents. Freedom at age sixteen. No school in sight.

Then he is swept away in a surge of self-hatred and anger. What a disgusting thought. Jason should be grateful for all of the privilege he has. Living in a manor with a butler and a dad who, if nothing else, always tries his best. 

When the anger recedes, all that is left is a dull buzzing noise and a horrible pit of sadness. He misses Dick. That’s why he’s upset-- not the shop and not the idea of school. Dick.

“Jason,” warns Bruce. “We’re having a serious conversation right now.”

“You are,” Jason says. “I’m not.”

“Young man,” Bruce shoots back, voice dangerously low.

A bright flash of anger surges through Jason’s chest. He stands abruptly and shoves his chair back in hard enough to rattle the table. 

“Take a hint,” he growls, stomping away. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.” Before Bruce has the chance to shout back, Jason has slammed the door of his room shut.

*

Jason misses Dick. He misses Dick the way he misses being a little kid, the way he misses his old dreams, the way he misses his mom every now and then. A nagging ache that burrows deeper the more he thinks about it. There’s nothing more unbearable than knowing it’s all gone. 

Jason’s stages of grief consist of anger, annoyance, and brooding. Contrastingly, Bruce’s stages of parenting range from the “he’ll figure it out on his own” approach, to the silent support technique, to the brave yet occasional attempt at intervention.

Three times more, he does his best to sneakily engage Jason in serious conversation by starting with a light, non-bothersome topic and then abruptly pulling the old switcheroo to subjects Jason is stalwartly avoiding.

Even Damian is concerned, but his endeavors to comfort Jason are, if possible, even more egregious. Jason has the terrible, shameful suspicion that Damian knows the exact nature of his feelings for Dick, and that makes conversation with him unbearable.

“Have you talked to Richard?” he asks once or twice.

“No,” Jason snaps. 

“When are you planning on talking to Richard?” Damian asks when the first question bears no fruit.

“I'm not,” growls Jason.

Bravely, he hazards, “Can I talk to Richard?”

That earns Damian the coldest glare Jason has ever mustered. He’s always sick with guilt after these biting conversations with his little brother, but thoughts of Dick make him sicker. 

He’s not sure why the loss of the shop affects him so profoundly-- in his life, he’s lost so much that a stupid minimum wage job and a couple of friends should seem like nothing. But it’s about more than that. The job at the coffee shop had given Jason something he had not had in a long time-- an opportunity to grow. He’d been on a steady path towards self-improvement. Towards friendships. Towards maturity.

Now he’s back to stage one: days and nights spent in his room. Bullying Damian. Refusing to talk to Bruce.

Alfred is his only oasis. He is the one person in the family who has acted neither smothering nor annoying. He is the same as he always was: steadfast, reliable, and pleasantly aloof. When Bruce and Damian are on Jason’s last nerve, Alfred is always there to help in his own quiet way. 

But even Alfred has his limits, and Jason manages to test them one day at dinner. They’re enjoying Alfred’s finest chicken parmesan in silence when Bruce has to ruin everything by announcing, “I’m imposing a deadline.”

“On what,” says Jason.

“You,” says Bruce. “Like I said when you got expelled from Gotham Academy: I will not let my son sit around the house doing nothing. You are too smart for that. You will either enroll at Gotham High or get a new job by the end of the month.”

Instantly, Jason simmers with outrage. “I can’t find a new job by then,” he snaps. “That’s less than two weeks. How the fuck am I supposed to find a job that fast?”

Bruce shrugs. “You’ve had time,” he says. “You’ve been moping for weeks.”

“Not by choice!” exclaims Jason. “I had a job! They closed down! What am I supposed to do about that!”

“Things happen, Jason,” says Bruce. “You’re acting like a child. Children go to school. Either act responsible and get a job, or that’s what’s going to happen.”

At the word "child," Jason loses the last remains of his composure. His icy cold anger is replaced by a blaze of hot fury. “Fuck you,” he hisses. “This entire thing is your fault for making me get a job anyways. I wish you’d never--”

Suddenly a new voice joins the conversation. “That is enough, young man.”

Alfred’s voice is jarring and acutely mortifying to hear. A wave of ice runs down Jason’s spine, followed by shame more poignant than he can ever remember feeling. He’s never heard Alfred sound so cold before. He now knows that it’s something he never wants to hear again. 

Feeling like the shame will tear him apart if he stays at this table a moment longer, Jason says, “Fuck this. I’m leaving.”

“You are staying right here,” Alfred says.

Jason’s terror is in a constant exponential increase. He has no idea what to do except fight back. “No,” he repeats, deadly in his emphasis. 

“Young man,” growls Alfred. No sound has ever been grimmer. “You will sit down this instant and finish your dinner.”

Alfred stepping in like this is so intensely horrifying and unexpected that Jason is overcome by the desperate need to lash out. Anything to maintain the upper hand. Anything to regain control. His fight or flight response has been triggered and even as he’s aware of his restraint slipping, it’s impossible to take back the reins on his temper. 

Jason points at the plate Alfred had so lovingly prepared. “This dinner,” he says slowly, “Tastes. Like. Shit.”

The silence in the dining room is audible. Alfred looks like he’s just been slapped. Bruce looks overtly horrified. Damian’s eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his head. 

Dropping his fork like a microphone, Jason stomps up the stairs to his room.

*

It takes exactly three milliseconds after his outburst for the regret to sink in, and approximately one tenth of a millisecond after that for his entire brain to go numb with panic.

This, Jason thinks to himself, sprawling face-up on the bed and staring at the ceiling in a haze of numb despair, is the worst thing I have ever done.

And then, for the first time in weeks, he catches himself before he sinks fully into the abyss of self-pity. 

No, he thinks. I can fix this.

*

Step one: he borrows Damian’s paint kit. The least expensive one--Damian doesn’t trust Jason with the fancy one, and that is honestly pretty understandable. He is, luckily, happy to offer up not only his cheap supplies, but his council. Somehow, after everything Jason has done in the past few weeks, Damian is still willing to help. Who, he wonders, did Damian learn his generosity from? Because it definitely has not been Jason, lately. 

Jason needs all the help he can get, so they lock themselves in Damian’s room and hunch over the desk. “You wet the brush like this,” Damian whispers--he is taking the secrecy of their operation very seriously. 

Jason concentrates hard and follows suit. Together, they craft the finest artistic work Jason has ever produced. In an hour, it is done. Another thirty minutes after that, the paint is dry.

He enacts phase two of the plan. This is the part that will require field work: Jason gears up with his creative masterpiece and sets off with a good luck fistbump from Damian. 

Jason knocks tenderly on Alfred’s door. Alfred has a set of rooms within the manor: a private bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom all connected to a little sitting room. Jason and the rest of the family rarely venture into Alfred’s rooms. Alfred is a pretty private person, and they usually respect that.

Sometimes he invites them in, though. Jason is hoping this will be one of those cases.

After thirty nerve wracking seconds, spent wringing his hands and checking his watch and adjusting his feet on the carpet, Jason hears footsteps from within and the door swings open. Alfred stands inside, looking impassive.

“Master Jason,” he says formally. “What an unexpected visit.”

Jason cringes and shifts on his feet. “I wanted to talk to you,” he says. He tries to make his voice sound as even as possible, but nerves and guilt make it shaky.

A moment passes. Alfred tightens his jaw. Jason’s heart nearly explodes from anxiety.

Then, Alfred opens the door a little wider. “Come in, I suppose.”

Jason steps into the room quickly, before the invitation can be rescinded. The door swings shut behind him. 

Alfred’s quarters are pristine as always. The decor is a lot less exuberantly rich than the rest of the manor. Cool grays and simple shapes and understated patterns. Jason tries to remember the last time he was in here. Months ago.

There is a sofa in the corner, but Jason does not dare sit. Instead, he produces something he’d been hiding inside his hoodie--Jason’s finest artistic endeavor. He hands it to Alfred.

“I. Uh. Made you something.”

The front of the homemade card is a cartoony painting of Alfred--Jason knew he wouldn’t be able to achieve realism, so he went for a much more attainable surrealist style. Alfred, in a chef’s hat, with a Mona Lisa smile: a composition suggested by the extremely knowledgeable Damian.

On the inside of the card is another artistic rendering: Jason’s own face looking very sad, an acrylic paint recreation of the dinner Jason had so viciously scorned, and a portrait of Alfred brandishing a golden trophy. The words on the page say:

“To the most sickytight chef in the world,

I am very sorry I insulted your dinner. I was lying. It tasted fabulous, as always.

I am ready to stop being a child now. The way I acted was wrong.

Love, Jason.”

Alfred reads the card slowly, and takes his time examining the artwork. Jason’s heart is pounding like a jackhammer in his chest. He never goes out of his way like this, or makes big gestures, or says he’s sorry. But treating Alfred poorly feels like a line that should never, ever be crossed. Serious amends are inarguably necessary.

As Alfred reads the card, his face softens. By the time he finally looks up at Jason, the mask of indifferent politeness has smoothed into something a little less frightening.

“I thought you told me sickytight isn’t a word.”

“You know,” says Jason, staring past Alfred at the wall behind him. “Exceptions can be made. When the word really applies.”

“Hmmm,” says Alfred. The noise is impossible to interpret. It could be disappointment or agreement or anything in between. Jason holds his breath. Gravely, Alfred continues, “I rather think you should sit down, Master Jason.”

Jason sits obediently on the sofa’s very edge. Alfred sits opposite, so they are facing each other over the coffee table. Alfred sets the card down, propped up and open, on the table. Jason can’t stop worrying that it isn’t enough.

“The way you’ve been acting this past couple of weeks has been disappointing to myself and your father,” begins Alfred. Hearing Bruce referred to that way-- your father-- makes the shame hit home that much harder. “Your childish behavior has been a direct contrast from the way you’ve matured lately. It has been jarring, and extremely upsetting.”

Jason swallows. He feels small and embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“Master Bruce isn’t pressuring you to get a new job because he’s trying to control you,” Alfred continues urgently. “It’s because he saw how positively this job affected you.”

“I know,” Jason says miserably.

“The way you spoke to him today was unacceptable.”

“I know,” Jason repeats. He wants to sink into the floor and never speak to anyone ever again lest he offend them with his horrible, callous comments. His immature, childish attitude.

Alfred’s eyes burn through Jason, making him squirm. Luckily, his gaze is free from anger. Maybe the card worked. Maybe things will be okay. With Alfred, at least.

“I know how much you loved your job,” Alfred says. “And I’m sorry it was taken away. But it’s clear that working is good for you, my boy. You cannot let a work ethic like that go to waste.”

Jason takes a shallow breath. His throat feels tight and his heart is beating too hard. “It wasn’t the job,” he admits quietly. “It was a person.”

Alfred’s eyes widen just a little, and then his expression is soft and understanding and unbearable to look at. “I see,” he says. A second later, realization lights up his face. “I see,” he repeats. “Dick Grayson?” he suggests.

Throat clogged, eyes burning, Jason can do nothing but nod. “How did you know it was him?” he whispers.

“You talk about that boy every single day,” Alfred says. “So does Damian, for that matter. He sounds very kind.”

Jason nods. His insides feel too tight, and his ribcage feels too small for everything inside it, and he can’t help it when everything starts to spill out. “He is,” Jason agrees. “He’s the nicest person I’ve ever met, and I mean it. It’s like, when he asks how your day was or whatever, it feels like he really means it, you know? Nothing he ever says sounds fake. And he’s so devoted. You think I cared about my job? It was nothing compared to like how he did. He did everything there. He did so much. And then he still had time to talk and have fun and…”

Jason trails off. To his horror, his eyes have started prickling, and he shuts his mouth in an abrupt effort to terminate the emotional outburst.

But he’s said enough. “My dear boy,” says Alfred softly, “you have such an incredibly big heart.”

Jason scowls at that. The wetness in his eyes, the tears he absolutely refuses to let fall, do not go away. “Whatever,” he says, trying to change the subject. “That’s why I’ve been so bitchy lately. Sorry again.”

“Have you spoken to him at all since the shop closed?” asks Alfred gently. His expression is brimming with kindness. 

Jason can’t bear to look at it. He shakes his head numbly.

“Well, there’s your problem!” Alfred claps his hands together decisively. “Just because you aren’t still working together is no reason to stop talking. Especially when he sounds like such an incredible young man.”

Jason sighs. “It’s not that easy,” he says despairingly. “I can’t just… talk to him.”

“Why not?” asks Alfred.

“Because--” Jason starts. Try as he might, it is difficult to fathom a reason that doesn’t sound like a stupid excuse when spoken aloud. “Because he doesn’t like me… like that.”

“And you know that for certain?” asks Alfred shrewdly.

Jason nods, feeling wretched and pathetic.

“Well, he never will if you don’t reach out.”

“What if I reach out and he still never does?” Jason demands. The very thought is sickening. He is absolutely sure that rejection will hurt more than silence. And the silence is already unbearable.

“That would be unfortunate,” Alfred agrees. His face is serious, but his eyes twinkle with some grandfatherly wisdom, and that’s how Jason knows he’s been forgiven. “Let me afford you a hard-won piece of knowledge I have tried my best to live my life by.”

Jason leans forward intently and holds his breath.

“You miss one hundred percents of the shots you don’t take.”

Jason holds his breath, waiting for more, but Alfred seems quite done. He looks very satisfied with himself.

“That’s it?” Jason asks incredulously. “That’s so cheesy.”

“I think it’s perfectly applicable to your situation,” says Alfred, unbothered. But there is the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Jesus,” groans Jason. His cheeks are a mortifying firetruck red, and he feels pathetically vulnerable for all he’s shared with Alfred.

But it also feels good. Getting everything off his chest is wonderfully refreshing, and Alfred’s unwavering acceptance is a precious gift to receive. The block of emotion lodged in Jason’s throat doesn’t let up, but it’s accompanied by a brand new seed of hope.

Alfred stands, looking satisfied, and Jason rises with him. All of a sudden, he’s being pulled in for a hug. Jason freezes. Alfred never hugs. He is not a huggy person, and the family respects that. 

But today, he’s reaching out. Jason feels honored. 

Maybe things really will be okay.

“Do you like your card?” Jason asks when they pull away.

Alfred dusts himself off primly and smooths the wrinkles from his uniform. “Certainly,” he says. “I treasure it.”

“Good,” Jason says with one quick nod. His heart is swelling with renewed love for Alfred. For Damian. Even for Bruce, who is next on his list of apologies to make. “Thanks,” he says quickly.

“Anything for you, my dear boy.”

*

Even after Alfred’s encouraging words, summoning the gumption to give Dick a call is a difficult, lengthy process. Jason spends another day lamenting his own loneliness before he finally feels courageous enough to give it a try.

He has the entire thing scripted out: Jason will kick things off with a nice, “Hey man, what’s up?” After that, he’ll deploy the old, “How’s it goin’?” If those two openers are successful, he’ll round things off with, “I’m free tomorrow if you want to do something.” Nothing can possibly go wrong. Jason’s got this on lock.

Damian sits beside him on the couch for moral support, and Alfred takes around eight years to dust the bookshelves nearby. Jason figures he owes Alfred the opportunity to eavesdrop after all of his encouragement. 

Jason unlocks his phone. He pulls up his list of contacts. His finger hovers over Dick’s name. He clicks, heart pounding wildly, and the phone begins to ring. It’s on speaker, because his face is too sweaty from nerves, and it would be gross to press his phone up against it.

“Hey, Jay,” says Dick.

It takes exactly one millisecond for Jason’s mouth to become as dry as Death Valley. “Hi,” he manages. Rest in peace to his careful scripting.

“What’s up?” asks Dick. 

“Uuummm,” says Jason. He glances wildly around the room for help--Alfred, still valiantly dusting, offers a smile, while Damian elbows Jason hard in the ribs and gives him a face that screams, do something! 

“Not much,” Jason eventually manages. “How about you?”

Damian glares like that’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. Jason would like to see him do better. 

“On the job hunt,” Dick says. “Nothing so far, but you know how it is. How about you?”

“Totally,” says Jason, who has applied for not a single job. “Job market’s brutal, man.”

“Sure is,” says Dick.

There is silence. Jason wills his brain to come up with something funny or interesting, or at the very least, not completely stupid. His plans are dashed when he begins to speak at the same exact time as Dick.

“Did you maybe want to–-”

“I was wondering if–-”

Oh god, Jason thinks. He is paralyzed by the scope of his own social awkwardness.

“You go first,” Dick says graciously.

“Um. Okay.” Jason takes a deep breath. Back to the script. You can do this. “If you ever wanted to like… get some lunch or something, I’d be down.”

“Oh!” says Dick. He laughs, but it’s not the cruel cackle of someone who would never ever go to lunch with you if you were the last person on earth. It’s a happy, surprised laugh. “Sure. When are you free?”

Damian fist pumps. Alfred says, quietly, “Very good, Master Jason, very good.”

Jason tries not to sound too excited when he replies, “Anytime! Like… tomorrow is good. Or today. If that’s not too last-minute. Or… um…”

“Today’s actually cool if it works for you,” says Dick.

“Totally,” Jason agrees, nodding coolly. He’s trying to channel the energy of someone who doesn’t care. Someone super cool. Someone who has lunch dates every day and who definitely never makes a big deal of them. “Where should we meet?”

Jason holds his breath waiting for the reply. If there’s anything in the world that he hates more than the American education system, it’s picking where to eat. Because what if Dick has some sort of secret dietary restriction and Jason accidentally picks a restaurant where nothing on the menu will work? Then Dick will go hungry, and sit there silently judging Jason’s taste in restaurants or, oh God–- worse . He’ll be so polite that he eats it anyway and goes into anaphylactic shock and dies. The horror alone would kill Jason too.

Blessedly, Dick saves Jason from that particular terror. “You know Ikes?” he asks.

“The sandwich place downtown?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds good. Yeah. What time?”

“Is… like, 1:30 okay?”

“Totally,” Jason says. “Hundred percent. Sounds great. I’m down.” He neglects to check the clock before accepting the offer. He only has an hour to prepare.

“Nice. See you then, little wing.”

Jason’s heart basically explodes. “Yep!” he manages. “See ya.”

He hangs up the phone, buzzing all over. His brain is fried. He is frozen in place.

“Mission successful,” declares Damian decisively with an important-looking nod. “Good job.”

“Little wing, Master Jason?”

Jason’s glare could melt through metal. His cheeks are about hot enough, too. He grumbles an incoherent denial and then stands. Damian rises with him and proffers one tiny hand.

“Follow me,” he commands, grabbing Jason’s hand. Jason is marched up the stairs and through the hallway to his room. “I will help you get ready.”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing now?” Jason asks.

Damian only glares.

*

Thirty minutes later, at 1:02, Damian pronounces Jason’s appearance “adequate.” That leaves an extra fifteen minutes for Jason to spend pacing, stressing, taking deep breaths, and bemoaning his own social ineptitude.

At 1:20, he gets into the car. At 1:28, he rolls up to Ike’s sandwich shop. Should he go in? Should he wait outside? Should he text Dick that he’s here? Too many options.

He spots Dick sitting at a table outside, fiddling around with his phone. Oh, good. All Jason has to do is walk up. It takes another moment to gather up the courage to leave his car. 

Dick catches Jason’s eye as he approaches, and gives him a smile and a wave. Jason is suddenly acutely aware of the way he is walking. His hands are useless at his sides. What is he supposed to do with them? Why is having hands so embarrassing all of a sudden?

Finally, Jason makes it to the table and manages to take a seat. He leans back in a way that is supposed to look casual or something. He’s actually not entirely sure what he’s doing. The last time he hung out with a friend like this was practically the stone age. 

“Hey,” Dick says. His grin is easy and familiar, and something inside Jason settles. 

“Hey,” Jason says. The anticipation and lead-up had been excruciating. Now, he looks back and wonders how he could have possibly been so dramatic. Everything will be fine. This is Dick–-of course it’ll be okay.

The weather is mild and the sunlight is soft and warm. It’s a pretty day, especially for Gotham. The sidewalk isn’t too crowded, and neither is the road. The sky is smudged with bright white clouds. Pigeons and other smaller birds crowd the tables for crumbs, and Jason is oddly delighted by their antics. 

The food is good (Jason makes sure to order a sandwich that won’t be embarrassingly messy and put his clean outfit at risk) and the conversation is easy. Falling back into the way things used to be with Dick is an incredible relief. Jason misses working with him more than he thought was possible, but there’s something even better about being here together on their own free time. Before, they were getting paid to hang out together. Now, there is no incentive except for each other’s companionship.

Dick looks the same as he always did. Vibrant and friendly and beautiful–-and a little rough around the edges, like he’s been tired for a while. He used to look that way when they were at work, and it hasn’t gone away. His cheekbones are starker than usual. Jason wonders if he’s lost weight, but that seems like a weird thing to be wondering about.

Even though things are going pretty well as far as Jason can tell, he’s hyper-aware of every move he makes. He’s doing his best to be as appealing as possible, but it’s hard to tell if his efforts are successful. Is his story interesting, or is Dick smiling politely while crying of boredom on the inside? Does Jason look put-together and casual, or is his social anxiety sweat making him look unattractively shiny? Is this a sexy half-smile, or the expression of a stroke victim?

Dick appears to be having no such difficulties. He didn’t order much to eat, so his side of the table is clean. He manages to make his paper water cup look as elegant as a wine glass. He’s so relaxed and at ease, all he would need to fit in on The Bachelor would be a rose between his teeth. And a terrible personality, of course, because no one good ever ends up on that show. So, no, he would definitely not fit in. Why did Jason think that? His subconscious is trying to sabotage him! 

He takes a huge bite of his sandwich to prevent himself from saying anything regrettable. Then he chews very slowly and deliberately. Just a dude having a sandwich. As one does.

Okay. Other than eating sandwiches (in a very normal way), what is it that people do when they hang out with someone they want to impress? They use compliments. Jason can definitely do that. Something nice, but not objectifying or weird. He goes with the classic: “I like your shirt.”

“My shirt?” asks Dick, looking down at himself.

It’s a plain black T-shirt. The kind found in ten-packs at Walmart. The most unremarkable shirt in the entire universe.

Jason wants to punch himself in the face. Out of literally everything about Dick, Jason has chosen to single out the least complimentable thing possible. This could literally not have gone worse.

He attempts to salvage the situation. “It looks… comfortable?”

“Yeah,” Dick says, nodding with a look of vague concern. “You okay, man? You look a little… sweaty.”

Jason looks down at himself. The sweat stains on his shirt are large enough to be seen from space. This is the worst thing that has ever happened to him. He will never recover from this. This is the moment he’ll be recounting to his therapist in twenty years. Not his mom’s death. Not his dad’s imprisonment. Not even his theatrical expulsion from school. Nothing compares to getting sweaty in front of Dick Grayson. 

“Don’t worry so much,” says Dick. His face is brimming over with kindness. He has dimples, Jason notices. Of course he has dimples. Non-sweaty ones, even. “Why are you so nervous?”

“I was worried you wouldn’t like me,” Jason admits in a low voice. “Also, I was worried I would get sweaty and act awkward. Which happened. So don’t try to tell me I’m being irrational here.”

Dick laughs. It’s just about the only sound that could inspire hope in Jason right now. “Why are you worried I wouldn’t like you when we literally worked together for two months? Did you think I hated you that whole time, or something?”

“No no no,” Jason is quick to assure him. That’s the last thing he wants Dick to think. “But like. We were getting paid to hang out together back then, so it’s not like you had a choice. But now you’re here by choice. So what if you looked at me and were like, ‘Wow, this guy is so much sweatier than I remember. I should definitely leave now.’ There’d be nothing stopping you.”

“Yeah, actually, why are you so sweaty? Are you hot or something? I promise not to leave,” Dick adds quickly.

“Not hot,” Jason mutters. “Just socially awkward. Nervous about talking to you.”

Dick’s face goes soft. Jason’s heart gives a sharp pound.

“That’s really sweet,” Dick says. Jason waits for the “but,” and it never comes. He sags a little in relief when Dick continues, “The same thing happened to me the other day.”

“Really?” Jason leans forward. The idea of Dick Grayson being nervous is almost inconceivable.

“It was a job interview from hell,” Dick explains grimly. “I swear to you, I am literally and figuratively scarred.”

“Where was it?”

Dick shudders. “The hardware store,” he says.

He begins the story, and as Jason listens, he is finally able to relax. He’s not sure why this outing had inspired so much anxiety–his only theory is that it’s because this lunch date represents a turning point. Either Dick will have fun and want to do this again, or he won’t. Either way, it’s uncharted territory for Jason.

It feels like their relationship is entering a new stage: from coworkers, to friendly coworkers, to just friends. It’s impossible for Jason to deny that he might like to be more one day--he aches with the desire. For now, though, he’ll take whatever he can get. Friendship with Dick is beautiful in its own right: the banter, the stories, the nicknames and the kindness and the casual friendly touches. Even if this is all Dick ever gives him, Jason will be unendingly grateful.

By the time they part ways, Jason is significantly less sweaty and mostly convinced that his sexy half-smile attempt did not, in fact, look like the warning sign of a major medical crisis. Dick gives him a side-hug and says they should do this again. The turning point has been reached and successfully navigated–-the land of friendship has been breached. 

*

And then the weeks go by and things stay blissfully the same. Jason gets an entry-level position at Wayne Enterprises–-not because he’s Bruce Wayne's son, but because he went through the process and got interviewed and the hiring committee liked him. Bruce is proud of him again, and that’s more valuable than any of his paychecks.

He hangs out with Dick once or twice a week. Each outing is more fun than the last. Sometimes they go to the park, which Jason is pretty sure is the only part of Gotham where you can see more than one actual tree at once. Other times they browse shops or take walks or go on drives in Jason’s car. It’s normal friend stuff, except it’s with Dick, which makes it ten times better.

Jason’s nineteenth birthday passes over the summer. They don’t go too crazy with the celebration, but Alfred bakes a cake and Damian gives him a painting and Bruce takes him out for some “father-son bonding” (AKA a fishing trip). Nothing much changes, but Jason feels the difference–it feels like he really has made the transition from immature kid to stably-employed adult. 

It feels a little backwards, but the day after his birthday, Jason writes a card to Dick. He tries to keep it short:

When I was at my lowest after I got kicked out of school, you helped me grow. When the shop closed down and I spent weeks feeling sorry for myself, hanging out with you helped snap me out of it. And when I was disgustingly sweaty and atrociously awkward, you didn’t leave. Thank you for being you.

Jason of six months ago would have died on the spot before even considering penning such an emotionally vulnerable letter. Jason of the present day barely even trembles as he hands it to Dick.

*

“Tell me about all the jobs begging to hire you,” Jason says. He and Dick are sitting outside Ike’s again, just like the first time they hung out. Dick doesn’t get anything to eat, but lately, that’s been the norm. At first, Jason brushed it off. Now, he’s kind of worried. He thinks his friend is going through a rough time. But that’s understandable–-he’s just lost the job he had since he was sixteen, and the search for a new one has been long and fruitless. That sounds like enough to diminish an appetite.

At least, that’s how Jason tries to justify it. He’s not quite successful in convincing himself that everything’s fine, but he’s not sure what else to do.

“Oh yeah,” Dick says. “NASA actually called me back. They want me to be an astronaut. Also, my interview with the FBI went well. They hired me on the spot. I told them I’d accept the offer if I don’t win the presidential election, so we’ll see.”

Jason grimaces. “Yikes,” he says.

Dick shrugs. “I kind of expected this. No degree, no GED, no…” he trails off. Jason wonders what the third thing was going to be, but doesn’t dare ask. “Finding a job is always hard, I guess.”

“You should apply at Wayne Enterprises,” Jason urges. “Bruce could pull some strings.”

“I don’t want a job someone had to ‘pull strings’ to give me,” Dick says. “Plus. I’d hate an office job.”

“True,” Jason concedes. His heart aches. If any of these places knew what an incredible employee Dick was, they’d be begging him to apply. But there are never enough jobs in Gotham. Not even for good people like Dick. Bad things happen to good people-–here is undeniable proof.

*

“Shit,” Jason says. His car won’t start. He’d left the headlights on, and the battery is drained.

He gets out of the car, where Dick is luckily still waiting outside. They’d been hanging out at the library, which Jason would have once considered lame but now finds surprisingly relaxing. “Do you have jumper cables in your car?” Jason asks.

“I don’t think so, why?”

Jason leads Dick back over to his car and places his hands on his hips, staring at it sternly as if a reprimand might fix the problem. “I left the headlights on,” he says, grimacing. “Drained the battery.”

“Shit,” Dick says. 

Jason agrees with a resigned nod. He’s doing his best to be optimistic about the inconvenient situation. What he actually wants to do is throw things, but he’ll hold it together for now. “I know we have the cables at home.”

Jason glances over to Dick, but he is silent, performing the closest thing to a full-on brood that Dick has ever done. His brows are furrowed and he is frowning.

Jason is quiet, too. He glances from Dick, to his car, and back again, trying make his stare as covert as possible. 

“I can take you to get the cables,” Dick finally offers in a slow, reluctant voice.

Jason sighs in relief. “Thanks,” he says.

But something seems wrong. Dick’s expression is tense and unhappy-looking, and the set of his shoulders is resigned as he leads Jason across the parking lot to his car.

Jason has actually never been in Dick’s car before. When they hang out together, they always take his own. When he sees the outside of the car, he thinks he understands-–it looks pretty beat up. Maybe Dick is worried Jason will judge him for having a shitty car. 

“Um,” says Dick before unlocking the car doors. “It’s a little messy. Feel free to, uh. Move things, if you need.”

“No worries,” Jason says. He’s sure his own car is worse, mess-wise. He’s incapable of throwing trash away, and the backseat is covered in a collection of hoodies, shoes, and plastic bags. 

Dick unlocks the car. Jason opens the passenger side door. At first glance, he knows that he was egregiously incorrect to think that his own car was messier. The inside of Dick’s car looks like it was hit by a tornado. There are clothes folded on one of the backseats, and the other is occupied by other belongings: old laptop, a tangle of chargers and earbuds and extension cords, two boxes of cereal and one pair of shoes. There’s a blanket bunched up in the corner. 

Jason moves aside a few grocery bags in order to make room to sit. “Jesus, man,” he says, impressed by the scope of the mess. “You don’t need to take your entire house with you wherever you go, you know.”

“What can I say,” Dick says. He’s grinning, but it’s stiff. “I like to be prepared.”

Jason laughs and buckles in, but something feels horribly wrong, and he can’t put his finger on it. 

The drive to the manor is quick. Jason dashes in to grab the cables and explain to Bruce what happened. He’s back out to Dick’s car in less than three minutes. Dick is staring, awestruck, at the manor. 

“This place is huge,” he says. “What do you even keep in that many rooms?”

“Antiques, mostly,” Jason says with a shrug. “Old furniture. It’s kind of boring.”

“Imagine living somewhere like this,” Dick murmurs. "Doesn't sound boring at all."

They’re halfway back to Jason’s car when all of a sudden a horrible realization strikes Jason like lightning, and everything makes terrible, perfect sense. The state of Dick's car. The skipped meals. The fact that Jason has never been to Dick's place.

The sinking feeling in Jason's stomach opens up into a pit. He feels a little sick.

“Dick,” he says after a minute of unbearable quiet. “Are you living in your car?”

There is a moment of grim silence. Dick refuses to look at Jason. Never before has Jason seen him so... unconfident. Not even when the shop was closing, or when Slade was mad at him, or when they smoked together. Not ever. 

“It’s temporary,” Dick says eventually. “Until I get a job.”

“Dick,” says Jason. He is quietly appalled.

“It’s fine,” Dick snaps. “You don’t need to worry about it.”

They arrive back in the library’s parking lot, and Dick parks right next to Jason’s car. Jason is still dumbfounded. Sickened. Numb with disbelief. 

They jumpstart Jason’s car quickly and easily. Jason keeps trying to speak, but Dick’s unhappy glares and Jason’s own loss of words make it impossible. He has no idea what to say.

“Come stay at the manor,” Jason offers. He tries to say it casually–-just a friend inviting another friend to stay over. He doesn’t want Dick to take offense. 

But he’s already shaking his head no. “I can’t take advantage of you like that,” Dick says.

“It’s not. We have the room. You saw the place.”

“I can’t,” Dick repeats. 

“Please,” Jason urges. He can’t let his best friend sleep in his car. He can’t let this happen to the person he loves with all his heart. To someone as incredible as Dick. Terrible things happen to wonderful people. Jason can’t understand why the world is so cruel and disgusting and cold.

Dick shakes his head mutely. 

“Then at least come have dinner with us,” Jason pleads. He has to do something to help. He can’t just leave him like this.

Dick still looks doubtful, but something sparks in his eyes when Jason suggests dinner. He wonders briefly what Dick has been eating lately. He wonders how bad things really are.

Jason presses on. “We’re friends. Friends have dinner together all the time. It doesn’t have anything to do with… this.”

Dick is quiet. He bites his lip and looks horribly sad, and in this moment, Jason would do literally anything for him. He wants to do anything for him. He wants to make up for all the injustices the world has dealt to Dick.

“Fine,” Dick eventually says. “Just this once.”

*

At dinner, Dick is the perfect houseguest. He’s polite and friendly and gushes on and on about how fantastic Alfred’s cooking is. Damian looks starstruck to have Dick at the table with them, and it’s clear that Bruce is quickly impressed by his superb manners.

After dinner, Damian leads Dick to the sitting room and begins to show off his most recent paintings. Jason is suddenly infinitely thankful for his younger brother. Maybe Jason isn't the only one who's grown up a little lately.

While they’re occupied, Jason pulls Bruce aside and sums up the situation. Bruce is not always the best father, and not always the best friend, but there are two things he excels at: helping others and taking in kids who need a home. He has a big heart. The only problem is that he doesn't always know how to express it.

“Why did he never tell me?” Jason is heavy with guilt. How long has this been going on? Weeks? Months? And Jason had never noticed–-he’d never suspected a thing. He feels like the worst friend in the universe. Dick deserves so, so much better. Not just in terms of friends-–in terms of life in general.

“He probably didn’t want you to worry,” Bruce says. His voice is tired and sad. His expression says he’s seen this before, too many times. It’s Gotham. Of course he’s seen this before-–they all have.

But poverty is different when it’s seen up close and personal. As an abstract concept, Jason can deal with it–-he experienced it himself growing up, although never to the extent that his family lost their home.

He donates to the canned food drives. He gives money to charity every now and then. He feels proud of having done his part. But he's lived more than half his life as the son of a member of the one percent. It’s painfully clear how little "his part" actually does in a system that’s designed to push people down and keep them there at rock bottom.

“But I just want to help him,” Jason whispers.

“We will,” Bruce says. “I promise you.”

Chapter Text

There is a certain devastation that comes with the loss of innocence, and every time Jason thinks he’s run fresh out of innocence to lose, he is proven bitterly wrong. 

Dick Grayson living in a small, dirty sedan feels incongruous. It would be like if Jason tried to live in a school, or if Bruce tried to live in—God forbid—a normal-sized house. Something about it just doesn’t match. Like if you tried to jam a puzzle piece into the wrong puzzle.

Jason remembers when he was really little and he wanted to be a police officer. Then he was a firsthand witness to police brutality, and the dream died along with most of his faith in adults.

He remembers later on, being in fifth grade and telling his teacher he was going to be the president one day. Half the other boys in the class had said the same thing, and all the girls had kept their mouths shut. Like even at ten years old they knew why that particular dream would be unrealistic for them. Jason started to understand, in the crude way that little kids understand big things, how the system was broken. He started to see the way he and millions of other kids lived in poverty in a country that was supposed to be rich. 

Jason stopped wanting to be the president when he was ten. How was he gonna afford the plane tickets to Washington DC?

After his mom died, Jason thought he’d never believe in the world again. A billionaire’s kindness had helped. A cool job with cool people had done its part, too. He’d become complacent. He’d become spoiled. 

Now everything is crashing down around him again. Jason feels like the world is smacking him in the face once again. Living in a billionaire’s house for years had taken the horrors of poverty and made them into an unpleasant, fuzzy memory that he tries his hardest not to visit. Now it’s new again and freshly gruesome, like ripping off an almost-healed scab.

Jason and Dick keep texting, but Dick grows distant, and Jason can’t understand why. They’re best friends—Jason considers them best friends, at least. Jason would never shame Dick for his situation. He only wants to help. He wants it so desperately he can’t sleep some nights. Just lies awake for hours and hours, cooking up ridiculous plans that all end with Dick in a mansion of his own with a job designed perfectly for him.

It’s a week before Dick agrees to come to dinner again at the manor. He keeps insisting that he can’t take advantage of Jason’s kindness, and Jason keeps insisting that’s bullshit. What kind of person would he be if he had billions at his disposal and refused to offer them to his friend in a moment of need? He’d practically be Jeff Bezos. And the Wayne family does not subscribe to Amazon Prime. 

If Jason didn’t invite Dick over, Damian or Alfred would. And he’d probably have a much harder time saying no to them than Jason. 

One day they finally convince him, and Dick shows up at six o’clock sharp. Jason opens the door and tries not to let his heart explode, tries to keep these horrible, overwhelming feelings locked inside his too-tight rib cage despite how desperately it all wants to spill out. His chest feels too small for the feelings it contains. He feels like his heart is cracking open and letting everything leak through. 

Still, Dick looks so awkward and nervous and uncharacteristically unsure that Jason can’t stop himself from opening his arms up wide, and Dick relaxes into the hug like he hasn’t had one in weeks. 

After that, everything feels easier. Damian bursts into the hallway to drag Dick by the hand into the dining room, where there is already a place set for him. Jason marvels at how natural it seems.

There’s a big fancy dining room for when the Waynes have company, with a swimming pool-sized rectangular table and about a trillion chairs. It gets used once or twice a month, when Bruce has fancy business meetings or mini-galas. Then, there’s the smaller room the Wayne family uses for family dinners, with a circular table and room for five chairs. Usually there are only four of them, so they spread out around the table with huge empty spaces between them. Now, with that fifth chair pushed in, they are all closer together. Jason can pass the salt to the person next to him without needing to perform a stretching routine first to avoid injury. 

It’s weird. It’s weirdly nice.

Conversation is much more animated, too. Damian grills Dick about every topic imaginable, from animals to artwork to coffee and beyond. Dick responds in turn like it’s the most engaging conversation he’s ever had. Dick compliments Alfred’s food so frequently that any leftover insecurity from Jason’s outburst that one time must be fully healed, and Alfred takes it in stride by serving Dick so many helpings that Jason is surprised there’s any left for the rest of them. Dick eats it all. His cheekbones are so stark and through his thin T-shirt, Jason can see the first few bumps of his spine. He eats Alfred’s dinner like he’s never tasted anything better. Jason makes a note to give him all the leftovers. 

Bruce asks all the typical Dad questions, like what Dick wants to study, and what are his favorite sports teams, and how long have he and Jason been friends, and has he watched the game? Dick has not watched the game. So when dinner is done, Bruce drags him off to the TV room, and Jason follows like a wide-eyed duckling. 

They watch the game. Dick sits between Jason and Bruce like the guest of honor. Bruce points out players and groans when the other team scores like a professional sports announcer. Dick nods along like he’s never cared about anything more in his life. But when Bruce is distracted, he turns to Jason and smiles like they’re sharing something secret. Jason rolls his eyes and grimaces back sympathetically. Bruce is insane when it comes to the Gotham Knights. He turns into a typical suburban sports-dad. 

Dick meets Jason’s eye-rolls with a happy little grin that makes his eyes squint up. And everything about it feels so perfect. Dick is here in the manor and he fits in like a missing puzzle piece. He compliments Alfred’s cooking and humors Damian and watches sports with Bruce. He shares Jason’s secret smiles. He’s like a part of the family. And it’s insane because, although Jason loves him more than he’d ever thought he knew how to love someone, Dick has only known Bruce and Alfred for a week or two. But they click together like kindred spirits. Like in another life, they really were a family. 

By the time the game is over, the sun has set. Bruce has slipped Dick a couple of beers when Alfred wasn’t looking, because drinking beer while watching The Game is just proper Game-watching etiquette. And beer is also how Bruce shows love when money and words won’t get the job done. It’s only happened a couple times, but Jason has never felt more honored than when Bruce takes him up to his office and they sip beers and have Adult Conversations. It’s how Bruce opens up. It’s how he shows approval.

Or maybe there’s an ulterior motive. Because when Dick stands to say his final thanks and goodbyes, Bruce fixes him with a stern, almost fatherly glare.

“I sure hope you’re not thinking of driving right now,” he says with a pointed glance to the bottle in Dick’s hand.

“Uh,” says Dick. He glances at Jason for help, and Jason’s heart goes all light and fluttery when he realizes what’s happening. Did Bruce really… is he trying to make Dick stay? Nervous excitement begins to bubble up in Jason’s stomach. Again, it’s almost impossible to keep in. 

Bruce is not always the best father, and he’s not always the best friend. But he’s incredible at helping people in need. He’d taken in Jason when he’d had no one else. He’d given a home to Damian when his mother dumped him on their doorstep. Maybe he’s trying to do the same for Dick.

Jason offers Dick a shrug. Dick turns back to Bruce, helpless.

“I guess I can wait a little longer,” Dick agrees. He retakes his seat on the couch, and this time he’s so close to Jason that their shoulders touch. Jason shivers. 

Bruce checks his watch, although Jason has no doubt that he already knows exactly what time it is. “Just stay over,” Bruce offers like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like there’s no other rational solution.

“I can’t do that,” Dick says instantly. “You’ve already been so kind. I can’t overstay my welcome.”

“You’re always welcome,” Jason cuts in. 

Bruce nods. 

“We have about a thousand guest rooms,” Jason continues. “And Damian would love it if you stayed.”

“He would?” asks Dick faintly, looking uncertain.

“He’s practically ready to adopt you as his new dad,” Jason says. Bruce raises an eyebrow pointedly, but he doesn’t look jealous. Just fond. Just proud. “He’s already gone to bed. Imagine his devastation if he woke up and found you gone.”

“I’m not sure,” Dick says. His expression is hesitant, uncharacteristically nervous, but behind that, Jason can see hope glimmering in his eyes. He keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. 

And Jason loves him so much that it hurts. Wants to help him so badly that his own well-being depends on it. He wants to give Dick everything he owns.

For a moment, Jason can’t speak either. Everything in his head and chest is new and inexpressible.

Then Bruce makes eye contact with Jason from behind Dick’s back. Jason returns his gaze with determination. He tilts his head a little towards the door, and Bruce takes the hint to step out of the room. 

Once Bruce is gone, Jason reaches out to take both of Dick’s hands. Dick stares at him with wide eyes, hope and hesitation playing out a battle behind his gaze. Like he really wants to say yes but feels like he can’t. Like maybe he wants a little bit of what Jason wants, too. 

Jason has been there so many times—nothing hurts more than wanting something desperately and knowing it’s out of reach. Wanting the shop to reopen. Wanting to be with Dick. Wanting to kiss him.

But here is something that isn’t out of reach at all. Jason just has to convince Dick. He deserves friends who are there for him. A place to stay. Jason thinks he deserves the whole world. 

Jason squeezes Dick’s hands. He takes a deep breath. His heart is pounding like a drum, like it wants to escape. Like it’s drawn to Dick through his chest like a magnet, like a bird instinctively knowing where home is even when it's miles away. 

“I really want you to stay with us. Not because we feel bad, or because you’re some charity case. Because you’re my best friend. Friends stay with each other all the time, right?”

Dick swallows and Jason can see the way his throat moves. Not for the first time, he wants to kiss it. He wants to take Dick to his own room, thousands of guest bedrooms be damned. He wants to hold him until all of that anxiety dissolves. He wants Dick to stay in the manor with him forever. 

“One night,” says Dick.

“As long as you need,” Jason counters. 

“One,” Dick repeats.

For now, it’s enough. Jason leans closer, never letting go of their clasped hands, but Dick is the one who initiates the hug this time. It’s not exactly what Jason wants—he wants to kiss Dick until all of his objections are forgotten and all of his worries have gone away. But a hug is enough, too. Dick must not get enough of them these days, and neither does Jason.

*

When Jason comes down for breakfast the next morning, he’s already fully dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Usually he doesn’t get dressed and ready until later, but he can’t risk an encounter with Dick in his pajamas lest he perish from acute mortification. 

He also slips on his little wing hoodie. Just because it’s comfortable. That’s the only reason.

He finds Bruce reading his newspaper over a cup of coffee and Damian feeding Alfred the Cat something that looks much fancier than normal cat food. Dick is nowhere to be seen. Jason is worried until he hears voices coming from the kitchen.

He finds Alfred standing over the sink, hand-washing dishes, and Dick by the drying rack with a towel in hand. 

“Good morning, Master Jason,” says Alfred. “There’s breakfast for you on the table.”

“Thanks,” says Jason absentmindedly. He’s too distracted by Dick, who turns around to smile at Jason with those perfect white teeth and and cute dimples and happy squinty eyes. Jason’s mouth is suddenly so dry that he feels like he needs to drink his eight cups of water per day right now, all in one go. 

His heart is aching like he’s been hit in the chest. Like how a wound gets inflamed before it fully heals, and that’s the most painful part of the process. The truth is that if Dick ever stepped out of Jason’s life, he’s not sure the hole left behind would ever heal. Jason can’t think of a single thing he wouldn’t do if Dick asked him to.

Maybe this is how love works, now that Jason is old enough to understand it. Maybe it always has to hurt like a phantom limb, like something that should be tangible but isn’t. Jason would never give it up. It’s as much a part of him as his heart and mind and lungs. 

“Help me dry?” asks Dick. 

Jason has never been so enthusiastic about doing dishes in his entire life. 

*

“I should go,” Dick says when the dishes are done. “Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

Bruce shrugs from behind his newspaper. “It’s still early,” he says. “No need to leave so soon.”

“You cannot abandon us yet, Richard,” Damian chimes in, sounding absolutely offended by the idea.

“I’m not abandoning you, Li’l D,” protests Dick. Jason makes a valiant attempt to not be jealous. Does Dick just make up nicknames for everyone, then? Is ‘little wing’ not special?

Not that Jason likes to be called little wing. It’s about the principle.

“Titus requires a walk,” Damian declares.

“Then walk him?” Jason advises with a nasty sarcastic glare.

“I have to go to school. Richard needs to walk him.”

“What?” says Jason. “Dick hasn’t even met Titus, how’s he gonna walk him?”

“Father can’t do it because he’s busy. Pennyworth is above such a juvenile task, as he has much more important work to do. You could walk him, Todd, but to be completely honest, I don’t trust you with his welfare. So Richard needs to walk Titus, and you, Todd, need to go with him so he doesn’t get lost.”

“Um,” says Dick, sounding vaguely bewildered. He makes eye contact with Jason, who can offer only a helpless shrug. “I guess I can do that?”

“Splendid,” says Damian. He sounds satisfied, like his evil plan has all come perfectly together. A prim and proper little villain, all of four feet tall and ten years old.

Jason, still confused about what exactly has just transpired, can do nothing but agree. As he leads Dick out the door, Titus straining on his leash like he hasn’t been walked in a hundred years, Damian gives him a smug little smirk and an eyebrow wiggle. He mouths, you’re welcome.

Jason’s entire face goes red. He’s going to take Titus’ leash and strangle Damian with it.

After the walk, of course. Dog needs a walk. Can’t neglect Titus. That’s why Jason is excited. 

“You won’t be gone when I get back from school?” asks Damian as they’re about to step out the door. His eyes are wide and his expression is achingly earnest. He looks like an honest-to-god ten-year-old. It’s insane how Dick brings that out in him.

“Maybe,” says Dick uncomfortably. “I can’t stay too long…”

“Why not?” demands Damian. 

“Well. I have things to do, you know. Not that I don’t love hanging out with you,” he adds quickly when Damian’s lip begins to tremble dangerously.

“But…” says Damian. “But…” He seems to be lost for all other words.

Dick’s face softens and he leans down to Damian’s level. “Come here,” he murmurs, opening his arms. Damian dives into the hug like they’re going out of style. He holds onto Dick like he might otherwise disappear.

“If your brother says it’s okay, I’ll visit more. Okay?” 

“It’s okay,” Jason quickly interjects. 

“There you go,” agrees Dick. It’s a long time before Damian relinquishes him from the octopus hug, and Dick kisses him on the forehead before straightening up. Goddamnit. Of all the things Jason could be jealous of, a ten-year-old’s forehead is not usually on the list. Go fucking figure. 

*

When they finally make it outside for Titus’ walk, it’s an annoyingly beautiful day on the manor’s grounds. The sun isn’t up too high yet, and Gotham’s early morning cloud cover has only dissolved halfway. It’s chilly in the best way. The brisk air nips at Jason’s nose and cheeks and turns them pink. The breeze is sharp and refreshing.

And Dick looks so pretty in the chill. His nose and ears and fingertips are all brushed pink by the breeze, and his hair is all soft and windswept and beautiful where it falls in curls over his forehead. He curls his windbreaker around himself tightly to keep the warmth in, and Jason wants to hold him close so badly. 

Titus sprints ahead of them with the power of a little rocketship, and Dick, holding onto his leash with both hands, is forced to jog to catch up. Jason follows, and it’s weird because he hates running, but a smile comes over his face that he can’t force back. If this is a preview of the rest of Jason’s life, then he’s the luckiest person in Gotham. Because this is fun, this is carefree, this is another one of those surreal moments Jason never thought he’d see, like picking out paint chips or smoking pot or watching the game with Dick. It’s addictive. When Dick leaves, Jason will have the worst withdrawal of his life. 

When Titus finally slows down, they’ve reached the edge of the grass. This area still belongs to the Waynes, but it’s overgrown and a little bit wild like real, actual nature—so precious and rare in Gotham. There are trees and bushes and even a creek, where little animals like squirrels and rabbits like to hang out.

Titus takes his time sniffing each and every bush like he’s suspicious of the shrubbery, and Dick and Jason are finally able to catch their breath. Dick is red all over and grinning like crazy. Jason is sweaty and this time he can’t even bring himself to feel insecure about it. He’s smiling like a lunatic. He must look insane.

Framed by all the nature, by the drooping green tree leaves and rustling bushes and patches of skylight in the background, no one has ever looked more beautiful than Dick. Jason wants to kiss him so badly he can’t even think about anything else. He’s got this fantasy of how it would feel and he’s revisited it so many times it almost feels like a memory. He’s never wanted anyone like he wants Dick. It’s all new and incredible and freshly breathtaking each time the thought of it pops into his mind. 

Jason does not kiss him. Unfortunately, he is in fact a pussy. 

But the morning doesn’t need a fairytale kiss to be perfect. Titus finds a muddy tennis ball somewhere in the grass, and they take turns throwing it for him. Titus is actually kind of stupid, and more often than not, he returns with an empty jaw and sad eyes. Jason and Dick have to go searching for the ball themselves most of the time. They end up covered in mud and dead leaves and all sorts of gross nature. 

Living in Gotham for so long, Jason has never had a real appreciation for outdoors. Outdoors means cold winds and scary people. Today it’s starting to mean something different. 

“You have a twig in your hair,” says Dick.

“Fuck,” says Jason. He scrubs his fingers through his hair to try to comb it out, but all he succeeds in doing is ruining his hair even further. He probably looks stupid. Rest in peace, fantasies of hot gay nature photoshoots. 

Dick laughs. “Let me get it,” he says. He leans in so close, Jason can feel his warm breath. It’s such a stark contrast to the cool wind that it flushes his cheeks even darker. He flicks the stick away, and then with gentle, steady fingers, he fixes Jason’s hair. Jason has no idea what to do except stay perfectly still. He thinks he might spontaneously combust. He might melt into a puddle. 

Eventually Titus gets sick of fetch, and he lays down in a patch of grass to rest and happily pant. Dick sits down next to him, criss-cross-applesauce in the grass. He pats the spot next to him, and heedless of the dirt, Jason takes a seat. 

For a moment, they’re quiet. The bubbling of the creek is a relaxing background music. Closer up, there is the rustle of leaves and Titus’s pants. They’re still in Gotham, technically, but it doesn’t feel like it. The cruel, grimy city couldn’t be farther away.

Dick breaks the spell first. “Thank you for everything,” he murmurs. “I don’t know where I’d be without you lately. Everything’s been so hard since the shop closed. It’s the only real job I’ve ever had.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Jason replies even as the little kid in him preens. “What kind of horrible person would I be if I had all this money, all this… this giant house… and I didn’t want to share with you?”

“Sharing isn’t the rule,” Dick says. “It’s the exception. You think Gotham would be so shitty if more people were like you?”

“I’m not special,” Jason says, suddenly uncomfortable. He shifts around, unable to meet Dick’s eyes. Instead he stares at the grass beneath him. “I just… you’re my best friend. Of course I want to share with you.”

For a long time, Dick doesn’t say a word. Jason, meanwhile, is full to bursting with his own unsaid thoughts. He’s never realized how hard it is not to say I love you when it’s the only thing he can think. It almost bursts out every time he opens his mouth. He loves the way Dick is effortlessly kind to Damian, the way he is endlessly hardworking, the way he’s so stubbornly independent. The way he is gorgeous when the sunlight hits him through the trees. The way his heart is even more beautiful than his outside. 

Jason can’t say it. He’s terrified to ruin their friendship. He’s so grown up now in some ways, with his adult job and emotional maturity and newly-controlled temper, but in other ways, he’s just a little kid, and he’s too scared to express how he really feels. 

“You have such a good heart,” Dick says.

Jason’s insides go squirmy. It’s exactly what Alfred had told him a couple weeks ago, and every time Jason hears it, he wants to wiggle away. It feels like he’s being X-rayed, like he’s all spread out on an autopsy table and the doctors are pulling him apart to see what’s inside. Dick knows exactly how to pull him apart without even trying. 

“I feel like I’m holding you back,” Dick says eventually. His voice is hushed like the breeze around them. “You’re so smart and kind, and you have this new job, and I’m just your stupid homeless friend mooching off your family. I never even went to school. You still could, and—”

“Just shut up,” Jason cuts in. Dick’s mouth snaps shut in an instant. His expression is vulnerable and raw in a way Jason’s never seen him before, and Jason hates it, wants to piece him back together and hide him from the world. “You are not—none of that shit is important to me. Screw school. You don’t need any of that shit to have a successful life.”

“Well, it helps,” Dick grumbles.

“I’ll help,” Jason snaps, waving his hands around in emphasis. “I want to help you! That’s what I’ve been trying to say! You’re just—you’re so incredible. I don’t even think you realize the effect you have on other people. Damian turns into an actual kid around you. He’s never like that. Ever. And you made Bruce go all dad-mode with the sports and the beer. And Alfred is feeding you like you’re his fucking grandson. Everyone loves you. You’re so—so fucking genuine and kind, and accepting. And so what if life dealt you a shitty hand. That’s what you have friends for. So even though I love how fucking independent you are—this one time, this one time you can fucking shove it and just accept help that I am willingly offering. Okay?”

Jason is left breathing hard in the aftermath of his outburst, and almost instantly, shame floods in. He shouldn’t have been so brash, shouldn’t have been so forceful, shouldn’t have let himself explode again. He’s been working on this.

But Dick is looking at him as if with new eyes, shocked speechless. It’s like he’s never seen Jason in this light before. It’s like he’s having some sort of realization.

And Jason has to seal the deal. He has to make sure Dick can’t squirm away again, has to make sure that everything he’s been trying to build can’t come crashing down. 

He holds out his hand. “We’re gonna do this together, okay? I got your back.”

The moment stretches as thin as a guitar string, as tight as a bow and arrow, as tense as a coiled rope. Dick’s eyes are so wide and vulnerable, and it’s like looking through an open window into his heart.

He reaches out to shake Jason’s hand tightly, like he’s afraid they’ll be pulled apart. Then he tugs, and Jason is yanked into a hug. Dick is so warm against him, and so precious. His arms go taut around Jason as if to prevent him from escaping. But Jason hugs back just as tightly, just as strong, and he knows that this moment is a promise he will never break.

*

Damian is delighted when he comes home from school to find Dick still present. He unzips his backpack to show off all his projects from the day, and Dick looks through them with the appropriate reverence. Bruce makes him watch more sports that evening after dinner, and it barely takes any convincing to get him to stay another night.

*

The next day, Jason has work. He’s not happy to have to leave Dick, but he’s confident that he’s in good hands with Alfred, who Dick has enjoyed helping out in the kitchen.

Jason’s job at Wayne Enterprises is actually mega-boring. It’s the entriest entry-level position that has ever entried, and so he doesn’t have a lot to do but answer emails and forward emails and take and make calls and then write some more emails. He makes a lot of coffee runs for his coworkers. He waters the plants around the office. He takes out the trash sometimes when it starts to overflow.

Today, though, he has something more important in mind. 

It technically doesn’t have anything to do with Jason’s actual job, so he schedules the appointment for after his shift ends. He waits outside the door until the exact minute, and then knocks. 

“Come in.”

Jason steps into Bruce’s office and shuts the door behind him.

Bruce sighs fondly. “You didn’t need to make an appointment,” he says. “You’re my son, you can talk to me any time.”

“I wanted to be professional,” Jason says. It had actually been kind of fun to schedule a real appointment like a real adult. He thinks he should schedule more appointments, just for the hell of it. 

“Well, sit down,” Bruce says. He gestures to the chair on the other side of his desk. It’s an ergonomic office chair made of fancy black leather. It includes back support and a headrest. It is the single fanciest office chair Jason has ever sat in. 

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Jason says. He’d thought out his sales pitch a hundred thousand times, but now he feels the words slipping away from him like sand in a sieve. His palms are sweaty and his mouth is dry. He can hardly remember being so nervous in his life. But his nerves are matched only by how desperately he wants this.

“Go for it,” Bruce says, nodding. “I’m all ears.”

“Well. I know you have a college fund stashed away for me.”

Bruce’s face lights up. “You want to go to college?”

“No,” Jason interjects before poor Bruce can get too excited. “No, oh my god, how many times do I have to say that?”

“Sorry, sorry,” says Bruce. “Got a little ahead of myself. Carry on, please.”

Jason takes a deep breath and tries to recompose himself. “Okay. How much is in the fund?”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Let’s see,” he says. On his computer, he pulls up a bank account, and then he turns the screen to show Jason.

Jason’s heart leaps in his chest. That is… a lot more than your average everyday college fund. Which makes sense. Billionaire dad, and all. Still, the news is exciting, and Jason feels ready to buzz out of his seat. 

“I know your policy,” Jason says. “You’ll let me skip school if I make something else of my life instead.”

Bruce nods slowly. “Yes.”

“So I have an idea for what else I could do with this money.”

Bruce tilts his head and purses his lips doubtfully. “I don’t know…” 

“Hear me out before you say no,” Jason emphasizes. His heart is like a racehorse. His voice is shaky from the nerves that crawl up his throat. He needs this to work. He needs this to work. “If this turns out to be a bad idea and I want to go to college later, well, it’s not like you’ll be scraping around to make ends meet. But this is what I want right now. This is money you’ve set aside for me, and I want to use it to improve Gotham. And do something I love in the process.”

“Okay,” Bruce sighs, “I’m willing to listen.”

Jason explains.

*

Old Gotham is as sad a place as ever. The remaining restaurants and cafes all look a little suspicious, like you might get a mugging as well as a sandwich or drink. The streets are full of litter and there is not a free parking space in sight.

But there’s a sense of community, too, that arises through the misery to hold people together. All the businesses support each other. When the restaurant runs out of napkins, they buy them at the local market and not the chain grocery store. When someone outside looks like they haven’t eaten in a while, the people at the deli make them a sandwich. Everyone knows everyone’s gossip and everyone’s willing to help in a pinch. 

Jason used to think it was the worst place to have a shop. There was the palpable aura of despair. The dirty streets and tacky shopfronts. 

He misses it. 

On the west side of the street, there is one little shop with nothing inside. The doors are long locked, the lights are all out, and dust has been left to collect in the cracks. 

There’s a big black sign in the window: CONDEMNED FOR CODE VIOLATIONS. 

On top of that sign is a brand new one in bright, optimistic red. White, all-caps letters spell out one word: 

SOLD.

Chapter Text

In the weeks that follow Jason’s purchase, he does a lot of things and has not a free moment to spare. He spends a lot of time in Old Gotham. He meets a lot of professionals and shakes a lot of people’s hands. He makes an unprecedented number of phone calls and sends more emails than he’s ever sent in his life. That’s challenging—he’s always struggled with emails. How formal should he be? Does he go for the polite Regards, Jason or the classic With all my love? Should he refer to himself as Jason or Mr. Jason Peter Todd-Wayne The First?

He figures the general contractor doesn’t need all his love. Kind of just all his money. But that’s fine too—Jason has heard the estimates. He’s run the numbers. Nothing will dissuade him from his mission. 

For once in his life, Jason has a purpose. He has an objective. He has his very own mission impossible. The project is a goal that he’s pursuing not because he’s expected to, or because some parental figure or the other has decreed that he should—Jason is doing it because he wants to, all on his own.

It’s weirdly fulfilling. Even the challenging parts. The project is a never-ending racetrack full of twists, turns, unexpected hurdles, and treacherous potholes. Because apparently, one cannot simply buy a property and open a shop. Not even close. There are permits to acquire and people to hire and inspections to pass. Especially when the property in question has been condemned for safety violations.

 His favorite challenge—and the most difficult one—is keeping it all secret from Dick. 

It’s almost as hard as keeping himself from saying I love you— the words want to burst out every time Jason opens his mouth. It’s like trying to keep a really great birthday present secret until the person’s actual birthday. It’s exhilarating. It’s almost impossible. 

It’s frustrating! Why can’t he just say it already? A part of him longs to.

But Jason has a lot of work to do before he’ll be ready. 

*

Gotham’s city officials, Jason decides as he languishes in misery during another hour-long phone call, are the biggest Karens in the universe. 

“When we say condemned for code violations,” says the head of the Gotham Department of Building Safety in a slow voice of utmost disinterest, “we mean… condemned for code violations.”

“I actually got that,” Jason says slowly. “That’s wild.”

Sure, this is Gotham. He should have expected a sluggish, painful, excruciatingly annoying process. But the wonders of this city never cease. Calling this woman annoying would be the nicest thing he could say about her. And he’s thinking of a lot of things to say.

“Right,” she agrees. “And condemned means that it’s—”

“No bueno,” Jason interrupts. “Bad. Unsafe. I got that part.”

“It means that it’s officially declared unfit for public use.”

“Right-o,” Jason agrees. He’d googled the definition earlier. It also means “sentenced to a particular punishment, especially death.” Death is starting to look attractive compared to the continuation of this phone call. He’d been on hold for an hour and a half, and then the secretary had picked up just to tell him the director wasn’t available and would love to schedule an appointment for later. So Jason had scheduled the damn appointment. And then he’d been put on hold again! Maybe he’s already been condemned, and then he died, and the real secret about Hell is that it’s full of slow corporate phone calls. 

“So that’s why I’m asking to see the safety inspector’s report. So I can get all of the issues fixed.”

He’s glad this is happening over the phone. If it wasn’t, he’d probably be throwing brains already. Potentially his own.

“You don’t understand,” says the director. “We can’t un-condemn a building.”

“Well, what’s that supposed to mean?” demands Jason. It’s not like the building committed a crime or something. Did it? Can buildings commit crimes? Is Jason harboring a criminal?

“You’ll have to tear it down and rebuild.”

Jason is silent for a moment. All of a sudden, he understands how Bruce feels when one of his kids says something so unbelievably stupid that the human brain can’t process it. 

“Tear it down as in…”

“The whole building, yes.”

“Uhhhh,” says Jason. He busts out his calculator and begins to furiously calculate! His poor budget! His poor bank account! His poor timeline! All of his careful scheduling!

“Don’t worry,” she says, as though Jason hasn’t already ascended from worry into outright panic. “I can refer you to our wrecking guy. He’s the best in the industry.”

The best… at wrecking things. That actually sounds like a career Jason would be good at. Maybe if this coffee shop thing doesn’t work out…

“Yeah, okay,” says Jason. “Great.”

“I’ll email you his website,” says the woman. “Is there anything else we can help you with?”

Jason pulls out a pencil. He fervently calculates with one hand and writes with the other, and his passion is so great that the pencil breaks after tearing a hole through the paper. He aborts the mission. His brain is too fried to crunch numbers. He never even finished Algebra Two. But the math he has worked out so far looks like tear down plus rebuild equals insane time and money . 

“Nope,” Jason says faintly. “No ma’am. There’s nothing else. Thanks.”

“Bye-bye.”

Jason puts down his phone. He turns off his calculator. He sets his pencil in the pencil mug. 

Then, he opens his email. Sure enough, a new message has appeared, containing a link.

Rick’s Wrecks!

You got it? Rick will Wreck It! 

On the website is a picture of a very large man with a very large jackhammer. As if Jason wouldn’t have been able to tell, the man is wearing a nametag that says “RICK: RESIDENT WRECKER.”

He’s surrounded by rubble, which Jason supposes indicates that he’s a real professional.

Seems legit! Jason has another phone call to make!

Just as he’s getting ready to end the call, there is a knock at his door. Jason panics—there is exactly one person currently living in this manor who remembers to knock, and that person is the reason this entire project must stay confidential. What should he do? Forbid Dick from entering? Fake a sudden medical emergency?

No. He can play this cool. He can freestyle it. No problemo. The call is almost over anyways, and for all Dick knows, Jason has tons of reasons to be on the phone with a demolition company. Tons! It doesn’t have to have anything to do with the coffee shop that he definitely did not buy. 

His course of action is thus decided. 

“Come in,” Jason says to Dick, covering the phone’s microphone. To the person on the other end of the call—Rick the Wrecker’s personal assistant, apparently—he says, “Thanks! I’ll call you back sometime tomorrow to confirm the appointment.”

“Wreck-tacular, dude!” declares the person on the other end. “Remember, IF YOU CAN MAKE IT, WE CAN BREAK IT!”

“Great,” says Jason quickly. For Dick’s benefit, he plasters on a desperate smile. He holds up a finger to ask for one minute. 

Dick tilts his head curiously but waits for Jason to finish his call. 

“Bye!” Jason says to the phone. “Thanks!” He’s reaching for the end call button when Rick the Wrecker’s assistant feels the need to impart some truly inspired parting remarks.

 “YOU SHOW UP? WE’LL BLOW UP! NEED SOMETHING SHATTERED? WE’LL BRING OUR HAMMERS! YOU OWN IT? WE’LL EXPLODE IT! NEED SOMETHING TERMINATED? WE’LL BRING OUR—”

Jason ends the call before he can find out what they’ll bring in the event that he needs something terminated. Probably bombs, or something. Phew! That was one intense phone call! Good thing it’s over, and Dick is clearly none the wiser—

Dick is staring at Jason with an expression of profound puzzlement. His eyebrows are scrunched and his head is tilted and his mouth had, at some point, dropped wide open.

“What was that?” asks Dick slowly, looking like he can’t decide whether or not to laugh. 

The call. Had been. On speaker. 

The call had been on speaker!

Oh fuck. Oh shit! Motherfucking macaroni balls of bullshit! What does he do? This is the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to Jason in his life! He might die. Scratch that, he has died, it already happened, past tense. Jason is dead. He had a good run. Maybe in the next life, he’ll actually have the courage to kiss Dick. Then again, maybe not. No version of Jason could ever be that courageous. Who is he, a superhero? In his dreams. 

Dick Grayson killed the cat. What could possibly bring it back? Quick thinking can! 

“Just a friend,” Jason says, nodding all casual. “He was working on slogans for his new demolition company he’s thinking of starting.”

“How creative,” Dick says bemusedly. “I wonder how one gets into that line of work.”

“Well, you’d have to be good with a jackhammer,” Jason agrees, as cool as a cucumber. As slick as a banana peel. No awkward lies here. “Or, like a wrecking ball. Those are so cool, just like, smaaaaashhhhhhhh—”

Jason makes a smashing noise. Then he is assaulted by a wave of devastating self awareness and does himself the favor of shutting up. 

“Well anyways,” says Dick after a very pregnant pause, looking like he’s suppressing laughter, “I was just coming up here to get you for dinner.”

“Sick,” Jason says. “Tight.” He flings some finger guns Dick’s way. Is he acting too suspicious? This is so suspicious. Dick is totally onto him. Not even, like, on him in the way Jason has been fantasizing about. Oh no. Now’s not the time to start fantasizing. Not when Dick is giving him that look of intense questioning. 

Jason throws in a wink. That ought to set things straight. 

Dick backs away slowly. He closes the door behind him.

Jason facepalms. 

*

Dick, rather unsurprisingly, is an absolute hero in the kitchen. His history as a traveler means he’s experienced cuisine from places Jason has only ever heard about, and his creativity means he’s never afraid to add his own personal spin on classic dishes.

“I call it… the Special Dick Touch,” he tells Jason of his secret recipes. 

“Please never say those words again,” Jason begs when he’s done sputtering. “Especially with regards to food.”

Dick winks. Jason regrets his whole life.

In an effort to change the subject, Jason gestures at the spread of food on the counter. There are tiny sandwiches, chips and dip, and a… charcuterie board?

Where the hell is Alfred? Usually he doesn’t trust people to prepare dishes so elaborate in his kitchen unsupervised. Has Dick earned his approval so quickly? Or is this a secret undercover meal preparation? Jason’s questions demand answers. 

“What are we cooking all of this for, anyways?” 

“Movie night,” Dick says in a tone of utmost duh. 

“Oh,” says Jason. All this seems a little elaborate to him, sure, but… why not? A movie night might be just what he needs right now to help him relax a little. Between his big project, his job, and his fruitless attempts to subtly romance Dick, he’s been burning the candle at both ends lately. A night of entertainment, good food, and better company sounds like just what the doctor ordered. 

Because tomorrow is a huge day—tomorrow is demolition day. He’d made several more excruciating phone calls to the wrecking company, set up an appointment, and had a consultation. They’d given him an estimate, and Jason had given them the okay. So tomorrow afternoon, he’s going to meet the demolition crew at the shop, and they’re going to knock the building to the ground.

He’s not nervous. And he’s not sad about it, either. Destruction is a necessary part of change. And change is a necessary part of life. 

But it fills him with inexplicable grief to tear down the building in which he’d grown so much. The building he and Dick—and Rose and Tim and Barbara—had all loved so much despite its myriad flaws.

He’s not nervous. He’s not sad. He’s going to go through with this.

But he’s gotta chill out a little first. Take everything off his mind. A movie night sounds perfect.

Jason helps Dick carry all of the platters to the living room, where the Wayne family hosts most of their informal movie nights. Sure, they have a full theater upstairs, but that’s too elaborate for a casual family movie. They have a perfectly adequate 85-inch flatscreen with surround sound and 4K graphics downstairs.

Jason hadn’t thought they needed a TV that fancy. Bruce had splurged. 85 inches of sports! How could anyone in their right mind say no?

“What movie are we watching?” Jason asks when all the food is arranged on the coffee table. No one else has shown up yet—odd.

“I don’t know,” says Dick. “Damian said he’d pick.”

“Hmm,” says Jason dubiously. Damian’s movie choices tend to involve educational documentaries and Bob Ross videos. But he’s not feeling picky tonight. He has a feeling he’ll be paying more attention to Dick than the movie anyways. It’s not voluntary, or anything. He just knows himself well enough to know how this is going to go.

Not long later, Damian strolls in. He doesn’t look dressed for a movie night, though. He’s wearing a little suit and tie. His hair is all gelled up. He’s got tiny little sunglasses tucked into his front pocket. 

“Richard,” he greets with a warm nod. “Todd.”

“Hey, Li’l D,” says Dick, taking in Damian’s formal attire with an eyebrow raise. “I feel underdressed.”

“Oh, no need for that,” says Damian. “I won’t be staying for the movie. I have an appointment in town.”

“Where?” asks Jason. At eight P.M? That’s practically Damian’s bedtime! Where could he possibly have an appointment? Especially one that merits this level of formalness?

“Wayne Enterprises,” he says proudly, sticking his nose in the air. “Father will be taking me.”

“So Bruce isn’t watching, either?” asks Jason. 

“That’s odd,” says Dick. “He’s the one who suggested this.”

“Yes, well, my appointment couldn’t wait,” says Damian. “And Pennyworth will be driving us. So it will just be you and Todd watching the movie.”

“Oh,” says Dick.

“Oh,” says Jason.

They are silent for a moment. Jason’s insides flood with dread. He can’t watch a movie alone with Dick! He can’t! He might get awkward or sweaty or say something dumb! Then Dick will hate him forever! Jason has this terrible mental image of accidentally using a dumb pick-up line and Dick slapping him in the face with an expression of disgust before stomping out of the manor for good. Oh god. Oh no. It’s a very realistic possibility.

“Well, that sounds fine too!” Dick chirps before Jason has the chance to make up an excuse. 

“Totally,” Jason agrees so as not to sound like a total jerk.

“Excellent,” Damian agrees.  He opens up his briefcase—because of course Damian carries around a briefcase—and pulls out a CD, still in its box. The whole thing is very old fashioned. 

The movie is from the nineties. On the cover is a man wearing a pizza delivery boy hat, but no shirt. He’s smoldering very intensely at the camera.

“Special Delivery,” Jason reads out loud in a dubious voice. “Swimsuit model and mother of four Andrea is looking for some flavor in her life. Luckily, delivery boy Chad can deliver more than just a pizza. And her satisfaction is guaranteed.”

Jason’s mouth falls shut. He lets it sink in for a moment. 

This sounds… this sounds like…

Where the hell did Damian get a porno?

“Oh, it sounds romantic!” says Dick, completely missing Jason’s horror. “Let me see.”

Jason hands over the movie. Dick reads the back with an expression of growing concern.

“Damian… what is this movie rated?”

“I promise it’s perfectly appropriate,” Damian says. 

“I’m not sure…” says Dick. Trust him to be sensible all the time. Jason is on his side. Please let them pick a different movie. Please. 

“Do you not trust my taste in entertainment?”

“It’s not that!” Dick rushes to say. 

“It’s exactly that,” Jason says at the same time.

Somehow—and Jason will never know how—they end up with the Special Delivery CD in the disc drive and Jason and Dick alone on the couch, a couple of awkward feet apart. Dick looks perfectly relaxed, leaning back against the sofa with a tiny sandwich in hand. Jason is stiffer than a board. The movie hasn’t even started and he’s dying of social ineptitude.

As the movie begins with a cheesy opening credits scene, Jason tells himself to relax. He’ll never have fun if he’s so awkward all the time. 

He focuses on the movie. Who knows, maybe he’ll even like it?

“My life is just so difficult,” despairs Andrea in the movie. She’s just returned from her swimsuit modeling gig, having had no time to change out of her bikini. With no husband, she is left to cook dinner for her four kids all alone. While wearing a bikini. Of course. 

“I bet,” says Dick, nodding intently. “It must be hard to be a single parent.”

Jason cracks a little grin. This whole thing is ridiculous.

By the time Andrea has sent the kids to bed and flopped onto the sofa to anguish about her miserable, man-less existence, Jason feels himself starting to loosen up. This is actually kind of funny. So bad, it’s good! This is Jason’s kind of shit!

Eventually Andrea has to get up off the couch and fix herself some dinner. But oh no, the children ate it all! What will she do?

“I bet she’s going to call the delivery boy,” Dick whispers.

“But will it be delivered hot?” Jason retorts.

Dick chokes on giggles. Jason’s whole body goes warm and fluttery. Dick leans over, all loose and natural, and cuddles up next to Jason. Head on Jason’s shoulder. 

Jason’s brain explodes. Full-on. Just… boom.

It is due to the newfound lack of brain that he allows Dick to snuggle in. He breathes out a sigh, suddenly feeling relaxed, suddenly feeling almost high. All soft and comfortable and fuzzy. 

What had Jason been worrying about? Of course everything will be okay. It’s Dick. Everything will always be okay.

Leaning back into Dick is like breaching an old boundary. Slinging his arm across the back of the sofa, over Dick’s shoulders, is like stepping into a new world where everything is familiar and right. 

Demolition day tomorrow is going to be surreal. It’s going to be a landmark on the map of Jason’s history.

He’d wanted to keep it a secret. He has this shameful fantasy of Dick stepping into the freshly rebuilt coffee shop, a couple months down the line, and being so shocked and elated he can’t stop himself from kissing Jason in a sudden burst of newfound passion. They kiss for a long time, and Jason confesses everything, and Dick gives him one of those smiles with the squinty eyes and the dimples and…

That’s how things might work out for Andrea in her romance movie. For Jason, this is real. 

He wants Dick by his side on demolition day. He wants Dick by his side every day.

It’s hard to get the words out. But the movie is a comforting background noise, and Jason is so comfortable and warm, and if there ever was a time that he could confess, it would be now. 

So he says, “I have something to tell you.”

Dick is an anchor, solid and steady. He says, “You can tell me anything.” The way it comes out sounds so genuine. Like Jason really, truly could spill all his secrets, and Dick would collect them like a vault. Like a life preserver, holding Jason safe above dark waters. Someone Jason could just fall into.

Finally he’s ready to let himself. 

He opens his mouth to speak.

And then a loud voice in the movie stops him. Andrea says, high pitched and pleading, “Oh no! Delivery boy! I’m stuck in the dishwasher! I need you to come in and help me!”

“What the fuck,” Jason whispers.

“What were you going to tell me?” Dick prompts.

“No,” Jason says, shaking his head. “I need to see how this plays out.”

Chad the delivery boy steps into Andrea’s house and sets down the pizza on a counter. His uniform, curiously enough, does not include a shirt.

“I’ll help you,” promises Chad.

But as Jason and Dick find out in horrified silence, Chad’s idea of help is not the definition in the dictionary. It involves a lot of fondling, and nudity, and…

“What the fuck,” Jason whispers again. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck are we watching.”

“Does he do this for all his deliveries, or…?”

As Chad goes on to prove exactly how special this delivery is, Jason stares on in horrified silence. He is frozen in place. Now, more than ever, he is acutely aware of Dick’s proximity. They’re literally cuddling! Cuddling and watching what has turned out to be a fucking porno! Forget demolition day, Jason’s sense of self respect is what’s really getting destroyed.

“You know,” Dick says at one point amidst uncontrollable giggling, “if my delivery boy looked like that, I would get stuck in my dishwasher, too.”

Jason chokes. He sputters. He forgets momentarily how to breathe.

“That guy is not good enough for you!” Jason exclaims. “He’s not even that cute! He’s got a fucking mullet!”

“Mullets had a moment back in the day when this movie was made,” Dick points out. “He was very fashionable for his time period.”

“He’s a fucking loser,” Jason snarks. “You don’t need him. I’d deliver you food any day.”

Jason falls silent with the mental equivalent of a mic drop, feeling pretty happy with himself. Then the connotation of what he’s just uttered hits him all at once, and his brain goes up in flames like that scene from Spongebob where he forgets everything except breathing and fine dining. Well, forget that. Jason has forgotten how to breathe. His mortification is thorough and complete.

Dick bursts out into laughter and Jason feels himself shriveling up inside. At least he gets to hear Dick’s laugh one last time before he is crucified. He loves Dick’s laugh. Loves everything about him. 

“You'd be my delivery boy?" Dick teases through his mirth.  "I might take you up on that one day, little wing.”

It takes a long time for Dick to get his humor under control. When he's finally able to breathe unimpeded by giggling, he reaches for the remote and turns off the TV. Jason breathes out a sigh of relief. They’ve seen enough. More than enough. Way, way too much. 

And Jason aches all through his body. Cuddled so close to Dick, it would be effortless to turn his head and kiss him. To finally confess everything, and in the aftermath, he’d be lighter than he’s ever been in his life. He loves Dick so much it doesn’t even matter if the feelings are reciprocated. He’ll take Dick in any capacity. Friends, coworkers… anything. Anything at all. 

But what he really wants is this. Stupid movie nights for eternity. Cooking together and walking Titus and wearing stupid matching aprons at work. Leaning so far into Dick that they become one person, and no one would be able to guess that they’d ever been apart.

“The thing you were going to tell me?” Dick prompts. 

“Oh yeah,” says Jason. “That.”

He spends moments gathering his thoughts and organizing his words. In the end—after all these months of buildup and moments of electricity and inexpressible feelings—this is what comes out. 

“I bought the coffee shop,” Jason says.

“You… what?”

“I bought it. With my college fund. And Bruce is helping out. And we’re tearing down the building and rebuilding it even better, and I thought… We could work there together. You know. Get the old crew back together. Except not Slade. And…”

Jason trails off. He stares desperately into Dick’s eyes, pleading, hoping. Dick takes a moment to respond.

“You… you bought the shop?”

Dick’s voice is breathless and his eyes glitter with something interminable. He pulls back a few inches from Jason to look him in the eyes, and struck with the intensity of that blue blue gaze, Jason finds himself stuck in place like a fly in a web.

“Yeah,” Jason says. “Is that… okay? It was going to be a surprise.”

The glimmer in Dick’s eyes turns to wetness, and Jason’s heart pounds like a jackhammer. He has only a moment to panic, to wonder if he’s done everything wrong, to fear that he’s made a horrible mistake, before Dick leans forward and slips his fingers into Jason’s hair. And then Dick is pulling him forward, so fast it feels instant and so slow it feels like lightyears, and they’re kissing.

Jason’s heart explodes. 

It explodes and that’s okay because he doesn’t even think he needs it anymore if he has Dick as substitution. Because this is new and thrilling and world-breaking. It’s breaking Jason’s whole universe. And putting it back together again brand new, even better, even more colorful. Something entirely new. Something beautiful.

Finally, Dick pulls away, and Jason stares at him like an idiot because the English language has abandoned him. 

“I love you,” Dick says. The wetness in his eyes has spilled over to shimmering little trails down his cheeks, and Jason is breathless. He looks so beautiful in the lamplight. His hair is all messed up and curling over his forehead after long day, and he’s wearing a soft T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, and he is so soft and glowing and radiant. The living room is a haven. The couch, made comfortable by pillows and blankets, and the window just above, curtains closed, fuzzy moonlight leaking through. And Dick’s face, his tears, his blue eyes. His hand on Jason’s neck, the other one trembling imperceptibly. 

Tonight Dick is a painting. A work of art to go down in history. 

Jason’s breath catches in his throat. “I love you too,” he says—and somehow, after everything, it comes out effortless. He’s been anticipating this moment for so long that he’s somehow ready for it. He’s been preparing for so long.

Dick’s breath catches. He swipes a rough palm through the tear tracks down his cheek, and he continues. “I just… I love you so much. I don’t even… I can’t even wrap my mind around it. I had no home, and you gave me a mansion. I had no job, and you bought me a fucking coffee shop.”

And Jason’s heart is a beating lump in his throat. He presses closer to Dick, closer to that radiant warmth, and murmurs, “I’d buy you anything. Whatever you want.”

In a blur, they’re kissing again, all pressed into the pillows. Jason’s heart is thundering in his chest, and his stomach is fluttering like a bird with wings so fast they blur, and his fingers are trembling. He’s kissing Dick Grayson. Dick Grayson. They’re kissing, and Dick wants him, Dick loves him, Dick is pressing into him like he can’t bear to be away. 

Hours or days or years go by in a flash while they kiss. Dick’s lips are soft, and his breath is warm, and he’s everything, everything, even more than Jason thought he would be.

It feels like an eon before one of them shifts and accidentally hits the remote, and the movie begins to play again. 

“Oh, delivery boy!” gasps Andrea. “This delivery is so hot! And fast!”

Jason startles so hard he bonks his head into Dick’s and yells “FUCK!”

Dick cheekily replies, “I think that’s what they’re doing.”

Jason laughs until he can’t breathe. He doesn’t ever want to leave this cocoon of safety, this pocket of protection. He snuggles closer, invigorated by the knowledge that he can, and everything in the universe has fallen perfectly into place. 

*

Demolition day dawns foggy and damp. Jason wakes up inhumanly early, still on that couch, Dick pressed beside him like they’ve done this a hundred times before. Loathe as he is to extract himself from the embrace, Jason opts to make breakfast. So he leaves Dick on the couch and wanders over to the kitchen.

The sun has barely risen, but Alfred is already bustling around the kitchen. The coffee pot is bubbling happily and there are eggs on the stove, which Alfred tends attentively. 

Jason pours himself a cup of coffee and thinks about bringing one to Dick. But Alfred pins him down with a knowing look, so he takes a seat instead and sips slowly at his hot black coffee. 

“How was the movie?” Alfred asks.

“Traumatizing,” Jason says, nodding thoughtfully. “Also life-changing.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Alfred says. 

They sit together in silence for another couple minutes. It’s relaxing in its familiarity. When the food is ready, Alfred fills two plates and hands them both to Jason.

“Go on,” he prompts when Jason spends a moment standing there, holding them, looking clueless. 

Jason needs no more encouragement. He retreats back to the living room, plates in hand, and finds Dick stirring, blinking open his eyes to the sunlight that is just beginning to filter through the curtains.

“Morning,” he mumbles. Dick accepts the cup of coffee gratefully and takes a long sip.

They eat breakfast together on the couch as the sun rises. Jason can barely eat. His stomach is squirming with fluttery excitement, with joy, with love. 

After that, it’s time to get ready for the day ahead. Demolition day. Today’s the day the old building gets torn down, and they can set the foundation for a new shop. A new beginning. A new life. 

“I’ve gotta make some phone calls,” Jason tells Dick, excusing himself to his office no matter how difficult it feels to peel himself away from Dick. He’s made a decision. He has an idea. And he only has a couple hours to make it happen—it’s eight in the morning now, and the wreckers will be arriving at ten.

So Dick goes off to walk Titus with Damian (who they owe a serious conversation regarding his… mature… taste in entertainment) and Jason pulls out his phone, spinning idly in his office chair.

He makes three calls.

*

By nine, Jason is ready to go. He convinces Dick and Damian to get into the car early. Jason’s beat up black sedan might be a little too small for the task, but they’ll make it work. They’ve always made everything work before. Now is not the time to give up.

The first stop is actually in the neighborhood. One of the few neighbors the Waynes have: the Drake family.

Drake Manor, Jason tells himself, is not as cool as Wayne Manor. It only has four stories, and the grounds are a solid square mile smaller. Practically miniscule! Bruce would be horrified by the thought of living in a place like this.

It’s still fucking ginormous. It’s too big for a kid to live in all alone. And Tim isn’t as bad as Jason once thought he was. He thinks maybe they could have been friends, if everything hadn’t fallen apart the way it had. Maybe they still can.

Jason leaves Dick and Damian in the car and marches up the steps to the gate, which is locked. That ruins his fantasy of epically banging down the door. Instead, he speaks into the intercom.

“Hi, this is Jason? I’m looking for Tim.”

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Tim is bounding down the path to the gate. He opens it with the press of a button on his keychain.

“What are you doing here?” asks Tim. It’s been a long time since Jason last saw him, but he looks much the same. Same long hair, skinny stature, and intelligent eyes. The mug of coffee in his hand is ever-present. 

“I told you I’d be coming,” says Jason. “Get in the car. All will be revealed in time.”

Tim gets into the car. Jason gets back in the driver’s seat and peels out of the driveway like a man on a mission.

Next is the rich fancy condominium district of Gotham. The buildings tower into the sky, made of sleek metal and glass, so tall they seem to pierce the cloud cover.

Jason checks Google Maps to make sure he’s pulled up at the right building, and stares up at it apprehensively. He really, really hopes they have stairs.

Luckily, his concern turns out to be unwarranted. He steps into the building’s lobby just as Rose flounces out, all dressed up in a skirt and a corduroy jacket and a full face of makeup.

“I’m ready,” she announces, leading Jason back to his own car like she owns it all of a sudden. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he says, opening the backseat door for her. “You’re a little overdressed, though.”

“Not possible,” Rose says. She squeezes in between Damian and Tim and manages to make it look comfortable. “Jason, your car is kind of ugly.”

“Complain later,” Jason says. “Buckle up now.”

His penultimate stop is another apartment complex. This one, while nice, is a lot more modest. It’s big but not too big, pleasant without being ostentatious. Jason decides he likes this one better—and it suits the person who lives inside.

Barbara, too, is waiting for Jason when he arrives, looking casual but put together as always in a practical outfit and a much thinner layer of makeup than Rose.

“It’s good to see you,” says Jason genuinely. She’d always been his most sensible coworker. He doesn’t suspect that’s subject to change any time soon. 

“You too,” says Barbara. She gets into the car and makes an expression of complaint at the cramped space, but says nothing. 

It’s not three minutes into the drive across town that the passengers start to get restless. “Where are we going?” demands Tim, throwing his hands into the air and almost smacking Barbara’s glasses off. “You can’t just kidnap us and not tell us where we’re going!”

“We didn’t get kidnapped,” Rose says. “We just accepted a very vague invitation into this very gross car.”

“Todd’s car is not gross,” Damian snaps.

“Why does Dick get to sit up front?” complains Barbara.

“Because Jason’s in looove with him,” sings Rose. Damian nods in confirmation.

Jason has heard enough. “Shut up,” he snaps. “I’m trying not to crash the damn car.”

Silence falls. Tim says, “We do know you struggle with that sometimes.”

Dick bursts into laughter and Jason’s face goes entirely red. “Be quiet,” he snaps. “I’ll tell you if you just shut up!”

It takes a moment, but slowly, the voices diminish into a waiting silence. Jason takes a fortifying breath. “Thank you,” he says. “Fine. We’re on our way… to the coffee shop.”

Silence again. A pregnant pause. Jason can feel his heartbeat in his ears. His palms are sweaty on the steering wheel’s leather. He hyperfocuses on driving. Gas… brake… turn… don’t be nervous… don’t be nervous…

“The coffee shop?” asks Rose. “Why?”

“Yeah, we shut down forever, remember?” adds Tim. “Forever as in, never reopening? Ever? No matter what?”

“I bought it,” Jason says. “The building, that is.”

“Really?” asks Barbara in an even voice.

“Really?” squeals Rose at dog whistle pitch. 

“Yeah,” says Jason. Eyes on the road. Act casual! Act natural! Don’t need to be so nervous! “It had too many code violations to just fix, though. So today I have this demolition crew coming to knock it down. And then we’ll start rebuilding. And in a few months… if any of you guys want a job… or whatever…”

“You… bought the shop?” repeats Tim faintly.

“That’s what I said,” Jason replies.

“Wow,” says Tim, hushed. “Wow.”

“That’s incredible,” says Barbara. “I never expected… I had no idea you cared so much.”

“Where have you been?” deadpans Damian.

Tim bursts out in a snort of laughter, and just like that, the tension breaks. Familiarity comes pouring in to take its place, and Jason’s shoulders finally untense. 

Rose and Damian gossip like best friends—probably talking shit on Jason, and he can’t even bring himself to feel offended. Tim is frantically texting.

Barbara looks contemplative. Her head is tilted and her eyes are distant with thought. “I guess rich dads come in handy,” she decides.

Damian snorts. “From time to time,” he agrees.

Jason risks a glance at Dick in the passenger seat—and instantly he has to glance away again, because he knows he’ll crash the car if that smile keeps distracting him. 

*

When they pull up at the coffee shop and tumble out of Jason’s overfilled car, they’re right on time to meet with the demolition crew. Rick the Wrecker looks exactly like he had online: enthusiastic and huge. He shakes Jason’s hand so hard his fingers almost break.

“Thanks for coming,” Jason says through gritted teeth, praying for the circulation of his hand.

“MY PLEASURE!” booms Rick. 

He shakes hands with Dick, too, who looks utterly delighted, and manages not to flinch at the gargantuan strength of the handshake. 

“I like this guy,” Dick whispers to Jason when the exuberant greeting has concluded. “He seems like a real professional.”

Jason nods in serious agreement. 

The demolition crew boasts a variety of different tools in all different sizes. The smallest is a mallet. Then, there’s the jackhammer, which Jason would really love to get his hands on. The biggest is a huge, yellow excavator. Jason is taken back to his childhood—those hour-long Bob the Builder binges. He’s never been so close to one of these in person. He kind of wants to drive it. 

Everyone not included in the demo crew is instructed to stand behind a line of tape. These guys are surprisingly big on safety. Jason steps back, feeling small and powerless so far away from the action.

Dick stands next to him on one side, and Damian hovers on the other. Tim is next to Damian, and Rose is next to him, and Barbara stands on the very end with a camera. 

“Gotta capture the moment,” she explains.

Jason is glad of it—this is a moment he never wants to forget. The excavator’s big claws crunch down on the roof at the same time as Dick slips his fingers into Jason’s. Only then is Jason able to let out a breath. Slowly, slowly, the building comes down. And all through it, he and Dick stand solid together.

For the next three days, Jason and Dick visit every morning to see the progress. The good thing about knocking down a building is that it’s surprisingly simple. Much easier than building one, at least. 

On day four, the job is done. The spot of land that used to be their shop is nothing but a patch of rubble. There’s nothing left to do but clean up the mess—and then they’re free so build something new. Something even greater.

*

Constructing a building is a lot less cool than HGTV would like viewers to believe. There are a lot of people to hire, and a lot more factors to consider than Jason would have thought. Electricity. Plumbing. Floors and walls and ceiling.

The aesthetics, at least, are the fun part. One day Jason and Dick go back to the hardware store and pick out all their new flooring and paint colors.

The paint chip aisle is exactly how Jason remembers it—almost intimidating in its scope and variety. 

“What color to choose?” Jason muses, browsing the shelves. He looks at the neutrals—cream, white, eggshell white, eggshell cream—and the browns—brown, tree bark brown, brown bear brown, coffee brown. Each individual color has a hundred different options. Jason never knew there were so many different ways to say “beige.”

But Dick looks right at home. “I liked the yellow we chose last time,” he says, grabbing that same chip. “But you’re in charge now. We don’t need to be boring anymore.”

“So yellow and blue,” Jason decides, grabbing the chip that had reminded him of Dick’s eyes. He still remembers the exact shade—lakewater. 

“And green,” Dick suggests. He grabs a chip the color of sea glass, like those broken bottles that get worn down on the beach into smooth, polished stones. It kind of matches Jason’s eyes. No doubt that’s the point. Jason goes all melty and blushy inside, and then he remembers he doesn’t have to suppress it anymore. He kisses Dick and it sends sparks of lightning down his spine.

“Is that too many colors?” asks Jason once they pull away, scrunching his eyebrows in concern.

“No such thing!” 

So they get the sunshine yellow and the lakewater blue and the sea glass green, plus a robin-breast red that Dick throws in impulsively. For the flooring they make two choices: a honey colored wood for the seating area, and a sharp white tile for the kitchen.

It’s going to be a crazy looking mis-matched patchwork of a shop. But it’s going to be comfortable. It’s going to feel like a home. 

*

Another day they go to the furniture store. They need tables, chairs, and decorations.

Jason lets Dick take the reins on this one. It’s clear that he’s got a vision. He breezes through the aisles like an expert, examining wood grain and practicality and size. Every now and then he asks Jason for an opinion, and the more brutally honest Jason is, the happier Dick seems.

“How about this one?” Dick asks of a table made of stainless steel. The size and shape would work well, at least. It’s heinously ugly, though. “It would be so easy to wipe down.”

“It’s giving… autopsy table,” Jason says, crinkling his nose.

Dick laughs, looking delighted, and they move on to the next table. They end up picking out four—which is all they have room for inside—and each one is different. 

Jason doesn’t care that their shop is going to look like Professor Trelawny’s classroom in terms of furniture taste and variety. It's thrillingly domestic to be walking through a furniture store with Dick. It feels like a preview of the life they might have together one day. Picking out the furnishings for the apartment they might live in, some distant point in the future. Making it perfect—making it theirs.

*

Slowly, slowly, everything comes together just as easily as it had fallen apart. Reconstructing a building is a months-long endeavor, but Jason can’t even bring himself to care. Each day is even better than the last. 

Once the new walls are up, they have a sequel of Painting Day. Except instead of one solid color, Jason, Dick, Tim, and Damian paint the shop as many different colors as they want. The front seating area gets yellow, because of those happy sunshine vibes. The kitchen gets blue, because it’s supposed to be calming. Then they add the green and red as accent walls. It all comes together into an interior decor style Jason’s not sure he’s ever seen before, and he’s certain he’ll never see it again.

It’s no feng shui. But it’s so fucking cool. And in the corner, near the floor, the four of them all sign their initials in paint:

DG. JT. TD. DW. 

All the different colors and initials fit better together than Jason would have ever imagined. 

The days of painting and decorating are so good that Jason wouldn’t mind if the project lasted forever. Opening Day is a theoretical point in the future—looming on the horizon, too far away to get a good look at.

Until one day it hastens its approach. 

The day all their progress becomes tangible, the day Jason finally starts to process it all, is the day they get their new sign. 

Damian had designed the logo, but Jason hasn’t seen the finished version yet. The first glimpse he gets of their fresh logo is when the new sign is delivered and bolted in place above the door.

Their old sign said “HAM COFFEE” because it was missing a few letters. It was colorless and bland. The plain bread of logos. 

And this new one is nothing like that at all.

It says “GOTHAM COFFEE,” no ham in sight, and it’s brighter than anything Jason would have ever predicted Damian could make. The letters are in those bright traffic light colors: Golden yellow, vibrant green, firetruck red. They shouldn’t look so good together but they do. It fits the shop’s new look—its new atmosphere and aesthetic and aura—perfectly.

The sight of it moves Jason to do something he hasn’t done in years—he tracks Damian down and, before he can protest, engulfs him in a giant hug. 

“AH! Todd! You’re smothering me!” 

Damian struggles and squirms before eventually falling still. He pats Jason’s back with hesitant hands, radiating awkwardness.

But when Jason pulls away, Damian is bursting with pride he can’t quite contain.

“I take it the logo is adequate,” he says, eyes wide, searching for approval.

“It’s amazing,” Jason tells him.

And that’s the moment when it all feels real. They’re really doing this. Soon, this really will be a functioning coffee shop. Better than functioning. Prospering. 

Everything has changed so much. All of them have changed so much. 

Jason confides his anxiety in Dick when they return to the manor that evening after a day of last-minute preparations. Opening day is that monday. Jason and Dick are—obviously—on the first shift. 

Dinner has come and passed, and the family have all retreated to their own rooms. Jason and Dick lounge in the guest room that has come to belong to Dick, splayed across the king-sized bed. Jason lays on his back, legs starfished out and arms propped behind him, and Dick lies next to him on his stomach, feet in the air, playing idly with the threads on Jason’s shirt.

“I can’t believe it’s really happening,” he says.

“You’re not getting cold feet, are you?” Dick teases.

Jason scowls. Dick smiles gently down at Jason’s belly, where he’s playing with the unraveling threads of his shirt. 

“It’s just… I can’t stop thinking how much time has passed. I was so different when we met. We all were.”

Dick’s grin turns fond. He scoots up the bed to be closer to Jason, and Jason moves easily to accommodate him, holding out his arm for Dick to snuggle into. That’s one thing Jason has learned about Dick: he’s a cuddler. Which Jason won’t outwardly admit how much he likes… but… he likes it an embarrassing amount.

“I remember,” Dick says. “Little high school dropout Jason, eighteen years old, ready to change the world by throwing brains at bullies.”

Jason’s whole face goes red. “You’re making it sound stupid,” he mutters.

“I’m not,” Dick retorts. He nuzzles his nose into Jason’s neck, and his breath is warm and soft, and being so close to him after a long day feels like coming home. “I loved it.”

“Really?” asks Jason in disbelief. “I was a total loser.”

“You were not,” Dick argues. “You wanted to make a difference.”

“Hmm,” Jason says. He turns his head, so his lips brush warm over Dick’s forehead, and gently, he presses a kiss there. At this angle, he can’t see Dick’s smile—can only see the way his eyes scrunch up. “Have I?”

“You changed my fucking life,” Dick murmurs into Jason’s shoulder.

“You changed mine,” Jason whispers back.

More gracefully than a bird in flight, Dick moves again, and this time he settles on Jason’s lap, straddling his hips. Jason scoots up, propping himself up against the headboard, and Dick leans in so close their foreheads almost touch and their breaths mingle. 

Jason presses forward this time, and their kiss is so gentle and sweet it makes something deep inside him pulse with aching. Dick is so tender and reverent—so deliberate in every motion as he brings his hand up Jason’s back, up his neck, into his hair. As he uses his other hand to squeeze Jason’s.

There are no words between them. Instead they communicate with their bodies. Dick’s weight on top of Jason is so relaxing somehow—like how weighted blankets are calming, like how farmers squeeze cows to calm them down before their slaughter. Jason could be killed right now and he wouldn’t even care. He feels so complete, here in his home beneath Dick. 

Dick helps relieve Jason of his shirt, and his own hits the floor right after. Dick’s warm skin feels like silk beneath his fingers, smooth and flawless, and Jason’s heart is skipping beats, his lungs are missing breaths, he is so enraptured by the man on top of him. 

“I love you,” Jason says in a rush, because the words just want to tumble out of their own will. He presses them into Dick’s lips, earnest, and Dick’s mouth breaks into a smile. 

“Love you too, little wing,” says Dick. And then he’s kissing down Jason’s neck, his chest, his belly, and then all rational thought abandons Jason entirely except for how lucky he is to have Dick Grayson in his life, in his bed, in his arms. 

*

Opening day dawns bright and early at five am. Jason is not usually a morning person, but today, his veins are supercharged with anticipation, and he’s out of bed before the clock strikes five. By five-ten, he’s dressed in dark pants, a maroon sweater, and a leather jacket. Gotta look sharp for opening day.

Dick drags himself out of bed with considerably less enthusiasm, but it only takes a few minutes for him to wake up fully, and then his frantic energy is rivaled only by Jason’s own. He puts on a sky-blue button down shirt and his nicest pants. 

Jason puts on his sunglasses and hands Dick a matching pair. Then they buckle up in Jason’s car. They’re ready.

*

The building is wedged between two others on a street bustling with other shops and businesses. It’s in the downtown of Old Gotham, but nothing about this fresh new building could possibly be described as old.

A huge, colorful sign above the door advertises the shop’s name: GOTHAM COFFEE.

Beyond that, the front of the building is made out of brightly painted cinderblocks, with two glass doors that swing open below a little bell. In front there are two round, metal tables with huge red umbrellas shading them from the sun. The umbrellas are all rolled up right now, and the chairs are all stacked inside. When they open, this patio will be the perfect place to sit, sip coffee, and people-watch as the Gotham traffic passes by.

The inside, once Jason unlocks the front door with his brand new key, is even nicer than the outside.

The floor is made out of a clean, honey-colored wood that brightens the room. Squeezed wherever there’s room are tables, small and large, surrounded by wooden chairs. There are potted plants on every table. The walls are all different colors: yellow in the cafe, blue in the kitchen, broken up by red and green accents. To add additional interest, there are paintings on the walls—anything interesting they’d been able to find in Gotham’s myriad thrift stores, supplemented by the finest works of Gotham’s newest up and coming fine arts master, Damian Wayne.

While Dick readies the shop for opening, getting the chairs all set up outside and the coffee machines warmed up, Jason bakes their pastries in the shop’s very own ovens. 

By some miracle, there are people lined up outside by six-fifteen. By six-twenty, there is a verifiable crowd.

This time it’s Dick’s turn to be nervous. He paces around the shop with five minutes to spare until opening time, checking and double checking every last appliance. Every last coffee bean. It’s clear how desperately he wants everything to be perfect.

But Jason has spent the last week being nervous, and he’s overcome it. Everything is already perfect. Everything has come together just as surely as it once fell apart. 

Jason grabs both of Dick’s hands in each of his own. He squeezes tight. He kisses Dick, and after everything, it’s still just as thrilling as it was the very first time.

“It’s cool,” he says, catching Dick’s eyes with his own. “We got this.”

And just like that, the tension in Dick’s shoulders melts away.

“We got this,” he says.

Jason tosses Dick his keys, and Dick slips them into the lock. They open the doors at six-thirty on the dot. That’s when Tim arrives, too, to help them on their opening shift. For once, he’s perfectly on time, and for once, his eyes are bright without the aid of caffeine.

The three of them share a round of high fives for good luck. Dick catches Jason’s eyes. Jason grins, wide and uncontrollable, happy and hopeful and proud. And then it’s time to let the customers in.

The very first customer in line is Bruce Wayne. But he hasn’t brought his cameras or his press reporters or his paparazzi. Instead he’s brought Alfred and Damian—his family. Just like that, each and every one of the Waynes is gathered in this patchwork shop. A patchwork family. Jason’s favorite people in the world. 

Bruce orders some coffee, enjoys it thoroughly, and tips extravagantly. He tells Jason, “I’m proud of you.”

Jason has wanted his approval for so long that finally receiving it feels surreal. Happiness tightens his throat, pricks his eyes. Because Jason is proud, too. This is the first thing he’s done in his life that he’s truly proud of. 

And every second of it is made better by the people around him—by Bruce’s supportive nod, and Alfred’s knowing smirk, and Damian’s wide eyes. Dick’s beautiful smile. Dick’s—everything. Everything about him.

And everything about Jason, too. The person he’s worked so hard to become. The relationships he’s worked so hard to build. 

Jason is proud, too.