Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Did you know,” Dick says, “the Joker almost killed me, once?”

“Did you know,” Jason mimics, pitching his voice as he keeps his eyes on his book, “the Joker actually killed me?”

“What?” Tim asks, looking up from his homework. “Like, recently?”

Dick smiles faintly, shaking his head. “No. Years ago. When I was twelve.”

“What’s your point?” Damian asks. “I’m twelve. Are you saying I could die? Because I assure you, I will not allow it. And neither will Father, and neither will you.”

“No, that’s not my point.” Dick says patiently, reaching out to ruffle Damian’s hair. “I’m just saying. I’m glad I’m still here. That’s all.”

Dick is running away.

Dick is packing his things, and running away.

He’s running away, and he’s not coming back, and then maybe Bruce will understand. Maybe he’ll understand when he finds Dick’s empty room, and maybe he’ll feel remorse when he looks Alfred in the eye and has to explain why. Why Dick left, why it’s all Bruce’s fault, and why he regrets everything he ever said and did.

Dick is running away, and Bruce isn’t even here to stop him, and he won’t notice until it’s too late, and then there will be a frantic search and maybe he’ll think that Dick was kidnapped, and it will serve him right -

“Ahem.”

Dick freezes.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

That’s not Bruce. It’s not Alfred either.

He turns slowly, hand already moving to the belt hidden under his T-shirt (he’s not stupid, and Bruce may have locked up the suit but Dick’s still Robin, he’s still completely capable of defending himself against home invasions). Dick turns, and looks up, and up and up into a menacing red helmet. There’s an absolute tank of a man standing in the west wing hall, hands on hips (and yes, those are guns) and it occurs to Dick, probably too late, that kidnapping may not be off the table after all. The night is still young. And there’s a strange man in full body armor standing in the middle of the hallway.

“None of your beeswax,” Dick says, fingers coiling slowly around his baton. He doesn’t have his panic buttons. His tracker is sitting on his bedside table, the watch on full display as a final eff you for Bruce to find in the morning.

Oops.

“Looks like you’re running away.”

“Looks like you’re breaking and entering,” Dick shoots back, and takes a step back. The man takes a step forward.

“Didn’t break anything,” the man says, and Dick wishes suddenly that he could see his face. It almost sounds like he’s smiling. That could be good, or that could be really really bad. “Didn’t need to, seeing as I know all the codes. Although,” and here he pauses, head tilting and hand moving to rest against the gun at his left hip. “I could. What do you think? Great Grandpappy Wayne would look pretty funny without a nose.”

The man takes another step forward, and Dick takes another step back. He could run. He could get out, and that’s probably what Bruce would want him to do. In fact, he knows that’s what Bruce would want, they’ve had this conversation about a million times, ever since Dick was first assaulted at the ripe old age ten. Get out, get away, get safe. Let the ‘authorities’ deal with the rest. But Bruce isn’t here, and neither is Alfred, and if Dick runs now and this man burns down the manor - well. Dick wants Bruce to worry. He doesn’t want him to worry like that.

And the problem is, this man doesn’t look like an idiot. He doesn’t look like some random criminal who just happened to break into the richest house in Bristol. And Dick isn’t a shrimp (no matter what the other kids say) but he hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet either, and this guy is easily three times his size, easily as big as Bruce. And this wouldn’t usually be a problem, except. Except he has guns. And full armor. And Dick has neither.

Because Dick’s armor is locked up in the cave, and if Dick dies now that will totally be Bruce’s fault.

“Look,” the man says, taking a third step forward. Dick steps back, and his back hits the wall. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. Now, I’m all for easy -” Dick lets his bag slide to the floor, and the guy actually sighs, like he’s the one being inconvenienced. “Guess it’s the hard way,” he mutters, and squares his shoulders just as Dick launches himself from the wall and attacks.

It ends with Dick wheezing on the floor, pinned down with an arm to the throat and a knee in his stomach. It ends with the masked man cursing to high heaven, snarling something about eels and demons and bloody revenge.

It ends with Dick slipping a smoke grenade into the man’s chest plate, wondering if he’s going to die, and wondering if Bruce will have any regrets when he does. Probably. Pity Dick won’t be there to find out.

Dick is running away.

He’s actually going to do it this time, because screw Bruce.

Because apparently, saving the manor and Bruce’s heritage and all their worldly possessions isn’t an excuse for not finishing one’s homework. Because apparently, the realization that Dick isn’t safe in Wayne Manor means that rather than being safe at Bruce’s side, rather than being safe as Robin, Dick is being locked safe in the Batcave like some helpless damsel in distress. Like he’s actually scared of some random dude in a helmet, who didn’t even have the balls to properly choke him to death.

So Dick is running away, he’s packing his bag and he’s leaving, and maybe then Bruce will understand, maybe then he’ll regret everything he ever said, he’ll understand what real danger is -

“Really? Again?”

Dick spins around, hand dropping from the window latch.

“What do you want?” he complains, not quite keeping the whine from his voice.

“An apology would be nice,” the man drawls, the same one from last night. He’s sitting on the chaise lounge, feet kicked up and arms draped over the armrests. He’s not wearing the helmet this time (because Dick cracked it and then fried the circuitry, ha!) but he still has a domino mask glued over his eyes. Dick is rather pleased to see that his nose is taped and swollen, bruises spreading to either side. It had been a trick, breaking it through the helmet.

“How about you apologize,” Dick says, and gestures to his throat. “You could have killed me!”

“You fucking ruined my helmet. You literally smoked me out of my gear. You broke my nose, you got what you fucking deserved.”

“Well, I’m leaving.” Dick announces, squaring his shoulders and reaching back for the window latch again. He’s not stupid, he’s not about to turn his back, but he’s also not falling for the same trick twice. So he can’t beat the guy. So maybe he doesn’t care, because Bruce apparently doesn’t. “You can go ahead and steal everything, I don’t care.”

“Ah-ah,” the guy says, sitting up, and Dick tenses. “You’re not going anywhere. Do I need to repeat myself?”

“What do you even care?” Dick asks. He’s not scared. He’s fast, probably fast enough to be out of the window before the guy even stands up. But he’s not faster than a bullet, and even though he doesn’t have his armor, the man still has his guns.

There’s a pause, a brief silence that hangs in the air in such a familiar way that it sends chills crawling across Dick’s arms. The silence of an unanswered question, a million things that want to be said but never will be. It’s the same silence Bruce carries with him, the same one Dick has slowly been picking apart, learning how to interpret. It’s not something he expected from a stranger.

“How about we watch a movie?” the man suggests, words falling with faux casualness into the still air. “You ever watch IT?”

“I’m running away -”

“No, you’re not. Do you really want a repeat of last night? Because I sure as hell don’t.”

Dick doesn’t want a repeat of last night. His throat is still sore, and his shoulder-blades are bruised from being slammed into the floor. And despite everything, there’s a not so small part of him that’s curious. He’s curious about the random guy who doesn’t want to kidnap him, and doesn’t want to kill him, and doesn’t want him to run away. And he knows Bruce updated all the codes yesterday, and put the security on high alert. And yet here they are again, with nary an alarm to be heard. Dick somehow doubts the cameras will have anything either.

Dick wants to know what this guy knows, because apparently, it’s a lot. Apparently, it’s more than Bruce.

“Fine,” Dick says, and drops his bag. “But I want popcorn. And I need a name.”

The man smiles a shark’s smile, rising gracefully to his feet. Trained, Dick’s brain whispers, assassin, dangerous. Dick straightens, and puts on his most stubborn look. So maybe he’s a prisoner in his own home (and at least half of that is Bruce’s fault, even if it’s someone else literally holding the gun) but he’s not about to be intimidated.

“Sure thing, pipsqueak,” the guy says, and holds out a hand. “The name’s Jason. Do you want salty or sweet?”

Dick is running away.

This is it, for real now. Bruce is out on the town, Alfred is in England for the rest of the week, and there’s really no point in Dick staying at the manor alone.

He goes straight out the window this time, climbing the well worn path through its limbs, swinging from branch to branch and down, dropping lightly to his feet. The moon is high in the sky, a waning crescent casting its blue light across the grounds. Beautiful, if Dick were in the mood for such things.

“Jesus Christ. Don’t you have any other hobbies?”

Dick startles. He startles bad, jumping about a foot in the air and turning towards the house, toward where Jason is standing in the shadows, glowering.

“I could ask you the same,” Dick sulks, already resigning himself to another failed escape. “Are you stalking me? ‘Cause that’s creepy.”

“Wrong br-” Jason begins, and then cuts himself off, and starts again. “I’m saving your scrawny ass. You’ll thank me for it later.”

“Doubt it,” Dick mutters.

“Too bad,” Jason says, and then gestures towards the patio door. “After you.”

They spend the first two hours playing Mario Kart. It’s actually kind of fun, especially when Dick keeps beating Jason. And Dick starts to relax, and Jason does too, and maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice when Dick starts asking questions. Maybe that’s why he answers, tongue between his teeth as he yanks the control side to side, as if that will help him go faster.

“Where are you from?”

“Gotham.”

“Why are you here?”

“Didn’t I already say that? I’m saving you.”

“I can save myself. Why are you saving me?”

Jason’s cart crashes into a candy house, and he curses. “Because I fucking care, you punk. Why else?”

“Yeah, but why? You don’t even know me.”

Dick crosses the finish line effortlessly, and turns to find Jason watching him, an odd expression on his face. The mask is still over his eyes, making it hard to read, but if Dick had to guess, he would have guessed the expression was something like resignation. Something like silence, and a million questions that will never be answered.

“That’s not true,” Jason says at last. “You don’t know me. There’s a difference.”

That’s true, Dick supposes. Even if it’s still a little creepy.

“Fine. Maybe I should get to know you, then. Why do you have white hair?” Dick asks, gesturing to his own bangs.

Jason reaches up to pinch his nose. “That’s not important.”

“What are you saving me from, then?”

“Your own stupidity,” Jason snaps, and then, before Dick can open his mouth to defend himself, “How about this. Why are you so intent on running away?”

Which is how they end up in Dick’s room, Dick at his desk and Jason’s glare holding him in place, arms crossed as Dick debates the merits of going boneless. If he turns into a puddle of limbs and complaints, maybe Jason will give up and leave him alone. If he’s annoying enough, maybe Jason will decide it’s not worth it, and maybe he’ll even agree with Dick (unlike Bruce, who never agrees with anything Dick has to say). Maybe Jason will agree that this is a useless exercise, a waste of Dick’s time, and beneath his dignity to complete.

“I can do it,” Dick points out, trying the same thing he’d told Bruce two days ago. “Why do I need to prove myself? It makes sense! I answered all the questions already, I know what the book was about, why do I need to write a paper on it too?! This is dumb, I already know how to write a paper.”

“Do I look like I care?” Jason asks, raising an eyebrow. “Pen to paper. Write.”

Three hours later, and there are two paragraphs on the page, and Dick is beyond tired and is fighting the embarrassing urge to burst into tears. Fighting, and losing. He knows what the book is about, he does. He read the whole thing, got an A+ on the test and everything. He even knows how the paper is supposed to go, what he’s supposed to write and what quotes he’s supposed to use to prove his point. But it’s two in the morning, and Bruce is coming home in an hour, and there’s no way he’s going to be finished, and that means another night of no Robin. That means another night of words floating uselessly in his brain, sticking behind his eyes and refusing to move to the page, and it’s not fair, and he honestly feels a bit like throwing himself to the floor and having a meltdown.

He presses his forehead to the paper, and takes a big breath, trying to calm his racing heart, trying to cool the burning behind his eyes. He knows how to write a paper, he’s not stupid, he’s not dumb or uncultured or any of that. He just - he can’t. And he doesn’t understand why, and neither does Bruce (because Dick can’t explain, he can’t find the words, just like with this stupid paper), and then Bruce is disappointed and Dick is a failure, and it almost feels like the world is ending.

It feels like Dick should just run away and drop out of school and become a full-time vigilante, because obviously he’s not good for anything else.

“Hey.”

Dick turns his head, looking blearily at where Jason is sprawled in his beanbag, being completely useless. He has that look again, that one that Dick doesn’t quite understand. Like he knows something Dick doesn’t.

“This the book that you’re reading?” Jason asks, waving Macbeth in the air. Dick nods, reaching up to rub at his eyes. Jason opens to the first page, eyes skimming the words, before he looks back up, offering a crooked smile.

“Tell you what. If you’re still here tomorrow night, I’ll write it for you.”

Dick sits up, squinting. “What?”

“I’m bribing you,” Jason patiently explains. “So? Sound like a deal? You stay safe, I’ll write your paper.”

“I can do it -”

“And I believe you. That’s not the point, right? So get some sleep. I’ll see you in the evening.”

“I - okay.” It’s two o’clock in the morning, and Dick has school tomorrow, and he has to face Bruce and another detention, and - and Jason believes him. So maybe it’s okay. Maybe it’s not the end of the world after all, and maybe he’ll feel better once he gets some sleep. Maybe he won’t get to be Robin for another night, but maybe that’s okay because Jason will be here. And he’ll write Dick’s essay, and they can watch another movie, and Dick can do something he actually enjoys, like playing The Floor is Lava or throwing knives at the statuary.

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”

The fourth night, Jason comes without his mask.

The bruises are starting to fade beneath his eyes (and maybe Dick feels a little bad, now that he actually knows the man) and when he knocks on the door and Dick lets it swing open, it takes him a minute to recognize him. He hasn’t worn his armor since that first eventful night. He still has his guns, and Dick knows he likely has many more weapons concealed across his person besides. But he’s not wearing his mask, and when green eyes look down to meet Dick’s, he pauses, standing still in the doorway.

“What happened to your mask?”

“Those things itch like nobody’s business.”

Jason pushes past Dick, striding into the manor like he owns it. Dick follows him into the kitchen, to the table where Dick has his paper laid out and ready. There’s one more sentence tacked onto the end, an awkward thing wrung out of him by Bruce’s insistent presence. They had been working on it, right up until Bruce excused himself to go fight crime, and Dick put on a show of sulking and complaining about not being able to come along.

Joke’s on Bruce. Turns out Dick is going to have fun anyway, because Jason is here.

“Do you want gummy bears?” Dick asks, digging through the cupboards.

“Hm,” Jason replies, pencil scratching across the paper as he writes in carefully looping letters. He’s copying Dick’s handwriting, and doing an alarmingly good job.

“That’s a yes,” Dick decides, and puts the candy to the side. “What about sprinkles? We also have Nestle Crunch, and M&Ms. Do you like cherries?”

Dick scoops out two large bowls of ice cream, and starts liberally topping them. Whipped cream, chocolate sauce, caramel sauce, strawberry sauce, candy, sprinkles, chocolate chips, cherries, raspberries, blueberries. By the time he’s done, Jason has finished the first page, and is well on his way through the second, and Dick is pleased to call his culinary works a masterpiece.

“Do you know Bruce?” Dick asks, watching as Jason erases a few words, the eraser pilling and little pieces spilling to the ground.

“Yes,” Jason says, before pausing, and looking up at Dick somewhat cautiously. “But he doesn’t know me.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Well it’s true.”

“Is he always this unfair?”

Jason puts the pencil down, reaching up to rub at his temples. “You’re like the goddamn inquisition,” he mutters, but before Dick has time to respond, says “Listen, kid. I’m gonna say this, but I’m only gonna say it once, because it’s putting my entire reputation in serious jeopardy. You listening?”

“...Yeah.”

“Bruce isn’t unfair.” Dick opens his mouth to protest (what did he just say), but Jason holds up a hand, narrowing his eyes. “No. Let me finish. He might be a little dense sometimes. He’s definitely in way over his head, and I think most of the time he has no clue what he’s doing. And that’s not your job to fix. But grounding your preteen kid is not unfair. That’s normal, and it’s about the most normal thing he ever does. What did he make you for dinner?”

Dick knows where this is going. “Spaghettios.”

“And what’s your favorite meal?”

“That’s not the point -”

“Life is unfair. Bruce is not. Life will kill you in a heartbeat, and Bruce will fight everything in existence to keep you alive. You can be mad at him all you want, but at the end of the day, he loves you. Think very carefully about your next words.”

“Whatever,” Dick grumbles, sighing and raising his eyes to the ceiling. “I guess you have a point.”

“Right.” Jason pushes his empty bowl away, turning back to the paper. “Now that we have that straight. How long does this have to be again?”

Jason finishes the paper, and then has Dick read over it as he loads the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. It’s not a masterpiece. It’s not going to get Dick any sort of recognition, but Dick thinks that might be on purpose. He knows about cheating, and he knows that the most important part is to not get caught. 

“Where do you go when you’re not here?” Dick asks, half an hour later as they’re scrolling through Youtube, looking for videos to watch. 

“Places,” Jason says. “None of your business.”

“You could stay here.”

Jason goes completely still, remote control freezing in place as he blinks at the television screen. Dick looks at his hands, fingers tangling in the blanket he’d grabbed before settling on the couch. 

You could stay here. It would be nice, Dick thinks, to have someone to hang out with. It gets a little lonely, sometimes. 

“I mean, we have enough room. And I’d vouch for you.”

“What,” Jason says. And then, louder, “You don’t know me.”

“So?” Dick asks, frustration coiling in his chest. It shouldn’t matter. Jason can do what he wants, and he’s right, they don’t know each other. But somehow it does matter, because somehow Dick likes hanging out with Jason, and somehow it matters that Jason knows this. “I didn’t know Bruce three years ago. He didn’t know me, and here we are.”

“I can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

Jason sets the control down, and reaches up to run a hand through his hair, looking unstable. Like Dick has just threatened to yank the rug from under Jason’s feet, and he now has to tread very, very carefully.

“Dick,” Jason says again, “I’m not staying. I can’t.”

“Then why are you even here in the first place?”

It’s not meant as an accusation, although as soon as the words leave Dick’s mouth he’s forced to admit they kind of sound like one. He just doesn’t get it, and Jason isn’t explaining, and it’s leaving him feeling prickly and defensive and unsure. And Dick isn’t an idiot; he’s been watching Jason, ever since he first stepped foot inside the manor. And despite what Jason says, despite his closed lips and vague words, Dick gets the feeling that Jason wants to tell him. And the more Dick nags, the more questions he asks, the closer Jason is to spilling.

But he doesn’t. He purses his lips, and then says, quietly and clearly, “I’m saving you. That’s all.”

“You still won’t say what you’re saving me from,” Dick says after a beat, but it’s half-hearted, and only earns him a sideways look. And maybe Dick should have been paying attention, maybe he shouldn’t have been pouting about being in danger (and the longer Jason stays silent, the longer that danger remains a mystery, the more dangerous and terrifying it becomes). Because the next second Jason swings out an arm and grabs Dick into a headlock, yanking him against his side.

“Hey, let go - !”

“Shut up, I’m proving a point, look how easily I just - OW! Fuck, goddammit -”

Dick drives his knee into Jason’s kidney, breaking free only for Jason to grab his ankle mid-flight, bringing him crashing back to the couch.

“I am not helpless! You want a fight, I’ll give you a fight! Winner gets to hold the bowl of popcorn!” Dick shouts, and rolls over, bringing a pillow with him to smack into Jason’s face.

“You’re on,” Jason growls, and proceeds to wrap the blanket around Dick’s legs, completely entangling them.

Five minutes later sees Dick wedged between the couch cushions, unable to move and gasping for breath as Jason literally sits on top of him, reveling in the hardwon win. And Dick might have been upset, except that there’s a small curl of excitement twisting through his chest, waking up and looking around and suggesting that maybe this is what it’s like to have a brother. Maybe dodging headlocks and having your face shoved into old leather is the price to be paid for ten o’clock sundaes and questionably completed homework.

And maybe Jason really can’t stay at the manor, but maybe he’s just being dramatic and maybe he can. Whatever the reason, Dick is going to find out why.

After movies and popcorn, of course.

Jason leaves ten minutes before Bruce gets home. Dick curls up under his blankets, pretending to sleep and listening as Jason rises from the beanbag, places his book quietly on Dick’s desk, and walks on silent feet to the door. There’s the click of the door handle, and then ten minutes of silence, and footsteps. Heavy and purposeful, and another click, and Dick doesn’t move, he doesn’t look, but he knows that it’s Bruce standing there, looking quietly in.

If Dick had had his way, the bed would be empty. If Jason hadn’t been there, Bruce might be panicking. But Dick is here, so Bruce only pauses for half a second, before closing the door again and heading down the hall to his own room.

More fool Bruce.

Dick sits up, pushing his blankets off and forgoing slippers in order to walk silently in sock-clad feet. He slips down the hall, checking doors and running silent as a shadow through the moon-lit darkness, all the way to the front door. There’s a toothpick wedged half an inch off the ground, right where Dick had stuck it three hours ago. Jason didn’t leave through the front, then. He checks all the other doors, all the windows in this wing of the manor, running from window to window and checking the sills for dust and the cracks for toothpicks. 

An hour later, and Dick comes to the vaguely thrilling conclusion that Jason never left. That Jason is still here, still on the grounds, still in the manor. He’s been checking the interior rooms as he goes, and so far there’s been nothing, but that doesn’t mean anything except that Dick hasn’t looked hard enough.

Thirty minutes, and it’s four thirty in the morning, and Dick is standing in Bruce’s office, staring with some trepidation at the old dysfunctional grandfather clock. There’s half a toothpick on the ground beside it, but Dick hadn’t expected anything less; he’s pretty sure that’s Bruce’s doing. What has his stomach twisting though, what has him wondering if maybe he should go get Bruce after all, is the position of the clock hands.

Bruce is a man of habit. He has a strict order for the world in which he lives, and there are certain things that he does every day like clockwork. Rise at ten, read the morning paper, work until eight. He breaks the habits intentionally and with forethought, or not at all. And one of his habits, one of the things he does that Dick had never really noticed before this exact second, is that he always resets the clock to the same time. Ten forty-seven to open, six thirteen to close. It will close on any time, and Dick certainly pays no heed to how he himself locks the clock, but everything Bruce does has a purpose, and looking at the clock now, Dick thinks he knows what that purpose might be. 

Because the clock isn’t locked to six thirteen. It’s locked to eleven twenty-seven, demonstrating a single hasty, careless turn of the knob. And Alfred isn’t here, and Dick hasn’t been to the cave since this morning, which means that Bruce should have been the last one out. Which means that the clock should be at six thirteen, but it’s not, which means that someone else has accessed (or tried to access) the cave since Bruce went to sleep at three.

Dick has a sinking feeling that that someone might be Jason.

I know you. I know Bruce. You don’t know me. It’s a riddle, and one Dick has been trying to find the answer to. And Dick is usually a pretty good judge of character, and Jason has attacked him, sure, he nearly strangled him that first day, and he seems insistent on being the gatekeeper of Dick’s confinement in the manor, but the uncomfortable gut feeling Dick gets in the presence of sketchy people is absent. Jason is a puzzle that Dick wants to solve, and even though he should tell him, even though he’s going to get hell for this, he doesn’t want to tell Bruce. Not yet.

Dick opens the clock, letting it slide silently along well-oiled hinges. He creeps down the stairs, listening to the soft shush of the river, looking at the way the dim light reflects off the slick rocks. The main lights are off, but the computer is on. A low voice carries through the air, distorted by the background noise and bouncing off the hard surfaces to create a strange echo.

He reaches the last stair, and pauses, staring up at the displays, at Jason, turning slowly back and forth as he lounges in the desk chair.

“- a million times, they’re asleep.”

Well. That’s a little embarrassing, because Dick is definitely not asleep.

On the screen is a map of Gotham, and it takes Dick a second to realize that it’s specifically Amusement Mile, and the surrounding neighborhoods. Two dots are blown up in the corner, each moving slowly through the streets. Trackers, Dick knows. Probably who Jason is talking to.

“Here me out. How about Timmy and I swap jobs, and I’ll take over interrogations. Pretty sure we’d have our answers by now.”

Looking for something, then. Something in Gotham, which may or may not have to do with Batman and Robin. 

“Yeah, but guess what would make him even safer? Killing the Joker and this Sauron wannabe and getting the hell out of here.”

It takes a minute for Dick to puzzle out this sentence, watching as one of the dots pauses, as Jason’s expression goes blank, and then drops into a fierce scowl. Dick is the one in danger, they’ve spent the last four nights establishing this. And it would appear that he’s in danger from the Joker, and someone going by the same name as the dark lord of Mordor. 

“So what?” Jason speaks up again, voice quiet in a way that speaks of barely held control. “So fucking what? To hell with the timeline, Replacement. We’re already saving one kid. Why not save another? Why not kill that fucking lunatic before he even has a chance - ”

Voices come, rising over the comms, unintelligible except for the fact that they’re loud enough to be heard from across the open cave. Jason is sitting up in the chair, back ramrod straight as he grips the armrests with white knuckled fists, lips pressing tight. In one sudden motion, he reaches up and rips the comm from his ear, tossing it to the table with a look like he might be sick. Another second, and then he raises his hands up, digging the palms into his eyes, mouth twisting in something that could have been misery, or exhaustion, or some combination of both.

Timeline, time travel, Dick thinks, frozen. I know you, you don’t know me. Someone from the future, from Dick’s future. Have stranger things happened? Not really. Time to get Bruce? Not yet. He unsticks his feet, moving silently to the left, to the cubbies lining the wall. There’s a bin of extra comms, and a quick look with binoculars tells Dick what channel Jason is using - or rather, ignoring.

He’s just sitting with his fists in his eyes, breathing.

Two minutes later, Dick has his own earpiece tuned and ready, and Jason finally sits up and puts the comm back in his ear. 

“I’m back.” 

“I’m sorry -”

“Shut the fuck up, Replacement, I’ve heard it a thousand times, I know . Now let the Demon Spawn speak, last I heard he actually had an idea.”

There’s a plan that revolves around saving Richard John Grayson. Saving Robin, saving Big Bird, saving the Golden Boy. Names get tossed around like leaves in a storm, but Dick is paying attention, he’s lining everything up in his head like Bruce taught him to, painting a picture that makes his breath stop in his lungs, that makes his fingers tingle and his vision go a little staticky around the edges.

They’re talking about the future. They’re talking about a villain from the future, who wants Dick dead, who wants to nip Robin in the bud. A master puppeteer pulling at the Joker’s strings, an idea slowly taking root: all Robins must die. Dick has watched Inception, he knows how these things go.

And he also realizes, as the hours tick by, that he knows these strangers. In some shining future, a someday he had thought impossible, there are people who care about him so deeply that they risk tearing apart the fabric of reality to keep him alive. People he must care about in equal measure, for any of this to make sense.

“Yeah, well big brother isn’t here, so I guess I’m stepping up. You guys get some sleep. Tomorrow night. We’ll catch him.”

Big brother.  

Father.

Home.

All words, all coming together. Dick pulls his knees to his chest, resting his chin and staring out at the cave without really seeing it. People he doesn’t know are risking their lives for him. It feels wrong, it goes against everything he’s ever told himself. He’s the one who’s supposed to be fighting, he’s the one with the skills and the training, he is the one who cares.

They’re going to use Damian as the bait. They’re going to put him in Robin’s colors, in Dick’s, and they’re going to send him out into the dark in Dick’s place. And he may sound like Alfred, he may speak with uncommon eloquence, but Dick knows (in no small part due to Jason’s initial protests) that Damian is no older than him. Damian is twelve, and Tim is older but not old enough, and Jason… behind the tense posture and sharp words, Jason looks scared.

They have a plan.

Dick has a better one.

Chapter Text

Dick is running away.

It feels different this time, it feels final in a way it never has before. There’s a pit in the bottom of his stomach, something that asks if this is it. If this is what he really wants, if this is how he wants to leave.

He sleeps through school, collecting five new detentions for each class. He goes to the principal's office, and they call Bruce, and he’s given a note to take home. It’s all very mundane, considering the world that’s racing away in Dick’s brain, the future he’s going to save.

Bruce picks him up at four thirty, sunglasses pulled over tired eyes as he offers a smile that only goes surface deep. What’s wrong with you? Dick can hear it as loud as if it had been screamed in his ear, but it’s not an accusation, it’s not a condemnation, it’s not disappointment in him. It’s a plea, a man out of his depth, and Dick wonders suddenly how he had never seen it before, why Jason had had to point it out to him in the first place.

“Sorry,” he says, and finds that for the first time, he really means it.

“We’ll talk about it when we get home,” Bruce says quietly, and Dick sinks down in his seat, watching as the Gotham skyline marches past the window, buildings like soldiers weary from war.

They have pizza for dinner, the frozen kind that always gives Alfred a slightly constipated expression. Bruce unwraps it and puts it in the oven, and then Dick sits down cross legged on the floor and watches through the glass door, wrapped in a blanket and ready for any sign of burning (neither he nor Bruce have the best track record for this sort of thing).

It’s warm, and despite all the naps Dick hadn’t actually gotten all that much sleep, and with Bruce at the table behind him, and with fifteen minutes left on the timer, Dick decides to close his eyes.

Between one blink and the next, there’s smoke drifting from the oven, and Bruce is shaking his shoulder, frantically waking him so he can move out of the way and they can salvage whatever is left of their dinner. Going from the amount of smoke, it’s burnt, but not unsalvageable.

“Do you want to tell me what happened today?” Bruce finally asks, scraping the charred crust away with his knife. Dick does the same, and shrugs. 

“Didn’t get enough sleep, I guess. It won’t happen again.”

“Dick. I want you to be happy. I want you to have a normal childhood -” 

Dick straightens, a scowl sweeping across his face. A) he’s not a child, B) if Bruce thinks he’s going to quit Robin, he’s got another thing coming, and C) -

Bruce holds up a hand. “Wait. Let me finish. I want you to have a normal childhood, as much as I can give you. That’s going to be hard, considering our extracurriculars. I enrolled you at Gotham Academy because at the time, I thought it was the best course of action. But if you’re struggling, if it isn’t working out - there are other options.”

Dick looks down at his plate, fingers curling around the edges. “I’m not stupid.”

“Look at me.”

Dick looks up. Bruce is sitting incredibly still, and when Dick meets his eyes, they’re steady and confident, and unforgiving.

“You are the most intelligent young man I have ever known,” Bruce says. “Not only are you ‘not stupid,’ Dick, you are smart. School isn’t for everyone. You need to learn, but it doesn’t need to be in the institutional sense. I attended GA, but I also had tutors growing up. We could see about doing the same for you, or I could organize a curriculum and you can homeschool. There’s no shame in that.”

“But doesn’t it feel like giving up?”

“Not if they gave up on you first.” Bruce gives him one last considering look, before his lips twitch up in a smile. “Did I ever tell you,” he says, “how I dropped out of Princeton?”

Dick goes down to the cave with Bruce, watching as he gets ready without him. Normally, he would be sulking about it, watching grumpily as Bruce donned Batman’s cape and cowl without him, but tonight is different. Tonight, it doesn’t matter because Dick has a plan.

Tonight, Dick is running away.

“Are you okay?” Bruce asks suddenly, and Dick realizes he’s been quiet for too long.

“Yeah. Of course. Just tired, that’s all.” It’s not a lie, not really.

Bruce stares at him from behind the cowl, half turned towards the Batmobile. There’s a hesitation there, something Dick has never seen before (or maybe never noticed), and it makes his skin prickle uneasily.

“Jim called,” Bruce says, after a beat of silence. “There’s a security issue at Arkham, the power went out for fifteen minutes. He wants me to check it out.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

“I will,” Bruce finally turns back, climbing into the Batmobile. Dick crosses his arms, fingers tucked up under his shoulders. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Dick nods, a sharp lie sending snakes crawling beneath his skin, and forces a small smile onto his face. And then Bruce leaves, pulled out of the cave in a cloud of dust and fine silt, and Dick relaxes, letting his arms drop to his sides.

In his right hand, the key to Robin’s case drops from his fingers, catching on the string and dangling next to his thigh. In his left hand is a crumpled piece of paper, a note carefully crafted and hastily written, an explanation for Jason should he come looking. Dick turns on his heel, pushing any doubt from his mind, and heads deeper into the cave, in the direction of his suit.

Dick runs away.

He slips out the south tower, down the dusty steps, through doors that haven’t been opened since Martha and Thomas were shot in Park Row. Maybe Jason will find his note, and see the scattered dust, and know where he’s gone. It’ll be too late by then.

He crosses the stonewall that divides their property from the Drakes, winding his way through the thinning trees until he reaches the road. There’s a bus stop at the corner, and he only has to wait a minute before it rolls up, doors sliding open with a soft hiss.

He pulls up his hood, curls up in a seat in the back, and pulls out his radio.

He tunes in to Jason’s panicking voice.

“- don’t know, must have gone out with Bruce, -”

“Shit, okay. We’ll just speed run the thing, then, it’s okay! Come back, there’s nothing you can do there.”

“Wait, no, there’s -” Jason’s voice chokes off into silence, and Dick watches the stops slide away on the display, the bus not stopping as it goes past empty stop after empty stop. No one is taking public transport at this time of night.

“Todd?”

“He left a goddamn note. He - fuck.”

It takes the entire ride from Bristol to Gotham for one of Dick’s brothers to spill the location of their trap. An abandoned theater on the edge of Otisburg and Amusement Mile. Not half a mile from Arkham. He’s starting to feel a little sick with a strange combination of guilt and dread, listening to Jason panic, to Tim strategize like their lives depend on it, and Damian’s silence. He doesn’t know if Damian is usually quiet, but tonight he says barely anything, only interrupting every now and then with clipped words to drag them all back on track. 

Dick thinks he can sympathize. He’s headed to his very own date with Death, and he doesn’t feel much like talking either. 

He finds the other boy perched on a rooftop, yellow cape blowing in the breeze, face unreadable beneath the mask.

Little brother, Dick thinks, and out of all of them, Dick thinks that with Damian it’s easiest to imagine. Perhaps because he actually could be younger, even now, even when they’re almost the same height, even when Dick must be so much older in the future. He can’t even imagine, and he kind of wants to ask what happens. What Dick does when he grows up, who he becomes. 

He’ll probably find out, one way or another. He has a promised future, a someday found in the hearts of strangers. 

Damian has no such someday to fall back on. He has no such future to reassure him.

Dick flips the switch on his jammer, and steps out into the open.

“Hey.”

Damian startles, whirling around. “You,” he says after a moment, and then, suspiciously, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You gonna rat me out?” Dick asks, keeping himself relaxed, taking another step forward. The key here is to create a false sense of security, pulling on trust gained over years Dick has yet to live.

Damian gives him a flat look. “I can’t. You’ve jammed the comms.”

Okay, well. True. Dick drifts a step closer, taking in this boy, this opponent. He’s taller than Dick, wiry and hard, skin dark and hair cropped close to his head. The suit is scarily accurate, even though it’s far from perfect, even though Dick can still spot the differences, the altered seams and the hastily painted colors. From a distance, Damian could pass as Robin. Up close, they look nothing alike. 

If the Joker has his wits about him, if Sauron is paying attention, they will know in a heartbeat that something is up. All the more reason why Dick’s plan is the superior one. 

“Sorry,” Dick offers, and then lies, “I was worried you’d call B.”

“Your worries were unfounded. I’m not a snitch.”

“Good. So, this is a little awkward, but - sorry.” 

Dick throws a batarang with his right hand, which Damian dodges, and then Dick lunges, reaching out and tackling his little brother to the ground. Damian is good. He moves fast, slipping out of Dick’s grasp and retaliating with quick, sharp motions. And Dick would have been out of his depth, he would have lost, except that he knows these moves. They’re moves Bruce taught him, moves he came up with on his own. Robins moves, and the League of Assassins’. 

Dick dodges a knife to the thigh, and he knows what comes next, which is why he’s able to avoid the nerve pinch aimed at his shoulder. And Damian seems to know his techniques as well, and they’re pretty evenly matched, until. Until Dick smiles, and Damian hesitates, and Dick does a quadruple backflip off the side of the building, catching himself neatly on the thin ledge. Damian’s concerned face appears an inch above his own, and quickly turns to shock as Dick shoots upward, knocking them both across the steel of the roof. And then it’s just a quick strike to the neck, and Dick is dragging a paralyzed Damian across the roof, stuffing him between two chimneys.

“I’m sorry, I can’t let you die,” Dick explains, as Damian looks up at him in utter betrayal. “I heard everything, I know what you’re doing. And I can’t let you. It’ll wear off in fifteen minutes, you’ll be safe here. And - wait, here.”

Dick reaches into one of his pockets, and pulls out a tracker, tapping it once to activate it before sticking it in Damian’s shirt. 

“There. Now Jason will be able to find you, you’ll be safe, don’t worry. And don’t worry about me. I’ll be safe too. I have to be, right?”

And Dick smiles, and betrayal bleeds to fear in Damian’s eyes as Dick takes a step back, a step away.

“Don’t be scared,” he whispers, even as his own heart grows louder in his ears, as he realizes that there’s no turning back now. “Please, please don’t be scared.” 

The Joker finds him ten minutes later. Dick spends the intervening time doing flips around the roof-top, flashing his cape and skipping along the ledge, standing in full view of the street below, and the buildings all around. He waves when a woman lifts her phone to take a picture, and offers a peace sign when a man stops on the street below, and stares. And then the roof access door opens with a dramatic bang behind him, and Dick turns to see the Joker swagger out, sickly grin baring rotten teeth.

“My my, my lucky days! Who could it be but the Boy Blunder? Someone wants you dead, Tweety Bird.”

“You gonna be the one to do it, Silvester?” Dick asks, jumping up onto the ledge, an inch away from falling. The Joker cackles, and Dick smiles weakly back.

Time to stall.

It works until it doesn’t. The Joker isn’t a fighter, he’s not nimble or spry or creative like Dick is, he isn’t chasing Dick. He’s watching him with hungry eyes, moving slowly, trading quips and jokes like they have all day. Like he knows Batman isn’t coming, and like he knows something Dick doesn’t.

“You know,” the Joker says, tracking Dick’s movements as he crosses the roof, following with slow, meandering steps. “We’d make a good team, you and I. We both want the same thing, we both want those happy red smiles.” He raises a finger and draws it across his throat in pantomime.

“No, thanks,” Dick says, eyeing the skyline. They should be here. Jason and Tim are on their way, Dick knows that they are. So where are they?

Maybe the trap worked. Maybe Sauron came as well, and even now Jason and Tim are fighting him, subduing him and completing their mission. Maybe Dick just needs to stall a little longer, and then they’ll come and -

There’s a click, and Dick’s eyes snap back, back to that grinning facade, to that crooked, lackadaisical posture; to the gun, pointed at his chest.

“Time to put on a show, I think,” the Joker says, steps purposeful as he strides forward, gun held with steady accuracy to rest at Dick’s temple. “Now be a good boy, put on a smile: you’re the star, after all.”

Dick doesn’t want to die. If he runs away, if he doesn’t play along, the Joker will shoot him in the head. If he goes, if he lets the Joker lead him away, he’ll die too.

Dick wonders, for the first time, if the future is not set in stone after all. He wonders if perhaps there are other universes, other timelines in which his brothers never come, in which his brothers fail, and Dick Grayson dies. He wonders if this is one of those universes, and if Jason’s timeline perhaps diverges from his own.

He wonders if tomorrow will ever come, and if he’ll be there to see it when it does. He wonders if tonight is his last, and what Bruce will do when he’s gone.

The others arrive just in time for his final act.

Dick stands on the platform, wobbling thirty feet in the air. It’s not the highest he’s ever been. It’s not the highest he’s ever leapt from, but looking down, he thinks it must be the surest he’s ever felt of his own mortality. Thirty feet in the air, hands bound, gag pulled tight against his cheeks. There’s a red grin painted across his lips and up his jaw, a mockery of mirth; Dick has never felt less like laughing.

The Joker is saying something over the microphone, but Dick can’t hear it over the pounding in his ears. This is it. This is what Jason had been trying to protect him from, this is Bruce’s worst nightmare. This is Dick, taking the fall for his little brother, saving a future he will never get to see. Saving a future that was never meant for him.

The Joker is speaking, but Dick isn’t listening. He’s looking down, looking out at the audience, where a lone man sits, watching the performance with shining violet eyes. Sauron, Dick knows, even as he catches a shadow creeping through the aisles. Tim. Another shadow moves through the rafters, only visible because Dick knows where to look. Damian. Moving swiftly towards the lamp burning and flickering over Dick’s head, casting him in wavering light.

On the stage, down and to the right, is Jason. On the stage, down and to the left, is the Joker. In Jason’s hand is a gun, and in the Joker’s a dead man’s switch.

And down, straight down, thirty feet down, is a kiddie pool filled with gasoline.

There’s a little rubber duck, bobbing in the corner.

Everything happens all at once, an explosion of movement choreographed to perfection. Tim tackles Sauron, bringing a fist to his temple and a knee to his gut. Jason shoots, bullet leaving its chamber with a percussive crack that Dick can feel in his bones. The Joker tumbles to the floor, hysterical laughter pouring from his lips as blood blossoms from his stomach. Damian catches the lamp by the tips of his fingers, reaching to catch Dick as well only to miss. The platform drops away beneath his feet, and Dick falls.

For two years, Haley’s had employed a shallow diver, a man who leapt every night from varying heights into a shallow pool of water. Dick had never found the act very exciting - flying was better than falling, and the act only ever lasted a second, whereas Dick could soar through the air for hours if he wanted to. But one hot summer day, outside of Austen, the man had asked Dick if he wanted to try, and Dick had said yes.

In less than two seconds, Dick doesn’t have the right form. In less than two seconds, all he can manage is to squeeze his eyes shut, clamp his teeth around the gag, and somehow twist himself into a halfway horizontal position. In less than two seconds, Dick hits the pool in a clumsy dive, skin going numb from the force of the impact.

He needs to move. Face down, and he needs to tuck his knees and sit up. The pool isn’t very deep, but he sinks anyway, the less buoyant gasoline seeming to suck him down, trapping him beneath its surface. He can’t open his eyes, he can’t open his mouth, he can’t move. For a long second, he can’t remember which way is up. But he’s face down on the bottom of the pool, hands bound, pressure on all sides and he can’t move -

Hands wrap around his arms, pulling him roughly up. 

He’s dumped unceremoniously on the ground, and then there are calloused hands on his face, a knife against his cheek, and the sodden gag is ripped away.

“Dick, c’mon, it’s okay, you’re okay!”

He can’t open his eyes. His skin is starting to prickle all over, and all he can smell is the overwhelming stench of gasoline. He can’t breathe, because if he breathes he’s as good as dead, he knows the dangers of inhaling even a small amount of gas. His brain is being quite helpful, listing all the signs and symptoms of death by intoxication.

Damian may have caught the lamp, but gasoline doesn’t need to combust to be lethal. Dick is pretty sure if he opens his eyes, if he allows himself to breathe in, he’s going to die. He’s also pretty sure if he doesn’t take a breath soon he’ll die anyway, which puts him at a bit of an impasse. 

It takes him a solid second to realize that he’s shaking, and once he’s noticed, it only seems to get worse. Probably shock, from all the broken bones. Because he must have broken bones, right? That’s what happens when people fall, flat splat down and dead - Dick knows what happens when people fall.

Arms pull him upright, Jason holding him up as his hands begin to move over his body, untying Dick’s hands and unclipping his armor. A second later there are running footsteps, and something wet is splashing against his face, making him flinch.

“It’s just water, we need to get you in a shower, I’m gonna fucking kill that shit piece of trash -”

Hands move over his eyes, different, finer, taking his face between them. “Dick. You can open your eyes now, it’s okay. Can you take a breath?”

Tim, Dick’s brain supplies, latching onto a voice he’s only ever heard over a comm link. He blinks his eyes open, lashes fluttering apart just as more water pours against his cheeks, running through his eyes and mixing with the tears and gasoline, washing it all away. Tim’s voice is gentle as he continues to speak, low and quiet in stark contrast to Jason’s sharp concern and Dick’s own struggling breaths.

He can’t stop shaking, he can’t start breathing. He’s going to die.

“Hey, easy - easy,” Tim says, kneeling in front of him as Jason supports him from behind, arms bracing on either side. “Just breathe with me, alright? You’re gonna be okay, you just - you need to breathe.”

His voice breaks at the end, and it occurs to Dick, distantly, that he’s not the only one who’s terrified right now. 

Jason continues peeling away his armor, and Tim holds his wrist in one hand, finger against his pulse. He reaches with his other hand to Dick’s face, keeping Dick’s soaked hair out of his eyes. Dick lets his vision tunnel to Tim’s chest, rising and falling slow and even, and tries to breathe, and not freak out about all the brain damage he’s inflicting by inhaling the sickly sweet scent.

By the time Damian appears with a moth-eaten costume for Dick to change into, Dick’s shaking has quieted to shivering, and he can breathe again. Damian stares at him for a solid two minutes as Dick continues to drip despondently onto the stage, and Jason and Tim have a hissed argument that involves the Joker, the timeline, and the mercy of hell. And then Jason hoists Dick onto his back, gives Tim a one-fingered salute, and marches out the door, leaving the younger boys to deal with Sauron and the Joker and the gasoline soaking slowly into the floor. 

Two blocks later, and they’re standing outside of some poor family practitioner’s house, and Jason is setting about to beat their door down.

“Go away, or I’m calling the cops!” the man yells, not opening the door.

It’s one o’clock in the morning, so Dick doesn’t really blame him.

“Open the damn door or I’m shooting out your knees and hanging your guts from the mailbox! Do I sound like I’m joking?”

Jason, obviously, has no such compassion. But Dick is starting to feel a little nauseous, so he just clings tight to Jason’s shoulders, and doesn’t say a word in protest.

The man opens the door, a resigned look on his face. No doubt he expects to be dealing with a member of the mob. Then his nose wrinkles at the smell, and his eyes find Dick, and he steps back, gesturing them inside with a slightly alarmed look. A second later Jason places Dick gently onto a table, and the man runs to find his wife.

“You’re not gonna die,” Jason says firmly, hugging Dick tight. Dick doesn’t protest, even though it hurts.

“I know,” he says instead, still shaky and trying not to be. “That’s - I know. I’m your brother, o-of course I won’t die.”

“You’re a fucking martyr and a suicidal piece of shit,” Jason snaps, temper flaring, and Dick winces. Yeah, he kind of deserves that. Jason doesn’t let go though, and if anything his grip seems to get tighter. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I had a better chance of survival than any of you,” Dick says quietly, because he did think this through. He’s not stupid, he’s not an idiot; he knows what he risks, every night he goes out dressed in his family’s legacy. He knew that there was at least one future in which he survived. He also knew that there was no such certainty for Damian.

Even if he had thought he might actually die. Even if he’s still not completely convinced he won’t, even if the nausea is only growing, even if he’s slowly, painfully becoming aware of just how clumsily he had stuck the landing. He had stuck it better than Damian ever could have.

“And anyway,” Dick says, watching as the woman - Dr. Hayem - runs into the room with a water bottle and yet another change of clothes. “Big brother privileges.”

“Gotta earn those,” Jason says, after a brief silence. “And you’ve still got a few years to go, short stack.”

Two hours later finds Dick showered, bandaged, and sucking on a lollipop outside Dr. Hayem’s house. He has five more in his pocket, and is wearing a fuzzy pair of cookie-monster pajamas, which he has a sneaking suspicion belong to one of Dr. Hayem’s children. He’s feeling less shaky, and at least a little less nauseous - although that could very well be simply that he’s feeling less overall. He had been given a pill of oxycodone to relieve the pain from a broken collarbone, bruised ribs, and dislocated shoulder, and everything has taken on a slightly blurred edge, both metaphorically and literally.

Thanks to Dick’s haggling, Jason is also in possession of a cherry flavored lollipop, which he has stuck absentmindedly in his cheek.

“Joker’s back in Arkham, getting patched up,” he says, squinting at his phone. “I hope he fucking dies. Sauron’s ready to go. Tim and Dami have him well secured, or so they say. And - ah. Perfect.”

Jason’s phone buzzes once, and he holds it to his ear, sending Dick a conspiratorial smirk before drawling, in a suddenly thick Alley accent, “Took you long enough, old man. One would almost think you didn’t care.”

Dick frowns, looking down at the fuzzy socks absolutely swamping his feet. They’re purple, and little bits of tinsel woven through the pattern make them glitter in the flickering light of the streetlamp.

“Yeah yeah, cool your jets, you’re not fooling anyone. And he’s fine, by the way. No thanks to you. Now how about two mil, and I can guarantee he’ll stay that way.”

“Wait,” Dick says, pushing through the soft edges as his brain struggles to catch up. “Was that a threat? Was that a ransom?”

Jason sends him a look, and then proceeds to completely ignore him, looking at his watch instead. “Fifteen minutes,” he says. “Any sooner, and you'll make me a liar. Any later… and I might just keep him for myself.”

“Jason,” Dick says, insistently, “who are you talking to?”

“Daddy dearest,” Jason says, snapping the phone shut. “What, you thought I’d just let him come home to an empty house? To that fucking note? I assure you, Dickhead, this is the far lesser evil.”

“He can’t make it here in fifteen minutes -”

“Course he can, he’s the Batman. He can make it here in five.”

“You said I was fine.”

Jason stares at him, taking the lollipop from his mouth. “And you are. You will be. Right?”

“Yeah, I… no… Jason…” It’s all coming together. The entire night crashing down and culminating in one grand finale. The Joker is locked away, the wizard is going back to the future, and Bruce is coming to get him. In just under fifteen minutes, Dick’s world is going to reset, their time run out, the hands on the stopwatch snapping back to zero.

“You saved me,” Dick says, looking up into Jason’s wary expression. “You didn’t let me die, and I didn’t really think you would, but there was still a moment when I thought I - I wasn’t gonna make it. And then you saved me, you did it, but the future’s not set in stone, not really. So why -” he knows the answer. He asks anyway, because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Why can’t you stay? Why can’t we be brothers now? We can explain it all to Bruce, he’ll understand -”

“Stop.” Jason reaches forward, pressing his fingers to Dick’s lips. “Dick, stop. I can’t. That’s why you came here tonight in the first place, isn’t it? To save us? To save our - to save your future? Guess who’s waiting for me back home, huh? You have all those years yet to come. I promise, we’ll see each other again.”

Dick presses his lips together, and looks down, nodding once. He knew, he knew it wouldn’t work, he knows why it has to be this way. It’s exactly what Jason had said, after all. Life isn’t fair. He just wishes it would give him a break, sometimes.

“I guess,” Dick says, voice coming out a little hollow. “I know. I - here.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out two more lollipops. “For Tim and Damian. Since I won’t see them again. And - if you can say thanks, and stay out of trouble, and it’s okay if they’re not the best at everything, a-and -”

And Jason is pulling him into a hug again, holding him tight and not saying anything. Just holding him as his words run out, and all he can do is try to be brave, and try to be mature, and try to understand why good things need to end.

“See you later, Big Bird,” Jason says, too soon. And then he’s gone, and Dick’s hands are empty, and a silver Audie is pulling up under the street light, the door opening as Bruce tumbles out.

It’s not fair that Dick needs to wait. It’s not fair that good things need to end so better things can begin. It’s not fair, but as Bruce comes to a stop before him, as Bruce wraps him in a hug of his own, Dick thinks it’s perhaps not the worst thing there is. 

He has Bruce. He has three little brothers to look forward to, and that, Dick knows, is worth the wait. 

“Did you know,” Jason announces, stalking into the lounge, “that you’re an emotionally manipulative jackass?”

“Did you know,” Dick replies, completely unphased, “that I love you too?”

“If you ever take the fall for me again, Richard, ” Damian says, marching in behind Jason with a fierce scowl, “I shall disinherit you and remove you entirely from my will.”

“We just got back from the past,” Tim explains, coming around to stand at Dick’s shoulder. “You were kinda cute, when you weren’t actively dying.”

“Oh,” Dick says, finally looking up as a large, goofy grin spreads across his face. “Right, that. Okay, I have been waiting years to say this: Jason, you’re a complete softy, and I’m never forgetting that. Tim, thanks for not actively trying to die, you’re officially my favorite. And Damian, you shouldn’t even have a will, you’re twelve. I will always take the fall for you.”

“But -”

“Nope! Big brother privileges activated.”

Damian snaps his mouth shut with a scowl, Jason’s left eye twitches, and Tim sighs in defeat. 

Yep. Definitely worth the wait.