Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hiya, Jay!” Dick announced, nearly drowned out by the rumble of his bike’s engine as it came to a screeching halt. From his spot at the lab tables Jason could hear as the engine cut off and the kickstand was deployed. 

His grip on the chemistry equipment tightened and he closed his eyes for a second, trying and failing to take a grounding breath. What kind of self-respecting member of society says ‘hiya’ to another sentient being? That shit should count as verbal assault. And Jason would know, he’s been yelled at plenty. Had Jason ever in either of his fucking lives ever indicated that he even for a second consented to hearing someone else use the word hiya? Let alone directed at him. If he had - which he highly fucking doubted - then add that to his ever-growing list of regrets and fuck ups. At the damn top. For fuck’s sake. His brother had many talents but shutting the fuck up for once in his goddamned life was not fucking one of them.

That’s not fair. Jason’s just stressed. Bad enough he was asking for help, bad enough it was from Bruce, but now Dick was here and making noise and being nice and - Fuck!

He couldn’t figure out who attacked these street kids and he hadn’t slept properly in days and Dick is here and all smiley and god fucking damn it was he ever not so god fucking damn annoy?

“Fuck! Shit! Fucking fuck! God fucking fuck!” The beaker in his hand, empty and too disposable to resist flew across the room and shattered on the cold damp rock. 

And, honestly, he felt a lot better afterward. Sometimes you just gotta break shit to manage overwhelming emotions. In a controlled and safe environment of course. Sometimes that shit a breaker and sometimes that shit is pedophile bones and sometimes that shit is the law. It really depends on circumstances and availability.  

The beaker was a worthy sacrifice because the next time Jason looked over at his brother, the urge to put him through a meat grinder was back to base level. Not zero, but base level.

“Feeling better?” Dick offered, finally getting off of the upgraded Wingcycle he cherished like a first born child. And - huh.

Jason watched with mild curiosity as Dick dismounted on the right side of his bike. 

Inclined towards honesty as he was, he responded with “Much.” 

“And what was that beaker guilty of?”

Acting as a conduit for the release of my mounting frustrations . “Bein’ annoying.”

“I better make my way inside before I become the next casualty then,” Dick commented, patting Jason on the shoulder as he passed on his way to the stairs.

It wasn’t that weird. Sure the left side of most motorcycles was best for dismount but there were several entirely plausible reasons why Dick would choose the right side. Never mind that dismounting on the left is standard practice in countries like the U.S. where driving on the right side of the road is standard. Never mind that, as with most motorcycles, the kickstand for the Wingcycle was on the left side meaning that when parked the whole machine leaned slightly to the left, making it difficult to dismount to the right. Never mind all of that because maybe Dick hurt his foot, or his leg, or his side. Maybe there’s a puddle of something or other to the left of where he parked. Maybe his shoe is malfunctioning. Maybe he’s preoccupied. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe something weird is going on.

[-]

It’s a few days after Thanksgiving, during that uncomfortable period where people with real jobs have to return to work despite the looming reprieve of the winter holidays. He doesn’t have that problem, obviously. One of the luxuries of being your own boss. He chooses his hours and his holidays - for the most part. Sometimes a phone call jolts him out of sleep or a gunshot off in the distance results in a last minute change of plans. 

But the hassle is worth it, most of the time. It affords him luxuries like this. Calm, relaxing days where existence didn’t feel quite as futile and the monsters and low-lifes of the world aren’t his problem, however temporarily. This should be one of those days. It’s not.

Sitting beside him, watching reruns of Golden Girls was his brother. Or something that looks like his brother. 

The room was dark, curtains drawn and blinds closed. The glow from the fancy flat-screen - his one indulgence - cast the inhabitants in an odd shifting glow mirroring the tones on screen. 

His hard-fought hope that the Lazarus fuel paranoia was once again taking over, had long since been squashed. It’s been too long, too consistent. 

He’s the crazy one in the family. Despite the insane and creepy stocking Tim is guilty of. Despite Bruce becoming a furry vigilante instead of processing his trauma. Despite Duke starting a gang war. 

One duffle bag full of questionably acquired severed heads and all of a sudden, you’re off your rocker.

Okay, he did a bit more than that. So, he’s the crazy one. He’s not the paranoid one. But he had no proof. Nothing concrete. Nothing tangible. Just the chill that bolts down his spine when he looks at Dick sometimes. Just the vague feeling of danger when Dick makes an unforecasted movement. 

He has reasons to trust his instincts and reasons to disregard them. It’s safest to be suspicious, to sound the alarm, but he’s only recently reconciled with the rest of the family. And even then, ‘reconciled’ is a generous description. 

They ask him for help on cases and offer help in return, but the invitation to Thanksgiving, delivered verbally and in person by Steph in the middle of a casual conversation, was unexpected.  He recited notable quotes from Wuthering Heights in his head to maintain his air of casual nonchalance. 

“If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years as I could in a day.”

“Heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth; and the angels were so angry that they flung me out into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights; where I woke sobbing for joy.”

“Treachery and violence are spears pointed at both ends; they wound those who resort to them worse than their enemies.”

He still doesn’t get along with Bruce - does anyone really? - but his relationships with the rest of the Bat Brood were slowly improving. Damian didn’t call him an interloper every time he showed up at the Manor. Steph would invite him on patrol. Cass brought him dinner every Saturday, but they weren’t around when Jason was truly wreaking havoc. His crazy now was nothing compared to his crazy then. 

Tim wasn’t his biggest fan and Jason was not expecting forgiveness. How could he? Sure he wasn’t in his right mind but he tried to murder Tim. Jason would be the world’s biggest hypocrite if he asked for leniency. 

Dick’s forgiveness was easier to earn, likely because he harbored a mass of misplaced guilt. Jason forgave Dick for the part he played in putting him in Arkham and Dick didn’t bring up the murders Jason committed while masquerading as Nightwing. 

It wasn’t a perfect relationship, both of them carried minor and major resentments that would rear their ugly heads in times of emotional distress and physical stress. But brotherhood has been built on worse things and they make each other better people. Or at least Jason hopes they do. Or did.

Whoever was sitting at the other end of his couch wasn’t making him a better person. He was making his skin crawl. 

Going up to everyone and announcing that he believed - with no real evidence - that their Golden Boy was .… something else. Probably wouldn’t go over well. Hell, if someone came up to him and started spouting something about Roy being a - that’s not the greatest example. If someone came up to him and started spouting something about Bruce being replaced by a thing he’d have them checked out, too.

And so he sat, about a couch cushion worth of distance between himself and the object of his suspicions, watching a beloved 80s sitcom and desperately trying to make his careful observance discrete. 

The timeless humor served as a decent if temporary distraction. 

“Can I ask a dumb question?”

“Better than anyone else I know.”

It reminded him of Tim. The way his humor tends to manifest as blunt and insulting. Jason wondered briefly when he started picking up on things that fondly remind him of Tim as opposed to violently reminding him of Bruce.

Really, that was his first step towards semi-recovery, realizing that, above all else, Bruce is the problem. Well, the main problem. Now he was having a more pressing issue.

Dick seemed normal. Or whatever was walking around in Dick’s skin was impressively good at being Dick Grayson. He moved like Dick. He spoke like Dick. He fought like Dick. 

Nothing in his appearance changed either, to Jason’s observation at least. His wardrobe was a crime against humanity, as always. His hair was perfect all of the time, much to Jason’s chagrin. The close shave he almost always sports, very nearly never letting even the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow show, remained impeccably maintained. Too impeccably if you ask Jason.

Even on days Jason was certain Dick hadn’t eaten or slept, overworking himself like someone’s paying him to do it, he remained clean shaven. The episodes of near mania his brother was prone to, too wrapped up in a case, too invested in a victim, still appeared at their regular frequency, but the stubble never returned and his breath remained minty fresh. Dick, who never took the time to perform even the most basic of self-care if  he felt the case was important (it always was), seemed to have learned to prioritize brushing his teeth and shaving his face overnight. Like he was trying too hard to perfect an image, to maintain a persona.

And yet the eyes that stared back at him when he stitched a particularly hard to reach wound, the hand that grasped his when the last remnants of calm threatened to evaporate from his being, were his brother’s.

But, the feeling won’t go away. It persisted through their sitcom marathon, it bleeds into patrol. It was consistent and brutal work, acting as if nothing was amiss. He’d slept on slitted, metal park benches more comfortable than his interactions with Dick. He was playing his part well, they both were.

Dick - whoever he was - didn’t suspect a thing as far as Jason could tell. And sometimes, when they were hanging out, or sparring, or analyzing evidence together, Jason wouldn’t suspect a thing either.

But the way Dick’s casual smile would tilt up just a little too sharply, the way he’d hesitate almost imperceptibly before vaulting between rooftops, would jolt Jason out of the trusting mindset he’d been gently lulled into. 

No one showed any signs of sharing Jason’s beliefs. Which should be reassuring. Theoretically, they should know Dick better than he does. But if he knows anything, anything at all about the Birds and the Bats, it’s that they are all fucking dense. 

The smartest dumbasses to inhabit the known universe. A combination so massively oxymoronic, a duo that juxtaposes itself with such intensity that everyday Jason wakes up and marvels at the fact that the sheer power of the paradox they create has yet to cause an inescapable blackhole.

Tim could notice the slightest detail during an autopsy but can’t tell when Steph’s been crying. Bruce could identify the slightest change in a suspect’s syntax but never manages to figure out why Dick is mad at him. Cas could read someone’s intentions, identify their next move, but often couldn’t figure out the why or the how. 

It wouldn’t be a stretch to think that a switch, especially one as expert as this, would go unnoticed. Truth be told, the longer it went on, the more certain he became, the more unreal it felt. Honestly, if his convictions were any less solid, Jason would doubt himself. He’s just as likely to miss something like this as the rest of them, especially with Dick.

Dick Grayson, the most independent codependent person Jason ever had the (dis)pleasure of meeting. No one questions when he goes no contact for a week or two. No one checks up on him like he does them. No one notices the slight changes in his behavior that could indicate a problem. Dick can handle himself. Dick is the best of them. He always has it together. He always knows what to do. He’s reliable, consistent. He always picks up when you call. Nothing is ever wrong with Dick Grayson.

Except now there was. Something was very wrong, and Jason was the only one who noticed. 

And yet he still had no fucking proof. 

[-]

It’s nothing because it has to be nothing. Jason’s final screw just came loose and is bouncing around his empty skull like the fucking DVD screen saver thingy. But he’s at the manor again and Dick is acting like Dick and no one else seems to think that anything is going on at all.

If anyone in their life would notice, anyone at all, it would be Alfred, but if he suspects anything he’s not showing it and Jason - Jason is fermenting in his unease. 

Because Dick only ate two of Alfred’s brownies, and given the competitions this recipe had allegedly won back in England, that’s a crime in and of itself. But Dick had the biggest sweet tooth out of all the Bat, how he maintained his physique was beyond even Jason’s reasoning. 

Dick eating only one brownie was unheard of, unthinkable. He always - always - ate at least four. As reliably as the sun rising in the east, as predictably as Alfred making breakfast or Tim reminding one of them that “coffee is made of water” when they nagged him about consistent hydration, Dick would inhale Alfred’s brownies like Adam talking his first fucking breath.

And Jason would know, he used to tease Dick relentlessly about it. The one crack in the perfect facade that the first Robin presented when Jason first arrived on scene. His horrendous diet.

But it wasn’t just the brownies and the motorcycle and the self care it was the way he held himself, so much like Dick Grayson, too much like Dick Grayson. It was the way he didn’t crack at all anymore. 

Gone were the microexpressions of malcontent when talking to Bruce. The nervous ticks he used to hide so well didn’t need to be hidden anymore, they were nowhere to be seen. Gone was the faint sadness he used to desperately reign in when looking at Jason.

Maybe that’s what tipped him off but not the others. The way Dick looked at Jason changed, the concealed regret, the emotion behind the emotion in his eyes and on his face was gone. Like it had never been there in the first place.

But it had been there. It had been there. Jason used to relish in it, in the early days of his second life. He used to poke and prod at it to see just how much he could make it fester. How guilty could Dick Grayson get?

He felt cruel for it now, but back then it felt so vindicating, so powerful. Then one day he met Dick’s eyes and that look was gone. Not healed because even that would leave remnants, even in the unlikely event that Dick finally forgave himself for what Jason never really blamed him for to begin with, there would still be a scar, a scab, something. 

It’s like whatever copied him only went two layers deep. 

It’s creepy, fucking terrifying, watching Dick do anything. 

Every hug now seemed like an excuse to hide his face. 

Taking an interest in their cases felt more like phishing for information. 

But nothing ever happened. Nothing came of it. Three months into whatever the hell was going on and Jason had nothing to show for his investigations. Everything continued as normal to the point where Jason was almost - almost - able to convince himself that it was all in his head. A manifestation of his PTSD and ultimate gamer fuel bath. 

But it nagged at him, wouldn’t let him rest. Every time he relaxed a new bit of behavior stood out to him. The way Dick was always on time. Jason couldn’t remember the last time he was even a little bit late. They’re all pretty punctual people, unwilling to bear the full force of Alfred’s disappointment, but you can’t control all circumstances. 

Sometimes he’d show up a couple of minutes late to patrol or stumble in a couple of minutes after everyone else at a family gathering. Or he used to. Now it was like he had a clock in his head, arriving at the exact agreed upon time, on the fucking dot. Never early, never late. 

Jason timed it more than once just to make sure he wasn’t blowing things out of proportion. Unsettling as it was to watch Dick show up just as the second hand met its mark, Jason couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit excited. It wasn’t much, it wasn’t anything at all really, but it was real. It was tangible. It was testable. It was repeatable. It was provable.

The excitement quickly gave way to apprehension and - Jason’s a big boy he could admit it - fear. Because it was real. It was tangible. It was testable. It was repeatable. It was provable. It was proof, however small, that whatever was walking around wearing his brother’s face wasn’t his brother. 

Someone, something, infiltrated their lives. Took over Dick Grayson, took over Nightwing, and jarring as that was, it really wasn’t as concerning as the elephant in the room.

Where the fuck is my brother?

Chapter Text

It was taunting him. It must have been. Because the more he looked the more he found and the more he found the sharper its grin appeared to be.

Making things worse for Jason - as the pattern long foretold - was Jason himself. Or rather, Jason’s cursedly overactive imagination. Scenario after fucking scenario played out in his mind’s theatre, each one more horrifying and depraved than the last.

From full-scale mental breaks to vivid images of his brother’s bloated body decomposing in an ugly dark place that smelled of damp dirt and rotting wood.

He couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t fucking do it anymore.

So, he kept doing it. Just kept going. Nothing changed but everything was different. Dick was the same as ever. Punctual and put together. Kind and understanding. As Dick Grayson as Dick Grayson has ever been. Really the only thing noticeably different was Jason. And people were starting to realize that. And by people he meant Roy and by ‘realize’ he meant confront him about it and by confront him about it he meant set a room temperature beer on the coffee table in front of Jason after breaking into his apartment without being invited and invading his personal space and personal time which he allows himself so little of already. He was already behind enough on The Bachelorette as it was. Why can’t he just get an hour of peace to find out who Rebekah chose? It fucking better not have been Marc. The guy’s a douche. 

Instead of snapping like he wanted to, he calmly - calmly - picked up the remote and turned the TV off. “Somethin’ goin’ on that couldn’t wait ‘til tomorrow?”

Roy brought his own cold beer to his lips, shrugging. "You got something on your mind.”

So, Jason wasn’t as subtle as he thought he was. Shocker. He was on the very of fucking spiraling. That didn’t mean he wanted to talk about it. Especially not to Roy with his gaslighting habit. Jason still didn’t know if it was on purpose or a product of his upbringing, but Roy could not admit when he was wrong and was incapable of changing his mind. Add that to his apparent prejudice against Dick - Jason didn’t ask and Roy didn’t tell - and Roy was quite literally the last person Jason wanted to talk to about this.

“Don’t know how you drink that shit,” Jason commented.

Roy chuckled. “We’re drinking the same shit, Jay.”

Frowning at the implication, Jason picked up his bottle. “Same shit different temperature. Cold beer is disgusting.”

“Sorry if I don’t take beer recommendations from a guy who likes his room temp. I’m pretty sure that’s a crime in most countries.”

“I’ll die on this fucking hill with an army or alone. I don’t give a shit.” Jason asserted. “Why are you here Roy?”

Roy set his condensating beer onto Jason's thrifted wooden coffee table without anything underneath it. “Who fucking raised you?” Jason admonished, lifting the bottle and sliding over a coaster and placing it back down. 

“Come on, Jay. You’ve been acting weird. We both know it. Care to share with the class.”

No, he would not. “No, I would not.”

Roy shook his head. “That’s fine. Just wanted to let you know you can. I’m here to talk when you decide to tell me why you got a second deadbolt for your front door, patrol at least an extra hour every night, and go to Wayne Manor exponentially more than a few months ago. No pressure, just sharing my observations.”

Jason was struck by the disturbing parallelism. Roy sitting next to him on his ratty old couch in front of his expensive flat screen, listing things he thinks are mildly out of character but not noticeably concerning. 

Like whatever was walking around wearing Dick’s skin and using Dick’s voice had projected all of its idiosyncrasies and inconsistencies onto Jason creating the ultimate camouflage by way of deflection. Dick Grayson was acting like Dick Grayson as he always did. Perfect and put together. Shiny and stunning from all angles. To be admired but never equaled, revered but never matched. While humble Jason Todd appeared to fall apart at the seams. Bit by bit the delicate facade of half-sane Jason Todd fell to pieces revealing the necrotized visage of what used to be a person.  

Was that the plan all along, to tear down what little Jason had painstakingly and exhaustively rebuilt? To steal from him what he most desperately clung to? 

The difference, stark and glaring was Roy, sitting in the armchair he’d moved to after they sunk into a comfortable but tumultuous silence. If the thing’s intent was to mirror its issues on to Jason it was failing in the most important aspect. Roy wasn’t afraid of Jason like Jason was of Dick . Hence the little intervention interrupting his Bachelorette catchup session. No matter how Jason’s newfound paranoia affected his habits, Jason’s smirk wasn’t a bit too sharp, and his eyes weren’t a layer too shallow. Jason Tood was still Jason Todd. He could not say the same about Dick Grayson.

And really what could it hurt? Either his suspicions are confirmed, and they go from there or nothing happens, and life moves on. Or Roy asks one too many questions, Jason starts blabbering incessantly recounting all his theories and worst-case scenario anxiety fuel thoughts until he’s fervidly reciting the plot of the cult classic movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers . And since Roy refused to watch a movie that predates The Goonies he’s gonna have no fucking idea what Jason is on about and rightfully conclude that Jason has lost the last of his already mostly depleted fucking marbles and then… and then… and then it’d be fucking bad. Badder than it already was. Badder? Worse. Worser? Fucking fuck, shit will be shit. God fucking dammit. 

But what could go wrong, really?

Roy could finally realize after all of Jason incoherent rambling and nonsensical bullshit that Jason is fucking crazy and should be institutionalized. Just not in Blackgate. Just not in Arkham. He’d go anywhere else. Just not there. Please, just not there.

But that’s all irrational. That’s his anxiety, paranoia, and insecurities coming together like Power Rangers to create an even more powerful pattern of cognitive distortions and disordered thinking. It was going to be fine. Shit was fine most of the time. And if Roy got a little too close for comfort, if his poise became even slightly too deliberate and his shoulder even the smallest bit more tense, then Jason could take him. Roy was faster, no contest, but Jason was stronger. Without his bow and tools, without the advantage of distance and vantage, Jason would come out the clear victor. 

He took another moment to feel regret, to revel in the carnivorous guilt that came with planning a defensive attack on one of his only friends. Truly one of the few people he trusted. It was two-fold, a double-edged sword. There was the idea of hurting Roy that left a deep ache in Jason’s chest. Made his lungs constrict and his anxiety spike. But along with that, riding in the impractical sidecar of his motorcycle of culpability was the ever present but never welcome belief that Roy - that anyone close to him - would inevitably betray him. That given the smallest of inclinations, the most modest of confirmation bias, that Roy wouldn’t hesitate to attack. That everyone he loves, everyone he trusts is just looking for a reason, just waiting for an excuse to reaffirm what they already know.

Jason is a ticking time bomb. One wrong move, one wrong word, away from blowing up a warehouse. From beating an innocent kid to death. 

But that won’t happen because none of his anxiety thoughts no matter how logical and entirely plausible ever truly come to fruition. But shit has happened that maybe the anxious ravings of an unsound mind could have prevented. Maybe if he was a bit more paranoid, a bit more anxious, a bit less rational then he wouldn’t be on life two of one. 

It was fine. Everything was fine. Roy was done with his beer. The TV was back on, but The Bachelorette was over. Roy looked just like he always does. He’s not going to attack and he’s not going to think Jason is crazy and he’s not going to deem Jason unworthy of forgiveness and undeserving of the company of good people and… and… and…

“Have you noticed anything odd about Dick recently?”

Roy shifted his focus from whatever TV program that Jason’s deteriorating thought process had automatically tuned out. “Whaddya mean?”

“I dunno. You think he’s been actin’ funny or somethin’?” Jason tried, taking a sip of the near full beer he’s abandoned on his coffee table.

“Only one I’ve seen acting funny is you, Jay. I don’t spend much time around Dick these days.”

Which is fair. Jason could count on one hand how many times he’d seen Dick and Roy - or Nightwing and Arsenal - in the same room in the last year or so and still have enough fingers left over to pick a socialite’s pocket. 

Still, it was neither assuring or unassuring. It was nothing at all except maybe fuel for the roaring fire of Jason’s consuming insanity. 

“I’m fine,” Jason lied. “Dealing with some shit.”

Roy didn’t respond. Jason didn’t elaborate. 

[-]

He went to Tim first. They aren’t on the best of terms. Their terms are pretty awful actually - understandably awful. But Jason’s options are limited, and he trusts Tim’s judgment more than most of his other options. 

Engaging in conversation with Bruce willingly would do irreparable damage to Jason’s quality of life, so that was out of the question. Cass and Steph don’t know Dick like Jason does. Sure, they know him, but Jason has seen their interactions. Steph and Cass know the Dick that Dick wants them to know, through no fault of their own and certainly not due to sexism on Dick’s part. They just joined the family at a different time, their experiences and situations vastly different than Jason and Tim’s. At least as far as Jason could tell.

Damian is a child. Absolutely not. Which left his options to Barbara, Tim, and Alfred. Something about going to Alfred felt off to Jason. Maybe because it felt like tattling or maybe because Jason could look into those eternally forgiving eyes without bearing the crushing weight of his guilt. Like 80 cubic feet of dirt on his chest.

Barbara was an option and really Jason hadn’t done all that much to alienate her, but shit, seeing her in what was probably the best wheelchair current Earth technology had to offer made him almost uncontrollably angry.

So, Tim. Hopefully. Maybe. If Tim doesn’t rightfully tell him to fuck off. If he walked away from this interaction without something heavy or sharp having been thrown at his head, then he’d count it as a win, regardless of the outcome. 

“We need to talk.”

Great start, Jason. Fucking brilliant. That wasn’t ominous or threatening at all. It’s not like you rehearsed this conversation in your head for a week before coming here so you wouldn’t fuck it up only to immediately and irrevocably fuck it up. That’d be madness. That’d be fucking crazy. No, certainly not. You just barged right the fuck in here and announced that you need like you're breaking up with a long-term partner because you got a new job offer in Toronto. Surely, he’s going to want to talk to you now. Fucking aces. 

Tim didn’t even turn from his laptop screen, “No.”

That’s fair. 

“It’s about Dick.” 

That got his attention. “What happened? Where is he?”

What did you do? Went unsaid but Jason definitely heard it. 

Jason sat down at the table, settling into his body and bones when Tim didn’t flinch away and made no move to leave. “He’s fine,” Jason reassured. “Well, okay. I don’t really know but he might be fine. He might also not be fine, but he could be fine.”

Tim shut his computer and gave Jason a look that he could totally decipher but chose to leave ambiguous. “Are you going to speak like a human being or am I going to sit here wondering what the hell you’re on about for the rest of this interaction?”

Again, fair. 

“Bear with me, please.” He wasn’t begging. He wouldn’t beg, but it was a close thing. So very close. Sitting now, in front of his only opportunity for understanding, his only perceivable chance of splitting the crushing burden he’d been just barely carrying on his own like Atlas suffering under the weight of Earth’s eternal sky. It was a damn near thing.

“I’m bearing,” was all Tim provided in return.

Jason would take it. He’d take anything at this point. The tiniest bit of compassion, of empathy, even if it wasn’t accompanied by agreement or concurrence. Just seeing Tim, who had every right to hate Jason just as much as Jason hated himself, with the slightest hint of intrigue and patience in his eyes, spurred Jason forward. This was the right decision. He was making the right decision. 

“Have you noticed him acting weird recently?” Very informative and specific, Jason. He’s going to know exactly what and who you’re talking about from your vague and mildly concerning question. 

“Dick’s been normal to me.”

Of course, Tim understood what he was saying. You came out and said it was about Dick. Jason can’t quite tell if Tim’s powers of perception and context clues are incredibly sharp at the moment or if it’s just Jason’s processing speed being bogged down by far too many open tabs. Probably both. It’s usually a bit of both.

“Yeah, it’s nothing big,” Jason conceded. “A bunch of small things, though. Been bugging me.”

Way to fucking downplay it. ‘Bugging you’, yeah and Agatha Christie was just a writer. Still, subtlety had its benefits. Jason didn't know what hell he’d do if Tim started freaking out. He didn’t know how he’d handle it if Tim brushed him off either. But that’s not going to happen. That can’t happen. It won’t happen.

The coffee that had magically appeared in Tim’s hands - shit Jason your powers of observation are un-fucking-paralleled - found its way back to the table. “I haven’t noticed anything noteworthy.”

That’s it. That’s what Jason needed to know. “Have you noticed anything unnoteworthy?”

Tim shifted back towards the table. “Is that a word? Unnoteworthy?”

He pulled his laptop open and typed in his password. Jason deliberately didn’t look. Not that it really mattered. Tim’s fingers always flew across the keyboard so fast they looked as though they were in multiple places at once. “Hold on. Let me check.”

Jason waited with patience he did not have. 

“Huh. Unnoteworthy ‘not noteworthy: unremarkable, commonplace’. Well, I can infer what it means. I just didn’t know it was an accepted application of the prefix ‘un’. My brain thinks it should be non-noteworthy rather than unnoteworthy but I’m far from the linguistic expert in the family. Maybe I should ask Dick. He’d probably know. Like how despite the rising popularity of the word snuck as a past tense of sneak it’s still frowned upon by some who insist that the more formal and outdated sneaked is the only correct form. I think most people just say not noteworthy although it may depend on the context.”

Jason was buffering. Information overload. 

That’s an interesting development. A couple of minutes around Tim and all of a sudden, Jason was using computer metaphors to describe his issues. God, his therapist would have a fucking field day with that. Something, something, computers are what Tim understands best, something, something. Desire for connection, something, something, brotherhood, something, something. He can practically hear the pen - he uses gel pens instead of ballpoint which is a crime if you as Jason - scratching incessantly across the lined notebook paper. 

Tim didn’t miss a beat. “Have you noticed anything unnoteworthy?” 

“A couple of things, yeah,” Jason admitted. “It’s been eating at me for a while. Ya know when you have one of those wild theories and you’re not sure why it’s right but it’s right? You know it’s right. It’s like that.” 

Jason resisted the urge to shift in his chair, swashing all the unconscious and conscious gestures that would broadcast his discomfort. Tim sat silently, waiting for him to continue. 

“I know you hate me, and that’s fair. I’m not asking for some kind of partnership here. I just need someone to listen. I gotta make sure I’m not losing my mind. You don’t have to believe me. Just please listen.”

Tim took a deep breath and Jason was seized by the sudden and all-encompassing fear that he was leaving. This was it. Jason was going to drive himself to the brink of sanity and not Dick will continue cavorting around in their brother’s clothes until it all came to head in a dramatic and deadly showdown resulting in mass casualties and irreversible fatalities. Or almost worse - or perhaps definitely worse - nothing would come of it and Jason would never find out what happened to the only person who would consistently give Jason the metaphorical time of day. 

Tim didn’t leave. Of course, he didn’t leave because he’s a better person than Jason ever had the chance to be. “I don’t hate you,” was very close to the last thing Jason expected to hear from his attempted murder victim’s mouth. 

Fucking great. You’re assuming the worst of people again. This is why none of your goddamned relationships never fucking last. Didn’t even give the kid a chance to talk before you’re accusing him of hating you. You’re killing it Todd. Fucking killing it. 

“I just don’t trust you,” Tim continued. “Don’t take it to heart, though. I don’t trust most people. As far as I’m concerned I’m already listening. You haven’t really told me anything yet.”

The kid looked so old for his age. While most people noticed his accomplishments, his demeanor, his intellect and dubbed him mature, wise beyond his years. But none of that shit mattered to Jason. Jason looked at Tim and saw the same bone weariness he used to see in the eyes of Crime Alley kids and reflected back at him from mosquito infested puddles on disrepaired asphalt. 

Jason felt sick knowing that, when proved correct, he would only be adding to Tim’s burdens.

First you go after him with a loaded gun and now you add more shit to his already sagging shoulders. No wonder the guy can’t fucking stand you. Why would he? Cherry on top of this shit pile aren’t you.

“I’ve just - there have been some things recently that I kept dismissing but altogether they’re kinda freaking me out. I’m worried about Dick. I think something bad may be going on.”

“Okay. Okay, I can’t promise I’ll believe you, but I’ll consider what you have to say,” Tim offered. 

“Thank you, I really - thank you.”

Tim made an acknowledging gesture and once again waited for Jason to elaborate.

“It started with -”

Tim started moving all at once, startling Jason almost enough to cause a visible reaction. “Wait, wait, wait. Sorry.” He was pulling something out of his back pocket. Before Jason could ask what it was or better yet why it was, Tim was speaking again. “Can I record this? I know it’s an odd ask, but despite popular belief the whole Manor isn’t bugged - you knew that - and I think whatever we’re about to get into could be really important.”

Jason did not know that. He’d never actually thought about it before, or maybe he did and just forgot somewhere in between his Ethiopian murder fun house and one-time use wooden suit. But he wouldn’t put it past Bruce to have the whole Manor in some sort of surveillance state, Big Brother style. 

“Uhh, sure,” he consented.

Jason heard a soft clank as the device made contact with the table. “Cool, thanks. Please continue.”

“It started with his bike. Well, it started before that, but his bike is what really got me thinking.”

Chapter Text

Tim, thank fuck, was just as confused as Jason was. “He got off his bike on the right side?”

“Saw it with my own damn eyes.”

“His bike,” Tim repeated. “The WingCycle? His pride and joy. His prized possession. His baby. The same bike he said he would ‘set the world ablaze while the weak apologize to their gods’ if so much as thought about touching it?”

“Yeah.”

“But he’s more likely to tip it over,” Tim commented.

“Yeah.”

Jason could practically see the neurons firing behind Tim’s eyes. “And every motorcyclist in the U.S. knows that maintaining a habit of getting dismounting on the left side can be a matter of life and death.”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

Tim pulled open his laptop, opening up what looked to Jason like a LibreOffice Doc, but was probably some high tech optimized system that Tim had sunk far too many hours into perfecting. “He could’ve hurt his hip. Or his knee was acting up again,” Tim suggested.

“He could’ve,” Jason conceded. 

“But you wouldn’t be here if that was it.”

Scratching on the floor above them briefly draws Jason’s attention. Probably Titus running after something Damian shouldn’t have been throwing in the Manor

He was struck by a vivid memory, old but newly uncovered. As he began the slow, uphill battle toward the start of recovery, more and more images, some flashes, some platinglike movies, would appear uninvited - not unwelcome - in his mind. Memories that, unlike the fragmented ones he clinged to as his motivation, as his anchor to humanity, weren’t tinted Disney villain green. This one, spurred on by the sound of a tennis ball bouncing on hardwood, was from his early days at the Manor. 

[-]

A vase that probably cost more than twelve-year-old Jason could sell his goddamned kidney for weebled and wobbled, teetered then totter, on the edge of its pedestal - that was probably also worth more than Jason’s malnourished organs. And he knows the thing is expensive because Mr. Wayne pronounced it as ‘väz’ which is rich people language for pointlessly expensive vase. Jason leaped for it with grace and agility Robin would be proud of (maybe) and with luck that could only be associated with Jason Peter Todd, he felt the smooth texture of the ugly ass antique decoration brush past his fingertips.

He only had a faction of a second to panic before loud crash reverberated across what sounded like the entire fucking Northern Hemisphere. Jason could practically hear museum curators around the globe having phantom chest pains.

His hand was bleeding. He couldn’t breathe. He’s only been there a few weeks and already he screwed everything up. Mr. Wayne was going to put him back on the streets, or worse, in juvie. God fucking damn it. Maybe Alfred will let him stuff his pockets full of food on his way out. The man’s a bleeding heart. 

A pair of heavy boots are bounding up the staircase. It sounded like thunder, it sounded like Robin Williams was about to yell something iconic that people will quote for decades to come. It sounded like the end of the only good thing Jason had, albeit accidentally, secured for himself. 

Jason was still laying on the floor surrounded by the broken shards of his future, and vase but honestly that's the least of his worries. Hopefully the street kids will let him back in. Hopefully Ms. Estelle at the bakery will still let him sweep the floors at night in exchange for the day-old food she was going to give him and the rest of the kids anyway. Really it's his fault for getting comfortable. He should have known better. He did know better. But Alfred let him eat as much or as little as he wanted and no one here made him ask to get a glass of water. He had his own bedroom and Mr. Wayne even let him close and lock the door. Nobody walked in on him while he was showering or propositioned him under the thin guise of a joke. 

It’s not that he let his guard down. He didn’t. But he was starting to sleep without waking up every few hours to make sure the door is still locked, and he actually suggested something when Alfred asked him what he wanted for dinner instead of his default ‘I’ll eat anything' response.

Hopefully, his rooftop penthouse with a million dollar view of the smog-filled Gotham sky - some people would kill for a place with that much natural light - wasn’t taken over by someone else. Mr. Wayne took him by to get his stuff two weeks ago so there wasn’t much left. He gave his blankets to Georgia, but she would give them back if he asked. 

It was probably fine. No one else knows how to get up there anyway. What if they took out the fire escape? Where’s he gonna sleep? Johnny might let him crash on his couch for a night or two if he has something to trade. Maybe Jason can nab some stuff from the Manor while he’s packing. Will Mr. Wayne give him a chance to pack? Most of the stuff he has was bought for him. But he lived without it before. He’ll be fine.

Jason learned pretty early in life that the less you have the less you want. Just a couple of weeks ago, that was his reality, his life. He didn’t have much of anything, but he didn’t want much of anything. He didn’t want a couch or a TV. He didn’t even want a house or a bed. He didn’t want fancy new clothes or a smartphone. He wanted dinner and maybe a nice pair of socks so he wouldn’t lose his toes come winter. But honestly he’d have settled for a mediocre pair of socks.

Now he was thinking about everything from the manor he wanted to take with him, the warm winter boots he would probably have to leave behind and the new episode of Doctor Who he’d probably never get to see.

The footsteps stopped, Jason didn’t  look up from the pool of thick, shiny blood he’d been praying would swallow him whole. 

“Jason!” Mr. Wayne shouted. 

Jason’s panic must have spiraled into delusion because he thought - just for one inconsequential second - that the man sounded concerned, maybe even scared.

But Jason had been around the black a few times. He knows how these things go. Just a few years prior he’d desperately searched for some inkling of care in Willis’ yelling. Sometimes through the haze of fear and fog of pain, he’d convince himself that he heard it. That there was genuine worry under the layers of anger. 

He wouldn’t fall for that again. He wouldn’t allow himself to believe that this wasn’t going to hell in a handbasket. 

“Alfred, get the medkit!” Mr. Wayne called down the hallway.

Is he gonna put the vase back together with bandaids?

“Jason, don’t move. I’m going to start picking up the shards, Alfred’s on his way to treat your hand.”

He didn’t respond. That would only get him in trouble. But not responding also got him in trouble. “Don’t fucking talk back to me!” but other times it was “Say something, you useless fuck!” 

Mr. Wayne hadn’t called him a useless fuck, Jason’s been on his best behavior. It was only a matter of time and if history and experience was anything to go by, the time was now.

He must have sat up at some point. The jagged pieces all swept up and out of sight. His attention zeros in on Alfred patching up his hand. He didn’t dare say anything for fear that the older man would stop. A cut like that, if not properly wrapped, would be a slow and painful infection and an even slower death back in Crime Alley. He should be grateful it's getting treated at all. He was grateful.

Except when Jason finally looked up it wasn’t Mr. Wayne looming over him, it was Dick Grayson. He was smiling in a sympathetic, concerned sort of way holding the sharp vase pieces in his bare hands. “Are you okay?” That was an ugly ass vase anyway.”

“Language, Master Richard,” Alfred chastised, looking up from Jason’s hand. With speed Jason would typically associate with someone less than half of Alfred’s age - although he learned in his brief few weeks at the manor - he leapt up to his feet. “Master Richard, what are you doing?”

Dick shrugged. “Pickin’ up the pieces,” he offered.

Alfred’s accent became thicker with concern and frustration. Not anger, never anger. “And you are holding them in your bare hand,” he observed,

Jason is equal parts worried about the subject change and relieved. Maybe they’ll forget about him and he can shove his stuff in a sack and make a run for it. If he was lucky they would track him down and try to make him work off his debt or some shit.

Dick became subject of Alfred’s grandfatherly fussings and Jason started to slip away very subtly if he did say so himself. Apparently not subtle enough because Dick called after him. “Jason!”

Caught, Jason turned around slowly waiting for the screaming to start. 

“Don’t worry about the vase. I broke a lot more than that my first year.”

And Jason was - Jason was - He felt -

He was sobbing. Embarrassingly shaking and heaving like fucking frothing chihuahua. God, the names Willis would call him if he were here. But he wasn’t here and no one was shouting at him or insulting him or throwing things, or teaching him ‘a lesson’. It’s just Dick  looking at him with too much empathy and understanding and Alfred, busying himself with clearing up the rest of the pieces. 

Jason slid down the wall lowering his head between his knees and trying desperately to take full breaths. Seconds passed and he didn’t get better. It was too much. Everything was too much. This was too much and the vase was too much and the Manor was too much and the clothes were too much and the bed was too soft and the drinks were too cold and the heater worked too well and his shoes were too comfortable and the floor was too clean and Jason was too much .

He heard, through his dramatic and infantile wailing, Dick sinking down beside him and Alfred shuffling away. 

Something about his presence beside him, silent and steady, helped Jason reign in his tantrum not quite controlling his breathing but the humiliating tears finally stopped. Dick didn’t say anything which was so much better and so much worse. He didn’t know how long they sat there, accompanied only by the sounds of the central air conditioning and Alfred in the kitchen downstairs.

Jason didn’t know much about Dick. He wasn’t at the Manor much and it seemed like he couldn’t care less about Jason. It wasn’t that Dick treated him badly, he didn’t really acknowledge him at all. Like they orbited the same star but thousands of miles apart. Dick Grayson was Earth, coveted and loved. Jason Todd was Pluto, far away and soon to be banished.

Jason figured he’d already embarrassed himself. Made himself look like a child and an idiot all at the same time. What’s one more immature statement to go along with the rest of his show? 

“I don’t wanna leave,” he admitted, curly up tighter into himself.

Dick shifted, turning to face him. “Leave?” he questioned.

“I like it here.”

“ I sure hope so,” Dick countered, “It’s your home.”

Jason resisted the urge to start sobbing again, just barely.

“Look I don’t know what’s going through your head right now, and I won’t pretend to, but I know transition like this is tough.” 

Jason felt something small and light being placed on his knee. 

“My number,” Dick said. “Call me if you ever need anything. Even if it’s just to get out of this place for a bit.”

He held his breath, unwilling to disturb Dick. This was the most the guy had ever spoken to him at one time.

“I’m not used to this older brother gig, and it’s gonna take me a while to get there,” he confessed. He paused and Jason had the briefest of seconds to panic before he continued. “Have I ever told you about my first week at the Manor?”

Jason didn’t answer. He had the feeling he didn’t need to. 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but all the chandeliers are reinforced and every bookcase is floor to ceiling.”

[-]

“ - that you noticed?”

“Huh?” Right, Tim was talking. They were talking. There’s shit going down.

The tiniest wrinkle formed between Tim’s eyebrows. “Lost you there for a second.”

“I, uhh, I was lost in thought. What were you saying?”

Jason felt a bit guilty for spacing out on him, especially with the weight of their subject matter and the fact that Jason had no right to ask anything of Tim. 

Tim, who if Jason didn’t know better would appear to have made a life’s work out of treating Jason better than he deserved, continued like Jason wasn’t a bit of an asshole. “I was asking about the other things you noticed.”

“I keep a list,” Jason revealed, pulling a yellow notepad out of the pocket of his cargo shorts. 

“Do you want to tell me or do you want me to read it?”

“I -” a stray neuron fired, derailing his already careening train of thought. What if something was walking around in Tim’s skin? Jason wouldn’t know, he barely knew the kid. Is he sitting in front of some sort of entity spilling all the information he gathered, all the cracks and flaws he noticed? 

He was such a fucking idiot. If they could get to Dick they could get to anybody, No one could be trusted. He could be small talking with the enemy right now, in close quarters, with minimal weapons and nowhere to run. Is he being farmed for information? Is that why Tim is being so nice?

He tried to murder the kid, more than once, for fucks sake. Is he really that compassionate, that empathetic that he can still be amicable? If the situation was reversed and Jason was sitting across from the Joker, he lose his fucking shit. Fuck forgiveness, fuck sympathy, fuck justice. Jason would run head first into revenge. 

But Jason isn’t exactly a reasonable baseline and it takes a special type of person to be Robin, a special type of understanding. Is that what Tim was doing? Being Robin?

Jason was spiraling, thoughts and images popping up in his brain in an incoherent order. This was bad. This was awful. God fucking damn it, why does this shit always happen to him? He feels old and naive at the same time. Like a child and an ancient being trapped in an ever-aching body. 

When he was younger, scraping by he used to think the world hated poor people, which he didn’t necessarily not believe now. But with his new found perspective on life, and thousands of hours of experience being a child and a maniac, a jester and a king, he learned for certain. The world fucking hates Jason Peter Todd.

He needed to get out of this conversation and needed to stay. This was his last resort and worst nightmare. He was the protagonist and the antagonist, had plot armor but was doomed by the narrative. 

Then it hit him. The question he should ask. Not for confirmation, anything anyone said could be a lie at any time, but for comfort. He could ask and he wouldn’t know for sure, but it would give him just enough hope that he could trust himself. And he wanted desperately to trust Tim.

“What was it?” Jason asked

“What was what?” Tim prompted.

“The unnoteworthy thing that you noticed,” he clarified.

There was only one right answer. Tim's response would determine what Jason did from here. A not insignificant part of him wanted to run, to hightail it out of there and live his own damn life. This wasn’t his problem, this wasn’t his responsibility. The only person he owes anything to in this life was himself. All other dents were paid when he was fit for his wooden tuxedo. 

Except a not insignificant part of him is sat against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest and ignoring the throbbing pain in his bandaged hand. A not insignificant part of him was listening to Dick recount the process of cleaning up a the carnage of a second expensive crystal chandelier 

He didn’t owe Dick anything but - but he couldn’t just leave him like this. He couldn’t leave Dick alone, crying against the wall.

Tim looked uncomfortable. “Does it matter?” he hedged.

“Why don’t you wanna tell me,” Jason pushed, his anxiety growing as he unconsciously poised himself to leave. 

“I -” he started then stopped. “You’re going to think it's dumb.”

Jason glanced down at his list barking out a laugh. “One of my notes is and I quote ‘shaves more than usual’ question mark, unquote. There’s not much you can say that I’m going to think is dumb.”

“Okay, maybe dumb is the wrong word. Asinine,” Tim corrected.

Jason sighed. “Please.”

Tim closed his eyes for a second, considering. “It’s - he just.”

Jason waited. This was it, the make it or break it moment. He felt his chest constrict and his breath shorten.

“His eyes are shallower.”

Jason’s chest collapsed in relief. “It’s like there’s a layer missing,” He finished.

Tim met his gaze, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape,“Yeah, exactly.”

It wasn’t proof. It wasn’t definitive. But it was something. It was everything. And it was nothing at all. Jason slid the yellow notepad across the table to Tim. “That’s everything I know.”

[-]

They sat there for a couple of hours tossing ideas back and forth. What should they do? Who should they trust? 

And while subject matter was heavy, and they were both scared and a bit on edge, Jason could almost pretend for a little bit at least, that he hadn’t spent the last several months in a state of mild panic and constant hypervigilance. 

Careful not to be lulled into a false sense of security but wise enough to embrace the lack of tension in his shoulders, Jason offered up the only solution he could conceive as viable. “We have to call in everybody.”

Tim startled. “Everyone? Is that a good idea?”

“We don’t know what we’re dealing with,” Jason reminded. “If this thing knows everything Dick knows, can do everything Dick can do…”

Tim nodded. “We need as many experts as possible. Bonus that most of them have superpowers.” He looked a bit nervous, like this was starting to weigh on him. 

The Jason of a few months ago would’ve felt vindicated. It’s awful isn’t it. It’s distracting and consuming. It’s terrifying. It  makes you want to pull out your guts to see if they’re real. That’s how I’ve been feeling for months. It’s been haunting me for months. A demon, a phantom, a poltergeist. Invading my dreams and my days. And none of you fucking noticed. Dick could be dead and none of you fucking noticed. 

But he didn’t feel any of that. Instead his chest hurt, his body taken over by persistent panic, juxtaposed by a calm sort of dissociation. He was Jason Todd and Jason Todd was in this situation and Jason Todd was handling this situation and Jason Todd was contributing to this conversation and creating a plan and Jason Todd was real and a person and exists. But he - he was Jason Todd - was also watching Jason Todd in this situation and Jason Todd handling the situation and Jason Todd contributing to the conversation and creating a plan. It was him and he was him. He was him within and he was him without.

Overly anxious and utterly unresponsive. Overactive and completely blank. It’s fine. He was fine.

“We should call a League meeting. Send out the transmissions like they’re from Batman to the core Leaguers,” Tim suggested.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I -”

Oh . Leaping up from his seat, Jason beelined for the nearest potted plant. He wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom or even the kitchen sink. What little lunch he’d eaten came back with a vengeance, burning his throat and nearly curing his headache.

Fuck, that was so much better. 

Tim was beside him holding a glass of water when his stomach stopped spasming. Jason nodded his thanks, grabbing the glass and swishing water around in his mouth before spitting it into the plant. He'd apologize to Alfred after Jason cleaned up and repotted the plant. He probably should have just puked on the floor. It would've been easier to just mop up.

Why do all of those people vomit in plants in the movies? It's not subtle and it's not easy clean up unless you remove the entire plant from the inhabited area. And even then, you still have to clean the plant and pot afterward.

“You good?” Tun asked. “All things considered, I mean,” he amended. 

Jason took a deep, chest expanding breath, his first in a long while. His hands were shaking, the smell of vomit was stinging his nose. “Much better, actually.” 

And he meant it. His head was clearer than it had been in weeks. They could do this. He wasn't alone anymore. “Let’s get this fucker.”

Chapter Text

Everything went exactly as expected. They made a plan. They executed the plan. Everything went to shit. 

To be fair Jason half expects everything to go to shit all of the time. Coupled with the lingering apprehension and the fact that anything Jason did was inevitably doomed to fail, he shouldn’t have been surprised.

But he was surprised. They made a plan. They executed the plan, and everything went to shit. 

Pervenimus. Vidimus. Nos futui cacas. 

Jason might as well have that tattooed across his ass. 

And really, he was coping with humor. And really it wasn’t the time or the place. Because everything was going to shit and Jason was scared. Jason was terrified. 

[-]

They arrived at the Watchtower before everyone else, which meant about an hour and a half before the designated meeting time. The waiting was killing Jason. The couple of months between his initial conversation with Tim and right now drug on and flew by in equal measure. 

In that time, he’d acquired the nasty habit of picking his nails which, he supposed, was better than biting them, but not by much. Several of his fingertips had flesh-toned band aids wrapped around the bloody and raw nail beds. It wouldn’t have been much of a problem except they rubbed against his gloves distractingly when he was trying to work. 

Even his newfound nervous habits didn’t calm his growing anxieties. Tim helped. Which just made him feel guilt. Guilt at his past self, guilt at his past mindset. It wasn’t his fault, but it was. He was angry, self-righteous but between those bouts of green-tinged hysteria, he was capable of rational thought. He could have done something, anything , to help himself. 

Or maybe he couldn’t have. His brain has a habit of looking at the past through the lens of the present. He could have done better then because he was better now and therefore, he’s always been better so he could have done better he just didn’t. It’s not true, the him of now isn’t the him he’s always been, it isn’t even the him of yesterday much less the him of years ago. But his hindsight is 20/70 and he can’t afford the therapy to fix it, so he settled for the alternative. Wallowing in his (mis)remembering of his teenage fugue state and feeling the odd sort of guilt and shame associated with things that are almost but not quite in your control, so very close yet so far from your sphere of influence. 

Tim was so kind to him, so understanding of his indiscretions. Jason wanted him to yell, to be angry and unforgiving like he was at first. But all traces of vindication were absent from his gaze as they planned and waited, observed and waited, recorded and waited.

And most awfully, the anger that is so often replaced with pity by time was instead followed by compassion and understanding, sometimes, in certain lights, in specific circumstances, forgiveness. 

It would’ve been too much for Jason, to see someone he wronged so wholly, someone he tried - and nearly succeeded - to murder , show him even the smallest amount of absolution, except most of the time the only vaguely complex thought he was capable of were winding anxieties and half-baked existential dreads. 

Because they needed a solid plan. Everything would be fucked if they didn’t have a good plan. But good plans took good planning and good planning took time. The one thing Bruce’s money couldn’t buy them.

Jason wasn’t sure how this was going to go, he wasn’t sure of much of anything. But something good came from the clusterfuck, something good came from them losing Dick, hopefully just for a bit but potentially forever. 

Jason got his first real experience being a big brother, and honestly, he was fucking terrible at it. But not terrible in it. He found it fitting that even Dick’s absence could bring people together. That dynamic field that pulled people towards him and towards each other left a uniting sucking void in its wake. 

It was hilarious in an ironic sort of way that Dick is there or whatever is pretending to be Dick was there. And yet so was the void, drawing Jason and Tim together in a bond initially formed of a shared goal but that evolved in the weeks of planning into a bond of brotherhood.

And now they’re waiting.

Bruce always arrived an hour early regardless of who was presenting or the topic at hand. He called it preparedness. Jason called it entitlement. Batman enjoyed lording his superiority over people in a way that rich, white, Bruce Wayne could certainly get away with but never dared exploit. 

Someone was probably on monitor duty, some third or fourth level Leaguers. They’d leave once everyone started arriving.

So, there they sat, Red Hood and Red Robin. Or, more accurately, Jason Todd and Tim Drake. No amount of kevlar, weapons, or masks could hide the undercurrents of fear that were entirely civilian. Not Red Robin and Red Hood worrying for Nightwing, but Tim Drake and Jason Todd worried for their brother, concerned for Dick Grayson. 

There wasn’t much to be done but wait for the others to arrive. Tim compiled what little evidence they had, Jason prepared to make a desperate plea to the League to believe them, to save his brother. Please, please, find his brother. 

It could work, it could fail, but Jason didn’t need them. He could use them, they were influential, intelligent, and powerful. Their assistance would be nearly invaluable, but he didn’t need them. Jason was going to find out where the fuck hos brother was and what the fuck had been walking around wearing his face whether they believed him or not, whether they helped or not.

Still, what little food he’d managed to eat that morning was rioting in his stomach. 

Tim was pacing. It wasn’t helping.

Tim was still pacing. It really wasn’t helping.

“Hey.”

He stopped. “Sorry, I just…”

“Yeah.”

“This is so…”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t think…”

“No.”

“And we’re going to…” 

“Yeah.”

He sat down next. “What if -”

“No.”

“I know, but what if -”

“No. We’re not doing that.”

“Yeah, okay.”

The silence was almost worse, leaving room for Jason to finish Tim’s thoughts in his own mind. What if they’re wrong? What if they fuck this up? What if the League thinks they’re crazy? What will Batman say?

Jason was beginning to think they should’ve gone with Plan B, or maybe Plan D. Definitely not Plan C. That was an awful plan. It was starting to look pretty good now, though. 

What little time they couldn’t but had to spare crawled and ran until right now. Right now, sitting in the WatchTower main conference room with Tim, who would say a seven word sentence to him a few months ago, but now leaned against his shoulder from comfort.

Waiting. Breathing. Thinking. Waiting. Breathing. Thinking.

Spiraling down a paranoia ridden, unproductive vortex of thought consisting of every worst case scenario his brian could conjure up.

Waiting. Breathing. Thinking. Waiting. Breathing. Thinking.

Maybe coming this early was a bad idea, but they couldn’t risk others arriving before them.

Waiting. Breathing. Thinking. Waiting. Breathing. Thinking.

Convincing himself that everything was going to be okay even though everything was most assuredly not going to be okay because everything that could go wrong will most definitely go wrong because God wasn’t real and the universe, if sentient, was fueled by spite alone.

Waiting. Breathing. Thinking. Waiting. Breathing. Thinking.

What were they going to do if things go bad? Are they walking into a deadly situation? Will the thing lord Dick’s life over them like a bargaining chip once confronted?

Waiting. Breathing. Thinking. Waiting. Breathing. Thinking.

Were they too late?

Waiting. Breathing. Thinking. Waiting. Breathing. Thinking.

Was Dick dead?

Waiting. Breathing. Thinking. Waiting. Breathing. Thinking.

Tim’s pacing was becoming more and more appealing.

Waiting. Breathing. Thinking. Waiting. Breathing. Thinking.

Batman arrived first. Striding right up to them, stopping two feet away to loom menacingly over them. 

The Robin inside Jason wanted to spill his guts, tell Batman everything that happened, everything that was going to happen, every thought, observation, and idea he had made since this whole shit show started. The Robin inside him also wanted to clam up and not tell Batman shit. There are two Robins inside you…

Jason didn’t know Tim as well as the other Bats, but he assumed the same thing was happening to him.

“Report.”

Poor kid never stood a chance.

That wasn’t fair. Any other time, any other situation, any other matter at hand, and Tim could lie with the best of them even to Bruce, even to Batman. But it wasn’t any other time, it was now. And it wasn’t any other situation, it was this one. And it wasn’t any other subject matter, it was Dick.

Jason was on the verge of admitting everything, himself, but he had anger to reign in his impulses. Tim didn’t harbor the same sort of resentment as Jason, didn’t have the same bitterness to fall back on in times like this.

“We’re worried about Nightwing.”

Great start.

“You called a Justice League meeting in my name because you’re worried about Nightwing?”

“It’s serious,” Red Robin defended. “We’re going to need all the help we can get.” 

“Tell me everything,” Batman demanded.

And Tim…didn’t.

Jason watched in utter fascination as Tim spun a web of truths, half-truths, and outright lies, keeping the Dark Knight occupied until other members started arriving, captivating his attention so he couldn’t ask any questions. 

“This does not necessitate a League meeting.”

Speaking up for the first time since the Bat showed up, Jason tacked on an ominous “It will,” as Superman and Wonder Woman filed in. 

Jason watched, Tim unmoving next to him as each invitee walked from the direction of the Zeta into the conference room and took their place at the table. Batman, then Superman and Wonder Woman. Black Canary and Green Arrow followed by Aquaman. Martian Manhunter strode in with Green Lantern shortly after. 

Everyone settled in, exchanging greetings and pleasantries, none of them acknowledging Red Robin or Red Hood, likely not even noticing them as Batman always cleared the room before the briefings. 

Flash stumbled in at designated arrival time on-the-dot. Tim leaned over and revealed in a hushed voice, “Gave him a time five minutes before everyone else.”

Despite everything, it made Jason smile, just a bit. 

“Why are we here, Spooky?” Hal piped up. “Had to cancel something important for this.”

Batman glared at him from under the cowl. Jason could recognize that look better than anyone. “I didn’t call this meeting.”

“Really,” Lantern countered, “Cause you sent the transmissions.”

Batman turned, looking at Jason and Tim. 

Red Robin bolted upright and shuffled toward the computers. “We - we, uhh. It’s -”

“Nightwing needs your help,” Jason supplied. 

Every pair of eyes in the room came to rest on Red Hood, attention rapt. 

That’ll do it. If anything can capture the attention of a whole room, it’s Nightwing, even the mere mention of him.

“We don’t have a lot to go on,” he continued, “but we have enough to warrant concern.”

He nodded at Tim. This wasn’t the plan. Tim was supposed to do the presenting part and Jason was supposed to do the staying out of the way and backing up the wild claims part. 

Tim understood, thank fuck, and sent out the info-dumps they’d collected to the tablets in front of each person present. 

“This is -”

Locked doors sprung open, revealing Nightwing as everyone jumped to their feet. “Heard there’s a party going on that no one bothered to invite me to. I feel like Maleficent. Anyone have any innocent babies I can curse with awful fates?”

“Nightwing,” Batman spoke. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Oh, I think it does. I think it really does.”

Jason leapt into action, partially on instinct and almost entirely because after all this time he was just a few inches from the end of his rope.

“Who the fuck are you?! Where’s my brother?” Jason demanded, gun positioned to put a bullet between Dick’s eyes.

“Woah,” Dick said, bringing his hands up in a mock surrender. “No need to 

Something in his body language shifted. From distinctly Dick Grayson to distinctly not .

But Dick, their Dick, could still be in there. That could be Dick’s body hosting something, being a vessel for something else’s consciousness. Which meant the bullet, the real, lead, lethal bullet nestled in the chamber of his custom Jericho 941 would kill whatever was left of their Dick.

It had been so long since he’s pointed a deadly weapon at Dick with any intention of putting it to use. He wasn’t even sure if - if it really came down to it - he could even pull the trigger. Jason Todd a few years ago, Jason Todd a mere few months ago, before all of this, before the paranoia and the searching and the avoiding and the eyes just a layer too shallow, would have pulled the trigger if necessary.

It’s what Dick, their Dick, would want, to be put down before he could hurt anyone. Jason was sure of that. He wasn’t sure of much, he couldn’t be, not anymore, but he knew that. Like he knew Pride and Prejudice , like he knew the moon landing was fake, like he knew Brucie Wayne was closer to the real Bruce Wayne than Batman would ever be, like he knew Earth’s sky was blue, and the planet was round. He knew... he knew .

And the Jason Todd of last year, maybe even the Jason Todd of last month could respect that, would respect that, did respect that. But the Jason Todd of now, the Jason Todd looking at what might be his brother’s hijacked corpse wanted to drop the gun, wanted to apologize and beg - beg - that the thing give his brother back.

His distress wasn’t on his face, wasn’t visible in his body, he was too well trained for that, to perfect at imitating apathy, at imitating anger, at pretending. It made no difference. Not to it . 

A nearly manic grin split Dick’s across face, out of place on a man known for being calm and collected. A la-ugh bubbled up from his chest, echoing through the sleek expanse of the WatchTower. 

He moved to cross his arms over his chest, the jarring smiling replaced by a smug grin. Gone as quickly as it arrived. 

“Don’t move,” Batman demanded. “Hood, put the gun down. Superman, subdue Nightwing.”

“Like hell,” Jason snapped. “Who the fuck are you?! Where’s my brother?”

Despite the obvious threat Dick continued the motion he’d started, crossing his arms, covering the bright blue symbol emblazoned on his suit. The smirk teetered back into manic territory as he said “Man I’ve been wearing this face for so long. I thought you guys would never catch up.”

Jason’s grip on his gun faltered but his aim stayed true. He felt like a child, threatening Gotham’s elusive and dangerous Dark Knight with a tire iron. “What?”

“They’ll let you in anywhere with this guy's face on,” Dick elaborated. “I bet I could walk into the fucking White House with a loaded shotgun and the Serect Service would be all ‘right this way, sir’.” 

Jason heard Superman mutter something as Flash took a step back. “What did you do to him?”

It smiled, a kind, disarming, nearly - nearly - Dick Grayson smile. “What did I do to him?” It echoed. “What did you do to him?”

Jason worked to keep his breathing even, to keep the gun in his hand from shaking, “Don’t play mind games with me, you fucker. Where the hell is my brother?”

Batman stepped up next to him, “Hood.” An order. 

Fuck your goddamn order, old man.

“Where the fuck is my brother?”

Dick stalked forward, a grin splitting his face once again. “Two years and you're just now asking that? I don’t know Jason , where is your brother?”

“Superman,” Batman grunted. 

The Man of Steel approached the confrontation, slowly, palms out in an attempt to appear as less of a threat. “I’m not quite sure what’s going on here,” he admitted, all traces of Clark Kent’s Oklahoma drawl tucked away into a generic American accent. 

“What’s going on?” It mocked. “What’s going on is I’ve been parading around as everyone’s favorite hero for two years and these fellas just pulled their heads out of their asses far enough to notice. Well,” Dick gestured toward Batman, “not him. Mr. World’s Greatest Detective wouldn’t notice something off with little Dickie Grayson if he was told outright, wouldn’t approach an emotional situation with a hazmat suit on.”

“Two years?” Flash questioned. Jason, not taking his eyes off of it , caught a glimpse of the small area of Flash’s face not covered by his cowl, white as a sheet.

“Two fucking years,” It confirmed. “Been walking around all chummy with you guys for two years. Never thought it would last this long and I won’t take all the credit.” Dick put on a theatrical voice, slowing his cadence, “He’s just so easy to play.

“I mean all you gotta do is not give a shit about yourself, answer every damn phone call no matter what time it is, always say ‘yes’, and bam! I’ve got all you fooled. It’d be pretty sad if I didn’t find it so damn funny.”

Jason was - Jason was losing it, unwilling to take his eyes off of Dick but desperately wanting to glance over at Tim, just to make sure he was still there. The rapid click-clack of computer keys was reassuring in a way that slowed his heartbeat just slightly but did nothing for his nearly shaking hands. 

He homed in on the sound, if only for a second. The sound that had to toggled on with the state-of-the-art Wayne Tech keyboard projections the WatchTower was equipped with. Tim likes the noise, found it soothing to his busy mind. 

So, Tim was at the monitors, doing something. No doubt it was genius and helpful but that’s not what stuck out to Jason. As long as he could hear that rhythmic click-clack then Tim was okay. Jason hadn’t realized just how much he needed to know that. 

The distinct but nearly indistinguishable sounds of the WatchTower entering a stealth lockdown. Likely Tim’s work.

This wasn’t the plan, nothing was going to plan. They wasted so much time coming up with and deciding on this plan and nothing was going right.

How did it know? Why was it here?

Was their behavior that obvious? Was it suspicious that Tim and Jason were hanging out so much? They were so careful, so intent on covering their tracks and drawing no attention. Maybe that’s what gave them away.

“What the hell does that mean?” Jason demanded although he felt that it came across a lot more like a plea. 

The thing smiled again, a mocking sort of grin that looked so out of place of Dick’s face. Jason was suddenly struck by the idea that perhaps it was stuck in there with them, but they were also trapped in there with it . 

“Surrender,” came Batman’s booming voice “and we will -”

Laughter echoed off the walls, filling the tense air. 

Jason’s shoulders ratcheted up in an instinctual response. It was a reflex that had long since been trained out of him, or it should have been. 

But really what could have prepared him for this? 

It was - he was - what? 

The gun in his hand, always steady and reliable, was shaking now, nearly rattling. 

It’s not - they hadn't planned for this. Why hadn’t they planned for this?

Was it obvious? Looking back, it should have been obvious, but it wasn’t. It still wasn’t. 

Jason had no fucking idea what was going on.

He was sure Superman could hear the rapid beat of his heart with little effort, because that was almost all Jason could hear in his ears. The laughter and the thumping. Beating so fast it hurt his chest.

His thoughts were coming out in quick succession with little to no coherence. Just bot and pieces of and screaming and laughing and - was he breathing? He was supposed to do that. Breathing is important, breathing is good. Was he having a heart attack? This felt like a heart attack. 

God fucking fuck. Why hadn’t they seen it? Shortsightedness? Fear? Anger? 

It just - it was - 

He felt like crying. Was he already crying? He might’ve been. It should be embarrassing. It wasn’t.

Because Dick wasn’t laughing. Batman was. He was laughing. 

What felt like hours of panic and full-body terror must have been mere seconds because he was still laughing.

“I’m sorry you guys,” Batman said. “I just couldn’t keep it together.”

Superman broke out into a boisterous laugh in an odd sort of imitation of Batman. “His face,” he commented.

“Tim?” Jason questioned, voice trembling just enough to be incredibly noticeable. He couldn’t find the spare brain power to give a shit.

“What’s going on, Jay?”

Flash was beside Jason from one heart beat to the next, which was really saying something considering Jason’s heart was about to escape his chest and run around the conference room floor. 

“Hood, what the fuck is going on?” Wally asked, sounding far more worried than he was likely intending to appear. 

“Aw fuck,” Canary exclaimed. “We forgot that one.”

Jason, what the fuck is going on?” Flash repeated, looking between Jason, Tim, and Nightwing.

Green Arrow interjected for the first time, jeering, “Yeah Jason, what’s going on?”

“Poor guy doesn’t know.”

The others burst out laughing, like it was a really funny joke. Only Jason, Wally, and Tim are left silent.

“Why are they laughing?” 

Why are they laughing?