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“Tim,” Dick complains, jerking away from the toes sliding between his left thigh and the couch. He grabs Tim’s feet instead, lifting them, sock-clad, onto his lap and rubbing them with a blanket, like he can force warmth into the freezing digits. “Have you been swimming in ice water?”
Tim doesn’t seem bothered by Dick’s concern or ministrations, shifting into a slant of throw pillows so Dick has a better angle, offering an obligatory “Sorry.”
“Shh!” Stephanie, sprawled on the nest of blankets cast across the floor, throws a piece of popcorn at Dick’s head. He shifts to catch it in his mouth and juts his tongue out in Steph's direction. The girl scowls.
Damian, slumped against Dick’s side, makes a disgruntled noise at all the movement. “Cease this mindless wiggling, Grayson.”
And now Dick's mumbling an apology as he curls an arm around Damian’s shoulder and tries to guide him back to his side. "Sorry, sorry." Damian grudgingly nuzzles closer.
On the floor, the unrest has spread, causing the rest of the family to start fidgeting and bickering. Stephanie’s throws vengeful popcorn at Dick, which knocks some of the bowl into Duke’s lap, and his shifting to find all of the kernels has Jason rolling his eyes and reaching over to help, which disturbs Cass where her head is resting on his thigh. There’s a moment of grumbling and moving where absolutely no one is watching the screen until finally Cass grabs hold of where Stephanie’s arm is pulled back, prepared to chuck some more salty projectiles.
“Movie,” Cass says. “Quiet.”
With that, everyone settles. Tim’s feet no longer feel like dead fish resting on his lap, but Dick continues to press long lines into the soles, trying to smooth out some of the tension. There’s a lot of it.
Ten minutes later, one of Dick’s hands is resting on Tim’s calves, his other arm wrapped around Damian. Both of his little brother’s bodies are warm and comfortable beside him, but there’s a warmth behind his ribcage too. They don’t usually get this—evenings off where no one’s injured or busy. And sure, they’re watching one of the lamest mobster crime movies of the decade—but mindless television, aside, Dick’s happy.
And then, of course, things go sideways.
One moment there’s a man tied up on screen, arms lashed to chair arms and bound feet kicking, and the next, there’s someone delivering punch after punch to his face. A kick to the chest. The violence is standard—Dick sees worse nightly.
And then that someone gets passed something long, thin, and metal.
A crowbar.
Dick feels the warmth in his chest flair, running through his veins like lava, clogging up his throat in a molten gag. He stills. There’s a snapping crunch as the crowbar caves the man’s nose, and then shatters kneecaps, and sinks through flesh to vital organs, pressing and popping damage wherever it lands. Over and over.
The kind of silence that falls over the room is deeper than Cass’s requested quiet. It smothers ears like fog, creeping and blurring. No one speaks, no one moves. The only noise comes from the movie as the man screams and shouts and roars. Blood is running down his face. Eventually, an inhuman gurgle squeezes out of his throat, and the chair breaks.
He lays on the floor, bloody and broken.
The crowbar continues.
It’s Dick who moves first. He nudge’s Tim’s feet back and carefully pulls his arm away from Damian’s shoulders. Tim sits up, primed to move, but even as Dick stands he’s guiding Damian to lay against Tim, which probably won’t last, but does enough to see both of them remain on the couch as Dick traverses the mess of pillows and people littering the rug. It only takes him a moment, but that moment is too long.
Jason shoots to his feet as the movie goes black, Cass’s hand on the remote. His face is drawn carefully blank.
He leaves the room.
“Jason—” Stephanie calls after him, but Cass’s hand falls on her arm.
“Shh,” Cass says. Her gaze tips in Dick’s direction. “Big brother’s job.”
Dick spares her a nod. The last thing Jason would want is a parade of people, most of them the closest things he has to younger siblings, chasing after him. The last thing he would want is anyone chasing after him right now—but Dick can’t just let him go. He trusts Cass to keep the others contained and heads after his little brother.
He catches up with Jason in the cave. He’s already standing beside his bike, jerking a jacket over his sweats and reaching for his helmet.
“Jason!” Dick says, hurrying over.
But Jason has the helmet on now, one leg being swung over the bike. “Not now, Dick-head.”
“Little Wing,” Dick says, one hand dropping protectively over the belt’s handlebars, his other rising to lay on Jason’s shoulder.
Jason jerks away. “You can’t stop me from leaving.”
And the helmet’s modulator is distorting his voice, and hiding his expression. But Dick can read the tension on his body like a book. “Just give me a minute, okay?”
And a couple of months ago, Jason wouldn’t have. He would have started up the bike and peeled out of here. Hell, a couple of months ago, Jason might not have joined them for movie night. But he’s here now. And Dick refuses to let him leave. Not now, not like this.
Jason is frozen, straddling the bike, chest rising and falling with an exertion he hasn’t had. He doesn’t say anything.
So Dick does. “C’mere,” he says, hand back on Jason’s shoulder, tugging him away from the vehicle.
Jason’s head tilts to look at the stairway. Dick shakes his head. “The other’s aren’t coming—Cass is watching them.”
Jason huffs, but some of the tension in him fades.
“C’mon,” Dick coaxes, and this time, when he pulls, Jason comes. He gets off the bike, a little shakier than Dick expected. He keeps an arm on Jason, leading him to the closest seat, the chair at the Batcomputer. “Sit down.”
Jason drops into the chair with so little fight it honestly make’s Dick more concerned. Jason is nothing if not full of contention for anything and everything he can come up with. He should be threatening bodily harm and shifting back and making this a whole lot more of a battle. But he’s not. He’s just sitting there with fast, hoarse breaths scraping through the helmet, muscles taut, his head dropping to press into his hands.
Dick swallows down a lump of concern.
“Here,” he says, and deftly presses the buttons and pressure plates he needs to pull the helmet free without setting off any rigged explosion. A couple of months ago, he wouldn’t have known how. But now, the helmet comes off without incident.
Jason glances up at him. His eyes are red, his face pale, his lips white. Without the helmet, his breath is quieter, but still short and quick. Dick kneels down at his side, hand resting on his knee.
“Dick,” Jason says. “Go away.”
“I’m not leaving you alone right now, Jay.”
Jason leans over himself, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine—just….”
“Of course you’re going to be fine,” Dick says. “You are fine.”
Jason shakes his head. “I can’t—it wasn’t me, Dick.”
“It wasn’t,” Dick agrees.
“It was just a fucking movie.” Jason wraps his arms around himself, the cadence of his breathing still uneven and quick and concerning. “I shouldn’t be—It shouldn’t matter to me.”
“It’s okay,” Dick says.
“He just—it sounded the same.”
And if that doesn’t feel like a knife to the gut. Dick swallows down the bundle of feeling that rises in his throat—grief, and anger, and hurt— and focuses on keeping his voice steady.
Dick says. “Let’s just keep breathing, okay? C’mon, in and out.”
Jason follows along, exaggerated.
“Good,” Dick says, patting his knee.
Jason manages a heatless glare. “You’re a condescending comforter.”
“But I am comforting,” Dick says with a false positivity. “Take another breath, Jay.”
Slowly, through forced inhales and slow, shaky exhales, Jason recovers. Dick stays at his side as a minute passes, and then two. Color flushes his cheeks and bleeds into his lips. There’s cold sweat lining his brow—Dick reaches up and wipes it away with the cuff of his sleeve, hand following up with a card through his hair. It’s the first time Jason’s allowed it since he’s been back. The patch of white is soft underhand.
“Gross, dude,” Jason says, pulling back. His fingers are shaking, his eyes are still red. He can’t seem to meet Dick’s eyes.
Looking at him now, Dick doesn’t see the Red Hood. Killer of men and terror of Gotham’s underbelly. Instead, he sees an awkward, teenaged Jason, crying in the manor’s kitchen after Alfred and Bruce had gone to bed, looking up with wet-eyes and hitching breath and falling apart in Dick’s arms as he explained how he was too late to save that girl.
Dick can’t help himself. “C’mere,” he says, standing in a half-stoop where it’s easiest to guide Jason’s head into the crook of his neck. Dick wraps around him, holding him close.
“What are you…”
“Shh,” Dick says. “Just a minute.”
And Dick expects Jason to pull back anyway. But he doesn’t. He just gives up, slumping in Dick’s hold. Every so often he gives an involuntary shake that squeezes Dick’s heart like a vice.
It’s Jason who ends it. He straightens up until Dick gets the hint and lets his arms fall away. “Okay,” Jason says, still not looking up. “I’m good.”
He goes to stand.
Dick is there, snaking an arm around him as stumbles to regain his balance, legs weak.
“I’ve got it,” Jason says, trying to move back.
“I know,” Dick placates, tightening his grip. “This works too though.”
Jason scoffs. “I guess.”
“Where’re you trying to go?” Dick asks. “Want to head back upstairs? I’m sure Cass has a different movie playing.”
Jason shakes his head. “I uh, I think I’m going to head home.”
“Home,” Dick repeats. “You mean one of the safehouses?”
Jason crosses his arms. “I have an actual apartment. You’ve been there.”
Dick’s eyebrows knit together. He thinks about the shitty apartment that actually had curtains and the candle Steph got him for Christmas. “I thought that was just…you know, a nicer safe house.”
“Rude,” Jason says, gaze drifting to his bike. Dick sees.
“Hey,” he says quickly. “What if you just head to your room for a bit? Lay down for a while? I don’t really want you riding the bike right now.”
“I can ride my bike,” Jason says, ruffling. The longer they talk, the more of his guard slips into place. His posture straightens up, his gaze crawls up from the floor, and the edge creeps back into his voice.
“Probably,” Dick says, charitably. “But you don’t have to.”
Jason is quiet for a moment. “I haven’t…I haven’t been back in. The room.”
“Your room,” Dick corrects. The room is untouched. Jason’s posters are still on the walls, the last dirty school uniform he ever wore discarded in the laundry hamper, bookmarked book still waiting on the bedside table. Other than dusting, Alfred left the space as is. Dick peeked in now and then, before silently backing out. It felt like a shrine.
Looking at Jason now though, Dick swallows. That’s…probably not what he needs.
“Why don’t we head to my room,” he suggests instead. He doesn’t spend too many nights at the manor, the sheets are clean, and Dick doesn’t mind sacrificing a bed tonight.
But Jason is hesitating.
“What’s wrong?” Dick asks.
“Nothing,” Jason says automatically. A moment later he sighs. “We’d have to go by the others.”
Dick frowns. “The others won’t say anything,” he promises, then pauses. “Well, they won’t say anything bad. The kids are probably just worried.”
When Jason’s scowl becomes pronounced, Dick realizes he’s said the wrong thing. Jason's reputation means something too him, even at home, even with family. If Dick drags him upstairs right now, he'll fully construct a mask, a shield, to protect himself. A shield he doesn't need. One that won't help.
But Dick also realizes now probably isn’t the best time to dive into the whole we care about you spiel.
He tries something else instead. “Okay,” he says. “What if we don’t go though the manor?”
At first Jason looks confused, but then he follows Dick’s gaze in the direction of the door—the outside door.
“You serious?”
“Yessir,” Dick says. “How about it?”
Jason stands for a moment, arms wrapped around himself, gaze flitting to his discarded helmet. Dick watches and waits and hopes he’ll make the choice that doesn’t have him speeding through Gotham’s streets at life-threatening speeds post panic attack.
Finally, Jason shrugs. “Let’s go then.”
Dick tries not to make his sigh of relief so pronounced. “Here,” he says, reaching out a steadying hand that Jason bats away.
“I said I’m good now.”
Except Dick definitely notices the trembles still sneaking into his limbs in uneven intervals. Dick wants to insist on keeping a steadying hand on him—but he also knows there’s no way Jason is allowing that at this point. So Dick settles for stepping right into his personal space where there’s no way he wouldn’t be able to catch him if he falls.
Jason shoots him a look but allows it.
They step outside, where the grounds are cooling with night air and the moonlight is grainy and distorted by a thick blanket of cloud cover. Together, they cross to the wall where there are windows looking into the wing of bedrooms.
The path he takes hasn’t changed since Dick’s first month at the manor, sneaking out in the night to pursue Zucco. He finds his normal handholds and scales the wall like child play. Balancing on the sill to his room he jimmies the lock and swings himself inside.
Peeking his head out he looks down at Jason. “You want a hand—”
“Got it,” Jason declines. He backs over to the towering oak located across from Dick’s room. Making quick work of climbing the tree, he scoots to the edge of the largest branch and leaps across to the manor. Dick seizes his arm and tugs him inside.
Somewhere, Batman is on patrol and Alfred is retired to bed. Both are getting security alerts. Dick can’t find it in him to care tonight.
Dick drops the window back into place, shutting out the cold. Luckily, Jason is already in comfortable sweats from movie nights. Dick deposits him on the bed before he can complain.
“Lay back, Jay,” Dick says.
Jason hesitates but when Dick starts nudging his shoulders back he rests back against the pillows willingly. “What’re you doing?” he asks.
Dick is turning back the comforter and sheet, pulling them back up to cover Jason. He shifts, nuzzling into the pillow. Already his blinks have become longer, deeper. “Just tucking you in, Little Wing.”
“That is so lame,” Jason says back, giving a small kick in Dick’s direction for good measure. The blankets mostly muffle it, and the pressure against Dick’s thigh is minimal.
Dick snorts. “Go to sleep.”
"You just gonna stand there?"
Dick shrugs. "My room."
“Dickhead,” Jason says, obligatorily. But it’s late as it is, and Jason’s had a hard week of patrol. He was already exhausted when he showed up at the manor a couple of hours ago, and with this on top of it…it doesn’t take long for him to drop off. Snores fill the room.
Feather-light, Dick brushes his hair back from his eyes, tugs the blanket right up to his chin, and drops a light kiss to the corner of his forehead. Stepping back, Dick pauses at the doorway.
For a moment, looking back at Jason, asleep, Dick is a decade younger, staring at a boy with the final traces of baby-fat and a bright, hero-worshiping smile ready to go whenever Dick stopped by. Dick feels something heavy and nostalgic flood him. Then, he blinks, and the memory fades.
Dick steps into the hall.
He knows he should go back to movie night. The others are probably wondering how Jason’s doing. Cass is probably biting her fingernails to nubs and Damian is sure to be a menace by now. Duke is probably sitting quietly, still too anxious around them to navigate a strained atmosphere. Tim must be chomping at the bit to race down to the cave—Stephanie is either being a voice of reason, or doubling the trouble. He should be down there, smiling at Duke, directing Steph and Tim back to their chairs, tugging Damian out of trouble, giving Cass an appreciative nod. It's his job, his responsibility, to put everyone at ease.
But right now, he doesn't think he can.
He keeps reliving the moment when that crowbar was falling on screen. The look on Jason’s face as he stared at the TV—it was terror. It was wide-eyes and bloodless skin and fists clenched tight enough to bite the palms of his skin, muscles painfully taut.
Was that the face he made? Was that how Dick’s little brother looked when the Joker beat him, and beat him, and beat him to—
No.
Dick sinks to the floor of the hallway, hand pressed against his mouth to muffle a sharp, shuddering inhale. He has just enough mental clarity to step away from his bedroom door. He doesn’t want to wake Jason up.
In a moment, Dick will head back downstairs. He’ll pat Duke on the shoulder as he steps over him, smile at Cass, steal from Steph’s popcorn bowl. He’ll pick Damian up by the armpits, dodge a possibly-lethal shot at his face, and deposit the kid back onto the couch at his side. Tim will nag at him immediately, but an assurance that Jason is sleeping it off will placate him, and he’ll curl into Dick’s other side.
In a moment, Dick will rejoin his family.
But first, he needs a minute.
Dick rests his head back against the wall, trying to cut threads of thought trailing into the past. He pictures teaching Jason acrobatics instead, taking the kid out for ice cream, reading the essay he wrote for English homework and praising the bright red A-plus scrawled across the heading. He thinks about watching Jason as he helped Damian clip Titus’s nails, played and paused music for Cass while she practiced her ballet, switching Tim’s late-night coffee for decaf and hauling him off to bed when he complained. He wraps the images of Jason, here, alive, around himself.
Dick lets his forehead rest against his knees, drawn to his chest.
He just needs a minute.