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It’s stupid, it’s so, so stupid, because it doesn't even happen as Robin.
Maybe it would be easier if it had. Jason always takes hits better as Robin. Robin is magic. Robin spits the blood on the ground and smiles a big toothy grin. Robin never gives up, never falters. Jason has scars from his dad’s belt down his back. Jason used to try to hide in the closet, like a coward. Not that that ever did anything but make Dad madder.
The key difference, here and now- Robin can fight back. Jason Todd cannot.
Well, he can put up a bit of a struggle, nothing out of character for a kid who survived three years on Gotham streets. He can scratch and bite and punch wild- but none of the more helpful stuff, the backflips and complicated throws.
Not for this.
They take him after school. Dick was supposed to pick him up, but he was running late.
Jason’s annoyed, but not all that surprised. Dick has better things to do than fetch a thirteen year old. Not for the first time, Jason wishes B would just let him take a public bus. He settles on a bench and cracks open Frankenstein. Nothing passes the time like Mary Shelley.
Jason has pretty good situational awareness, he thinks. An awareness honed on shifty adults and angry cops. It got him this far. It’s not that he’s any less aware now- if anything, he’s more aware as Robin. He just got really invested. It’s a good book, sue him. Then a shadow falls over the page and he’s looking up to see a gun in his face.
God, Dick is never going to let this go.
There’s three of them- big, enforcer-looking types. All of them are carrying, more than just the guns in their hands. Jason clocks a hidden knife, a gun tucked in the small of a back. He has just enough time to see, but no time to react.
They grab him roughly, big hands wrapping around his arms. Jason sucks in a breath of pure panic. He tries to push the memories away- that won’t help anyone right now. He’s bundled into the back of a van he didn’t notice pulled up. He misses the license plate number.
Jason really is just failing every part of this kidnapping, huh?
Dick wouldn’t have been stupid enough to get got like this. He would’ve noticed them creeping up on him and slipped to a more public place. He wouldn’t have let them snap a pair of handcuffs onto him, cold steel digging into his wrists.
A man stays in the back with him, so Jason can’t even try to jump out. He knows how to pick the locks of the cuffs- a trick from Selina- but he can’t get to his lockpick with the man watching.
The car ride is long- longer with the goon burning a hole in his head from how hard he’s staring. Diligent worker or creep? Jason can’t tell. A fresh wave of fear rolls over him as the car comes to a stop.
The doors open, world going from dark to light in a move so sudden it has Jason blinking hard against the sunlight.
They drag him into a warehouse, rust with rot and abandon. There are shitty plastic fold-out tables and chairs. A temporary set-up, or all they could afford?
Jason is dropped unceremoniously in the middle of the open space.
It’s- it’s a good thing, that they didn’t toss him in a cage or some shit. It’s a good thing, but it doesn’t feel like that, not with dangerous men to every side of him. They talk too- things Jason doesn’t want to hear. Jeers and laughter that take him back to his scrawnier, hungrier days.
“Little brat tried to put up a fight.”
“He’s a biter. Oughta put a muzzle on him.”
“You’d think Wayne would keep a closer eye on his kid, wouldn’t you?” One the goons cracks.
“Maybe he doesn’t care as much about this one,” a new voice says. The men fall silent. The new arrival walks in, swaggers in, ignoring the men entirely, eyes on Jason.
This man is in charge- Jason recognizes the power in every word, the way the others’ defer to him. The familiar chill in his stomach, the urge to hide, to appease, to kick and scream, to freeze.
He steps in, gets close. Jason fights the urge to scramble back. He doesn’t have a full range of movement and it’ll just make him look weak. The man unlocks the cuffs. Jason’s trepidation increases, rubbing his wrists and eyeing the man warily.
“I’ve been wondering about you,” he says, smiling down at Jason. It’s not a nice smile, like Bruce in his moments of quiet happy, or the joyful one Dick so often sports. It makes Jason shrink back, except there’s nowhere to shrink back to.
“See, rich kids, they don’t know how to handle a good old-fashioned punishment.” The man runs a thumb over his cheek. Jason snaps at him, teeth closing on air. The resulting slap is hard enough that it rings through his head, almost making him miss the man’s next words. Almost.
“But you, you’re a street rat. An Alley kid, through and through. I wonder if you’ve gone soft, living it up in Bristol.” Jason grits his teeth. Like hell he has. He’ll show this asshole exactly how ‘soft’ he is.
Then again, he has gotten used to the safety, relative though it is. Bruce never hit him, and whenever he noticed Jason was upset, he’d switch to his ‘calming victims’ voice until Jason managed to get his breathing under control. He and Dick even take their screaming matches to the Cave so Jason can’t overhear- although the knowledge that there’s arguing happening at all knots his stomach up.
Jason’s been at the Manor for a year, and he’s starting to trust that it might be real. He’s starting to trust that this family is real. Maybe he has grown soft, because he genuinely believes that Bruce and Dick are worried about him, that they’re trying to find him. It’s a kind of softness he wouldn’t trade for anything.
It’s a kind of softness he doesn’t want this man seeing.
The man takes his lack of response as confirmation. “Little stray, thinks he can pretend to be a Bristol brat,” he sneers. Jason sees the boot coming, but doesn’t have time to move out of the way. The man stomps on his ankle, loud snap sucking the breath from his lungs. Jason shrieks, pitch high enough to be embarrassing, if he had the space for embarrassment. He doesn’t, too caught up in the sudden rush of fire up his leg and the man’s cruel smirk above him.
It’s far from the first broken bone he’s had. Broken arm when he was three, broken collarbone when he was seven, broken ribs at five, at ten, at twelve- broken nose more times than he can count. Experience doesn’t make it hurt any less. He doesn’t have to force the gasped breaths, the fear in his eyes. He wishes he had his domino mask, a layer between his emotions and the men watching with varying levels of interest. He can’t tell what kind of interest, which scares him more than anything.
“Wanna see if you can make him cry,” someone calls. There’s the snap of a can of beer opening. Jason feels sick. It makes the man smile- either the words or the visible nausea on Jason’s face- and straighten up.
“We’ll see how long street trash like you holds up,” he says. The man undoes his belt and Jason’s heart kicks into overdrive. He tries to push himself away. He’s relieved when the man loops it around his fist, a makeshift almost-whip. This, at least, is familiar.
He knows what’s coming, but the fear burrows deep as they pull his arms over his head, yank his shirt off. Jason feels horribly, horribly exposed. It’s been- a while since he’s had this lack of control. Bruce is always good about allowing Jason his privacy, letting him have a door lock and everything. Jason never forgot how this feels though. He’s just glad they left his pants.
The whistle through the air. The first impact sends him spiraling down a thread of memories he’s tried so hard to forget.
Get me a beer, Jason.
Are you mouthing off to me, boy?
Be glad it’s you and not your mom this time.
His cheek scrapes against the floor. The sting lights up his back, bright and furious. Jason’s curled up as best he can, back still exposed, not trying to twist away from the blows. The last thing he needs is for the belt to catch a rib.
Stuffing the sleeve of his hoodie into his mouth, stifling his cries. All they ever do is make Dad more mad. Mom’s high on the couch and he doesn’t want to wake her up. She’ll try to stop Dad, get in between them, and she’ll end up hurt. They can’t afford that, not with Mom so sick. It’s okay. It’s okay, Jason can take it. He can take Dad’s drunk breath and the snap of the belt. He can take the leaning-forwards-in-his-chair and he can take the collage of bruises. He can take it all if it means Mom doesn’t have to.
“Aw, is the Wayne brat crying?” a mean voice croons.
Jason shudders. He thinks he might be crying. He doesn’t know. He can’t get his arms to cooperate enough to reach towards his face. Dick wouldn’t cry. Robin wouldn’t cry.
But he’s not Robin now, he’s just Jason. And Jason lost track of the hits, of the hands doing the hitting, a while ago. It doesn’t make much of a difference. It’s the same pain, time and space and size blurring under the weight of the memories. He can’t tell what’s real. Dad’s cutting snarl. The man’s whiskey breath. Mocking, always mocking.
Quit it with your crying, Jason. Be a man.
A prickling of the back of his neck gives Jason a second of warning- the men don’t get the same, Nightwing dropping from above in silent grace.
“Come to watch the show?” the man asks, stepping closer to Jason. He makes like he might grab him. Jason jerks back, flopping to the side. The hand doesn’t connect because- because Dick’s there, in between them, cutting in with a speed Jason didn’t know he was capable of.
“Don’t touch him,” Dick snarls.
The fight’s over in seconds, a blur of flips and electric crackles. Jason hears it through a filter, the rushing in his ears louder than the men’s screams. He sees it in snapshots, blinking and seeing another picture. Nightwing kicking a man across the room. Nightwing suspended in air, twisting into a nerve strike as fluidly as he does everything. Jason should be pulling himself up, joining the fight, but he can't make himself move. He can’t even make himself think.
The men are all unconscious- Jason can only tell based on the sudden quiet. Dick’s close again. Jason doesn’t remember him approaching again. Is Dick just that quick or is Jason losing time?
“Jason,” Dick says, Nightwing sloughing off him. He sounds horrified. Did Jason mess up that bad?
Dick hovers, fluttering hands like he wants to help, wants to comfort, but doesn’t know how to without making his injuries worse. This is so embarrassing.
It’s even more embarrassing the way Jason just lies there, choking on quiet sobs, shaking to pieces on a filthy warehouse floor. A gloved hand runs gentle through his hair, catching where blood has matted the curls. It’s nice. It makes Jason cry harder.
“Did I do good?” Jason whispers, blood dribbling out of his mouth. It’s a stupid question, a baby-question, but he needs to know.
Dick’s face cracks open, something raw and shining underneath. “Yeah, Jay. You did great.”
He goes loose with relief. Maybe Dick’s not mad at him. Maybe Bruce won’t be disappointed in him.
It would be worse if he was Robin right now- failing Dick’s legacy and his role as Batman’s partner in one fell swoop. But maybe- maybe it’s alright for Jason to fuck up, as long as he doesn’t drag everyone else down with him. Jason cries until he can’t cry anymore. Dick waits until his sobs go dry before he speaks.
“We need to get you to Leslie’s,” Dick says, hushed. He helps leverage him to a sitting position. He’s still holding most of Jason’s weight, but at least this way he can pretend he’s not a mess. Or, at least, not a mess crying on a dingy warehouse floor.
Jason scrubs his rubbery arm over his eyes. “I wanna put my shirt back on.” His voice is thick through snotty congestion.
Dick hesitates. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Little Wing. It’s pretty dirty and it’ll rub at your wounds. Leslie’ll get you all wrapped up, alright?”
He knows it’s the best choice, he does, but Jason hates it all the same. He hates any option that leaves this weakness exposed, failure coating his back in angry red. Jason buries his face in Dick’s suit, wishing he had a cape to wrap himself in. He misses the easy protection of it.
Dick lifts him like he weighs nothing. Jason’s too tired to scowl, but he would if he could. He’s trying to put some muscle on- years of malnourishment make that complicated, and in the meantime, his tiny size is a sensitive subject.
The motorcycle is on its side in the alley across from the warehouse. Jason squints at it. Dick really must’ve come in a hurry, for him to leave it so unsecured. It looks like he leaped right off it before even parking it. Dick whispers apologies as he has to set Jason down to right it. The engine roars to life. Jason climbs on behind him, tightening trembling fingers at the thin suit. It’s too skintight for him to be able to get a good grip.
The wind whips at his back. The drive fades into one long agony, all his focus going to maintaining his grip at Dick’s waist. They pull to a stop in front of the clinic and Jason nearly tips off the bike. Dick catches him, sweeping him into his arms. Jason flushes. He’s not a baby. He can walk on a broken ankle. He just… doesn’t want to.
They go in the back like they always do. Leslie doesn’t need the kind of attention vigilantes bring. She treats some of the most vulnerable people in Gotham- her clinic has to be safe. There’s a small private exam room that Leslie leaves open for them. Jason’s pretty sure it used to be a closet. A large closet, but still.
Dick hops onto the table, Jason still in his lap. It’s a little humiliating, but he’s glad to have a buffer between himself and the cold table. Leslie never takes long. She shoulders the door open, stripping off bloody gloves and dumping them in a biohazard bin. Florence Nightingale is one of her personal heroes and it shows.
Leslie has eyes like a hawk, finding every injury in a simple once-over. It’s eerie, but also incredibly useful. She narrows onto his ankle in seconds. “X-ray,” she orders, pulling on purple latex gloves and probing at it carefully.
The X-ray machine is just across the hall. The lead jacket thing presses heavy on his torn-up back. He has to hold still so she can get a good picture- it’s hard, with the uncontrollable shudders still rippling through his body. Dick stays with him during, rubbing an uninjured patch of shoulder with a gentle thumb, just the right amount of pressure.
They slip back into the back room when it’s over. Leslie gives him a moment to get calmed down before coming back to deliver the verdict.
“We’re going to have to reset the bone,” Leslie says briskly. Jason likes that about her- she doesn’t beat around the bush. Dick tenses, clearly unhappy. Jason doesn’t know why- he had to know this was coming. Dick’s seen enough injuries, had enough injuries, to know how this works.
“I don’t want any drugs,” Jason says firmly. It’s the most firm his been about anything so far. Dick and Leslie exchange a glance. Jason bristles. “B said I could choose! He said he wouldn’t make me take any drugs I didn’t want to!”
“I know painkillers are something you would like to avoid if possible,” Leslie says. “I just don’t know if it’s possible now.”
“I gotta try,” Jason insists. Mom would be so disappointed if he fell down the same trap she did just cause he wimped out of a little pain.
Dick huffs a heavy breath, too close to anger for Jason’s frazzled comfort. “We’re talking about surgery, Jay! You need to be knocked out. No morphine after, if you don’t want it, but you have to be knocked out for the procedure.”
“If it’s really that bad, I’ll probably pass out from the pain anyway,” Jason reasons. Why use drugs when he can do it on his own?
Dick grinds his teeth- Jason’s close enough that he can hear the low squeak and click of it. He doesn’t say anything.
Leslie sighs, saying, “I don’t think this is a stance you’re budging on. Let’s give it a shot, but I’ll have the anesthesiologist in the room just in case.”
Jason inclines his head slightly in acquiesce. It’s the best he’ll get. Dick’s not thrilled about it, if the look he shoots Leslie is any indication. Jason only catches a glimpse of it- literally going over his head- but those ice chip eyes aren’t promising.
It takes them a few minutes to get things set up. The anticipation chews away at him- it’s eating Dick too, if Jason is reading him right. When the nurse pops in the room to give them the all-clear, Dick carries him to the operating room with tight, tense steps. Jason’s half expecting him to do a heel-turn and refuse to go any further. He doesn’t. And Jason doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or not.
He shivers as Dick lays him on the operating table. A bright light powers to life- Jason cringes away from it. “Sorry,” Leslie murmurs, adjusting it so it’s shining on his ankle, not his face.
They lay sheets over the rest of his legs, only his broken ankle peeking through. The first slice of the scalpel is the worst. He rapidly changes his mind- the second is the worst, no the third, no the- the-
Jason bites back the scream. Leslie will tranq him if he can’t hold it together, and Dick is right here with his gray face and too-still body language. He can’t scream. He won’t scream.
He does scream. Jason manages to hold it in for longer than he thought possible, trapping the sound in his throat, letting it shred in his throat without escaping past his teeth. Black spots spread like ink blots across his vision. He doesn’t know if they injected him with anything or if this is just his body’s natural defense against this level of pain.
Either way, he’s out like a light.
He comes to in the back room, fuzzy blanket wrapping him up. After a moment of tired blinking, Jason identifies it as the one Bruce has stashed here since Dick’s early Robin days. Warm, dark enough to hide the bloodstains, perfect for swaddling small children in. Dick apparently loved it, and Jason kind of does too, as much as he pretends he’s too old for that brand of simple comfort.
Dick’s sitting next to him. Well, it’s more like he’s leaning on Dick, mummified in the Clinic Blanket. Dick quirks an exhausted smile when he realizes Jason is awake.
Jason nudges him. “Can we go home now?” he croaks. His throat feels like he’s been gargling nails. The ache brings echoes of worse memories. He doesn’t know how to get rid of them, but they aren’t pressing enough to be a problem. Jason just wants to go home and sleep for a few days.
“Alfred’s bringing the car,” Dick says. His eyes are red-rimmed, like he’s been crying, which makes Jason feel bad enough that he almost tears up. Was Dick really that worried about him? He wasn’t that hurt and Leslie’s a great doctor. He was always going to be fine. Did- did something go wrong in surgery?
He pauses, takes stock of his body. They managed to fix up his back while he was out. He can feel the thick bandages protecting his back from rubbing on the bed. Jason’s grateful for it- he doesn’t know what he would have done with the sharp disinfectant making the belt marks feel fresh all over again. Nothing feels wrong. He can’t really see- the blanket obscures his view of his ankle.
“Did they have to amputate?” Jason asks, eyes widening at the thought.
Dick shoots him an incredulous look. “No, they didn’t amputate your foot. Jesus, Jason.”
Heat crawls up Jason’s neck. He’s sure his ears are red. “Well, you were being weird! And I can’t see- almost like you did it on purpose,” he accuses, twisting it around in his defensiveness.
Dick rolls his eyes, yanking an edge of the blanket free so Jason can see the blocky-looking red cast underneath. Firetruck red, too bright to be blood. Jason decides he likes it. “I was worried about you, dipshit,” Dick says, exasperated.
“Oh,” Jason says.
“Yeah, ‘oh’,” Dick laughs, tugging him closer. Leslie pokes her head in, gives them a little nod, then Dick's gathering Jason into his arms, already pre-swaddled. It makes him feel like a baby, but he's too tired to protest, tucking his head down into the blanket. He doesn't poke his head back up when they get settled in the back of the car, or at any point in the long drive back to the Manor. Jason doesn't know if Dick thinks he fell asleep, but feigning sleep is a good excuse for the way he leans closer. Dick carries him inside too, and at this rate Jason thinks he might scratch out of his skin with how nice Dick is being.
Jason wiggles out of the blanket when Dick sets him on the couch. "Not so asleep after all?" Dick says, amused.
Jason goes splotchy-pink. "I was asleep, you just woke me up!"
"Sure," Dick says, collapsing onto the couch too. His hand moves quick and for a second it’s out of context- a hand coming at his face, balling into a fist. Jason reacts on instinct-
His arms fly up to protect his face. Dick freezes. There’s a second crystallized in glass.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you,” Dick says, guilt thick in his voice.
That jolts Jason out of his freak-out, because no. Dick can’t think he scares Jason. That’s just not- it wasn’t Dick. It was just for half a second, he thought it was Dad.
Dick knows some. He’s seen the scars, knows enough to put together a picture of what Jason’s life looked like before Bruce brought him home like a stray kitten. But they aren’t the same. Jason sometimes gets mixed up with Bruce and his dad, but never with Dick. He’s barely more than a kid himself- he’s only scary in an older brother sort of way. And as Nightwing, he supposes, but that’s different. Dick’s good- a good brother and a good person. He helps people. He’s so far removed from Dad that Jason can’t even picture them side by side, occupying the same space.
“It just reminded me of my dad,” Jason says, avoiding Dick’s eyes. “My bio-dad, not B. He used to- he used to- yeah. So it wasn’t personal or anything, I’m not scared of you. You’re not- you’re nice.”
There’s a long beat of silence, Jason hunching his shoulders and not looking to see Dick’s reaction. Then-
Dick’s hugging him so hard it hurts, bruises flaring into agony. Jason doesn’t say a word. It’s not the kind of pain he wants to squirm away from.
“You didn’t deserve that, Jason.” The quiet conviction in his voice makes Jason want to scream or hide or cry. It’s a lot. In a good way.
Jason ducks his head. “I kind of did? I wasn’t- I wasn’t a very good kid. I talked back and I disobeyed and I wasn’t good at sitting still or being quiet or-” He breaks off as Dick hugs him tighter. He doesn’t want to make a noise of pain, not if it’ll make Dick stop.
“I like when you talk back,” Dick says fiercely. “And so does Bruce and Alfred. We like you just the way you are.”
It sounds like some rainbow cliche you’d see in a therapist’s office (Bruce makes him go- says he has to be mentally stable to be Robin (apparently you don’t have to be mentally stable to be Batman.)) but it helps anyway. Jason might not believe it, but it helps. The doubt must show on his face, because Dick squeezes him- not hard enough to hurt any worse than the rest of the hug, but enough to emphasize his point.
Dick’s quiet for a long moment. “Did your mom deserve it too?”
Jason’s vision goes red and he’s shoved at Dick before he even processes the words. “Of course not! My mom was the best. She- she deserved better.” Better than Dad. Better than a one-room apartment in Crime Alley. Better than the three jobs she had to work til she got too sick to get out of bed. Better than him.
“You’re the best,” Dick says, tucking Jason’s head under his chin. “You didn’t deserve it in the same way your mom didn’t deserve it. Fuck, Jay, you were just a baby. You’re still so little.”
Jason sits on that for a moment, letting the anger fade into numbness. He never really thought about it like that. He thinks about all the kids he deals with as Robin, the bruises on their skin, the righteous fury that always rises. He would never say they deserved it. So why does it feel like he does?
He’s tired, but he’s not ready to be alone. “Can we have hot chocolate?” he asks, turning puppy-dog eyes on Dick. Dick caves embarrassingly fast, like Jason knew he would. Dick thinks his puppy-dog eyes are cute. Dick doesn’t think he’s a pit bull or a stray. Dick would- he would probably be mad if he knew what they said, about putting a muzzle on him. Because Dick cares.
“Okay, but you stay here while I make it,” Dick says, setting him on the couch and slipping away to the kitchen.
The silence, the aloneness makes all the echoes louder, harder to silence without Dick’s easy presence. He shifts, impatient, and the wrapping tugs at the stitches on his back. The- the belt buckle. It must have used a lot of force, to tear open flesh enough to require stitches. Jason remembers that force, every blow of it, in vivid detail.
Dick comes back with two large mugs of hot chocolate, perfectly topped with whipped cream. Jason raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were making it,” he teases.
“Alfred offered!” Dick says, unconcerned ease to his shoulders. He was gone longer than Jason expected- meaning he and Alfred were talking in the kitchen. Probably talking about him. Jason would be bothered if he had the energy for it. As it is, he just takes his mug from Dick’s hands without comment.
It’s sweet and creamy, warm chocolate heaven on his sore throat. Dick collapses next to him on the couch, tilting his head to the ceiling and sipping his own mug. Jason studies him. He looks tired- it’s been rough, covering all of Gotham without B all week, and surely Jason letting himself get kidnapped didn’t lighten his load any.
“You’re not patrolling tonight, right?” Jason says just to double check. He doesn’t want Dick to leave, but he would understand if he had to. Gotham has to come first. They’re all bound by a mission greater than any one person.
Dick knocks their knees together. “Nah, I’ve done all my rescuing tonight.”
Jason blushes furiously, turning his head down into his mug, letting his hair fall down into his face. He clearly means saving Jason. It’s nice, to think he’s the most important thing to Dick right now. Even if he’s just saying it to be nice, it still puts a soft glow under Jason’s sternum.
“Do you want to put anything on?” Dick asks, wiggling the remote at him like it’s a cat toy.
Jason wrinkles his nose. He’s not super into T.V. at the best of times- he doesn’t want the irritating brightness right now. There is something, but he’s not sure if it’s too much to ask. Dick’s already gone above and beyond for him tonight.
Jason hesitates, setting his mug down so he can fiddle with the edge of the blanket. “When- when I have nightmares, B-”
“What does Bruce do?” Dick encourages.
“He sometimes reads to me. But you don’t have to, I’m not a baby-”
Dick cuts him off. “Which book do you want?”
Jason thinks. He’s in the middle of Crime and Punishment, but that's a little heavy for bad-night reading. When in doubt, go for a classic. “Can you get Oliver Twist? It’s on my bookshelf.”
“Sure thing,” Dick says, flipping over the back of the couch and disappearing down the hallway. He’s back in a flash, holding the book careful so as not to bend the pages. Jason appreciates that. It’s a novelty, getting to have books in nice condition and getting to keep them that way.
When B reads to him, it’s low and gravelly, words rumbling out of him like a steam engine. It was jarring at first, but became a familiar comfort with time. Dick doesn’t read like Bruce at all.
Dick’s voice is smooth, words flowing better than Jason ever could. Whenever he tries to read aloud, he gets too caught up in the emotions and character development. Dick reads like a brook, like smooth running water, eroding the sharp edges from Jason. He can feel himself turn smooth and river-rock.
Jason takes a too-large gulp of his hot chocolate, worried he might fall asleep before he gets to finish it. He’s tired, but more than anything the sound of Dick reading is lulling him to sleep., hypnotizing his eyes closed one word at a time. Then again-
They don’t have to get through the whole book tonight. B isn’t back for a few more days, and somehow, Jason has a feeling Dick would say yes if asked.
He drifts off, knowing that there’s always tomorrow.