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In the whole surreal soup that the past few hours have been, the fact that Bruce and Alfred leave him in the cave's medbay… honestly, should make sense. Why not, after everything else that's happened.
Because they shouldn't be leaving a criminal unguarded around all their shit, one part of his mind snides.
Because, a smaller part, tucked away when he left Gotham the first time, whispers, he shouldn't be ready to leave so early. He should want to stay.
…I want him to stay.
Dick squashes the latter voice ruthlessly and turns on the cot, which, despite belonging to a literal billionaire, is little more comfortable than any other medical bed. He's long wondered if it isn't one of Alfred's passive-aggressions, or if it has some purpose he lacks the medical knowledge to gather, or simply something bought as standard without much thought put behind it.
Bruce being the kind to think and overthink every detail of his life, he's never put much stake into the last theory. But, he's been wrong about Bruce before. It's not exactly the height of intelligence to leave a semi-prisoner ex-criminal here in a medical bay full of potential makeshift weapons, in the cave full of actual weapons, and vehicles, and the Batcomputer, along with, oh, Bruce's special new son.
Because yes, while Alfred and Bruce might be who-knows-elsewhere, they've left behind the new little Robin. Not on guard, not even fully geared up, just kind of… hanging out.
Dick honestly would have preferred total isolation.
Some part of him wants to be mad at the kid. Pushes a quip about the illegality of identity theft at least, with a bitter weight behind it, but—it's too much. His emotional side, scraped raw and empty, rebuffs it. Too much effort, too much drama, too much.
It's easier to just feel nothing. Complacent.
Best thing to do, he figures, is ignore the kid.
Jason, apparently, has other ideas. He seems to have decided, for whatever reason—Dick cannot, even supposing he wanted to, convince himself that Bruce tasked the kid with keeping an eye on him—that Dick's vicinity is the place to be.
He's not even hostile. He's not gloating over what a better partner or ward he's made. He doesn't seem to be bursting with curiosity. He's just… there. Sitting on a desk for medical supplies beside the cot, swinging his legs back and forth. Trying, apparently, to socialize, and vaguely annoyed yet unswayed by Dick's attempts to grayrock him.
"You can't ignore me forever, y'know,” the kid says. “I live here too."
"Big house," Dick mumbles into his pillow. " 'S fine. Go away."
"Ass."
“Alfred'll make you pay the swear jar for that kind of language.”
“Alfred's not here.”
“He's got ears everywhere.” Dick isn’t stupid enough to believe they're completely out of supervision, whatever he might angst about being left here. Still, the carelessness of it rankles him. Maybe Bruce has contingencies he's unaware of (probably does), but after—everything—he'd think Bruce would keep Robin 2.0 under better guard.
He can feel Jason's eyes a little too sharply on him. “Don't be bitter. They're handling… the him situation. They didn't want to upset you by dealing with it around you. They'll be back soon.”
“Joy,” Dick says with practiced nonchalance. He is half certain the kid wasn't supposed to tell him that, and grateful despite himself, but he'd rather be grateful from a distance. “Shoo, child."
"Pot."
"What?"
“Calling the kettle."
"Oh, god." Dick buries his head beneath the pillow. He doesn't care if it's childish, or proving the kid's point. This is torture. That's why Bruce left him with the kid. Purely to let the menace torment him. “Go away. Why are you even here?”
It's more of a rhetorical question to the universe, a god, why me?, but the kid answers it anyway, with the attitude of someone deigning to explain something stupidly obvious. “We're practically brothers, and all I know about you is what Bruce and Alfred told me. Which is probably like, 10% of the truth. If that.”
Dick grimaces. Maybe Alfred put in a good word for him, but he can't imagine Bruce had anything all that positive to say, especially considering the way they left things. He can't imagine Bruce had all that much to say about him, period, though.
Which would explain why he has to make the more painful point of correction. Better to get it over with, though, before Bruce has to. He sucks in a small, steadying breath. “Bruce… We're not really brothers, kid.”
“We technically are.”
“We're really technically not.” Bruce didn't want me like he wanted you, he doesn't say, because it sounds pathetic and whiny to his own ears, and he's not about to embarrass himself by voicing it to someone else’s. He needs to just rip the band-aid off and say it: I wasn't adopted; but the words stick in his throat.
The kid huffs. “Look,” he says, and there is a shift to his tone. Less playful, more prickling. Guarded. Vulnerable, Dick thinks, for all it's trying to project strength. “I get you don't know me. I get you don't like me. But I'm not just some—disposable gutter trash who's been playing stand-in for you. I'm not gonna go away just ‘cause you're showing back up. Hate me if you wanna, ignore me if you wanna, but I got a place here, too.”
And oh, exhibit a, the need for communication. Shit. The tiny tirade hits him in the gut with the too-familiar sting of guilt. Maybe it shouldn't; he does not know this boy, it's not really his responsibility to soothe the kid's insecurities. But, well. There's no need to be an asshole, most of all to a child.
Dick sighs and pulls his head out from under the pillow. “I don't hate you, kid."
"Right, sure. You just want me out of your life.”
"Jesus. No.” Dick scrubs his face. “I got issues with Bruce, ok. With this place, this situation—everything, y'know.”
"Kinda feel like I'm part of 'everything,' there."
Admittedly? Maybe, a little bit. But Dick blames him maybe less than he might have expected to; less than a younger him would, if the kid had popped into his life when he was with the Titans.
He's tired. He can't muster the energy to be pissed at Bruce. And honestly, what blame does the kid shoulder, from an objective point of view? None. Dick had scrounged up his history from the tabloids, sifting with practice through the sensationalist rumors for what seems to be the truth: a Crime Alley orphan thrust rags to riches to (not that the tabloids knew it) capes. Even if it were his idea to take the mantle and the name, some starry-eyed twelve-year-old can't be blamed for latching to whatever good came his way.
Does it hurt? Like hell. But everything does, now.
So Dick waves a hand dismissively in barely a flick of a gesture. "Nah, kid. You're fine. We're fine. It's all right."
“Ok,” the kid—Jason breathes. He says it to himself a second or third time, under his breath, and then grunts like he's made a decision. Then he shoves Dick roughly in the shoulder. "Scoot.”
Dick squawks in offense, and then flinches. The sound bounces through the cave, but neither Alfred nor Bruce sweep in with dooming disapproval, so he scrunches his face at the kid. "What? No. What is wrong with you?"
"You're hogging the bed," Jason persists. "You're not even banged-up, and my ass is hurting from this stupid desk. Scoot.”
“Can you find literally nowhere better to sit?”
Jason prods him relentlessly, jabbing a finger into his side. "There's plenty of room here. Move."
Dick sighs, but shuffles away enough to allow Jason to plop down on the bed beside him. It's a tight fit—the cot is only a bit larger than a twin bed, being made as it is for single occupancy. Jason's bony knee digs a little too much into Dick's ribs, and Jason has to draw his other leg to his chest to keep from half-dangling off the bed.
Dick's skin crawls briefly at the touch, but it's not... bad. He used to crave closeness like sunlight, before. It's been more than a year since he’s had physical contact that is warm, casual, and non-threatening, and even though Jason is pretty much a total stranger, it's… fine.
(The Titans were pretty much strangers, too, when he moved in with them in Jump.)
(Bruce was a stranger, once.)
He's pulled from a near spiral by the chime of half-familiar tinny music. He glances up to see Jason has a 3DS in hand and is powering up a game, the very tip of his tongue stuck out in concentration. It looks so bizarrely domestic—the Robin uniform, somehow, lending even more of a hand to the picture, like a kid playing dress-up—that Dick can't help but snort.
Jason shoots him a side-eyed glance. “What?”
“Bruce couldn't spring for a more advanced model? I think that thing is older than you. It looks just like the one he—hey, that is mine!”
“No shit.” Jason leans to the side, rather precariously, like he's anticipating Dick will lunge for the thing, without looking away from the screen. He's in no danger; Dick left it behind when he left Gotham, and spared little thought for it since. Bruce owned it, really, and as Bruce gave (he'd made clear), he could take away.
“Alfred let me play it if I promised to take care of it, which I have. And you're welcome, by the way. I've been keeping your town running.”
“My what?”
“In Animal Crossing?” The duh heavily implied, Jason waves the screen a little. “At least for the past like, year. I think Alfred must’ve before then.”
“You've been here a year?”
Jason freezes for a moment, going stiff. He dips his head in a slow, half-wary nod, staring doggedly at the screen as his shoulders rise.
“So I just missed Bruce taking you in, then,” Dick says. Jason, obviously, has braced himself for a backlash, which is almost fair; it’d been a knife to the heart, seeing another Robin flying so soon (flying at all under his name), and that was not six months ago.
But a second kid is different from a second Robin, and the hurt under his skin aches with not replacement but a strange sense of loss.
“...Met him a little before that,” Jason says like a confession, defense and guilt beneath. “He helped me get into a school, but it was shit. Literally. A front for criminals. Took me in after he busted it, and that's why… He kinda thought I was why you went radio silent. Sorry.”
“Oh.” Dick closes his eyes, gives himself a minute to digest that. But Jason’s pulling away, his leg drawn from Dick’s side and tucked against his chest, and the air between them is fizzing with expectant tension, so he crushes the swell of hurt down with sigh into the rather overloaded to be dealt with later pile before shuffling closer to Jason. “You know I got stuck in a detention center before Bruce adopted me?”
“...What?”
“Yeah.” He pushes himself up so they sit shoulder to shoulder, and bumps his against Jason’s. “The orphanage was overcrowded, and they figured I had ‘the makings of a criminal’ in me anyway, though they were the ones corrupt as—well, fuck.” He snorts. “God, I still feel like Alfred's gonna have my head for swearing. But, anyway. I kinda get it. I don't think you're disposable. You deserved an out, and I’m glad you’re here.”
Jason doesn't say anything, but after a moment he bumps his shoulder back into Dick's, and the line of tension through him eases. For the first time in a longer time than he'd like to consider, Dick smiles honestly; and then before the air can turn a different, mushy kind of awkward, lets his smile curve more teasingly.
“Mainly because, what the heck, you've kept my town running? You've better not have chased off any of my neighbors.”
“I didn’t!” Jason shrieks, and elbows him. “How the fuck did you get so many elephant villagers, anyway? And who names it Circusville, of all things—”
“I was nine and from the circus, you literally can't judge me!”
“I can and do. You're judged. You're very judged.”
“Well, what would you call yours?”
Jason shuffles smugly in place. “I called mine Longbourn when I made it on my Switch, and it’s been a super popular dream address, by the way.”
“Longbourn?”
“From Pride and Prejudice?”
Dick scrunches his nose. “And you made fun of me. You're such a nerd.”
“Says the mathlete, Dickhead!”
“Master Jason,” a cool voice reproves.
Dick flinches, grin dropping to a close-lipped frown, the blood draining from his cheeks back to the pit of his stomach.
Bruce and Alfred are standing at the medbay entrance. They look… not angry, though Alfred has turned a stern frown on Jason that smooths out as he shifts his attention towards Dick. He can't quite tell what their expressions are, and he is torn between ducking closer to hide like a coward behind Jason or throwing himself off the cot to put more space between him and the kid to mitigate any protective rages.
“It’s a nickname,” Jason protests lightly, not appearing to pick up on the sudden tension flooding the air. “It’s not my fault his name's so unfortunate. And speakin’ of unfortunate names, could you please tell him…”
Jason rattles off something about the towns, but Dick zones out from it. He can't quite feel his lungs anymore, or he feels them too much, and he pours all his focus into holding himself very still and predictable and watching Bruce.
Bruce's gaze slides from him to Jason. Dick still can't read it, which scares him more than he'd like to admit, but it remains unhostile, at least not openly so. Instead, something almost like a faint smile seems to pull at his lips as he listens to Jason, before he holds up a hand.
“All right,” he says. “You can argue it out tomorrow. Right now you should go get changed and let Alfred check Dick over one more time so you can both get some sleep.”
“Fine,” Jason groans, like they're just two kids talking with their dad, like something as trivial as bedtime can even be counted as an annoyance in their lives. He slides off the bed, and Dick clenches his hands around the sheets, suppressing the urge to reach out and beg him not to leave as fervently as he'd told him to go before. But Jason merely half turns, just enough to shoot him a look over his shoulder and swing the DS. “I'll charge this up for tomorrow, ‘k? ‘Cause you're taking back custody of it. Night.”
“Night,” Dick returns from habit. It comes out sort of squished and quiet, and Jason’s face twitches weirdly, but he doesn't comment. He just shoots a look at Bruce and Alfred Dick isn't familiar enough with him to read, then nods once more at Dick, and hurries off.
The moment he's gone, Dick shoves the covers off and twists so that he is sitting on the edge of the bed. He drops his eyes to his lap, twining his fingers together and apart, and waits. Alfred's even tread taps closer, but his ears are primed more for Bruce's near-silent stride.
He jerks as if burnt at the hand that rests on his elbow, and it draws quickly back and presses against the mattress beside him. It is not Alfred’s.
“I'm glad to see you two getting along,” Bruce says. Nothing malicious or sarcastic underlies the words, as far as Dick can decipher; at most they falter a little, a bit slow and stilted. “He's really wanted to meet you.”
Dick hums noncommittally. What's the right reply, here? Bruce has never tended toward being chatty, but there's a weight in the air, or perhaps more correctly a wait, a pause for him to say something back. Nothing is an answer, and so can be wrong.
But the truth is, he's floundering for hours at this point. His brain is mush, and he no longer knows the familiar grooves with Bruce, and where it is safe to step. He's been gone a year and lost seemingly every defense in his arsenal.
Nothing is right, nothing feels real, and he really, really wants to sleep.
So he says, “One check up, and then I can go to bed?” And he makes himself look up, into Bruce's eyes, though there is a shadow to his stare that makes Dick shiver.
“One check up,” Bruce echoes. It sounds a little hollow, rote. “Then bed.”
Dick nods, and cooperates with mechanical efficiency as Alfred probes him on how he's feeling and as much of his health history in the “missing” fifteen months as he can recall.
He keeps running, in the front of his mind, as a bolster, the image of Jason scurrying his forgotten avatar around Circusville, watering flowers for a boy he'd never met just to keep the town from going to the dogs for some reason Dick can't possibly guess at. I don't know why the hell that kid would want to meet me, he thinks, but damn, I'm glad he did.