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The cold is glacial, sharp needles spiking up your arms and legs as you sink deeper into the inviting embrace of the ocean. You can see the sunlight streaming through the water, temporarily illuminating the black depths. Everything is still. Finally quiet. Ever since she died it’s been radio static and an unintelligible passing of time, but now you can be at peace.
You can feel everything with a frightening intensity. Your heartbeat slows, your limbs grow heavy, and a pleasant numbness you know to be your brain shutting down permeates your body.
I’ll be there soon, you think. Wherever you are. This time, I’ll find you.
You’re wrenched from the water, and oxygen meets your lungs with a fury that feels like a punch to the gut. Ice bites into your skin, and you can’t feel your body. Your eyes burn. The sun against the white landscape is blinding —
You wake up in a pool of sweat, Dick’s arm loosely wrapped around your waist. You immediately still, regulating your heartbeat, as to not wake him. Dick is a light sleeper—when circumstances dictate it so. A sharp intake of breath, any sudden movement, a wrong step. The trick is to go slow, lest he wake up and ask you what’s wrong.
You can feel his breaths, the lightness of them ghosting against your nape. You should want him off of you, rip your covers off, and run.
Instead, you close your eyes and try to focus on the sound of his breaths, following the subtle, loping, rhythm.
You gently extricate yourself from him, watching Dick’s face scrunch up as he mutters something about pancakes and spray paint and Damian that is not a butterknife—
Your knuckles briefly brush his face. You grab Dick’s sweats off the floor, and then you’re gone.
You’ve already memorized all the different halls, rooms, and wings in the manor, barring the batcave. You’ve never even stepped foot in there, despite knowing the several passageways in. At this time of the night, nobody will be awake, except maybe Tim reviewing case files. Dick has absentmindedly said that after twelve, Tim rarely leaves his room.
Nobody will wake up as long as you keep away from the bedrooms and don’t trip any alarms meant for the occasional assassin. The manor is even darker in the night, when its inhabitants have gone to sleep. As you traverse hallways and stairs, the shadows get longer, and the large portraits hanging on the walls follow you with their permanently fixed stares.
It’s always interesting to slowly peruse the manor in the same manner you’d observe a museum. Every room brings something different. A new aesthetic, an old one from the 70s when velvet was popular, a thousand year old vase from the Zhou Dynasty, a monet painting. Rooms with weeping curtains draping over windows, luxurious persian and oriental rugs covering half the floor, priceless china inside temperature regulated glass, shining mahogany bookshelves. If you had time, and were completely sure that Bruce wasn’t monitoring your actions somehow, you’d pick a room and completely comb it from top to bottom. An intellectual exercise. Spyware, wires, traps, cameras, weapons, all hidden within the various crooks and crannies of the room. You’d take each item apart and put it all back together sans a single piece. Then you’d hide it all back exactly where you found it. Two inches to the left. And you’d start with Bruce’s first floor study.
But you aren’t.
So you tread onwards to one of the smaller kitchens in the manor, on the first floor, click the light on, and pour yourself a glass of water with hands that tremble exactly once as you lift it to your lips. A weakness you allow yourself in the presence of nobody else.
You aren’t sure where your feet are taking you until you’re unlocking the doors leading the patio overlooking the private gardens in the back. You’ve probably tripped multiple sensors, but you don’t care as you sit down on the top step leading down, and let the cool air brush over you. You’re not dressed to be outdoors during a Gotham fall night, but the cold has never bothered you as much. You grew up with winter, and it has never left you.
The large hedges and bushes are immaculately trimmed. It’s aesthetically pleasing, and distinctly shaped enough that you get the impression that they’re meant to distort satellite imaging of the manor. A far fetched notion if it was anyone other than Batman.
You remember Dick mentioning Alfred’s highly prized and coveted roses. So you stand and plan to aimlessly walk through the small, elaborate hedge maze, until you feel like a person again. Because the thought of Dick seeing you as anything else makes your stomach turn.
The faint rumble of an engine reaches your ears. You still, turning your head in the direction of the noise. The east wing of the manor. Dick’s room is in the far west end. Same wing as Tim, different floors. The east wing belongs to Damian who you know to have commandeered a room and the top floor, and…
Re-entering the manor, you follow one of the halls until a loud crash, followed by a colorful line of curses that echoes through the hall.
–
Jason doesn’t want to be here. In fact, the manor is the last place he wants to be, pretty much all the time. ‘Cept beggars can’t be choosers, not when he’s currently bleeding out all over Alfred’s silverware.
Two bullets: one clean shot through his thigh, the other through his arm, and both hurt like a fucker.
He had been at the docks, tracking a lower rung mafia family and their lowlife grunts who would be receiving a new shipment of trafficked girls when gunshots had rung out accompanied by screams. One girl tried making a run for it and it had gotten her a bullet to the head.
Jason had started shooting.
Which brings him to his current predicament. Rifling through the drawers of one of the smaller kitchens in the manor, the one furthest from Bruce’s room. He knows Alfred keeps emergency provisions in nearly every room in the manor—including this one. The struggle is in finding it. Somewhere an awed hookup of Bruce’s, or a curious stray reporter wouldn’t be able to find a military grade emergency kit and start asking questions.
Besides, he’ll never pass up the opportunity to steal—whoops— borrow from Bruce. The man can afford it.
He’ll take the kit, patch himself up until the bleeding is temporarily staunched, and get his bike (hidden in the bushes underneath a patio towards the east), and nobody would be none the wiser. Bruce is still out on patrol, along with his latest Boy Wonder. Timbo’s probably doing…whatever the hell he gets up to in his room. Video games? To his knowledge, Dickwad’s still in Bludhaven.
Ignoring the twinge in his arm, the constant throb of pain in his leg, and the steady flowing blood, he rifles through pans and pots and silverware.
“Looking for something?”
He doesn’t think before whirling around, pressing a body into the wall, a gun pressed to their stomach.
He didn’t hear a thing. Not a single god damned thing. It’s eerily reminiscent of Dick’s own soundless steps. You had been quiet enough to sneak up on him, in his heightened, adrenaline spiked, unmasked state.
Jason meets your gaze. A woman, maybe a little older than him. You look supremely unbothered despite the cold, hard weight of the glock digging into your side. “You must be Jason.”
It’s far too late to hide his face. His red faceguard lies on the kitchen table, but you had hardly glanced at it. And you look unsurprised to see a random stranger bleeding out in the kitchen. It’s not hard to put two and two together.
“Who the hell are you?” Call him rude, sure (Alfred would despair at his manners, but he’s always been a lost cause anyway). People know better than to sneak up on him when he’s vulnerable unless they want to walk away with one less kneecap. He uses his height to his advantage, all looming bulk and menace. It says something that even the scum denizens of crime alley avoid his path when he’s unmasked. Not even a flicker of uncertainty across your face.
“A librarian.”
He blinks. “What?”
Taken aback, he lets you push the gun away with a flick of your hand. You look at him, and he feels vaguely like he’s on the receiving end of Alfred’s raised eyebrow. Or Bruce’s stern gaze, arms crossed, about to tell him off for being reckless. Like he’s done something wrong. Like he’s nine again, swinging from buildings, and fighting crime dressed in an atrocious red, green, and yellow color scheme.
His arm drops, the other throbbing with an increased intensity. He stands there awkwardly, not quite divested of all his guns. Not quite knowing what to do. Is he hallucinating? Maybe it’s the lateness. Combined with the bright fluorescent lights Alfred never bothered to replace because this is a smaller, secondary, kitchen, in an area of the manor that scarcely anyone passes, this feels like some weird fever dream. Except weirder things have definitely happened.
Like dying and coming back to life.
“Sit down.”
You don’t wait for a response, turning into the cabinets. Moments later there is an open emergency kit on the table. The wet cotton with antiseptic. “Take off your clothes.”
He looks you up and down. He’d definitely remember you if he met you. He quirks the best nonchalant brow he can manage. “Don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of an introduction.”
You stare at him for an unnervingly long time. A second later, he’s tearing off his blood soaked kevlar and pants without another word, feeling stupidly bare in nothing but his boxers. You’re unfazed as you study his wounds in silence. Then you begin to disinfect his wounds with practiced motions.
He doesn’t know what he expected from this night, but it definitely wasn’t letting some strange woman in the manor patch him up after a patrol gone bad. If anything, he would’ve expected Alfred to sweep into the kitchen, eye him with concern, and hover around him.
You’re so quiet he almost misses Dick’s inane on and off rambling. He’d take Dick arbitrarily ranking the best cereal in terms of color than this mind numbingly awkward silence.
He’s used to silence. God knows, Bruce can tell a million words with his. Disappointed silence, happy silences, contemplative silences, pleasantly surprised silences. Bruce is emotive with his silences. Bruce’s silences are decodable, something you get used to after a few dinners after you get over your awe of the mansion, the kind butler, the feeling of not having to fight for survival every single damn day of your life, that innate suspicion that everyone is out to get you.
You, on the other hand…
“So,” he coughs, when a particularly painful dab of antiseptic to his arm makes his eye twitch. “A librarian.”
As he’s come to expect in the ten minutes he’s met you, you don’t respond. He figures an open statement is a bit too much for you. He settles on, “You like books?” Me too. Then he thinks about the two overdue library books he had left laying around in the South safehouse and inwardly winces. Oresteia , a trilogy of Greek tragedies, and Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus . Maybe you’re karma. But hey, the ladies of the Gotham City Public Library happen to love him. They’ll send him away with some stale cookies from the staff room and an exempt fine he’ll still pay.
If your hand hadn’t been within his sight, he would’ve missed it. Your grip on the tweezers imperceptibly tightens.
You concentrate on bandaging up his thigh. “Dick asked me the same thing the first time we met.”
Jason resists the urge to groan, and bang his head on the table. Of course he’d pick the one weekend Dickbird’s in town. Fuck. Furthermore, the association with the original boy wonder leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Not to mention the fact that Dick probably meant it as some corny, half assed pickup line (that obviously worked.) That’s embarrassing. Fuck. He’ll blame this entire night on the blood loss. And the trauma from dying. That always works.
You’re definitely not just some civvie. You’re a civilian that knows their identities. Of all of them, it figures that Dick would be the most well adjusted for a long term relationship with a non-vigilante. Which isn’t saying much. The bar is in hell. He’s never seen it himself, but Dick’s temper tantrums are infamous. Even Bruce maintains a distance when boy wonder’s in a rotten mood.
“You never answered the question,” he says gruffly, tugging on the bandages wrapped around his arm and thigh. They’re secure; on par with Alfred’s own expert fingers. At least he didn’t need stitches this time around.
“Not really.”
He damn near chokes on his spit. “Yeah? You tell Dick that?”
You look him straight in the eye, and say monotone: “I told him I’m passionate about the dewey decimal system.”
Jason snorts, chest heaving. Except pain shoots up his arm and thigh, which makes him stifle the rest of his laughter. “You’re a real hoot, you know that?” He can’t imagine Dick with a girl like you. At all.
Your gaze flickers to the doorway.
Seconds later, Alfred steps into the room with a handful of fresh clothes. The man’s gaze is soft. “Master Jason…I believed I heard your voice.”
The amusement is instantly sapped out of him. “Hey Alfie,” he croaks. Sure, Bruce took him in, gave him a roof over his head, clothes, food, no matter how brief it was. But Alfred. Alfred would make his favorite breakfast, with the eggs exactly how he liked it whenever he wanted. Alfred patched him up with gentle hands after bad patrols that would reduce Bruce monosyllabic noises. Alfred still brings him home cooked meals so he isn’t living off box mac n cheese. Jason still isn’t completely sure how Alfred is finding his safehouses, but he knows Oracle probably has a hand in that because the woman loves making his life difficult.
The emergency kit clicks shut, and you stand. “Good morning, Alfred.”
Alfred doesn’t take his gaze off of him. “It is indeed.”
Jason swallows, feeling his throat thickening as Alfred lays the clothes down on the only place in the counter that isn’t bloodied. You’re definitely not going to be any help now. No attempt to even break the silence. You’re washing your hands, content to let the two of them hash out a heart to heart which is something he can’t handle right now.
He shifts uncomfortably. “Thank you…for the roast.” He pats the clothes. “And the clothes.” He pauses. “And I can clean up here—”
“There is certainly no need for that ,” Alfred says, daring him to argue. Jason knows better than getting in between Alfred and his complicated cleaning system, so he lets the matter lie. “And all of that was my pleasure, Master Jason.” He hesitates, “Would you…indulge this old man and stay for breakfast?”
And that’s his cue. Of course he feels bad. He always feels bad whenever he turns Alfred down. They do this dance every time Alfred catches him taking supplies or money whenever Bruce is out. He pointedly lowers his gaze, and begins changing into clothes that are still warm.
“Sorry Alfie, I’ve overstayed my welcome.” The clothes fit perfectly, and he refuses to think about why there are clothes his size in the manor when he left years ago. Bloody clothes in a plastic bag, check. All guns accounted for, check. Knives, check. Keys, check. “I should skedaddle before the big man catches me.”
“Master Bruce would not—”
Jason clears his throat. He turns, figuring he should thank you, but there’s nobody there. He doesn’t know exactly how you managed to leave when the doorway was within his gaze the entire time.
“Was all that real?” Maybe he hallucinated you. A genuine concern after all the years of getting his skull getting knocked around here and there.
Alfred’s forlorn face turns amused. “I assure you Master Dick’s guest is no ghost, no matter her penchant for wandering the manor at night.”
Could’ve fooled me. “She always that…uh,” he twirls a finger, realizing he has no idea how to describe you other than inexplicable silent emotionless.
“Yes,” his expression turns thoughtful. “She is an odd one, isn’t she? I figured the two of you would get along. She and Master Bruce appear to have their own share of… differences.”
Jason raises an eyebrow at that. “Seriously?” He can’t imagine what you and Bruce would talk about, let alone have differences about. Would the two of you even talk? The silence would be excruciating. He stifles laughter at the thought of Dickbird desperately trying to facilitate conversation between two nonverbal adults.
“An unconventional first meeting, I’ve gathered,” Alfred says, moving from cabinet to cabinet, and tidying. “Master Dick despairs regularly.”
There’s a glint in Alfred’s eye. Jason recognizes that glint. Some scathing statement is about to follow, packaged neatly in the Queen’s English. Which in Jason’s opinion, makes it all the more devastating. “In my humble opinion, Master Bruce is simply discomfited by the girl. Hmph. You and I know how he loves those neat little boxes in his head. Heaven knows when a person is too much for his tiny head to comprehend.”
Jason lets out a huff of laughter. He knows, of course. He knows that to Bruce, he’s regularly caught between two boxes himself: enemy or ally .
He unclenches his fists.
“But you didn’t hear anything from me,” Alfred finishes lamely.
Jason grins. “My lips are sealed, Alfie. At least it sounds entertaining. I’d pay good money to see it.”
The butler blinks innocently. “Perhaps if you stayed for breakfast, you could witness it for yourself.”
Jason is tempted. Because in the end, there’s nothing more he’d love than to see Bruce squirming in his seat.
But he’s also not welcome here. It’s a bleak fact. Every time he sees Bruce, it’s another beating to the heart. Another disappointment. There’s only so many times a whipped dog comes back.
“Sorry,” he says evenly, “Looks like a full house today and I could do without the noise.”
Alfred accepts his refusal with a sigh. “Then if you’d wait a moment.”
Alfred steps out of the room, and within a blink, he’s back, stacks of tupperware in his hand.
At the look on Jason’s face, he raises an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t let this old man’s cooking go to waste, would you?”
He closes his mouth. There must be something in the air, because he has to blink it out of his eyes. “No, I wouldn’t.”
–
It’s not until Jason’s speeding away on the 109 that he realizes he never even got your name.
–
Dick is still sleeping when you return.
You sit down on your side of the bed, and immediately feel Dick’s arm snake around your waist.
“Nghghnhgh,” is the barely intelligible noise that leaves his mouth, pressed against your hip.
“Morning.” You gently sweep his hair out of his face.
“Too early,” he mutters. Then he cracks open an eye. “I thought you were getting water, but you never came back.”
“I took a walk.”
Dick aims a pout at you. “Without me?”
You do not point out the fact that Dick is someone who needs at least 4 hours of beauty sleep to be able to function as a human being.
His hand brushes a wet stain on your shirt, and he’s up in a flash, hands on your shoulders, splaying you out for inspection.
“Why do you have blood on you?”
You reach out to stop him. “I met Jason.”
Dick blinks. “Jason’s here?” In one swift movement, he’s across the room, pulling on a shirt. “And he’s bleeding?”
“Well, I think he’s gone now.”
As if on cue, the revving of a motorcycle engine reverberates throughout the grounds, loud enough to wake its inhabitants up. You already anticipate the grumbling at breakfast.
This family and their flair for the dramatics.
Dick inspects you closely, expression severe as his fingers brush your body. “Did he…”
You think about Jason. How he had been poised to attack. The strength coiled in his body, ready to strike at any given moment. You understood at once that he was someone who would do what he had to, putting him at odds with the rest of the family. Making him dangerous.
Fortunately for you, he had come at the perfect time. You needed the familiarity of the sharp scent of antiseptic to tether you back to the present. You needed to think about anything else than the ghosts hounding your dreams. Jason ceased to be a person. Instead, he became a task to complete.
You hadn’t even realized until he had made conversation. Oh, you had thought. This is Dick’s little brother. Be gentle.
“He was fine,” you say softly, wisely not touching on your tension fueled first seconds where you briefly thought he’d pull the trigger, and then welcomed the thought. “Perfectly amiable.”
Dick wraps his arms around you. “‘Perfectly amiable’ are not the words I would use to describe Jason. Tell me he didn’t threaten to shoot you,” he says lightly, despite the tension outlining his body. “You can tell me. I get it, any sane person would run for the hills.”
Any sane person would’ve ran a year ago. A sane person would’ve done anything but kiss the charming smile off Dick Grayson’s face when he had been bleeding out on the ugly rug in his living room dressed in spandex. A sane former Black Widow would have left him in his bed months ago, and left for the airport with nothing but a one way ticket straight to Tibet.
But now in Dick’s arms, you’re neither. It’s less of a loss than you would’ve thought. But then again, you’re used to changing identities at the drop of a hat. Existing within the fringes of yourself. Losing yourself to the next new name. It was okay to lose yourself, you always knew. She’d always be there to help you make sense of yourself. She’d know you, even if you didn’t know yourself.
You press a kiss to his cheek, and wrangle yourself free from his grip. You need a shower. “Breakfast in an hour.”
Dick flops onto the bed, a grin playing at his lips. “An hour’s long enough.”
You give him an unimpressed look, before turning and shrugging off your shirt in full view as you step into the bathroom.
Seconds later, you hear him tripping over his pants in his effort to take them off.