Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everyone loved Dick Grayson.

Everyone worshiped him, and for the longest time, Jason resented it. Resented how effortlessly he earned affection, how easily he was adored by the world. It seemed like Dick could do no wrong—his charm, his smile, his ability to make everyone feel special—it was all too much. 

And Jason? He was a shadow in comparison. Where Dick was golden, everyone’s perfect hero, Jason was the screw-up, the one who couldn’t ever live up to that standard. It wasn’t just jealousy—it was a searing resentment that burned every time he saw the way people flocked to Dick, how they valued him. It made him wonder what was so wrong with him that he could never capture that same light. Jason hated that he couldn’t be the one to be loved like that, that he was forever the outcast unworthy of love.

The apartment stank of cigarettes and something rotting. The heater clicked uselessly in the corner, blowing lukewarm air into a room too tired to care. On the threadbare couch, Jason Todd sat cross-legged in front of a tiny, flickering television—the kind with dials and static at the edges. His cereal was going soggy in the bowl beside him.

The little ten year old boy glued his eyes to the small, square television that was currently broadcasting an incident that left an apartment building in shambles. When the news showed up he immediately stopped his chewing and scrambled to grab the remote to increase the volume.

On the screen, chaos. Smoke billowed from the skeletal remains of a building. Firefighters scrambled, reporters barked into microphones, and then—

There they were.

Batman, tall and grim, disappearing into a haze of concrete dust.

And right behind him, cutting through the smoke like something out of a comic book, was him.

Robin.

The boy wonder.

Even on a grainy screen, the colors of his costume seemed impossibly bright—red and green and yellow against the ash and ruin. He moved like he belonged there. Like danger bent around him.

Jason leaned in, so close his nose nearly touched the glass.

Robin darted through a broken window, vanished, then reappeared minutes later with a scruffy white puppy in his arms. Behind him, Batman emerged carrying a woman draped over his shoulder, her arm limp, her face streaked with blood and soot.

But Jason only had eyes for the boy.

He couldn’t be that much older—maybe twelve? Thirteen? But he looked like he came from another world. A world where people ran toward burning buildings and came back with puppies and survivors and no fear in their eyes.

Jason would try and sit as close to the screen as possible, as if being nearer would somehow pull him into that world. Into the light where that boy in red and green moved like a firecracker—bright, fast, sure. The kind of sure Jason had never known.

He barely noticed the sounds of the city bleeding through the cracked window, or the way the sirens outside mimicked the ones on the news. He didn’t flinch when something shattered in the alley behind the building. All he could see was him .

The boy wonder landed on the sidewalk like he weighed nothing, a grin flashing across his face even as soot smudged his cheeks. He handed the puppy off to a paramedic, ruffled its head, then turned back to look at the collapsing wreckage like he hadn't just outrun death.

Jason’s fingers curled against his knee. The milk had gone warm.

Behind him, his mother shifted and groaned in her sleep, muttering something he couldn’t make out. He didn’t turn to look. Not even when her breathing turned ragged again.

The camera zoomed in for a second—just a second—and caught Robin’s face, wide and bright and alive. That was what people looked like when they mattered. When they were chosen.

Jason didn’t even know his name. But at that moment, something grew in his chest. 

He didn’t know what that something meant. Not yet. He was only ten.

But something settled in his chest like a stone wrapped in silk. Heavy. Soft. Undeniable.

And it stayed there.

His mother stirred behind him on the couch, coughing into the crook of her arm. Jason didn’t look back. She always sounded worse at night.

The newscast shifted to a shot of the aftermath—sirens wailing, firefighters holding back crowds, someone crying out for a loved one. But Robin is gone now. Back into the shadows or the Batmobile or maybe somewhere Jason couldn’t imagine. Somewhere warm. Somewhere safe.

The apartment creaked as the wind pushed against the windows. Jason sat back on his heels, the hem of his baggy shirt wrinkling up at his sides. He pressed the remote once, then again, lowering the volume to a murmur.

His eyes stayed on the screen long after it changed to something else—commercials, maybe. He didn’t really see them.

It wasn’t just the costume. It wasn’t even the hero stuff, not really.

It was the way Robin moved. The way he smiled after saving a puppy. The way the world made room for him, like he was meant to be there.

Jason tried to imagine himself like that.

Swinging between rooftops. Standing beside Batman. Being someone people believed in. Someone everyone might look at and not be disappointed by. Someone who is actually seen and useful.

The thought made his chest tighten, like someone had reached in and wrapped a hand around his ribs. Squeezed.

From behind the couch, something shattered—his mom’s bottle slipping off the end table. She cursed softly, then went quiet again.

Jason didn’t turn around.

He reached for the remote and turned the volume back up.

Jason still couldn’t believe it was real.

One day he was sleeping under a broken fire escape with nothing but a crumpled hoodie and a half-eaten granola bar in his backpack. Next, he was standing in front of something that looked like it belonged in a movie. No—scratch that—something that belonged in five movies at once. Wayne Manor wasn’t just big, it was ridiculous. It had a gate. A fountain. Windows taller than anything he’d ever seen.

And inside? Marble floors. Chandeliers. Rooms that echoed when he whispered “hello” just to see if they really would. It was warm and clean and smelled like wood polish and expensive stuff he didn’t have names for.

“Holy crap,” he whispered, sneakers squeaking slightly as he stepped further inside, like the house might change its mind and kick him out if he made too much noise.

He’d never seen so many books in one place—actual books, not the kind people left behind on bus stop benches or in damp cardboard boxes on the sidewalk. There were entire shelves taller than him, and not a single one had torn covers or water stains.

“Do I get to read these?” he asked, wide-eyed, turning toward Alfred.

“Master Wayne has never been one to limit access to knowledge,” the butler said with a small smile, and that sounded like a yes to Jason.

He tried not to grin too hard. Tried to be cool. But he was a little kid, and this place had staircases that split in two halfway up. That wasn’t normal. That was fairy tale stuff.

And then there was the food. Actual Food. He didn’t even realize how hungry he’d been until Alfred asked if he wanted something to eat and Jason—fully intending to play it cool—ended up inhaling a grilled cheese and two helpings of tomato soup in what felt like seconds.

“You may take your time,” Alfred had said politely, but with the kind of face that said he was not unfamiliar with hungry kids pretending they weren’t.

Jason muttered a sheepish “Sorry,” but Alfred only patted him gently on the shoulder and brought out a tray of cookies next.

He couldn’t stop smiling.

The whole place was one big what the hell .

Wayne Manor wasn’t the kind of place you could just stroll around like it was normal. Every room felt like it was full of secrets—half the walls were covered in old portraits, the other half held... weird tech. He didn’t know what it was, but it sure as hell wasn’t just for show.

And then there was Bruce Wayne himself.

The guy who owned the whole place.

Jason had learned real quick that Bruce wasn’t like the rich guys he saw on TV. Yeah, Bruce was good-looking, sure, with that jawline that made Jason feel like he was some kind of underdeveloped child, but all that charm? All the fake smiles? That was definitely a mask.

He didn’t act like the ditzy playboy the media painted him as. No. Bruce Wayne was just... weird . A little cold. A little distant. He was always working or training or whatever else he was doing. Jason had seen him do that weird move where he’d toss a punching bag into the air and take it down in five hits.

And when he found out Bruce was Batman? Yeah, that blew his mind. One minute, he’s trying to nick a couple of tires off the Batmobile—stupid, but hey, it’s Gotham, and nobody else was stupid enough to try—and the next, he’s face-to-face with the guy who had put the fear into the entire city.

Jason had never seen a grown man move that fast. And before he even knew what was happening, Bruce had him cornered, cuffed, and sitting in the back of a blacked-out car, wondering if he was about to end up on the receiving end of Gotham’s finest beatdown.

But Bruce didn’t beat him.

He just looked at him. Eyes dark behind that mask. And somehow, Jason ended up in Wayne Manor. The first time Alfred led him through the foyer, Jason was sure he’d walked into a museum. He actually asked if he was allowed to touch anything. Alfred, ever the gentleman, gave him a warm smile and said, “It’s your home now, Master Jason.”

Your home.

He didn’t say it out loud, but Jason turned the words over in his head so many times they practically left an imprint. Your home.

He even had his own room.

With a bed. And pillows. And blankets that didn’t smell like mildew or mold.

That night, Jason sat cross-legged in the middle of it all, too wired to sleep, looking around at the walls and the drawers and the books on the nightstand like he’d walked into someone else’s life and accidentally stayed.

He curled up under the covers eventually, warm and full and safer than he’d ever felt, and whispered to himself in the dark.

“Don’t mess this up.”

Because for the first time in a long time, it felt like he had something worth keeping.

Jason tried to conceal the grin spreading across his face, but it was damn near impossible. He practically bounced as he walked down the long corridors of Wayne Manor. His suit was still felt too big, his mask not quite fitting right, but it didn’t matter. He was Robin. And that meant he was going to prove himself.

He had been living in the Manor for six months now, still getting used to the strange feeling of being cared for, of having a place to sleep, food on his plate, and no one throwing him out at the first sign of trouble.

And for the past three weeks, he'd been Robin—the new Robin. Batman’s sidekick.

But not once, not once in those six months, had he laid eyes on the original Robin. Dick Grayson.

He’d heard the stories. Heard Bruce’s fragmented explanations—his relationship with the older boy was wounded, Bruce said. He never elaborated. But Jason had a feeling that whatever the hell had gone down between them wasn’t something easily fixed, and Jason was stuck in this awkward middle ground, trying to carve his own place next to the legend.

So, when Dick finally showed up—actually, showed up, not just a passing mention here or there—Jason had thought maybe it was a chance to make a good impression. To prove himself. To show Dick that he wasn’t just some replacement. That he deserved to wear the mask.

What he hadn’t expected was the coldness.

When they finally reached the living room, there he was—Dick Grayson .

Sitting casually on the couch, his posture relaxed, like he had no care in the world, but there was a tension in his body that was impossible to ignore. The dark shadows under his eyes spoke volumes. He was quite tall, but leaner than Jason had imagined, with sharp features and an intense stare that could pierce through the thickest walls. His hair—untamed, but styled effortlessly—hung just above his eyes, adding to the image of someone who had once been Gotham's shining beacon.

Dick looked up when they entered, and for a moment, Jason thought maybe he saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes. But it was quickly replaced with something else—something that made Jason’s stomach tighten.

“Bruce,” Dick said, his voice neutral, no sign of warmth. "Who’s this?"

Bruce nodded, his eyes flicking toward Jason for a moment before he addressed Dick. “This is Jason.”

Jason tried not to fidget, tried not to show how the nerves were eating at him. But it wasn’t like he could hide in the shadows of this guy’s past.

“Jason,” Bruce continued, turning to him. “This is Dick. The first Robin”

Dick didn’t stand up. He didn’t smile. He just gave Jason a cursory glance, his gaze sharp and calculating, almost distant.

“Nice to meet you,” Dick said flatly, though it barely sounded like he meant it. His eyes flicked back to Bruce, his mouth tight, like he was holding something in.

Jason stepped forward, trying to stand tall, to make himself worthy of the mantle he’d been handed. “I—uh, I know who you are. You’re the Robin. I mean, was... yeah.” He floundered for a second but caught himself. “Look, I don’t want to step on your toes or anything. I’m just here to do the job, like Bruce needs.”

Dick’s jaw tightened at that. He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest like Jason was some kind of puzzle he couldn’t be bothered to solve. His eyes flicked to Bruce, then back to Jason, before he sighed, loud enough to make the air between them thick.

“Right,” Dick muttered. “You’re the new Robin.” He uncrossed his arms, but the tension didn’t dissipate. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Guess Bruce always has a thing for replacing people.”

Jason’s chest tightened at the barb. The sharpness of the words cut deeper than he wanted to admit, and he felt something in his gut twist—like he wasn’t just being judged for who he was, but for what he wasn’t.

Bruce stiffened, his eyes flicking between them. "Dick—"

But Dick cut him off with a wave of his hand, like Bruce’s words didn’t matter. “It’s fine, Bruce,” he said, his tone a mix of sarcasm and something colder. “I get it. I left. I ditched the name. Now he’s the new Robin. Just like you said. Whatever.”

"Guess I just would've liked a heads up." he continued, voice cold and distant.

Jason felt a flicker of something hot in his chest, but he forced it down. He wasn’t here for this—wasn’t here to get caught up in the emotions Dick was throwing at him.

He stepped forward a little more, chin lifting just slightly. “I’m not here to replace you,” Jason said, his voice rough but steady. “I’m just trying to do the job. Your job.”

Dick’s eyes flicked back to him, cold and distant, as though he were sizing him up and finding him lacking. “Yeah. Well, good luck with that.” His words were barely more than a muttered whisper, but it stung like a slap.

The silence between them was thick, suffocating almost. Bruce shifted uneasily in the background, but Jason didn’t care. He was caught in the tension between them, feeling both like an outsider and a substitute, both out of place and expected at the same time.

Finally, Dick stood up, but it wasn’t a grand gesture. It wasn’t some heroic move. He stood like someone who had been worn down, someone who had seen it all before. “I hope you’re ready for this, kid,” he said, voice low, but with a bite behind it. “Because Gotham... she isn't kind.”

And with that, Dick walked out of the room, leaving Jason standing there, unsure whether he had just been dismissed or if something deeper was still at play.

Jason glanced at Bruce, who only gave him a look that wasn’t quite reassuring, but it wasn’t exactly pity either.

“Don’t worry about him,” Bruce said, his voice quiet. “He’ll come around.”

Jason didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say. All he knew was that he’d walked into the shadow of a legend, and somehow, that shadow felt bigger than he was ready for.

After their (rather awkward) first confrontation, Bruce went and tracked Dick down to try and compromise on Jason’s new role as Robin. Jason wasn’t there to witness the whole debacle, which he is grateful for, considering how Bruce came back all dark and gloomy in a way that only the golden boy manages to punch out of him.

Despite the many, many shouts and profanities Dick threw Bruce’s way and the many reasons Bruce pleaded, Dick eventually came back to Gotham and was (initially) forced to bond with Jason every time he visited, which was usually once every two to three weeks. Jason, being the young, idol struck teen he was, anticipated all of them. 

The first time they “bonded” was right after their first patrol together.

Jason bounced on the balls of his feet as they stepped back into the cave, the adrenaline from their first patrol together still buzzing through his limbs like electricity. His mask was pushed halfway up his forehead, revealing a flushed, eager face under sweaty curls.

“That was so sick,” he said, unable to keep the grin off his face. “Did you see the way I took that guy down by the docks? I mean, I know I kinda fumbled the landing after, but—still!”

Dick didn’t respond right away. He’d already pulled off his gloves and was busy tugging down his domino mask, eyes flicking briefly to Jason before settling somewhere over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Dick said finally. “Not bad.”

Jason waited. For a smile. A high-five. A simple “nice job” that would mean more coming from Dick than it ever would from Bruce. 

Instead, Dick exhaled and started walking towards the stairs that lead to the manor. “You should get some rest. Bruce said you have a test tomorrow.”

“Oh, uh—yeah.” Jason scratched the back of his neck, trailing after him like a shadow. “But, I mean, we could—hang out or something? Maybe grab a snack? Watch a movie? I heard you and the Titans used to marathon dumb horror flicks, and I thought—”

“Maybe next time,” Dick cut in, already halfway down the stairwell. “I need to solve a case back in Blüdhaven.”

Jason stopped at the top of the stairs, watching the space Dick had just vacated. The echo of footsteps faded into the dark.

“…Right,” he said, to no one.

He stood there a minute longer, the wind tugging at his cape. Then he turned, alone now, and started taking off his suit.

The warmth from patrol, from the thrill of feeling like he was part of something, began to cool in his chest. Just a little.

Dick didn’t really put that much effort into ‘bonding’ with Jason, despite how much the younger boy wanted him to. The first year was definitely the worst. Dick was angry at Bruce, so technically, he was angry at Jason, too. 

But his anger towards Jason wasn’t a bright, fiery red that could explode at any minute like his anger towards Bruce. No, his anger towards Jason was cold and blue, seen at times when they were alone in a room together. When Jason tried to spark up a conversation about the teachers at his school or make small talk about the weather. It was an obvious and suffocating type of anger. One that slowly started to kill the sheer happiness that surfaced every time he saw the older boy.  

He was wandering through the upper halls of the manor when something caught his eye.

The photo frames on the bookshelf weren’t hidden, just casually scattered between thick leather-bound volumes and various trinkets from other countries. Jason hadn’t noticed them before.

The first one he saw was a group shot. Faded, slightly tilted. Dick stood in the middle, smiling like he had nothing to prove. His arm slung around a girl with dark hair and blue eyes similar to his. Another boy leaned on his shoulder—red, curly hair, wide grin—and behind them stood another redheaded boy doing a peace sign.

Jason stared.

He didn’t know all their names yet—just snippets from offhand mentions in the cave or files Bruce kept locked—but it wasn’t about who they were. It was about how they looked. Happy. Comfortable. Like they actually liked each other.

There was another picture. This time just Dick and a red-haired girl, smiling so wide it practically glowed through the glossy surface of the photograph. Jason’s jaw tightened.

How the hell could someone like that—someone so warm, so open—turn around and treat him like a chore? Like something Bruce had dumped in his lap?

He never got smiles like that. The best he ever got from Dick were polite nods and stiff silences. An occasional “good work” that sounded more like an obligation than anything else.

What made them different?

Why did they get the good parts of Dick, and he got whatever cold, distant version was left?

Jason turned away from the shelf and shoved his hands deep in his hoodie pockets.

It made most sense when he heard it one evening. Jason hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

He was just heading down the hall after training, sweaty and sore and a little too proud of the bruise he’d given Bruce during sparring, when he heard the raised voices. It came from the study. The thick oak doors were cracked just enough for sound to spill out.

“…you didn’t even tell me,” Dick’s voice snapped. “You just slapped a domino mask on some kid off the street and expected me to be fine with it?”

Jason froze. His breath hitched in the middle of his throat. He leaned closer, despite himself.

“I didn’t slap a mask on him,” Bruce said, tight. “He earned it. He—”

“You’re unbelievable,” Dick bit out. “You think training a kid to fight crime is earning something? You think putting him in my suit and letting him use my name is anything but a giant middle finger to me?”

“He’s not replacing you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Dick said. “I go off on my own, and within months, you’ve got a brand-new sidekick hanging off your shoulder like I never existed.”

Jason didn’t hear Bruce’s response.

He’d stopped listening. His stomach turned.

Because even though Dick never said his name, even though none of that heat had been aimed directly at him… it still felt like it was. Like Dick hated that he existed in this house, in this role, in his old costume.

Jason stepped away from the door.

Later that day, when Dick passed him in the hall, he only glanced at him. Not angry. Not bitter. Just indifferent.

And somehow, that stung even more.

Somewhere, a voice in the back of his mind mocked him.

Never meet your fuckin’ heroes or sum shit like that.  

Jason forced his eyes awake as he tried to focus on the last few pages of the book he’d been reading. The clock on the far wall read that it was already eleven p.m. He had school tomorrow, but he needed to finish this one last chapter. It was a stupid compulsion. He could already feel the regret curling in his chest if he didn’t finish it before bed. But his eyelids were heavy, his body begging him to shut down for the night.

Suddenly, the sound of the massive library doors creaked open from somewhere down below. A pair of footsteps—then another—stumbled inside with muffled snickers and low voices.

The manor's library had two floors with a balcony on the second floor overlooking the first one. Jason frowned, glancing down from said balcony. He leaned forward slightly, trying to stay out of sight, but still able to see the movement below.

The lower floor had three couches arranged in a U-shape. An old record player sat on the far corner of the formation, a relic from the early 1900s. Bruce had once told him it barely worked anymore, not since... well, since everything. Jason had no idea why he was still keeping it, but then again, he didn’t really understand much about Bruce’s history. He didn’t care enough to ask.

His eyes zeroed in on the two figures in the room below. Roy Harper, one of Dick’s closest friends and teammates, was hunched over the record player, fiddling with Bruce’s vinyl collection. Jason had met him a few times when Dick had brought him around, but never like this.

Roy held up two vinyls, his face curious. "Which one?" he asked, glancing toward Dick.

Dick’s smile was wide, unguarded in a way Jason hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t forced, like it sometimes was when he was around Bruce, and it definitely wasn’t fake. He was genuinely happy. And that stung.

Jason had always assumed Dick didn’t like being at the manor, that maybe he hated the place. But watching him now, laughing with Roy, it was like he belonged here.

After a beat, Dick pointed to the vinyl in Roy’s left hand.

Roy nodded, then dropped the needle on the record, letting the soft, warm sounds of The Beach Boys’ "Don't Worry Baby" fill the room. Jason watched, his pulse unexpectedly quickening.

Roy spun Dick a few times as they both attempted some ridiculous, half-dazed dance moves. It was awkward—almost laughable—but it was fun. But Jason’s gaze didn’t leave them. Something felt different. A shift.

The atmosphere in the room subtly changed as the song slowed down. And just as quickly, so did the energy between the two. Jason watched, frozen in place, as Dick’s hand suddenly gripped the front of Roy’s shirt, pulling him in.

It was quick—too quick—but Jason’s eyes widened in disbelief as Roy responded, his lips pressing to Dick’s with surprising eagerness.

What the hell?

Jason’s stomach lurched, a wave of confusion and anger flooding his mind. He couldn’t look away, even though his gut twisted painfully. Roy pushed Dick onto the couch, the two of them falling together in a tangle of limbs. Jason couldn’t breathe, his heart racing in a way he didn’t quite understand. He shouldn’t be watching this. He shouldn’t care.

But he couldn’t stop. His eyes were locked on the way Roy's hands gripped Dick’s hips, or how Dick’s hands tugged at Roy’s hair, pulling him closer. The couch creaked under their weight. The sounds, the groans—they filled the room, muffled but real.

Jason felt like his chest had been carved open.

Dick… liked boys?

The thought crashed into him like a wave, the weight of it heavy and disorienting. Jason could barely process it. He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to understand it.

A soft moan broke through the haze, and that was it. It didn’t matter who let out that moan. That was the last thing Jason needed to hear.

He tore his gaze away, his heart slamming against his ribs, and backed away from the balcony. He didn’t care if the door slammed behind him. He didn’t care about anything anymore.

His mind was spinning as he walked down the empty hallway, the same hallway that was supposed to feel like home but now felt more suffocating each and every day.

He didn’t care. Not at all. Not anymore.

He slammed the door to his room behind him, the noise deafening in the silence of the manor. He tossed the book aside, not even bothering to finish it.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

He didn't know if it was the anger, the confusion, or the sense of betrayal, but everything felt off. He wasn’t tired. He couldn’t sleep. And for the first time since he’d arrived at the manor, Jason wasn’t sure if he belonged here.

It was hard to know where the line was between wanting to be part of his world, and realizing that maybe, just maybe, he never would be.

It had been three years since Jason became Robin.

He’d grown into the role—stronger, faster, sharper, taller even. The gangly limbs had settled into muscle, the awkward stance into calculated movement. He wasn’t the kid with too-long sleeves and something to prove anymore.

He and Dick trained sometimes. Played video games. Watched movies. Shared a few dumb jokes. It was… fine.

But the hero worship never truly went away. Not really. It just changed shape—mutated under the weight of time and teenage angst into something heavier. Something a whole lot darker.

Envy.

Envy from when the villains of Gotham constantly compared him to the former Robin, envy from when people (both in and out of the cape) befriended him in order to get close to Dick, envy from when civilians and young heroes alike would flock to him.

Envy from when Dick, out of fuckin’ nowhere, just decided to be the greatest fuckin’ thing the world had ever created. 

It twisted something in his gut whenever Dick showed up and somehow, without even trying, filled every corner of the room—every goddamn photo frame in the manor—even when he hadn’t lived there in years.

Dick Grayson was untouchable. The golden boy. The original. The one everyone compared him to, whether they meant to or not.

Jason used to resent him. Back when Dick was cold, dismissive, sharp around the edges—when he made it clear he wanted nothing to do with Bruce's new project.

That was easier.

Now? Now Dick was... warm. Patient. Bright. Like he’d finally stepped into the version of himself Jason always expected him to be. Gone were the outbursts and cutting words. Now there were soft smiles and casual praise and the kind of affection Jason used to dream about getting.

Gone was the explosive anger issues and daddy issues and in it's place was a person brighter than the entire fuckin’ sun and it's stars. 

It made him sick.

It made him want it more.

It was easier to resent him back when he was nothing but a fuckin’ asshole who thought himself better than anyone else on the fuckin’ planet. But now? When he’s nothing but pretty smiles and warm hugs and kind gestures and considerate frowns and–

Point is, the guy’s nothin’ but a piece of shit. 

Jason thought then and there things would've been easier if Dick had turned back into that same douchebag he had been three years ago. It would’ve been easier for Jason to do his job without getting distracted every time a flash of black and blue appeared within his eyesight.

He swallowed some spit as he watched Dick interact with some new heroes as they fawned over him and what he did for his shit bucket of a city. He evaded his gaze every time he saw a new man spark up a conversation or offer a dance to Dick Grayson in one of Bruce Wayne’s galas. Walked away to his room every time Dick brought home a new girlfriend or a new boyfriend every couple of months. The way he leaned in, hand on someone's arm, smiling so easily—it made Jason’s throat close.

It wasn’t fair.

They all knew him as this shiny, perfect golden boy who never made a mistake in his life. Someone untouchable. Unreachable. Someone who could never do a single wrong thing in his entire seventeen years of living. 

No one knew the real Nightwing. No one knew the real Dick Grayson. Not the way Jason did. Not the way Jason had lived it. They didn’t know about the mess, the cold silences, the explosive fights with Bruce, the long shadow he left behind.

They didn’t know the truth.

But Jason did.

And still, against every ounce of common sense in his body—he wanted him anyway.

And as the years go by, it became harder for him not to blush every time Dick ruffled his hair or called him any kind of nickname.

The mission had gone fine.

No one was injured, the perp was caught, and Bruce had given his usual nod of approval. But Jason lingered on the edge of the Batcomputer platform, fingers curled tightly around the edge of the console, watching from the shadows as Dick laughed easily with Alfred across the cave.

Dick had just flown in from Blüdhaven to help with a lead, and, as always, he fit seamlessly into Bruce’s world. Smiles came easier when Dick was around. The silence in the cave grew lighter, less suffocating. Even Bruce had cracked half a grin when Dick made some joke about how long it took Jason to finally master the grapple.

Jason was supposed to laugh too.

Instead, he stood stiff, still in his scuffed Robin gear, dirt and blood drying under his mask, eyes fixed on the way Bruce looked at Dick like he hadn’t looked at Jason in a while.

Like he was proud.

“Something on your mind?”

Jason flinched slightly, turned, and saw Dick walking over—still in his suit, but mask off, face open and kind. That made it worse, somehow.

“Nothin’,” Jason muttered, tugging at his gloves. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Dick tilted his head. “You were kinda reckless out there tonight. Even for you.”

Jason bristled. “I got the job done.”

“Yeah, but you don’t always have to go in fists first.”

There it was. That calm, mature, stable tone. Not mocking, not cruel. Just… patient. Understanding. Perfect .

Jason forced a smile. “Not all of us can do flips and make the bad guys surrender with a smile.”

Dick laughed. “That’s not really how it works.”

Jason looked at him for a long moment. “Easy for you to say.”

The air stretched tight between them.

Dick’s smile dimmed a little. “Jay…”

Jason turned away. “Forget it. You wouldn’t get it.”

Because how could he?

How could Dick possibly understand what it was like to constantly stand in someone else’s shadow? To try and fill shoes the size of a goddamn myth? To feel like Bruce only ever saw you when you messed up?

Jason’s fists clenched.

He didn’t hate Dick. Not really.

But sometimes… sometimes he wished he did. It would’ve been easier than this slow-burning ache in his chest every time Dick smiled like it cost him nothing.

The manor’s training room echoed with the rhythmic thuds of gloves against pads.

Jason exhaled through his nose, focusing on his strikes. Jab. Cross. Hook. Breathe. His fists moved fast, precise, sharper than last week—he could tell, and so could Dick.

“Wow, kid, you’re really getting the hang of that,” Dick said, stepping back with a lopsided grin as he lowered the pads.

Jason dropped his arms and rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me kid. You’re not even eighteen yet and barely an adult.”

“I will be in two months, kid ,” Dick shot back, stretching his arms with exaggerated smugness.

“Whatever.”

“You really are getting better though.” Dick looked up at him from beneath those raven locks. “No matter what Bruce says.”

And just like that, it hit him. Like a slap he didn’t want to admit hurt.

Jason looked away. “Yeah. Whatever.”

Because when Dick said nice things—when he smiled, praised him, said his name like it meant something—it didn’t feel like warmth. It felt like bullets. Blunt, hot, ripping into skin that didn’t know how to receive kindness from the person it wanted it from most.

It made him feel small. It made him feel ugly.

Sweet, smart, sexy Dick.

God, even the fucking towel looked good slung over his shoulder.

Jason’s heart beat unevenly as he forced himself to keep his expression blank. He didn’t want to give Dick the satisfaction. Not that Dick was looking for it. That made it worse.

He didn’t know.

Didn’t know what his words did to Jason. What his praise felt like. How Jason twisted every ounce of it until it became proof that he’d never measure up, never be on his level, never be anything but the kid who took his name like a secondhand sweater that didn’t quite fit.

“Sooo… anyway.” Dick plopped onto the edge of the mat, sweat darkening the collar of his tanktop. “You been seeing any girls lately?”

Jason scowled. “What kind of question is that?”

“Come on, you can tell me.” Dick leaned his body close to Jason, pretty blue eyes shining even beneath dim lights of the cave. “Big brother privileges.”

“Lay off me, man.” Jaon shrugged the other boy away from him.

“And you ain’t my big brother.”

“Aww,” Dick cooed, grinning like an idiot. “Does wittle baby Jason have a crush?”

Jason shoved a towel at his face. “Shut up!”

“It’s okay,” Dick said through a chuckle. “I know what it’s like to be fifteen with hormones flying through the roof.”

“Maybe because it was just three years ago for you, asshat,” Jason muttered, but the bite in his voice didn’t land the way he wanted it to.

“Still,” Dick said, more gently now. “You’ll live.”

Jason didn’t answer. He busied himself by unlacing his gloves, fingers slow, distracted.

Dick didn’t notice—or maybe he did and chose not to comment. He just leaned back again, looking completely at ease. Radiating warmth like it came naturally. Like it didn’t burn anyone in the process.

Jason hated that about him.

That he could be charming and likable and smart and stupidly hot and still have the audacity to act like they were close. Like Jason didn’t spend half his time twisting himself in knots trying to get a version of this—the smiles, the casual conversation, the teasing—that didn’t feel like it was always halfway out the door.

Jason dropped the gloves beside him.

“Why are you even being nice to me?” he asked suddenly.

Dick blinked. “What?”

“You didn’t even like me at first,” Jason said, not looking at him. “So why pretend now?”

There was a beat of silence.

“I’m not pretending,” Dick said. Quietly.

Jason didn’t answer. He just stared at the floor.

“Hey,” Dick said, nudging him with his foot. “I was angry at Bruce. You were caught in the crossfire. That wasn’t fair to you.”

Jason scoffed. “No shit.”

“I’m serious.” Dick’s voice was low. “I was an asshole.”

Jason shrugged. “Still are sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Dick said. “But I’m trying.”

Jason looked up, just long enough to see the truth on Dick’s face—and then looked away again before it could settle in.

The silence stretched.

“I didn’t mean it,” Jason mumbled. “About you being an asshat.”

“Yeah , you did,” Dick said, grinning.

Jason cracked the faintest smile. “Yeah. I did.”

But something in his chest still felt twisted up and ugly. Because even when Dick said the right things, it didn’t fix how Jason felt about himself when he was around. Like he was always two steps behind, always the replacement.

“Let’s spar again,” Jason said suddenly, standing up.

Dick followed, rising to his feet. “What—you trying to beat the sentiment out of me?”

“Maybe.”

Dick laughed and slipped into stance. “Bring it on, then.”

He could play nice. He could play it like none of this mattered. Like his heart wasn’t scraping itself raw every time Dick looked at him like that—kind, distant, like someone who didn’t understand he was holding a loaded gun.

"You shouldn't have beaten that man up."

Jason didn’t look up from where he was peeling off his gloves, fingers stiff with leftover adrenaline. “We're heroes, Bruce,” he muttered. “Thought that’s what we were supposed to do.”

Bruce’s gauntlet slammed down on the metal table so hard it echoed through the Batcave like a thunderclap. Jason flinched, just barely.

“Yes. We stop criminals,” Bruce growled. “We intervene. We use force if we have to. But we don’t cripple people. We don’t beat them so badly they might not walk again.”

Jason scoffed, bitter. “You think he didn’t deserve it?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what the fuck is the point?” Jason snapped, throwing his gloves onto the table. “You keep patching these assholes up just enough so they can do the same shit again next week. What, you want a pat on the back because they’re breathing when you’re done with ‘em?”

Bruce stepped forward, eyes like flint. “We don’t get to decide who lives or dies. We don’t get to be judge and jury.”

“And you think you’re some shining example of justice?” Jason laughed, too loud, too sharp. “You're just a man in a mask playing god until it fits your guilt complex and people dare to call you a hero.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “If you think you’re a hero for what you did tonight, then I was wrong about you.”

Jason froze.

And something twisted.

“Yeah?” he said, voice colder now. “Like how you were wrong about everything else about me?”

Bruce was silent. That told Jason enough.

“I’m not him, Bruce.”

Bruce exhaled hard. “I don’t know what the hell you’re on about.”

“I’m not him,” Jason snapped again. “I’m not your golden boy. I’m not the toy soldier who says all the right things and makes you look good in the press.”

“Jason—”

“I’m the replacement, right?” His voice cracked. “Just the next Robin. The one you picked up in a fucking alley.”

“Enough.”

Jason ignored him. “I’m sorry I don’t smile pretty at galas or make the Justice League laugh or kiss your ass after every mission.”

“I said enough. ”

“I’m sorry I can’t be your perfect little bitch like Di—”

“I SAID ENOUGH!”

The shout reverberated off the cave walls, louder than any gunshot Jason had ever heard. Bruce’s face was red. His hands were clenched. For a second, Jason thought he might actually swing.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, furious and frozen.

Then, coldly: “Go the hell upstairs. Stay in your room.”

Jason stood his ground. “So that’s it?”

“And leave the goddamn gear.”

Jason’s mouth parted like he might say something else—something that could either fix this or destroy it entirely—but nothing came out. Just a sharp breath through his nose.

He peeled off the rest of the suit in silence, the scrap of armor on skin sounding too loud in the silence that followed.

When he left, he didn’t slam the door. But the emptiness he left behind in the cave hit like an aftershock.

Upstairs, he sat on the edge of his bed, hands still dirty with dried blood.

The suit sat in a pile across the room, abandoned like a broken toy.

He stared at it.

Then at the scarred knuckles on his hands.

Then at nothing at all.

Jason did not, in fact, stay in his room.

Around a couple of minutes after he went inside, he opened the window and jumped from three stories up to the ground, using the branches like steps on the way down.

It always baffled him how Bruce still hadn’t chopped those trees down. Right next to the windows—like they weren’t the most obvious getaway route for a house of vigilantes. It was almost like Bruce wanted him to escape, just to see if he would.

The night was cold. Gotham’s kind of cold—wet and clinging. Jason welcomed it. Let it sink into his bones like punishment.

He walked all the way to the front gate and scaled the tall brick wall beside it, boots scraping rough against the mortar. Didn’t even bother trying to be quiet. The second he cracked open that window, Bruce probably already knew. Had a silent alarm for it. Monitored the manor like it was Arkham.

Good.

Let him watch.

Let him see the kid he raised walk away from him.

He found a beat-up motorcycle sitting on the porch, not the Batcycle—just something simple, civilian. Keys in the ignition like someone forgot to lock it up. Or maybe Bruce left it there. A test. A trap. A stupid attempt at grace. Jason didn’t give a shit. He got it going and didn’t even look back as he sped off.

Jason hesitated before knocking on the door. His hand hovered for a second too long, knuckles clenched tight. Then—tap tap. A quiet knock. Barely brave enough.

“Just a minute!” came a muffled voice from inside.

Jason exhaled through his nose, trying to keep steady. Of course Dick sounded perfect. Even with just two words, his voice had that easy charm—warm, sweet, frustratingly effortless. Jason hated how his chest tightened at the sound.

The door opened, and there he was.

Barefoot, in sweatpants and a worn Blink-189 T-shirt, with damp hair like he'd just stepped out of the shower. The lights behind him cast a soft glow, and his stupid, stupid big blue eyes blinked wide when they landed on Jason.

“Jay?” Dick’s voice dropped into something gentler. “What are you doing here? It’s—” he glanced back at the clock, “—past midnight.”

Jason stepped inside without answering. The apartment smelled like laundry detergent and takeout, and yeah, it was a mess. Not horrible, but lived-in. There were clothes on the couch, half a sandwich abandoned on the coffee table, a game controller upside down by the TV.

“I had a fight with Bruce,” Jason muttered, not looking at him.

Dick closed the door with a soft click. “So... the usual.”

Jason dropped onto the couch, head back against the cushions. “Yeah.”

“Want some tea or something?”

“Got beer?”

Dick snorted. “Nice try.”

He filled a kettle. Jason stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched.

Dick wandered into the kitchen, tossing a shirt off a chair as he passed. “What was it this time?”

“I crippled a guy.”

A pause.

“Jason…”

“What?” He turned, voice already defensive. “You gonna yell at me too?”

“No,” Dick said, voice low. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “I’m not Bruce.”

“Yeah. I know.” Jason sank into the couch like the weight of the whole city was on his shoulders. “You’re not.”

There was a beat. Then:

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

Jason dragged a hand through his hair. “Some asshole pulled a knife on a kid. I stopped him. Maybe a little too hard.”

“He said I crossed a line,” he said after a pause.

Dick glanced over. “Did you?”

Jason hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He dug his thumb into his palm. “Guy was threatening a kid. I just made sure he couldn’t walk for a while. It's not like I killed him or anything.”

The silence stretched again.

“People like him don’t learn any other way,” Jason added, quieter.

Dick said nothing. The kettle hissed in the background.

Jason huffed. “You’re not gonna lecture me?”

“I figured Bruce already covered that.”

Another beat.

“…Thanks.”

The word came out quieter than he meant, but Jason didn’t bother repeating it. It felt too big and too small at the same time—like it didn't cover anything and still weighed too much on his tongue.

Dick didn’t respond right away. The silence between them stretched long, humming like a bruise under the skin. Jason could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the old wall clock above Dick’s bookshelf, the occasional creak of wood settling under the apartment’s weight.

Finally, Dick sighed and crossed the room. He dropped onto the other end of the couch with a thud, knees slightly spread, forearms resting on his thighs. He looked like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure which words to use.

“You made a call,” Dick said eventually. “I’m not gonna tell you whether or not it was the right one. But you're still—”

Jason turned his head, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. “You really think that matters to Bruce?”

There was no venom in his voice, no fire, just that same dull ache that had been carving at him for weeks now. Months, maybe. Years.

Dick gave a small, lopsided smile. “Not everything is about Bruce.”

Jason let out a sharp, bitter laugh. It cracked in the quiet like glass.

“Easy for you to say.”

Dick’s brow creased. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jason didn’t answer. He stared straight ahead, jaw set, fists curling slightly around the mug in his hands. The warmth from the ceramic seeped into his fingers, but the rest of him stayed cold. The words burned the back of his throat, but when they came out, they were barely more than a whisper.

“It’s not like you could ever do anything wrong.”

Dick blinked, caught off-guard. “Jay—”

“Forget it,” Jason snapped quickly, too quickly. He set the mug down a little harder than he meant to.

Dick leaned forward, elbows still on his knees, eyes pinned to Jason like he was trying to see past the armor. “No, I won’t. What’s going on with you?”

Jason didn’t answer right away. His body felt like a balloon stretched too thin—everything pulled tight, one sharp word away from bursting. He watched as Dick stood up and crossed to the kitchenette. He moved with the same ease he always had: quiet, precise, annoyingly graceful. He poured water into the kettle, set it on the stove, and moved without needing to think. Like everything in this space belonged to him.

A couple of minutes later, Dick returned with two mugs and set them on the table in front of them. Steam curled up like ghosts between them. He dropped back onto the couch, the same small, crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“I made worse calls at your age,” he said. “Trust me.”

Jason scoffed, eyes still fixed on the swirling surface of his drink. “Yeah, well. People still act like you walk on water.”

Dick’s smile faltered, just a little. The light behind his eyes dimmed.

“Hardly.”

Jason didn’t look at him. “Feels like it, sometimes.”

There was no anger in the words. Just… something else. Something quieter. Like he didn’t want to be saying any of this, but couldn’t help it. Like it had been building for so long that it was leaking out in ways he couldn’t control anymore.

Dick’s shoulders slumped. His mug rested on his knee, both hands wrapped around it. He didn’t offer a counter argument.

“That what the fight was really about?” he asked softly.

Jason shrugged. “Not everything’s a metaphor.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

Silence again. Thicker this time. Jason’s throat felt tight. The steam from the mug brushed against his face like a whisper he couldn’t quite hear.

He swallowed once.

“You ever think about quitting?” he asked, suddenly. His voice cracked just a little on the last word.

Dick raised an eyebrow. “The job?”

Jason nodded, eyes still glued to the floor.

“Yeah,” Dick said. “A lot.”

Jason finally glanced at him. There was something honest in Dick’s face. Not performative, not patronizing. Just tired. Like someone who’d been running a marathon for years and only now realized how long the road still was.

“I almost did, once,” Dick continued, voice lower now. “I thought about leaving Gotham. Leaving the cape. Everything. Thought maybe I’d feel like a person again.”

“Why didn’t you?” Jason asked.

Dick took a breath, let it out slow. “Because I realized it wouldn’t change anything. The guilt, the expectations… that stuff follows you, with or without the mask.”

Jason didn’t say anything. But that—that made sense. More sense than anything Bruce had ever said.

He looked back down at the mug in his hands. His reflection warped in the liquid. Small, blurry, incomplete.

“I’m tired, Dick,” he muttered. “Of trying to be something I’m not. Of trying to be what he wants.”

Dick didn’t speak. He didn’t reach out. He just stayed beside him, steady and silent.

And maybe that was what Jason needed most. Not comfort. Not advice. Just the quiet reminder that he wasn’t alone in the storm.

Jason looked at him then—really looked at him. There were shadows under his eyes. A tension in his shoulders. He didn’t seem perfect up close. Just tired.

Dick looked at him. “But you’re still doing it.”

“Yeah.”

Dick didn't ask why.

A minute passed by with them just staring ahead at nothing in particular. The city lights filtered through the blinds, painting faint lines across the rug, the coffee table, the curve of his jaw.

“I used to lie awake wondering who I’d be if I hadn’t worn the suit,” Dick went on, voice almost conversational, like they were talking about something far away. “If I hadn’t been trained to fight before I even grew my last molars. I thought maybe I'd be… lighter. Simpler. I don’t know.”

Jason huffed quietly through his nose, a sound too bitter to be a laugh. “So what made you stay?”

Dick looked over, and for a second Jason thought he might dodge the question. But then he said, quietly, “I didn’t want to disappear. Everything in my life was gone, and being Robin was the only thing that felt like it had weight. Like I mattered. I thought if I stopped, I’d just… vanish.”

Jason didn’t say anything, but something in his posture shifted. Just a little.

“I guess that’s the part Bruce gets wrong,” Dick continued. “He thinks it’s all about control. About setting rules and drawing lines. But we never became heroes to follow rules. We did it to survive.”

Jason looked down into his mug. The warmth had bled out of it, and the tea had gone cold. Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His fingers tapped absently against the ceramic, like they were thinking for him.

Dick sat back against the couch, letting his head fall against the cushion, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t think people get how hard it is, being second. You’re expected to be better, faster, smarter—because someone else already figured it out before you. But no one tells you how heavy that is.”

Jason’s voice was quiet, almost buried in the hum of the apartment. “You were second too.”

Dick turned his head to look at him.

“I mean,” Jason continued, not quite meeting his gaze, “Batman came first. And you followed. So technically…”

A breath of a smile curved Dick’s mouth. “Yeah. I guess I was.”

Jason swallowed. “Did you ever get tired of trying to live up to someone?”

Dick blinked, and for a moment, didn’t answer. Then, gently: “All the time.”

Jason nodded once, jaw working. “Cool.”

Silence again. But this time it wasn’t sharp—it hung there like a blanket, a little awkward, but not unwelcome.

“You can crash here,” Dick said eventually. “Couch’s not great, but it beats climbing trees again at three in the morning.”

Jason gave a small smirk. “Can’t believe Bruce still hasn’t cut those down.”

“I think he’s secretly sentimental.”

Jason let out a breath. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was close.

Dick stood and grabbed the spare blanket from the closet, tossing it onto the couch beside him. “You need anything else?”

Jason shook his head. “Nah. This is fine.”

Dick lingered by the doorway a second longer than he needed to. Like he wanted to say something but hadn’t found the shape of it yet.

Jason said it first.

"Hey, Dickie?"

The older boy turned back, eyebrows raised. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Jason had never called him that before. Not out loud.

"You’ll never dissapear," Jason said.

He tried to keep his voice light, casual, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it didn’t mean everything. But it came out quieter than he expected, like it meant too much.

Dick blinked, taken aback. His mouth opened, then closed again. For a moment, he just looked at Jason the way people look at stars when they don’t quite know what they’re seeing—like it’s too big, too bright, too far away to understand.

"...Thanks," Dick said finally. His voice was hoarse, a little uneven.

“Goodnight, Jay.”

“…’Night.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just gave a tiny, almost shy smile, nodded once, and turned away down the hall.

Jason stared at the empty doorway long after he left, heart loud in his chest.

He hadn’t meant to say it. But he did.

And part of him hoped Dick knew what he really meant.

Jason lay back slowly, staring at the ceiling in the dark, the faint sound of Dick’s footsteps retreating into the bedroom. He closed his eyes, but sleep didn’t come easy.

Because it wasn’t the fight with Bruce that kept him up—it was the moment Dick smiled and Jason realized, again, despite everything, how much he wanted to matter to him.

Not long after that, Dick left for a mission in space with the Titans.

When he came back, nothing could ever be the same again.

Oh, I try, I try, I try

But it takes over my life

I see you everywhere, the sweetest torture one could bear

Chapter Text

The Narrows always smelled like piss and metal, but tonight the stink was layered under something else—gunpowder and sweat. Jason crouched on a crumbling rooftop, eyes trained on the warehouse below. The gang inside was new, but their supplier wasn’t. He’d been tracking this arms dealer for weeks.

He adjusted his scope, finger light on the trigger. The plan was simple: wait for the exchange, scare them shitless, maybe blow up a truck or two. Get in, get out.

Then a shadow moved across his peripheral vision. A figure crashed through the warehouse skylight, glass raining like confetti.

Jason swore under his breath. “You gotta be kidding me.”

Nightwing flipped through the air like a goddamn show-off, landing in a crouch before taking out two men in fluid, efficient moves. Jason watched from the rooftop for a beat too long. Same lithe body, same sharp grace. The bastard was still pretty, even covered in grime.

He sighed, lifted his rifle, and muttered, “Didn’t realize this warehouse was reservation-only.” He dove in.

Chaos followed. They fought together, sort of. Jason covered his flank without thinking. Nightwing gave him a glare and didn’t say thank you. That was fine. Jason didn’t need it.

When it was over, bodies groaning and weapons scattered, Nightwing turned to him.

“Thought you worked in Crime Alley,” he said, arms crossed.

Jason holstered his gun, cocking his head. “Thought you worked in Blüdhaven. Or is Gotham your side chick now?”

The warehouse groaned in the aftermath of violence. Somewhere behind a stack of crates, a thug coughed, probably nursing a shattered knee. Jason didn’t bother finishing him off. Let the guy remember the Red Hood in his nightmares.

He sheathed his knife and turned, just in time to see Nightwing wipe blood off his baton and straighten up. His suit was smeared with grime and ash, cuts along the ribs and shoulder, hair damp with sweat and rain. He looked like hell—and like something Jason might’ve once carved into the inside of his ribs, a long time ago.

Nightwing’s mask tilted. “You’re sloppy,” he said, like they hadn’t just fought side by side. “You almost blew my cover.”

Jason gave a dry chuckle. “Cover? You went through the skylight, drama queen. That’s not a stealth entry, that’s a circus act.”

Nightwing took a slow step forward, unbothered. “And yet you’re the one complaining. What, jealous I beat you to it?”

Jason shifted his weight. “Please. I was waiting. Had a whole plan.”

“That plan involve sniping people from the roof while pretending not to enjoy the view?”

Jason’s jaw ticked. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

A slow smile curled across Nightwing’s face. “Too late.”

Jason looked away, just for a second, because eye contact with Dick— Nightwing , damn it—was dangerous. It made something crackle under his skin, something he thought he buried six feet under.

He felt the older man’s gaze still on him, heavy like a hand on his jaw.

Nightwing leaned against a crate, arms crossed. “You’ve been showing up a lot lately.”

Jason shrugged. “So have you.”

“You tracking this gang too?”

Jason didn’t answer.

Nightwing’s voice dropped a little, the playfulness edged out by something sharper. “You’ve got a pattern. Guns, low-level smuggling rings. Small-time dealers who slip under Batman’s radar. You’re picking your targets on purpose.”

Jason didn’t rise to the bait. He simply stared, mask unreadable. “You get bored in Blüdhaven or something?”

“I’m curious,” Nightwing replied. “You’re not just some thug with a grudge. Not anymore.”

Jason took a step forward, closing the space between them. “That sound like admiration, prettybird?”

Nightwing blinked—just once—but it was enough. Jason saw the shift, subtle and quick. He hadn’t expected that line to land.

“Don’t call me that,” Nightwing said, voice rougher than before.

Jason smirked. “Why not? Suits you.”

“Sounds like you know me,” Nightwing said, body closing in to him, searching his face. “A lot more than I know you.”

Jason didn’t flinch, but the air between them pulsed.

“You thinking of asking me out?” he said. “Or just planning to flirt until I hand over my criminal record?”

Nightwing didn’t laugh and just shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

Jason stepped back, but not before brushing a shoulder against his on the way out. Just enough contact to prove he wasn’t afraid to play dirty.

“Try to keep up next time,” he called over his shoulder.

And with that, he vanished into the night.

But Nightwing stood there a moment longer than he should have, heart thudding like a punch to the chest, and no idea why the sound of that voice felt like a memory he’d nearly forgotten.

The docks were quiet, save for the dull groan of steel shifting against steel and the restless slap of water against aging hulls. The kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful—just expectant. Gotham never really rested. But it did look away sometimes. The shipyard was one of those places. Forgotten by most, useful only to the kinds of people who didn’t want to be seen.

Nightwing crouched on the rusted arm of a gantry crane, half-shadowed against the city’s lightless underbelly. He’d been tracking this shipment for days. Military-grade weaponry routed through a paper-thin shell company. A freighter docking two hours ahead of schedule. It all screamed wrong.

His approach was going to be surgical—silent, efficient, in and out before anyone even realized they’d been dismantled. That was the plan, anyway.

Then he saw him.

Already moving across the ground below, half-shrouded in steam and the harsh glow of halogen floodlights. Calm. Certain. Purposeful.

That helmet caught the light just enough to flash.

That stupid, unmistakable swagger didn’t need light at all.

Dick didn’t sigh, but it was a close thing. “You again,” he murmured, already moving.

He dropped from his perch, silent as breath, landing on the roof of a shipping container and watching. Red Hood was ahead of him, pistol drawn—not raised, not aimed. Just there, like an afterthought.

A guard approached. Jason spun him, dropped him, and pulled the limp body into the shadows without hesitation. Not dead. Just neutralized.

Dick arched a brow. Interesting.

He followed, vaulted a low chain-link fence with fluid ease, and landed behind him. He was close enough to catch the faint scent of gun oil and leather.

Hood didn’t even flinch. “I could hear your boots from across the bay, prettybird.”

The voice was lazy, familiar, laced with something just a bit too amused.

Dick straightened. “You have a bad habit of working the same cases I’m on.”

Red Hood tilted his helmet without turning. “Yeah? Starting to think you have a bad habit of following me. Or did your daddy send you to watch over little ol’ me?”

Dick’s mouth curved, sharp and practiced. “You sure you’re not just following my lead?”

At that, the Red Hood stepped into view. Close now. The red helmet turned slightly, catching the light, throwing shadows across the sharp lines of his armored jacket.

“Let me guess,” Hood said, voice bone-dry. “You gonna try and team up again?”

Dick let the question sit a second too long. “I’m considering it.”

Hood didn’t laugh, not quite. But there was something like amusement behind the next line. “Why?”

“You’re competent.”

“Mm. Flattered.”

“And not half as bloodthirsty as everyone says.”

Hood didn’t answer at first. The wind rolled through the yard, picking at the edges of his coat, stirring loose strands of hair at the back of his neck.

“Does that surprise you?” he asked finally, tone unreadable.

Dick tilted his head. “Should it?”

Hood’s voice dropped. “Depends. Most people don’t bother finding out.”

It wasn’t a challenge. Not quite a confession either. But it lingered.

Dick shifted, the space between them now tight with something unspoken. The tension didn’t bristle—it hummed. Familiar in a way that scraped against his ribs.

“You’re dangerous,” Dick said softly.

Hood smiled. “You like dangerous.”

“Sometimes.” he smirked.

“Then stick around.” There was a beat. “See what happens.”

Dick held his ground. His heartbeat was a little louder than before. “You’re cocky.”

Hood stepped just slightly forward. “And you’re staring.”

Damn it. He was staring at the other man’s bulging biceps underneath the leather jacket. Dick didn’t indulge. Instead, “I want to know who you are.”

Hood’s answer was quiet, but no less sharp. “If I told you, it’d ruin the mystery.”

“Maybe I like ruining things.”

That made Hood chuckle—low and rough and genuine. “No,” he said, voice like gravel and smoke. “I think you like wanting things. That’s different.”

Dick swallowed. His throat felt too tight for how cool the night was. He smirked, even as his pulse jumped. “You’re awfully philosophical for someone who just cold-clocked a guy with a crowbar.”

Hood glanced back toward the unconscious guard. “Didn’t kill him though. That’s personal growth. Why don’t you tell that to daddy dearest.”

Dick laughed. A real one. Bright and sudden and so out of place in the dark, it made Jason pause.

He didn’t say anything. But his body softened almost imperceptibly, like that sound reached someplace inside him he hadn’t opened in a long time.

The kind of place where he used to laugh like that too.

Then the moment snapped.

Sirens in the distance. Too close.

Jason muttered a curse, pulling his helmet back on. “Time to ghost.”

He moved to leave, but Dick caught him by the wrist. It wasn’t a threat. Just physical contact. Just connection.

Red Hood stilled.

Dick’s grip didn’t tighten. He just held. Looked.

“You sure we’re not on the same side?” he asked, voice low.

Red Hood turned, helmet angled down. “We’re playing different games, Nightwing.”

“But on the same board.”

They held that moment between them—uncertain and taut and heavy with everything they didn’t say.

Hood drew a slow breath and stepped back.

“You’re gonna keep following me, aren’t you?”

Dick smiled faintly. “You make it hard not to.”

Hood barked a short, almost disbelieving laugh. “Careful. I might take that the wrong way.”

“I’m counting on it.”

And just like that, he was gone—swallowed by fog, the sound of his boots swallowed by water and distance. Nothing left but air and silence and the memory of that voice in his ear.

Dick stood still, heart pounding in his chest. He should’ve been worried.

But he wasn’t.

He was something else entirely.

Jason didn’t plan to stick around. That was the whole point of working solo—get in, get out, no one gets close. But the weapons cache hadn't burned as clean as he wanted, and he knew the gang would be crawling back like cockroaches, picking through whatever hadn’t exploded. Which was why he found himself in the same rooftop again the next night, scoping out the aftermath.

He was halfway through his second protein bar when a familiar silhouette landed beside him with a whisper of boot rubber on concrete.

Jason didn’t look. “If you’re here to critique my explosive technique, you can shove it.”

Nightwing gave a soft hum and crouched next to him, scanning the street below. “Actually, I was going to compliment your flair for dramatics. That truck practically did a pirouette before it blew.”

Jason raised a brow behind his mask. “You watch a lotta ballet, sweetheart?”

“Only when it’s performed by armed vehicles,” Nightwing deadpanned. “It’s a niche.”

Jason snorted and adjusted the scope on his rifle. “What, the local cops not giving you enough to do over in Blüdhaven?”

“I could ask you the same, hotshot. This your new turf now?”

Jason shrugged. “Gotham and I have unfinished business.”

“Romantic.”

“Tragic,” Jason corrected. “Like your taste in body armor.”

Nightwing glanced at him. “Jealous?”

Jason turned to look at him finally, eyeing the sleek, almost too-tight blue-on-black suit. “Jealous that you manage to fight crime dressed like a wet dream? Maybe.”

There was a pause, just a beat too long.

Nightwing cleared his throat, visibly surprised, maybe amused. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I’ll think you’re into me.”

Jason turned back to the street, smiling behind his mask. “Who says I’m not?”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was charged. Like both of them suddenly realized they were sitting too close for strangers. Or maybe just close enough for something else.

Nightwing leaned back on his hands, casual, but his tone was softer. “So. What’s your angle here, Hood?”

“On the gang?” Jason asked.

“On me.”

Hood tilted his head slightly. “You always this nosy with guys you meet on rooftops?”

“Only when they keep hanging over and saving my ass.”

“I didn’t save your ass,” Hood said quickly, then, a beat later, “...Though it is a very nice ass.”

Nightwing laughed—a short, surprised sound—and leaned forward again, arms resting on his knees. “You flirt like you fight. Blunt and dangerous.”

Jason smirked. “And I’m startin’ to think you got a danger kink, baby.”

Nightwing snorted. He didn’t reply, but he didn’t leave either. The moon was high, casting pale light over the ruined warehouse below. Their legs were nearly brushing. Jason could feel the heat from Nightwing’s body like static.

Eventually, Nightwing said, “This gang’s gonna rebuild.”

“I know.”

“You planning on taking them down again?”

“Guess that depends.”

“On what?”

Jason stood slowly, brushing off his gloves. “On whether or not you’ll be in my way.”

Nightwing looked up at him, unreadable behind the mask. “Maybe I will.”

Jason leaned in slightly. “Then I guess we’ll be seeing more of each other, won’t we?”

He stepped back and disappeared into the night before Nightwing could answer.

The next few days, Nightwing kept showing up like a moth to a flame.

Jason had eyes on the target for fifteen uninterrupted minutes before he showed up. And of course it had to be now, just when the crew of armed mercs finally started loading up the stolen tech.

He didn’t need backup. He especially didn’t need a guy in blue spandex and acrobat boots landing right beside him with a smug little, “Hey there, stranger.”

Jason didn’t look at him. “Why do you always show up right when I’m about to end things clean?”

“I like timing my entrances,” Nightwing replied, crouching low beside him. “And besides, you always look like you’re about to do something morally ambiguous.”

Jason snorted. “And you’re here to hold my hand through the gray area?”

“No,” Nightwing said with a grin. “But I wouldn’t mind holding something.”

Jason turned to stare at him, brows raised. “You flirting with a known criminal, pretty bird?”

“Who says I think you’re a criminal?”

Jason smirked. “You say that like I didn’t just aim a sniper rifle at someone’s kneecap five seconds ago.”

Nightwing tilted his head. “You didn’t shoot, though.”

Jason gave a quiet, dry laugh. “Maybe I was distracted.”

“By the view?” Nightwing asked, voice low and a little too close to his ear.

Jason leaned in just enough to make him flinch, voice low and lazy against the shell of Dick’s ear. “Sweetheart, if I wanted you distracted, you’d be tied up in one of those crates by now.”

Nightwing didn’t so much as blink. The corner of his mouth curled, blue eyes sparking with something dangerous and unrepentant.

“Well, I do like it rough,” he murmured, deliberately stepping into Jason’s space, their chests brushing in a way that felt less like a threat and more like a dare.

Jason’s breath caught for half a second—just half—but it was enough. Enough for Nightwing to see the flicker behind the helmet, the sharp cut of surprise beneath that practiced cool.

Then Jason chuckled, deep and low. “Careful, pretty bird. I’m not the type you flirt with unless you mean it.”

“Who says I don’t?” the blue bird replied smoothly, tilting his head, smile knife-sharp. “I just have better impulse control.”

Jason leaned closer, their lips a breath apart. “Liar.”

They stayed there in silence for a beat, just the sound of boots and crates being loaded below. Jason clicked something on his gear absently and asked, “You always this flirty with strangers?”

“Only the tall, dark, broody ones with strong arms and broad shoulders.”

Jason chuckled. “That the daddy issues talking, baby?”

“And you’ve got a great voice,” Nightwing said suddenly, as if unable to stop himself. “Rough around the edges. Kind of hot.”

Jason glanced at him sidelong. “You think I’m hot, Wing?”

There was a pause. “...Do you not want me to think that?”

Jason smiled, all teeth under the mask. “Didn’t say that.”

They moved a little closer toward the building. Jason took out two guards from the side while Nightwing swung in from above and knocked the last one unconscious with a clean takedown.

When they regrouped in the alley, Jason pulled Nightwing lightly back against the wall with one hand on his chest, eyes sharp. “You’re gonna get yourself killed following me around like this.”

“You wouldn’t do anything to me.” Nightwing grinned, breath catching. “If you did then I would’ve been as good as dead by now.”

Jason stepped closer, voice low. “You have no idea what I am.”

Nightwing looked at him, searching, but not afraid. “No. But I’m starting to really want to.”

Jason blinked.

That one? That one hit somewhere lower in his stomach than he wanted to admit.

He pulled away before the moment could go any further. “Try not to trip on your own ego next time, Wing.”

“Try not to run off so fast, mystery man,” Nightwing called after him. “You’re kind of growing on me.”

Jason didn’t answer—but the smirk under his helmet didn’t fade for blocks.

Jason's fists were numb.

The crunch of cartilage had stopped feeling satisfying after the second punch. But he kept going. Because the guy on the ground wasn’t some petty crook — he was a predator. The kind who waited for girls stumbling out of bars alone. The kind who smiled like nothing was wrong while doing everything wrong.

So Jason didn’t stop. Not when the man started to cry, not when he stopped struggling.

He didn’t know how many punches he’d thrown. He only knew the sickening wet sound of knuckles hitting flesh, the snap of cartilage, the rasp of someone gasping for air through blood. The guy was barely conscious now — and still, Jason didn’t stop. Couldn’t. His breath came in ragged bursts, chest heaving like he’d run miles instead of standing in the same spot pummeling some bastard’s face in.

The girl had already run. He didn’t blame her.

Because the kind of man who thinks he can corner someone behind a bar, shove her against a wall, laugh when she says no — that kind of man doesn’t deserve mercy. He doesn’t deserve to breathe.

Jason raised his fist again, blood soaking his glove.

A voice cut through the haze.

“Hood!”

Sharp. Soft. Familiar.

He didn’t turn.

“Hood,” the voice said again, softer now. Closer. “Stop.”

Jason’s hand froze midair.

“Stop.” A beat. “You’re alright.”

And then a hand — gloved, steady — closed over his wrist. Firm, but not forceful.

Jason blinked hard, like waking up. He stared at the blood smeared across his knuckles, the man groaning beneath him. Then up — at the hand on his wrist, then the arm, the shoulder, and finally the face.

Nightwing stood there, breathing heavily — either from a fight or from running to show up here from god knows where, Jason didn’t know. Didn’t care. His voice was low, calm. Familiar in a way that made something in Jason’s chest rattle.

God fuckin’ damn it.

“Stop,” Nightwing said again, softer this time. “You’re alright. He’s not going anywhere.”

Jason looked down at the guy, barely conscious, jaw swollen, blood pooling beneath him. Still breathing. Pity.

 Jason didn’t move. Not yet.

“He grabbed her,” he said, like an accusation. “She said no. She begged him.”

“I know.”

The man beneath him wheezed. His breath hitched, shallow and wet.

Jason stared down at him, his hand still cocked, still clenched. “He was going to hurt her. I stopped him.”

“You did,” Nightwing said. His tone hadn’t changed. Still soft. Still steady. “But you can stop now.”

Jason's hand was shaking. He hadn’t noticed until Nightwing’s hand drifted down, fingers brushing his forearm, then his wrist. Light pressure. Enough to ground him without taking control.

“You’re alright,” Dick said. “You’re okay. It’s over.”

Jason let his fist fall — not to the man’s face, but to the concrete beside it. His whole body heaved with the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His helmet fogged for a second, the edges of his vision fuzzy.

He was exhausted.

Jason finally turned his head. Nightwing was crouched beside him now, one knee in the dirt, still close enough to reach. His expression was unreadable behind the mask, but his voice gave him away. That annoying, frustrating gentleness Jason remembered too well.

“I don’t need you to talk me down,” Jason said, low.

Nightwing didn’t argue. He didn’t let go of Jason’s wrist either — his thumb rested just over Jason’s pulse point. Just enough to remind him he was still tethered to something. Someone.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” Dick said, and that was somehow worse.

Jason let out a bitter breath. “That what this is now? Pity patrol?”

Nightwing’s lips twitched. “No. It’s just me.”

And for some reason, that was the part that made Jason finally push to his feet.

He let Dick’s hand fall from his arm.

“You always show up when I least want you to,” he muttered.

Nightwing rose too, brushing dirt off his gloves. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

They stood there for a moment — the sirens in the distance still too far off to matter, the girl already gone, and the man groaning behind them, half-conscious.

Jason’s heart was still thudding, but slower now. The kind of pace that only came after a storm.

Nightwing didn’t touch him again. But he didn’t leave either. And that — that — was maybe what got under Jason’s skin the most.

Dick shifted, crouching beside him now, but still close — still in reach. His presence was calm, patient. It annoyed Jason how easy it was to breathe around him.

“Come on,” Dick said quietly. “Let’s get some air. The cops are already on their way.”

Jason didn’t move. Not right away.

Then Nightwing reached up and, gently — carefully — touched Jason’s hand, the one still curled into a bloody fist. His fingers laced through Jason’s own, easing it open like coaxing a frightened animal.

Jason let him.

He wasn’t sure why.

But for one second, it felt like someone saw him — really saw him — and didn’t flinch.

And that was almost worse.

The rooftop was quiet.

Jason sat on the edge, one leg pulled up, the other dangling off the ledge like he didn’t care whether he’d fall or not. Gotham spread beneath him in the kind of darkness that swallowed sound. Somewhere below, sirens flared in and out of earshot. He didn’t look.

The adrenaline was still wearing off. His hands still buzzed faintly, the phantom pulse of every hit he’d landed still echoing in his knuckles. But the anger — the white-hot fury that had driven him through the alley like a missile — was starting to ebb.

The girl had gotten away. The guy would probably piss blood for weeks, maybe never walk straight again.

Jason wasn’t sorry.

Nightwing was standing a few feet away, near the rooftop door. Arms crossed, batons still strapped to his back, chest rising and falling slow and even. The moonlight caught the edge of his mask, made his hair gleam almost blue.

He didn’t speak for a long time.

“You don’t have to follow me, you know,” Jason said at last, voice scratchy, worn.

“I wasn’t.”

Jason turned to glance at him. “Right. You just happened to be on patrol in the exact same alley.”

Nightwing’s mouth tilted into something between a smile and a sigh. “I wasn’t following you,” he said again. “I saw him come up to the girl.”

Jason let out a breath through his nose, more bitter than amused. “Well. I guess we both got there just in time.”

Another pause.

“You hit him hard,” Nightwing said finally.

Jason didn’t answer.

After a beat, he added, “Too hard.”

Jason scoffed. “He earned it.”

Dick walked over, slowly. Not too close — just enough that Jason could feel the warmth of his presence again, like back in the alley. Familiar. Stupidly comforting.

“I get it,” Dick said quietly. “Some guys are monsters.”

Jason’s jaw worked. He stared out over the edge of the roof, into the void between the buildings. “Those kinds of guys can’t be taught,” he muttered. “You don’t rehabilitate people like that. You stop them. However you can.”

The wind tugged at the edge of his jacket. His knuckles still ached.

“You think he’s gonna wake up tomorrow and feel guilty?” Jason asked, voice low and tight. “Think he’s gonna apologize? Change?”

Dick didn’t answer.

Jason exhaled harshly. “He’s gonna get out in a week — if that — and do it again. Maybe worse. And next time the girl won’t have time to scream.”

He ran a gloved hand through his hair, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “Guys like that… They don’t stop unless someone makes them.”

He could feel Dick watching him, quiet and patient in the way that made Jason want to throw something off the building just to break it.

“I’ve seen what they do. I’ve seen the patterns. The same fuckin’ smirks, the same excuses. Rich pricks in penthouses. Drunk assholes outside clubs. Even the cops—” He cut himself off, jaw flexing.

“It’s not a few rotten apples. It’s the whole tree. And you wanna tell me to go easy on ‘em?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, you just looked at me like I was going too far. Like I’m the problem.”

Nightwing shifted beside him, subtle. Not defensive. Just steady.

“You’re not the problem.”

Jason barked a dry laugh. “Yeah? Try telling that to your daddy and your pack of self-righteous bats.”

Silence again.

The weight in his chest didn’t let up. His fingers curled against the ledge. “You know what the worst part is? It never ends. You try to scare ‘em straight, rough ‘em up, break a few bones — but there’s always more. A new face, a new name. Same fucking story.”

“And I’m not just talkin’ about fuckin’ rapists.”

He didn’t look at Dick when he said it — couldn’t. His hands hung loose at his sides, still twitching faintly with leftover adrenaline. Bloodied knuckles. Grit beneath his gloves.

“I mean all of ‘em. Dealers who sell to kids. Cops who take bribes and turn away. Gang leaders who use people up and dump the bodies in rivers. Pimps who think a seventeen-year-old is ‘just old enough.’”

His throat tightened.

“Hell, I’m not even talkin’ about the worst ones. I’m talkin’ about the ones who smile. The ones who say shit like ‘It’s just business’ or ‘It’s complicated.’ The ones who never get caught. The ones who shake your hand with one and bury a knife in you with the other.”

Red Hood finally looked at him, eyes dark behind the helmet.

“You know how many of them I’ve seen walk free? Not because they were innocent. Because the system’s too tired to chase them. Because they’ve got the right friends. Or the right skin. Or the right badge.”

A cold wind swept across the rooftop, tugging at the hem of his coat.

“They know the rules. They know how to play within ‘em just enough. So they get to keep walking while everyone else keeps bleeding.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sharp with frustration. “So yeah. I put fear into them. I make them hesitate. I make them think that maybe this time, someone won’t just let them off.”

He looked back over the edge again. The city hummed, indifferent.

Jason’s voice dropped, almost like he was confessing something.

“Some days, I don’t even feel angry anymore. I just feel tired.”

He paused, swallowing the rest.

Then, softer, like he forgot Dick was still there, he muttered, “Someone’s gotta do it. Might as well be me.”

His voice had dropped to almost a whisper. “You start wondering if anything you do even matters. If maybe the only way to fix it is to burn it all down.”

The words hung there, heavy in the air. For a moment, Jason thought maybe he’d said too much. Maybe he’d finally tipped the scales into villain territory.

There was a beat of silence — and then Nightwing’s voice came, quiet, a little heavy.

“You sound like a boy I knew.”

Jason snorted, humorless. “Yeah?”

“What’s he like?”

Dick exhaled, watching the skyline like it might answer for him. The wind had picked up, rustling his hair in slow, rhythmic waves.

“He was angry a lot,” he said, like he was remembering someone who had disappeared a long time ago. “At Batman. At me. At everything, honestly. But not in the way people think. He wasn’t just mad for no reason. It was like—it was like the world never gave him room to breathe, you know? Like it built a wall every time he tried to take a step forward.”

Jason didn’t say anything. He just kept still, eyes narrowed out over the buildings. But Dick could tell he was listening.

“He used to pick fights. Stupid ones, sometimes. He hated being underestimated. God, he hated it.” A small, crooked smile tugged at Dick’s lips. “Even if he was the smallest one in the room, you’d still bet on him to come out on top. He had that kind of fire.”

Dick shifted his weight, leaning back on his hands.

“But he wasn’t all anger. He was kind. He cared more than he ever let on. About people, about the little things. He always noticed when someone was hurting. He didn’t always know what to do with it, but… he noticed.”

His voice softened, lost in something distant.

“He loved reading. You’d never guess it, he didn’t seem like the type, but I’d find him holed up with some beat-up book, totally zoned out. Romance. Crime thrillers. Anything that helped him get out of his own head for a while.”

Jason’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I think he liked stories where the bad guys got what was coming to them. Where justice actually meant something.” Nightwing smiled faintly. “Where the hero wasn’t perfect, but still tried to do the right thing.”

He hesitated.

“I don’t know if he ever thought of himself that way. As the hero.”

Jason didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. The weight in the air was thick enough.

“I was too busy being older. Being in charge. Trying to play grown-up or whatever. He looked up to me, and I—” He broke off, his voice catching. “I didn’t make room for him. Not enough. Not the way I should’ve.”

Silence again. Then Jason, voice flat: “Sounds like you were a douchebag.”

Nightwing huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. I was.”

He let the words sit between them.

“I’m… trying to be better, though,” Nightwing said, quieter now. “If not for him, then for Robin’s sake. The new Robin. Not—” He cut himself off again, shook his head. “Not him.”

He pulled his knees up, arms resting casually over them, but there was nothing casual in the way his eyes flicked sideways to Red Hood.

“You remind me of him sometimes.”

Jason turned away, jaw flexing hard.

“You say that like it’s a compliment.”

Nightwing didn’t answer.

The wind whistled faintly through the gap between buildings. Sirens wailed in the far-off distance, but up here, they were far enough away to ignore.

“Bet he was a real pain in the ass though.” Jason chuckled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Nightwing’s lips twitched, a soft smile spreading across his face. “Sometimes. Bet I was more of an asshole to him than he was to me, though.”

Jason's gaze flickered toward Nightwing, his brow furrowing beneath the helmet. “Yeah?” He couldn't help the bitterness creeping into his voice. “Guess you weren’t always the golden boy, huh?”

Dick’s smile softened into something gentler, and there was a quiet moment before he spoke. “No. I wasn’t. But I learned... eventually.”

Jason turned away, staring at the dark sky, his heart drumming in his chest. He hated how easily Dick talked about it. Like he was... so much more forgiving. More human. Jason, on the other hand, was stuck in a place where people either died or got tossed aside. No in-between.

“People don’t change, though,” Jason muttered. “You can try, but they’ll always be who they are underneath.”

Nightwing shifted beside him, closer than he expected. “You really think that?”

Jason clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the heat of Dick's presence. “Yeah. Some things... you can't fix ‘em. You can't change people who don’t wanna be changed.”

Dick stayed quiet for a moment, and Jason could feel his eyes on him under the mask. He’d been hoping for a different answer, some kind of comforting lie. But that wasn’t Dick’s style, was it?

“You don’t have to change everyone, Hood,” Dick said, his voice quiet but firm. “Maybe you just have to try harder with the ones who do want it.”

Jason’s chest tightened. God, why does he make this sound so easy? It pissed him off, but it also made him think... made him wonder if he could be the guy who gave people second chances. Hell, maybe even himself.

“You really think people deserve that?” Jason asked, his voice quieter now, with something that felt like a crack in his usual anger. “After all the shit they’ve done?”

Nightwing exhaled slowly, his words heavy. “I do. But it's not about them. It's about you. About what you want to be.”

Nightwing’s gaze softened, but his resolve stayed firm. “You don’t have to be perfect to be someone who does good. You don’t have to fix the world, but maybe you can fix a little piece of it. Start with the people who matter.”

Jason looked at him, meeting his gaze for the first time in a long while, a mix of anger and something else twisting in his gut. “And what about you?” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “What do you want to be?”

Dick didn’t look away. “I want to be someone who can help. Even if it’s just one person.”

For a second, everything went quiet. Jason’s pulse raced, his stomach tight. Something in Dick’s expression, something soft yet determined, made his words hit harder than they should’ve. 

For a second, everything between them stilled. Jason’s chest felt tight, like he could barely breathe. What the hell is wrong with me? he thought, turning away. His hands were clenched so tight around the ledge of the building, he almost felt like he might break the stone under his fingers.

“You don't have to do this,” Nightwing said after a long pause, like he knew Jason was going through something he didn’t want to admit. “I’m not asking you to be anything you’re not.”

Jason’s heart was still pounding. “And I’m not asking for your help, either,” he muttered, though the words felt too weak to hold any weight.

Nightwing shifted beside him, the rustle of his suit almost too loud in the quiet between their words. Jason didn’t look at him, but he could feel it—him getting closer, his presence solid and warm, not even a foot away now.

Then, gently, Nightwing leaned in and touched the side of his helmet.

Jason stiffened, the motion sending a sharp jolt of something straight through his chest—alarm, yes, but something else too. His breath caught as gloved fingers found the smooth edge of his helmet, right near the hinge of his jaw.

Nightwing’s voice was gentle when he spoke again. “I’m not here to save you. I’m just... trying to understand you, Red Hood. That’s all.”

Jason’s mind raced. He knew it would be easy to blow this off, to keep the distance between them. But the truth was, he didn’t want to . The warmth in Nightwing’s words had cut through something inside him, something he didn’t know how to ignore.

But Jason couldn’t let himself be that guy again. Not with Dick. Not with anyone.

The alley exploded.

Nightwing had just launched himself from the rooftop, aiming for the building across the way when the blinding flash of a flashbang ripped through the air, right underneath him. His grappling line snapped, severed by the blast, and he plummeted toward the ground. The air whizzed past his ears as he braced himself for the harsh impact.

But before he could hit the ground, an arm caught him from behind and wrapped around his waist—strong and sure. It yanked him sideways, and he found himself pressed up against a solid chest, ribs crashing against a chestplate. His boots barely skidded against the ground before the body behind him shoved him further behind a dumpster, sheltering them both as bullets rang overhead.

His vision was still blurred by the smoke, but he quickly registered the body behind him. He was on instinct now, fighting through the haze of confusion and pain.

“Jesus,” Nightwing muttered, catching his breath, “I had that.”

“Yeah,” a rough voice drawled, gravel dark. “Right into a bullet. You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

The deep voice was unmistakable. Red Hood.

Before Dick could respond, the body behind him slumped, a soft grunt escaping from the other man. He glanced down, quickly catching him with a hand to his shoulder as Red Hood wobbled.

That’s when he saw it.

A jagged tear along the side of Hood’s torso, right under his arm. Blood was seeping from the wound, dark and sticky.

“You’re hit,” Dick said, his voice sharper than he intended.

Hood shrugged, a pained sound escaping him. “Just a graze.”

Dick’s eyes narrowed, instinct taking over. The sirens were growing closer, but the man’s blood wasn’t something he could ignore. He pulled Jason’s arm over his shoulder, despite the resistance. “There’s a safehouse two blocks over. Mine.”

Red Hood didn’t argue. Instead, he allowed himself to be half-carried.

The safehouse was stark—just concrete walls, a cot, and basic supplies. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for tonight. Hood dropped onto the edge of the cot with a quiet groan, his legs folding beneath him as he let out a breath.

Dick stood over him, the med kit in hand, but he was too focused on Red Hood’s wound to do anything just yet. Hood’s chest plate was discarded nearby, and Dick noticed the blood still staining his shirt. He frowned, his gaze flicking up to meet Jason’s.

“You shouldn’t have taken that hit for me,” Dick said quietly, kneeling down to inspect the damage.

Hood’s shoulders tensed, but he said nothing at first. “Didn’t exactly plan on it.”

“You’re reckless,” Dick replied, his voice sharp as his eyes traced the ragged wound.

The man gave a half-smile, as if the idea of being scolded amused him. “Now you’re startin’ to sound like someone I used to know.”

Dick just stared at him, unable to mask the frustration in his voice. “I’m serious. You could’ve let me take the fall. Why didn’t you?”

Hood’s response came after a long pause, and when he spoke, it was as if the words had been pulled from him. “Reflex. Old habits.”

Dick’s brow furrowed. “Funny reflex, throwing yourself in front of a guy you barely even know.”

Hood didn’t answer, but there was something in the quiet that made Dick hesitate. The air between them shifted. The tension in the room seemed to thicken.

Red Hood took off the leather jacket then reached up to unfasten the clasps of his suit, peeling it off with slow, deliberate movements. Each tug made the fabric stretch and pull away from his body. Dick watched as the black compression shirt underneath became visible, soaked through with blood, clinging to Hood’s muscular, almost-burly frame.

When Hood finally stripped the shirt off entirely and dropped it to the floor, the wound became apparent—a large gash, ugly and deep, just under his arm. The sight made Dick’s breath hitch and his brain short-circuited for a second.

Jesus Christ. 

Red Hood was built like he was carved out of concrete. Broad chest, thick shoulders, heavy with muscle that looked earned, not sculpted. Not aesthetic— functional. Every line spoke of power, of discipline, of someone who didn’t just train but lived in the violence of it. His arms were thick, veined, bruised in places, and his torso was littered with scars—some clean, others jagged and mean, like reminders that he didn’t go down easy. His ribs flexed with each breath, pulling taut over abs that looked like they could take a punch from a metahuman and laugh about it. 

The injury was ugly, but the body around it was impossible to ignore. The other man sat there like it was nothing, arms draped across his thighs, letting Dick stare if he wanted to. 

Hood didn’t seem to care about the blood. He sank onto the cot with a tired sigh. His posture was relaxed, as if this was an everyday occurrence, as if he didn’t mind being seen like this.

“Gonna patch me up, or just stare?” Hood asked, his voice lazily teasing, but there was a vulnerability to it that Dick didn’t miss.

Dick swallowed, blinking rapidly to clear his head. “Shut up,” he muttered, trying to focus. He reached for the med kit and opened it, pulling out antiseptic wipes and bandages.

Hood shifted slightly on the cot, his gaze unwavering as Dick started cleaning the wound. Each touch made Hodd wince, but he didn’t complain. Dick was careful, making sure to avoid the raw edges of the injury, though his fingers brushed against warm, smooth skin more than once. The touch was accidental at first, but it lingered—just a little too long.

Dick pressed the gauze a little harder than necessary, just to wipe the smugness off his face. Hood hissed—but then smirked, eyes glinting.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “if you wanted to touch me this much, you could’ve just asked.”

Dick didn’t flinch. He leaned in a little closer, his breath brushing Hood’s jaw as he said, “If I touched you the way I wanted to, we wouldn’t get anything else done tonight.”

Hood’s eyes darkened, and for a moment, neither of them moved. The tension wrapped around them like a wire pulled too tight—just waiting to snap.

Dick pulled back a little, breath uneven. “Now sit still. You’re not bleeding out on my watch.”

Hood watched him for a beat longer, then relaxed with a crooked grin. “Yes, sir.”

The words shouldn’t have hit the way they did. Dick didn’t acknowledge it, but his hands faltered for half a second, then got back to work—efficient, precise, utterly focused on not reacting.

Hood, of course, noticed. And he let the silence stretch, all smug patience and quiet heat.

The man hissed, then clenched his jaw, refusing to make a sound. His chest rose and fell with the effort of not showing the pain.

“You could’ve bled out,” Dick said, his voice low, filled with frustration.

Hood gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “But I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point,” Dick shot back, his fingers tightening around the bandage.

Hood’s gaze flickered up to meet his, dark eyes glimmering beneath the helmet. “You make it your point,” he said softly. “Part of the job, right? You blame yourself when someone else gets hurt.”

Dick paused, the needle in his hand hovering. There was a weight to Hood’s words, something deeper that made his chest tighten. Hood’s eyes held him, steady, unblinking.

And then, Hood’s voice lowered even more, almost a whisper. “I wasn’t gonna let you die, Nightwing.”

Dick stopped breathing for a second.

He didn’t know how to respond to that, how to say something that wouldn’t feel too personal. The silence stretched between them, a tight wire that seemed to pull them closer despite the distance. When he finally moved again, his hands were slower, almost hesitant. He smoothed the bandages across Hood’s chest, his fingers brushing lightly against warm skin. He could feel the tension in Hood’s body, the way he tried to remain still, yet his breath betrayed him—shallow, unsteady.

For a moment, their faces were so close that Dick could feel the heat of Hood’s skin, the faint scent of sweat and gunpowder still lingering in the air. It wasn’t just the wound that was bleeding now—it was the tension.

“Stop looking at me like that,” the man muttered, his voice rough.

“Like what?” Dick asked, his breath just as uneven.

“Like you’re trying to figure out who I am.”

Dick swallowed hard, his gaze never leaving Hood’s. “I think I’m always gonna try and figure you out.”

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy. Hood’s eyes narrowed slightly, and his chest rose and fell with each breath. There was something unspoken between them, something they both seemed to understand but weren’t willing to say aloud. The distance between their faces felt like it was closing with each passing second.

Dick’s hand lingered on the man’s side, fingers pressing into the muscle for just a moment longer than necessary. The heat from Hood’s body radiated against him, and it was all Dick could do not to let the moment stretch on.

Finally, he stepped back, breathing hard, though he kept his eyes fixed on the crime lord.

“You’re lucky I had a clean needle,” Dick said, trying to break the moment, his voice cracking slightly.

Hood gave him a smirk. “You offering tetanus as a bonding experience?”

Dick rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile that tugged at his lips. And for a moment, just a brief one, they both held onto the silence that settled in between them.

Hood’s smirk stayed beneath the helmet, Dick couldn't see it, but there was something else there—a softness that Dick couldn’t quite place.

The safehouse was dim, lit only by a flickering bulb overhead and the soft wash of moonlight through the high, narrow window. Concrete walls, a beat-up cot, the metallic scent of blood still hanging in the air.

Red Hood sat on the edge of the bed, his helmet still on, torso bare and stitched up, muscles still taut with tension. His breathing had evened out, but he hadn’t moved much. Didn’t say a word after Dick had finished patching him up.

Dick hadn’t either.

He stood nearby, gloves off, holding the used gauze in one hand like he forgot what to do with it. His gaze traced the edge of the helmet—the smooth, matte surface, the dark visor hiding the man’s face beneath it.

He’d been silent too long. He knew that.

But there was something about this man. About him.

Batman’s warnings echoed in his mind. He’s dangerous, volatile. Don’t get too close.

But tonight... Hood had thrown himself in front of a live charge for him. No hesitation. No posturing. Just instinct.

And when they’d gotten here—Hood hadn’t made a big deal of it. Hadn’t milked the drama. He sat down, peeled off blood-soaked gear, and let Dick see the wreck of him. Trusted him, in his own way.

Not many people did that. Not even people he knew.

Dick’s jaw tensed. His thoughts were going in places he didn’t want to admit to—not out loud, not yet. But they sat there, heavy and warm, settling in his chest like a second heartbeat.

He stepped forward slowly—like every step took something with it.

Hood’s head tilted slightly, tracking his movement, but he didn’t say anything. Didn't move.

Dick crouched in front of him, in between his knees. He looked at the helmet—sleek, matte red, scuffed along the edges. He couldn’t see the face underneath, but somehow, it didn’t matter.

This man had saved his life. And not once had he asked for anything in return.

Dick didn’t know what compelled him to reach out—maybe it was the blood on the floor, or the way the man’s chest rose and fell like nothing hurt him, like he didn’t even feel it. Maybe it was the way Hood always looked away first. Like he didn’t think he deserved to be seen.

His hand moved before he could stop it.

His thumb hovered at the edge of the helmet—where matte red met skin, where metal curved to cover a jawline of a face he still couldn’t see. He traced the angle softly, like the contact might break something.

Hood’s hands shifted to his hips, instinctive. Like he wasn’t sure whether to brace for a blow or lean into it.

Dick didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He just stared at those blank white lenses and thought about everything they hid.

Then—slowly, carefully—he leaned down.

His chest brushed bare skin. Warm, solid, scarred. His breath hitched at the contact, but he didn’t stop. He pressed his mouth to the helmet. Right where the man’s mouth would be, if there weren’t always something in the way.

Warm lips. Cold metal. A second that stretched far too long.

It was reckless. It was stupid. It was everything he shouldn’t want.

But it was soft. Deliberate. And his.

He lingered there, eyes closed, letting the stillness settle between them.

Then he pulled back, just a few inches. His hand stayed for a second longer, fingers ghosting the line of Hood’s jaw through the helmet like he could memorize it by touch alone.

He looked down at him—at the blood drying on his ribs, the stillness in his posture, the weight in his silence.

And softly, quietly, reverently, said, “Thank you.”

Red Hood didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

But something in his shoulders shifted—like a breath he hadn’t meant to hold.

Dick took a step back. Something in his expression had shifted, gone quieter. He looked tired, softer than Hood remembered seeing him in a long time. Almost guilty. Or maybe… yearning .

Dick smiled softly, “I’ll see you around,” he said. Like it wasn’t the first goodbye. Like it wouldn’t be the last.

He turned away.

Didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

Because if he did, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to leave.

Behind him, the silence stretched.

And Jason sat still, fingers twitching once against the cot like he was trying to hold onto something already gone.

He sat there, still shirtless, still bleeding, still burning from the ghost of a kiss pressed to armor he suddenly couldn’t breathe in.

He looked down at the cot beneath him, then at his own gloved fingers—one of them twitching against the edge like it could reach out and grab something that had already slipped away.

The kiss was short. He couldn’t feel it, at least not through the thick material of the helmet.

The kiss had been small. 

But the space it carved out in his chest was not.

He felt like shit the next day.

Jason sat on the edge of the cot of his own safehouse, his torso bandaged, the dried edge of pain making it hard to breathe. But that wasn’t what hurt most.

He looked down at his hands—scarred, calloused, the kind of hands made for breaking things. And then back at Dick. Peaceful. Trusting.

And Jason? He didn’t know what the hell he was doing here.

This wasn’t his place.

He’d grown up in a world where trust got you killed and kindness was a loan you never paid back. He learned to run before he could read, learned to fight before he knew how to ask for help. Everything about him was built for survival—not softness.

Not love.

And now there was Dick—reaching out, touching gently, patching him up like he was worth saving. Like he wasn’t the sum of everything Bruce warned him about. Like he wasn’t just some angry kid who grew into an angrier man, wearing blood like armor.

Jason clenched his fists, breathing out slowly.

You don’t get to have this , he told himself. You don’t get to want it.

You don’t get to want him .

Because wanting it meant breaking open. Letting someone see what was underneath the rage. And if Dick saw that—really saw that—he wouldn’t want him anymore.

He wouldn’t forgive the things Jason had done. The people he couldn’t save. The lives he’d taken when no one else would.

Jason rubbed at his jaw, feeling the ghosts of Dick’s fingers still there, from last night. His touch burned through his skin even through the metal helmet.

It was stupid, letting himself feel safe. Letting himself want someone who smiled like that at a monster.

Maybe he was always going to end up here , he thought. Circling the people he cared about like a storm, just close enough to feel the warmth, never close enough to land .

And maybe that was fine.

Because if he couldn’t be good, he could at least try not to hurt the one person who still looked at him like he wasn’t a lost cause.

And Jason sat still, keeping his distance—like he always did. Like he always would.

Around four days later, The Red Hood was perched upon a building, looking down on the many rooftops of Gotham city.

The rooftop was dim, lit only by a busted floodlight and the glow of Gotham’s sodium haze. Jason stayed low behind the bricked wall, silent, unseen. Below, across the alley, two figures leaned side by side against a rusted fire escape—Nightwing and the new Robin.

Robin’s hood was down, his hair messy from the chase earlier. He was talking fast, hands moving like he couldn’t keep up with his thoughts. Every now and then, Nightwing would laugh—real, head-thrown-back laughter that echoed off brick—and Robin’s face would light up like it meant something.

Maybe it did.

Jason watched the way Robin looked at him. With all that open-eyed awe. Adoration softened by time, maybe, but still sharp with something close to devotion. Like Nightwing was the sun, and Robin had never stopped orbiting.

Jason remembered what that felt like.

The first time Dick had clapped a hand on his shoulder, told him “Nice work, kid,” after a botched patrol where Jason broke his nose and two ribs. The way it had cracked open something inside him—how he had gone home grinning through the pain, blood dried on his mouth, like it was the best day of his life.

He remembered thinking: I want to be like him. I want him to look at me like that again.

But things got messy. He got messy. The city got under his skin, and so did the job. And somewhere along the way, that simple want twisted. That admiration soured into something sharper, heavier. Something that didn’t fit neatly into words like respect or envy.

It wasn’t about being seen anymore.
It was about being understood .

And the worst part was knowing—that look, that smile, the warmth in Dick’s voice—
It belonged to someone else now.

Dick nudged Tim with his shoulder, something quiet and teasing. Tim grinned—really grinned—and leaned in just a little too close. He said something Jason couldn’t hear, but Dick blinked and laughed and swatted at him like he’d been caught off guard.

Jason looked away.

There was a part of him that wanted to be angry. But anger took energy, and all he felt now was this low, dull throb somewhere in his chest. Regret, probably. Not for the first time.

He should’ve known better. You don’t get to keep good things when you come back wrong.

A soft click behind his teeth, a shake of his head. Then he turned and vanished back into the shadows before either of them ever looked up.

Dick found out on a regular tuesday

He was alone in the cave, flipping through case files Bruce had flagged weeks ago and never followed up on. A string of break-ins along the Gotham docks, small-time syndicates passing off military-grade weapons like candy. The kind of slow-burn crime no one bothered to chase until it escalated.

He wasn’t even supposed to be there. He was just checking in, grabbing backup intel before heading back to Blüdhaven. But the moment he sat in front of the Batcomputer, hours passed without him noticing.

He was sorting through surveillance from a raid in the Narrows—one he’d barely made it out of, if he was honest with himself—when he paused the footage on a blurry silhouette in the background. Red Hood. The camera caught just a flicker: him stepping in, firing clean, dragging someone out of harm’s way.

Dick leaned in, frowning.

Hood had been there before Nightwing arrived. And the guy he saved… was him.

He ran a facial match for Hood across the past six months of footage. It wasn’t conclusive—Hood was careful—but patterns emerged. Locations. Timing. The same old haunts. Familiar choices.

There was something odd in the metadata of one file—a police report Bruce had cross-referenced, but never opened. Dick clicked it open. It was a vague theft report tied to a stolen container of WayneTech prototypes. Not unusual. But in the attached notes, there was a DNA sample flagged as a partial match to a former Batfamily member.

Dick’s blood went cold.

There was only one person it could be.

He hesitated, fingers hovering over the decryption key. Then, slowly, he typed in his override. The database hesitated, then unlocked.

And there it was: two samples. One from the scene. One archived from years ago—older, preserved in the Batcave’s system.

Jason Peter Todd. 99.98% match.

Dick stared at the screen.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Just… sat there.

A long time passed.

He didn’t remember when he stood up, or how long he’d been standing. His legs felt unsteady. The cave felt colder.

Jason.

Red Hood had been Jason. Was Jason. All this time. Every near-miss, every unwanted save, every quiet moment that lingered too long—Jason had been there. Watching him. Fighting beside him.

The man who saved his life, the man who made him laugh when he shouldn’t have been able to, the man who challenged him, infuriated him, matched him beat for beat.

The man who had died—too young, too violently, too soon. The man who had ghosted the back of Dick’s mind for years.

Not a stranger. Not a criminal.

Someone who was buried. Someone Dick had mourned. Someone who—

Someone who he kissed.

And all at once, the pieces slid into place. Messy, painful, undeniable. Jason wasn’t gone. He never had been.

He was right there. In the way he moved. In the way he fought. In the way Dick’s heart stuttered when their eyes met.

It had always been him.

He pressed his hands against the edge of the console, knuckles white.

And Bruce knew. Bruce knew and didn’t tell him.

But right now, that wasn’t the part that hurt the most.

What hurt was the way Jason looked at him. Like he was waiting for something. Like he wanted to be known, but couldn’t ask for it. The way he bled for him and walked away. The way his voice softened when he let Dick see past the armor.

The way Dick let himself start to fall, without knowing why.

And now he knew.

Jason was alive.

And he was already in too deep.

The rain had started soft, then heavy, until it soaked through Dick’s suit and plastered his hair to his forehead. He landed a few feet behind him, breath heavy from the chase. The sound of water hitting stone was deafening, but the silence between them was louder.

Jason stood at the edge of the roof, facing the dark horizon, his back rigid. He didn’t turn as Dick approached. The rain beaded on his helmet and the armor that covered most of his body. His shoulders were squared, tense. Dick had seen him like this before—this hard, unreadable mask Jason put on, pretending nothing got to him, pretending he wasn’t at war with himself.

But Dick could feel it.

The tightness in the air. The unspoken truth.

“Is it really you?”

Dick’s voice broke the quiet, low and shaken by the rawness of the moment. He felt something in him break just asking. But Jason didn’t turn to him, didn’t respond. Just stood there, as if he were a shadow of the man Dick had known. The man he still... didn’t really know.

He took a step forward, then another. Rain soaked through his suit, plastering it to his skin, but it didn’t matter. Everything else faded—except for Jason, standing motionless in the middle of it all.

Dick’s pulse was racing, his mind a whirlwind. He couldn’t shake the nagging thought, the almost knowing feeling that had been crawling under his skin for weeks now, ever since the first time he’d faced Red Hood. Since the first time Jason had saved him.

He stopped just beside Jason, close enough to feel the heat emanating from the man’s body. The other man turned to slightly face him, body language still so unreadable–but almost familiar, now that Dick knows who he is.

His hands trembled slightly as they reached forward, brushing against the cold, slick surface of Jason’s helmet. His fingers hovered for a second—he had to know.

He had to know if it was him.

He waited for a while to see if the man would brush his hands off or step away from him to fall through the edge of the building. Dick’s hands didn’t move—and he didn’t either.

Without another word, Dick pulled the helmet off.

The moment the cool air hit Jason’s face, he inhaled sharply, but still didn’t move. His masked eyes stayed focused on the city below, not meeting Dick’s.

And then Dick saw him—really saw him.

There was Jason—so much taller, older, harder, the boy he'd once known transformed into this force of a man with scars that told stories Dick never wanted to hear. His features were sharper, the face familiar, but so much more lived in than he remembered. His hair was a wet mess, clinging to his forehead. His eyes...those same damn eyes, cold but searching, filled with so many emotions Dick didn’t know how to name.

“Jason,” Dick said softly, and it felt like a prayer. A relief. A deep, overwhelming wave of understanding crashed over him.

Jason finally turned his head slightly, but his expression was unreadable. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders still stiff, but his gaze never wavered. “I didn’t want you to know,” he muttered, the words a low rasp, almost like an apology, but not quite.

Dick shook his head, as if to clear away the disbelief.

I should’ve known, Dick thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. I should’ve recognized you sooner.

He didn’t speak the words aloud, but they echoed in his head. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he had to ask, but all of it felt like it would break something in this moment. He felt a mixture of rage, guilt, confusion—and something else, something far too soft to voice.

Dick took a hesitant step closer, his hands trembling just slightly as he reached for Jason’s face. He cupped his hands on either side of Jason’s jaw, thumb brushing the water away from his face, tracing the line of his cheek, almost like he was memorizing the texture of the skin there.

Jason didn’t pull away. Didn’t fight it. He just stood there, the tension thick enough to choke them both.

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it was you,” Dick said, voice cracking. His own words felt like they were being torn out of him, raw and painful. “You were right in front of me all this time.”

Jason’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something flashing in them, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t give anything away.

Dick let his forehead fall gently against Jason’s, their faces close enough that he could feel the warmth from Jason’s body, feel the uneven breath from his lips. His hands slipped from Jason’s cheeks to the broadness of his shoulders, fingers pressing through the soaked fabric of his armor, like he was grounding himself in something real.

The rain splashed against them, but Dick couldn’t seem to care about the wet or the cold.

Jason’s eyes flickered down to Dick’s lips, then up to his eyes, still unreadable, still distant in a way that cut through Dick’s chest like a knife.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Jason said, his voice almost a warning. “You’re just gonna get hurt again.”

But Dick wasn’t listening. Instead, he leaned in closer, his hands tightening on Jason’s shoulders, pulling him in even as the weight of everything between them threatened to crush him. He laid his head on the man’s plated chest, feeling the beating heart beneath it.

Jason abruptly pulled Dick away, trying his best to ignore the hurt look on the latter’s beautiful face.

He shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have let it happen.

But he couldn’t help it.

Dick Grayson— Nightwing —was everything Jason wasn’t. Everything he could never be. Bright, hopeful, always putting others first, believing in something better. Jason wasn’t that. He never was,

His heart was hammering in his chest, and the words were stuck in his throat—those words he didn’t want to say, but had to.

“Stop it, Dick. We can’t.”

Jason’s voice was strained, torn between something he couldn’t name and the truth he had spent years running from.

Dick took a step forward, brows furrowed in confusion, frustration, but most of all, something that almost resembled desperation.

“You’re just saying that.” His voice was softer now, a hint of a plea under the surface.

Jason turned his face away, his jaw clenched tightly. The words were lodged so deep in his chest, he almost felt like he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t escape the suffocating truth.

“Jay, please…” Dick’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper now.

Jason's hands curled into fists at his sides. He could hear Dick, feel the weight of those words, but they didn’t make sense. He couldn’t allow himself to feel anything other than this distance.

The silence that followed was thick. But then, Jason finally turned back around. His voice was rougher, the words tumbling out as if they’d been building for years.

“Shit, Dickie— I’m a psychopathic serial killer with serious mental health issues. Everything Bruce said about me was right. Hell, every single thing they said about me–”

Jason’s words faltered as Dick moved closer, shaking his head as if he couldn’t possibly accept what Jason was saying.

“No,” Dick breathed, his voice sharp with disbelief. He reached out, his hand hovering just inches from Jason's arm, but Jason pulled away from the touch before it could land.

Dick’s eyes burned with a mix of frustration and something softer—hurt, maybe. “I’ve seen you. I know you. I see the person you are underneath all this—" he gestured toward Jason's helmet and the mask that hid him.

Jason’s words faltered. He hated this. Hated how he kept coming back to the same damn place—this mess of guilt and rage that gnawed at his insides, like he’d never be good enough, never be what anyone wanted.

And then there was Dick.

Dick Grayson. Nightwing.

Dick had been looking at him like… like something else. Not like a criminal, not like a danger. The very thought made Jason’s chest tighten.

He had been expecting to feel something when he looked at Dick—hate, disgust, maybe even relief at being ignored, the way everyone else did when they saw him in that damn helmet. But Dick? Dick saw something else. Something Jason wasn’t sure he even deserved.

He tried to shake the thought away, but before Jason could spiral any further, Dick moved in. Too fast.

Without warning, a firm grip closed around his collar. Then—nothing. The world tilted, and suddenly, Jason was pressed against something warm and solid, his body frozen in shock as Dick’s lips met his in a kiss that was anything but cautious.

It took Jason a few seconds to catch up with what was happening. This wasn’t part of the plan. He wasn’t supposed to feel… this.

He barely registered the heat pooling in his stomach, or the way his body seemed to respond before his brain caught up.

And then it hit him.

Dick Grayson, Nightwing, was kissing him. And it wasn’t like the kisses Jason was used to—the ones that were quick, desperate, filled with anger. This one was slow, deliberate, almost too soft.

Jason didn’t know whether to push him away or give in.

But then something inside him just… let go. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the kiss, feeling the tension in his body fade as his hands moved of their own accord. One hand slid up to Dick’s waist, pulling him closer, the other gripping the back of his neck like it was the one place he could tether himself.

Dick’s breath hitched in his throat as he deepened the kiss, his arms snaking around Jason’s neck. Jason’s pulse raced, and in that moment, it felt like everything—every fear, every doubt—disappeared.

But then, as if to remind him where he stood in this mess, Jason pulled away slightly, breathing heavy. He looked into Dick’s eyes, still so incredibly blue, still so impossibly close, yet so far away.

The kiss had been soft. Too soft. Nothing like the harsh world they lived in, nothing like the rage and anger that Jason had fought so long to bury deep inside him. But Dick... Dick made him feel something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. Something dangerous. Something real.

"I'm no good for you, pretty bird," Jason muttered, voice rough with the confusion he couldn’t hide.

Dick didn’t move away. Didn’t even blink. He stayed close, eyes searching Jason’s face like he was trying to memorize it—every shadow, every scar. His hands slid down from Jason’s shoulders to his chest, resting there like a promise.

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” Dick whispered.

Jason looked away, jaw clenched. “I’ve killed people.”

“I know.”

“I’ve crossed lines you never would. I don’t even know how to come back from half the shit I’ve done.”

“I know ,” Dick said again, firmer this time. His hand came up to Jason’s chest, resting there carefully, over the armor like he was trying to reach the person underneath it.

“I’ve done things, Dickie. Things that—if you knew the full truth—would make you want to turn around and never look at me again.”

“Then tell me,” Dick said. “Tell me and let me decide. Because I’ve already seen more than you think, and I’m still here.”

Jason shook his head, blinking hard. “Why? Why are you here? You have every reason not to be.”

Dick’s smile was crooked, tired. “Because I know what it’s like to lose someone and wonder if it could’ve been different. Because I saw something in you that night that reminded me—”

“Of someone you used to know?” Jason tried to joke, but it came out bitter.

Dick paused. “No. Reminded me of you. The real you.”

Jason flinched at that.

“And you know what I see now?” Dick continued. “I see a man who still gives a damn. Who gets so angry because he cares . Who jumps in front of a girl he doesn’t even know just to make sure someone like that bastard never touches her again.”

Jason let out a sharp breath. “That doesn’t make me a good person. That just makes me angry and violent in the right direction.”

“It makes you human, ” Dick said gently.

Jason didn’t respond. He couldn’t. There was something clawing at the back of his throat, something heavy and aching and unfamiliar.

Dick took a step closer, and his hand, still resting on Jason’s chest, slid up to the side of his face. His head tilted up slightly to meet Jason’s eyes.

Jason’s eyes closed for half a second. Just enough to feel it. The weight of being seen. Really, truly seen.

“You scare me, you know,” Jason murmured.

That made Dick huff out a breath of disbelief. “ I scare you ?”

Jason opened his eyes again. “Yeah. Because every time you look at me like that… I forget I’m supposed to be the bad guy.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy. Real.

And then Dick smiled. Small, soft, devastating.

“Maybe that’s because you never were.”

Jason’s breath hitched.

They were too close now. Close enough that the city blurred behind Dick’s shoulder, close enough that Jason could hear the slight tremor in his breath. Every defense Jason had left was threatening to crumble.

“I didn’t come back expecting anything,” Jason said, voice low. “I didn’t want forgiveness. Or absolution. I just wanted to hurt the people who deserved it and stay out of everyone else’s way.”

“But you did come back,” Dick said. “You came back. And that has to mean something.”

Jason stared at him.

Jason shook his head. “It’s not your fault. I made choices. I came back and I didn’t come home.”

“Maybe not,” Dick said gently. “But you’re here now.”

Jason closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the pull in his chest. He’d built walls so high, so thick, and yet here Dick was—scaling them like they were nothing. Reaching for him like he mattered .

“I don’t know what this is between us,” Dick went on, almost shy. “But I know I want to find out. Even if it’s messy. Even if it scares the hell out of both of us.”

“I’m still angry,” Jason said, voice trembling. “I’m still fucked up. I don’t know if I’ll ever not be.”

Dick nodded, closing the space between them again, forehead resting against Jason’s. Both of Jason’s hands now dropped down to caress Dick’s hips.

“Then be angry. Be fucked up. Just… let me be here with you anyway.”

Jason’s breath caught.

“I don’t want perfect,” Dick said. “I want you. ”

Jason glanced at him, studying the curve of his smile, the tenderness in his voice. The way he talked about him—about Jason, without even knowing—it did something to his chest. Something quiet. Something warm and terrible and beautiful.

He looked away again, swallowing hard.

God, he thought. I’m in trouble.

And just then, Dick shifted beside him, so naturally, so close , his shoulder brushing Jason’s. He tilted his head slightly, eyes still on him like he was waiting for the moment Jason would let him all the way in.

For the first time in years, Jason didn’t want to run.

The city was quiet in that in-between moment just before morning fully arrived. The rooftop felt still—almost like it was holding its breath. Jason leaned on the railing, his coffee cooling between his palms. Somewhere behind him, Dick was moving around the tiny kitchen, humming tunelessly.

The wind ruffled the leaves of the stubborn little tomato plant Dick insisted on keeping alive.

Jason smiled to himself.

He used to think that nothing could grow in this city. Not really. Not anything that lasted.

He used to believe that people like him weren’t meant to have things like this—quiet mornings, soft light, someone humming in the kitchen. A place to rest.

And yet—

He glanced back toward the doorway, watching as Dick stepped out, barefoot, sleepy-eyed, wearing one of Jason’s shirts like it belonged to him. Which, at this point, it did.

“Hey,” Dick said, smiling as he crossed over and hugged Jason from behind, burying his cheek in the broad expanse of his back.

“Hey,” Jason murmured back.

For a while, they just stood like that. Side by side. Hands brushing. Breathing the same air.

Jason let the silence stretch out, comfortable now in ways he never used to be.

He remembered the first time he saw Dick again. After everything. He remembered the way his chest felt like it was cracking under the weight of things unsaid. How it had hurt to look at him, to see him so unchanged, so bright.

Now he realized—he would've done anything to receive that same amount of love from Dick. Even when he was an angry teenager, jealous of everything Dick was—how he lived, how Bruce looked at him, how easily he fit into every room, every heart. Even when he came back from the dead, bitterness clinging to his bones like dirt from the grave, still carrying that strange resentment like it was armor.

But somehow, somewhere along the way, that need twisted into something quieter. Something softer.

He’d thought the ache would never go away.

But it had. Or maybe it hadn’t.

Maybe it had just… softened.

Melted into something warmer.

Something that came when Dick laughed at one of his dumb jokes. Or when he held him like he wasn’t something to be afraid of. Or when he kissed his shoulder without needing a reason.

Jason turned slightly, his eyes lingering on the slope of Dick’s nose, the way the early light caught in his lashes.

Love was never something Jason thought he'd understand. Not like this.

But here it was. In the hand that found his, fingers curling. In the morning air. In the way he could breathe.

He brought their joined hands to his lips and kissed Dick’s knuckles without saying a word.

Dick looked at him and smiled—lazy, lopsided, entirely his.

Jason squeezed his hand.

He didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t need to.

But he thought it, clearly and without fear:

I love you.

God, I really love you.

And for once, he wasn’t rooting for it to fall apart.

Everyone loved Dick Grayson. 

Everyone worshiped him, and for the longest time, Jason resented it. Resented how effortlessly he earned affection, how easily he was adored by the world. But as much as Jason tried to fight it, he couldn't deny the truth. He wasn’t above it. He wasn’t immune. He was just like everyone else. Perhaps even worse.

Because he loved him.

Because perhaps, for as long as he could remember, he always has.

And I despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you

Yeah, I despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you.

— “Lacy”, Olivia Rodrigo