Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s nearly midnight in Blüdhaven when someone knocks on Dick’s door.

Not the roof entrance. Not his comms. A knock, sharp and panicked, shaking the frame like whoever’s on the other side is seconds away from collapse.

Dick doesn't hesitate. Years of patrol have burned instincts deep into his bones, and by the time his hand's on the lock, he's already scanned the hallway through the peephole. It’s dark. Empty. But then—

Another knock. This one softer. Weaker.

He opens the door and the world tilts.

Jason’s standing there.

Or- barely standing. His posture’s hunched, like gravity is dragging him down by the shoulders. Blood streaks his jacket, the edges torn and singed with dust and soot. One arm is clutched protectively across his chest, and the other is braced against the wall for support. His helmet is gone, exposing the too-familiar face Dick had mourned and buried in the costume of a crime lord.

It takes Dick a second to understand what he’s seeing.

A second longer to process how .

And then Jason sways on his feet.

“Jay?” Dick breathes, stepping forward fast enough to catch him.

Jason flinches.

Actually flinches - recoiling like a hand raised in comfort might land as a strike.

Dick freezes, arms half-out, swallowing the sharp rush of pain that stabs through his chest. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe, Jason. It’s me.”

Jason shakes his head almost violently. His mouth opens like he wants to speak- wants to explain- but nothing comes out except a ragged, dry wheeze.

Only then does Dick see the bandages around his throat. Pink with seeping blood. Messy, like they were thrown on in a hurry and never changed.

“Oh, shit. ”

He eases forward slowly this time, hands open and visible. Jason’s eyes are wide- not just dazed but full-on terrified . The kind of fear Dick remembers from Arkham, from survivors of real monsters. Not the kind that should ever live behind the eyes of his brother.

“You’re safe,” Dick says again, quieter. “Can I help you inside?”

Jason doesn’t nod, doesn’t speak- just sort of crumples, and Dick moves fast enough to catch him again. He’s trembling. The shakes are fine, near-constant, like his body is still stuck in a fight it barely escaped from.

Dick grits his teeth. Whatever this is- whatever happened- he’s going to fix it.

He gets Jason onto the couch and wraps a blanket around him, switching out blood-soaked bandages with sterile gauze from the med kit. Jason doesn’t fight him. Doesn’t do much of anything except stare at the floor like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

The silence is thick. Jason’s breathing is shallow. Too fast.

“Hey. Breathe with me, Jay. Just- match me, okay?”

He demonstrates, slow inhale, slower exhale, and when Jason doesn’t follow, he tries again.

“Come on, you’ve got this. In-” Jason’s hand shoots out suddenly, gripping Dick’s arm like a lifeline. His lips move.

No sound.

Dick cups the back of his head gently, guiding their foreheads together.

“You don’t have to talk. You’re safe here. Whatever happened, we’ll figure it out.”

Jason squeezes his arm again.

Dick doesn’t ask about the bruises. Not yet. He doesn’t ask about the fear in Jason’s eyes when he says the word safe or why the name Bruce seems to curl his brother’s whole body into itself like a wounded animal.

All of that can come later.

For now, Jason is here. Alive. Terrified, yes, but here.

Dick wraps his arms around him and holds on.

“I’ve got you, little wing,” he whispers. “You’re not alone anymore.”

Jason hadn’t said a word, but he didn’t need to. The whole weight of him was unraveling, right there on the couch. A trembling hand clenched the blanket so tight his knuckles whitened. His breathing was faster now, almost panting- shallow inhales through his nose, like he was trying not to make a sound.

And then his body just- sagged.

It was subtle at first. A shift of weight. Shoulders dipping, spine curling tighter. But then it came all at once- like something inside him gave up. Like the thread holding him together snapped under its own tension.

Jason folded forward, hands pressed to his face, and shuddered hard.

Not a single sob. Not a single word.

But he was shaking , full-body now, like he was freezing from the inside out.

Dick moved instinctively. He didn’t touch him right away, just leaned closer and dropped his voice into that gentle rhythm he’d used when they were younger and Jason got overwhelmed.

“Hey, hey- breathe with me. Just listen, okay? You’re not alone. I’ve got you.”

Jason’s fingers gripped his hair, pulling tight. His jaw clenched around something invisible. And he still didn’t make a sound.

The silence scared Dick more than anything.

He moved to kneel in front of him, placing both hands on Jason’s knees, grounding, not gripping. His eyes flicked up and down his brother’s frame now that he had time to look. Really look.

He almost wished he hadn’t.

Jason was- God, he was different . Not just older. Not just taller. He’d grown, yeah- broad in the shoulders, heavy with muscle- but he looked wrong , somehow. Off-balance. His cheeks were hollow. His collarbones jutted a little too sharp under the ruined jacket. There were bruises peeking out from his sleeves, old ones, layered like he hadn’t let any of them heal before picking up new ones.

And the scars.

Dick had seen plenty of scars in his time, but this was personal . These weren’t training nicks or patrol accidents. These were surgical. Brutal. The kind of marks left when someone dies and doesn’t stay dead.

His breath caught. “Oh, Jay…”

Jason was still trembling. His lips parted again like he was trying to say something- trying so hard - but his throat seized halfway and no sound came out. Just a small, wet gasp like his own body was betraying him.

Dick felt his heart seize. He climbed onto the couch beside him, slowly, deliberately, and put an arm around his shoulders.

“Come here. You don’t have to hold it in.”

Jason didn’t lean in.

He collapsed.

His body pitched sideways, nearly limp with exhaustion, head landing against Dick’s chest like all the strings holding him upright had snapped. He didn’t cry- didn’t make a noise- but the tremors worsened as his breath hitched and stuttered. His hands clung to Dick’s hoodie, fisting it like it was the only solid thing in the world.

Dick held him. Arms secure. One hand rubbing slow circles on Jason’s back.

The layers were thinner than they should’ve been. He could feel every bone in his spine. Every rib that stuck out just a little too much. The kid hadn’t been eating. Or sleeping. Maybe not even stopping long enough to try.

“You’re okay,” Dick murmured. “You’re okay now. I promise. You don’t have to run anymore.”

Jason made a sound then- finally. Not a word. Not even a whimper. Just a short, broken exhale that shook like he’d been holding it in for days. Weeks. Maybe longer.

He didn’t move again. Didn’t lift his head. His body, too big now to fold like it used to, curled against Dick anyway. His knees drew up instinctively, just enough to tighten into a defensive ball. He buried his face in Dick’s chest, breath still stuttering, and let himself be held.

Dick rested his chin on top of Jason’s head. One hand threaded carefully into his hair- not tugging, just keeping close.

“Jesus, Jay… what the hell did he do to you…”

He felt it- the flinch at the word he. Jason didn’t have to speak. That was answer enough.

Jason’s breathing slowed gradually.

It didn’t even feel like rest at first- more like his body had given up . But eventually, the stuttering exhales settled. The tension in his muscles bled out, little by little. His weight became heavier against Dick’s side. One hand still curled in the fabric of Dick’s hoodie, but the grip had loosened, fingers twitching now and then like whatever dream had taken hold wasn’t entirely safe either.

He was asleep- or unconscious. Honestly, Dick couldn’t tell. But it was the stillest Jason had been since he walked through the door, and that had to count for something.

Dick adjusted their position carefully, easing Jason down onto the couch with slow, practiced motions. He tugged the blanket up around his shoulders again and took a long moment just watching- counting every breath, every flicker of movement. Just to be sure.

When he was satisfied Jason wasn’t going to stop breathing or bolt upright in a panic, he stood, grabbed his phone, and stepped into the kitchen. Every part of him buzzed with unease. There were bruises on Jason’s ribs . On his neck . The bandages had been rushed- not even aligned properly. Whoever had patched him up wasn’t thinking straight. Probably Jason himself.

It was a miracle he’d made it this far.

Dick leaned back against the counter and unlocked his phone.

He needed answers.

He opened a secure channel and pinged Tim first. Safe bet. Less likely to loop Bruce in. If anything, Tim would be too caught up in whatever Bat-case he was unraveling to even look up.

[1:23 AM] Nightwing:
Tim. You awake?

It took a minute.

[1:25 AM] Robin:
Always. What’s going on?

[1:25 AM] Nightwing:
Something happen in Gotham? Past few days? Something big?

There was a longer pause this time. Dick chewed on his thumbnail and glanced toward the living room. Jason hadn’t moved.

[1:27 AM] Robin:
Bruce was weird all week. Moodier than usual. Something’s been eating him since like Tuesday. I asked but he wouldn’t tell me.

[1:27 AM] Robin:
Didn’t take it out on me or anything, just… off. Silent broody mode turned up to eleven. Why?

Dick hesitated.

[1:28 AM] Nightwing:
Just had a weird feeling. Wondered if something went down.

[1:28 AM] Robin:
I’ll check the logs in the morning. You think he’s hiding something?

[1:29 AM] Nightwing:
Wouldn’t be the first time.

He didn’t answer Tim’s follow-up ping right away.

Next, he called Barbara. She picked up on the third ring, her voice low, tired but alert.

“Hey. Something wrong?” Dick exhaled through his nose.

“Not sure yet. You hear anything from Gotham the last few nights? About Bruce?”

“Besides him being the usual brick wall of communication?” she asked, a trace of dry humor in her voice. Then it softened. “He sent me off duty early two nights ago. Said he had something to handle alone. No reason given. No comms, either. I assumed it was just one of his spiral nights.”

Dick swallowed. “No uploaded cowl footage?”

“Not yet. He hasn’t synced anything to the network since then. Why? What’s going on, Dick?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face.

“I just… have a hunch something went really wrong. I can’t get into it yet. But if you do get access to that footage- don’t send it to him. Not yet.” Barbara was quiet for a beat.

“You think something happened to him?” she asked, not accusing, just careful.

“I think he did something,” Dick said, voice low.

And he felt it then, deep in his gut, that tangled mix of betrayal and fury that only Bruce could evoke. He hadn’t seen the fight. Hadn’t heard a word from Jason’s mouth- but he’d seen the aftermath. He’d held it- and that was enough.

Barbara exhaled. “Alright. I’ll let you know if anything comes in. You okay?”

“I don’t know,” Dick said honestly. “But thanks, Babs.”

He hung up.

The silence in the apartment was thick. Jason’s breathing was still audible from the couch- soft and uneven. Dick padded back over and crouched beside him again, watching the pale bruises under his jaw. His chest clenched.

Whatever had happened that night, it had destroyed his brother all over again. And no one even knew he was alive to care. Dick wasn’t about to change that. Not yet. Bruce had lost the right to know where Jason was-

At least for now.

Chapter Text

Jason woke up like he was being hunted.

No sound triggered it. No alarm. Just that lurch- that sick, automatic jolt where your body thinks it’s in danger before your brain catches up.
His eyes snapped open.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The ceiling above him was too white. Too still. No shadows. No flicker of flame or neon. He was wrapped in something warm and soft- a blanket- and for a second, his chest locked up, convinced it was a trap. A cover. Something to be ripped away.

His hand twitched toward where his holster should be.

Nothing.

Fuck.

He pushed himself up on his elbows before the adrenaline even wore off. His throat screamed in protest- muscles tearing at the half-healed wound. He bit back the sound, jaw clenched, eyes darting across the room.

It wasn’t a warehouse.

It wasn’t the trap.

It wasn’t Gotham.

It wasn’t him.

Soft light. Wooden floor. The faint smell of coffee and worn cotton. A jacket- his ruined jacket- was draped over a nearby chair, singed edges still flaking ash. The realization hit like a slow bleed:

Blüdhaven.

Dick.

He was in Dick’s apartment.

Jason sat up fully, muscles protesting, heart thudding like a jackhammer. His fingers fisted the blanket in his lap. It was real. The couch was real. The night before- it hadn’t been a dream. He’d come here.

He’d instinctively made himself come here- and now he’d fucking stayed.

His mouth was dry. Head pounding. He didn’t remember falling asleep- just collapsing. Probably mid-panic. Probably like a goddamn child.

Shame curled hot and fast through his stomach. He looked toward the hallway, expecting to see Bruce’s shadow any second- the cowl, the scowl, the judgment- or worse, feel the back of his neck sliced open again.

He grabbed the edge of the couch to steady himself.

What if Dick had already called him?

What if he’d gone to bed, and Bruce was on his way here now?

What if this had all been a setup?

Jason’s chest seized. His vision tunneled for a second as panic clamped down hard, cold and absolute. He tried to breathe, but his lungs didn’t listen- nothing worked.

He knew better than this. Knew what Bruce was capable of- how far he’d go if you crossed the line, if you stepped one inch outside the black-and-white morality he painted over the city like it belonged to him. Jason had seen that line. Felt it. It still throbbed in his neck.

And now Dick- Dick was good. That was the problem. He was still so good.

Which meant maybe Bruce didn’t even have to threaten him- maybe he’d just ask to hand Jason over so he can be put into Arkham- Jason’s hands started to shake.

“Jay?” The voice came from the hallway- warm, startled, and painfully gentle.

Jason flinched hard, dragging the blanket tighter around himself before he even turned. Dick was there, barefoot in sweats and a faded college hoodie, a mug of coffee in one hand and a soft crease of concern in his brow.

“You’re up,” he said, taking a cautious step forward.

“You okay?” Jason couldn’t answer. Even if his throat hadn’t been raw, he wouldn’t have been able to. His heart was a freight train in his chest, and all he could think was he’s going to call him- he’s going to tell him I’m here.

His body moved before he could stop it- scrambling up from the couch too fast, blood draining from his head, blanket falling to the floor. The room spun.

Dick put the coffee down immediately, hands raised. “Whoa, hey—hey. Easy.”

Jason stumbled backward, shoulders hitting the wall. His hand clutched his side like it would hold him together.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Dick said quickly, voice low. “Nobody’s going to hurt you here. You’re safe. It’s just me, Jay.”

Jason shook his head. His chest burned. He gestured to his throat- not to ask for anything, but because he couldn’t talk, couldn’t explain, and the frustration was tearing him apart.
Dick saw it- and to his credit, he didn’t push-

He nodded slowly. “Okay. Okay, you can’t talk yet. That’s alright. Just breathe, alright? Sit if you need to. You’re safe, I swear.”

Jason’s hands were still trembling. He could feel the panic bleeding through his skin, hot and sour, pushing into every corner of his skull like static. He looked at Dick again, chest aching, trying to find some anchor in his brother’s face.

And that’s when he saw it.

Confusion. Worry. But not betrayal. Not guilt.
Not guilt.

Dick hadn’t called him- Jason’s legs gave out.

He didn’t collapse completely, just slid down the wall until he was sitting again- knees pulled in, breathing shallow, eyes staring straight ahead.
Dick crouched beside him a second later, close but not touching.

“I didn’t tell him,” he said softly, like he knew exactly what Jason had been thinking. “I wouldn’t. I haven’t said a word to Bruce. Tim and Babs don’t know either. They think I’m just poking around because something felt off.” Jason blinked. Hard.

“I don’t know what happened between you and Bruce,” Dick continued, “but you showed up scared out of your mind with your neck torn open. I’m not giving him a damn thing until I know exactly why.”

He waited a beat. Then added, quieter, “I’m on your side. Okay?”

Jason didn’t move. Didn’t nod.

But he wasn’t panicking anymore.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Jason was still huddled on the floor when Dick came back from the kitchen, no sudden moves, no rush. Just the quiet clink of a ceramic bowl and the soft tread of bare feet on the hardwood.
The scent of something warm and familiar drifted through the air, chicken noodle. From a can, probably, but it smelled like comfort anyway. Like a memory.

Jason’s stomach twisted painfully. He hadn’t eaten in… God, when?

Dick crouched a few feet away, bowl in one hand, spoon tucked inside. He didn’t say anything yet. Just set the bowl down on the coffee table beside the couch and glanced over at him.

“Still warm,” he said softly. “Thought it might be easier on your throat.”

Jason didn’t move.

His heart was still racing, adrenaline slow to bleed off. His fingers were flexing over and over in tight, restless motions- like his body was stuck in fight mode and didn’t know how to stop. His mouth tasted like dust. And his hands were still shaking.

He stared at them for a second. Couldn’t seem to stop. Dick followed his gaze. Quiet. Watchful.

“C’mon,” he said after a moment, not pushing.

“Couch’s more comfortable than the floor.”
Jason blinked. The floor was hard. Cold. His shoulder was cramping where it pressed against the wall. But moving felt impossible- like it would break the fragile stillness he’d finally sunk into.
He didn’t move.

Dick nodded slightly, like he expected that. He got up instead- walked over, slow and steady, then crouched beside him again.

“I can help, if that’s okay?” Jason didn’t answer. But he didn’t flinch this time either. So Dick gently reached out and laid a hand on his arm, just resting it there. A grounding touch, not a grip. He waited a beat, then slid his other arm around Jason’s back.

“Alright. We’ll take it slow.” He helped him up carefully, shifting most of Jason’s weight onto himself. Jason didn’t fight it. His legs were unsteady again- sleep and panic having drained what little strength he had. By the time Dick guided him back to the couch, Jason was leaning heavily into his side, every step like wading through molasses.

When he finally sank into the cushions, his whole body sagged like a deflated tire.

Dick didn’t leave his side.

He grabbed the blanket again, gently settling it over Jason’s lap, then retrieved the soup. The steam had softened, but it was still warm. He stirred it once, scooped a bit onto the spoon, then looked at Jason.

“You think you can eat?” Jason looked at the bowl. Then at his own hands. Still shaking.

He clenched them into fists, furious. He hated this. Hated feeling like a raw nerve- useless, frayed, helpless. Hated needing help. Especially from Dick, who’d always been the strong one. The good one.

His throat bobbed.

He shook his head once- not as a no, but more like I can’t. Not like this. Dick didn’t look surprised.

He sat down beside him again. Took another spoonful.

“Alright,” he said gently. “Let me help.” and he brought the spoon up, holding it out in offering. Not forceful. Not pitying. Just… there.
Jason hesitated. Long enough that it felt unbearable.

Then, finally, he leaned forward and let his brother feed him.

The soup was bland and hot and burned his throat just a little. But it was food. Real food. And even if he could only take small sips, he didn’t pull away.

Dick didn’t say anything while they sat there. He didn’t look at Jason like he was broken or pathetic. Just kept feeding him slowly, one spoonful at a time, like this was normal. Like this was fine.

Jason hated how much it meant.

He looked down at the bowl after a few minutes. His stomach felt tight, full after only a few mouthfuls, and his body was starting to tremble less, not stopped, but less. A breath left him he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Dick set the bowl aside, careful.

“You did good,” he said quietly. “That’s enough for now.”

Jason didn’t answer- but he didn’t look away.

Dick offered the blanket again, and this time, Jason pulled it up himself. He didn’t lean in again, but he didn’t move away when Dick settled beside him, their shoulders barely touching.

And for the first time since the night everything went to hell, Jason felt like maybe- maybe- he could breathe again.

—————————

Dick didn’t expect Jason to fall asleep again.

He’d just eaten, barely half a bowl, but enough to take the edge off. He still looked pale, unsteady, like he was more ghost than flesh, but at least now there was something grounding him.

And yet, ten minutes later, Jason was slumped back against the couch cushions, blanket tucked around him, head listing slightly to the side.

Dick could see it happening in slow motion- the way Jason’s eyes started blinking slower and slower, until his eyelids didn’t lift back up at all. Like sleep wasn’t even a choice anymore. Just something taken from him by sheer exhaustion.
His head tipped sideways until it found a shoulder.

Dick didn’t move. Not for a long time.

He just sat there, Jason’s weight warm and solid against him, and breathed.

There were still tremors in his brother’s hands. Not big ones- nothing wild or flailing. Just those faint, residual twitches of nerves that hadn’t stopped screaming yet. But his breath had settled, and his body was heavy in that unmistakable way of real sleep.

Dick swallowed against the tightness in his throat.
He shifted just a little, easing his arm behind Jason’s shoulders to help support him better. Jason didn’t stir.

His head lolled against Dick’s collarbone, soft hair brushing his neck.

Dick exhaled.

His free hand came up almost without thinking, brushing back a tangled bit of hair from Jason’s forehead. He smoothed it gently. Let his fingers drift through it, slow and careful.

God, when had Jason last let anyone touch him like this?

Had anyone?

It made Dick’s chest ache. He kept stroking his hair in silence, thumb brushing gently over his temple every now and then. It felt natural. Right. Like something that had been missing, and now- suddenly, painfully- wasn’t.

Jason shifted once in his sleep, a quiet noise catching in his throat. But he didn’t wake up. Just tucked himself a little closer.

“Yeah,” Dick whispered, barely audible. “I got you.”

He stared forward for a while after that, watching the play of light through the window.
Thinking.

Turning over everything he’d seen since the moment Jason had shown up at his door: the blood, the fear, the bandages, the silence. The shaking.

The way he hadn’t even tried to speak.

The way he’d panicked the second he’d woken up- like he expected an attack. The way he looked at Dick like he was waiting to be given away.

Dick clenched his jaw. His hand paused in Jason’s hair, then kept going.

Something had gone wrong in Gotham. Something big. Bigger than a mission gone sideways. Bigger than a disagreement.

Bruce hurt him. That much was obvious. The cut on his neck wasn’t some training accident. The panic wasn’t from a close call.

It was personal.

Deliberate.

And if Dick knew anything about Jason- his Jason, the one who used to steal extra Pop-Tarts from Alfred’s kitchen and memorize every alleyway in Gotham like they were veins in his own body- it was that he didn’t scare easy, but he’d been terrified.

Of Bruce.

And that... was the part that made Dick’s stomach churn the most.

Because Bruce could justify a lot. Could bend his rigid code around a mission, a failure, a lie.

But Jason was his son.

His kid.

And something had happened to make Jason run halfway across the state, bleeding, voiceless, and desperate, to him- the one Bruce always accused of being too soft.

Maybe softness was what Jason needed now.

Dick’s fingers kept carding through his brother’s hair, slow and rhythmic. He could feel the tension still lingering under Jason’s skin, even in sleep. The kind that didn’t leave easily.

He leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes for a second, just listening to Jason breathe.

He’d protect him. For as long as it took. Even if it meant going against Bruce- especially if it meant that.

Dick hadn’t stopped playing with Jason’s hair.

Fingers moving slow, gentle. Sliding through dark strands with a practiced rhythm. Every so often he’d trace a line down behind Jason’s ear, let his thumb rest lightly at the nape of his neck, as careful as you’d handle a wounded animal that wanted comfort but didn’t know how to ask for it.

He could feel Jason relax beneath the touch, little by little. Not fully. Not yet.

But enough.

He tilted his head just slightly, careful not to wake him, and reached for his phone on the side table. He kept it angled away from Jason’s line of sight just in case- muscle memory from years of guarded conversations and nosy little siblings.

There was a message from Tim waiting for him.

[7:42 AM] Robin:


Morning. Checked last night’s logs. Still no footage from Bruce’s cowl for the day he went silent.

[7:43 AM] Robin:


Weirdest part? He benched me for two nights last week. Some case I’d been helping him dig into for weeks- a new crime lord setting up shop in the Narrows.

[7:43 AM] Robin:


Suddenly told me to focus on training. That he’d “handle it.” Didn’t want help. Didn’t even give me an update.

Dick frowned. Benched Tim?

That was rare. Bruce trusted Tim’s brain more than almost anyone. If he’d cut him off in the middle of an investigation, it meant one of two things: either it got personal, or it got ugly. Maybe both.

He glanced down at Jason, still curled against him. One of Jason’s hands had slid from the blanket in his sleep, resting against Dick’s leg. Scarred knuckles. Nails ragged. Even now, in the warmth of the room, they twitched faintly like he was still fighting something in his dreams. Dick’s hand returned to his hair. Kept combing gently.

He turned his eyes back to the phone.

[7:45 AM] Nightwing:


Did he say why he wanted to handle it alone?

[7:46 AM] Robin:


Just said it was “sensitive.”

[7:46 AM] Robin:


Thought it was weird, but I didn’t push. Babs and I figured it was about that warehouse fire. The one a few blocks from Crime Alley.

Dick’s chest tensed.

Warehouse fire.

His mind flashed to Jason’s jacket again- the smoke, the ash, the way the leather had been half-scorched. Jason, standing in his doorway like a ghost dragged out of a collapse.

[7:47 AM] Robin:


But the thing is, no one's claiming credit for it. Not Penguin, not Black Mask, not even the new player.

[7:47 AM] Robin:


And Bruce hasn’t said a single thing about it since.

Dick stared at the screen.

Jason’s breath ghosted against his collarbone.
The pieces were there, just not arranged yet. A warehouse fire. Bruce benching Tim. Jason showing up, torn open and silent. The fear. The panic.

Dick’s jaw clenched. He typed slowly.

[7:48 AM] Nightwing:


Keep digging. But keep it quiet.

[7:48 AM] Robin:


You think something’s wrong?

Dick looked down at his sleeping brother.
His fingers threaded through Jason’s hair again, soft and steady, and murmured under his breath like a promise only the two of them would ever hear.

“I know something’s wrong.”

Chapter Text

Wayne Manor was quiet in the mornings.

Usually, that was a good thing. Peaceful. Predictable. Tim liked the quiet. It gave him space to think, to plan, to line up dots and draw lines between them.

But today?

Today, the quiet felt wrong.

He was in the Cave by 8:00 sharp, half a protein bar in one hand, tapping through cowl feeds with the other, waiting for something- anything- to explain why Bruce had gone full Lone Ranger earlier in the week.

But so far?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

The cowl logs for the night Bruce had benched him were there in the system- timestamped, listed, archived like always, but the footage was just… blank. No corruption. No technical glitch. Just clean, perfect black. Like it had been erased before he ever got near it.

He narrowed his eyes at the monitor. “That’s not suspicious at all,” he muttered, chewing the last bite of his bar.

“Something wrong?” came Bruce’s voice from the stairs.

Tim straightened reflexively, eyes flicking to the tall figure descending into the Cave. Same uniform. Same posture. Same perpetual scowl like someone had just scuffed his favorite gargoyle.
Bruce didn’t look different.

But something was.

Tim cleared his throat. “Nah. Just looking through the feeds.”

Bruce said nothing.

Walked past him toward the suit vault like it was any other day. Pulled off his gauntlets and set them down with military precision. Tim watched him from the corner of his eye.

“So,” he said, playing casual, “that crime lord in the Narrows. You ever get a lead on him?”

Bruce didn’t stop what he was doing.

“Still investigating.”

Tim leaned back in the chair, spinning it slightly.

“Because I can still help, you know. I’ve got the notes I pulled from the old Iceberg Lounge shell company. There’s some weird bank transfers—”

“I’ll handle it,” Bruce said, a little too quick.
Tim raised an eyebrow.

“You benched me for training. I assumed that was code for something important, not ‘go hit the heavy bag for two days straight.’”

Bruce didn’t respond.

Which would’ve been fine if he hadn’t also gone completely dark on Barbara. Ignored two of Tim’s pings during patrol. Wiped a full night of cowl footage like he was hiding something.

And now Dick was acting weird too.

Tim had known him long enough to tell when Nightwing was being cagey- the guy never lied outright, but he got that certain tone when he was holding back. Too careful. Too diplomatic. Like he was balancing something fragile behind his eyes. This wasn’t just Bruce being broody and territorial.

Something happened.

Tim turned back to the computer and opened the encrypted folder he’d started the night before- everything he had so far on the Narrows case. Names. Shell companies. Heat maps. His own annotated notes.

He clicked a few times, selected the highlights, and dragged them into a clean file. Then he opened his chat with Dick.

[8:12 AM] Robin:


Sending what I have on the Narrows op. No clue why Bruce froze me out, but something’s not adding up.

[8:13 AM] Robin:


Also, weird question, but is this about Jason?

He hovered a moment. Then added, almost as an afterthought:

[8:13 AM] Robin:


You’d tell me, right?

He stared at the screen for a long second after hitting send.

Somewhere behind him, Bruce’s footsteps echoed faintly- heading for the training mats. Business as usual. Tim’s gut didn’t agree. Bruce wasn’t the only one keeping secrets anymore.

And Tim Drake hated not knowing the full picture.

Chapter Text

The sunlight filtered softly through the blinds, casting long stripes across the living room floor. The afternoon had crept up on Dick without him noticing, the way it always did when exhaustion was dragging heavy and relentless. He blinked awake, muscles stiff but mind clearer than it had been in hours.

Jason was still there, curled up against his side, the kind of quiet presence that was both a balm and a reminder. He stirred slightly at dicks twitching limbs, eyes fluttering open to the familiar ceiling. For a moment, his gaze was slow, dazed.

Then he blinked up at Dick, a flicker of panic sparking immediately behind those cloudy eyes.

Dick reached out, voice soft and steady. “Hey. You’re okay. Just took a little nap.”

Jason’s lips parted, but no sound came out, his throat still raw, still tender from the damage beneath the bandages dick had yet to see. Dick moved carefully, gently brushing hair off Jason’s forehead.

“I’m going to warm up some soup. You hungry?” Jason nodded once, barely perceptible, before settling back with a long, shaky breath.

Dick stood and crossed to the kitchen, the quiet padding of his feet muffled by the rug. The canned soup was still there, barely touched from the morning before. He poured it carefully into a small pot and set it to heat on low.

Time seemed to slow, the small domestic task grounding him. When the steam curled up, warm and soothing, he returned with the bowl and a spoon.

Jason shifted, trying to sit up probably, but the movement was slow and pained. Dick moved behind him, steadying him, hands on his shoulders.

“Lean back,” Dick said gently. “Take it easy.”

Jason obeyed, closing his eyes briefly against the effort.

Dick spooned some soup into the bowl and offered it up. Jason ate, slow and cautious, hands trembling.

When the bowl was finished, Dick set it aside and turned his attention to the bandages. He peeled them back with care, the faint smell of antiseptic rising.

His breath caught.

The cut at Jason’s neck was worse than he’d expected.

Jagged, deep, swollen dark purple and red with fresh bruising around it. The edges were raw and angry- angry enough to make Dick’s chest tighten with a surge of fury.

Whoever had done this- whoever had hurt Jason like this- had no idea what kind of trouble they’d stirred.

Dick’s fingers hovered for a moment, then worked quickly to clean the wound with sterile wipes, careful not to cause pain. Jason flinched but didn’t pull away. When the new bandages were secure, Dick sat back on the couch, jaw clenched tight. He knew exactly who had done this.

Bruce.

And the thought made something harden inside him, cold and fierce and utterly protective.

Jason deserved better.

Dick pulled Jason close again, tucking the blanket tighter around his brother’s shoulders.

“Rest,” he said quietly. “I’ve got you.”

——————

Dick’s jaw tightened as he slammed the laptop shut for a moment, the low simmer of anger thrumming behind his eyes. The quiet room suddenly felt too small, too full of unanswered questions.

He needed to do something.

Dragging the laptop back onto his lap, he reopened the case files Tim had sent. His fingers flicked through pages of notes, scanned reports, and surveillance stills, trying to make sense of the puzzle Bruce had shoved aside.

A name caught his eye in a field report: Red Hood.

Dick froze.

Red Hood? He muttered under his breath, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. As in… the Joker’s old name?

His mind flashed back- the violent legacy of that title, the dark history it carried. Had Jason had taken that name? Not just as an alias, but as a symbol?

A symbol of crossing lines Batman had always warned them never to cross, of breaking the cardinal rule. The rule Bruce had drilled into them all.

No killing.

Dick’s fingers paused over the keyboard. Another report: a duffle bag found near the warehouse fire, stuffed with severed heads. His stomach twisted.

That was so Jason.

So damn Jason.

If he’d been okay with breaking Bruce’s rule- before he’d died, or this was exactly the kind of dramatic bullshit he’d pull. And now-

Now Jason was back, broken, scared, silent.

Dick clenched his fists.

Whatever had happened in Gotham, it had changed everything.

And now, protecting Jason meant understanding all of it- even the parts that scared him most.

—————

A few days had passed.

The bruises around Jason’s neck had faded from angry purple to dull shades of healing, the bandages replaced with lighter dressings that Dick changed with a practiced, gentle touch.

Jason was a lot quieter now, no longer a fragile, trembling shadow on the couch but still distant, like he was carrying an invisible weight no amount of rest could shake.

His hands still shook. Not from pain, Dick knew, but anxiety. The leftover tremors of something deeper.

Jason had tried, over the last few days, to talk. To say something- anything really- but his voice came out rough, cracked, barely a whisper. Writing was no easier; his hands weren’t steady enough to form letters without frustration, and every failed attempt just seemed to make the anxiety worse.

So instead, he tried to use what he could, small nods, hand gestures, eyes that searched Dick’s face for understanding.

That afternoon, Jason shifted on the couch, sitting straighter than usual. He looked at Dick, trying to meet his eyes.

Dick leaned in, voice soft. “Hey. You wanna try telling me something?” Jason swallowed hard and nodded once, then pointed at his throat and shook his head quickly.

“Still hurts?” Dick asked. Jason nodded again, more emphatic. Dick gave a small, encouraging smile.

“Okay. No talking then. Whatever you wanna say, we’ll figure it out.” Jason took a slow breath and pointed at the window.

“Outside?” Dick asked, curious.

Jason nodded.

Dick stood, stretching, then grabbed a blanket and motioned to Jason. “Let’s get you some fresh air. We’ll take it slow.”

As they moved toward the door, Jason hesitated and then made a V upward with both hands flat, into two hands diagonally pointing up right after. Dick’s eyes narrowed in understanding.

“Home,” he said gently. Jason gave a small relieved smile.

Dick nodded. “Got it.”

They stepped outside onto the fire escape, the afternoon sun warm on their faces. Jason’s breathing remained uneven, but the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction.

Dick stayed close, matching his pace, letting Jason take the lead.

There were so many questions, so many things Jason wasn’t ready to say. So many things he couldn’t say- But for now, Dick knew that being here- without pressure, without judgment- was enough.

Jason was soon done with outside and headed back to his favorite spot curling up at the end of the couch. His fingers trembling as he fumbled with his hands.

The injury he suffered was healing, but the anxiety- God, the anxiety- still clung like a second skin, shaking his limbs in ways he couldn’t control.

Dick sat beside him, silent and steady, waiting for anything Jason would be willing to share.

Jason’s dark eyes flicked to him, then back down at his hands. He took a deep breath, throat still too raw for words, and willed his fingers to move.

They trembled fiercely but forced themselves to form a crude, halting sign.

“Dug… out… of… my… grave.”

The motion was jerky, uncoordinated- like his body was betraying him. But the message was clear.

Dick’s breath caught.

He felt a sharp rush of pain- something deep and raw in his chest- then tears pricked at the edges of his eyes.

He swallowed hard, blinked them back, and reached out, carefully folding Jason’s shaking hands in his own.

“Hey,” Dick whispered, voice breaking just a little. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Jason’s eyes searched his, full of raw fear and something fragile- hope?

Dick squeezed his hands gently. “I’m here now. You’re safe.”

Jason’s lips twitched in the faintest, grateful smile. If a little sarcastic despite how close to tears he looked. For a kid who use to be grumpy all the time he was really emotional now.

Dick moved closer, pulling Jason into a protective hug, careful not to hurt the neck or add to the anxiety by making him feeling trapped.

He could almost feel the weight Jason had carried- the loneliness, the fear, the fight to survive. For who knew how long before he finally found dick again.

It broke something inside him- but he held on, steady and sure.

“We’re gonna get through this. Together.”

The quiet between them stretched, the soft hum of the city outside just a distant murmur. Jason’s hands still trembled slightly in Dick’s, but there was something steadier in his eyes now- something like cautious trust.

Dick cleared his throat softly, careful not to break the fragile peace.

“Hey,” he said gently, voice low. “I know a little of what you’ve been through. Not everything, but enough to know it’s been rough.”

He paused, searching Jason’s face for any sign of readiness.

“I don’t want to push or rush you. But… what do you want to do next? Whatever that looks like.”

His words were soft, patient- no pressure, no expectations.

Jason blinked slowly, the ghost of a small nod forming.

Dick squeezed his hands again. “Whenever you’re ready, we figure it out. Together.”

Jason blinked again, slow and deliberate, the tremor in his fingers catching slightly as he reached out. He hesitated, then- after a deep, shuddering breath- tried to form another rough sign, the motions jerky but earnest.

Dick leaned in, eyes sharp and patient, ready to catch every flicker of meaning.

Jason’s hands moved slowly:

“Not ready. Still… scared. Don’t want… Bruce.”

Dick’s heart clenched, the protective instinct flaring hotter.

He nodded gently, voice barely above a whisper. “I get it. No Bruce. Nobody you don’t want around.”

He wrapped a comforting arm around Jason’s shoulders, holding him close without pressure.

“We take it at your pace. You’re safe here.”

Jason’s eyes softened, a flicker of something close to relief breaking through the anxiety.

Dick settled back, keeping his hold steady, silent but unwavering.

“Whenever you’re ready, we’ll figure it out.”

For now, that had to be enough.