Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing Jason noticed about Dick’s new apartment was that it had two bedrooms.

Which—okay. He wasn’t judging. Good for Dick, really. This was his actual apartment—not a safehouse or crash pad—so a second bedroom was completely normal. Expected, almost, just in case he had a guest or needed extra storage or something.

Completely normal for a normal person.

Dick was not a normal person.

Jason scanned the apartment from where he stood in the shadowy living room. The stove light wasn’t on, which was weird—Dick always left the stove light on when he went out for patrol. Several red and blue Superman magnets were stuck to the fridge. A fluffy brown throw blanket sat neatly folded on the couch.

Jason didn’t know why he was here. He didn’t even know what he expected to happen.

The plan—if he’d ever even had one in the first place—had been to wait. All he wanted to do was see Dick. Jason had eyes everywhere—and none of those eyes had seen Nightwing in weeks.

But someone had spotted him tonight, and Jason’s legs had carried him to Dick’s apartment. Maybe part of Jason wanted to see if Dick still cared. Cared that he was alive, cared that he’d died. Because shit—it didn’t look like anyone else did. But now, standing here, everything in him was screaming at him that this was a terrible mistake.

What the hell am I doing here? Like what the actual fuck am I doing here in his living room.

His fingers twitched toward the gun tucked into his belt. He didn’t come suited up. He didn’t know why—he just didn’t. The Red Hood was bloodthirsty and ruthless and violent. Maybe Jason…maybe Jason didn’t want to be that right now.

It wasn’t the newness that shook him. Something had happened, and Dick was back in Gotham for some reason. That much was made clear by the Midtown apartment Jason was currently standing in.

What really threw him was everything else. The way things had shifted, the way people had moved on.

And he hadn’t been there.

The thing is, Jason was supposed to have been there.

So no, it wasn’t the newness that was wrong—it was how he didn’t see himself in any of it. The ghost of an empty space he hadn’t filled. The way life had kept going like he hadn’t mattered at all. Things had changed and Dick had moved and Jason hadn’t been there.

Jason stood on a rock in the middle of an angry sea. Around him, the water raged, pulling everything relentlessly forward. Time and tide wait for no man, after all. The wind burned his eyes and he could taste the salt on his tongue. But Jason did not move. The waves slammed into him, over and over, foam clinging to his boots. It was cold and lonely and he stood there, stuck—while the world surged past, never once looking back.

Had he been left behind, or forgotten?

Had Dick forgotten him?

But still—Jason wasn’t…ready for all of this. Being this close to the lighthouse that was Dick Grayson. Being this close to…domesticity. There were little signs all over the place. A small blue hoodie slung over the arm of the couch. One of those giant water bottles with stickers all over it sitting beside the fridge. A pair of tiny sneakers tucked neatly under the coat rack.

Dick’s apartment has two bedrooms.

Jason glanced at the second bedroom door for the fifth time in as many minutes. It was shut, a light glowing softly from underneath, like a nightlight or something.

Long-buried emotions stirred in Jason, rising one by one until they crowded his mind, his chest, pressing against the edges of his composure. He swallowed, steadying himself, and pushed them back down.

Jason shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. He froze instinctively. Seconds ticked past.

Nothing.

He exhaled slowly, heart thudding against his ribs. Why was his heart beating so fast? He’d gotten what he’d come for. Dick was alive, obviously. Jason could leave now.

Jason could leave now.

He legs wouldn’t cooperate. Neither would his boots. He was transfixed, body and mind, rooted like a tree in his big brother’s living room.

Jason could leave now.

So why didn’t he?

The window in the kitchen slid up. Jason stiffened, slinking further back into the shadowy corner of the living room. His heart kept beating in his chest like a flighty bird.

Fuck.

Jason stayed frozen. He was cemented where he stood, watching. 

Dick silently climbed through the window and shut it behind him. He peeled off his domino with a sigh, rubbing his eyes, the same way he always did. The glue irritated his skin more than most. Jason knew this.

Jason could see the post-patrol high on his face, in his stance—the kind of tiredness that came from flying across rooftops and saving kittens from trees. The adrenaline crash that followed kicking a would-be mugger’s ass or thwarting a bank robbery. Jason knew that, too.

Dick turned the stove light on. Jason went completely still. Dick was the best vigilante he knew. There was no way he hadn’t seen Jason by now—

Dick’s stomach rumbled and Jason almost laughed. A smile ghosted Dick’s face as he reached for a cupboard. In the dim light, Jason caught a glimpse of several cereal boxes.

Dude, he thought, don’t you have like, real food?

The answer to that question came in the form of macaroni noodles with no water, a completely destroyed microwave, and a very disgruntled neighbor. A smile tugged at Jason’s scarred lips at the memory.

Dick turned back to the sink, sliding off his gloves and flipping on the water. Then—he stilled.

Jason knew, in that second, that Dick had made him. His whole body went cold, muscles tensing, brain kicking into high alert. His heart pounded against his ribs.

Would he…would Dick even recognize him now? Jason was bigger—that much was obvious (this, too, felt wrong—like he’d flown too far and wasn’t sure if he could find his way back to the winds of his older brother). Taller than Dick and broader in the shoulders, too. He’d grown into himself in the League. Honed like a weapon into something sharp and cold. A man now, not a boy. Far from that little bird who donned the traffic colors and dangled his legs over rooftops.

The scars that marked his skin like dried river beds definitely didn’t do him any favors.

Would Dick even see him beneath all of that?

Dick was his older brother—not by blood, but by choice. And that had to mean something. It…it had too. Choice was stronger than blood, wasn’t it? Dick choosing Jason had to be more important than some flimsy crimson liquid. Choice meant wanting each other. 

So Dick couldn’t have forgotten Jason. He wouldn’t. They had been brothers until the end.

Right?

Jason’s tense muscles were starting to make his body ache. But he held completely still, waiting. He braced himself, not even knowing what exactly he was bracing himself for. A fight, maybe. Screaming, yelling, the whole shebang. Maybe even a few punches. Jason really didn’t want to fight his brother—but he was standing ominously in the living room he just broke into. And Dick was a trained vigilante.

And Dick’s apartment had two bedrooms.

A complicated mix of emotions crossed Dick’s face, the foremost of which being defeat. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and took several deep breaths.

Jason was…confused. Fucking totally thrown, if he was being completely honest. What was happening? Dick looked like the weight of his world had just crashed down around him—his chest hitched with each deep breath.

After what felt like a cursed eternity of the two of them just standing there breathing, Dick pulled his hands away. He swallowed hard, casting a look that Jason could only describe as crushed at the second bedroom door. As if he was afraid of waking someone—someone small.

Jason’s stomach twisted and turned with an ugly emotion he didn’t want to name. He could taste the salt—it tasted like the end of Jason’s entire world, yet the sun rose the next morning as if nothing had changed.

Dick looked back at Jason.

“Hi, Jay.”

The blood in Jason’s veins flash froze to ice. He didn’t dare breathe. Dick’s voice was so soft—like he’d just found an old picture in a drawer, fingers brushing gently over the nitrate film.

Dick wasn’t shocked that his long-dead little brother was alive and breathing in his living room. Hell, he wasn’t even surprised. It was something else, something much heavier, something that made Jason’s heart drop right into his twisted up stomach: resignation.

Dick’s wrist twitched and he swallowed hard, looking at Jason as if he was trying not to look at anything else. Jason stared right back, utterly bewildered. Dick clenched his hands at his sides. Jason knew it was to get them to stop shaking (Bruce did the same thing).

“You look older,” he whispered, eyes misting over.

If Jason was in his right mind, he would’ve said well no shit, Dickie.

But nothing about this situation was right—so instead, the only thing his mind could supply was a repeating loop of what in the wild blue fuck, Dick.

“You’ve never looked this old before,” he continued.

All Jason could do was blink at his brother as he unraveled before him. Jason’s brain was too busy short circuiting for him to sort through the emotions crowding his mind and his chest, too busy standing on that stupid rock as the tide beat around him.

Before? What do you mean fucking before , Dick?

“I always…I always wondered what you would’ve looked like if you—“

Jason couldn’t move. His mouth was dry, his tongue nearly strangling him in his throat. The end of the sentence hung between them like the angled blade of a raised guillotine. 

Jason itched to step forward into the light. To grab his brother by the shoulders and scream I’m here! I’m alive! I came back! For you!

But he remained still, body tense, blood frozen. 

Because he had no idea what to do. No idea what it would do to Dick. He felt like he was eavesdropping on his own fucking funeral. 

Jason watched Dick bite his cheek to stop from crying. He watched him fail. Dick let out a shaky sigh, swiping at his cheeks with his sleeve. Jason worried he was going to be sick. He clenched his fists to keep his own hands from shaking.

Dick continued talking as if he’d done this a hundred times—a wretched, practiced routine. Dancing with a ghost.

“Alright, Little Wing,” Dick said hoarsely, opening the cereal cabinet. Jason’s heart seized at the nickname.

He still…he still calls me that? Thinks of me that way?

“What are we feeling today? Lucky Charms? Though I know those were never your favorite—“

They weren’t

“—How about Cap’n Crunch? I got a fresh unopened box of Oops All Berries that’s been calling my name. And if you’re wondering if I’ve got any real food—“

Yes. He had.

“—the answer is duh—but I’m just in the mood for some good ole creature comforts.”

To put it bluntly, Jason was horrified. This was…Jason really didn’t have any words for whatever the fuck this was. Was Dick expecting an answer? Why was he looking at him like Jason was going to give him one? Those long-buried emotions squeezed him tighter, stealing the air from his lungs. Jason had to remind himself to breathe.

A hurt look crossed Dick’s face, and he gave a minute shake of his head. He pulled the fridge open.

“All I’ve got is oat milk,” he said with a laugh that barely passed for one. “You know how Tim’s stomach is.”

The funny thing is, Jason doesn’t know how Tim’s stomach is. Because he doesn’t know who the fuck—

Oh.

Dick’s apartment has two bedrooms.

You see, if Jason didn’t put a pin in that particular line of thinking, he might actually explode. Again. So Jason filed that lovely little tidbit of information away under Deal With That Shit Later and refocused on the conversation his brother was having with the ghost who wasn’t dead anymore.

Bowls clinked as Dick grabbed them from another cupboard.

“Not feeling very talkative today, are we Jay,” he murmured.

Jason’s throat closed up and he nearly choked, swallowing hard and taking several silent, deep breaths. His chest shook with the effort. Little black spots dotted the corners of his vision. Every time Jason thought he’d heard enough, Dick kept talking—saying terrible, horrible, awful things. Things that made Jason’s bones ache with guilt.

Dick poured the cereal in the bowls—two of them, holy shit there were two bowls, one for Dick and one for Jason—like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like Jason wasn’t being strangled where he stood, mere feet from his big brother who was still convinced he was dead.

“There’s a new guy on your turf. He calls himself the Red Hood. And he’s…well, he’s a handful, that’s for sure. Killing crime bosses just to take their place. I wonder what you’d think of him.”

Panic flooded every single one of his senses. Jason needed to get out of there, now.

Jason had done the unforgivable.

Had crossed every line. Had broke every sacred law.

And Dick knew.

Dick turned to pull two spoons out of the silverware drawer. Jason took the opportunity—

And fled.

Chapter Text

The creak of the floorboards woke Tim.

To be honest, Tim wasn’t ever really asleep in the first place. This was the first night Dick had gone on patrol since they’d moved into their (their!!) apartment. Actually, it was the first night Dick had gone on patrol since…

Well. Since he’d tried to jump off a roof.

Tim’s stomach somersaulted just thinking about it. Two nightmares had already scared him awake—one where Dick hit the ground like a bug on a windshield, and another where he turned away and left Tim on the roof. After the second, Tim gave up on sleep altogether. It would be easier if he just waited up until Dick returned from patrol.

Plus…he wanted to make sure.

That Dick came back. To him.

Because sometimes it all felt too good to be true. A dream, too sweet and too fragile—if Tim even so much a breathed wrong, the illusion would shatter, and he’d be left. Alone.

(Tim should probably mention that to Dinah when he goes on Wednesday.)

So he’d laid in bed, eyes fixed on the soft green constellations of the glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across his ceiling. A nightlight cast eerie shadows across his walls. He listened intently, straining his ears for the familiar slide of the kitchen window.

And then, he heard it.

The near-silent thump of a practiced body landing on carpet. Someone was slipping through the living room window.

The wrong window. 

Tim’s heart gave a sudden, violent jolt in his chest, thudding wildly against his ribs. The air seemed to thicken around him. There was another creak—the intruder easing the window closed behind him. Tim stayed frozen beneath his covers, unbreathing. He waited for…something. A thief rummaging through drawers. Or—hopefully—Dick making cereal.

But the apartment was still. The silence stretched long, making Tim’s skin crawl.

Slowly, Tim relaxed by degrees, his limbs loosening and his breath returning to normal. Maybe his brain had conjured it all. Another trick of his anxious mind, his wound-up heart.

And then the floorboards creaked.

Tim’s body locked up again, a breath caught in his chest.

Someone was inside the apartment.

It could be Dick, his mind offered. He probably just came through the other window.

Tim remained still as a corpse. He curled his shaky fingers into his red blanket, the soft knit pattern only comforting him slightly. By the sound of it, the intruder hadn’t moved—there were no more creaks, no quiet shufflings or the opening and closing of drawers. Maybe Tim’s tired brain was imagining things—

Unless the intruder was trained to be very, very quiet.

A cold sweat gathered on Tim’s brow—his limbed itched to move, but he remained perfectly still. He couldn’t give away that he was awake. That would be bad.

Then, Tim heard another window slide open—the kitchen window. Dick.

Tim wanted to bolt out of bed and sprint down the hall, grabbing Dick and warning him that someone else was there. That something was wrong. And God—more than anything—Tim really just wanted a hug right now. The noises, the nightmares—they had eroded his psyche and worn him raw. He was tired and twitchy and wanted to get the hell out of his dark room.

But maybe…maybe there wasn’t anyone else there. If Tim ran out of his room like a bat out of hell, Dick would worry. And this was Dick’s first night back on patrol—he’d been so excited. Tim couldn’t ruin that. Couldn’t let his own fear—loud and irrational as it was—jeopardize what he had here with Dick. So Tim stayed, sweat cooling on his back, clutching his red blanket, ears still straining to catch every sound, every shadow a sharp threat.

A faint light appeared beneath his bedroom door.

Dick must’ve turned on the stove light.

That assuaged his fears a little. Dick was a good vigilante; if someone was there, Dick would’ve seen them. Or sensed them or whatever.

Tim heard the sink turn on, then off. And then it got really, really quiet.

Just when Tim thought Dick had left the kitchen entirely, he spoke—so softly, Tim almost didn’t hear it:

“Hi, Jay.”

Tim bolted upright.

Huh?

All the air in the apartment vanished. Everything was still, like a cemetery.

Still, like a funeral.

There was more talking, but it was too muffled for him to hear. Tim’s heart broke in his chest, splintering and cracking like thick ice. 

Dick was really getting better, too.

He knew that Dick didn’t only see him when he looked at Tim. There was always another boy—one with curls and teal eyes and a heart of solid gold. Tim stood in the echo of someone else’s name. A buried boy. A dead one. 

Tim had always wanted a brother. Now, he had two: Guilt, and a Ghost.

(Sometimes, Tim wondered if Dick ever wished it was Jason, not Tim, coming around the corner when he called. But Tim couldn’t think about that for too long. It hurt.)

Tim heard the clink of bowls and the plink of cereal being poured. He let out a small, shaky breath—if Dick was making cereal, then maybe the intruder wasn’t a threat. Maybe, there wasn’t even an intruder at all. And obviously, Dick was talking to…

Dick was still hurting. Would probably be hurting for a long, long time. Tim didn’t want that for him. Not for his big brother.

He swallowed hard, the shadows of the room feeling suddenly heavier, pressing in on all sides. As silently as he could, he slipped out from under his covers and padded across the floor and pressed his ear to the door.

“He calls himself the Red Hood,” came Dick’s muffled voice. It had an old, deep sadness to it. “And he’s…well, he’s a handful, that’s for sure. Killing crime bosses just to take their place. I wonder what you’d think of him.”

Right. The Red Hood.

Tim had been doing some research of his own on Gotham’s newest player. He was helping people—in his own twisted, ruthless way. He had scourged Crime Alley’s underbelly and instated himself as its infernal protector. He would never tell Dick, but Tim was really close to figuring out—

SMASH

Tim flinched so hard he nearly whacked his head against the door. His breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat, exhales stuttering. His heart thundered in his ears—loud enough that he was shocked Dick couldn’t hear it through the walls.

There was someone else in the apartment—

Tim’s body moved before his brain fully caught up. He yanked open his door, bare feet thudding on the hardwood as he raced out to the kitchen. Hot adrenaline coursed through his veins, though it was cold at the edges.

“Dick?!” Tim’s voice cracked as he skidded into the room, panic thick in his throat. “Dick! Are you okay? Is there—"

Dick whirled at the sound, chest heaving, hands shaking. Not with fear—but rage.

For one terrible second, he just stared. His eyes darted across Tim’s face as if he was searching for something his heart knew he wouldn’t find. His wrist twitched—Tim knew he wanted to check the time, but his watch wasn’t there anymore.

He thinks I’m Jason, Tim thought as he stared back, unable to move despite his heart still hammering away in his chest. He doesn’t think I’m real.

The sounds of Dick’s ragged breathing filled the apartment. He balled up his fists, but they still shook.

Not dropped, Tim realized, eyes sliding down to the massacred cereal before him. Thrown. Smashed. 

Dick was angry.

Well, duh. Dick had been getting better. They’d been going to therapy and Dick even took time off from patrol to heal (he’d actually had no choice in that matter—the injuries his body had sustained the night of the blackout decided for him). Hell, he and Bruce were actually speaking again—as stilted and awkward and full of heavy yet unsaid grief as it may be.

And then tonight, he’d seen Jason again. 

And here came Tim, running around the corner—

Something cold plopped into Tim’s stomach. It spread up to his chest, his fingers, and down through his toes. It made his skin pickle and his eyes water. He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to squirm under Dick’s gaze—eyes desperately searching for a boy six feet in the ground. 

Something in Dick’s expression broke.

Actually—everything broke. Dick’s whole face just seemed to cave in on itself. His wide, red-rimmed eyes glistened with unshed tears, his jaw shut tight to hide some awful, swelling emotion. He looked utterly defeated—crushed in soul and mind.

“Tim?”

His voice was so raw it scraped over Tim’s ears. He sounded hollow—gutted out like something inside him had just gave way. He looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with patrol. His shoulders sagged. Tim wondered if it was because of all the grief he carried. Of all the things he refused to set down, to let go, because that would mean letting them go.

And Dick Grayson didn’t let people go.

There were shards of ceramic all over the floor between them, milk seeping into the grout and colorful berries scattered across the tile like marbles. Tim stepped forward, carefully maneuvered around the debris. The tile was cold on his bare feet. He reached out a small hand, brushing Dick’s wrist with a tentative, soft touch. Dick’s pulse beat hard against Tim’s thumb.

“You’re awake,” Tim whispered, so quietly he barely even heard himself. “This is real, Dick.”

They’d done this before.

(It was nice out—the sun filtering through the trees that lined the sidewalk, the sweet scent of toasted pistachios and orange blossom syrup drifting from the Arabic food truck they’d just passed.

After a few days of bedrest and a week of going stir crazy, Alfred had finally allowed Dick out of the house—on the condition that Tim went with him.

Tim had wanted to melt into the floor. But then Dick had turned to him with his thousand-watt grin and said, “Good thing I already bought two movie tickets!” And, well—Tim couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips.

So here they were, side by side, walking past storefronts on their way to the theater.

The day was pleasant. The sidewalk was crowded. Dick reached down and took Tim’s hand. Tim startled, glancing up.

“Can’t have you running off on me, now can I?” Dick said, nodding toward his arm sling. He was smiling, but there was something else behind his eyes.

Fear.

Tim didn’t know exactly what Dick was afraid of, but he let the older boy hold his hand anyways. Besides, it filled up that bowl inside him—the one that often stayed painfully empty.

They kept walking

At first, Tim didn’t notice. But with every shop window they passed, Dick tensed—his hand gently squeezing Tim’s, as if to stop it from shaking. His eyes flicked to the glass—then forward again. He nearly stepped into traffic before Tim yanked him back by their joined hands.

“Woah,” Dick breathed. “Sorry, Timmy. I guess I wasn’t really…”

Dick swallowed hard, chest hitching on a deep breath that caught halfway. They turned down a side street and kept walking. Not once did Dick let go of Tim’s hand.

He glanced at another shop window. A taxi cab passed them by.

Dick froze.

His hand twitched in Tim’s. His chest hitched—panic radiating off him in sharp, invisible waves.

“Dick?”

The older boy didn’t answer—just continued staring at the shop window, eyes wide, breaths spiraling. He looked down at Tim. The panic in his expression was unmistakable—raw and unfiltered, as if it had him by the throat. He looked back up at the glass

And Tim understood.

“Dick,” he said softly, squeezing Dick’s shaking hand. “This is real. You’re awake, okay? We’re going to the movies.”

But Dick wasn’t quite with him. Tim pressed his thumb into the inside of Dick’s wrist, feeling his wild pulse, trying to ground him in the here and now.

“We were just at the Manor,” Tim continued. “Alfred dropped us off a couple of blocks from the theater so we could walk. He said it would be good for you.”

Dick swallowed hard, blinking. Some of the tension leaked from his frame. His breathing slowed.

He was back. Kind of.

“This is real,” he whispered. “I am…”

“Awake,” Tim finished for him.)

Dick blinked down at him. Then he took a shaky breath, closing his eyes and scrubbing his face with already tear-soaked hands. When he pulled them away, there was that same deep, old sadness in his blue eyes, his frame.

Tim knew why. Dick had been getting better.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

Tim gave a small shake of his head. “You didn’t. I—" He swallowed. “I…waited. Up. For you.” His voice was small, his eyes focused on his feet. The white tile looked light brown in the dim glow of the stove light.

Dick didn’t say anything right away. He just breathed, slow and shaky.

Tim wondered what he was thinking.

“Okay,” Dick whispered at last. Tim could tell he wanted to say more, but he didn’t.

Without a word, Tim stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Dick’s waist. He was still in the Nightwing suit—it smelled like kevlar and smoke. Dick’s arms came around him a moment after that, hesitant, then tight. They were warm and a little shaky, but Tim didn’t care. He pressed his face into Dick’s sternum—his heartbeat was uneven. But it was there.

Dick was here. He came back.

They stood like that for a long time, breathing in sync, the apartment silent save for the hum of the AC and the occasional sound of tires on pavement as a car drove down the street below. A few tears landed in Tim’s hair.

“…you okay?” Tim whispered.

Dick let out a long, slow breath before answering.

“I…don’t know.”

It wasn’t a lie. But Tim knew it wasn’t the whole truth, either.

Gradually, the tension leaked out of Dick’s body. Tim’s eyelids grew heavy.

“C’mon,” Dick said softly, nudging him toward the living room. “How do we feel about some reruns? You grab a blanket, and I’ll go change.”

He glanced at the angry mess of cereal and ceramic on the floor behind them.

“I’ll clean this up later.”

Five minutes later they were curled up on the couch together, the warm weight of a fluffy brown blanket cocooning them both. Tim was tucked against Dick’s side, holding the red blanket to his chest and knotting it around his fingers.

Dick flicked on the TV with the remote, flipping absently through channels until he landed on Cartoon Network reruns of Dexter’s Laboratory. 

Neither of them really watched. Tim listened to the even rhythm of Dick’s breathing, and the reassuring thump of a heartbeat beneath his ear.

After a while, Tim lifted his head.

“Dick?”

“Hm?”

“Can you…can you leave the stove light on? When you go out?”

Dick looked down at him, something unreadable in his expression.

“Yeah Timmy. I can do that.”

“Okay,” Tim said softly, settling back down. Dick wrapped an arm around him like he might disappear.

Tim knew how deeply Dick loved Jason. Grief, for Dick, was the last and final translation of that love. It will never end—that grief will keep reaching back for what is not there. It’s a circular staircase, each step looping Dick back to where he began every time he remembered the name he couldn't call. Every time he remembered the hand he couldn't hold, the hair he couldn't ruffle.

And Dick will translate this last act of love—walk the looping, sorrowful steps of that circular staircase—for the rest of his life.

The roar of Jason’s bike paled in comparison to the cacophony inside his head.

“You look older.”

“You’ve never looked this old before.”

He sped down back alleys and side streets toward Crime Alley, the wind biting at his exposed skin. A part of him wished he was wearing his suit—he wanted to hide. To take shelter in the persona of the helmet.

“Killing crime bosses just to their place.”

Which, okay, fair—Jason had been trying to get Batman’s attention.

And those slimeballs needed to be…dealt with. So Jason dealt with them. Loudly and violently, yes—but also permanently. There would be no Arkham breakout second-chance. Afterwards, Jason simply stepped into the power vacuum they’d left behind. But he never planned on Dick being in Gotham. Especially after some of the fights he’d had with Bruce…

But now his brother was here. In Gotham. Living in an apartment with two bedrooms.

Jason’s thoughts twisted inwards, buzzing and sharp, his mind loud and revving like a chainsaw. All he’d wanted was to see him. To make sure he was still breathing. Because his scouts hadn’t seen Nightwing in weeks—in Blüd or Gotham—and neither had the media, much to its lewd disappointment. And if Dick had been—

Jason narrowly avoided a semi crossing the intersection of the red light he was running. He swerved hard, tires skidding on asphalt. The smell of burning rubber filled his nose as he righted himself. He gripped the handle bars so tightly his hands ached, trying to swallow down his heart pounding in his throat. 

But Dick wasn’t. He was alive. 

And something was really, really wrong with him. Dick may be alive, but something in him was dead. Goldie had cracked.

Jason wondered who had broken his brother.

The city around him blurred, metal and glass giving way to crumbling brick as downtown slipped into the Narrows. The residual horror from his encounter with Dick still sat heavy and uncomfortable in his chest.

Jason—selfishly—had went searching for answers. His body had carried him to his brother’s apartment in the haze of an almost desperate hope. He wanted proof—proof that he mattered, proof that Dick, in some menial way, had cared. Maybe even that he still cared. Jason needed to know if his big brother had mourned him. If, in life, Jason had meant anything to the person who’d once been his whole fucking world.

And what he’d gotten was worse. Jason had found his big brother, alright—whatever was fucking left of him.

He’d watched Dick accept defeat. Tears in his eyes, Dick had resigned himself to failure and welcomed it like an old friend. He’d watched the hollow disappointment physically settle around Dick’s shoulders like an iron chain.

It made Jason sick.

The glance at the second bedroom door—like there was someone there he couldn’t risk waking. Someone Dick couldn’t let see him like this, as if he wasn’t the only person he’d disappointed by seeing the ghost of his little brother in his living room.

(Was there a kid in that second bedroom? Was Jason an uncle? That feeling—of standing unmoving on a rock as the world barreled on without him—hit him full force in the chest.

Jason had a nephew.)

Jason stashed his bike in an alley, body carrying him almost instinctively to the roof. The walls of his apartment were too small for the roiling storm inside him. If he stepped inside, they’ll collapse, and so will he.

His boots scraped against rusty metal as he climbed to the top of his building. It was near-dawn—bits of pink poking through the fading midnight sky as the sun rose. He vaulted over the ledge, startling a group of pigeons. They cooed at him, annoyed, feathers flapping as they took off to find another (less occupied) perch.

The early morning was warm, but not comforting. It nearly suffocated Jason as he paced the rooftop, shoes crunching on gravel. The awakening city hummed around him—sirens, distant engines, people in their homes shuffling about as the day began.

It all nipped at his senses, sparking his fried brain and agitating his frayed nerves. 

He didn’t know what he’d expected. 

But it was not that.

Not the soft, sad recognition—like seeing Jason standing there was normal. Expected, almost. Habit, routine, and a bunch of other awful things that made Jason’s chest feel like it was filled with cement. No whispered “Jay?” with an reverent outstretched hand and a caught breath. Just painful resignation, like Jason being not being real was just the way things were.

Jason would’ve even been okay with a fight—fury, rage, something. A few punches, maybe a kick and an over-the-top Nightwing flip. Did Jason want to fight his brother? Fuck no. But it beat whatever self-flagellation bullshit he’d witnessed in the apartment.

Jason paused his pacing, lungs squeezing in his too-tight chest. His fists were clenched so hard his fingernails dug little half-moons in his palms. He took a shaky breath, leaning his back up against the ratty AC unit before his body decided to drop him.

How many times?

The question was heavy. Jason didn’t know if he wanted the answer. He couldn’t even fathom what the answer looked like. What it implied.

How many times did he see me?

The realization hit Jason like a crowbar to the ribs: Dick hadn’t been shocked or horrified or ready to punch Jason in the face because he was used to it. Used to seeing Jason, used to hearing and talking to him, used to needing him enough that his brain simply filled in the gaps. Dick hadn’t even flinched. There was no surprise, because Jason standing in Dick’s living room wasn’t surprising. It was only disappointing, because it meant—

Well, it meant that Dick had done more than simply mourn—he’d died alongside Jason, grieving him a thousand times over, and then learned to live with seeing him anyway. It meant that Dick hadn’t let him go, either.

Jason had only died once. He often relived it in his dreams. He wondered how many times Dick relived it—how many times he saw Jason just for him to be taken away again by the cold, unforgiving truth of reality. 

Trying to process this revelation felt like trying to untangle a ball of yarn with numb fingers—he couldn’t find either end and his body was—frustratingly—not cooperating.

Below him, the city continued to wake. Mourning doves cooed somewhere off in the distance. His phone buzzed in his pocket—he ignored it. Jason shuddered, suddenly cold. He scrubbed his scarred his face with an equally scarred hand, heaving a sigh. He slid down the unit, unsteady legs threatening to give out. Everything wasn’t supposed to be this damn complicated. 

When Jason came back to Gotham, the truth had seemed so simple: he’d died and the world had moved on. The Joker still lived and walked free. His killer—the man who took him away from his father (a father that stood for justice, for vengeance)—went unpunished. Jason wasn’t a fool, and it wasn’t hard to connect the dots on what that meant.

Jason scrunched his hands in the gravel, the rocks biting into his palms. 

And this—this is what made Jason angry. Bruce—blindly, stupidly—ignoring the graveyards the Joker has filled. The thousands who have suffered, the friends he’s crippled. Jason…Jason thought that he would be the last person Bruce would ever let him hurt. Because it’s not Penguin or Scarecrow or Dent. It was him. 

Because he took Jason away from his dad.

At least he hadn’t been replaced—at least Bruce had the wherewithal to not put another child in the tattered remains of his suit and send him off to die. But it also…hurt. Why did it have to be him? Why was he the one that had to die?

Sudden, stubborn, stupid tears prickled at his eyes. A tightness settled in his chest alongside the heaviness—Jason tried to breath through it, but the invisible bands only tightened. And there was also…something else. Something thick and dense and pulling:

Grief.

Not for himself, but for what it had done to Dick. His brother. For what it had carved out of him, for the way it had destroyed him.

And the part that hurt the most? The part with claws and venom, the part that tangled itself up in his heart and squeezed—was that Jason remembered. He remembered what it felt like to be loved. To love, and be loved in return. To feel the sun from both sides. Loved, as Jay—the little brother. Pain in the ass idiot kid who stole Dick’s hoodies and wanted his father and brother to make up so they could all live together as a family.

So yes, the part that hurt the most was that Jason remembered where the love used to be.

But the worst part was that he also remembered why the love wasn’t there anymore.

Jason closed his eyes and raked a hand through his hair. He tipped his head back toward the lightening sky. 

It was never supposed to be this damn complicated.

Take over Crime Alley. Protect his people. Make Bruce pay. That was the plan. Nowhere in that plan was Dick.

(But really—could Jason ever stay away from his big brother?

His favorite person in the entire world? The only person who’d ever really seen him, fully? The only person who’d ever really loved him, unconditionally?)

Jason sat for a while, hollowed out, exhausted from trying to process all the shit going on in his crazy fucked up (second?) life. His head hurt. The sun peaked over the buildings. Absently, his thoughts wandered to the last time he ever spoke to his big brother.

(Oh my God. 

He’d found her.

Sheila Haywood. His birth mother. He’d found her.

He had to tell Dick. She was in Ethiopia—if they snagged the Batplane, they could be on their way tonight. Maybe even get there tomorrow morning.

He could have a mom tomorrow.

Jason shut his computer, racing downstairs and into Bruce’s study. He could hear the yelling the second he opened the grandfather clock.

“Need me here? You haven’t wanted me here in years!”

Jason paused at the top of the stairs. Dick sounded angry—really angry. He could feel the heat of the argument from where he stood.

“You made your choice, Bruce. You threw me out. And now what? You want me back on a leash? Because you’re scared? Because you don’t think I can do it?”

Jason swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat. This fight was not new. Jason had heard it, had felt the simmering aftermath as he crept through the house on eggshells, trying not upset either of them further (though, the fights often ended with Dick slamming the door on his way out).

 It was quiet, but the silence wasn’t empty. It was cold and tense and hollow. It made Jason’s skin crawl, and he shivered.

“I’m going,” Dick said at last. “Whether you like it or not. I’m not your little soldier anymore. I’m not your kid sidekick.”

Jason rolled his eyes despite the fact that neither of them could see him. Low blow, Dick.

“If you walk out of this cave, don’t expect me to come running when it goes wrong.”

What? Jason thought, panic spiking. Bruce, you can’t mean that—

“I never did,” Dick said flatly.

It was suddenly harder to breathe. Jason swallowed again, trying to dispel the tightness that crawled from his chest to his throat.

What?

It got quiet again, and Jason could hear the gentle hum of the Zeta tube warming up. If he didn’t go now, Dick would leave.

Leave him .

He raced down the stairs, steps light. Bruce wasn’t in the Cave anymore—he probably disappeared down one of the alcoves to brood.

Jason opened his mouth to call out to Dick, but stopped short.

Would Dick even…want to talk to him? Jason was about to ask Dick the very same thing that Bruce had.

To stay.

Would he…?

Before he could decide, Dick turned, smoldering eyes landing on Jason. Jason could see the embers of his anger still lit in his chest.

“Hey, um,” he said, voice cautious. “I know you’re mad but I just…” he trailed off, unsure of how to continue. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and tried again.

“I heard you’re leaving?”

Dick huffed a sigh through his nose. “Yes, Jason. I’m leaving.”

So yeah, Dick was still angry. Jason could hear it in the sharp edges of his voice.

Jason blinked, jaw working as he tried to figure out what to say. He looked away, swallowing hard.

“I mean, I don’t care or anything, just—did Bruce say you were actually going to Tamaran?”

Jason was dancing around the question because he was nervous to ask it. Because he’d never seen Dick this angry before—never had this much of his older brother’s ire primed and ready to fire at him.

Jason squirmed, Dick’s back still to him.

“Yes, Jason,” he said, clearly annoyed.

Jason shifted his weight from foot to foot again.

He could ask. He had to ask.

Jason cleared his throat.

“Do you really…have to go?” he asked softly, trying not to reignite the fight from earlier.

“I kinda…”

Jason really needed his big brother.

“…need you here right now.”

Dick turned slightly at that, voice tight and brittle. “Now’s not the time.”

The words spilled out of Jason before he could think them through.

“There’s—there’s something I found. And I might need…your help. I think my mom—“

“Not now, Jay,” Dick snapped, turning back to the Zeta tube. Jason’s jaw clicked shut. “God—can’t you just leave me alone Just this once?”

Jason almost stumbled backwards. He swallowed hard, quickly schooling his features.

“Fine. Great,” he muttered, trying to mask his hurt with defensiveness. His shoulders rose like a shield. “Go run off to space. Whatever.”

This was, in hindsight, not what Jason should have said.

“Jesus, Jason,” Dick said, whirling on him, eyes blazing. “Not everything is about you. I’m not abandoning you. I just need some goddamn space.”

Dick’s fury lashed out and burned him. Jason’s breathing hitched, stupid tears welling in his stupid eyes. He could almost feel the hurt in his stomach.

After a tense second, Dick heaved another sigh. “Look, Jay—“

“It’s fine,” Jason cut in, eyes sharp. His throat bobbed with the effort of keeping it together. “It’s fine, Dick. Doesn’t matter anyways.”

Again, in hindsight, Jason should not have said this, either. But his big brother had never spoke to him like that before. And he simply reverted back to what a life on the streets had taught him: get defensive so it doesn’t hurt as bad.

Dick threw up his hands. Jason almost flinched.

“Then get out, Jason! Go away! This goddamn family and fucking control issues. I’m done.”

Without looking back, Dick stepped into the Zeta tube.

A tear slipped down Jason’s cheek.

Fine.

He’ll go by himself.)

Jason’s phone buzzed again, breaking him from this thoughts. He swiped at his eyes and fished it out of his pocket.

~Missed call from Henry~

Henry

5:07 am: Yo boss you didn’t go out tonight?

~Missed call from Henry~

Jason blew out a breath. He probably should’ve told his top lieutenant about his little…detour.

5:22 am: Personal matter. Will be back tonight.

Henry responded almost immediately.

Henry

5:22 am: Personal matter my ass. Don’t come in today.

Jason rubbed his gritty eyes. He definitely needed to eat, and sleeping off the emotional fallout of the night wasn’t far behind. He typed out his reply

5:24 am: I’ll see you at base.

Henry’s exasperation was palpable through the screen.

Henry

5:24 am: Whatever you say boss.

Jason stayed on the roof, watching the sunrise, until his back ached from leaning up against the AC unit. Only then did he haul himself up and make his way back down the rickety stairs of the fire escape into his apartment—chest still heavy, nerves still frayed.

His big brother was not okay.

Her kidneys were failing, and he couldn’t give her one. They weren’t compatible, you see. The irony was so cruel it was almost poetic. He would do anything for her. But the one thing she needed—the one thing that could save her—he couldn’t give.

'Til death do us part—though they hadn’t even made that vow yet. They were supposed to, though. Next spring. The ring—too big now for her thinning fingers—glinted in the dim light of the hospital room.

It was nearly two in the morning. He needed to leave. He had work in a few hours. So he rose from his seat, kissed her on the forehead, and promised that he’d be back tomorrow.

Streetlights flickered and buzzed as he passed beneath them. The night was warm, but it offered little comfort. She’d been on the transplant list for three and a half years. She wouldn’t make it to spring.

He didn’t see the Bat until he was already standing in front of him.

He was taller in person. The cape swallowed all light—the Bat stood like a tear in the universe itself. There were no eyes—just twin white slits that pierced his very soul. The Bat spoke.

“You can’t help her.”

The Bat was right.

“But I can.”

There was no where to run, and it’d be futile to try. So the man just stood, heart pounding, awaiting his judgement.

“I know who you work for.”

The man staggered back a half step, eyes darting down the alley to his right.

“You tell me what he does. You report every move to me.” The gravelly voice echoed off the brick walls of the empty street.

“I—I can’t,” the man stammered. “If he finds out—"

“He won’t.”

The Bat said it with such surety the man almost believed him. But even if he didn’t, there wasn’t anything he could do, anyways—he stood at the crossroad of loyalty and desperation, and his options were rock and hard place.

“I’ll pay you three times what he does.”

The man swallowed, nodding.

“And I’ll see what I can do about Sophie’s place on the transplant list.”

He knew her name. Of course he did. There was truly no running now—and no way out but through.

The Bat didn’t wait for an answer, because he already had one. He vanished between blinks.

Chapter Text

Jason hadn’t slept much.

In all reality, Jason hadn’t done much of anything at all.

He lay on his back on his worn leather couch, one arm flung over his eyes. It was the third nap he’d attempted—and just like the last three, it proved unsuccessful. His mind hadn’t stopped spinning like an out of control top since he’d stepped into Dick’s apartment. Jason’s whole world—everything he knew, every terrible truth he’d come home to find—had been flipped inside out.

And his stupid brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

The crushed look in Dick’s eyes, the second bedroom door. The resignation. The way Dick just…caved in on himself. The way self hatred rolled off him in frigid waves.

Jason sat up with a frustrated grunt, shoving his restless hands through his hair until it stood on end. His stretched his stiff joints, pushing himself to his feet. He started pacing. Again.

He tried to distract himself from…well, himself. He moved to a stool at the kitchen counter, opening his laptop with a huffed sigh. A report from Henry waited for him in his inbox—he got maybe three lines in before his eyes completely glazed over. He threw his laptop shut with another irritated grunt.

Jason stood and continued pacing. He sat back down. There were ants crawling beneath his skin. He stood again, and paced some more. It was dusk now, the sun barely a sinking sliver on the horizon. Pinks faded into deep blues outside his window.

It wasn’t dark enough to grapple.

Jason was halfway out there door before he even realized he’d moved. He slung his jacket over his shoulder, keys jingling as he pulled them from the hook.

The helmet sat on the kitchen counter like a taunting severed head.

“I’m just checking in,” he told it. “I just want to…”

Jason had no idea where he was going with that.

The helmet continued to sit, untouched, the white slits of the eyes dark.

Jason turned away and headed out the door.

Jason stood outside of Dick’s apartment for a long time.

Dusk gave way to night proper, the sky inky, dark, and starless. Though it was warm, Jason kept his hands shoved in his pockets, his heart hammering a little too fast for his liking. The ride over had been a blur—one moment, he was talking to his helmet. The next, he was here.

I’m just checking in.

He stared up at the windows. Most of them were dark.

Dick could…Dick could be on patrol?

Jason’s phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket.

Henry

10:11 pm: Ben just updated me. Nightwing hasn’t been spotted.

Jason pressed his lips together.

Well wasn’t that just fucking hilarious.

He thought about turning around. 

The fire escape was old. Jason scaled it slowly, careful not to make a sound as he climbed the rusty iron steps. He was getting really tired of his body acting without his permission—getting even more tired of not knowing what to expect.

An empty apartment? The kid from the second bedroom? Dick, with a bottle, passed out on the couch?

Jason reached the sixth floor and paused. Maybe Dick—

His heart skipped a beat.

The window was open.

The stove light was on. The curtains rustled in the wind.

The window was open.

Jason’s stomach turned over, lungs tightening in his chest. His feet moved on instinct, climbing the next set of stairs with mounting urgency. It made no fucking sense, but that didn’t stop the cold press of panic from coiling in his gut.

Dick wasn’t out on patrol, yet the stove light was on. Which meant he wasn’t there. And the window was open. Which meant—

Dick, Jason thought, the coil of panic in his gut reaching up toward his throat, I swear to God, if you—

He reached the edge of the roof and pulled himself up.

Dick sat a few feet away, back to the ledge, unseeing eyes staring ahead. His hands were limp at his sides. The moonlight caught the curve of his jaw. His face was blank, but Jason knew his brother—there was a storm inside him, surging and retreating and nearly drowning him.

Jason froze, breath catching in his lungs. Dick could see him—Dick could definitely see him.

But his brother kept his eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance, head slightly tilted up to the smoggy sky. Jason could see tear tracks down his cheeks in in the pale lights of the distant city.

Something sharp poked at Jason’s heart. Holy hell, Dick looked exhausted. Mind tired, heart tired, soul tired. Like he was trapped in a losing battle—with no choice but to fight and be defeated, over and over again.

And Jason knew Dick. He would fight until it killed him.

Jason realized that, though Dick was sitting, his body was tense. He closed his eyes with a slow blink. His wrist twitched.

“Not again,” he whispered.

Jason blinked. This time, he found his voice.

“Dick. What the fuck.”

Had Jason wanted to say that? Not particularly. But it was all he could grit out at the moment, given the circumstances.

Dick took a slow breath. A siren sounded in the distance. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, and pained.

“Jason. Little Wing—not tonight. I just…please. I can’t do this again.”

Jason felt like he’d been punched in the throat. And the gut. Repeatedly, with a steel toed boot. Or a crowbar. Suddenly everything ached and was wrong and all he wanted to do was run back to his apartment.

He wondered how many times Dick relived it—how many times he saw Jason just for him to be taken away again by the cold, unforgiving truth of reality.

Jason had only died once. And Dick…Dick had died with him. And woke again the next morning.

“I love you Jay,” he said, voice raw. “I always have, and I always will. Time and grave are nothing. I just…I have Tim now. And he needs me. And I can’t—“ he hiccuped and swallowed hard. More tears rolled down his cheeks. He didn’t look at Jason, his head still angled slightly up toward the sky. Almost as if he was begging.

“I can’t,” he whispered, “I can’t, Jay.”

Jason’s voice failed him again. He didn’t know where his heart was, and his lungs had decided to shrivel in his chest. His insides had been pulled out and shoved back in with hasty hands, and Jason was expected to sort through it all.

All he could do was stand in the face of so much grief.

Jason took a deep breath. He reached deep and pulled himself to-fucking-gether.

“Dick,” he said, voice rough. He cleared his throat, taking a shaky, tentative step forward. The gravel crunched softly beneath his boot. “Dick. I’m—"

I’m real?

I’m alive?

“I’m here,” he settled on. “I…came back.”

All Dick did was shake his head, slowly, defeated. He closed his eyes.

It made Jason want to scream. It made Jason want to grab his brother and shake him. He desperately wished he knew what Dick was thinking.

“You know why I can’t believe you,” Dick said, his voice barely above a cracked whisper. “You always s—"

He hiccuped another suppressed sob.

Jason always hated how he did that—how he took everything that hurt him and shoved it in boxes. How he tucked away all his pain and grief in little jars and let them rot on shelves in his mind until they nearly consumed him. How he would never even let himself cry.

“You always say that.”

The silence was nearly suffocating. Jason felt hollowed out. He had no words, there were no thoughts. The city buzzed in the distance. A warm wind tugged at their clothes, lifting the ends of Jason’s jacket and ruffling Dick’s hair.

Jason’s body wanted to pull him away, but his heart and mind anchored him to the rooftop. He couldn’t leave. He wouldn’t. 

The anger—the one that rose and boiled hot whenever he thought about his father—reared it’s ugly head. Because where the fuck was Bruce? Did he not see this? Did he not fucking know? There was absolutely no way Bruce didn’t fucking know—

Everything clicked into place so quickly Jason nearly staggered back. 

Nightwing hadn’t been seen in weeks.

Dick lived in Gotham now.

He could almost hear the puzzle pieces snap together. They sounded like breaking bones.

Something happened. Something terrible and awful and horrible happened.

To Dick.

Something happened to his brother.

Dick’s eyes were open again, tearful and empty, cast toward the sky.

Jason still stood, unmoving, just a few feet away. A cold sweat trickled down his back despite the warm night. He clenched and unclenched his fists, horribly unsure what to do

Time and grave mean nothing. That’s what Dick had said.

Time and grave mean nothing. But what about bodies? What about blood? What about choice? Jason had chosen—had he not? To stay away. To kill those people. Maybe not in the League, but still—his hands were dripping red. A crimson baptism, sealing his fate by the work of his own stained decisions. If his brother knew what Jason had done—would he be able to look at him?

A small, awful, merciless voice whispered he can’t even look at you now.

Suddenly, Jason felt like he was twelve again—the weight of years peeling away to reveal a scared kid.

(He was coming.

He was angry and he wasn’t coming for Jason.

He was coming for her .

“No—NO!” The garbled noise was choked out of him. The world warped and twisted and collapsed like it wanted to drown him. Terror had him by the throat, the chest, bound around him like thick ropes.

There was raised a fist. Or a belt or a bottle or—

“Please don’t—please don’t hurt her—"

There was a voice, distant and muffled, like it belonged to someone else. Someone far, far away.

More footsteps. He was coming. He was coming closer and he was angry and—

“Jay.”

No. It wasn’t a bottle, it wasn’t a fist. Oh God it was a—

“Jay, can you hear me?”

He can’t—

“It’s just a dream.”

Jason rocketed upright, body still panicked. The room, dark and unfamiliar, blurred around him. His chest heaved and he couldn’t slow it down. His eyes burned and his whole body shook like it was coming apart and he was coming—

Dick. Dick was here.

Tears wet his cheeks, every shadow jumping out to get him. His heart beat in his chest like a trapped bird.

“You’re okay, Jay,” Dick said softly. “You’re okay. It was just a dream.”

More than anything, Jason wanted to believe him. But everything hurt and the dream was still trying to drown him. Suddenly his breath caught and a sob broke free from his shuddering chest and then—he couldn’t stop crying.

Jason hated it. Jason hated it so much.

He waited for Dick to pull away, to get uncomfortable and leave. He waited for Dick to ask questions. Hard ones, painful ones, one Jason didn’t want to answer.

But instead, the springs squeaked and the couch shifted as Dick climbed onto the pullout. His arms wrapped around Jason, strong and steady—like a shield. Dick pulled him close until Jason’s face was pressed into his chest, his heartbeat a slow, steady drum. 

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Jason curled into his big brother without even meaning to. His fingers clutched Dick’s shirt, lest the ropes of terror drag him back. He hoped Dick didn’t mind the tears wetting the fabric.

“I’m here, Jay. It was just a dream.”

Jason’s chest shuddered.

“H-he was c-coming and I—"

His voice cracked.

“I—"

He couldn’t finish—the tide of terror rose again. Jason didn’t want to relive it.

Dick shushed him gently, almost as if he knew.

“My mom gave me the name ‘Robin,’” Dick said, smoothing Jason’s hair away from his clammy forehead, still resting over Dick’s heartbeat. “‘Don’t you ever stop moving, mro chavo?’ my dado would ask…”

Jason let the words wash over him, the story weaving around him like a blanket. He anchored himself in the rumble beneath his ear. And slowly, the panic began to fade. His chest stopped stuttering, his breaths evening out. His heartbeat matched the steady thump of his brother’s.

Jason sniffled and said the first thing that came to his mind.

“Did you know that pigeons were the first domesticated birds?”

Dick chuckled quietly. “No, Jaybird. I didn’t know that.”

Jason hummed, eyes growing heavy.

“5,000 years ago,” he mumbled. “In Mesopotamia and Egypt.”

Dick held him tighter, almost like he was tucking him away in his arms. Like he was protecting him from something, some foe that only Dick could see.

“You’re very smart, Jaybin.”

Jason didn’t answer. Sleep tugged at him again, gently, and he let himself be pulled.

He was in the arms of his big brother. Nothing could get him here.)

Now, Jason was standing on a rooftop, watching that brother unravel. He shifted closer, the gravel crunching under his boots. A warm, gentle wind blew again, bringing with it the token smell of Gotham smog and cigarette smoke. Jason cleared his throat, trying to sound steady.

“You left the stove light on,” he said, hoping to snag Dick’s attention and pull him back from wherever his mind had gone. It was also the only think he could think to say.

Dick didn’t answer. He just blinked slowly, tears still rolling down his cheeks.

Jason swallowed hard. “You’re—you’re on the roof, Dickie. I can see you’re cold even though it’s warm out. Also—you left the window open. And like—holy shit, dude. You never do that.”

Jason softened his voice as best he could. He tried to hide the waver of panic.

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

Jason took another slow, tentative step forward. In the pale moonlight, he was close enough to see—

Holy fuck. 

Jason had seen a lot of fucked up shit in during his time. Hell, he done a lot of fucked up shit. Decapitating eight people was not for the weak. He liked to think he’d developed a pretty tough stomach over the years. Between a life on the streets, his mother’s addiction, his time as Robin, the stint in the damn League of Assassins, and everything he’d done as Red Hood, Jason liked to believe that not much could phase him anymore.

Wrong. Jason was so, so, so wrong.

Scars.

Jason saw scars.

The worst of them was a deep, crescent-shaped gouge that started just above Dick’s temple and arched back into his dark hair. Jason’s couldn’t pull his eyes away—it had to be damn near fatal based on the placement alone.

Nausea rolled around Jason’s gut, hot and thick. It clawed it’s way up his throat. He fought to swallow it back down.

There was another—one on his jaw, almost as if the skin had split. It looked painful. It’d been a full minute since Jason last took a breath.

Dick was wearing short sleeves. 

The grief was new—grieving not his death, but what it did to those he loved was something completely alien to Jason. It was weird and it hurt—but, as of right now, was not the worst thing about seeing his brother on this fucking rooftop.

It was the helplessness. 

The helplessness of being dead. The helplessness of not being there.

The helplessness of standing on that stupid rock in the middle of that stupid ocean. Only this time, the salt was bitter and tasted like guilt.

Dick was wearing short sleeves, and in the pale moonlight, Jason could see the scars that crisscrossed his forearms.

The helplessness was unacceptable. It was unbearable. It was terrifying, really, but no simple word could capture the true fear. It was more a feeling than anything, anyways. Horror tangled with guilt so thick it was damn near a living thing. It rose up and strangled Jason, breaking his ribs and pointing them all inward. He was paralyzed.

Jason had never been good at fear.

“What the fuck, Dick,” he said, anger rising in him like the tide. “What—what the fuck, Dick?”

With the anger came traitorous tears. They welled in his eyes, hot and threatening to spill.

This, at least, got a reaction out of him. Dick’s eyes finally slid down from the sky—they were glassy and bloodshot and damp, but at least they focused on Jason. Dick’s brows twitched in as if he meant to frown.

“You know,” he said, voice rough and thick, “Dinah said my brain is scared, not broken, and it’s trying to protect me.”

His eyes roamed over Jason, still unbelieving. When he next spoke, the defeat in his voice kicked Jason square in the gut.

“Little Wing, I feel pretty broken right now.”

Jason forced out a breath. Sucked another one in. Forced that one out too. He wanted to be angry. Fuck—he was angry. Furious, so much so that it filled his body up with static and danced across his vision. It filled him up like hot blood.

Dick was the Golden Boy. The Boy Wonder. The first. The first sidekick, the first son. Batman needed a Robin, and there was no one better than Dick Grayson.

So how the hell had he fallen this far? And who the fuck had let him?

(Jason’s accusing finger found Bruce. But then again—it always did.)

Dick didn’t catch his parents, but he spent the rest of his life catching everyone else. He’d caught Bruce. He’d even caught Jason.

So who—who—had let Dick fall? Who had turned away? Jason was the dead one. Who had left Dick to rot?

No—no. Jason knew.

Jason knew.

Because he knew Dick, better than anyone else on the fucking planet. Dick was many things—but above all, he was a performer. Smoke and mirrors and sleight of hand. Fake, all of it—and Jason fucking knew it. Dick had put on the performance of his life—gluing his broken pieces back together with bloody fingers between acts, then stepping back onto the stage like he’d never cracked. Then he would shine so bright he would blind and the crowd would be none the wiser because look, it’s the Boy Wonder! And they loved it and they bought it and they demanded an encore. Dick would string himself up, dancing and denying and deflecting as the crowd cheered because God forbid anyone see the mask slip. And then he would limp home in the dark because he had them—wrapped around his little gloved finger.

Someone should’ve caught Dick. Not now, though—now was too late. Dick had already fallen and shattered. He needed to have been caught—

Well. Jason wouldn’t know. He’s been dead.

Jason grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. The static in his vision, the ringing in his ears—it was all too much. To much too much. His fingers twitched, itching for his gun, for a fight.

But there was no one for Jason to sucker punch. No one for him to fill up with lead. So Jason continued to breathe, in and out and in and out, until he could speak without shouting. He clenched and unclenched his fists until his fingers ached.

“Dick,” he said, slow and controlled. “You—I—"

He took another shaky breath.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he repeated. “We—we need to get you back inside. Someone—someone’s…waiting. For you. Right?”

Dick hummed. “Tim,” he said lightly, almost dreamlike.

Jason swallowed. “Right. Tim. He’s…he’ll be worried.”

Jason reached out a hand—then froze mid air when Dick suddenly stiffened and recoiled.

Jason’s breath hitched, that horrible living guilt wrapping its hands around his lungs. Jason’s hand was still outstretched, shaking. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. So he just stood.

A thousand questions begged, screamed to be answered. A thousand terrible questions with a thousand terrible answers—ones Jason didn’t know if he wanted, but couldn’t live without all the same.  The rage, the panic, the horror—they all scraped Jason out and left him exhausted. His bones were heavy, his heart heavier. 

The night dragged on.

“I’m bigger than you now,” Jason found himself saying with absolutely no idea where he was going. They needed to get off this fucking roof. “So…Little Wing—I’m not sure that works anymore.”

“No.”

Jason frowned.

Dick was looking at him again, eyes locked on Jason’s with rising intensity.

“No.”

“Dick—"

"No."

It got quiet. The wind rustled the trees lining the sidewalk below.

Then, quiet, reverent, and drenched in nostalgia, Dick said, "You’ll always be my Little Wing.”

Oh.

A lump formed in Jason’s throat. He swallowed it back down with the fresh wave of tears.

“Okay…well, you’re either gonna take my hand or I’m gonna manhandle you back down the stairs. I highly suggest you pick Option A, because honestly, I’m not exactly thrilled about the idea of wrestling you down like some amateur firefighter and I’ll definitely knock your head against the ceiling out of pure spite for making me carry your fatass—“

Cold fingers ghosted his.

Jason squeezed them tight, like Dick might fall off the damn roof if he let go. He pulled his brother to his feet, gravel scraping, Dick allowing himself to be tugged like a ragdoll. Jason swallowed it all down—the horror, the anger, the guilt (though, that one lingered in the back of his throat), and gently pulled Dick toward the fire escape.

Once, when Jason was very young, he and his mom had been walking on the streets of the Narrows. It was evening, and they were on their way to a convenience store for something lost to time.

A man had sat on the corner with a beat up guitar and an even more beat up hat set out at his feet.

“Does anyone know,” he sang in a sad, drawling voice, “where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours.”

Jason hadn’t understood what the old man had meant at first.

Ten years and a death later.

He understood now.

Chapter Text

The ease at which Dick let himself be pulled made Jason’s stomach churn with hot nausea. His hand was nearly limp in Jason’s, as if all the fight had been scooped clean out of him and dumped somewhere far away. Jason guided Dick down the squeaking stairs and through the open window with all the gentleness he could muster. It didn’t even matter—Dick complied without resistance.

Once inside, Jason shut the window behind him and eased Dick onto a stool at the kitchen counter. He didn’t bother with the light—the soft glow of the stove was enough. 

(He also didn’t think he could stomach seeing the scars on Dick’s arms again. That was a whole mental breakdown and a half waiting to happen, and Jason was already barely holding it all together.)

Superman magnets on the fridge glinted in the dimness, holding up several Polaroids. It was too dark to see who was in them. Jason pointedly decided not to look to preserve what little emotional capacity he had left.

“Alright, Dickie,” he muttered, glancing toward the second bedroom door. If Dick didn’t want to wake Tim, or whoever the hell was in there—then fine. They wouldn’t fucking wake Tim. “You probably didn’t eat anything. Because you’re you and you do stupid shit like that.”

Dick didn’t answer. His eyes were still unfocused, but some of the tension had eased from his frame—Jason claimed it as a victory, however small and cold.

Part of Jason could hardly believe he was here—in Dick’s kitchen, making a midnight snack like it was the most normal thing in the whole world (like they used to do before). He’d spent so long…well, dead. To the world at first, yes—but then, to the people he loves.

Well. Loved. Or that used to love him. 

Jason quickly shoved that ugly mess down and turned to rifle through the cabinets, looking for anything with some goddamn protein.

The silence was, frankly, fucking unbearable. It filled up his ears and pressed against his lungs like second-hand smoke. Everything about this was wrong and weird and Jason could barely stand it. Helplessness weighed heavy on his heart, the grief and the guilt leaving a bitter taste in his mouth

To save his sanity, Jason kept talking.

“Now that you’ve got—"

The word kid got caught in the back of his throat.

“—someone else living with you—"

Yep. That worked.

“—I hope that you’ve finally got some real food around now.”

Dick hummed softly.

Jason turned at that, a cautious hope flickering in his chest, but—

Dick was shivering, restlessly glancing at his wrist, twitching like muscle memory couldn’t let it go. 

Jason bit is cheek, a question heavy on his tongue. He leaned forward on the counter to hide how tight his hands were gripping the ledge. 

“Hey—what’s with the wrist thing?” he asked, trying to sound casual despite being exactly two seconds away from crawling out of his own skin. “You checking the time or…?”

Dick’s head snapped up. A horrible, freezing feeling dropped like a shard of ice in Jason’s stomach—one that screamed abort abort abort. 

Dick scrubbed his face, stress returning to his body like tightening springs. When he pulled his hands away, he looked—

Little Wing, I feel pretty broken right now.

The dim light made the scar on Dick’s temple look twice as deep. The dark circles beneath his eyes looked like bruises. Jason wanted to sedate him.

What, exactly, the fuck happened while I was gone?

“Jay?” Dick breathed. He sounded strange, looking at Jason but not seeing him.

“Yeah?” Jason said through grit teeth, knuckles white against the countertop.

“What—what time is it?”

Jason’s brows twitched. “It’s, uhh…”

He turned to where the oven sat behind him. His heart pounded in his chest and Jason wasn’t exactly sure why.

“12:53.”

Dick nodded like it affirmed a question only he knew the answer to.

It was Jason’s turn to stare.

That was…it?

Silence stretched between them, thick and viscous, although Jason had a feeling it was only quiet for him. One by one, he slowly peeled his aching fingers away from the countertop. His palms were damp.

When he couldn’t take it anymore, Jason spoke again.

“Are you…late for something?” he asked carefully.

Dick shook his head.

Jason’s mouth twitched. “Ookay.”

“I am awake,” Dick whispered. “This is real.”

Jason blinked at him.

Dick, he thought. Dickie. Dickwing. When you come back from wherever the fuck you are right now, we are having one hell of a conversation.

“You know,” Dick said, light and eerie and tired, “the scars make sense.”

Jason’s heart pulled a full stop for the second time. He opened his mouth—and nothing came out. He was unable to fathom an answer. He wasn’t ready. He was scared for whatever fuck shit Dick was about to say next. It was so quiet in the kitchen.

“It’s—it’s nice,” Dick said, eyes glazing again. Jason was losing him. “You know. Instead of…”

Dick swallowed hard, paling. His wrist twitched again.

Jason’s mouth was still open.

“Instead of what, Dick?”

Oops. That inside thought slipped out.

Dick flinched like he’d been hit. His whole body recoiled, breath stuttering, eyes going wide.

“Jason,” he said, almost pleading, almost scared. “Please don’t make me—"

Jason had his heart broken before—by his own mother, not once, but twice. First, when he found Catherine on the tile after promising that this was the last time. And then, when Sheila had handed him over to the Joker to be tortured to death.

Neither of those hurt like this.

“Dick.”

Dick’s mouth snapped shut. There were tears in his eyes. Jason was going to throw up in the sink. He ran a shaking hand through his hair, down his face, and back through his hair. He reminded himself to breathe, pulse so loud in his ears he worried he might wake…

“Dick,” he repeated. “I’m here.”

Dick didn’t move, disbelief still coloring his features.

Jason took a risk. He stepped around the counter, closer to Dick.

“This is real,” he said. Dick had said it first. Jason hoped it was safe.

Dick’s head tilted, just barely. Some of the clouds cleared from his eyes. 

A sliver of relief trickled through Jason. Maybe he was—

“I’m sorry,” Dick whispered.

Jason blinked. “What?”

“I’m—“ Dick’s voice broke, soft and desperate and so loud in the silence of the cemetery that was Dick’s kitchen. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jay.”

Something swept through Jason’s chest—and he knew, in that very moment, that he never wanted to feel it again. It was cold and alive and it was going to pull him right back into his grave. It was grief and guilt and helplessness and standing on a rock in the fucking ocean as indifferent tides went out and came in without him.

“What—why are you—?” Jason’s throat tightened. He took another step. “Dick, what are you talking about?”

Jason would cry if he sat down and thought about what was happening right now. He was scared—and Jason didn’t do fear well.

“I’m sorry,” Dick repeated, more broken this time. Like Jason was dying and it was the last thing he wanted to say. Tears welled in Dick’s eyes and spilled down his cheeks “Jason—please, I’m sorry, I—“

Jason’s hands curled into fists.

“I died,” Jason said out loud, because he had to. Because the fucking room was tilting and Dick’s guilt was going to suffocate them both. “Dick, I died.”

He was shaking. He didn’t know when that started. Anger was beginning to burn up from underneath the cold in his chest.

Jason didn’t do fear well.

“I don’t blame you. You didn’t—Dick, you couldn’t have—“ Jason didn’t know how to articulate the storm inside him—the freezing, burning, raging mess that tangled up the eighteen inches from his head to his heart in a hopeless knot.

“It wasn’t…I died, Dick. It wasn’t supposed to happen to you, too.”

Grief. Not for himself, but for what it had done to Dick. His brother. For what it had carved out of him, for the way it had destroyed him.

Dick had both hands pressed into his face now. His shoulders trembled with every breath—Jason wasn’t even sure if he was hearing him anymore. The room seemed to shrink, walls pressing upon the two of them like…

A coffin. Walls pressing in like a coffin.

Jason didn’t do fear well. He didn’t know what this was, and it scared him. So he did what he knew how to do. He did what protected him.

“Dick—what the fuck.” His voice was sharp, bouncing off the walls. It was louder than he’d meant. Or was the kitchen that quiet? Jason couldn’t tell.

“My death wasn’t your fault,” he practically growled. “You go that? It wasn’t, Dick—and I never blamed you for it. Don’t pull this…this self-sacrificing bullshit. Whatever Bruce put in your head, whatever crazy shit you think, it’s wrong, okay? Don’t—don’t do this, Dick. Don’t—“

Jason’s voice broke. Or he cut himself off. One of the two.

Dick didn’t answer. He was looking at Jason with sad, tired, grieving eyes. His mouth opened, no doubt another hideous apology clawing it’s way up his throat.

Jason wanted to punch him.

Instead, he swore under his breath and turned toward the cabinets, snatching a glass and filling it with water. His limbs felt like they weren’t his—he was simply piloting his body. Residual, useless anger simmered in his blood. He walked back to Dick, water nearly sloshing the water over the rim of the glass.

“Here,” he said, holding the glass out. “You’re just—whatever this is, you’re…you’re crashing. Just—just drink, okay?”

Dick just stared at him, eyes wide, a kind of horrid recognition creeping across his face. Jason wished he knew what Dick was thinking—wished he could stop kicking his brother down his internal spiral with every little movement, every fucking word.

Jason risked it again and stepped closer.

“Come on, Dick. Just—“

Dick reached out. Slow, trembling fingers closed around the glass—

—and it slipped right through his hands.

The glass hit the tile and exploded. Shards burst outward, skittering across the floor in all directions, water splashing the cabinets. The crash seemed to echo throughout Dick’s small apartment. The silence that followed was deafening. 

Jason flinched and stepped back to avoid the shards.

He expected Dick to recoil, or flinch, or something.

Instead, he was frozen—as if watching something only he could see. A memory, maybe. Jason didn’t fucking know. Dick stared down at the shards like he could put them back together with his mind.

“Okay,” Jason said quietly, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat. He breathed through the hot spike of anger that rose up in him. His hands ached from clenching and unclenching his fists so many times. “Okay, Dickie.”

His breath caught a few times in his chest before he could speak again. Dick tore his eyes from the glass and looked up at him with an expression Jason couldn’t even begin to read.

“Dick, you don’t have to say sorry. Not to me.”

Jason swallowed hard. He hated this. He hated this so fucking much—

There was a soft click, and a creak

Jason turned, bracing for some new horror, some next fucking thing—

Oh, fuck.

Standing in the doorway was a kid—clothes ruffled with sleep, hair sticking up at odd (adorable) angles. One hand was braced against the doorframe, the other clutching a red-knit blanket.

Jason stared—hands still shaking, heart still flighty, anger still simmering beneath the weight of mounting exhaustion.

Tim.

That had to be Tim.

Jason didn’t breathe. Too much emotional input. He had to sacrifice something. Tim’s eyes jumped between him and Dick, wide as saucers.

Jason remained unmoving—hoping that maybe if he stood still enough, if he didn’t acknowledge this, the kid would just wander back into his room and Jason could return to having just one catastrophic mental breakdown at a time.

Jason stood still.

No such luck.

The kid was still there.

Jason’s brain flailed. Jason’s brain felt like a microwaved fork. Could humans bluesceen? Because that’s what Jason’s brain was fucking doing right now. Bluescreening. Jason.exe has crashed. Please restart your PC—

Okay. You know what? Okay. Dick has a kid now.

That’s—that’s fine. Of course he does. Jason knew he’d been gone a long time—

Jason squinted at the kid. His stomach dropped six floors.

The kid was no older than eleven.

Jason had been gone for five years

The math wasn’t fucking mathing.

On days when they were sick, Dick and Jason would lounge around, commiserating and watching hours of trashy reality television. Jason remembered some gaudy, over-dramatized and awkwardly personal episode where a guy had got caught having a second family.

A poisonous spike of jealousy shot through Jason at the thought of Dick having a second family.

Jason didn’t know whether to evacuate, punch a wall, or sit down before he passed the fuck out right there on the tile. He couldn’t tell if the heat building in his chest was fury or grief or sheer fucking panic, but it burned.

Dick has a kid.

Jason glanced back at Dick, who was staring back down at the tile, stuck in whatever mental sinkhole he’d fallen into. Meanwhile, his kid (Jason’s fucking nephew) was just…standing there.

Jason considered himself goddamn phenomenal at compartmentalization. Given the fucked up life he’d led, he had no choice. But right now, whatever this fucking mess was wasn’t sliding nicely into any of his little compartments. He could hardly breathe around it, let alone cut it down small enough to shove in a box and chuck.

So Jason did the next best thing: he buried it. He buried it so deep no Lazarus Pit could ever resurrect it.

It was unnerving, the way the kid studied him. Jason fought the urge to squirm despite his body being frozen solid not ten seconds earlier.

Jason saw it in the kid’s face—a flicker of realization, a silent oh behind his big blue eyes, as if something just…clicked. His little fingers tightened on the blanket. His breath hitched, just barely. So quiet, that if the apartment wasn’t as silent as the grave, Jason wouldn’t have heard it at all. But he did. 

He knows who I am.

Jason was getting real tired of that shit.

The kid—Tim—finally tore his eyes away from Jason (who still hadn’t moved) and focused on Dick (who also hadn’t moved). Another emotion crossed his face—worry. But it wasn’t new worry. Not oh-no-what’s-happening worry, Jason realized with burgeoning clarity. No, this was old-worry. Familiar-worry. As if Dick had been hollowed out like a dead tree, and Tim had stumbled upon him in the forest a long time ago.

Something happened. Something terrible and awful and horrible happened.

To Dick.

Something happened to his brother.

Jason’s throat tightened. His hands and jaw ached from how tightly they were clenched.

Tim looked back at him.

“Hi,” he whispered.

Jason forced open his mouth and unstuck his tongue from his throat. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

“Hi.”

“Tim?”

Despite being no more than a scraped whisper, Dick’s voice made Jason jump. He turned to face Dick, who was now looking at Tim with an expression so soft it made Jason’s stomach twist like he’d eaten too much sugar.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”

Jason’s mouth fell open.

“Did I…did I wake you again?”

Tim shook his head and padded over to him, wrapping his arms gently around Dick’s waist. Dick held him close, resting his cheek on the top of Tim’s head, eyes pointedly averted from Jason.

Jason continued standing in the kitchen like the fucking ghost he was.

Dick was backsliding. 

Dick was backsliding so fast and he couldn’t catch himself.

He’d been on the roof—the fucking roof.

And Jason. He’d been there too. Was here too. 

He hadn’t even meant to end up on the roof. It just kind of…happened. One minute, he was in his apartment, flipping on the stove light and heading back to his room to suit up. The next, the walls were caving in and so was his chest and he’d just needed to get the hell out.

So he’d went to the only place where he felt like he could breathe.

That place just so happened to be the roof.

And then Jason had showed up, and Dick had wanted to punt whoever said healing isn’t linear into the sun.

Dick was back in his kitchen now, quite unsure of exactly how he’d gotten there. Everything was coming back slowly—his ears unclogging, the world coming back into focus frame by frame.

The first thing he felt—that wasn’t guilt or tears or writhing self-hatred—was weight. A small one, curled into his side, little arms wrapped around his waist.

Tim.

Dick’s arms were already around him (when had he done that?), his cheek rested against soft hair that smelled like coconut kid’s shampoo. 

His brain felt…scrubbed out. Like someone had taken a steel wool sponge to his insides and decided yup—everything needs to go. He ached all over, his cheeks gritty, his head pounding.

As the world filtered in around him, so did something else. Something that made Dick hold Tim tighter, something that made his heartbeat spike and his breath catch and the goddamn world end—

Jason.

Jason was standing in the kitchen.

“Dick,” Tim said softly into his chest. “Your heart is beating really fast.”

Dick swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut. A couple of tears leaked out of the corners.

Funny. Dick didn’t think he had any tears left.

“Sorry, Timmy,” he whispered, voice rough.

“It’s okay.”

Dick’s arms tightened around Tim.

He was not going to look at Jason. Tim was here. Tim was real.

Jason wasn’t real.

He could admit that to himself now.

Jason wasn’t real. Jason was dead.

Jason wasn’t real.

But, for some terrible, torturous reason, Dick knew he was still standing there. Waiting, watching, just like he always did.

Dick hoped he wouldn’t be too mean this time. 

Dick hoped he wouldn’t be bloody and butchered.

I am awake, he thought. This is real.

My brain is scared, not broken, and it’s trying to protect me.

The minutes ticked past. Dick never wanted to let go.

“Don’t leave,” Tim said at last, voice still muffled.

Self-loathing spiked inside Dick, a hot knife twisting up his insides like overcooked spaghetti. He really was the worst person to ever walk the face of the earth, wasn’t he?

“I—I won’t, sweetheart,” he stammered, unsure of how to articulate the words at the depth he needed them to be said. “I’ll—"

“Not you.”

Dick stopped, brows furrowed. Tim’s hair tickled his nose. He opened his mouth to say something, but Tim beat him to it.

“Obviously you, Dick. Just—also…”

There was a split second of silence before Dick Officially Lost It.

This was it. Honestly, this was really and truly it. His leap from the roof hadn’t done it—but this will.

He was dreaming. He’d been dreaming this whole time.

Dick bit his cheek as barbed wire wrapped its way around his throat.

After everything—the hell he went through, the therapy, the healing, the three full months without seeing his little brother—this was how it ended. In his kitchen.

Dick was broken. There was no denying it now. Jason’s death had severed him.

It was a sad, quiet thing.

A door slowly closing.

Grief is a circular staircase, and the steps were well-worn.

Dick continued hugging Tim, hoping he would wake up soon so he could do it in real life.

A question floated around Dick’s mind—one that had plagued him ever since he saw Jason in his living room the night before. One he could finally ask, now that he knew he was dreaming. That this wasn’t real. He refused to open his eyes, though. He wasn’t going to subject himself to that torture.

“Why are you old now?”

A beat of silence. Dick wondered if Jason was thinking it over.

Could he even…do that?

“Why am I—Dick, what the fuck does that even mean?”

The sarcasm was definitely new. From what Dick could remember of his hallucinations, Jason had never been sarcastic before. He wondered what kind of psychotic break he had to be having for his hallucination to develop sarcasm.

“You’re normally…”

Dick didn’t know how to explain what his hallucinations normally looked like to his hallucination. He tried anyway. It could be absurd—absurd was better than the complete panic attack smoldering at the edges of his senses.

“Normally, you’re younger. And…smaller. And more b—"

Burnt. Mangled. Disfigured. Cold. Dead.

The only viable option for Dick to finish that sentence would be for him to literally throw it up. He swallowed down the rising nausea and tried again.

“I’m just curious, Little Wing. I mean, it makes the scars—“

His voice broke off, his stomach in his throat. He swallowed thickly again. Maybe, if he kept talking, it would help. Like thinking of California Girls playing in the middle of a scary forest instead of the Halloween Theme.

“Well, you know I’ve seen them all. So I guess…I don’t know. It’s nice to see you this way. This is better than…”

The blood. The burns, the bones. The hatred. The disgust.

“That.”

It was silent again.

“Dick,” Tim began, cautious, face still smooshed into Dick’s chest. “Jason is…here.”

Dick hummed.

“I know, Timmy.”

Slowly, Tim unwound himself and pulled away. His hair was sticking up in all different directions. It was adorable—Dick fought the urge to reach out and ruffle it.

Oh right. This is a dream.

Dick reached out and ruffled Tim’s hair, further mussing it. A small smiled tugged at his lips as Tim swatted his hand away.

Jason used to do that.

The ghost in the corner of his vision was still there—tall and broad, standing in his kitchen. Dick ignored him, choosing instead to look at Tim’s little face. He was so young.

“Jason?” Tim said, and Dick felt like he was being cut open.

I’m dreaming. Jason is in my kitchen and I’m dreaming.

“Y-yeah?”

Tim took Dick’s shaking hand and pressed his small thumb into his wrist, just over his pulse-point.

Their grounding technique.

Something between the two of them—a Tell of their own.

All the air in Dick’s lungs vanished. The softness of the moment snapped and reality slammed into him at breakneck speed. 

I’m…I’m not dreaming.

This is real.

“I am awake,” he breathed.

Tim met his gaze with a small, certain nod.

Alright—too much. Everything was way too much right now and Dick really couldn’t handle it anymore.

He was breathing but he wasn’t and holy shit his heart was really starting to beat fast and everything hurt and he just wanted it to stop, oh God he just wanted it all to stop—

“I know how this goes now, Jay.”

His voice barely made it past his throat. He’d never felt so broken in his life. Was this how it was going to be? Forever?

Dick had loved his little brother. Dick had loved his little brother so much.

Grief is a circular staircase—and Dick had let himself grow sick walking the spirals of those steps. Around and around and around. Therapy. Acceptance. He’s lost Jason again. Again and again and again. Losing, always losing.

He loved Jason. He lost Jason. He loved Jason. He lost Jason.

He kept his eyes fixed on Tim—his messy hair, his tired eyes—still refusing to acknowledge the figure in the corner of his vision. He wouldn’t be nice today—it didn’t work that way. It never worked that way. Dick tried to breathe through the mounting panic, the rising guilt, but he was taking in thick air and his lungs couldn’t hold on to it.

(“Trauma isn’t a problem to solve, Dick,” Dinah had said during one of their first sessions. “And healing isn’t a checklist. You’re not going to mark yourself ‘fixed’ and move on. And you can’t hold yourself to that, either.”

Dick had nodded at the time. He’d even written it down, though he didn’t fully believe it. He thought that maybe he’d get there. Eventually. Hopefully. He better. There was no alternative.)

Jason was standing in his kitchen. And Dick knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his little brother was some grotesque horror tonight. If Dick looked, the world would end and he would fall apart.

Breathing was becoming entirely too difficult so Dick just stopped doing it altogether. And he waited—for the hatred in his little brother’s face, for the injuries that so often marred his little robin body. Maybe this time Jason would say something new. Maybe something worse.

Dick couldn’t look—so he didn’t. Instead, he focused on the tile floor beneath Tim’s slipper. He refused to blink, lest Jason appear behind his eyelids.

Still, Jason didn’t speak. 

Dick’s chest ached with the pressure of swallowed sobs and held breath. His spine was collapsing with the weight of failure, the gravity of defeat. Tim’s little hand was warm against the clammy skin of his wrist.

“I am awake,” he murmured. “This—this is real. And I—”

Dick knew how this went.

“I know how this goes.”

The silence felt like a horror movie. Maybe Tim was a hallucination too. Maybe none of this was real—

“Dick—what? Stop saying shit like that—”

Jason’s voice cut through the quiet of the kitchen. Dick’s whole body went rigid. Tim pressed his thumb against Dick’s wrist—Dick hoped it would stop him from falling through the fucking floor. He gripped Tim back like he was the only thing tethering him to reality. He probably was.

“No. Dick, seriously—what the fuck?”

That was…new. There was no bitterness, no rage, no scorn. No hatred. Just…bewilderment. A kind of anger that Dick recognized as fear. It distantly reminded Dick of when he saw Jason in his living room the previous night.

Dick shook his head violently, squeezing his eyes closed as more hot tears slipped form the corners. He swallowed a choking sob with a shudder.

“I won’t tell you to go,” Dick said to the phantom in his kitchen. He…hadn’t been mean. That was okay. “But I just…I can’t look, okay? I love you, Jay, but—”

Another suppressed sob.

“I can’t.”

Dick was cold. Cold like death. His teeth chattered. Distantly, he registered the smell of anise. Tim had thrown the red blanket around his shoulders. It was warm.

“Okay,” Jason said.

Dick’s grip on Tim’s wrist faltered. He was shaking too much.

And he waited. For Jason to say exactly what Dick already believed. The tile swam before him.Tim wrapped his arms around him again, squeezing him tight.

“Dick,” he said, muffled by Dick’s shirt, so small and soft it nearly cut Dick to ribbons. What was wrong with him? 

“This—this is real, I promise. Jason is here. He’s in the kitchen. You’re awake.”

In the ruins of Dick’s dreams, hope laid like an wounded bird, waiting for a chance to fly. It was the hardest love he carried—hope. It was an obscene cruelty, and it never let up for a minute. Hope hurt. Hope hurt so fucking much.

Dick wouldn’t survive hope again.

“Look, Dick, I don’t—I don’t know what you’re seeing right now,” Jason’s ghost said. “But I’m here. I’m…real. I’m really here. And…you don’t have to look at me if you can’t. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Dick opened his mouth but nothing came out. He wanted to say you’re not real and I’m sorry and I’m so fucking tired, Little Wing, please—

But he didn’t. He was cold. He was going to fold in on himself and collapse—

A gentle tug on his wrist. Dick looked down, blinking through the static in his vision.

Tim was pulling him forward, up and off the stool.

Dick stood slowly, legs hollow and unsteady, following Tim. He felt like he was dreaming. He itched for a clock, a mirror—something to tell him if any of this was even real.

He honestly didn’t fucking know anymore. He didn’t even really care. He was tired and cold and his heart felt sick.

Dick’s chest hitched as he tried to breathe, sobs pressing in on all sides. In, out. In, out.

Tim tugged him gently toward his bedroom. He could tell Tim was tired—and it made guilty worms squirm in Dick’s stomach. He’d woken Tim, in the middle of the night, again.

They paused just outside the door. Dick felt like he was floating. Tim shifted his weight from foot to foot, hand tightening in Dick’s.

“Can you…stay?” he asked, voice was impossibly small.

Tim is also talking to my hallucination, Dick thought with mounting hysteria. Cool. Are shared hallucinations a thing? Maybe I should talk to Dinah about that when I go on Wednesday. Great.

If Dick wasn’t so tired, if the looming panic attack wasn’t like a dark storm on the horizon, if he wasn’t actively fucking falling apart, he might’ve laughed.

“Look, kid—" Jason started.

“Please? Just…for tonight,” Tim said, quieter now. “You can take the couch. It’s a pull-out.”

Despite the tears in his eyes, despite the pain in his chest, despite his soul shriveling inside him like burning paper, Dick almost smiled.

This is fine. Everything is fine. I’m fine. My hallucination is going to sleep on my pullout. This is fine.

Dick had to fight to keep his eyes on the dark wood floor of the hallway. Was it morbid curiosity, or habit that bade him to look at his brother? Dick didn’t know. But he lost the battle of self and risked a glance and—

Wow. Dick would’ve rather been shot again.

Because Jason looked older.

Dick hadn’t really been all there on the rooftop, and he hadn’t gotten a good look when Jason had shown up in the living room. But here, in the glow of the stove light, Dick could really see—the scars, how tall Jason was now, how big he was. There was no more baby fat around his jaw. His hair had gotten curlier.

It twisted up something inside Dick. He was supposed to be there for that. He was supposed to watch Jason grow up. He was supposed to be a big brother.

Was he…was he not a big brother anymore? Jason was dead. Did that mean Dick was no longer an older brother? Did that, too, die with Jason? What was he now? The world didn’t wait for him to grieve. It turned and turned and turned, every second only putting more distance between Dick and his Little Wing.

His little brother wasn’t so little anymore.

And Dick didn’t get to see any of it.

Apologies rose in Dick’s throat like the tide. More tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them, his chest tightening. Goddammit, how much more can he possibly cry?

Jason glanced between them—Tim to Dick, and then back again. In the dim light, Jason’s hair looked white again. Dick made a note to ask the hallucination what that was all about the next time he saw his little brother.

Jason nodded.

“Alright,” he said at last. “Yeah, kid. Couch it is.”

Tim gave a satisfied little nod and tugged Dick into the bedroom. He cracked the door behind them.

Tim curled up against his side, wrapped once again in the red blanket, his warm presence chasing off the last of Dick’s shivers. He remained awake long after Tim’s breaths had evened out.

I am awake, he thought, even as he heard shufflings from the living room. This is real.

Dick laid in the dark, wondering if the silence inside him now was a beginning or an end.

Chapter Text

The springs of the pull-out squeaked as Jason rolled over for the eightieth time. It wasn’t even a bad pull-out—the brown throw blanket was soft (though his feet stuck out at the bottom) and the pillow was squishy enough to fold just the way he liked it. And it wasn’t like Jason wasn’t tired. The night had thoroughly exhausted him, emotionally, mentally—fuck, metaphysically. There wasn’t an atom in him that didn’t feel wrung out.

His head was just so loud. Everything Dick had said—every broken utterance that had left Jason floundering in the deep end of their shared grief—bounced around his microwaved-fork brain like someone was trying to pop fucking popcorn in there.

He pushed his hair out of his face and rubbed his eyes. Any sleep he had gotten was more a twitchy, restless doze than anything.

Jason rolled over again. The springs squeaked. He huffed a sigh that devolved into a yawn.

Early, early dawn sun peaked through the curtains. Jason gave up and heaved himself out of bed, rolling his shoulders until a few satisfying cracks popped down his back. He shuffled into the kitchen. 

Surreality hit him like a cartoon piano.

He was in Dick’s kitchen.

In Dick’s apartment.

Dick’s apartment that had two bedrooms.

And the kid who slept in that second bedroom knew who he was.

Jason wanted to know how the little munchkin figured it out.

Jason also wanted to turn tail and disappear off the face of the fucking earth.

And Dick…

Well, Jason still didn’t know what to do about that. Questions rattled around his brain like marbles in a glass jar—he didn’t even know if he had the capacity to ask them all. The broken apologies Dick had laid at his feet like offerings filled Jason up like hot acid. He shuddered. He never wanted to hear Dick talk like that again. Jason had died, and that was the end of it.

No one else was supposed to die, too.

His body began to buzz like it was full of bees. Loud, panicked bees. Bees under attack.

Okay, Jason thought, taking a deep breath and blowing it out slowly. Okay.

He ran a hand through his no-doubt abysmal bedhead. This was…this was fine. All of it. Fine. Fine fine fine.

Twenty-four hours ago, he’d still been dead to his family.

The buzzing was growing louder. Jason needed to move. Instinctively, he began rifling through cabinets, not really sure what he was even looking for—

The flash of a familiar blue box caught his eye. A laugh slipped out of him. He couldn’t fucking believe it. Before his brain even caught up, he was dumping Krusteaz powdered pancake mix into a mixing bowl, limbs on autopilot. Now, where was the cinnamon—

His phone buzzed from somewhere on the couch. Jason paused, making his way back over and digging through the blankets.

Henry.

Jason cursed under his breath and accepted the call.

“Where the hell are you?”

Jason blinked. “Morning to you too.”

“You were supposed to check in last night. We’ve got meetings lined up. I got two guys askin’ me if Bats got to you—”

Jason shivered at the name.

“Something came up,” he said through clenched teeth.

Henry’s scoff crackled through the phone speaker. “What, another personal matter? Your missus givin’ you trouble? Wonderin’ where you sneak off to all night?”

Jason heaved a sigh, rubbing his temple with the hand not holding the phone.

“Actually, I take that back. There’s no way you got a missus—or a mister, I ain’t judging—and do the kinda shit that you do. What do you even look like under that helmet, anyway? I bet—"

Jason cut him off. “I’ll be back tonight.”

Henry chuckled, clearly self-satisfied. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Jason ended the call and tossed the phone back on the couch. He rubbed his eyes again, trying to puzzle his life back together now that he had fifty-two more pieces and none of them were corners.

He needed to do something insane again—lop off a few more heads so his guys remembered who he was.

Jason shuffled back to the kitchen to continue with breakfast. He reached out a hand to pull open the fridge when something caught his eye. 

Superman magnets.

They were holding up pictures.

He’d seen them last night—but between Dick’s spiral, the revelation of his newfound uncle-ness, and the last threads of his sanity nearly snapping, Jason had decided to save what little emotional stability he had left and chosen to simply not look.

But now, they beamed up at him in the pale dawn light filtering through the curtains.

Dick standing in the empty apartment next to a smiling Tim holding a pair of keys.

Bruce asleep at the Batcomputer, face down.

Tim and Dick sitting at a table, surrounded by delicious looking food and that one old neighbor Jason vaguely remembered.

And—

Jason and Dick.

Jason stopped breathing. He couldn’t look away.

The two of them, noses and cheeks nipped pink by the cold, swallowed up in snowsuits.

Jason reached out and gently pulled the photo from the fridge, a reverent finger tracing slow, shaking circles around the film.

The ski trip. Their ski trip

(“Ten points for the blue jacket,” Jason said, snowball in hand, a cocky grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Jason glanced over—Dick wasn’t even listening. He was just…staring. At him. Not saying a word. Jason raised a brow. “What?”

Dick didn’t answer. 

He had some stupid look on his face—eyes so wide and soft it made Jason want to squirm. He scowled a little, immediately suspicious. “Helloooooo,” he said, waving a gloved hand in front of his brother’s eyes. “Earth to Dick.”

They were slowly rising up on the ski lift, the snowy mountains beneath them unfolding like a picture-perfect postcard. Other skiers zipped below them, interrupting the glittering landscape with their various colorful suits.

The two of them had planned this together. Bruce had been on his ass like crazy, and it was starting to chafe. Every tense stare down, every sizzling argument, and Jason understood more and more why Dick often stayed so far from the Manor. It was like Jason turned fifteen and BAM—he’s suddenly “too reckless” and “too impulsive” and “too violent”. 

That last one hurt the most.

So Jason needed out, even if it was only for a few days. And Dick…well, he always seemed to make things better.

He was a little worried, at first, that Dick would turn him down when he’d asked to go shopping for gear. Things were already tense at the Manor between Jason and Bruce, and adding Dick into the mix would just be adding oil to the hot pan. But Dick had made some funny face when Jason had asked and said yes without hesitation. A small knot of tension had loosened in Jason’s chest.

And it had been…civil. A little tense, a little awkward, but they had emerged victorious. One week later, Dick had packed his car full of top of the line ski gear and the two of them were off to upstate New York for a long weekend.

Dick blinked, snapping out of whatever daze he’d just been in.

God, he was so weird sometimes.

“Too easy,” Dick said, sporting a wicked grin to match Jason’s. He nodded toward the slopes. Jason followed his gaze to where a figure in traffic-cone orange tore down the slope at breakneck speed. “Twenty points.”

Jason scoffed, but eyed up his target nonetheless. “Who do you think I am? Green Arrow?”

“Are you saying you can’t do it, Mr. Baseball?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Shut up and let me focus, Dickhead.”

The Mr. Baseball thing was still a little embarrassing, if Jason was being honest. Dick talked about it like Jason had won the damn World Series. The season had been fun, and Jason had worked his ass off for that win, but Jason was pretty sure Dick was more excited about the award than he was.

Even Mrs. Rhodope had asked him about it once, after he’d helped take her groceries up to her room one evening when he was visiting Dick in Blüdhaven.

It had made Jason blush and squirm and rub his neck. He’d just…played baseball. He didn’t understand why it was such a big deal to Dick. But his brother had been adamant on treating Jason like Mookie Betts, so Jason put up with it. It made Dick happy.

And…it kind of meant something. To Jason. Dick was proud and annoying about it and brought it up at every single possible chance. But it also meant he saw how hard Jason had worked in a way that had nothing to do with baseball.

Jason hated how much that mattered to him. But then again, he didn’t. Fuck it—he didn’t know. Whatever.

Jason fired his snowball—it hit Traffic Cone with a thud. His head turned so sharply he nearly fell over, ski poles going flying.

“Yes!” Jason whooped. “Alright Dickie. Your turn.”

Dick held his snowball in his gloved hand, scanning the people below. “That one,” Jason pointed. “The one with the red helmet. Nail ‘em.”

Dick snorted, aimed, and—

Smack.

“Oops—"

Jason doubled over laughing, nearly falling off the lift. Dick grabbed him to keep him upright. “‘Oops’ is right, Dickhead,” he wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye with a gloved hand. “You pegged him right in the neck!”

It was true—poor Red was twitching like someone dropped a live snake down his suit. A snowball to the neck had to suck.

They skied down the slope, adrenaline and speed washing any residual tension away. It was nice, just him and his brother in their own little winter wonderland. They tossed snowballs on every lift after that, racking up points and heckling each other the whole way. 

Jason was winning, obviously. Dick was eyeing up his own home run throw when the ski patrol finally caught up to them.

“We’ve recieved numerous complaints—"

Despite Dick’s best charming efforts, they were both personally escorted off the slopes. Jason had never laughed so hard in his life. It was absolutely worth it.

The two spent the rest of the day thawing out in the lounge, toes by the fire, hot chocolates in hand. Jason giggled every time he thought about poor Red Helmet twitching like a wet cat.

Maybe…maybe everything was going to be okay.

That night, they snuck out onto the back balcony of the lodge, bundled in layers, their breath turning to fog in the freezing air. They laid side-by-side on the snow covered deck, staring up at the glittering sky.

Jason didn’t say much, because never really knew what to say when it got so quiet like this. But he didn’t have to say much of anything at all—because Dick was there.

He felt so small, laying beneath the big black expanse of the heavens. A spec on a floating rock hurtling through space. 

But that didn’t matter—Jason had his whole world laying two feet to his left.)

The sound of bare feet padding on hardwood broke Jason from his thoughts. He hastily slapped the picture back on the fridge, fingers still lingering for a half second too long. He turned and saw—

Big blue eyes, sleep-mussed hair, and an oversized Gotham Knights t-shirt that was most definitely Dick’s. 

Tim.

Jason’s voice took a poorly timed hiatus. The gravity of last night’s…events still weighed heavy and thick in the room. If Tim was shocked that Jason had stayed, he didn’t show it. There was not a flicker of doubt on his face—as if when he’d asked Jason to stay, he believed Jason actually would.

And—well. Jason was here. So. Even with every muscle in his body dragging towards the door

They stared at each other. Everything just felt so…weird. Like they were in their own little bubble of absurdity. The outside world knew nothing of what had happened here last night.

It made Jason feel like he was damned to be stuck in the past forever. Cursed to his rock, chained to that warehouse, nailed to a fixed point in time—and as the world spun on, the fabric of reality bunched and tore around him.

Dick had a kid.

Jason’s skin prickled. The staring was getting awkward. He felt like an intruder in a life he had absolutely no business in being a part of. Finally, he pried his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“I’m making pancakes.”

Nice, Jason. 10/10. Holy shit.

Tim blinked slowly. Jason blinked regularly. He didn’t know what do with his hands or his feet or—

“Okay,” Tim said at last. He padded over to the kitchen counter and climbed onto a stool.

Jason turned back to the cabinets. This is the most normal morning ever. 

“The spice cabinet’s above the stove,” Tim said softly. “If you’re looking for the cinnamon.”

Jason’s hand froze mid-reach. He had so many questions for this kid, like how did you know that and what am I doing here and how the fuck do you know who I am.

But all he said was, “Alright,” and grabbed the cinnamon from the top shelf. 

He dumped a generous amount of cinnamon into the mix, along with some cloves and nutmeg he found. Did the pancakes need it? No. But Jason put them in there, because using his soul to measure out some extra spices was better than feeling it clink around his chest like a pouch full of broken glass. He ran the bowl under the faucet, because measuring was for losers and regular people who didn’t wake up in existential crises.

He opened a few drawers before he dug out a spatula and held it out to Tim, who’d been studying him the entire time.

“Wanna mix?”

Tim took his eyes off Jason looked at the spatula like it was made of solid gold that had been blessed by the Pope—then back up at Jason, who froze immediately.

Holy shit, kid.

No one had ever looked at Jason like that before—with big, awe-struck eyes, like he’d just hung a star for him or something. Something in his chest caved a little.

Tim took the spatula with both hands, as if he might break it. Jason suddenly had to fight the bizarre urge to take it back and swap it with something better—like a Death Star Lego Set or a puppy or a decent goddamn childhood—

He grimaced and filed that goopy thought, too, under Deal With That Shit Never, subcategory Don’t Ever Fucking Look In Here.

Turning back to the skillet, Jason busied himself with warming the pan and hunting down some maple syrup—anything to keep his hands moving while the rest of him sat on the precipice of a mental breakdown to rival Dick’s.

Jason suppressed a shudder at the memory of last night.

“Dick,” Tim had said. “You’re heart is beating really fast.”

The kid had been scared, yes—but he wasn’t shocked. As if Dick going pale and clammy and nearly spiraling into a full-blown panic attack wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. It…scared Jason. Because what else? If that wasn’t irregular, if Dick fucking hallucinating him was something that just happened, what else? What else was there?

What did bad look like?

Jason found the bottle of syrup in the fridge, clenching it with both hands, knuckles nearly going white.

“Not again,” Dick had whispered when they were on the roof.

“I won’t tell you to go,” he had said in the kitchen, eyes glued to the floor. “But I just…I can’t look, okay? I love you, Jay, but—I can’t.”

At the time, Jason had absolutely no fucking idea what to say. His heart had splintered in his chest. This was wrong, so wrong, and Jason had no fucking idea what to even do. It was torture, watching his big brother fall and shatter before him. He had drowned in the waters of his own grief—for Jason.

Jason, who had come back believing no one had grieved him at all.

His father stood for vengeance—yet Jason was unavenged.

His father bled for justice—yet Jason’s killer was still walked free.

Jason had been taken away from his dad.

And the world had continued to spin.

He slammed the bottle down a little harder than necessary on the counter, trying to knock the thoughts from his skull. Behind him, Tim sharply looked up from where he’d been carefully mixing the pancake batter.

Jason grimaced. Right—kid. There was a kid here.

He cleared his throat, the glinting shards of glass on the floor catching the light of the rising sun coming in through the windows. 

Right. That.

“Hey, uh…where does your—"

He stopped himself. An awkward half-second passed, the unsaid word hanging between them.

“…Where’s the broom?”

Tim’s whole body went still, face tight.

Jason frowned. “You okay?”

“He’s not my dad,” Tim said, so fast Jason barely caught it.

Jason blinked.

Okay. So there’s…that. Guess the adoption gene is genetic, then.

He took in the dark hair, the blue eyes.

Yep.

Jason never really believed Dick had a hand in…making the kid (he was also super relieved that Dick didn’t have a secret second family. Jason didn’t want to share). But what Jason didn’t doubt is that the kid was Dick’s.

Jason’s never raised a brow so high in his life.

“My parents are still alive.”

He leaned back against the counter, arms folding across his chest.

“Never stopped anyone before,” he shrugged.

It was Tim’s turn to blink.

It was…cute. He was all bedhead, practically swimming in Dick’s too big t-shirt. There was an intelligence behind his blue eyes, and something else—something Jason couldn’t quite name.

“There’s a dustpan,” Tim said, ears an adorable shade of pink. “Below the sink.”

Jason fought a smile as he pulled out the small broom and pan from the cabinet.

I’ve got to teach this kid some curse words.

Jason swept the shards into a neat pile, crouching to scoop the glass into the dustpan. 

He frowned, thoughts once again turning to last night. A dark cloud had passed over Dick when Jason had handed him the glass, a storm brewing when it fell and shattered. For the millionth time, Jason wished he knew what Dick was thinking.

He looked over his shoulder. Tim was still at the counter, back to diligently mixing like his life depended on it—tongue poking slightly out to the side and everything.

Jason almost chuckled.

This kid—with that thing in his sparkling blue eyes that Jason couldn’t quite name—reminded him so much of…

Himself.

This kid reminded Jason so much of himself.

A twisted, warped, fun-house-mirror version of himself. Jason had a sick feeling that if he handed this kid green pixie boots and a domino, he’d launch himself into the night with a fervor only matched by Jason himself. 

Jason, before he’d died, of course.

Jason, before he’d lived again in the world that had broken his heart.

The kid had to know everything—of that, Jason was positive. He just wondered how much of everything he knew. How much Dick had told him, and how much he’d figured out on his own.

But the way Tim had looked at him last night—had trusted him, almost implicitly—made Jason squirm. He didn’t know how to carry all of that. He didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t a hero, or anything good. He’d killed people—and he didn’t feel bad about it.

Jason had done terrible things. And yet—Tim still had asked him to stay. 

Because Tim was scared.

The thought lodged like a splinter in his ribcage.

He rose slowly, stretching the stiffness from his back and shuffling toward the garbage, glass shards clinking in the plastic dustpan.

Jason wondered if Tim had been there—if he’d witnessed whatever horrible thing had happened to Dick. He didn’t know what Tim was to his brother. A littler brother? A found kid? A son-adjacent?

But what Jason did know, is that whatever they had, it was real. 

And God, Jason really didn’t want to fuck that up.

“Alright, Tim,” he said, waving a hand over the pan to feel the warmth. “Skillet’s warm. You done mixing?”

Tim nodded, handing the bowl out to Jason.

Jason took with a nod. “Great job, Master Chef. Gordon Ramsay would approve.”

Tim ducked his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

Jason scoffed softly, amused. I see how you got got, Dick. He ladled the batter onto the skillet in perfect circles. Jason turned back to Tim, planning to ask his opinion on chocolate chips. The kid was watching him intently, big blue eyes fixated on the pan in an adorable little frown. His gaze flicked up to Jason.

Wait.

Realization hit Jason like a goddamn truck.

He’d been so focused Dick, so zeroed in on the fact that Dick had a fucking child that he didn’t realize he fucking recognized him.

A neighbor kid. A neighbor kid with dark hair. He was young, way younger than Jason. He’d seen him around, mostly at galas, dragged along by picture-perfect parents that Jason distinctly remembered not liking.

“You—you’re Tim Drake!” he said, pointing the spatula at him.

Tim went very, very still. His eyes got even bigger, shoulders rising—like he was trying to making himself small. Jason was pretty sure he wasn’t even breathing anymore.

The reaction lanced a hot spike of anger through Jason’s gut. Not at Tim, just…the whole situation.

Dick—where the fuck did you find this kid?

Jason ran his other hand through his hair. “You’re…our old neighbor. Is that how you found out?”

Tim still didn’t speak—he just sat there, like if he stayed quiet long enough, he might go invisible. Like Jason might un-say what he just said.

But there was another question Jason needed to ask.

He dropped his voice low. “Do you know who I am?”

Jason felt like he was asking two questions.

Tim considered him for a moment. He remained still, eyes still big, but something flashed across them.

Tim nodded.

Jason felt like he was answering both.

A tense moment passed, Jason’s brain scrambling to catch up. He opened his mouth to say something else when—

Holy shit.

Jason grit his teeth, grimacing internally.

Tim looked freaked out.

He was clutching the spatula, knuckles almost white. Jason was pretty sure he hadn’t blinked in two full minutes.

Jason swallowed his questions, because now was not the time. He sighed and held up both hands. “Hey,” he began, trying to soften his voice. He didn’t mean to scare the little munchkin (though, something told him he was failing at this directive). “I’m not mad. If anything, I’m kinda impressed”

He shrugged. “Besides—you already know everything, apparently. It’s not like there’s any going back.”

He turned back to the pan, flipping a perfectly golden pancake and casting a cursory glance at the hallway.

“And you’re living with Nightwing, so—congrats, I guess. You’re basically in the Bat-cult now. So…yeah.” Jason ran out of words.

But thankfully, before Tim could open his mouth, there was a soft shuffle of steps from the hallway. Jason’s stomach clenched. He gripped the spatula tighter, preparing.

Would Dick freak out again? Another panic attack? Another…episode?

Jason swallowed hard. His hand shook slightly as he flipped another pancake.

Dick appeared in the kitchen. Jason turned to face him—from the corner of his eye, he saw Tim do the same from where he sat at the counter.

Dick yawned, rubbing an eye. “Are you making pancakes, Timmy—?”

He froze, whole body going rigid, eyes fixed on Jason.

It got really quiet. Jason was pretty sure he could damn near hear the pancakes cooking on the skillet.

Dick blinked. Then blinked again. His dark hair stuck up in odd directions, and one pant leg was bunched up around his knee. His long-sleeve sleepshirt was on backwards.

Jason thought of the scars hiding beneath the thin fabric. Suddenly, the sweet smell of the cooking pancakes was borderline nauseating. He didn’t know if he should speak. Honestly, he didn’t even know if he could. His tongue felt too big for his mouth.

The pancake was burning.

Dick was just…staring at him.

Jason remembered last night—how everything he did seemed to kick his brother further down his mental spiral. Jason did not want to go there again. So he just continued…staring.

The kitchen stool scraped on the tile behind him. Tim appeared, slipping his hand into Dick’s and bonking his head against Dick’s side. Without taking his eyes of Jason, Dick wrapped his arms around the kid at his hip.

“Morning Dick,” Tim said softly. “Jason made pancakes.”

“I, uh—" Dick whispered, hoarse, eyes still glued to Jason. “I can see that, Timmy.”

Tim pressed his thumb into Dick’s wrist over his pulse point, just like he did the night before. Jason wondered what it meant. “You’re awake,” Tim said. “This is real.”

Dick nodded slowly. “Uh-huh.”

Tim’s eyes flicked to Jason as if to say now it’s your turn, dumbass.

Jason unstuck his tongue from his mouth. It felt like sandpaper. He was going to have to have to toss this pancake—it was definitely burnt now.

He gestured at the pan. “Pancake?”

Wow. Absolutely phenomenal, Jason. 

Jason cleared his throat— then cringed internally as it came out too loud in the quiet. He tried again.

“Pancake? Not this one though. I, uh…burnt it. Am burning it. Actually. So.”

Dick still didn’t answer—neither did he move, or blink. Tim dropped his face into his palm with a sigh.

That funny feeling returned, the one that made his bones feel see through. Like an imposter—because Dick was looking at him but not seeing him. It was weird. Jason didn’t like it.

He’s looking for a dead boy. He’s not looking for you.

He’s looking for something he’ll never find. Because the Joker may have killed Robin, but Jason buried the boy.

Jason needed to scrape the pancake off the pan before it caught fire, but he couldn’t seem to move. He was frozen in place, pinned like a butterfly under his brother’s gaze—just like he was in the living room two nights before.

When Dick could function again—when he wasn’t being dragged under every time he looked at Jason like he was some reanimated nightmare—they were going to talk. A lot.

Tim’s small fingers gently tugged on Dick’s hand, trying to lead him toward the counter. Jason was overtaken by a hideous deja vu of the roof—of Dick, complacent, allowing Jason to guide him down the fire escape with no resistance. He looked like he was sleepwalking: each step slow and heavy, unblinking eyes locked on Jason.

Oh my God, Jason thought, panic curling hot and bitter in his chest. He probably thinks this is a fucking dream.

Tim’s words echoed in his head:

“You’re awake, Dick. This is real.”

Yup. He and Dick were going to fucking talk.

Jason finally uprooted himself from the floor and turned back to the pan. The pancake was beyond saving now—just a brittle, black corpse. Jason could almost taste it. He scraped it into the trash; it clinked as it landed right on top of the broken glass from last night.

The thoughts of last night hung like a guillotine blade above his head.

He reached for the batter again, hands trembling as he grasped at the straws of domestic normalcy. “I’ll uh…make a new one.”

Silence was his answer. Jason wondered what Dick was thinking—lately, it felt like that’s all he did.

This is fine, he told himself, ladling batter onto the skillet with a tad more force than necessary. This is so fine. This is super fine. Dick is a traumatized cat and his handler is our eleven-year old-neighbor he adopted. Or stole.

Jason frowned, brain snagging on that point. Aren’t Jack and Janet still…alive?

Hadn’t the kid said that?

So why was Jason making him pancakes? In Dick’s apartment? On a Monday morning? Shouldn’t he be in school? Shouldn’t Jason be somewhere else entirely?

If Jason kept up that line of thinking, he was going to need a smoke break—and he hadn’t brought a pack with him, because he wasn’t fucking planning on staying the night. So instead, he shoved that whole mess down and focused on breakfast. It was hard to do when he could feel Dick’s eyes burning holes in the back of his skull.

He yanked open cabinets to busy his hands. He snatched a few plates from one, then opened another for glasses—and stopped.

His heart rate spiked at the thought of last night. The glass shattering as it hit the floor, the way Dick just disappeared, even though he was sitting right in front of Jason. 

Yep. Jason did not want to repeat that.

He turned sharply back to Tim.

“You, uh—thirsty kid?”

Tim nodded, small fingers still curled tightly in Dick’s—who was still staring at him. Jason’s skin crawled.

“Stop—"

The words tumbled out before he could catch them, sharp and raw with exhaustion.

“Stop fucking looking at me like that.”

Jason regretted it instantly. The oppressive silence that followed sucked all the air out of the kitchen. He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Dick—"

“I think your pancakes are burning again,” Tim said softly, a pointing finger in solemn judgement.

“Shit.”

Jason spun bak to the stove and frantically flipped each pancake, relief blooming in his chest when they came up only slightly more golden than intended. There’s one thing that was salvageable. He kept his back turned, latching onto his duty of pancake management instead of spiraling.

It helped, a little. Spoon batter. Wait in awkward silence. Flip. Plate. Repeat.

By the time he was done, there were enough pancakes to comfortably feed a family of five.

He cleared his throat. “Alright, Tim,” he said, still refusing to turn around. “How many pancakes?”

“One, please,” came the small voice from behind him.

Jason plated him three. He reached for the fridge, pulling out the oat milk and orange juice—because this was a fucking normal morning now.

“Milk or juice?”

“Juice, please.”

Jason grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it. He searched through more cabinets, looking for—

“Silverware’s in the third one.”

Jason nodded and pulled open the drawer—and frowned.

Matte. All the silverware was matte.

What pretentious fucker has matte silverware?

Dick, apparently.

Jason pulled out a fork—can eleven-year-olds even use knives?—and added it to the plate. He let himself take one more breath. Then he turned.

Dick was no longer staring at him—he was staring at Tim, still clutching the kid’s hand like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. It probably was. Jason approached slowly, as if Dick was a wild animal waiting to strike. Fuck, that’s what it felt like.

He set the plate and glass down gently in front of Tim, the soft clink loud in the near-suffocating silence. He pushed the syrup over.

Before he could pull his hand back, Dick moved.

His hand flew out, latching on to Jason’s wrist. Jason locked up immediately, blood freezing to ice, muscles tensing. Dick’s eyes bore into his—but this time, they weren’t empty. They were searching. The awareness punched Jason in the chest—how present his brother looked. How awake.

Dick didn’t let go. Jason held his breath. The room faded out and it was just the two of them. 

A moment passed. Then another. And another, until it stretched and threatened to snap in half.

“You’re warm.”

Jason blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

Jason didn’t know how to answer that. So he said something stupid.

“Yup,” he said, popping the p. “That’s…what happens. When you’re…alive.”

Dick’s fingers twitched lightly on Jason’s wrist, moving over his pulse point. His brow furrowed, head tilting just slightly. 

Jason swallowed. The air was thick and thin all at once and it seemed to do nothing when he breathed it in. His heart pounded in his chest—he hoped Dick could feel it.

“You’re…real.”

All Jason could do was nod.

“You’re—“ Dick choked. “Alive.”

“Little Wing—you’re alive.”

They’d finished their breakfast in painful silence. Dick only nibbled at his pancakes, choosing instead to rip them into small pieces. Jason had wrapped the rest in plastic wrap after they’d cooled, hoping Dick might at least try to eat one later.

Jason had folded the couch back in while Dick had called Tim out of school, citing a “family emergency.”

It warmed Jason up inside, a little. That Dick still considered him family.

I love you, Jay. Time and grave are nothing.

The words echoed through him. For some irritating, desperate reason, Jason secretly hoped they were true.

Jason heard the muffled rush of the shower from his seat on the couch. Dick had asked for a few minutes alone, and Tim had nodded silently—casting a quick look at Jason before retreating to the bathroom.

Before, Jason had been almost desperate to talk. But now—across from his brother who was looking at him like he was some sort of undead miracle—he wasn’t so sure. The tension was so thick Jason could taste it—the weight of unasked, unanswered questions cloying in the air around them.

Jason shifted on the couch, growing restless, exhaustion pulling at his mind. Dick sat rigid, hands in his lap, looking like he wanted to reach out but kept stopping himself. There was this look on his face—a tangled mess of soft and hopeful and hurt and broken all at once. The pancakes curdled in Jason’s stomach. He deliberately did not look at the crescent-shaped scar on Dick’s temple.

It had been quiet for so long, Jason almost thought they were gonna skip the talking thing altogether.

Jason’s tongue felt like sandpaper. He swallowed the thick silence and spoke anyway.

“So…you have a kid now?”  he asked, jerking his chin toward the bathroom.

Dick blinked at Jason, as if he wasn’t expecting the question. Absently, Jason wondered just exactly what Dick thought he was going to say. So far, Dick had accepted that this was real—or at least, Jason thought (hoped) so. Still—Jason felt like he was walking through a minefield: one wrong step, and he’d send Dick right back down the mental sinkhole he’d fell into last night.

Finally, Dick spoke. “He’s not my kid.”

Jason raised the same brow he’d raised Tim. “Uh-uh. Where’d you find him?”

Dick looked away, bringing a hand up to absently rub at the scar on his temple. “More like…he found me.”

“So I’m not an uncle?”

Dick exhaled a small chuckle. “More…an older brother?”

Two things slapped Jason clean across the face: the first being he still thinks of me as his brother and the second being oh my God I'm a fucking middle child.

It got quiet again. Dick’s face fell back to that soft-hurt-hopeful-broken mess. 

Jason shook his head slowly. There was something heavy and unsaid between them, something lurking in the shadows that Jason desperately wanted to drag into the light but didn’t know how. There was so much he didn’t know. So much he didn’t even know how to ask.

Helplessness returned with a vengeance, wrapping a claw around his throat and settling tight amongst his ribs. He swallowed hard.

“What happened to you, Dick?”

Dick tensed immediately, jaw clenching, eyes glued to his hands resting limply in his lap. His fingers twitched. Jason heard him swallow thickly.

When he spoke, his voice was so broken it almost made Jason ill.

“Can—can I ask you first?”

Jason was stunned silent. The water was still running in the bathroom.

There was so much—so much Jason needed to say to answer that, and he had no idea if he could. He felt a sudden, almost overwhelming need to apologize—but for what? For dying? For not staying dead? For not coming back sooner, even when he could have? 

He swallowed the apologies down. They left his throat raw.

“Sure.”

Dick looked up at him, eyes watery and bloodshot—grief etched into every line of his face. Jason had to physically stop himself from leaning away to protect himself from the sheer weight of it. When his brother spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

“What happened, Jason?”

There were two ways Jason could do this: the short, brutal way, or the long, harder way.

Jason chose neither.

“Um—" he began, voice suddenly tight. Fuck, this was hard. He’d never really tried to put all the shit he’d went through into words before. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’ve…been back in Gotham. For about six months.”

There was so much more—but Jason didn’t say. He couldn’t tell Dick, not when it would shatter whatever fragile pieces remained of his brother.

Dick’s eyes swept over his scars—sliding from his face down to his exposed arms. Jason’s mind was brought once again to the ones hiding beneath Dick’s sleeves. Jason could feel the edge of something sharp and hot pressed to his throat—guilt, maybe. Or anger. Or fear. He couldn’t tell—the three seemed to blend like paint. 

“Dick,” Jason said, sharp and sudden, “we can’t—we can’t do this if you keep looking at me like that.”

If you keep looking at me like you're searching for something you will never find. 

I’ve killed people, Dick. 

I’ve killed your Little Wing.

Dick’s eyes found his, and stayed there.

“Okay,” he whispered. “I’m s—"

“If you tell me you’re sorry I’m gonna fucking punch you.”

Dick’s jaw clicked shut.

The silence that followed was nearly unbearable before Dick spoke again.

“Why didn’t you come home? When you came back to Gotham…why didn't you come back to m—to us?”

Jason’s heart lurched as if someone had just twisted a hot knife in his ribcage. He knew the question was coming—he knew Dick would want to know why Jason hadn’t come running back into the arms of his older brother.

And God, had Jason wanted to do just that—have his big brother wrap his strong arms around him and tell him that everything was going to be alright. That he was okay. That he wasn’t a monster.

That he wasn’t better off dead.

Jason clenched his fists tight, nails digging little half-moons into his palms—because the question also made him angry. He wanted to grab Dick by the shoulders and shake him. Why didn’t I come home?

Maybe because I didn’t have one anymore?

Maybe because the Joker had to live and I had to die?

Maybe because that clown ruined me—to spite Bruce.

And he. Did. Nothing.

Jason squeezed his fists tighter to stop them from shaking. He breathed deeply once, twice, trying to dispel the anger. He swallowed it down. It felt like swallowing fire.

“I—I don’t know,” he said, rough and uneven. He had to fight to keep the heat out of his voice. “Maybe I wasn’t ready. Maybe…I needed to figure some stuff out.”

Maybe because I’m not the brother you remember. Because if I came home, you’d see me. You’d see what I’ve become. And I don’t think you could handle it.

Jason knew Dick could tell he was lying by the way he was looking at him—studying him, open emotion written across his face. Jason wanted to tell him everything. Jason wanted to tell him everything and then have his big brother love him anyways. The truth was there—it flickered at the edges of his vision, lodged itself like a stone in his chest.

I am the Red Hood.

I killed those people.

I am your little brother. Please love me despite the blood on my hands. Please love me despite what I’ve done.

Because I still love you.

Jason felt tears prickle at his eyes. He looked away, blinking furiously, anger rising in him once again. This wasn’t about him, and he was getting tired of the fucking interrogation.

“My turn now,” Jason said, leveling Dick with a hard look. “Dick. What happened?”

Dick sighed deeply—Jason could almost see defeat settle around his shoulders like an iron chain. There was something else, too—something that Jason would almost call shame.

It was quiet. Jason distantly registered that the water was no longer running. The early morning sun cast the living room in a soft, domestic glow. Jason felt…weird here. Wrong here. A ghost haunting his own life, watching those he loved grieve him in real time—when he thought he was never mourned at all. 

And yet, Dick had grieved him so hard he’d seen Jason. The grief was so great that his brain had simply been unable to cope with the cold hard fact of Jason’s death—and so it just…didn’t. Instead, it filled in the gaps, forcing his brother to relive the reality Jason’s death over and over and over again.

Jason had only died once. He often relived it in his dreams. He wondered how many times Dick relived it—how many times he saw Jason just for him to be taken away again by the cold, unforgiving truth of reality. 

Dick’s voice was barely a hoarse whisper when he spoke, but he might as well have shouted at Jason:

“I asked you for one more miracle, Little Wing. I asked you to stop being dead.”

Before Jason could process that fucking bomb, the bathroom door creaked open.

Tim stepped out, hair damp. He froze in the hallway, eyes darting between Jason and Dick with mounting embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” he squeaked, already stepping backward into the bathroom. “It got really quiet so I thought that—“

“It’s okay, Tim,” Dick said softly, looking at Tim over the back of the couch. Jason found himself grateful for the interruption—he had no idea how the fuck to respond to Dick. Did he feel a little guilty? Maybe. But…he needed time. And space. To process. And scream a little and maybe even punch a few somethings who knows right.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Jason ignored it.

But then it buzzed again.

And again.

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose. He didn’t need to look at the screen to know who was calling. Or what it was for.

Red Hood business—AKA stuff that doesn’t give a shit about his “personal matters.”

Jason almost felt the need to hide his phone, the call. Like he couldn’t even risk these two worlds colliding. Like Dick would figure him out by the buzzing alone.

“I should go,” Jason said, moving to stand.

It only hurt a little that Dick didn’t argue—Jason would’ve fought him on it, anyway.

“Will you come back?” Dick asked quietly.

Jason froze, hand in his pocket, halfway off the couch. He recognized instantly that it wasn’t a question—or at least, not entirely. It was almost a plea. A fear, a desperate ask that Jason not disappear again because Dick didn’t want to lose his little brother a second time (or a third? A fourth? Just how many times did Dick…see him?).

“Um,” Jason began, because that was really all he had at the moment, “I don’t know when, but…yeah. I will.”

Dick blinked up at him, expression unreadable. Jason’s phone buzzed again in his pocket.

Just as Jason was turning to leave, Dick’s hand shot out for a second time and grabbed his wrist. Jason froze, tensing, Dick gently pressing his thumb into Jason’s pulse point.

“You’re alive, Little Wing,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re warm. You’re alive. This is real.”

Jason swallowed down a tide of emotions that threatened to drown him.

Time and grave are nothing.

Jason wanted to tug his wrist away from Dick’s grip, but he waited until Dick let go first.

“You still have my number?” he said, moving to stand as he let go of Jason’s wrist.

Jason nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak, couldn’t find the words to say I memorized it. Because when I needed help, I called you first.

Tim finally crossed the room, standing next to Dick. He smelled like coconuts. Jason fought the urge to reach out and ruffle his wet hair.

So. Not an uncle, but I can still definitely teach this kid some phenomenal curse words. Or maybe beat him at Mario Kart.

He was looking up at Jason, that thing in his eyes on full display. For the second time, Jason wondered what the kid had seen. What the kid knew.

“I’ll text,” he said to Dick, while still looking at Tim. “I promise.”

“Okay,” Dick said softly.

Jason’s phone buzzed again as he opened the door.

“Jay,” Dick called before he could step out.

Jason looked back, hand on the doorframe.

“I meant what I said,” Dick said. “Time and grave are nothing.”

Jason didn’t think Dick was even lucid enough to remember that.

Jason’s voice was still untrustworthy, so he just nodded.

And then he was gone.

Jason waited until he was standing at his bike before he answered Henry’s call.

“Dammit, Hood, finally! Where the hell are you?”

Jason rolled his eyes even though he knew Henry couldn’t see him. Didn’t they already have this conversation?

“I’m on my way back to the Narrows,” he said, unclipping his bike helmet from the handlebars.

“Thank fuck, boss. Because we got a huge problem.”

“What?”

“I think we’re being double-crossed.”

Jason sighed. “Henry,” he said, exasperation bleeding into his tone, “you are double-crossing me. It’s what I pay you for.”

“And not nearly fucking enough, if I do say so myself. But uh—no, boss. This…this one ain’t me.”

Dread, cold and heavy, sunk in Jason’s gut.

“I think we have a rat.”

Chapter Text

The phone sat on the desk.

Bruce swore it was looking at him—judging him, almost. If the dark screen had a brow, it would’ve certainly been raised.

Nightwing hadn’t gone out for patrol last night.

And as much as Bruce had wanted to call—had almost called—he didn’t. Instead, he’d sat in the Cave, staring at the steady, sure blink of Dick’s tracker—firmly stationary at his apartment. It never moved, and neither had Bruce

He hadn’t slept. He’d just sat there, still suited up from patrol, hand hovering over the phone, frozen in indecision until Alfred had appeared behind him. In that quiet, pointed way of his, he’d told Bruce to go upstairs.

And Bruce had obeyed—sort of. He wasn’t stupid enough to out-stubborn Alfred.

When he woke this morning, the first thing he did was check his phone. No headlines, no movement in Midtown, no sightings of Nightwing—and no missed calls from Dick.

But now it was midmorning, and Dick’s tracker still hadn’t moved. And Bruce still hadn’t called. He wanted to give Dick space.

But he remembered the last time he gave Dick space.

No—the last time he let fear push his son away.

(For a single, harrowing moment, Bruce wasn’t on a wet rooftop in Blüdhaven, holding his (breathing) eldest son.

He was back in that warehouse in Ethiopia, amidst the smoke and rubble, cradling the mangled remains of his youngest.)

Bruce’s throat tightened. He rubbed his hands down his arms, trying to shake the phantom weight from his limbs.

Maybe Dick just…wasn’t ready yet. Two nights ago had been his first patrol in months. And he’d worked so hard during those months to get back on his feet—physically and emotionally. He’d been seeing Dinah. Training, when Alfred had finally allowed him back into the Cave. He’d even moved back to Gotham—not into the Manor, to both Alfred and Bruce’s dismay—but it was still closer than Blüdhaven.

But Bruce knew Dick—knew how long his son could go before his restlessness got the better of him. After Bruce had…caught him, Dick had made it a week before he’d nearly climbed out his bedroom window.

Dick had gone on patrol two nights ago. He didn’t go last night. That had to mean something.

Bruce ran a hand down his tired face, through his hair.

Maybe Tim was sick. Yeah. That was plausible, wasn’t it? Dick could’ve stayed in to take care of him.

The thought of Tim softened the sharper edges of his worry. That impossibly smart, stubborn little kid who had wiggled his way into their lives like he’d always belonged. Tim was living with Dick now, at least until Bruce and his lawyers finalized the neglect case they were building against the Drakes.

Technically, Bruce would be Tim’s foster parent. But in all the ways that mattered, that kid was Dick’s.

Bruce walked over to the door of his study and shut it with a soft click. Back at his desk, he shuffled about papers and skimmed over some of the paperwork for the newest branch of Wayne Enterprises.

The folder Tim had given him, all those months ago—the one filled with his…victims—might as well have slapped him in the face. It forced him to look in the mirror, cowl and all. And when he finally did—when he finally sat down and went through all hundred names—the copper tang from the red on his gauntlets turned his stomach.

There was little Batman could do for the ones he’d hurt. But for maybe, for once, Bruce Wayne could do more. 

So, he added a new branch to his social services foundation—one focused on funding medical costs and lost wages for victims of violent crime. Rehab, therapy, long-term care, funeral expenses—it was all covered. Bruce spared no expense. It still seemed insufficient.

In the first month of the program, Bruce had set himself a personal goal: personally visit each admitted victim. Especially the ones from the folder.

He’d seen Petyr Kaminski two days ago. The kid was paralyzed from the waist down, but he was fighting through therapy like a champ. And he’d been so stunned that Bruce Wayne had personally come to see him.

Bruce had gone home and thrown up.

He shuffled the papers again. He fiddled with the paperclips holing them together. He glanced at his phone.

Was he stalling? Absolutely.

The grandfather clock chimed one p.m.

It was just a phone call. No work talk.

Bruce just wanted to see how Dick was doing.

He’d already lost one son—he was not going to lose another.

Bruce picked up the phone. The line rang three times before Dick answered.

“Hi, B.”

Relief hit Bruce so fast he forgot to respond.

“Hello? Bruce?”

Bruce cleared his throat.

“Hey, Dick,” he said. “It’s—uh. It’s me.”

“Yeah,” Dick said. There was light amusement in his voice, but Bruce could hear the fatigue beneath it. ”I figured.”

Bruce swallowed, hand tightening around the phone. Why was he so nervous?

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he said. “I just…wanted to check in.”

“You okay?” Dick asked immediately. “Everything…alright over there?”

“Yes. I mean—nothing urgent. I just…”

The silence on the other end wasn’t hostile, but it was expectant. Dick was waiting. 

Bruce caught himself, mouth already forming the beginning of why didn’t you patrol last night?

He bit the inside of his cheek. That felt…accusatory. That was the Batman, not a father. And much too late had Bruce realized that Dick still needed a father. He pivoted, swallowing the words down and burying them deep.

“How are you?”

There was a beat of silence. Bruce couldn’t read it this time.

“I’m okay,” Dick said. “A little tired.”

Bruce’s hand tensed on the armrest of his chair. He agonized to ask—nightmare?

Between Dick and Tim, Bruce had been able to piece together the hell that Dick had gone through—the nightmares, the sleepwalking, the hallucinations. Bruce knew Dick hadn’t told him everything, and that he probably never will. Even then, Bruce didn’t really need him too—the severe injuries he’d sustained had painted Bruce a terrible picture with Dick’s own blood.

Bruce ached to be there—to chase away the nightmares like he used to when Dick was little.

But Dick wasn’t little anymore.

So instead, Bruce asked another question:

“Are you eating enough?”

A soft snort crackled through the speaker.

“Did Alfred put you up to this?”

“No.”

Another pause. Bruce couldn’t tell if it was hesitation or…consideration. He wondered what Dick was thinking. He wondered, not for the first time, where he went so wrong.

“Um—Tim and I had pancakes this morning. And, uh, an old neighbor of mine dropped off some meals a few days ago.”

He didn’t answer the question, the detective part of Bruce’s brain bristled.

“And you’re…?”

An exasperated sigh, just shy of a groan.

“Yes, Bruce. I’m eating.”

Bruce pulled the phone away so he could let out the breath he’d been holding. Relief trickled in slow, leaving his heart flighty and his ribs feeling hollow.

“Good. That’s—good.”

The conversation hit a lull—one of those awkward gaps that Bruce never really learned how to fill. He was grasping at straws, walking through the minefield of their shared grief.

“You sound weird,” Dick said eventually.

Bruce frowned. “Weird?”

“Weird for you. Like—concerned.”

Bruce shifted in his chair.

“I am concerned…” Bruce hesitated. He took a risk. “About you.”

“Yeah,” Dick said quietly, but not defensive. Just…acknowledging. “I know.”

Bruce wanted to say more. He wanted to ask if Dick had slept. If he’d had any nightmares recently. Why he didn’t go out on patrol last night. But every question felt like a landmine beneath the earth of their fragile truce.

He really didn’t know where to go from here—the unasked questions were a heavy weight on his chest.

He pivoted again.

“How’s Tim?”

Tim was usually safe ground.

“He’s good. He’s…he’s really good.” Dick let out a soft, fond chuckle. “You should see him, B. He’s a whole different kid now. Still too smart for his own good, but if you get him talking, he’ll talk. For hours.”

Bruce found a small smile on his lips. The pride in Dick’s voice was palpable.

“That’s really good, Dick. I’m glad.”

Another silence, though Bruce was grateful this one was a tad less awkward. He wondered if this was as hard for Dick as it was for him.

“Um—speaking of Tim,” he asked gently. “You two still good for family dinner on Sunday?”

“Of course,” Dick said, without hesitation. “We’ll be there.”

“If you guys bring dessert,” Bruce added with a faint smirk, “just pick something up. Please don’t try to…make anything.”

Dick huffed a laugh.

“How was I supposed to know baked Alaskas were that complicated? Or…explosive?”

Bruce chuckled softly. It felt…good. To laugh with his son. 

He could feel the call winding down, the natural end approaching—and for some, heartsick reason, Bruce didn’t want it to.

“I’ll…I’ll see you then,” he said, quieter now.

“Yeah. See you then.”

Neither of them moved to hang up.

“…Bruce?” Dick said at last, voice soft. Small.

Bruce was glad Dick couldn’t see the way he straightened instinctively in his chair.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For calling. It…thanks.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a half second before responding.

“Of course, chum.”

“Bye, B.”

“Bye, Dick.”

The line disconnected. Bruce set the phone down on the desk.

He didn’t say anything for a long time.

The Bat was on the roof. The man was on the roof.

The man didn’t see the Bat.

He leaned over the ledge, cigarette between his fingers, smoke filling the night air.

She’s getting worse. 

The florist came by to ask about flower arrangements for their wedding.

She told her not to bother.

The man had to excuse himself to the bathroom lest he lose his lunch on the cold hospital tile.

The night was warm. He took another drag.

“Those will kill you.”

The man startled, nearly dropping his cigarette.

“Jesus, Bats,” he said, heart racing. “You’re a fucking creep.”

The Bat said nothing.

The man ran a hand through his hair. It’d be gray before next spring. He put out his cigarette on the ledge and turned to face a suspiciously thick section of shadow across the rooftop.

“What do you want to know?”

“The Red Hood wasn’t seen for two consecutive nights. Why?”

“Does it hurt to speak like that?” the man muttered, nervous. “All gravelly and ‘I am the night’?”

The Bat said nothing.

“She’s getting worse, you know that?” the man said. “You said you’d help her. So—just—fucking help her already, dammit!”

The Bat said nothing. He’s playing chess with people’s lives.

The man swallowed. He might be dead before her.

“I don’t exactly know why he didn’t go out,” he began. “But no one could reach him. Not even his second. Not until this morning, when he said he’d be back in the Narrows by tonight. And he didn’t go out as Hood, because no one saw him. Like, no one. His second checked the street cams—though, they’re shitty in the Alley and half of them are fucking fake—and he couldn’t find anything. So Hood must’ve gone out as…whoever he is underneath. Which—“ the man shook his head. “Is damn near impossible, because we all know he doesn’t even have a civilian identity. No none knows who he is. We can’t figure it out.”

“You don’t know who he is?” the Bat asked, voice sharp.

The man laughed, bitter.

“You—you think if I fucking knew who he was we’d even be having this conversation?”

The Bat said nothing.

“He—first of all, he’d fucking kill me if I sold him out to you of all people. And it wouldn’t be slow, either. Everybody knows that Hood hates the bats, and your guts specifically. Hell, that’s why half his crew joined him in the first place. Everybody’s got a damn grudge against you, Vengeance. He’s just the only one crazy enough to act on it.”

The man laughed again, but this one bordered on hysterical.

“I’d tell you. You’d get Sophie her kidney—though, I don’t even know how you’d even fucking do that—and then I’d be tortured to death in some basement somewhere. Nobody’d ever find what’s left of me. Or, the fucker would keep me alive—"

“So he disappeared,” the Bat cut in. “And came back this morning. Did he say where he went?”

“No. Just said he’d be back in the Narrows by tonight. He’s out right now, if you’re wondering.”

The Bat said nothing.

The man sighed. He wanted his cigarette back. His phone buzzed in his pocket—he knew instinctively that it was Hood's second, calling to ask where he was. Time was up. The man needed to leave.

“You gotta help her,” he said, tired. “You just—you’ve got to.”

The Bat reached into his utility belt. He held out a thick envelope. 

“That’s triple,” he said. “Call the number on the card.”

The man took it, ripping it open. A business card was tucked amongst the bills.

He looked up—and the Bat was gone.

Chapter Text

The warehouse’s office stank of mildew and rotting paper. Despite the grimy lighting, rusty filing cabinets, and the occasional rat, it was the perfect location for the Red Hood’s most covert meetings. Though, Jason never liked to stay in one place very long (call it a healthy dose of Bat-paranoia) and made sure to change locations monthly.

Jason restlessly paced the length of the small room. “So you think we have a rat?”

Henry nodded, solemn. Jason wished he could press his hands to his face—he figured it’d look pretty stupid with his helmet in the way.

After Henry had called to inform him about the rat that morning, Jason had immediately requested he meet him at a secure location that night so they could talk in person—just in case any of their lines were tapped. In between then and now, Jason had scoured his paperwork, searching for any inconsistencies. So far, he hadn’t found any signs of a traitor in his ranks. Yet.

Was Jason pissed? Abso-fucking-lutely he was. So much so that he was able to almost compartmentalize all the other shit he’d discovered the past two nights.

Key word being almost.

He shook the thoughts from his head and refocused on Henry.

“I say,” he purred, voice laced with venom, “I pay a little visit to all our guys. Remind them exactly who they’re loyal to.”

Jason really just wanted to beat the shit out of some people. 

He’d been in full gear for the past four hours as Henry debriefed him on what they knew about the rat, along with all the meetings he’d missed while on his…hiatus. He was itching to get out on patrol—anything to numb the complicated jumble of emotions churning inside him.

Henry sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I don’t know, boss…”

Jason frowned beneath the helmet. Even though Henry couldn’t see it, he trusted his second could read the disapproving vibes Jason was so clearly giving off.

“What do you mean ‘you don’t know’? We have a rat, Henry. And snitches get dead.”

“That’s what I’m saying, boss.” Henry ran a hand through his short hair. “They don’t know we’re on to them. And—if I’m being completely honest—we don’t even know who they are. What if we just…wait?”

Jason balked. Henry could read the vibes. “Wait?”

“Yeah. Let them think they’re safe, then they’ll slip up or something. Get too comfortable. We’ll just…start slow. Be careful of what we say around who. Lull ‘em into a…false sense of security.”

Goddamnit, Jason really wanted to beat the shit outta somebody.

But…Henry made a good point. If they acted too soon, they could spook the rat back into whatever gutter he'd crawled out of and then they’d never find him.

“Fine,” Jason bit out.

Henry nodded. “Alright, boss, I—"

There was knock at the door.

Jason stiffened, hand instinctively ghosting the gun holstered at his thigh. He opened his mouth to bark something, but Henry beat him to it.

“Come in!”

Jason blinked. Huh?

The door opened slowly, rusty metal hinges squeaking—and a man stumbled in. He was breathless, obviously nervous, a stack of papers in one hand and…a cup of coffee in the other. His shirt and hair were ruffled as if he’d sprinted there.

Jason frowned behind his helmet.

“Ah!” Henry grinned, taking the coffee. “Thank you, Ben.” He plucked the papers from the man’s hand, then waved him off.

Jason studied him. Ben couldn’t be any older than twenty-seven—still older than Jason was, but still too young for this life.

Jason was…honestly floored. These pre-patrol meetings were reserved for Jason and his highest ranking lieutenants only, and even then he and Henry had even more confidential meetings just between the two of them.

Meetings like the one they were having right the fuck now.

Jason’s tone was light when he spoke—or, it would’ve been, if not for the helmet. “Henry. Who’s this?”

“This is Ben,” Henry replied, breezy.

“I can see that.”

“Don’t get your hood in a twist, boss. He’s my…protégé.”

“You have an intern?”

“A protégé.”

“Sure.”

Henry sighed and turned toward Ben, who was still warily eyeing the hand Jason had resting on his holstered gun.

“That’s all, Ben.”

The man nodded, backing out of the room like Jason was a live grenade.

At least somebody still has some fucking fear in their heart, Jason thought as he watched Ben leave. 

He would’ve chuckled if it weren't for the snarl still on his lips. “How do we know he’s not the rat?”

Henry leaned back, coffee in hand. “Trust me, Hood—he’s not. Guy’s in a fuckin’ tough spot. His fiancée’s in the hospital. She’s got like some kidney disease or somethin’—she’s been waitin’ on the transplant list for years. The bills are pilling up, and you know how that shit is. So I’m…helping him out.”

Jason snorted. “We do healthcare now?”

Henry huffed another short laugh. “I just…I dunno. I know what it’s like, I guess. Having someone in the hospital. Not being able to just…fix them. And the system’s a bitch, everyone knows that. You can’t pay for the care they need, but…they need it. To survive. To fucking function. So I’m just…”

He trailed off, gesturing with the hand not holding the coffee.

Jason nodded slowly. He understood quite well, and much more than he wanted to admit. Desperation was one hell of a motivator. It turned people into soldiers—and, more often than not, into criminals.

“We’ll pay him more,” Jason muttered. “Make sure he can eat on top of the bills.”

Henry raised a brow. “You’re going soft.”

Jason tilted his head slightly. “Henry, I highly recommend you shut the fuck up before I decide it’s time to shake down the entire chain of command.”

Henry snorted and went back to debriefing. Jason tried to focus. Unfortunately for everyone (Jason included), his mind began to wander.

His body was here, armored up and standing across from his second-in-command. But his head was somewhere else—somewhere colder and salt-stung.

His brother was drowning in the waters of his grief—being drowned, and drowning himself. Jason knew Dick. He liked to think he knew his brother better than anyone else in the world. The waters would rise, slow and quiet at first, and Dick wouldn’t run. He wouldn’t seek higher ground, because that meant leaving the sea. No—he’d let the tide in. He’d break his own levies to feel the flood, to drown in the way he thought he deserved.

And clearly, he had.

And Bruce stood on the shore, dry and deathly still, watching his son disappear beneath the waves. He won’t reach out a hand—not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. Because to reach out for Dick, Bruce would have to step into the water. He’d have to wade in the same grief he’d spent his life outrunning. He’d have to drown a little, too.

And Jason knew—Bruce would never do that.

A story started to form in Jason’s mind, one foamy wave at a time. He’d spent nights wondering where the fuck Bruce had been, why he’d let Jason’s killer take him away from his dad. But now, Jason wasn’t asking where Bruce had been for himself—he was asking for Dick.

Now, he thinks he knows.

And then there was Jason: standing on that stupid fucking rock, watching the waves lap at a shore he’d never reach. He’s not dry, and he’s not drowning, just…stuck. The spray hits his face and its cold and it stings and the salt gets in his mouth and coats his teeth yet he stands—a fixed point in time. He watches the horizon. If he stands here long enough, will the tide decide what to do with him?

But time and tide wait for no man, remember?

So Jason stands. And Dick drowns. And Bruce watches.

Dick moves apartments.

His father moves on.

And Jason stays on that rock.

“I’m Robin, the Boy Wonder!”

“He’s a drug dealing pimp! I didn’t think I had to prop up some pillows before I took him out!”

He waits for time to turn back, for his father to turn around. For the tide to bring him in—but it won’t. Because Jason’s world had ended when he’d died. And the sun had rose again the next morning. And the morning after that and the morning after that and—

“I don’t even know why we do these meetings when I know you’re not listening to a single fuckin’ thing I’m saying.”

Jason blinked, thankful that the helmet hid his face because he had no idea what expression was on it.

Beside him, Henry exhaled sharply. “Something to do with your…personal matter?”

Jason glanced up from where he’d been staring at the table, jaw tight. “Drop it, Henry.”

“Sure,” Henry said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Absolutely dropped, boss.”

The look he gave Jason said quite the opposite. The matter was very much not dropped.

“…are we gonna continue with the debrief, or are you just gonna keep brooding?”

“I don’t brood.”

Henry leveled him with a look so incredulous Jason wondered if he should fire off a few rounds into the first unlucky soul who crossed his path just to remind his second exactly who the Red Hood was.

“Whatever you say, boss,” Henry said with a shrug. “Anyways, one of the newer dealers up by the Narrows is cutting his stuff with something shitty…”

The cool night air was a balm to Jason’s fractured soul—but that was about it.

The dealer had been an easy mark—skinny, jittery, and obviously new to the whole “crime thing.” All Jason had to do was loom—rattling off a few warnings about what exactly Jason would do to him if he was caught again—and the guy had bolted, a hundred apologies falling from his lips along with the promise of never dealing again.

The whole encounter had left Jason more agitated. He wanted the adrenaline. He needed something to burn off the wildfire in his chest. 

So he climbed, quick and fast and sure, to his usual perch—his favorite gargoyle overlooking the veins of the city. This spot was his. He’d claimed it back when he was still R—

Well. Before.

The city sprawled out before him, glittering and grimy. It was an interesting duality, one that had always called to Jason. He exhaled slowly, trying to feel the city buzz beneath him as he dangled his feet over the ledge. But his perch offered no comfort tonight.

Jason wanted to scream. He wanted to punch something. He felt…raw—like the helmet was the only thing keeping his thoughts from spilling out of his eyes, his armor the only thing keeping his heart inside his chest.

“I asked you for one more miracle, Little Wing. I asked you to stop being dead.”

Jason shuddered. What—

Something shifted in the shadows of the rooftop across from him. 

He tensed, muscles coiling on instinct.

Most goons and criminals conducted their shady business in dark alleys and suspicious side streets—they often did not dare venture to the rooftops, because they all knew just whose territory it was.

Jason narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the figure.

There. Across the rooftop, illuminated by the light of a full moon shining through Gotham’s smoggy sky, was—

Jason’s lungs locked up. His mouth fell open.

No way.

No fucking way.

Nightwing?

The city dropped out from under him for a split second—and Jason stared, frozen, as Nightwing flipped and grappled across buildings.

First of all, what the fuck was Dick doing out?

Second, why the fuck was he on Jason’s turf?

Jason reached for his grapple—then froze.

Part of him wanted to tackle Dick and duct tape him to a chair—because what? What was he doing out here? Not twelve hours after Jason found him on the roof, babbling nonsense, dissociating to hell and back? Questioning his own fucking reality?

Dick was beyond emotionally compromised. What if thought he saw Jason out here? What would he do?

“I asked you for one more miracle, Little Wing. I asked you to stop being dead.”

A shiver ran up Jason’s spine. The scar on Dick’s temple had burned itself into his mind—the damning almost-fatality of it, the question of how it happened. The slashes on Dick’s arms, the utter defeat in Dick’s voice when he spoke to someone he thought so surely wasn’t really there—all of it weighed on Jason’s chest, compressing his ribs against his lungs and his heart.

Another part of Jason wanted to fire a warning shot in his brother’s direction. Just a little reminder: this is my turf, Nightwing. Go haunt your own fucking graveyard. He’d made it very clear all those months ago exactly what he thought of the Bats. Crime Alley was his.

And yet…

The smallest part of him—the scared little brother that looked up to Dick Grayson like he hung the damn moon, the scared little kid that worries his brother will never look at him the same—wanted to run. To hide. 

Maybe because I’m not the brother you remember. Because if I came home, you’d see me. You’d see what I’ve become. And I don’t think you could handle it.

This is what I’ve become. Maybe I was better off dead.

So Jason stayed frozen on the rooftop, watching his brother flip and fly across the skyline as if nothing had ever changed.

They used to do that. Together.

Jason forced the memory down, burying it with the rest of the things that fought to rise up and strangle him.

He doesn’t know, Jason thought, taking a slow, deep breath to calm his flighty heart.

He’ll just…scare Dick. Spook him and chase him off. Maybe that’d work (it wouldn’t, but Jason found himself moving towards his brother anyways).

The chink-vhiiip of his grapple offered a familiar rhythm as he launched into the night. Air whistled around him. Nostalgia rose up in his throat, thick and warm and cloying, nearly choking him. He swallowed it back down. The small part of Jason that wanted to run was almost screaming now. He silenced it.

He dropped onto the rooftop across from Nightwing, boots hitting the concrete with a heavy thud. He didn't try to be quiet. There was no point. Nightwing turned, easy and relaxed in the stupid way only Dick could manage.

Jason stared, once again grateful that the helmet hid his entire face. You were on a roof twelve hours ago, he thought, eyes narrowing, reading Dick’s light countenance like the mask it was. And I thought you were going to—

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jason said, cutting the thought off before it drowned him. His voice came out harsher than intended, but whatever. The anger was better than the hot blade pressed up against his throat. It shielded him better than any armor.

Nightwing raised a brow in that smug-asshole way Jason always hated. “You’re a Crime Lord. I’m a vigilante. I’m doing my due diligence.”

He even had the audacity to gesture at the rooftop they were standing on.

“Besides,” he added casually, “this isn’t your territory. Park row ends there—"

He pointed a blue-striped finger across the street.

“—so technically, I’m not in violation of your little border.”

Jason’s fingers twitched at his side. More anger bubbled up inside him, hot and boiling.

Jason fought to keep his voice even. “Are you serious?”

Dick tilted his head, flashing Jason that infuriatingly blinding grin. “Quite.”

Jason stared at him—his stupid trademark smile, his effortless calm. Classic Nightwing. The Golden Boy.

It was a mask. A fucking mask, and Jason knew it.

He breathed in slowly. First of all, fuck you, Dickface.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked lowly, hoping it came out through the modulator as more growl and not as desperate as he was beginning to feel. “Do you have a fucking death wish?”

Dick blinked. “Um—I’m stopping crime?”

“No,” Jason snapped, stepping forward before he could stop himself. The storm of emotion inside him twisted and spiraled—an F5 touching down. “I mean what the hell are you doing? You—you were on a fucking rooftop!”

Jason’s voice broke, and he swallowed hard. His thoughts were a fucking mess. He’d tried to cool off, to escape, to let the adrenaline of patrol and the buzz of the city wash the fire from his veins. Instead, he’d found Dick.

Dick went very, very still. The smile dropped of his face like—well, like glass slipping through his hands and shattering on the floor. He stared at Jason. But there was something else there, too. Almost…panic.

“…How do you—"

“You need to go home,” Jason said, as if it were an order.

Dick was going to get himself fucking killed out here. Another dead bird

Jason was supposed to be the only one that died. It wasn’t supposed to happen to Dick, too.

And yet here he was—stringing himself up and dancing too close to the edge. Dick had already flashed Jason his blinding smile, but Jason knew. He knew how broken his brother had been the night before, looking at Jason like he was seeing a ghost—or completely unable to look at Jason at all.

How many times—how many times did Dick flash that same smile? And blind those who asked? How many times must the show go on? How many times did Dick step behind the crimson curtain—stained red with his own blood—then reappear as if hadn’t just stitched himself back together with smoke and mirrors and sleight of hand?

Jason clenched his fists.

Not anymore. You can’t fool me, Dick.

I see you.

“…How do you know about—?” Dick whispered. He hadn’t moved a muscle. “You weren’t—we didn’t even know about you yet. There’s no way—"

Jason’s pulse thundered in his ears, body still tense.

Shut up. Shut up shut up. Don’t say another word.

He couldn’t tell if he was asking Dick, or himself.

Dick shifted, hands readjusting on his escrima. “Who are you?”

Too far—Jason had gone too far. His mask had cracked and he’d let it.

Jason didn’t breathe. He could feel his heart in his throat. Every instinct demanded he run—but he couldn’t. He was rooted to the cement of the roof, the same way he’d been rooted to the floor of Dick’s living room two nights ago. Unable to move, unable to reach out a hand and pull his brother up from the waves.

A million emotions flickered across Dick’s face as he studied Jason, eyes narrowed.

Don’t see me, Jason thought. Please don’t see me. Not like this.

Jason didn’t get a chance to answer.

(Not that he would have, or even could have, anyways.)

“Hood!”

The moment between them shattered.

Jason turned just in time to see one of his guys—Gavrilo, a newer one—vault up from the fire escape with a gun already drawn.

The moment he clocked the blue bat symbol on Dick’s chest—

He fired.

Jason lunged before his body even registered he’d moved. Maybe it was instinct, or muscle memory, or something much louder than his anger and much older than his grief.

He shoved Dick back and threw himself in the path of the shot, his own weapon rising in the same breath. He heard the bullet whizz past his shoulder and embed itself in the brick of the chimney behind him.

CRACK!

Gavrilo went down screaming, a bullet in his bicep. His gun clattered to the concrete. Gavrilo’s bloody fingers scrabbled at it. Before he could do something even more stupid, Jason kicked it away. It skittered across the rooftop and out of reach.

“Stand down, you idiot!” Jason roared, voice booming through the helmet’s modulator. “He’s not a fucking threat!”

Only then did Jason realize how quiet the rooftop had become. His ragged breathing was loud in his ears, the gunshot echoing and echoing and echoing—first between the buildings, and then between the bones of his ribs and skull. He wondered if Dick could hear how hard his heart was beating.

Gun smoke curled lazily in the air between them. Gavrilo gurgled and whimpered where he laid on the concrete, crimson fingers clutching his sluggishly bleeding arm.

Dick was still behind him. Jason didn’t dare look.

What the fuck did I just do?

He quickly redirected the rising flood of fear and panic inside him.

“Gavrilo,” he barked, gun still pointed at the young man on the ground before him. He squeezed the metal tight to keep his hands from shaking. “The next one goes between your fucking eyes.”

Gavrilo nodded hastily, fear visible on his face. He scampered down the fire escape seconds later.

It got horridly quiet again. Jason still hadn’t turned around.

“…Why would you do that?”

Jason’s stomach plummeted to the first floor of the building they were standing on, taking blood and breath with it. His heart was trying to beat it’s way out of his ribs—thump thump thumping against bone and lung like a bird in a cage.

His fingers curled tighter around his gun, trigger finger itching—but there was no enemy to aim at. Just Jason and his brother. His mind scrambled for something to say, but he came up empty.

So Jason didn’t answer. Because what, pray tell, in the fuck was he supposed to say?

I did it because I love you.

Because I died and what it did to you is killing me.

Because if I turn around you might never look at me the same. I could survive death, Dick—I did. But I don’t know if I could survive you looking at me like the monster we all know I am. As if I was better off dead.

Jason’s brain was still floundering, his back still turned to his brother when he heard shuffling from the chimney behind him.

Jason’s head snapped up.

Someone else was here.

“Night, Timmy,” Dick whispered, running a featherlight hand through’s Tim’s hair.

Tim stirred, rolling over and cracking an eye open. “Yer goin’ out?” he mumbled, bringing up a hand to rub at his groggy eyes.

Dick flashed him a small, guilty smile. “I gotta, Timmy. I can’t…” he trailed off, a sad look in his eyes. “I just have to.”

He continued running a light hand through Tim’s hair. He wished Dick would stay. He didn’t want Dick to go out—with everything that had happened, Tim thought it was a really bad idea.

But Tim also knew there was nothing he could do to stop Dick.

Dick leaned closer and pecked Tim on the forehead. He smelled like kevlar and mint from the gel he used to keep his hair out of his face. Tim liked it—he smelled like home. 

And Tim had never had something be like…home before.

“I’ll be back, I promise. I’ll even come in and give you a squeeze okay?” Dick tapped a finger on Tim’s nose; he giggled in response. “Just don’t wait up for me, okay? I’ve called you out of school for the rest of the week, but you still need to get good sleep.”

Tim nodded, his tiredness already beginning to fade, replaced with a familiar giddy excitement. “I promise, Dick.”

Dick smiled and stood. “Alright, sweetheart. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Tim rolled over with a faked yawn. “See you in the morning.”

The door closed behind Dick with a soft click. Tim waited exactly fourteen minutes.

Then sprang out of bed.

Dick was always the easiest Bat to follow, anyways.

Jason whirled, finger tensing against the trigger, already preparing for another one of his dumbass guys trying to pull something stupid—

His brain, unfortunately, was still buffering.

“Tim?”

The name slipped out before Jason could wrench it back.

The half-shadowed figure peeking out from behind the chimney—the chimney with a fucking bullet embedded in it—squeaked and disappeared back behind the brick. But it was already too late.

Dick rounded on Jason instantly. He stepped into Jason’s line of sight, all righteous fury and crackling blue light flickering over his face. His mouth was curled into something venomous.

“How the fuck do you know him?” Dick snarled, muscles pulled taught and ready to pounce.

Jason’s thoughts skipped and stuttered like a scratched record. He tried to reel it all back in, desperately searching for something to say that wouldn’t make everything worse. But his brain was waterlogged and salt-encrusted. He felt his ears clog, his limbs leaden.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen. Dick wasn’t supposed to be out here. Tim wasn’t supposed to be out here. This life…it was separate from that.

The gentleness in Dick’s voice, the hope in his eyes when Jason had promised to call—it would all evaporate the second he figured out what Jason was. The door would slam shut and there’d be no coming back. Jason would forever be left on the outside.

His throat burned. He still felt raw—every nerve exposed, crackling and dangerous. His lungs constricted, the armor squeezing him, pulling him down. The helmet was suffocating.

(…and it stung, just a little, that Dick thought he would hurt Tim. Even if Dick didn’t know who he was. Yet.)

The night air rushed back in and ice cold shock pulled him from his spiraling thoughts.

Tim was what…eleven?

What the actual fuck was he doing here?

“What the hell are you doing here, kid?” he said, voice sharp. The modulator crackled it out as a growl.

Tim had moved behind Dick, dressed in black sweatpants and a hoodie. He peaked around Dick’s leg and locked eyes with Jason.

He had a feeling the kid was looking through the helmet, to the man underneath. I know who you are, his intelligent blue eyes seemed to say.

It unsettled Jason, and he fought the urge twitch. He remembered their conversation in the kitchen—Jason had asked two questions, and Tim had answered both.

And now he was here, on a rooftop, where he could’ve been fucking shot.

His gazed dropped to where Tim stood—barely and arm’s length from Dick, his body angled toward him. Almost…defensive.

He’s not scared, Jason realized. The little munchkin isn’t scared at all.

He was protecting Dick, too. That’s why he came out here.

Because Dick had been on the roof last night. Dick had been dissociating and spiraling and Tim and been there to pull him back.

And now Dick was out here, doing God knows what, while Tim sat at home and waited for him to come back—not knowing when or how. Or if he would even come back at all.

Jason got it now.

He looked up, back at Dick, and—

Fuck.

Jason swore internally. He could feel the intensity of Dick’s eyes as his gaze flicked between them, clocking the invisible thread. Something shifted behind the white lenses of his big brother’s domino: recognition.

Dick was thinking. He was putting the pieces together, because he of course he fucking was—he was fucking Dick Grayson.

The thick tension reached down Jason’s throat and choked him. He shifted where he stood, just barely, but Dick’s eyes zeroed in on him like a sniper scope.

And, in that moment, Jason knew.

Dick was staring right through the red metal—through every wall Jason had ever built between them in his absence—and looking. Right. At. Him.

Dick stepped forward.

Jason stepped back.

Then, so softly, with so much raw, open reverence that Jason felt sick, Dick spoke.

“Little Wing?”

When the Joker had beat Jason to death, it had been agony. But then again, agony wasn’t strong enough to describe the kind of pain that clown had inflicted upon him. Agony. It was too short, too quick, over and out of your mouth before you could taste the iron (was it his blood, or the crowbar, that burned the metallic tang on his tongue?). Even pain and horror and torture could never articulate the kind of nightmarish, sadistic torment that Jason had endured. But—there it is again: another word that fell short—nightmare. Because it wasn’t a nightmare, was it? It was real, and it had happened, and Jason had endured it.

Well, no. Jason hadn’t endured it. He’d lost. He’d been murdered. He’d died.

He’d died screaming. He’d died waiting. He’d died crying and alone and scared and in so much pain there were no words in any language to even capture the essence of it.

Right now—with the way Dick was looking at him—he felt like he was back on that goddamned warehouse floor, feeling his very soul being torn from his body. Drained from his blood, peeled from his bones, ripped from his skin. Wrenched open. Split apart. Exposed.

Jason felt exposed.

Dick had taken that blinding fucking spotlight off himself and turned the full force of it on Jason.

What do you see, Dick?

Dick stepped forward.

Jason stepped back.

His muscles tensed, jaw locking—bracing for a punch, or a scream, or an escrima to the ribs. He would look at Tim if he could break away from the intensity of his Dick’s gaze.

He had asked him two questions. Tim had answered both.

Jason’s chest rose and fell in rapid bursts. Panic slithered up his spine, cold and gripping. It squeezed his lungs. His body shook like was back between the four wooden walls of his coffin, beneath six feet of indifferent soil, running out of air and Bruce, Bruce, please help m—

The panic took and took and took until it swallowed everything and there was only one thing left.

“You’re the Red Hood.”

A crowbar to the ribs. Metal in his mouth. An accusation? Confirmation?

Jason…didn’t deny it. There was no fucking point, anyways.

Dick’s breath stuttered, caught somewhere in his throat as if he couldn’t get it to leave his body. His face twisted and twitched like he didn’t know which expression to wear—anger? Disbelief? Sorrow? He looked—

Lost. He looked lost.

No—it was something else. Dick’s hands trembled, his wrist twitching. His jaw worked uselessly; words would not come. Beneath the domino, Jason could see his brother’s eyes searching the helmet, the armor, as if seeing him for the first time—trying to make sense of the stranger turned not-stranger standing in front of him. Dick’s body stood frozen as if panic had a its chilly fingers around his throat, too.

So no. Dick did not look lost.

He looked like he was losing.

The panic, the fear, the anger (the desperation, God there was so much desperation Jason was drowning in it) all rose up inside Jason like a great battle. But anger won out, as it always did.

“You think I wanted you to find out like this?” He snapped, putting as much ferocity into his words as he possibly could. He buried any tremor beneath the modulator and his teeth.

He clenched his fists to stop them from shaking. Dick did the same, as if trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will. Tim was still at his side with an unreadable expression on his face. Jason couldn’t focus over the panic threatening to pull him down to the concrete below. But if he could, he might have called it hope.

Jason shifted his stance in preparation for a fight. He raised his defenses so he wouldn’t be drowned. His body knew this was a battlefield, but Dick was not the enemy. It was the raw, open, sheer vulnerability. The sting after being unmasked so forcefully.

“Jas—"

No. No no no. Nope—no. Too much. Hearing Dick say his name—so soft, so broken, so pleading—it was all too much and Jason simply couldn’t run fast enough while still standing in front of Dick. 

For a second time, he fled. Down the fire escape. Off the roof. Away, fucking away—

Whether Dick followed, Jason didn’t know. He never looked back.

The rooftop was silent as the grave.

Dick’s hand was still outstretched, as if he could grasp the absence Jason had left behind.

Tim was at his side. He slowly brought the hand down to wrap around the kid’s shoulders.

“Let’s go home, Tim.”

Chapter Text

Jason had ditched the helmet the second he stumbled through his apartment door, caught in the eye of an emotional hurricane. His head was an echo chamber, every thought ricocheting against the inside of his skull. The red metal had only made it worse—amplifying each reverberation, bouncing back the thoughts until they rattled his very bones.

“Time and grave are nothing.”

“You’re the Red Hood.”

“I asked you for one more miracle, Little Wing. I asked you to stop being dead.”

He tore off the rest of his armor like it was on fire. And maybe, it was—it had burned his brother, after all. The shower was cold, and he’d scrubbed at each scar as if he could erase the past from his body.

But no amount of scrubbing could wash away him.

“Little Wing?”

Dick’s face was seared behind Jason’s eyelids—the disbelief, the ache in his big brother’s tone that yanked on Jason’s heart. It gnawed at him—skin to bone—until he couldn’t stop shaking. Until his skin tightened around him the second he sat still. Henry had called and left a voicemail—some stupid message about the dealer Jason had caught last night and where he got his stuff—but Jason ignored it. His head was too full, and the looming breakdown over holy shit I have a fucking snitch threatened to kick him right over the edge. So he paced.

Now, the serenity of late afternoon sunlight slipping through his open curtains mocked his internal spiral with cruel warmth. His anxious footsteps thudded against the wood floor.

Dick knew now.

Every beheading. Every savage act. Every bullet, every life. All the blood the Red Hood has shed.

Dick knew it was him.

The hands that held the gun—those were the same ones that clung to his brother’s shirt in the dead of night, desperate to not fall back into the dark.

His brother knew.

And Jason had absolutely zero fucking idea what to do with that—no box he could fit that Goliath of a revelation into, no mental shelf sturdy enough to hold the weight of that knowing. Jason ran another trembling hand through his two-toned hair and down his scarred face.

In the back of his mind, an old, familiar British voice chided him for pacing a hole in the floorboards. Jason swallowed it down with a fresh wave of panic.

Would Dick tell Bruce?

They were talking again. Dick was living in Gotham for fuck’s sake—back in the orbit of the Bat. When Jason was R—

Jason nearly choked on the name.

Before, he settled on. Before.

Before, Dick and Bruce could barely last twenty minutes in the same room without tension coiling around them like a too-tight spring.

What if Dick tells Bruce?

The thought sent the walls of the apartment drawing closer—pressing in, like the bones of his own ribs were squeezing his lungs.

So much about being the Red Hood was about being seen. Hell, Jason had built the whole persona around being noticed—seen by the city, by its scum, by him.

The Batman. His father.

His father who had moved on. His father who had left him unavenged. His father who let Jason’s killer go free when Jason had to be tortured to death, cold and alone and scared and Dick, please come back I’m sorry I need you—

Jason had wanted to be the ghost, the vengeance, the thing that haunted his family. He thought it would feel gratifying. Give him back the power that the Joker had took from him. Ease the sting of betrayal when his father never bust down the doors of that stupid warehouse to save him like Batman saved everyone else.

But it didn’t.

Jason had gotten what he’d asked for, alright. The ghosthood.

And all it did was make him feel dead again.

(Jason shoved the small present toward Dick with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

“Here. Happy birthday, Dickie.”

Dick took the present as if were made of glass. He stared at it—then at Jason, eyes wide, mouth flapping like he forgot how to speak.

Jason scoffed, flush creeping up his neck. “Just open it.”

Dick tore at the neat wrapping—courtesy of Alfred—to reveal a book.

Not just any book—a photo album.

The cover picture was a selfie Jason had snapped of the two of them—faces squished together, half laughing, half smiling, their blue eyes bright under the flash. Dick opened it and gasped.

Six months ago, he and Dick had been rooting around in the Manor attic. Bruce was off in space for a few days, and the Manor felt…big, when Bruce wasn’t around to fill it with sheer presence. Jason always hated it, and Dick must’ve too—he stayed with Jason all three days Bruce was gone.

Bruce and Dick were on…okay terms. Dick was trying—for Jason. 

Jason wished he didn’t have to.

But in that attic, they’d found an ancient camera: a Polaroid Impulse 600, to be exact. They weren’t even sure if the dusty thing even worked. But then Jason had found some film—and an idea.

Dick’s birthday was coming up.

So Jason had spent the next six months carrying it around, just…snapping stuff. Little things. Everything that reminded him of his older brother. Jason knew how important memories were to Dick. All the people he loved were there—folded into the warm, eternal embrace of Dick’s mind to live on forever. 

Jason had wanted to find a way to…give that to him.

Dick flipped through the album, lips parted, fingers ghosting over each picture with so much awe that Jason really didn’t know what to do with himself. Dick could be so weird sometimes, and right now was one of those times—when he got all quiet and reverent when Jason would do the most basic things.

Things like giving him a birthday present.

There was that one of them on patrol, looking like dorks in their gear, perched on Jason’s favorite gargoyle. Another of Ace napping in the sun after a long, hard day of begging Alfred for scraps. Bruce in the ugliest Christmas sweater Jason could find. The two of them covered in flour, a faintly amused Alfred in the background. Jason in his junior league Gotham Knights uniform, grinning like an idiot with his home run ball in hand. Dick smiling behind a (horrendous and hardly edible) dinner he’d cooked for Jason at his Blüdhaven apartment.

All those dumb little moments that meant nothing to anyone else, but felt like everything to Jason. And he hoped, by extension, everything to Dick. Because the album was filled with them being brothers. It was immortalized now.

Forever.

“Jay…” Dick said, voice cracking. His eyes were shiny. “I—this—“

“Alright, save it, Dickie. You’re gonna give me hives.”

Dick set the book down and suddenly Jason was pulled into a hug. Jason squawked on instinct, but didn’t pull away. He didn’t want to.

Dick tucked his chin on top of Jason’s head like some kind of over-emotional giraffe and just…held on. And Jason let him.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Jason could tell he wanted to say more—he could feel it in his big brother’s chest. Jason never knew how to say things the way Dick did. There were moments that were just so full and Jason simply didn’t know how to say what he wanted to say.

So he didn’t. 

Instead, he handed love to his big brother not in a grand declaration, but in a small incandescent truth:

The truth of being loved in a language older than words. One of moments, presence, and the quiet miracle of being remembered.

Jason loved his older brother.)

Time and grave are nothing. That’s what Dick had said.

Maybe, it didn’t just mean that for Dick. Maybe, neither time nor grave to sever Jason from his big brother, just as Dick wouldn’t let time nor grave sever him from Jason.

Jason’s body moved. He knew where he was going this time.

Jason sat outside of Dick’s apartment for a long time. It was dark, the smoggy sky obscuring the moon and stars. His feet had carried him to a crumbling bus stop on the corner—the kind nobody used anymore except to deal or smoke. Broken glass crunched beneath his boots as he sat down on the rusted metal bench. Grass grew through cracks in the cement. From this particular spot, Jason could see Dick’s east-facing apartment window. The kitchen light was on.

Jason wondered what his brother was doing; if Nightwing had gone out, Henry would’ve notified him by now. And after several texts asking after Jason’s personal matter, Henry had given up on trying to figure out if the Red Hood was patrolling tonight (his answer was a resounding no.)

Jason never felt more like a ghost in his life. The line, he’d realized, between haunting and memory was very thin—and Jason walked that razor wire every night.

So he sat—in full gear, head tipped back against the cool metal of the bus stop awning. His helmet was in his lap, only the domino over his eyes. He couldn’t…he didn’t want to be all of him right now.

He told himself he’d only stay five minutes. He just…wanted to watch. To see.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

Then—thirty minutes later—a figure appeared beside him. Jason tensed, gloved fingers curling tight against his pants, but he didn’t look up. The presence was soft and familiar. He’d been so lost in his head he hadn't even heard them approach.

But he knew who it was. He would always know.

“You planning on catching a ride somewhere?”

Jason snorted softly. Of course he’d start with something stupid.

The old bench creaked as Dick sat down beside Jason—not right next to him, but not too far, either. He caught a whiff of oregano and that mint hair gel he always used wafting off Dick’s blue hoodie.

Nostalgia slapped Jason clean across the face. It filled him up, slowly, like warm water, until he had to blink the onslaught of memories from his eyes. He swallowed hard. He didn’t trust his voice, so he didn’t speak.

The light above the old bus stop buzzed softly—moths fluttered about its yellowed glow. Jason stared down at the helmet in his lap. He couldn’t look at his brother.

It was quiet for a long time. The silence was heavy—as if it were full of things too big for mere words, packed with a grief too intricate for simple English. Jason wondered if Dick felt the same way. He wanted to know what Dick was thinking.

Finally, he got his answer:

“Can I…” He swallowed hard, nodding toward the domino. “Can I take it off?”

Jason looked up, heart fluttering in his chest. He didn’t know what he was expecting to find in his brother’s gaze—hate? Disgust? Disappointment?

There was no going back now.

“Why?”

“I…I want to see your eyes.”

Slowly, Jason turned toward Dick. He hesitated—the fear of Dick seeing him in all his bloodstained glory still very real and very present. The instinct to protect himself, to hide all but screamed in protest. But Jason nodded anyways. Dick reached out, fingers brushing against Jason’s temple as he slowly and gently peeled the mask away.

Jason’s teal eyes met Dick’s sapphire ones. For some stupid reason, Jason instantly felt the urge to cry. He bit his cheek to stop his eyes from watering.

Dick was looking at him like he was real.

Not a ghost. Not a hallucination or whatever cursed thing that had been haunting his brother in Jason’s place for God knows how long.

Just…Jason.

Dick set the mask aside and reached out again—this time, for Jason’s hand. He gently pushed up the sleeve of Jason’s leather jacket, sliding his finger beneath Jason’s glove to feel the pulse point on his wrist.

Dick’s voice was still a cracked whisper when he spoke. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jason let out a bitter laugh, a flash of anger igniting in his chest. “Are you serious? What the hell was I supposed to say, Dick? ‘Hey Dickie—I’m back from the dead and oh! By the way! I’ve killed people!’ What would you have done? What was I supposed to do?”

But just as fast as the anger lit, the fire died out, leaving him cold. Jason licked his lips and looked away—but he didn’t pull his hand back. Dick didn’t answer. It got really quiet; Jason could hear the moths plinking against the glass of the light above them. He took a deep, shaky breath.

“Because…” Jason all but whispered. “I didn’t know how. You…I just—“ He ran his free hand through his hair.

Because a killer slept on the couch one door down from your kid. Because you were looking at me like you couldn’t even believe I was alive.

Because you were so happy that I was alive.

“Because every version of this,” Jason continued, voice wavering, “ended with you looking at me like I wasn’t your little brother anymore. Because being…what I am…meant I couldn’t be your little brother anymore. You would look at me like I was just some thing wearing his face. I couldn’t—Dick, I’ve—”

Jason felt like he was unraveling—like someone had found the loose string of his soul and pulled on that motherfucker. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dick’s face crack.

“You know who I am now,” he said, voice low. “You know what I’ve done. I was…I was dead—"

Dick flinched, but Jason barreled on. He couldn’t stop now, not even if he wanted to. It was pouring out of him and he couldn’t dam it all back up. He kept his eyes averted, not wanting to meet his brother’s gaze or see the new scars that marked his face.

“—and when I came back, I wasn’t the same. I didn’t know if I even counted as—as Jason anymore.”

And the Joker was still alive, he thought but didn’t say. And Bruce had abandoned me, even in death.

The words were out now. Jason felt hollow—like he’d scraped out all his ugly insides and presented them to his brother. Jason blinked, lashes wet. His eyes were glued to a crack in the cement next to Dick’s worn sneaker.

Dick’s other hand hooked a finger around Jason’s chin and gently lifted it, forcing Jason to look at him. With his thumb, he ghosted the horrid J scar on Jason’s cheek. Jason closed his eyes as a few hot tears spilled over.

“Little Wing,” Dick said. “I need you to look at me.”

Jason flinched, as if the name physically struck him. He felt broken open. The child inside him—the one he thought he’d killed and left in the ground—opened his eyes and stepped out of Jason’s ribcage. His breathing shallowed.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t call me that if you don’t mean it.”

I could survive death, Dick—I did. But I don’t know if I could survive you looking at me like the monster we all know I am.

“I do mean it.”

Jason’s breathing hitched. He blinked fast, but it didn’t stop the tears. He looked up at his brother—and he saw hope.

“You’re my Little Wing,” his brother said, with a kind of firm finality that soothed Jason’s broken heart. “I told you—time and grave are nothing, remember?”

Dick let go of Jason’s wrist and cheek—and pulled him into a tight hug. Jason stiffened at first, unsure of what to do. He raised his arms, gearing up to push Dick away out of instinct. But…he didn’t.

And God, had Jason wanted to do just that—have his big brother wrap his strong arms around him and tell him that everything was going to be alright. That he was okay. That he wasn’t a monster.

Maybe now he…could.

He wrapped his arms around Dick, squeezing him back. Dick was here—and he smelled like mint and oregano and he gave the same hugs and he still loved Jason. 

Jason wanted to sob. He could feel the dam inside him breaking loose, water and tears threatening to drown him. But he swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut.

He still had shit to do tonight, after all.

But as for right now, he could afford to stay in the strong, warm arms of his big brother for a little while longer.

Jason pulled away only when he was sure he wouldn’t cry. Dick had scooted closer, their shoulders brushing. The streetlight above them flickered. Jason absently wondered how long it’d been since he first sat down—it could’ve been five hundred years or five minutes.

Vulnerability was winding its way through Jason’s skin, and he fought to not squirm. He cleared his throat and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Jesus. We’re getting really touchy-feely out here,” he muttered.

Dick grinned a stupid grin that made Jason want to punch him in the arm. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone and ruin your…image.”

Jason punched Dick in arm. He squawked, dramatic, and Jason rolled his eyes.

Silence fell over them again, but it wasn’t as heavy this time. Jason looked down at the helmet in his lap.

“There’s, uh…” he mumbled. “Something. Tomorrow night.”

Dick eyed him, brow slightly raised.

Jason’s cheeks warmed. “You…down?”

Dick’s face broke into a small smile. “Of course, Jay.”

He bumped their shoulders together. “Big Wing and Little Wing, kicking ass and taking names?”

“Don’t push it.”

Dick ran through one final check of his gear before flipping on the stove light. The apartment was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the AC unit or the occasional thrum of tires on pavement as a car passed below.

He reached for his escrima sticks sitting on the counter—but instead of grabbing them, his fingers just kind of…hovered. He leaned up against the kitchen island, rubbing his temples with his gloved hands.

Jason had asked him for help. His little brother had asked him for help.

Dick had always known the word didn’t split cleanly into right and wrong. Bruce always had his lines—his walls, more like—that he’d drawn decades ago and would never cross. Rigid and inflexible and yes—these were good. If they weren’t, he’d be a tyrant. Not a vigilante. Judge, jury, and executioner, though he himself was imperfect. His judgment, his deliberation, his execution.

The Batman doesn’t kill.

Bruce doesn’t kill because no one deserves to die.

And the thing is, Batman would never cross that line. The walls were too high and too thick and too old. No matter how suffocating, no matter how many times he would drop off a criminal at the station just to watch them walk out the next morning, Batman would never push someone into their own grave—regardless of whether they had dug it with their own two hands.

(Bruce was never supposed to be faced with that question, because Jason was never supposed to die.)

But Dick…his morality was more like a palm than a wall—anchored to the ground, but bending in the wind. Dick, too, had lines he’d never cross. He’d packed up abusers and sent them to the precinct, only to watch them walk free the next morning and kill their partner that night.

And then his little brother had been murdered.

And he’d watched his father fall apart, his violent grief turning him into someone Dick no longer recognized. Maybe Dick, too, became someone else entirely. Warm clay in grief’s cold hands—it was easier to be molded than to hang on to who he was. Jason had taken a piece of Dick with him when he’d died, anyway. 

But he was back now. And he’d asked Dick for help.

Jason didn’t draw lines—or at least, none that Dick could see, and certainly none that Bruce would see. Jason tore them up, pulling them from the ground and anchoring them to nothing but himself. Judge, jury, executioner. 

But despite that—maybe even because of that?—Dick had pulled his little brother close last night and said I love you in everything but words. Because he did. 

(He’d stepped off a roof with the promise of seeing him again.)

Sometimes, Dick had nightmares about the roof. Standing, in the rain, a small hand in his. He’d be overwhelmed with this sense of…peace. Finality, almost. Quiet. Calm. Hush. Another step, and he’d be back with his little brother. Another step and he could fly again.

Let me rest, Little Wing. I’m done.

And then—he’d bolt upright, stomach swooping, heart racing. He’d nearly trip over himself, scrambling as quietly as possible to Tim’s room. Gently, he’d crack open the door, and watch the little boy’s chest rise and fall. Dick would match Tim’s breathing to his own as sweat cooled on his brow.

I’m here, Tim, he’d think as his heart tried to escape his rib cage. I’m staying. I’m not leaving. 

I love you.

Trying to fall back asleep after those dreams always proved difficult.

Dick heaved a sigh. He needed to go. Jason was waiting on him at their rendezvous.

Jason didn’t need fixing. He was doing what he thought was best, just and Dick and Bruce were. But maybe…maybe Dick could be a little voice in the back of his brother’s mind—the one that said you’re not a monster. I love you and you don’t have to stay in the dark anymore. And if Jason didn’t believe that yet, well—Dick would just have to believe enough for the both of them.

Dick abandoned his escrimas, instead reaching for his laptop to review his notes on Jason’s crew. If he was going to help his little brother, he needed to know what he was walking into.

Plus—checking the backgrounds of your kid brother’s friends was just what big brothers did.

Jason—for his part—had done a thorough job of keeping his crew off the Bat’s radar. Most of them were small time criminals or people in tough spots. But there was one in particular…

Dick scrolled down, eyes flitting over various mugshots and GCPD records.

Ah—Jason’s second.

Henry Stone.

He was double-crossing Red Hood, that much was obvious. Little things here and there. Dick was surprised Jason didn’t know. 

Dick huffed a laugh. Jason would know, soon enough. No one double crossed his little brother and got away with it.

Dick grabbed his escrimas before he could hesitate again. He secured them to his back with a click—but before he could secure his domino, his phone buzzed on the countertop.

Dick glanced over at the lit screen. 

Bruce: Be safe out there, chum.

Dick sighed, rubbing his eyes. He couldn’t tell Bruce—not yet. If Bruce found out Jason was the Red Hood—the killer they’d been tracking for the past six months—it would ruin the small, fragile hope growing between Dick and his little brother. Bruce would turn it into a mission, a showdown, an extraction—judge and jury. And Dick would lose Jason all over again.

And Dick was not going to let that happen. Not under any fucking circumstances.

He typed out a quick smiley face and set his phone back on the counter. Whatever it takes, he thought as he secured his domino to his face. No one has to know.

Dick would keep Bruce out of it. Hell, he would keep everyone out of it. Jason was his Little Wing. Jason had trusted Dick. Jason—scared and alone, up to his wrists in blood, having broken the only rule Batman never touched—had come to him. To Dick, because Dick was his big brother and he trusted him.

A soft shuffling broke Dick from his thoughts. Tim stood in the hallway, drowning in Dick’s blue hoodie, his red blanket around his shoulders.

“You heading out?” Tim asked, rubbing his tired eyes.

Dick closed the laptop slowly. “Yeah, Timmy.”

“Okay. Be safe.”

Dick’s heart cracked in his chest. Guilt wound its way around his ribs, settling its heavy weight right between his lungs. 

He’d done some research on the Drakes and their shitty parenting—enough to get Bruce to start gathering evidence for a custody case. And the more Bruce’s lawyers’ dug up, the uglier Tim’s home life became.

Dick knew, in this moment, he was acting just like Jack and Janet Drake.

He walked over and knelt to Tim’s level. His eyes were misty. Dick’s heart fissured a little bit more.

“Are you okay?” Dick asked softly, but he already knew the answer.

Tim just sniffed and looked down. His little shoulders came up in a small shrug.

Dick hesitated. He wanted to stay. In reality, he probably should. He felt torn—one little brother needing him here, another needing him out there. It was a terrible feeling, one that pulled his heart apart by the cracks.

He gently reached up and cupped Tim’s face. They hadn’t talked about what had happened on the roof. Had Dick wanted Tim there? Fuck, no. A bullet had embedded in the chimney he was hiding behind. That—that could’ve been a bullet embedded in Tim! 

But Dick knew, deep down—in the part that recognized something achingly familiar (achingly Robin) in Tim—that there was nothing he could do to get Tim to stay.

Tim sniffed again, and Dick gently wiped away a few stray tears with his thumbs.

“I—" he began softly, “I’m going—"

“To get Jason,” Tim said, voice small. “To…bring him back.”

Dick pulled Tim into a tight hug. The little boy buried his face in the crook of Dick’s neck. He was warm.

“Yeah,” Dick said, running a hand through Tim’s hair. “Yeah, Timmy. But I promise—I’ll always come back to you, okay?”

“M’kay,” Tim said. His little fingers curled into the hair at the nape of Dick’s neck.

Dick squeezed his eyes shut. This isn’t right, he thought, gently scooping Tim up and carrying him to bed. It shouldn’t…he shouldn’t say that. 

Once Tim was settled into bed, he pressed a kiss to the little boy’s forehead. “I will always come back to you, Timmy. I promise.”

Dick quietly shut the door behind him. He exhaled slowly, trying to dislodge some of the guilt in his chest.

Warm air greeted Nightwing as he opened his window and quietly slipped out into the night.

His Little Wing was waiting for him.

Chapter Text

Never—not even for a second—did Jason ever doubt that Dick would show up. What kept his jaw tight and his heart flighty wasn’t if. Jason was more concerned about…how.

Jason stood in the trashed living room of an abandoned apartment, its walls stained with water damage and lewd graffiti, the air thick with dust and mildew. The rickety table in front of him bore his arsenal, the gleaming steel glinting in the dim light. He’d cleaned them all earlier—every blade honed, every gun checked, every clip reloaded. Not because he was nervous, of course. He’d just…needed something useful to do while his thoughts circled and spiraled and bounced around his skull.

Now, one by one, he slid each piece back into place—knives into thigh sheaths, smoke bombs into jacket pockets, a grapple line hooked into his belt. His fingers, as much as he was trying to keep them busy, betrayed him with a slight tremor. His leather gloves squeaked when he clenched his fists to stop it.

Any second now.

Dick—Nightwing—was coming. 

“Alright, Hood,” Henry called from across the room, hunched over a crinkled blueprint of the warehouse they were hitting tonight. “You got your schematics loaded up in that thing?” He gestured toward the helmet, smoke curling lazily off the lit cigarette between his fingers.

Henry had been able to pinpoint the warehouse manufacturing the tainted drugs Jason had caught that dealer selling the previous night. A little more digging had found that they were beginning to snoop around the schools in the Park Row District—which for Jason, was unacceptable. They needed to be dealt with.

Plus—it seemed like an…easy first mission run with his brother.

Jason slid his final set of kunai into his pants pocket and nodded. His eyes found the glowing tip of Henry’s cigarette. His nerves felt like frayed string he was trying to shove through a needle’s eye.

Henry must’ve read Jason’s…vibes—because the next second he was digging through his jacket pocket. 

“You want one?” he offered, holding the pack out to Jason. 

Jason gave him a look beneath the helmet. Henry laughed under his breath and raised his hands in mock surrender, cigarette still between his fingers.

“Alright, alright—I was just tryna help. You’ve been on edge since…well, you looked like you could use one. You’ve been strung tighter than a piano string for fuckin’ days, boss.”

Jason ignored him with an eye roll (that he knew Henry couldn’t see, but the intention was there) and double-checked the slide on his sidearm. Henry took Jason’s silence as an opening to keep yapping.

“But then—you’d have to take off that busted cherry pill to smoke anyway, huh?” He smirked. “And then we’d all find out you’ve been hidin’ one hell of an ugly mug all this time—"

A kunai whizzed past his face, burying itself in the wall an inch from his ear with a thunk.

Henry yelped, stumbling back. “Hey! Shit, man!”

Jason didn’t even look up from where he was tightening the straps on his holsters. Henry couldn’t see the smirk, but Jason knew damn well that he could feel it. And that was all that mattered.

Grumbling, Henry crushed his cigarette in the trash and went back to his blueprints. “Damn. Alright. Noted.”

A beat of blessed silence passed, just long enough for worry to creep back into Jason’s muscles.

Thankfully—but rather unhelpfully—Henry spoke again.

“When’s your mystery ‘help’ showing up, anyway? If you don’t leave for the docks in the next ten, they’ll have already ditched the lab.”

Jason stiffened with a grimace, once again thankful the helmet hid his entire face. He clicked a fresh mag into place and holstered his final pistol.

Dick was coming—Jason didn’t doubt that. He just…hadn’t told his crew who the backup was. Jason’s whole M.O. was fuck Batman, and he didn’t think his lackeys (most of whom enthusiastically shared that sentiment) would be overly thrilled about working with…a Bat.

They didn’t really have a choice, because Jason didn’t really care.

Because he’d asked—

And Dick had said yes.

That was all that mattered.

A sharp knock at the door cut through the silence.

Jason was moving before the sound even echoed, gun locked and loaded in his hand, muscles coiled and ready to spring.

Knocking wasn’t exactly a Bat thing.

Henry heaved long, put-upon sigh. “Jesus, Hood,” he muttered, heading for the door. “Would it kill you to just—relax?”

Yes, Jason thought, gun still pointed at the door. 

(He’d let his guard down when he’d hugged his mom in that warehouse. That had allowed the Joker to—)

Before Jason could stop him, Henry pulled the door open with a creak. Standing in the doorway, just and terrified and rumpled as last time, was—

“Ah, Ben!”

If Jason could face palm without looking stupid, he would have.

Ben was standing there, breathless and slightly sweaty, arms full of…a toolbox?

Jason lowered his gun a fraction.

The toolbox was huge and dented, its once-red surface now brown and chipped. Ben clutched it with both hands like it might contain nuclear codes instead of, presumably, a wrench. He looked past Henry—spotting Jason’s weapon—and froze, eyes growing wide.

“What the hell is that?” Jason asked, gun still raised.

“You said to bring tools,” Ben said, casting a nervous glance back at Henry.

Henry burst out laughing. “No, Ben—I was just messin’ with you. You really brought the damn toolbox?”

Ben blinked, still standing in the doorway of the crappy apartment. “…You said it kind of serious.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the fun part, Benny Boy. You’re new here. It comes with the territory.” Henry clapped him on the shoulder. Ben scrambled to keep the clunky toolbox from tumbling out of his grasp. “I just wanted to see if you’d actually do it.”

Henry ushered Ben inside with another chuckle and closed the door behind him. Jason reholstered his gun, wondering if it was worth exposing his identity so he could rub his temples to stave off the headache growing there.

“Henry—"

“You know he’s double-crossing you, right?”

Several things happened at once:

First, the toolbox hit the floor with a near-deafening metallic clang.

Second, Henry froze like he’d just been turned to stone—like someone had flipped a switch and all his muscles stopped working.

Third, Jason had his gun out again before the words had even finished leaving Nightwing’s mouth.

Dick stood just inside the now-open window, arms crossed over his chest, unbothered. His smile was cocky—fucking annoyingly so—but Jason read it, just like he always could. There was an intensity behind those whited-out lenses, one that said I highly suggest you rethink all of your life decisions right the fuck now.

Ben, the poor bastard, had stumbled back so hard he nearly slammed into the door. He had a white knuckle grip on the doorknob, ready to bolt.

“Don’t worry, champ,” Dick said breezily, flashing Ben a dazzling grin that somehow made everything worse. “Unless—gosh, don’t tell me you’re in on it too?”

Ben paled, spectacularly—so much so that Jason briefly worried the guy might either pass out or throw up or both at the same damn time. He shook his head so vehemently Jason was sure he was going to concuss himself.

Dick’s smile sharpened.

“Wonderful,” he said, shifting his gaze back to Henry, who still hadn’t moved—hell, hadn’t breathed.

Jason’s gun was still up, but his fingers ached with how tight he was holding it. Dick stepped further into the room.

“So, Hood—you do know he’s double-crossing you, right?” he nodded toward Henry.

Jason didn’t answer—not for a long, drawn out moment where no one moved and the only sound was the rats scurrying in the walls of the shitty apartment. Jason stared at Dick—because what the fuck?

Did Dick seriously vet all his guys?

Honestly, the little brother in Jason wanted to punch Dick. The crime boss in him wanted to shoot Dick in the foot. Jason did neither. Instead, he exhaled slowly through gritted teeth. The sound rasped out through the modulator, warped into something mechanical.

“That’s what I pay him for, Dickwing.”

“You don’t pay me enough,” Henry muttered, aiming for a laugh but ending with a nervous cough.

Ben slowly crept over to pick up the toolbox, as if any sudden movements might get him vaporized. Dick watched him—not directly, but Jason could tell Dick was tracking every move the guy made while still keeping Henry in the corner of his eye. And still watching Jason, too.

“Do you trust him?” Dick asked, his voice quiet but razor sharp.

Jason wanted to roll his eyes. “Seriously?”

“Do you?” 

Jason sighed again, more out of frustration than anything else. “Henry? Yes.”

There was another tense pause. Finally, Dick’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction.

“So,” he said, turning toward the blueprint spread out across the table. “Who’s tryna sell poison to these kids?”

Jason moved to stand beside him, only then realizing how much his shoulders ached from how rigid he’d been. He rolled them out smoothly and nodded toward the map. “It’s a small-time gang,” he answered, tension still settled tight in his chest. “They’re cutting their stuff with garbage and hangin’ out by the high schools in the area. The kids don’t know any better, and it’s getting ‘em sick.”

Henry spoke up, though his voice was shaky, tapping a marked section on the east end of the schematic with an only-slightly trembling finger. “This is the warehouse. It’s officially condemned. There’s no active city cameras, but there’s a few armed guards—probably hired muscle, maybe five or six total.”

Jason looked up, opening his mouth to say something to Dick—

Dick was looking. At him. Jason was locked in place by the way his brother’s eyes flitted over him from behind the domino. It was so different from the sharp intensity of just mere moments ago. There was something…soft about it. But there was also a kind of pain, too, in the tight lines of his jaw. Jason could see a memory playing out behind the white lenses. Dick’s wrist twitched.

Jason swallowed the urge to ask what in the hell that little tick meant.

But in a flash, the moment was gone, and Dick’s gaze dropped back down to the map with a furrowed brow. He cleared his throat. “Alright. Let’s shut them down.”

And Jason was left to wonder—what the fuck, Dick?

Dick landed on the roof next to Jason with a near-silent thud. From their vantage point, Jason could see the small flicker of flashlights as the hired muscle dutifully paced around the warehouse. The night was warm. Waves lapped gently at the harbor wall far below them.

“So,” Dick said, running a blue-striped hand through his wind-blown hair, “get in, beat ‘em up, burn it down.” He turned to Jason with a smirk. “Sounds like a fun night.”

In response, Jason scoffed and rolled his eyes (if anyone knew he was doing it beneath the helmet, it would be Dick).

Because, in all honesty, Jason was…nervous. Dick’s presence beside him was steady and calm, but Jason could feel something lurking beneath the surface of the fragile hope budding between them. It slithered between the strings of Jason’s heart and lodged itself beside him on that stupid rock—something that kept him so far from his watching father and unable to lend a hand to his drowning brother.

Fear. It was fear. 

Fear of royally fucking this up. Fear of proving Dick wrong. Fear of losing his brother again.

Because Jason was different now. Because the Red Hood killed people. And Nightwing—the Golden Boy—didn’t.

But here, on this stupid fucking rooftop, Jason could pretend. It was almost easy to pretend. 

Big Wing and Little Wing, kicking ass and taking names.

Jason patted down his pockets, checking his gear for the third time in as many minutes.

He knew it wasn’t the same as it was. He knew it could never be that way again. Jason, for his part, thought nostalgia was fucking stupid. He didn’t envy the past because it fucking hurt. But then—he did, didn’t he? His brother was there. His dad was there. So Jason burned green with envy and illness over the past—it haunted him, both in what was and what never would be again. Nostalgia was nothing more than a bittersweet longing.

Nostalgia always looked back—a yearning, not for something ahead, but behind. A desperate, furious, burning need to return. One more hour, a minute, a second.

Jason looked backward with longing and nostalgia and a rosy gold hue that always seemed to dull the edges of even his most painful memories. Does time heal, or numb? Is the lens of time through which he stared—transfixed and unblinking—forgiving, or blurring? Is there a difference? Can there be a difference? He romanticized what was, not because it was perfect, but because it was. It’s over, and he can’t go back.

Jason would never be Robin again— Robin was dead. He will never don those hideous traffic colors and fly through the city with his father and brother. He will never be that son again. He can’t. There had been a severance. A before, because now is the after. 

I love you, Jay. Time and grave are nothing.

But the future—now, that’s a bitch. Because the past is certain—carved and set and cemented. But isn’t the future just as certain? Not in shape, perhaps—but in arrival. A train, with a light and a whistle and a thunderous roar. It is inevitable.

And yet—Jason doesn’t hear the whistle. He doesn’t feel the tracks quake beneath his feet. He doesn’t look up.

He is so transfixed by that rosy glow behind him that he forgets to see what’s rushing toward him and he simply just…stands. He looks over his shoulder with salt on his tongue and tears in his eyes and weight on his heart.

Because if he looked up—if he looked around and faced the whistle, the light, the roar—he would have to look away.

And Jason, for all the pain and brutality and injustice of his past—cannot bear to look away. Because that would mean losing something. Even if that something is already gone.

He sneaked a sideways glance at Dick. The last time they’d stood like this on a roof, he’d been clad in yellow, green, and red. Smaller and shorter, too—which, Jason could still hardly believe he was taller than Dick now. He knew it was inevitable, but still. He was supposed to catch up, inch by inch, rubbing Dick’s nose into it the whole way.

Now, the height difference just felt…wrong. Like something had been skipped. Like something important had been missed.

Jason sighed, trying to relieve some of the tightness in his chest and throat. They still had a mission, after all. A warm, gentle wind blew across the rooftops, ruffling Jason’s jacket.

“Hey,” Dick said suddenly, voice quiet and tinged with concern. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

Dick turned his head, studying him. “You’re…quiet.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Ah, my greatest character flaw. But that doesn’t answer the question, Little Wing.”

Jason swallowed, unable to articulate any off the fucking mess inside him. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

Jason didn’t answer that. Instead, he refocused on the guards. Jason could’ve brought a rifle. He could have parked himself right here on this very roof and permanently taken each and every single one of them out. Then, he could’ve swooped in and burned the whole place to the ground. The message to keep this poison out of Park Row would’ve been received.

Easy. He didn’t need Dick here. Really, he didn’t need his brother’s help.

But…

His leather-gloved hand ghosted the gun on his thigh holster.

Dick raised a brow. “We bringing out the heavy hitters tonight?” His tone was light.

Jason froze. He wasn’t—he didn’t know how to have this shit storm of a conversation with Dick, and he certainly didn’t want to have it now.

“Um—" he began, rather stupidly, feeling like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

If the cookie jar was fucking murder.

“I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job, Little Wing,” Dick said with a shrug. “But…don’t you need people alive to send a message?”

Jason swore internally. Not because Dick was right, but…

Well, fucking fine. Maybe Dick was a little right. Jason was still gonna be pissed about it, though.

“Fucking fine, Dickwing. But if you plan on working with me, you can’t always have a problem with how I do things.”

Dick raised his hands, palms up, a stupid smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t gotta tell me twice.”

Jason fought the urge to punch him.

“Alright, Hood,” came a voice from Jason’s helmet. “You gonna go in or just stand there and watch? Shift change is in three.”

Fuck. Henry was on comms. Jason was going to have to watch what he said. Fucking Dick was going to have to watch what he said.

“Three in the front, two in the back, one walking the perimeter,” Dick ticked a finger off each step of their plan as he went. “I’ll take the back, you hit the front, and we’ll push ‘em in toward the middle. Contain, disable, then we light that puppy up.”

Jason could hear the excitement in his brother’s voice. He wondered if Dick had missed this, too.

Henry’s voice crackled. “Copy that.”

Dick shot him a thousand-watt grin, grapple in hand. Jason’s stomach flip-flopped.

Jason hated nostalgia. He hated how nervous he was.

But most of all, Jason hated how badly he’d wanted this.

The takedown was easy. The hired muscle had no more brain cells than half-baked bricks, and the gang running the lab fled like rats the second Nightwing and the Red Hood showed up.

“Would you like to do the honors?”

Jason held out a lit match toward Dick. The two stood a few hundred feet from the warehouse, the end of a trail of gasoline at their feet. 

“Why, Little Wing,” Dick said, plucking the match from Jason’s hand, a mischievous grin dancing across his lips. “It would be my pleasure.”

Dick dropped the match. Jason watched as the flame hungrily raced down the line of gasoline. The fire reached the base of the warehouse and—

Whoomph.

The old building went up like dry tinder—bright orange flames contrasting with the dark navy of the midnight cloud. Smoke curled into the sky, thick and black. The smell of gasoline and burning wood and melting metal filled the air.

Jason cast a quick glance at Dick. He was beautiful, as always. Nightwing, the Golden Boy. His face bathed in warm light, flickering off his dark hair and the kevlar of his suit. Absently, Jason wondered how Bruce thought Jason could ever measure up to that.

Before Dick could catch him staring, Jason tapped the inside of his helmet. “Henry—job’s done. Warehouse is crispy.”

“Copy that,” Henry replied. “Nice work, Boss. And you didn’t even kill the Bat.”

Jason cringed internally. He was getting the impression that Henry wasn’t too keen on the idea of working this close to Batman.

“Go home, Henry,” Jason said. “It’s been a long night.”

“Wait—what? You’re letting me go home early? Who are you, and what have you done with the Red H—"

Jason silenced the line with an eye roll.

Dick snorted, obviously knowing what was going on despite not hearing it. “Aw, c’mon, Little Wing. I thought we made a pretty good team.”

Jason didn’t respond—because if he opened his mouth, he’d say something stupid and real and incredibly too sappy.

Something like of course we make a good team.

You’re my brother. I trust you with my life.

And Dick would either tease him into oblivion or get all quiet and reverent and devolve into a soft-hurt-hopeful-broken pile of goo. Jason did not want to deal with that look in Dick’s eye—where he either looked through Jason or turned the spotlight on Jason.

So instead, Jason turned away from the burning building. His heart felt like it was beating double-time, but it wasn’t just the leftover adrenaline. It was something else. Something…lighter. Something familiar and new at the same time. Something flighty and full of fragile hope.

Beside him, Dick pulled out his own grapple.

“Whaddya say we…take a lap?” he asked, cocking his head with a grin.

Jason hesitated. Just for a second.

The train was coming. He was standing on a rock. Could he look backwards and walk forwards at the same time?

He nodded. “Let’s fly.”

They fired their grapples in near-perfect unison, twin chink-vhiiips lost to the wind and the roar of the growing fire. Jason and Dick launched into the night sky, bodies snapping into motion with the kind of muscle memory that was etched onto their bones—deeper than any grave, stronger than any passage of time.

They leapt from ledge to ledge, swinging and flipping and flying. Jason felt the wind beneath his wings. Dick let out a whoop, and Jason couldn’t help the small laugh that broke free from his chest.

Just as it was. Big Wing and Little Wing, kicking ass and taking names.

Above all, Jason just wanted to fucking know. 

Know what Dick was thinking. Know what had happened while he was gone.

And fucking know how to stop kicking his brother down his goddammed mental sinkhole. 

As they grappled through the city, they’d happened upon a mugging—some guy with a pocket knife threatening a young nurse walking to the bus station. It’d been over in thirty seconds flat. All they’d had to do was loom, and the scumbag had taken off like the slippery little coward he was. The young woman clung to Dick’s calm voice as they’d walked her to the bus stop.

Jason had been ready to take to the skies again, giddy excitement creeping into his limbs, when Dick had turned and caught his reflection in a grimy shop window. The glass was fogged and cracked, reflecting him in fragments. Jason watched him run a hand through his dark hair. He let out a snort to cover the unease prickling down his spine.

“Admiring yourself, Big Bird? We gotta go!”

And Dick just…stilled. Unnaturally so—his back still to Jason, his face tilted toward the window, eyes locked onto something Jason couldn’t see. The weak streetlight washed the whole scene in a sickly yellow glow; shadows stretched long across the cracked sidewalk, pooling around them as if they were alive. 

“…’Wing?” Jason’s voice felt wrong in his throat. Confusion and dread filled him up like ice water, chilling his bones and prickling across his skin. The whole world had simply hushed—the city sounds dimming into an eerie muted hum—until it was just the two of them and that fucking window.

Dick breathed shakily. Slowly, he turned.

His jaw was pulled taut, as if containing something. Jason could see him grit his teeth, forcing stuttering breath in and out. Dick clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides, yet the rest of him remained completely still.

Panic, Jason realized as he stood trying to tamper his own. He’s…starting to panic.

Jason flailed internally, helpless, feeling like he’d just done something terribly wrong but couldn’t figure out what.

The silence pressed in like wet earth filling a grave. Then—

Dick bolted. He fired his grapple without a word. The line zipped taught, pulling him up into the dark like a hooked fish—a blur of blue and black vanishing into the night.

“Wait—what the f—Nightwing!”

Jason’s heart lurched in his chest. He fired his own line and launched after him, shaking hands squeezing the grapple gun tightly. Dick had always been fast—faster than Jason, as Bruce had loved to point out in those first brutal months of training—able to bend and twist and flip over the streets. 

But right now, Jason had something else on his side—something that pushed through the burn of his shoulders and urged him faster across each rooftop: utter desperation. Because, with dawning, freezing horror, Jason was beginning to realize something—snapping more puzzle pieces together like breaking bones. A conversation had been replaying in his mind ever since his brother had unmasked him on that roof:

“…How do you know about—?” Dick whispered. He hadn’t moved a muscle. “You weren’t—we didn’t even know about you yet. There’s no way—"

Many weeks ago—or months, Jason didn’t fucking know—Dick had been on a roof.

Dick had been on a roof and something very, very bad had happened.

The rooftops blurred beneath them. Dick moved like he was running—panicked and flighty and barely catching before he was firing again. Something was wrong, something was very, very wrong. Jason voice was hoarse calling after him, trying to reach him before he did something stupid—

Dick arched high, grapple hooking on a spire, and landed on the edge of a tall building. For a second he just stood there, chest heaving with effort, silhouette carved against the Gotham skyline.

Absolutly fucking not, Dickwing, Jason thought, barrelling after him. He fired his own grapple, teeth clenched so hard his head was beginning to ache. His hook bit into the ledge of the building with a metallic chink. Jason yanked himself upward, boots scraping the brick, and landed on the roof with a thud. The night was warm, a gentle wind whistling in between the bricks of the building.

The only sound was their breathing. It was even quieter up here. Jason hated it.

“Nightwing,” he said, wary of Henry still on the comms. He tried to keep the begging out of his voice, though it bled into the edges of his tone. Because Jason was fucking scared. “Talk to me.”

Dick didn’t answer. He didn’t even move, like he hadn’t even heard Jason at all. Jason had a sneaking susipicion he hadn’t. Dick was somewhere deep, drowning.

Only now, Jason could reach out a hand. Maybe.

“N,” Jason said again, carefully. Dick was very close to the edge. Jason worried the city might rise and swallow him up. “Why don’t…why don’t you come over here?”

Dick didn’t turn around, but he did tilt his head slightly. Jason allowed himself a drop of relief—at least he could hear Jason now.

“I thought I could handle it,” he said softly.

Jason took a slow step forward. “Handle what?”

Again, Dick didn’t answer. Jason felt helpless and lost and scared—fucking scared of what his brother might do here on this rooftop.

“You will always be my little brother. I—I need you to know that.”

Jason’s breath caught in his chest, his lungs locking the air in place. Suddenly, the helmet was nearly suffocating him. It hissed as he pulled it off and set it on the ground beside him. For good measure, he peeled away his domino, too—maybe…maybe seeing Jason’s eyes would help. Like last time. 

Jason prayed it would.

He took another slow step forward. “Dick. You gotta get away from the edge.” It was hard to not sound so small when he added, “Please.”

Dick looked out over the city. His shoulders slumped and he dropped his head, defeated.

“The roof…it’s not a good place for you right now.”

A tense second passed. Somewhere far away, a distant siren wailed.

“I won’t jump,” Dick whispered. 

“Okay,” Jason said softly, more relief trickling in and loosening the tight bands around his lungs. His hands were shaking, outstretched toward his brother in case he changed his mind.

“I won’t…I won’t do that to Tim. Or Bruce. Not again.”

The water temperature when the Titanic sank on the night of April 14th, 1912, was approximately twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. At this temperature, the water was lethally cold—causing rapid hypothermia in anyone exposed to it.

Jason—though he’s never been dropped in the waters of the North Atlantic in April—was beginning to understand a fraction of what those poor souls endured. Because this feeling—of plummeting unsuspectingly into frigid seas—fucking sucked.

So these were the waters of Dick’s grief.

Jason didn’t know how to speak. He didn’t know what the fuck to say.

And he was getting really tired of not fucking knowing.

This wasn’t Jason’s big brother. This was the Golden Boy. The Performer.

Well, the show lights were off now. It was dark, and Dick was drowning. No lighthouse, no spotlight. Just black, freezing water and the heavy pull of exhuasted grief.

But Jason could reach out a shaking, trembling hand. Even if it pulled him into the frigid waters too.

“I think,” Jason rasped, “you’re tired. And…you’re hurting. And—"

Wait. 

Jason knew where they were. Jason knew exactly what fucking building they were standing on.

A white box. A blessing.

You’ll grow into it in a few years.

Nostalgia punched him square in the face, making his eyes water and his throat burn. Jason swallowed it down for the sake of getting his big brother away from the fucking edge.

“Do—," Jason cleared his throat. “Do you remember this rooftop?”

Dick tilted his head, ever so slightly. Jason counted it as a win and kept talking.

“It’s where you gave me your suit. I told you that Bruce wasn’t much of a talker, and you told me it was his biggest problem.” Jason huffed a weak laugh at the memory. “Do you remember what you said to me?”

Jason took another step forward. He could reach out and touch Dick now—but he hesitated, not wanting to spook his brother.

Dick spoke again, his voice rough and low and barely audible.

“Don’t let it be yours.”

He turned around and faced Jason. There was so much defeat in his brother’s stature—so much pain and heartbreak in his face, in the way his body carried the heart inside his chest. Because memory was everything to Dick. And right now, it was strangling him.

Dick stared at the trembling hand outstretched toward him. He raised his eyes to Jason’s pleading face. Then—slowly—he took the hand, and Dick allowed himself to be gently pulled away from the ledge. Jason took a deep breath for the first time since Dick had caught his reflection in that glass.

He pulled Dick straight into his chest and squeezed him tight, lest the breeze pick up and steal him away. He was so much bigger than Dick now, it almost felt wrong being able to hold him like this. But Jason held on anyways—mint and sweat and kevlar filling his nose as he rested his head atop his brother’s. He was never going to let go. Jason was never going to fucking let go.

“I’m sorry, Jay,” Dick mumbled into Jason’s chest.

Jason swallowed hard.

“We need to talk.”

“I know.”

The subway in this part of the Narrows had been abandoned for nearly a decade. Some big move toward affordable public transportation that fell through after several rogue attacks on the main lines scared people away from underground transportation altogether.

They sat on the edge of the platform in silence. Jason heard the uneven drip drip drip of water echoing somewhere far down the track, almost like the eerie ticking of a clock. Moonlight streamed in through a jagged hole in the ceiling above.

Jason kept glancing sideways at Dick, waiting for him to say something. The quiet pinned them to the platform, heavy with unspoken grief; Jason could almost see it bowing Dick’s shoulders. But Dick didn’t speak, not for a long while. Just sat—the toes of his boots brushing against the strands of wild grass that had grown in between the rusted tracks.

The silence began to splinter. Or was that Jason? He opened his mouth

But Dick spoke first.

“I love you, Jay.”

Jason frowned. “I know.”

“I couldn’t let you go.” Dick whispered. He’d taken his domino off, and Jason could see his eyes shine in the dim moonlight. “So I…didn’t.”

“Dick,” Jason said, almost pleading. “What does that mean?”

Dick looked away, squeezing his eyes shut, arms folding tight across his chest like he was trying to physically hold himself together. When he faced Jason again, tears streaked his cheeks.

“I saw you. I saw you…everywhere.”

Jason felt his whole body go cold—like the blood inside him had drained to water the weeds below.

“I dreamed about you first,” Dick continued, voice shaking. “It was…nice. To see you. Even if—”

He laughed weakly. 

“Even if it wasn’t real.”

“Dick—"

Dick reached out and grabbed Jason’s hands.

“Jase—please.” His eyes found Jason’s—wide, pleading and desperate. Jason snapped his mouth shut.

“You gotta—" Dick swallowed hard. “You gotta let me say all this. Please.”

All Jason could do was nod.

Dick slowly let go of Jason’s hands, his own falling limp into his lap. The quiet returned. Jason worried his brother was retreating again, stitching his wounds behind the curtain.

But Dick cleared his throat and spoke.

“I started to…see you. When I wasn’t dreaming. When I was awake. And I missed you. God, Jason, I need you to understand—" His voice cracked. “—I missed you. I didn’t know if I could keep doing this without you. So when you showed up I just…let you stay.”

Dick shuddered.

“The last time I told you to go away, you fucking died. I yelled at you, told you to get out, and you did. And you died.”

He was crying now, shoulders hitching with each breath, tears falling like glass beads.

“I was stupid and angry at Bruce and I let that hurt you. My own little brother. So when you would appear, I would just let you stay. And—“ His voice faltered. “I’ve seen the cowl footage, Jay. I’ve read the report. I know what that sick son of a bitch did to you. So when you would show up and be—“

Dick hiccupped a sob. “And you would be—"

Jason had a terrible, horrible, rising certainty in his gut. He knew exactly where this was going. He could see the iceberg, but no one could turn the ship.

Dick’s voice dropped to a whisper. He scrubbed his hands over his eyes.

“You’d be so small, sometimes, Jase. So small. Like when I first met you. And other times, you’d be older. And—God, Jay, I saw it. I saw it all. And I let you stay anyways because I missed you. And part of me…part of me knew I deserved it. Because I pushed you away. Right to—to him.”

There were so many things Jason wanted to say. They all rose up inside him, swelling and building and tumbling about the eighteen inches from his head to his heart. He clenched his jaw so tight his teeth hurt. Dick wanted to speak. So Jason would let him.

“Half the time, I didn’t even know if I was awake or dreaming. You showed up in the real world. You showed up in my nightmares. I started waking up in dreams. It was…scary. Not knowing what was real. So I figured out that clocks don’t work in dreams. And neither do mirrors. So I just…made sure. That I always knew. I couldn’t risk anyone else getting hurt because of me.”

Jason understood so many things at once the clarity burned his eyes.

(“Jason. Little Wing—not tonight. I just…please. I can’t do this again.”

“What—what time is it?”

“You know the scars make sense.”)

Dick worked his jaw as more tears fell. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms tight around his legs.

Jason’s blood was slowly freezing to ice in his veins. There was something else—something more that hung above them like a guillotine, a gallows noose, a raised crowbar. 

“Um—" Dick’s voice broke. He swallowed hard.

Jason hadn’t taken a breath in what felt like years.

“There was one night. I wasn’t—" He shook his head slow. He looked like he was trying to name the water he was drowning in.

“I didn’t know if I was awake. And you were there. You told me that I—that I could see you again. Would see you again. That I could fly like a robin. That all I had to do was step off and then I’d wake up. With you. And Jason—"

Dick turned fully to him, focusing the full force of his sapphire gaze on Jason. There was pain on his older brother’s face, but there was something else twisted up just beneath the surface.

Something that looked a lot like shame.

He reached out and took Jason’s hand, sliding his glove down and pressing his thumb into the pulse point. A confirmation. An anchor.

“I would’ve done anything—anything—to be with you again. So yes, I may have not known if I was awake. But when you told me to step off the ledge—"

Dick didn’t let Jason look away.

“I did, Jay. I did. Bruce thinks I was out of my mind. And maybe I was. But not about that. I wanted to see you.

“I missed my baby brother.”

Jason wanted to tear his eyes away. His chest felt too small. Everything felt too small for the grief between them.

Dick had jumped off a roof. It was a fact. Inarguable. Concrete as the ledge they were sitting on.

Dick had jumped off a roof because his hallucination had told him to.

And he went. Willingly. Peacefully. Expectantly.

Jason didn’t know what to do with this version of his brother—this unflinching, raw, hurting shell of the golden light that he knew. The honesty, quite frankly, was terrifying.

And Jason was fucking terrified right now. Pain and grief and guilt and an unidentifiable yet poignant ache stretched between them like a bridge.

Like a hand, reaching out into the water.

Could Jason even grieve Dick? When Dick had to grieve him first?

Did he even have that right?

Maybe grief doesn't work like that. Maybe not all tragedy has meaning. Maybe terrible things just happen. Maybe kids just get murdered.

Maybe people just jump off roofs.

And it hurts and it’s wrong and it’s not fair. And humans—in their insatiable quest for meaning in the vast, indifferent universe—tear the tragedy apart to find the why. But sometimes, there is no why—there’s just an is. There’s just pain.

“Did it hurt?”

It was a stupid question, really. Dick obviously could still walk, could obviously still grapple and fight and flip like the idiot he was. But Jason was scared. And he wanted to know if his big brother had got hurt.

Dick shook his head. “Bruce caught me. From what I heard, Tim tracked him down and told him that I was gonna do something stupid."

He looked away, shame sprawling itself across his face. “And he was right.”

Jason’s hands curled into tight fists as anger heated his blood.

“Why didn’t you tell the others?” His voice echoed off the crumbling brick walls. “Babs, the Titans, hell, even Bruce—they would’ve helped you. And I know why you wouldn’t, Dick, you self-sacrificing freak, but—“ Jason shook his head; he’d run out of words. Just as fast as his anger had risen, it retreated, leaving him cold again.

Dick smiled—soft and sad and nothing like the one he normally wore. “Everyone else wasn’t you, Jay. Turns out that was a huge problem for me.”

Jason didn’t know what to do. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to march down to the Manor and tear Bruce a new one. He wanted to shake the guilt out of Dick. He wanted to hold his brother tight and never let him go.

Jason turned away, back out to the long tunnel, unable to keep looking at his brother. Dick’s hand fell away from his wrist.

Drip, drip, drip. 

Jason didn’t even realize Dick had scooted closer until a head rested on his shoulder.

(They were sitting on a rooftop. For once, Jason thought, the city didn’t look half-bad. It glittered before them, twinkling in the light of a rare full moon.

It was just the two of them. Bruce was off somewhere else in the city playing a flirtatious game of cat-and-bat with Selina, and Dick had taken the opportunity to whisk Jason away to the weird little ice cream stand he loved. 

Jason got rocky road, and Dick got Superman—which surprised Jason zero.

They talked about everything and anything, there on that rooftop, beneath the rarity of a clear night sky. Well, Jason talked. They were reading Macbeth in English class. Jason had been chosen to read as Banquo. He really liked Macduff, though. 

Jason even told Dick about asking Bruce if he could sign up for baseball this summer—he knew he probably wouldn't be good, but it felt...normal. And maybe, just for a second, Jason wanted to be normal. He felt dumb, saying it out loud. But Dick didn’t tease him. He nodded like it made total sense.

Dick was listening, like he always listened. And even though Jason knew Dick was letting him ramble, he could tell Dick was watching him—trying to memorize every little thing Jason said, every twitch of his green-gloved hands, every word that stumbled out of his chocolate-smeared mouth. His eyes kept landing on Jason’s face, and he had this look. Like he was storing everything away for later. Folding it into his memory with gentle hands.

And Jason felt…safe. Suddenly, it hit him—how much he wanted to keep this. Not the rooftop or the ice cream or even the clear night sky, but the feeling. The safety. The love, even if neither of them had said the word out loud.

Jason didn’t even mean to move closer. But the stone of the rooftop was cold and Dick had this warmth to him, like the sun had come out and Jason hadn’t noticed. So he leaned into Dick’s side. He rested his head on his big brother’s shoulder.

It was quiet, high above the city. An arm slid around Jason, slow and careful. Dick pulled him in close.

And Jason knew, deep down—that if he ever messed up, if he ever got angry or loud or mad or said the wrong thing—that Dick would still be there. That Dick would always be there.

They didn’t need to talk. Even if they did, Jason wouldn’t have known what to say. But the night was cool and Dick was warm.

Jason wished they could stay there forever.

How does that song go? ‘If words could make wishes come true…’)

Jason had no idea what time it was. He had no idea if Henry was blowing up his phone. And really, none of that mattered.

Eventually, though, they had to leave the dark.

“Tim’s waiting for me,” Dick said at last. “I’ve gotta…I have to go back to him.”

Jason nodded. He felt empty yet unbearably full. It was weird. He didn’t like it. “You good to go?”

Dick hesitated. “Yeah.”

Dick stood, stretching out sore muscles. He resecured his domino and pulled his grapple from his belt. Then, he paused.

“You’ll call, right? Or text? Please?”

Jason looked up at him. “Y-yeah, Dick. I will.”

Dick nodded, giving Jason a small, real smile.

“Okay, Little Wing.”

And then he was gone.

Chapter Text

This time, Ben knew the Bat was coming. He still jumped when he from the shadows of the alley, though. That was still the frickin’ Bat. 

“Holy shit,” he breathed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Are you serious?”

The Bat said nothing.

Ben rolled his eyes. The grimy streetlight cast them both in an eerie orange glow.

“You have information,” came the gravelly voice.

Ben jabbed a finger at the Bat’s chest. Then quickly yanked it back as the Bat’s eyes narrowed. Ben liked his fingers.

“It’s Nightwing,” he said. “He’s…”

He shifted, glancing down the alley, wary someone might be listening. He lowered his voice. Just to be sure.

“He’s working with the Red Hood.

The Bat went very, very still. A black void in the middle of the street, swallowing all light. No emotion crossed his face save for a single tick in his jaw.

“Why?”

Ben scratched the back of his neck. The Bat was going to vaporize him with that stare. “I don’t know why. He just is. And—"

Ben hesitated, frowning. Almost as if he was realizing something.

“He didn’t even need to be there,” he muttered, half to himself. “Not really. It was just some stupid drug bust. Hood coulda handled it alone. He didn’t even, uh—"

Ben glanced up at the Bat, nervous.

“—use lethal force. It was weird.”

He paused.

“They never came back. Henry heard somethin’ over comms and told me to go. So I did.”

Ben shifted from foot to food again, nearly squirming under the intensity of the Bat’s thin-slitted glare.

“He was not happy ‘bout working with a bat, I can tell you that much. The look on his face when Nightwing showed up…”

Ben shuddered.

“He was scared shitless—like any sane person would be!—but he was fuckin’ pissed. I dunno why. It was kinda scary.”

He glanced back down the alley. He needed to get going. If he got caught, he would be painfully dead.

Ben cleared his throat. He had done his part; it was time for the Bat to do his.

“…I called the number,” he said quietly. “The one you gave me. They said they could maybe get her in within the month. That they could move her up if, ‘circumstances allowed it.’”

A beat passed. The silence was oppressive.

“That’s not soon enough. And you know it.”

Ben shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him.

“And you still gave me the card. Why? Throwing me a bone so I’d keep crawling back? What’s the point of all your money if she’s dead?”

The Bat said nothing. Of course.

Ben clenched his jaw.

“I know you’re using me,” he said. “And I’m gonna keep letting you, because I don’t have a choice. Either way, this ends with one of us dead.”

He met the Bat’s eyes again.

“Please don’t let it be her.”

A loud clang rang out somewhere deep in the alley. Ben turned fast, heart in his throat.

“Shit—"

Nothing. A raccoon, maybe. Or a rat.

He turned back.

The Bat was gone.

Dick slipped in through the window, the night’s warm air filling his apartment. It felt like someone had taken a carving knife and gutted him. His head throbbed from crying. His heart weighed heavy in his sore chest.

He peeled the domino mask from his face, wincing at how it tugged at his tear streaked, gritty skin. With a long, weary breath, he pulled off his gloves and rubbed his puffy eyes with the heels of his palms. He felt cracked open. Carved up.

Pulling his hands away from his face with a yawn, he glanced at the living room. Tim’s red blanket was on the couch. Paranoia from the last time he saw Jason standing in the shadows of the room tugged at his senses.

Alive. Sometimes, Dick could hardly believe it.

Jason was alive. And now he knew what Dick had done.

He—

The blanket on the couch stirred. A small head of dark hair peeked over the armrest, eyes wide and exhausted in the dim light.

Dick froze, stomach somersaulting. Because for a split second, he wasn’t looking at Tim—he was looking at Jason. Little face, sleep mussed hair, big blue eyes and all.

Dick swallowed hard. The tears threatened to return. Guilt—sharp and sudden—hooked it’s nails amongst his ribs.

Tim blinked up at him.

“Hi, Timmy,” he managed softly. “You should be asleep.”

Tim looked away, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“You weren’t back yet,” he mumbled.

The guilt tightened, an almost physical blow. Dick had been punched harder, but this was somehow worse. He hadn’t felt so hollowed out in a long time.

He walked over and sat on the couch. The cushion dipped under his weight, but Tim didn’t move—he didn’t nestle up to Dick’s side, or even turn and face him. He kept his eyes on his hands, running his small fingers over the knit blanket.

“Tim,” Dick said gently, tilting toward him, trying to catch his eyes. “I’m not mad at you, sweetheart.”

Tim nodded, but he didn’t look up.

“I…” Dick swallowed around the guilt rising in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

That made Tim look up, frowning slightly.

“Why?”

Dick blinked. He had no answer.

“I—I leave you. And—" Dick floundered. The words got caught in his throat.

Tim gave a little shrug. “You have to. It’s your job.”

Yes, several punches would’ve hurt less.

Without a second thought. he reached out and cupped Tim’s face with both hands—ever so gently, thumb brushing over his cheek.

“Tim,” he said, voice serious, “I—it’s not—"

“Where’s Jason?”

Dick went still, Tim’s little face still cradled in his hands. The fridge hummed quietly behind them. He couldn’t see the pictures hanging from the Superman magnets, but he knew they were there. He knew who they contained.

He and Tim.

He and Jason.

He and Bruce.

Dick held the needle and thread, desperately trying to stitch his little family together. But all he did was make them bleed with the needle and chafe beneath the thread.

Dick looked into Tim’s intelligent blue eyes—and realized he had no idea what to say.

So he told the truth. Tim was too smart for any of his feeble lies anyways. But more importantly, he didn’t deserve them.

“Jason’s…he’ll come back. I—"

“Did you tell him?”

Dick shut his mouth with a click, something cold sinking in his gut. Tim was smart—his little bird was just so smart. Dick’s throat tightened as another round of tears threatened to spill.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice hoarse. There was no need to specify what; they both knew. “I did.”

Tim didn’t say anything. He only nodded. 

Dick pulled him close so he wouldn’t see the tears. Dick held him tight, fingers curled into the fabric of Tim’s shirt like Dick could protect him from the whole world.

(Tim was smart; Dick was sure he saw tears.)

“I don’t want you waiting up for me, sweetheart.”

There was a muffled I know. 

Dick didn’t let go—not for a long, long moment. Tim smelled like coconut shampoo and faintly of the powdered hot cocoa they had in the pantry. When he finally did loosen his hold, it was only to lift Tim gently into his arms, blanket and all, and carry him to his room. Dick barely registered the smell of smoke on his suit. He would change later.

Tim was already half asleep when Dick laid him down in bed and pulled blanket over his small frame. He sat beside Tim for a while, back against the headboard, carding his fingers through soft, dark hair.

To be an older sibling is to carry a quiet vow. 

Dick—not for the first time—wondered just what the fuck was wrong with him. He had pushed Jason to his death.

(“Dick, you didn’t cause Jason’s death,” Donna’s voice reminded him. “What happened to him was an awful and heartbreaking tragedy—but it wasn’t your fault. The argument you had didn’t lead to what happened. You were a kid, too.”)

And now he was actively failing Tim. If Tim left—if he went to go live with Bruce, or went back to his shitty parents entirely—Dick wouldn’t blame him. He wasn’t much better than they were, no matter how hard he tried.

And then there was…

Dick tipped his head back, resting it against the headboard with a soft thunk. His eyes traced the soft green constellations of the glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across the ceiling. He ran a hand down his face, as if he could physically shield himself from the vulnerability of what he’d said to Jason. 

Jason wasn’t supposed to know all of that. Hell—Jason wasn’t supposed to know any of that. Those were Dick’s seas to drown in, and Dick’s alone. Not Jason’s. He wouldn’t dare pull his little brother down into the waters of his sorrow.

The honesty had been terrifying for them both. And now Dick felt…exposed. Cut open, flayed, and a million other things that boiled down to Dick jumping off a roof and burdening his little brother with why he did it.

Dick regretted it—he heavily regretted telling Jason everything that had happened (and that wasn’t even everything—Dick saw how Jason eyed the scar on his temple. That secret, too, begged to be told). But then again, Jason needed to know.

Oh God—did he? He was just a kid.

Jason may be bigger than Dick now, but he would always be Dick’s Little Wing. Neither time nor grave could change that.

Another tear slipped down Dick’s cheek. He looked down at Tim, blinking the blur from his eyes. His hands were still gently combing through Tim’s hair.

There was so much Tim knew—so much that Tim should not know. But he did, and there was no changing that.

Quietly, Dick fished out his phone from one of the pouches in the Nightwing suit—there was also something that Jason needed to know, too.

Tim’s asking about you, he texted, before setting his phone down on the nightstand. 

Dick really didn’t expect an answer. He just needed Jason to know. 

Dick stayed long after Tim drifted off.

Dick’s phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He didn’t look, at least not right away. His eyes were focused on Tim. He’d just shifted in his sleep, curling into a little ball, one small fist clutching the red blanket. Not for the first time, Dick was struck by the sheer fact of just how young Tim was. How much that youthfulness contrasted so sharply with everything that he’d seen. 

Dick committed the sight of Tim resting oh-so-peacefully to permanent memory and—for a single, solitary second—let himself hope.

He reached for his phone, careful not to jostle Tim.

One Unread Message.

Something flickered in Dick’s chest.

Bruce

2:27 am: Call me.

It was doused immediately.

Because Dick knew exactly what Bruce was calling about.

Dick sighed. He wasn’t shocked, per se; he knew it was coming. More, he was…unnerved at how quickly Bruce had found out. But then again, this was the Batman, after all.

Dick bent down and pressed a kiss into Tim’s temple and readjusted his covers. “Goodnight sweetheart,” he whispered.

Dick stepped into the hallway, gently closing the door behind him with a soft click. He stared at the message for many moments, a thousand emotions budding inside him.

They were healing—they were. Bruce was trying. Dick was trying.

There was a slight, very small, very tiny possibility that this could go not-terribly. Bruce would call and they would talk and it would end with Dick saying just trust me, please and Bruce saying nothing more than okay, I love you. And Dick white-knuckled that infinitesimal hope with both hands.

Because here’s the thing about Dick: he is a creature of great emotion. His anger burns hot, yes—but it’s matched, maybe even outmatched, by something…harder to name. 

He stared at the name on the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the call button.

This thing—it’s not hope, exactly. More a kind of desperate belief, the kind that only survives when it’s been tested and burned and crushed but still refuses to die. The kind forged from going in circles with his father—someone who knows where every nerve is buried because they taught each other how to cut.

Dick hit call. The line rang once before Bruce picked up.

“Hey.”

There was a beat of silence before Bruce’s voice came through. Dick hated it—not knowing who he was going to get. Bruce, or the Batman.

Dick had a sinking feeling he knew exactly who he was talking to tonight.

“…Are you alone?”

Dick pulled the phone away so he could take a deep breath. The stove light was still on, casting the whole kitchen in a faint, warm glow. Dick was dimly beginning to register just how tired he was—and that he was still in the Nightwing suit. He brought the phone back to his ear. 

“Tim is asleep,” he said, flat. Or, as flat as he could.

Bruce was quiet for a minute. Dick let himself hope—let that thing flicker to life in his chest once more. Maybe Bruce was thinking before he leapt to conclusions. Maybe he was even—

“You went out tonight.”

Dick cast his eyes to the ceiling as if it contained answers between the gritty dips and contours of its popcorn finish.

“Yes.”

A growl crept into the edges of Bruce’s voice. 

“What—" he stopped suddenly, as if swallowing the rest of the accusation. A tinny sigh crackled through the speaker. When Bruce’s voice came again, it was strained.

“What are you doing, Dick?”

Right now, Bruce and Dick are standing in a field. A word, an implication, a misstep—and the whole thing would go up in flames, bright and hot and consuming. Neither of them want to draw the blade. Neither of them want to strike the match. They know these nerves, this field. They know how it ends.

Dick didn’t want to fight with his father. And yet, still he felt the tell-tale warmth of anger simmer in his gut.

Dick rubbed a hand over his eyes with the one not holding his phone.

(“Bruce has a strong need for control,” Dinah’s calm voice said in his mind. “When that sense of control is disrupted, he responds by working harder to reestablish it. Sometimes at any cost.”)

Dick leaned up against the counter and swallowed down the swell of frustration that threatened to rise.

“It’s complicated,” he said. And honestly, that was the best way Dick could describe it. When Jason was ready to talk to Bruce, Dick would be there—for now, he could keep playing both sides. He would do anything to keep Jason.

“I gathered,” Bruce said, quiet, his voice tight with restrained concern. “But he’s dangerous. He’s—he’s a killer, Dick. You know that.”

Dick closed his eyes. He worked his jaw.

He’s my brother. He’s your son, goddammit.

“He didn’t kill anyone last night,” Dick managed, though there was a cold pressure building in his chest. 

He could still hear Jason laugh and whoop as they flew through the night like the brothers they were supposed to be. Like the brothers they are. He could still see the horrified look on his little brother’s face when Dick had told him what he’d done. 

He shifted on his feet from where he stood leaned up against the countertop. The Nightwing suit was starting to chafe against his skin.

“I’m not…” Bruce paused, as if re-working what he was trying to say. “I’m just…trying to understand. Why would you work with someone like him?”

Dick exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead.

“He’s not what you think,” Dick said careful. “It’s not what it looks like.”

He knew it was a flimsy, stupid answer—closer to an excuse than any truth—but he said it anyways.

“Do you trust him?”

Without thinking, Dick said, “Yes.”

“Why?” Came the automatic response. Bruce didn’t seem angry, or accusatory. He seemed…cautious. Not only about the question, but about the conversation. About talking to Dick.

And see, the thing is, Dick doesn’t even need a why. There is none.

Dick’s lips twitched into something that could be a small, sad smile. 

Because he’s my brother, is the answer. But Dick couldn’t say that. At least, not yet.

“He’s not a monster, Bruce,” Dick said, voice low, trying not to drop the match, trying not to light the kindling. “I—we’re—"

He sighed. “That has to count for something.”

“I didn’t say he was a monster.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“But his actions—"

“Bruce.” Dick’s voice hardened. He pushed out a breath, trying to tamper down the second wave of rising frustration. Bruce didn’t say anything. 

A long silence stretched taut between them. Dick fidgeted with one of the pouches on his suit—it still smelled like smoke and gasoline. He wondered what Bruce was thinking.

“You’re protecting him.”

Dick ran a hand through his hair. He couldn’t read Bruce’s tone.

“I’m doing what I think is right.”

There was a slight intake of breath on the other line—as if Bruce opened his mouth to speak, then immediately decided against it. They weren’t…arguing, exactly, but Dick could tell Bruce was convinced, either. He could hear it in the things they weren’t saying.

“I know you don’t trust him,” Dick continued. “But Bruce, I need you to trust me.”

Bruce didn’t respond at first. Honestly, Dick thought that maybe he wouldn’t. This would be the moment they dropped the match. And the two of them—a mirror’s twisted idea of a reflection, really—would fuel each other’s blaze until neither of them could remember who lit the first spark. Dick never had to raise his voice to draw blood, and neither did Bruce. It was always the same argument, always ending in the same, burning silence.

But…

Finally, Bruce spoke. “I—okay, Dick. I’m trying.”

And God—for some unknown reason, that hurt. Dick felt tears well up in his eyes. A sharp lump formed in his throat. He swallowed it down.

“Thank you, B.”

Bruce didn’t answer. But he didn’t hang up, either. They just sat there, staring across the chasm at each other, praying the fragile bridge they’ve been rebuilding between them could carry the weight of their conversation. Of that thing in Dick’s chest that hoped against all hope. Of trust.

Dick cleared his throat.

“Was there…anything else?”

Bruce seemed to break from his trance.

“What? Oh n—Actually,” Bruce’s voice softened. “Are you doing okay?”

Dick blinked, thrown. Bruce normally didn’t…

“Um—yeah,” he said. “I’m okay.”

“Alright.”  A pause. “Please…call me. If you’re not. Okay?”

Dick chuckled softly. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, B. I will.”

“Goodnight, Dick.”

“You know,” Dick said, just because he could, “it’s technically morning.”

A soft snort crackled through the phone speaker.

“Good morning, then. I, um…”

Dick held his breath. He clutched the phone tight, the hard lines of the case digging into his palm.

“I’ll see you soon, chum.”

Dick dropped his head.

“See you soon,” Dick said, trying to ignore how badly he wanted his dad right now.

The line beeped and disconnected. Dick set the phone down on the counter. He slid down the side of the cabinets.

Dick sat on the floor for a long time.

Chapter Text

Tim’s asking about you.

Jason had still been sitting in the abandoned subway when he’d gotten the message. He’d read it once, twice, fourteen times, and was unable to come up with a response. His fingers had just hovered over the screen, twitching.

They were still doing that now—hovering uselessly over the keyboard—as he stood in the abandoned apartment, the message still unanswered almost a full twenty-four hours later. He felt paralyzed. He didn’t know what to say, so he just…didn’t.

“You know,” Henry drawled from the corner of the room, “I heard something interesting last night.”

Jason glanced up, only slightly startled out of his fog. It was fairly early, and they were supposed to be debriefing the fallout from his and Dick’s little bonfire last night before Jason went out on patrol. And of course—figuring out their fucking rat problem.

Henry leaned up against the busted table, arms folded, one dirty boot crossed casually over the other. He didn’t look tense, but Jason had known him long enough to see the rigidness in his stance. The busted toolbox sat discarded on the table behind him; last night felt like a lifetime ago.

“Yeah? What was that?”

Henry shrugged. “Are you really Nightwing’s brother?”

Jason froze. For all the times he’d hoped Henry could read his vibes beneath the helmet, this was definitely not one of them.

Jason busied himself with putting back together the pistol he’d disassembled. Did it need to be cleaned? Nope. But Jason’s insides felt like a shaken snow globe, and disassembling each of his guns helped settle some of the flurries.

There were several ways Jason could take this. He could lie. He could deny whatever Henry had heard. He could shoot Henry with the pistol he’s almost completed putting back together.

Or, he could tell the truth.

“Yeah,” he said, thankful the mechanized growl of the helmet took some of the vulnerability out of his voice. “He is.”

Henry didn’t respond, and Jason didn’t look up, but he could tell something was…off. When Jason finally did glance in Henry’s direction, he caught the faintest flicker of something in Henry’s expression. He shook his head, slow, disbelief on his face. But there was something else behind his eyes.

“What?” Jason said, suddenly feeling accused of something.

Henry just shrugged again. “Never figured you for the family type. I don’t even know how old you are. Shit, man. Nightwing? The bat?”

Jason looked back down, hands already taking the pistol apart again.

“It’s complicated,” he mumbled. “We’re…it’s complicated.”

Henry hummed.

“Anyways,” Jason said, desperately wanting to change the fucking subject, “you hear anything from that gang? They aren’t planning on retaliating after we torched their lab?”

Henry pushed off the table, walking slowly across the room. “No,” he said. “Their whole operation collapsed. Most of ‘em scattered like roaches once the building went up. And there wasn’t anyone lurkin’ around Park Row High this afternoon. I think it’s safe to say they’ve been successfully dealt with.”

Jason nodded. “Good.” Click. Pistol reassembled. He reached for his Glock next.

There was a long pause, filled with the soft chink of metal as Jason took the gun apart, piece by piece.

“You know,” Henry said, voice suddenly soft. “I’ve got a little brother, too.”

Jason’s hands paused. He looked up—Henry was standing across the counter from him, watching.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Henry smiled faintly. Sadly. “He’s a pain in my ass. He always has been.”

Jason gave a dry, half-hearted chuckle. “Sounds about right.”

It’s a little brother’s job, after all, he thought, several memories filling him like warm water, to be a pain in their big brother’s ass.

“You think you can protect them. Teach ‘em about the world so they don’t get caught up in all that shit.” It was Henry’s turn to chuckle dryly. “And then they go out and do somethin’ stupid anyways. But it’s okay, because you’re there.”

He looked right at Jason.

“And you’d do anything to make sure they never get hurt again.”

Jason stared at his hands—the brown leather of his gloves contrasting with the sleek, matte black of the Glock. He thought about Dick. About how Dick had leapt off a rooftop at the promise of seeing Jason again—of being with him again—because his big brother couldn’t live in a world that didn’t have Jason in it.

He thought about how Dick hadn’t told Bruce. About how Dick, not even knowing if Jason was real, had told him he could stay—had told him how much he loved him.

Henry stepped closer, his hands appearing in Jason’s line of sight as they rested on the countertop to get his attention. “Take the night off, boss.”

Jason looked up and blinked, surprised. “What?”

“You’ve been runnin’ on fumes for days. Nobody likes you when you’re cranky—you get trigger happy, n’ you scare the guys.”

Jason scowled.

“And,” Henry continued, “you need a break. To clear your head. I can hold things down for one night, Hood.”

“It’s not—“

“Listen,” Henry interrupted, more gently than Jason expected. “Go deal with your personal matter. I’ll work on figurin’ out who the rat is—you know that’s all paperwork anyways. I’ll call you if I find anything.”

Jason stared at him for a long moment. The concern seemed genuine. The sad look in Henry’s eyes when he talked about his brother—that seemed very real, too.

Jason was exhausted—and wrung out and scattered and two more mentions of a rat away from a full blown spiral.

And Dick had just confessed to hallucinating him. And jumping off a roof because of it.

Maybe Dick and Tim needed him. No—they did need him. Dick needed to be yanked out of his own head—off that goddamn stage and away from that stupid fucking crowd. And Tim needed to be taught some curse words.

So eventually, Jason nodded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

Henry gave him a small, tight smile. “I won’t tell. You know, ‘keeping your glorious reputation’ and all that.”

Jason snorted and grabbed his phone again. His thumbs hovered a second longer, then finally moved.

I’m coming over with dinner, he texted. No going out tonight.

He hit send before he could second guess it. For some reason, he felt his heart speed up in his chest.

Behind him, Henry was already turning away, pulling out his own phone, screen glowing softly in the grimy light.

Jason got his reply almost immediately.

Dick

8:01 pm: Okay. See you soon.

Despite how delicious the Thai food smelled, Jason’s stomach continued flip-flopping uncomfortably. He stood outside the door to Dick’s apartment, arms full of warm brown bags, heart doing something jumpy and uneven behind his ribs that wasn’t quite fear but wasn’t quite not-fear either.

Jason took a deep breath.

This wasn’t any different than the last time. Except Dick was lucid (and would hopefully stay that way). But also…they both knew things now. Heavy, bloodstained things that they both could never come back from.

Time and grave are nothing.

Jason knocked. He heard shuffling, then—

The door opened to reveal Dick. For a moment, they just stared at each other. Jason felt cemented to the welcome mat.

Dick was silhouetted by the warm glow of the apartment behind him. Jason was struck by how much he hated that he looked down at his brother now instead of up. It wasn’t right. Dick was looking at him with this unreadable-yet-unbearably-soft expression that had Jason’s insides squirming like worms. He felt his face heating up.

“Thai,” he said stupidly, gesturing at the paper bags in his arms.

Dick grinned. “Did you get extra mango sticky rice?”

Jason sighed, some of the tightness loosening in his chest. “Yes, you fuckin’ hooligan. I got extra mango sticky rice.”

Dick chuckled, stepping aside to let him in. The apartment was warm—and for the second time, Jason was struck with the domesticity of it all. Only this time, he didn’t feel quite so…ghostly.

Tim was sprawled out on the couch, idly flipping through movies on the television. He sat up abruptly when Jason walked in, abandoning the remote to peer up at Jason with his big blue eyes. 

“Hi, Jason.”

A small smile tugged at Jason’s lips. “Hey, Timmy.”

“You can set those over here,” Dick called, gesturing to the kitchen table as he grabbed a few forks from a drawer. “Tim, can you run and wash your hands?”

Tim nodded, eyes still on Jason. He hopped off the couch and padded to the bathroom. Jason headed to the kitchen, setting the bags on the table.

Dick walked over and began setting plates and glasses out for the three of them. Jason’s eyes caught the forks, lingering on the matte smoothness as Dick placed one beside each plate.

“It was…scary,” Dick had said. “Not knowing what was real. So I figured out that clocks don’t work in dreams. And neither do mirrors. So I just…made sure. That I always knew.”

Jason hated how much things were starting to make sense. The silverware was matte so there would be no reflection—because somewhere along the way, Dick’s little coping mechanism had fucking turned on him. It was getting really hard for Jason not to feel like he took his own two hands and shoved Dick off that roof himself.

Jason cleared his throat, suddenly unable to keep looking at the silverware.

“Are you serious?” he said, causing Dick to pause. “We’re using chopsticks, you uncultured swine.”

Dick snorted. "I don't even think they primarily use chopsticks in Thailand."

Jason huffed a laugh. He hoped it covered the sudden bout of nerves and the irrational uptick of his heart rate. “Well, I brought 'em, and everyone knows chopsticks make food taste at least fifty percent better.”

He tossed a pack of chopsticks at Dick’s chest. He caught it with a faint roll of his eyes.

“You are so high maintenance.”

Jason shrugged, already pulling out the white cartons. “Yeah, well, you made me like this, Mr. We Can’t Go to That One Chili Dog Stand Because Their Ketchup Isn’t Heinz. You’re just reaping what you’ve sown.”

That made Dick laugh, the smile genuine, but Jason didn’t dare look at him too long. He busied himself with opening boxes and spreading the various noodle, rice, and curry dishes across the table. The smell of stir-fried chillies and garlic drifted through the air.

Dick’s smile faltered for a second as he glanced toward the bathroom. “I don’t…do you think Tim knows how to use chopsticks?”

Jason snorted. “He’s eleven, Dickie. Not an alien. He grew up around snobby rich people. And there’s nothing snobby rich people love more than rubbing their snobby richness in uncultured people’s faces.”

Plus…it was a simple, stupid question. Domestic. Normal. Familial, brotherly, and a thousand other things that viscerally reminded Jason that he could not fuck this up. 

“I dunno,” Dick said. “His parents…weren’t the best.”

He looked back at Jason, a dark expression passing over his face.

“They would just leave him. Alone. For months, Jay. He’s eleven.” Dick ran a hand through his hair, and Jason could tell that there was something else beneath his worried stature—something that looked a lot like guilt.

Before Jason could reply, Tim came walking back in, sleeves rolled up, hands still damp from washing. He stopped at the edge of the table, eyes lighting up at the sight of the food.

“It smells really good.”

“Hope you like spicy,” Jason said. Dick set the forks down on the counter and joined Jason and Tim at the table. Jason breathed out, thankful that the cutlery wasn’t fucking looking at him anymore. 

Chairs scraped against the hardwood as they were pulled out. Jason sat down across from Dick, realizing this was the first time he’d eaten with his brother since he’d come back (Jason didn’t count that one breakfast from a few days ago; Dick had hardly been lucid, and Jason had been on the verge of a panic attack). It was…weird. But also really, really nice.

And by God was he going to keep this. He was not going to mess this up. Not for himself—but more importantly, not for Dick.

“Here.” He passed over a pair of chopsticks to Tim.

Tim took them, turning them over in his hands, and frowned. “Um…” he glanced at Jason. “I don’t know how to use these.”

Dick raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly at Jason from across the table. He placed a plate containing a hearty helping of pad see ew and a small bowl of red curry in front of Tim.

Jason sighed, but there was already a small smile on his face. He pulled out his own pair, snapped them apart, and set them down on the table.

“Alright—watch the master, Tim Tam.”

Tim scooted his chair closer, lasering in on Jason, pulling out his own pair and snapping them just the way that Jason had. Something warm and fond bloomed in Jason’s chest. He held the chopsticks up, showing Tim the grip.

“This one”—he pointed to the bottom stick—“stays still. It’s glued to your hand. And this one”—he moved the top stick between his fingers—“does all the work.”

Tim furrowed his brow, concentrating hard as he mimicked Jason’s grip. He was just as adorable as when he was mixing the batter—tongue poking out to the side and everything. Jason fought the urge to take out his phone and snap a picture.

“Like this?”

“Close. Move your hand down a little—“ Jason gently nudged Tim’s little fingers down the wooden stick, suddenly—and quite irrationally—worried he might hurt the munchkin. “Yeah, okay, like that. Now pinch it, but make sure you can still wiggle your index finger. That’s how you’ll move the top stick.”

Dick watched from where he sat across the table, quietly dumping rice and noodles onto his plate with his own chopsticks. His face was soft again—trying to catalogue every single second and tuck it away forever. Jason kept his focus on Tim, who tried to grab a piece of broccoli. It immediately slipped out and plopped back onto his plate with a wet splat.

Jason bit back a laugh.

“Tim,” Dick said. “I can grab you a fork—“

“I can do it,” Tim muttered, determined.

Dick shot Jason a look that said he’s just as stubborn as you are.

Jason returned fire with a raised brow that said says the king of stubbornness himself.

Tim’s next few attempts weren’t much better—he even managed to fling a mushroom at Dick, who simply plucked the vegetable from where it had splatted on the tabletop and popped it into his mouth.

Around the bite, he said, “Are you sure—“

“No. I’m gonna figure it out.”

Dick looked away, scooping more curry into his bowl to hide his laughter.

It took a while—long enough for most of Jason’s plate to be cleared—but eventually Tim managed to grab a piece of chicken without dropping it. He held it up and popped it into his mouth with exaggerated triumph.

Jason leaned back in his chair. “Not bad, Timmy. Not bad at all.”

Tim grinned at him, mouth full.

Dick was still quiet, still watching both of them with the stupidly soft look on his face. Jason felt his cheeks heat up, felt those same worms wiggle inside him. He looked down at his plate.

(Three bedrooms, Dick thinks, as he watches his first little brother teach his second little brother how to use chopsticks. I’ll find us an apartment with three bedrooms.)

After several voluptuous helpings of mango sticky rice, the three of them migrated to the couch for a movie. Tim won their (unnecessarily intense) rock-paper-scissors tournament and chose the cinematic masterpiece that was The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl.

The screen flickered in front of them. Soft, surreal light danced across their faces, painting the room in the dreamiest of pinks and blues. Somewhere around the part where Sharkboy sang that unhinged dream song, Jason had felt the softest, lightest weight of Tim’s head bonk gently against his shoulder.

Tim had fallen asleep.

Jason tensed immediately, suddenly hyper-aware of the tiny frame pressed up against his side and every single muscle in his body. He felt like a bomb, a few ticks from detonating. He glanced down at his hands, reminded of how red-stained they were.

He would ruin this. He would ruin this for Dick. He was going to ruin this for Dick.

Jason started to shift.

Dick’s hand landed on his leg, warm. “Don’t wake him,” he said quietly. “He’s fine.”

Jason felt his chest tighten. He swallowed and nodded. They sat in silence for a while, half watching the movie, half sitting on the precipice of a million unsaid things.

Jason had seen this movie a hundred times—he could practically quote it, if he wanted. But tonight, for some reason, it was…different. Maybe it was the nostalgia, maybe it was the fact that his brother and nephew-brother were nestled beside him, but everything just meant…more.

Onscreen, in a stunningly emotional display of child acting, Max begged Lavagirl not to jump into the frozen sea after Sharkboy.

“He’s my best friend,” she said in a tone that boded no argument, and dove in after him.

It was easy. Simple, effortless, natural, even. The sacrifice was inconsequential if it meant he would live. She made up her mind, years ago, when she’d called him her best friend.

Jason blinked, and the screen blurred.

The room was dark and quiet and heavy. And Jason, for some reason, only seemed to understand the weight of this five-minute scene in a campy kids’ movie from 2005 in this very moment. It gutted him, almost.

Because, if the circumstance required it, he would dive into a freezing ocean for the two hearts that beat beside him now. No second thoughts; it would be easy.

He looked down at Tim’s sleeping form—at his little chest, rising and falling peacefully—and something inside him cracked. There was something he needed to say; something that had been burning on his tongue since the night he found Dick on that rooftop.

His eyes drifted back to the flickering television. He couldn’t look at Dick for this. It would hurt too much.

“I’m not who you remember,” Jason said quietly, his voice low so he wouldn’t wake Tim. “That stupid kid…he’s gone, Dick. He died. I’m not—I can’t be him.”

Jason could feel the weight of his brother’s gaze on him like a physical thing. The air seemed still—charged and thick, a hand pressed to his chest. Jason breathed out slowly. He wondered if Tim could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage.

“I’m not the same.”

The words practically fell out of him, a soft and nearly-broken confession. Maybe they were—a dark truth he’d buried deep inside his rotten undead soul.

I’ve killed people, Dick. 

I’ve killed your Little Wing.

I am your little brother. Please love me despite the blood on my hands. Please love me despite what I’ve done.

Because I still love you.

The silence returned, and Jason didn’t dare move. The words hung heavy between them. Eventually, Jason hesitantly glanced sideways.

Dick’s face was soft in the lavender glow of the screen. There was no anger or fear—just this raw, unguarded gentleness that had Jason’s breath catching in his throat. Dick’s eyes shined faintly with unshed tears. Jason found himself unable to turn away from the full force of his brother’s gaze.

When he spoke, Dick’s voice was that same steady, no-argument tone that Lavagirl’s had been before she jumped into the water to save her best friend.

“That’s okay,” Dick said. “I’ll meet you all over again, if that’s what it takes.”

Everything inside Jason stilled. There was a soft smile on Dick’s lips—sad, maybe, but also…real. And suddenly, Jason felt small. A kid again. A little brother, curled up next to someone who never stopped loving him, no matter how far he’d fallen from the nest.

His throat tightened, eyes stinging. Emotion rose up, sharp and hot and so much it squeezed him. He swallowed hard and looked back at the television. Colors danced across his face.

Maybe Jason could hope.

Maybe Jason had come back wrong. But maybe all that mattered was that he had came back.

The three of them stayed on the couch long after the movie had ended. Tim was still asleep, curled up in between Jason and Dick. The television screen was dark. Neither Dick nor Jason had spoken again. Everything was too much, and all Jason wanted was to sit here with his older brother—comforted, for a little while longer, by the illusion that the world outside the apartment door didn’t exist. It was just them, here, and that was enough.

After a while, Dick stirred. He rubbed at his eyes with one hand, fingers drifting absently across his temple—where the curved scar caught the dim light from the kitchen stove.

Maybe it was the haze of comfort, or exhaustion, or the copious amounts of mango sticky rice he’d eaten sugar-rotting his brain, but Jason’s mouth moved before his brain could stop it.

“That’s a nice one,” he murmured, nodding to the scar.

Dick snorted softly. “You’re the one who told me it added to my appeal.”

Jason froze. 

Because no. No, he hadn’t.

He didn’t say that. He doesn’t remember that scar. Jason would’ve seen it before. Hell, Jason would’ve heard about it before—the scar was deep and curved and almost lethal in its placement.

He was certain. He would’ve known about it.

Dick didn’t seem to notice Jason’s silence. He kept talking.

“Those were some big dudes, too. And you—“

He stopped, the words dying in his mouth. The faint amusement burned away. Something flickered across Dick’s face—grief. Undeniable, choking grief.

He looks like he’s losing, Jason remembered thinking, all those nights ago when his brother had figured out who he was. Not lost. Losing. 

But there was something else, too. Something that looked a lot like horror. A dawning panic that settled behind his eyes like a shadow, a shackle. He swallowed thickly. His whole body was tense—as if he was trying not to shatter, running behind the curtain to glue himself back together. His wrist twitched.

Their eyes met. Jason himself tensed.

“Dick—“

Dick stood abruptly but carefully, so he wouldn’t jostle Tim. He clenched his trembling hands into fists. He wasn’t looking at Jason—he wasn’t looking at anything, really.

Jason’s blood was slowly freezing to icy sludge in his veins.

Because yes—there was horror and panic and an ancient, aching grief on Dick’s face. But there was also remembrance. And whatever awful, wretched thing he was remembering—it was strangling him.

Dick turned and walked out of the room without a word. Jason heard the bathroom door open and close. And then—silence. Only this one was damn near oppressive. It sank into the couch cushions. The hand on his chest returned, only this time, it suffocated.

Jason…had no idea what the fuck to do. He had no idea what the fuck had just happened.

Tim snuffled softly in his sleep, unaware of what was happening. Unaware of the quiet that threatened to deafen Jason.

Jason felt as if he was pulling himself through a dense fog. He stood and gently gathered Tim in his arms. The kid murmured something in his sleep, tucking his face against Jason’s shoulder. Jason swallowed down the lump in his throat and carried Tim to bed.

Jason would absolutely kill someone for this kid. Fuck everybody else.

He closed Tim’s bedroom door behind him with a soft click. He took as deep a breath as his lungs would allow, and faced the glow from beneath the bathroom door.

He raised his hand to knock, but saw the door cracked.

“Dick?” he asked softly. “I’m gonna come in, okay?”

There was no answer. Jason shifted from foot to foot, a cold, ugly feeling sinking in his gut. He gently nudged the door open, giving Dick ample time to stop him.

Jason paused in the doorframe. Dick was standing in front of the mirror, unmoving. The light was too bright, casting harsh shadows across his face. Jason was shocked at the stranger staring back in the mirror—expression blank and haunted and hollowed-out.

Dick’s wide eyes found Jason’s reflection in the mirror. His hands tightened on the porcelain of the sink. His breath was shaky, each one forced in and out, as if Dick was trying not to hyperventilate. 

“Hey,” Jason said softly. He felt like he was calming a wild animal. “What’s—what’s wrong, Dick? Are you, um…” Jason felt woefully ill-equipped, just like he had every other time he tried desperately not to send his brother off the deep-end.

“You’re, uh—awake,” he said, stepping more fully into the bathroom and offering Dick his wrist. “This is—“

Jason stopped breathing.

Dick had been wearing a sweatshirt while they’d eaten dinner. He must’ve taken it off at some point during the movie.

Jason had seen the scars on his brother's arms before, on the roof, the first night he’d spoken to Dick. But that was by moonlight and half covered by shadow.

Now—

Now, Jason could see them, in the fluorescent spotlight of the bathroom.

They were old and layered—some thin, others deep—all long and slashing. Pale marks marring his brother’s tan skin. It looked…it looked wrong. They shouldn’t be there. Not on Dick. Not on his brother.

Hot nausea churned in Jason’s gut, replacing the ugly coldness with a vicious roiling. 

“…Jesus, Dick. What…what happened?”

Dick didn’t move at all. He didn’t take Jason’s outstretched hand, nor did he take his eyes off the mirror. The only sound that filled the bathroom was Dick’s shuddering breaths and the roar of blood in Jason’s ears.

Slowly, Jason reached out and gently took Dick’s hand (he made a point to not touch a single scar like they might burn him). He pressed two of Dick’s fingers into the pulse point at his wrist. 

“This is real,” he said, hoarse, surprised he could find his voice. “I’m…I’m real.”

Dick just…melted. His knees gave out, hands releasing their white-knuckle grip on the sink. Jason caught him with a grunt and lowered them both to the cold tile of the bathroom floor.

Dick didn’t cry. He just stared at nothing, eyes blank, expression vacant. Jason kept his hand firmly in Dick’s. He did not look at the scars—they were already branded behind his eyelids, anyways.

“They’re not what you think,” Dick whispered, so quietly Jason almost didn’t hear it.

“What?”

“I didn’t…they’re not what you think.”

“Okay,” Jason said, slow. He didn’t exactly fully believe that. But if it wasn’t that, then…?

What? The Nightwing suit may not have as much armor as he does, but that’s because Dick’s an acrobat. He needs the gaps between the plates to be bigger so he can move. But the suit still had fucking armor.

Jason frowned. “Dick, you have vanguards to protect your forearms—“

“I wasn’t wearing them.”

The admission landed like a blow. But what gave each word brass knuckles was how calm Dick’s voice was—as if he’d made peace with something no one should ever have to. Maybe Dick wasn’t drowning. Maybe he was already beneath the waves, looking up at the fading light of the surface as he slowly sank into the depths of his own grief.

Jason’s head snapped to Dick. He leaned forward, trying to make Dick fucking look at him.

“Why the hell not?”

All Dick did was give a small shrug.

“I didn’t…”

He sighed, heavy. His eyes found Jason’s—blue as the water filling his lungs.

“The armor was heavy, Jason. I couldn’t wear it anymore, after a while. So I just…didn’t.”

Jason’s chest was caving in on itself. That’s what was happening, right here on this fucking bathroom floor. Jason’s entire chest was cracking and folding and warping, pointing in, in, in. 

He wanted—God, he wanted—

He wanted to be himself again. Not this wretched version—a ghost, wearing flesh like a suit and playacting at life. No, he wanted to be twelve again, and not know. He wanted to un-know every awful thing they’d had to do to survive. To be illiterate of the language of pain and sacrifice and guilt that had strung them both up along the same gallows.

He wanted to grab Dick’s hand and run back through time. Run backward down rooftops and fire escapes, shedding years like coats slipping from their shoulders. Run and run and run back before grief was not a constant, heavy thing that chained Jason to a rock and Dick to the sea.

Jason blinked, tears in his eyes. He didn’t try to stop them this time. They rolled, hot and fat, down his cheeks, catching the divots and ridges of his own scars.

“Dick,” he said, voice broken. “How?”

It took a long time for Dick to answer. They sat, shoulder to trembling shoulder, Dick’s hand still clutching Jason’s.

“I—“ Dick cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and started again.

“I was blowing up some barges, down at the docks in Blüd. Cutting off an opium dealer’s escape route while they were busy meeting with another gang in the city. I get to the last one, some kind of main container in the shipyard, and…”

He huffed a whisper of a laugh.

“This part gets a little fuzzy.”

Oh, Jason realized unceremoniously. Cold prickled across his skin.

“You…you were there. I don’t exactly remember how old you were—fifteen, maybe. Right before you…” Dick swallowed hard. He stared ahead. 

“And, well, there was some muscle there, too. Two big guys, I think. I remember…I remember being scared. Because you were there. And for a split second I thought—“

His voice broke off. Jason wanted to say something, but he was suddenly unable to string two coherent thoughts together outside of what and the fuck.

“He looked like he was going to get you. And for a split second I thought he was. That he could. So I…”

Dick turned his head fully away from Jason, pulling his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms around tight. Jason held on to his hand like it was the only thing tethering him to this moment.

“I moved,” he said, muffled by his arm. “I moved to protect you. I opened myself up. I guess the guy had picked up a metal pipe or something, because the next thing I knew, I was waking up in my apartment feeling like my bell got fucking split open.”

“How did you get back?”

Dick turned his head toward Jason; his eyes were red and watery, his face defeated.

“Tim found me, and dragged me back. I’m pretty sure I thought he was you the whole time. I think—I think I thought I was dreaming. I don’t know. Tim said I kept asking for the time, which was how I would know if I wasn’t but…I don’t remember.”

Gently, Jason let go of Dick’s hand and raised it to his brother’s face, palm cupping his cheek and ghosting his fingers over the scar. Dick closed his eyes, leaning into the featherlight touch.

“Why?” Jason croaked.

Dick took a long, deep breath, letting it out slow.

“The armor was heavy,” he repeated. “I wasn’t…I wasn’t sleeping. I wasn’t eating. And every night I’d go out and you’d be there. It just—it got to a point where I had convinced myself that I was safer without the armor. It was heavy and I was tired. So tired. All the time.”

Jason knew that wasn’t all of it—there was something Dick wasn’t saying. Jason knew what it was, and he was very confident that Dick knew that he knew. Maybe that’s why he kept talking, defeated and heartbroken.

“And part of me,” Dick said quietly, blue eyes boring into Jason, “part of me would’ve done anything to be with you again.”

Dick’s grief had a body and a voice—and that body was weary and that voice called out for his little brother, night after night, bloody reality be damned.

“But Dick, I was dead.” the words spilled out of Jason, fast and half-formed. “It wasn’t your fault, you idiot. You were far away. Hell, you were on another fucking planet—“

Dick’s eyes met Jason’s wide.

“Jase—“

“No, Dick shut up and let me talk.”

Dick’s jaw snapped shut.

“I never blamed you, okay? Never. Not even after our fight in the Cave. That wasn’t—I chose to leave. I chose to go after my birth mom. Was it stupid and reckless? The jury’s still out on that one. But it wasn’t your fault. I let my guard down. The Joker, he—“

Jason shook his head. He did not want to go there. He pivoted.

“Listen. Dick—fucking listen to me, okay?”

Jason held his brother’s face in both hands.

“I do not blame you. I never blamed you. Even when—“

Jason’s voice broke off. He swallowed and kept talking, because Dick needed to hear it.

“Even when he left me there. Even when I watched the time hit zero. Even when I screamed and yelled—I never blamed you.”

“But I wasn’t there,” Dick whispered. He hiccuped a sob.

Jason pressed their foreheads together, feeling the warm, alive skin of his brother’s against his own.

“That doesn’t matter. It never mattered. Because you were, Dick. You were there. When it mattered.”

(“You cannot be serious.”

Jason felt a wild grin spread across his face. In his green gloved hands he held two strips of black fabric.

“Jase. You. Cannot be. Serious.”

Jason handed one of the blindfolds to Dick and turned to face the rest of the yard. They were perched on top of a train, the night air smelling of coal and metal. 

“Come on, Dickwing, don’t tell me you’re scared. Of all people, you should be the most excited. This is right up your alley.”

He said it like challenge, because it was the only way he could get Dick to actually do it. Dick wasn’t actually scared. Dick wasn’t scared of anything. It was one of his many traits that Jason secretly envied—how Dick never feared the flight, or even the fall.

Jason walked to the edge of the traincar, sucking in a breath, feeling something in his stomach squirm when he tied the blindfold around his eyes. Everything went black—and suddenly, all the giddy exhilaration in his chest was replaced with something sharp and tight. 

For half a second, even less, he hesitated. He yanked the blindfold up just enough for one of the white lenses to peek out.

“You go first.”

Dick shot him a look—one he always seemed to give Jason when he could see through every glass layer of bravado and teasing.

Jason quickly looked away. “I can’t have you chickening out on me,” he mumbled. It sounded way lamer than it had in his head.

Something unreadable shifted behind Dick’s eyes. He straightened, striding forward as if entering the ring to perform.

“Watch and learn, Little Wing,” he said, eyeing the jump. He secured the blindfold around his face.

He took a deep breath, got a running start and jumped—

Jason’s heart leapt into his throat, fear snaking like ice through his veins. What if he didn’t—

Dick thudded on the metal rooftop of the other train. He saluted the judges with unecessary grandeur and flourish.

“Show off,” Jason muttered, but he couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his cheeks.

“You know the distance,” Dick called over to him. He’d pulled up his blindfold. “You know how long you will be in the air. Trust yourself, Little Wing. If you fall, I will catch you.”

Jason nodded. The words settled his heart, replacing the fear in his veins with adrenaline. He took a few steps back, breathed deep, and—

Jumped the space between the two trains. He landed with a slightly-less graceful thud next to Dick, already giggling. Dick shot him a grin—one that made Jason feel invincible, like he could do anything—and they were off again, jumping between the train cars, laughing like they’d never have to bear the weight of real life. The night was theirs.

Then, Jason had slipped.

This train car in particular had condensation on the roof, unseen by both boys. Dick had already jumped—easy and perfect, as always. But when Jason pushed off to follow, his foot slipped.

He was sent flying through the air, terror gripping him, the night suddenly much too big around them. Dick moved to catch him—

And he did. Right in his chest. Luckily, instead of careening off the backside of the car, Dick fell to the ground immediately, sending him and Jason sprawling across the roof of the train.

Jason was pressed to Dick’s chest, and Dick held on to Jason with a kind of clutching ferocity that he’d never felt from his brother before.

They sat like that for a heart pounding minute. Adrenaline flowing, breath heavy. The security of knowing you’ll be caught if you fall holding them in place for a precious sliver of time. 

“That was a close one,” Jason breathed into the blue-bird insignia on Dick’s chest.

“No, it wasn’t,” Dick said, running a gentle hand through his Jason’s curls. “I told you I would catch you, remember?”)

Dick began to cry in earnest—full body sobs that had Jason’s heart breaking in his chest. He grabbed Dick’s neck and pulled him into his shoulder, running his fingers through his brother’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, muffled by Jason’s shirt. “Jason—I am so sorry. For everything. For what I said in the cave. For all the times I should’ve been better—“

“No.” Jason felt this kind of frantic need take a hold of him—a desperate, clawing necessity to make this right. “Richard Grayson—“

He pulled Dick’s shoulders away so they were face to face. Dick’s eyes were swollen and red, his cheeks wet with tears.

Yes, Jason may have fallen. But Dick never once let Jason fall without reaching for him. And Jason remembered.

“I wasn’t born a little brother, did you know that? I’m an only child. For the first twelve years of my life, it was just me. And then you came along—and you made me. You made me a little brother, Dick.”

Dick swallowed thickly. Jason felt more tears slip from his own eyes.

“And nothing will ever change that. Not life, or death, or whatever shit that came in between. It is an inarguable fact. A brick in the foundation of all creation. You are my big brother, Richard John Grayson.

“And I, Jason Peter Todd, am your little brother.”

Chapter Text

Jason and Dick sat on the floor for a long time.

The tile was an indifferent cold; it seeped through Jason’s jeans into his bones until they ached, as if they city itself was reaching up greedy hands to leech the warmth from him. But still, he sat, shoulder to shoulder with his big brother. They did not speak. The weight of all that had been said in the past terrible hour weighed on Jason like a black hole—language had simply folded in on itself.

And also, Jason was tired of fucking crying. His eyes were raw, his cheeks wet. Every time he told himself he was done, Dick would take a shuddering breath, his weight shifting against Jason, and the tears would come anyways. Slow and useless and hot as acid as they carved their way down his already scarred face. He wondered if he could drown. He wondered if he would float away.

He wondered if the tide knew what to do with him now—if, for one second, time would wait for him. He could stand on his rock with salt in his mouth and hold his brother at the same time. Had Jason pulled Dick from the waters of his grief? Or merely jumped into the sea to be drowned beside him?

At the ripe hour of four a.m., Jason needed out. The walls of the bathroom were closing in, as were the bones of his ribs. He was being squeezed—suffocated by emotion and tears and touch. Besides, being a lucrative crime lord was a full-time job, after all.

Dick offered the pull-out again; Jason almost wanted to stay, wanted to feel like he could at least try to protect Dick—but it was getting hard to breathe deeply and his mind demanded space. 

He peeked in at Tim as he left. A small smile crossed his face—the kid was dead to the world, curled up tight around the red blanket, face a mask of sleepy calm. 

Yep. Jason would definitely kill someone for that kid if he had to.

He biked his way back to the narrows in purple pre-dawn glow, the last of the stars (not like he could even see them through the ever-present smog) retreating from the sky. His heartbeat was a stubborn drum in his chest. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. But with each bit of distance he put between himself and the utter shitstorm that was the conversation he’d just had with Dick, one of his ribs removed itself from his lungs. 

Jason sighed heavily as he parked his bike below his apartment. He needed to get at least some sleep before he met with Henry later that day.

Fuck sleep, Jason thought bitterly.

He’d tossed and turned, all attempts at rest slipping like sand through his scarred fingers and leaving him only more hollowed-out than before. His dreams were electrified by anxiety, steeped in sorrow, and—oddly enough—drowned in rain. 

So, feeling like his insides had been wrung out by cold, bony fingers, Jason abandoned any notions of rest and got to work busying his mind so he wouldn’t have to think.

A handful of hours, one soggy omelette, and another failed nap attempt later, Jason’s phone buzzed on the counter.

Henry.

Jason answered, holding the phone pinched between his shoulder and ear as he prepared a turkey sandwich a shade too aggressively. 

“Henry.”

“Boss.” Jason could hear the self-satisfied smirk through the tinny speaker. “How was dealing with your personal matter?”

“How was dealing with the rat?” Jason fired back. He knew the answer, of course: Henry hadn’t found shit—or he would’ve texted Jason immediately.

“Um—“

Gotcha, Jason thought, a self-satisfied smirk of his own crossing his scarred lips.

“—I’m workin’ on it boss. Damn.”

Jason let the silence drag. He didn’t feel like playing games. He was, quite frankly, fucking exhausted. 

“Anyways,” Henry said finally, clearing his throat. “I’ve got some…less than pleasant news.”

Jason sighed heavily. He felt so empty yet so full he had no idea what to do with himself except drift aimlessly around his apartment. Like a ghost.

“What is it?”

“You know that torch job you did two nights ago? Well, apparently those fuckers don’t know how to take a hint—there’s one more active lab in some old scrapyard in the auto district. Ben heard it from a street runner that they started peddlin’ outta there a few nights ago.”

Jason grit his teeth, abandoning his half-made sandwich to pace a hole in the cheap hardwood. People were going to start dying if he didn’t stop this. A hot anger settled in his gut, and Jason welcomed it. It was better than the steel-wool tangle bouncing around inside him—twisting up his organs and carving him out. The anger, at least, was a purpose that filled up some of that aching hollowness.

“I’ll pay them a visit,” Jason drawled. “Send a more…convincing message.”

(A tiny, tiny, very small piece of Jason was relieved. He felt bottled up—muscles coiled, bones itching, body oversaturated with violent emotion. He needed an out. He needed a target for the cacophony in his chest. And now, he had one.)

Henry chuckled on the line. “Perfect, boss.”

The scrapyard stank of oil and wet metal. Jason weaved in between the stacked corpses of cars like a wraith, his footsteps near-silent on the gravel beneath his boots. The grimy, half-dead lights of the scrapyard did little to alleviate the shadows dripping like ink from the piles of steel and rust. 

Jason’s muscles thrummed with a coursing adrenaline he was eager to burn off. The plan was simple. Child’s play, if you will:

Get in.

Send a message.

Get out.

Jason had done dozens of these—most of them leaving no survivors. Jason was going to send a message alright, but maybe he’d leave the roaches alive for this one. So they could tell all their little pest-friends exactly what the Red Hood did to them—and that they would be next if they tried anything similar.

Jason could see the office now—the carcass of an old shipping container patched up by sheets of rusting scrap metal. It was tucked away in the back of the yard, a singular, buzzing light flickering by the door.

Jason smiled beneath the helmet as he pulled a gun from his holster. He peaked out from his hiding spot behind a high stack of flattened Volkswagen Beetles.

God, how he needed this.

And that’s when he felt them—

Eyes.

There were eyes on him.

Someone was watching him.

Jason retreated further into the shadows of his hiding place. He scanned the long shadows of the junkyard, searching for the source of the unnerving prickling on the back of his neck. His heart rate picked up speed in his chest. Jason’s finger hovered over the trigger.

Nothing. 

That was wrong. Jason could feel it, instinctually. There was someone else here.

He slunk deeper into the shadows, darting between stacks of crushed cars until he popped up on the other side of the yard. And yet—he still felt the eyes.

A cold sweat prickled across Jason’s brow. 

No one could hide from the Red Hood. Not Back Mask, not any street thug, and most certainly not any low-level drug-running simpleton.

Not even Nightwing himself.

Jason swallowed hard, a chill running up his spine. The buzzing of the grimy lights pressed in on his eardrums. He suddenly felt exposed—open, as if he was no longer the biggest shark in the midnight water. His eyes darted around the dark, stomach twisting up in knots, looking for—

Oh.

Fuck.

Jason could see it. Jason could see it so clearly he was surprised he’d missed it the first time.

A slice of shadow by the scrap magnet crane was a shade darker than the rest. A void—one that’s only created by a certain, very specific black cape.

Every molecule in Jason’s body froze.

Batman.

Batman was here.

No. No no no no.

Jason wasn’t ready. Not tonight. Not ever maybe, but most certainly not fucking now.

Why the fuck was Bruce even here?

How was Bruce here?

This wasn’t even a big operation. This was the Red Hood dealing with some low-level drug runners who cut their stock with poison shit. He hadn’t even brought a comm.

Jason didn’t breathe, lest Batman hear the exhale of breath. He could practically feel Bruce’s presence. Though Jason was tucked into a shadow of his own across the scrapyard, Bruce might as well have been standing inches from him. His heart kicked against his ribs like it wanted out.

Every muscle in Jason’s petrified body screamed at him to run.

You’re not his son, remember?

He buried you. 

You’ve done the unforgivable. And you cannot go back.

You tore up every line he refused to cross—and in doing so, you severed the only one connecting the two of you together.

Bruce had known he’d be here. He was watching. Stalking.

Jason felt his chest pull tighter. He swallowed again, feeling his throat close. For once in his life, Jason obeyed the frantic screeching of his panicked, twitching muscles—

He ran.

Jason vaulted over cars, no longer hunting but hunted. He could feel Bruce pursuing him like a wildfire consumes dry tinder—singleminded in his ferocious pursuit. He tore through the scrapyard like a cornered prey animal. He jumped over tumbled steel poles. He rolled under a rusted sheet jutting out across his path.

Thwip—clink!

A batarang skimmed the metal beam to his left. Jason skidded on the gravel as he made a hard left toward the darkest part of the scrapyard. He could disappear if he just—

Another batarang whizzed by his helmet.

Jason flinched, heart in his fucking throat, and cut a sliding right down a narrow line of gutted station wagons. It was a narrow aisle, but if he could just make it—

Thwip!

Fire erupted across Jason’s arm. The gash was shallow but deep enough to make him stagger, swearing, hand flying to the sudden bloom of blood at his bicep.

“Fuck.”

He’d been marked. Tagged. Bruce had seen him. He squeezed his arm tighter, biting the inside of his cheek at the sharp sting. If even a single fucking drop of blood hit the ground, the Red Hood would be unmasked. 

Jason would be found.

Jason would be found and Bruce would see him—mask off, pretenses peeled away with a black scalpel and and the cold, surgical fingers of the only person Jason ever truly saw as a father.

Jason would be found.

And he’d be found unworthy.

He wove between piles of junk, finally wedging himself between two massive scrap cranes. He fought tooth and nail to silence his breathing, black dots dancing at the corners of his vision from how little oxygen he let into his lungs. He swallowed once, twice, mouth dry. Irrationally, he feared Bruce could hear the erratic hammer of his heart.

Jason’s mind scrambled. Does he know?

A sick, hot nausea rose in his gut. He tried to remember if he’d worn anything that Bruce could’ve tied to him—had his helmet tipped Bruce off? Taking Joker’s old alias as a title?

Had Jason’s movements—his weaving, his ducking and running—proved too similar to those Robin had made as he chased criminals through the back alleys of Gotham?

Had Bruce seen his face?

Jason felt his breath hitch, ragged gasps forcing their way past his lips. He clenched as fists as tight as he could, trying to bring some feeling back into his hands.

No. He can’t know. Unless…

Jason cursed, the white-hot knife of betrayal driving into his back.

Dick.

It had to have been Dick.

Jason’s chest tightened further. Angry tears sprang to his eyes.

He’d trusted Dick. And Dick, at least he’d thought, had trusted him.

And now—

Clink!

A batarang sparked off the metal body of the crane to his right. Jason gripped his arm tighter, fingers digging into the gash, allowing the bright pain to yank him back into the moment.

He needed to get the fuck out.

Jason bolted. He slipped through a hole in the chain link fence behind a crane more earth than machine and fucking ran. He tore through back alleys and side-streets that only a Crime Alley native would know. He looped redundant circles and made turns at random. Every shadow was the Batman’s cape. Every rooftop, a trap.

Finally, finally, Jason’s legs gave out behind a dumpster. The world shrank to blood and breath and the looming noose of memory.

He pressed a shaking hand to his arm. The gash was still bleeding, but it wasn’t deep, nor fatal—but it still felt like something had been cut loose. A piece of his mask, maybe. A shred of the persona he used to hide himself.

Jason strained his ears so hard his head was beginning to pound. In the distance, there were no sirens. No alarms, no footfalls. He no longer felt the eyes.

But he still felt irrevocably seen.

By the time Jason made it back to the shitty apartment that was his base of operations, paranoia had settled into his bones like a festering rot. Every single one of his nerves was a live wire, strung out and pulled taut. The adrenaline had long since burned off, leaving behind the same old bitter cocktail of ache, exhaustion, and that buzzing, skin-crawling feeling of having been seen.

His arm throbbed in time with his heartbeat. It was annoying more than it was painful, but Jason still felt like a wounded animal—and the predator was circling, waiting for the perfect chance to strike.

Jason crept into the apartment through the window, gun raised, finger ghosting the trigger.

A flicker of movement. Jason fired—

“Jesus, Hood!” Henry cried, ducking behind the counter. The bullet skimmed off the cheap laminate countertop and embedded itself amongst many other holes in the crumbling drywall.

Jason’s hand shook from how tightly he gripped the gun. His chest shuddered out breaths in an uneven, staccato rhythm. He might’ve apologized if he could find his voice.

Henry’s head popped up from behind the kitchen counter. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Jason ignored the question. He climbed the rest of the way into the apartment, locking the window behind him and drawing the moth-eaten curtains. He crossed the room in two long strides, double checking the locks on the door and the window on the opposite wall.

Locked. Security measures still in place.

Still, Jason’s chest felt like a tightly coiled spring. He staggered to the old wooden table, eyes frantically scanning the schematics of their plan (they were few and far between, because it was supposed to be a simple torch job).

“How did he know?” Jason mumbled. He gripped the edge of the table to stop his hands from trembling.

“Huh?” said Henry, coming up beside Jason.

Jason spun on him, eyes blazing beneath the helmet. “How did he know?”

Henry took a step back. Distantly, Jason wondered if it was from the intensity of his panic or the heat of his anger.

“How did—oh.” Dark recognition crossed Henry’s face. “The Batman was there.”

Jason’s stomach dropped clean out of him at the mention of him. He didn’t need to nod. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Henry’s eyes slid down to the tear in his leather jacket.

“Take a souvenir?” he asked, nodding toward the gash.

Jason’s mouth tasted like copper from where he’d bitten his cheek. He wanted to rip his helmet off—to fucking breathe—but he couldn’t. Not with Henry here. Not with the possibility Bruce in every fucking dark corner.

It was quiet in the apartment, save for the mechanized crackle of Jason’s uneven breathing through the helmet. His hands ached from how tightly his fists were clenched. Henry studied him with a calculating eye that Jason didn’t appreciate, but couldn’t find it in himself to threaten for.

“Sit,” Henry said at last. He grabbed the medkit from one of the cabinets.

Surprisingly, Jason obeyed. He shrugged off his jacket and dropped into the rickety wooden chair, exhaustion hitting him like a tidal wave. He would rub his eyes if it weren’t for the helmet. His breathing was shallow—the tightness in his chest stopped him from filling his lungs up all the way.

Henry crouched beside him. “So—the Bat was there.”

Jason tensed where he sat.

Henry sighed. He poured alcohol onto some gauze and pressed it to the wound. “Bastard’s a fuckin’ animal. I can’t believe people think he’s some kind of fuckin’ hero.”

Jason hissed at the sting. Henry worked in steady silence, cleaning the edges of the shallow gash with surprising care.

Jason felt unmoored. He was no longer on a rock but a little boat. And the winds were roaring and the waves were high and Jason didn’t know how to fucking sail. He felt alone in a way he hadn’t in a long time.

He had his plan. His righteous crusade:

Kill the Joker.

Make Bruce pay.

It was easy. Simple. Full of all-consuming vengeance and white fury.

But now? With all the terrible truths that Dick had confessed? With the kid sleeping in the second bedroom? And the clawing, gripping fear he hadn’t expected to seize him at the mere sight of his father?

That complicated things—fucking massively.

Jason didn’t know what he wanted now. But one thing was certain—he didn’t know how much longer he could do this. Drown and stand and stay and sail.

“You know,” Henry said, not looking up from where he gently cleaned some of the remaining blood off Jason’s arm with a warm cloth, “another night off might do ya some good, boss.”

“Henry,” Jason said, his voice tired. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to take my job.”

Henry chuckled. “Nah. Just…nobody’s built for the kind of shit we do. Not even you.” Henry’s voice darkened. “And now you’ve got the big bad Bat on your tail.”

Jason grit his teeth, eyes flashing to the curtain-covered windows, the door, the darker corners of the room.“I take it you don’t like him,” he said quietly.

“Don’t like him?” Henry snorted. “I fuckin’ hate that guy, man.”

Behind the helmet, Jason raised a brow.

“He’s all ‘righteousness and justice’ but only for those he thinks deserve it. Yeah, he doesn’t kill anybody. But holy fuck—he definitely makes some of ‘em wish they were dead. The way he was beatin’ the shit outta people a few months ago? The way he uses people—desperate, vulnerable people in crappy situations—to get what he wants? What kinda fuckin’ justice is that bullshit?”

Jason mulled over Henry’s words. That was the fundamental moral divide between him and Bruce, the red chasm that had severed father from son:

Bruce believed that no one deserved to die. 

Jason did. 

Because Jason hadn’t deserved to die. And yet—he had been murdered. And when he returned, thugs and rapists and abusers and the fucking Joker still walked the streets, alive. And that fucking hurt. Jason didn’t deserve to die—and yet he had. 

Those shitstains did deserve to die—and yet they lived. 

Where was the justice in that? The vengeance? The righteousness?

Innocent people die every day. Terrible people live every day. Where is the balance? The order? The fucking karma? Was Lady Justice really so blind?

(Where was Bruce? Where was Jason’s dad?)

“That’s why I kill people, Henry.” Jason said dryly. Exhaustion nibbled away at his composure. He didn’t have the energy to keep up the big bad Red Hood act anymore. Besides, he trusted Henry.

“Yeah well,” Henry shook his head slow, wrapping a bandage around Jason’s arm. “Make sure you stay away from him. I know your brother’s one of his little partners, but still—“ Henry tied off the bandage. “He’s fuckin’ complacent in it, if you ask me. Didn’t do shit to stop it.”

Jason opened his mouth to rise to Dick’s defense—but he stopped.

There was a very high chance that Dick had just sold him out to Bruce.

Jason suppressed a shudder. There was a storm brewing on the horizon—the dark clouds of a monstrous panic attack that loomed at the edges of his senses. The pain from a strike of betrayal was still lodged like a knife in his back. He could feel everything begin to crumble around him—but right now, Jason just wanted to fucking sleep. 

Henry stood slowly, gathering the bloody gauze and cloth in his hand. He stretched the stiffness out of his knees. “Look, Hood—just go home, okay? Get some real sleep. Take a fuckin’ melatonin or something, I don’t know. Get off your feet. I can deal with your shit for one night.”

“Feels like it’s been more than one night,” Jason muttered. He stood, grabbing his jacket and pulling the keys to his bike from his pants’ pocket.

“Oh it has,” Henry said as he crossed the room to where his laptop sat on the kitchen counter. “But no need to worry. You can just give me a bonus. Or better yet—a raise!”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Find my rat, Henry. Then we can talk about a bonus.”

He slipped out the window before Henry could reply.

Jason’s palms burned where they gripped the mug of black tea. He’d made it more out of ritual than desire—the familiar steps of water and microwave and steep grounding his fraying soul, coaxing it back into his chest. He should let go of the hot ceramic. He should bring the mug to his lips and sip. 

He did neither.

A dull throb pulsed in his arm from the gash. He should take some Tylenol. He should probably eat something.

Again, he did neither.

Jason kept picturing a damning trail of red from the scrapyard to his window, a bright, stupid breadcrumb path that would lead Bruce right to his front door. The outline of the cowl was burned behind his eyelids.

Seen. The word rose in his throat like bile. Seen had always led to being taken apart. Dissected—sinew from bone, action from intention.

Seen had been the first step to being judged—the gavel before the verdict, the scalpel that had cut his autopsy scar.

(“I guess I spooked him. He slipped.”)

Jason swallowed hard, mouth tasting of stale copper. He raised the mug to his lips.

There was a soft knock at the door.

Jason jolted so hard he nearly sloshed half his tea right over the rim of the mug. His body went cold in a flash of adrenaline, stomach dropping, heart jumpstarting in his chest. He set the mug down silently despite his shaking hands.

He had changed out of his suit, but his gun was still there—tucked in the waistband of his jeans. He drew it, the click of the safety echoing loudly in the quiet apartment. Jason crept silently across the room towards the door with his heart in his throat. He flattened himself against the wall so Batman couldn’t see the shadows of his feet beneath the door. He leaned, slow and careful, to peek through the peephole.

Dick.

He wasn’t in costume, his hair windswept, one of those stupidly open-faced looks he always wore when he wanted to be plain and human. The tight spring in Jason uncoiled—but only slightly. The fear drained away, replaced by hot, sticky anger.

What the fuck was Dick doing here?

Jason stared at the door for a beat longer, heart thudding, jaw locked tight. He could pretend he wasn’t home. But then—Dick would just come in anyways. Jason swallowed hard around his tightening throat.

It wasn’t Bruce—but it was Dick.

A twisted, conflicted emotion rose inside Jason: half of him wanted to yank the door open and pull his brother inside—telling Dick how he’d seen Bruce and asking his big brother to just make everything okay again.

But another part—the louder part—was angry. Was fucking scared. Because Dick had told Jason that Bruce knew nothing, and Jason had trusted him implicitly.

But then Bruce had fucking shown up.

Jason took a deep breath. He steeped in front of the door and cracked it open. Dick greeted him with a soft smile and a bag of takeout. 

Jason didn’t smile back. The smell of shawarma was ordinary; the timing was not.

“Did he send you?” he asked, voice quiet and dangerously flat.

Dick’s brows drew together, the warmth on his face flickering like a candle in the wind. “…What?”

Jason stared him down. “How did you find me?”

“You’re my little brother, Jay. I’ll always find you.”

Jason continued staring, tampering down his rising panic with blunt anger.

Dick’s smile faltered. “And…” he added, rubbing his next with his free hand, “I tracked your phone.”

Jason had to stop his mouth from falling open. Dick said it like it meant nothing. But it was something—a deliberate crossing of a line Jason hadn’t realized he’d drawn so sharp and deep.

The door creaked under his grip. Ice dripped down his spine, cold and invasive, seeping into his blood. It felt like he was being hunted. He’d already been tagged—and now, released for the chase. His breath got locked in frozen lungs.

Dick must’ve seen something shift in Jason’s face, because his frown only deepened, eyes sliding down to where Jason still clutched the gun.

“Jay,” he asked softly. “What happened?”

Dick scanned him for injuries—his gaze might as well have peeled Jason’s flesh from his bones. His eyes caught the bandage around his arm, the sapphire irises hardening into gemstones.

“Who did that?”

Jason couldn’t hold back the bitter snort. 

“Don’t act like you don’t know, Dick.”

“What? Jase, what are you—“

Realization spread across Dick’s face, his eyes going wide, breath catching in his throat.

“Did he send you?” Jason pressed, words low and barbed. His hands hurt from how hard he clenched the wood of the door and the metal of his gun. The doorframe suddenly felt very small, the shadows of the hallway long and reaching.

“…What?”

“Bruce,” Jason snapped. “Did he tell you to check on me? See if you can slip a leash around my neck? What’s your endgame here, Dick?”

Dick recoiled, looking like his heart was breaking on his face.

“No—Jason, never. Bruce knows nothing. I swear to you.”

Jason could hear the conviction in Dick’s voice, but the panic and anger at war inside him wouldn’t—couldn’t—let him believe it. He retreated back into his apartment to pace, muscles tense, arm aching. Dick took it as an invitation to follow, quietly closing the door behind him and setting the food down on the kitchen counter.

Jason felt like he was being hunted for sport. He was caught in a sniper’s crosshairs. The bullet was coming—he just couldn’t tell from where. Or from who.

His thoughts were scattered and sharp-edged and he couldn’t pull them together without cutting someone. Because there was something else that being seen demanded—something that vengeance and justice did not ask for: surrender.

Being seen required surrender. It commanded confession. It was being unmade. It meant offering up the worst parts of yourself and hoping someone will love you anyway.

It meant giving someone the best parts of you, and hoping it actually means something to them.

And Jason, between life and death, had never been good at surrender. It had greatly cost him something, once.

“I don’t need saving,” he muttered, barely audible.

“I know that,” Dick said softly, and Jason wanted to punch him for it. “I’m not here to save you.”

Jason spun on him, eyes blazing. “Then what the hell are you here for, Dick? You show up at my apartment, you track my goddamn phone, you fucking tell Bruce I’m alive—“

“—Jason, I swear, I didn’t—“

“—and for what? What do you fucking want?”

Jason’s chest was heaving, rising and falling in rapid, unsteady pulls. The walls were closing in. His mouth tasted like copper and salt. The tide had finally figured out what to do with him alright—drag him out to the depths of the sea and fucking drown him.

Well, he won’t.

He won’t drown alongside Dick.

“I want,” Dick said slowly, taking a step toward Jason, “you. You’re my family, Jason, and I love you.”

That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t fair that wasn’t fair that wasn't fair.

Because he loved Dick, too.

But he hated this—how easily Dick could make him feel fifteen again. Angry and abandoned and aching for something he couldn’t name without shattering into a thousand tiny pieces, never to be whole again because he had given a part of him to someone else. To his big brother.

“Don’t use that,” Jason said with a bitter shake of his head.

Jason didn’t want to do this anymore. Jason didn’t want to need his brother.

(Jason didn’t want to lose his brother.)

“You’re my little brother,” Dick repeated, the words small but utterly immovable. “I’m not—I don’t want to fix you—“

“Exactly.” Jason cut him off with the force of a punch—a younger sibling’s stubborn way of trying to be bigger than he felt. “So stop fucking trying. Don’t treat me like you think I need you. I don’t want pity. I don’t want…whatever this is.”

Dick froze, his expression full of hurt. His eyes shone with unshed tears. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. The apartment was silent, save for the hum of the crappy AC unit. The takeout sat on the table like a well-meaning peace offering from another lifetime. The savory smell smell turned Jason’s stomach.

“I’m not here to fix anything,” Dick said, soft and hoarse. “I’m just trying to be here. For you. Because I love you.”

It was too much—it was all fucking too much.

The demand for surrender. For love—it hit him like a sledgehammer. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was. It was too much. It wanted things he couldn’t give—things he’d given in the past, only for them to be sharpened into knives and plunged in his back.

Surrender. Trust. Confession.

These things had cost him his life.

Jason’s skin felt too tight, his heartbeat too loud in his ears. Batman was going to hear. The walls of his apartment were replaced with the velvet lining of his coffin.

Jason stepped back.

Dick shifted instinctively. He reached out a hand—not to touch, not in a threatening way, palms open, a peace gesture Jason recognized from a million negotiations that would never, ever involve real flesh. It was a small thing. A reaching-out intended to bridge, to reassure. To say I am not here to hurt you.

Jason flinched.

It wasn’t big—barely more than a jerk of his shoulders, a tightening of his frame—but was still a flinch. 

Enough to make Dick freeze in place, a horrified look spreading like poison across his face. The air was charged enough to strike lightning. Jason could feel the tension thickening and writhing like it was alive. 

Dick’s hand slowly fell back to his side, as if he was trying not to disturb the living-tension crackling between them. He stepped back.

Jason’s throat burned, breath still shaky.

“You should go,” Jason said lowly.

Dick shook his head, frantic. “Jason—“

“Now.”

A singular tear fell from Dick’s eyes. It twinkled like a glass bead as it slipped off his cheek. He was still shaking his head.

Just when Jason thought he’d have to physically throw his brother out, Dick nodded once. With a wretched, horrid finality, Dick turned and walked out. The soft closing of the door behind him reverberated through Jason like the closing of a coffin lid. He stood in the silence, shaking like he might come apart—gun still clutched in his hand.

For a moment—for one fragile, childish second—Jason wanted to run after his brother. To wrench the door open and say the words already growing like vines beneath his skin: I didn’t mean it. I love you. I’m sorry. I was scared. Forgive me. They were heavy and slick with shame. They got stuck up in his throat and kept his feet rooted to the floor.

He had won the fight. He had kept himself intact. He had pushed away the one person who’d seen his best and worst and loved him anyways. He had slammed the door on both of them.

(“Don’t say another word.” Nightwing’s voice cut like a knife. He seized Jason’s arm and yanked him away from the lab.

Jason felt himself tense at the aggressive contact. Who the fuck even was this guy, anyways?

“Those guys are waiting for the raw material. The unrefined cocoa pastes.” Nightwing let go, shoving Jason back a step. He could feel the fury rolling off the older boy in snarling waves. Jason clenched his green-gloved fists, staring Nightwing down.

“They’ll probably switch to another lab, now that you’ve spooked them,” Nightwing said, voice cold and hard as steel. Jason suppressed a shudder. He was not scared. He’d faced down Gotham’s worst—some random vigilante was no different.

Jason rolled his eyes beneath his domino. “Then it’s no big deal. We’ll just locate their new digs and bust them when they take possession,” he huffed, crossing his arms.

The bravado was false—he just hoped it wasn’t as obvious as it felt.

“Wrong!” Nightwing spat. He jabbed a finger at Jason’s chest.

Jason hadn’t meant to flinch. Willis had been locked up for a long time, and Bruce hadn’t—at least, not yet—shown any inclination of ever raising a hand to Jason.

But the instinct—the pain-enforced response—was still there, carved into his body by hand-shaped bruises and black eyes.

So when Nightwing got close to Jason, raising a finger to jab at the younger boy’s chest—it had been instinctual. Habitual. Almost unconscious.

Jason flinched. He stepped back. His hands twitched in an aborted attempt to raise them upward to protect his head.

And Nightwing had just frozen—a look of pure, raw horror spreading across his face like blood seeping across tile. 

Nightwing backed off half a step and swallowed hard, his seemingly burning rage doused cold.

Jason’s heart hammered against his ribs. He fought to keep his breathing even, unwilling to betray exactly how much Nightwing had just scared him.

“I’ll locate the new lab all by myself.” Nightwing’s voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “You’re going home to tell Batman how you screwed up tonight.”

Jason watched him go, still rooted to the spot. Shame—for the flinch or the busted operation, he couldn’t tell—rose hot and red in his neck and cheeks. Jason swallowed hard, then paused.

Wait a second—how does this guy know Batman?)

Jason’s bones suddenly felt like jelly. He stumbled backwards until his back hit the wall of his apartment. He slid down, gun clattering to the floor, tucking his knees in tight to his chest. His heart ached more than his arm.

He did not move. He could not, or would not, for a long time. The apartment held its breath with him and the city rolled on, ignorant, indifferent, the way the world had always been.

Jason’s words, burning with anger meant for his father, had scorched his older brother who, in his instinctive desire to protect Jason, had simply wandered too close to the flames.

Chapter Text

Jason was standing on a roof.

Rain assaulted his face.

The lights of the city blurred around him like wet paint.

There was a figure not ten feet ahead of Jason, standing on the edge of the building—so close, so dangerously close. He was barely visible in the hissing downpour, but Jason would recognize him anywhere.

Dick.

Jason’s hands were numb, frozen at his sides. The hammering rain stung his face. Dick stood with his back to Jason—his drenched hair sticking to his neck, the tattered Nightwing suit clinging to him like a second skin. His head was tilted back in surrender, inviting the storm to drown him.

Jason blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, but the rain clung to his lashes and the world fuzzed at the edges.

And then he saw it.

Another figure stood upon the ledge. They were small, with one hand reaching up and holding Dick’s. The figure’s curly hair wasn’t wet—neither was his little suit.

There was a veil of rain between Jason and the impossible sight before him, but it didn’t matter. He knew what it was.

He knew who it was.

Him.

Jason’s entire body went cold. The world narrowed to fragments of red, yellow, and green. Jason’s lungs were filling with the very same indifferent dirt flung upon his casket.

Him. That was him.

Alive—and young. God, he looked so small next to Dick.

Was he ever that small? Really?

He couldn’t have been. He couldn’t have been so tiny, so fragile, so small the way boy stood beside Dick—the way his little hand gripped Dick’s with such a trusting innocence. Jason had never felt that small. Not when he wore the Robin suit and especially not when he stood alongside his big brother.

Jason’s heart pounded louder, drowning out the roar of the storm. Horror crawled across his skin like a centipede, thousands of tiny cold legs scratching at him from the inside out. His mouth went dry; his tongue felt like salt.

Dick’s voice cut through the cacophony like a guillotine.

“Let me rest, Little Wing,” Dick said, looking down. His voice was calm; he had already accepted what was about to happen. “I’m done.”

Jason’s world spun, nausea crawling up his throat.

No. No no no no NO—

The words lodged in him like a bullet—a desperate shriek trapped in his compressing chest. His feet wouldn’t move. His legs wouldn’t obey. His voice was choked in his throat, a scream burning on his tongue.

The city around him seemed to fade out; it was just him and his brother and his ghost—

Dick moved. Jason was forced to watch, frozen, as Dick stepped up onto the ledge—closer to the abyss, to the endless drop waiting for him.

“No.” Jason’s voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, a pitiful rasp, drowned out by the raging storm. The words were dead before they left his lips. He tried to scream, to run, to save his brother, but his body wouldn’t listen.

No. Don’t—don’t do this, Dick.

“I’m coming Jason,” Dick said softly, his voice laced with an unnerving finality, a cruelly resigned peace. Jason felt each word felt like a nail in a coffin—his or Dick’s, Jason didn’t know. Maybe both. “Wait for me.”

Jason’s heart split down the middle. He fought uselessly against the invisible binds shackling him to the roof.

No! Dick—No!

Robin squeezed Dick’s hand.

And his brother stepped off the ledge.

“No!”

Jason was falling, Dick was falling—or maybe nothing was real at all. He watched, unable to blink, as Dick plummeted like a shot bird.

He was going to die—Dick was going to die the same way his parents had. The show was over and Jason had been the one to cut his fucking rope.

Jason was screaming but there was nothing. Helplessness reached up and seized him, winding its hands between his ribs and wrapping its fingers around his throat. Panic stole the breath from his lungs. The world tunneled until all that was left was Dick—falling, falling falling.

It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault. He’s going to die and it’s all my fault.

Then—

A shadow. A presence so dark, so vast, it swallowed everything in its path.

It rose from the depths of the void, from beyond the ledge, a blackness so consuming even the rain seemed to bend around it.

Please catch him, Jason thought, the tears streaming down his face mixing with the pouring rain, please God—

The silhouette took shape, a massive form. It wrapped around Dick and pulled him close, safe, his arms strong around the broken body.

Bruce.

A singular thread of relief laced itself through Jason. 

Jason’s eyes caught something bright against the storm.

Robin. 

He was glowing beside Bruce’s intense darkness, his little body untouched by burns or blood. Jason couldn’t look away. A disappointed, almost hateful look passed over his face—an expression much too old for his youthful features.

Bruce cradled his son to his chest.

Only this time, he was alive.

Robin shook his head.

“Finally,” he said. “Took you long enough.”

Jason rocketed up with a ragged gasp, mouth tasting like seawater. His sheets were tangled around his legs. His shirt clung to his sweat-soaked back, his hair plastered to his forehead. The world around him was wrong for a full of ten seconds—no rain, no roof, no Robin.

Just Jason, in his room.

Morning sun peaked through his closed curtains, casting gentle golden slivers across the rumpled blankets. Jason pressed the heels of his hands to his gritty eyes. He breathed in deep. Then out. In, out. In, out.

The panic receded slowly, and so did the pounding of his heart. The nightmare pressed in on him like a phantom. His mind felt balanced on the precipice of a panic attack—a single thought away from plummeting just as Dick had. 

A shock of adrenaline shot through Jason—he reached out, hands scrabbling the nightstand blindly for his phone. It took three tries to get his shaking hands to unlock it.

It was an irrational fear. Stupid, really.

His thumb ghosted over the call button.

Dick was alive. Jason didn’t need to call.

Dick was alive.

He’d seen him last night—well, he’d fought with him last night, but that was still proof. Jason gnawed on his lip. His thumb trembled.

Dick was alive.

The call button stared back.

It was nine a.m. Dick would be awake.

Jason locked his phone. The dark screen reflected his exhausted, scarred face. Jason set it face-down on the nightstand.

He stared at the ceiling.

Eventually, though, the rat that had been crawling across Jason’s operations bade him to rise. Just because he wasn’t in the office didn't mean he wasn’t going to work.

He needed to stop thinking about Dick, anyways. The blade-like panic of the nightmare had been sheathed—leaving an achy hollowness in its place that made Jason’s heart bounce around his ribcage.

Jason hauled himself out of bed with a groan, shuffling unceremoniously to the bathroom. He risked a glance in the mirror while brushing his teeth—puffy, red-rimmed eyes stared back, the arches and divots of his scars looking more horrifically cavernous than usual—and immediately glanced back down to the sink. That was enough of that.

The shower was cold—anything to shake the looming feelings of dread and helplessness and grief flitting about his head like some thorny halo.

The icy water prickled his skin. It did little to stop Jason from thinking.

He wondered if that’s what it had been like. If Dick had jumped holding Robin’s hand (Robin, because that twisted ghost of a child was not Jason), fully content with what awaited him on the concrete below. The performance was over. Curtain call had come, and Dick was making his final bow.

He wondered f Bruce had rose up from the depths, not as a savior, but a warden. Bruce didn’t save Dick—he stopped him. This was no rescue. There were no healed wounds, nor great epiphanies. Dick had wanted to die (had wanted to see Jason again) and Bruce—in his selfishness, in his devotion to his great cause, in his unwillingness to lose another son—had not let him.

Jason wondered how Bruce managed to get Dick off the roof.

And then—Robin had been there. So small, just as Dick said. So young and bright and glowing yet so full of a hatred Jason himself did not recognize. Is that what Dick saw? Every time Robin appeared. It that what terrible visage plagued his brother?

Was that how Dick remembered him?

Jason wrenched the water off so aggressively the pipes shuddered.

He would not go there.

Jason stumbled back out to the kitchen. One omelette later, he finally felt somewhat mentally prepared to tackle the next most pressing issue in his crumbling life:

The rat.

Jason pulled his laptop from his bag. The schematics from the torch job were still open—a singular blueprint of the scrapyard, with the office circled in red. A tension headache was brewing between his temples.

The job had been so simple:

Send a message.

Burn the lab.

That was it. He would’ve delegated it to one of his lieutenants, but his body had felt like a swarm of buzzing bees and he’d needed to get them out. No one even knew about the job outside of him and—

Him and—

Jason paused, remembering.

“You know that torch job you did two nights ago? Well, apparently those fuckers don’t know how to take a hint—there’s one more active lab in some old scrapyard in the auto district.”

Henry had known. Jason had known. And for some fucking reason, Batman had known.

“Ben heard it from a street runner that they started peddlin’ outta there a few nights ago.”

The omelette curdled in Jason’s stomach. He sat back and stared at the screen of his laptop.

Ben.

Jason slammed the laptop shut, the sudden fear of Bruce watching through the tiny camera igniting the dry tinder of his anxiety. He ran a hand through his hair and down his face.

Ben was the rat.

He stood fast, chair scraping loudly across the floor. He curled his shaking hands into fists at his sides. He paced, the movement doing little for the anger simmering just beneath his skin.

His own fucking guy. A kid, who Jason was trying to help.

Jason froze mid-step, his mouth suddenly going dry.

Oh, fuck.

Something cracked inside Jason. Something very small and very fragile. Something he thought long, long dead.

Dick. He hadn’t—

Jason’s phone buzzed on the counter. He lunged for it, insides feeling like a shaken bottle of soda. Maybe it was D—

“Henry,” Jason growled. He swallowed down the lump in his throat.

“Good morning to you too, boss,” Henry’s dry reply crackled through the speaker. “Listen. I know I said you should take the day off, and that I could handle shit on your end—but you gotta hear this. We got a tip. A big one.”

Jason stared at the wall. His pulse hadn’t slowed since the nightmare, and now it was beginning to thrum harder—a building war drum. “Go on.”

“There’s this huge deal going down tonight—military-grade stuff. That little drug gang we’ve been tryin’ to squash? Well, they've got connections. And those connections are sending some…presents.”

Jason didn’t respond. Henry kept talking, oblivious.

“It’s massive. AK’s, M16s, loads of ammo. It’s…it’s a lot, Hood. Enough for a fuckin’ war. It’s all shippin’ in tonight. From what I’ve heard—“

Jason cut him off. “Who?”

“Who?” Henry echoed. “Oh—uh, some foreign dealers, probably from—“

“No,” Jason said, voice dipping low and nearly seething. “Who’s intel?”

It was Henry’s turn to not answer. Jason’s grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles went white. The anger that had been simmering just below his skin—fueled by horrifying revelation after emotional collapse after sleepless night—rose in a rolling boil.

“I’ve found our rat, Henry.”

Another pause. Jason paced, the wretched sensation of feeling like a damned caged animal threatening to make an unwelcome reappearance. 

“…Who?” Henry asked, very carefully.

“Ben Arnold.”

Henry barked a laugh so loud Jason jerked the phone away from his ear.

“Ben? There is no way.”

Jason ground his teeth together, only exacerbating his growing headache. “He knew, Henry. You got the intel from him last night. And then—“

The name caught in Jason’s throat, the gash on his arm twinging.

And then the Batman had showed up.

But it wasn’t only Bruce haunting Jason—it was Dick. Falling. Complacent. Gone.

Jason fought a shudder. Beneath the anger and the sting, something else wiggled uncomfortably in his gut—something that felt a hell of a lot like guilt.

Jason had been betrayed—and the first person he’d accused was his brother.

His brother, who’d jumped off a roof for him.

“Come on,” Henry said, his laugh uneasy. “The kid? With the sick fiancee? Seriously, boss—he’s not our rat.”

“I know it,” Jason snapped. “Don’t fuck with me, Henry. The Bat was there, and only the three of us knew. You didn’t sell me out. I didn’t sell myself out. That leaves one name.”

There was a long stretch of quiet. Something clinked on the other end—like a spoon in a mug. The sound made Jason’s skin crawl. When Henry spoke again, all the humor was gone.

“Hood. I need you to trust me.”

Jason stopped pacing. Trust seemed to be on hell of a hot commodity these days—the world was demanding, and Jason’s pockets were emptier than when he’d lived on the streets.

Jason cast a glance toward his laptop sitting on the counter. He massaged his temple with his free hand.

He thought about the scar Dick had in that same spot.

“Ben is not our rat,” Henry repeated.

The words hung like a raised blade between them; Jason felt like he was offering Henry his back to be stabbed. He wanted to argue, to demand proof—to wrench the trust back.

But maybe…

Jason ground his teeth together again, molars aching. The silence continued to stretch until it nearly snapped. Jason took a deep breath and let it out slow.

“…Fine,” he said finally, though it really wasn’t. “Send me the details of the deal. I’ll be there tonight.”

A small, stifled sigh of relief crackled through the speaker.

“This stays between us,” Jason added.

“Of course,” Henry said carefully.

Jason ended the call without another word. He stood there for a moment, the silence settling around him like a heavy lead blanket. Then he groaned, dragging both his hands down his face.

He knew exactly what he had to do now.

Jason hit call before he could chicken out.

Dick picked up before the first ring had finished.

“Jay?”

Jason squeezed his eyes shut for a second, working his jaw—hating himself for how much Dick’s voice felt like sunlight cutting through the fog of his mind. “Hey.”

There was a pause. Jason listened to Dick breathe.

Alive.

Dick was alive.

Softly, and slightly surprised, Dick said, “Hey.”

Jason resumed pacing circles around his living room, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I know we…” he started, directionless. He swallowed hard. “I know last night was a mess.”

“Yeah,” Dick replied gently. Jason could tell he wanted to say more. He could feel the unsaid words step on the fragile rope bridge between them.

Jason swallowed again. The memory of the nightmare threatened to rise, dragging cold fingers across his skin. He wanted to tell Dick—I saw you jump. I watched you fall. I thought you were gone and it scared me and yes Bruce caught you but that didn’t really mean anything, did it? Because you had already made it to the ledge. Because you had already decided.

But Jason didn’t say any of that, because another memory danced across his mind—one rotten all the way through, reeking of distance and regret and death.

This time, however, there was a second chance.

“I’m not good at this,” Jason mumbled. He felt fifteen again. He felt small. He hated it.

“You don’t have to be,” Dick said quietly. “I…I’m not very good at this either.”

Jason pulled the phone away so he could take a deep, shaky breath without Dick hearing. His heart beat heavy and quick beneath his ribs. Everything inside him burned to hang up. To shut down. To push Dick away and run.

But time and tide wait for no man. So Jason kept going.

He pressed the phone back to his ear.

“There’s a rat in my operation,” he said.

Dick didn’t interrupt; he just listened. There was a shifting of weight on the other end—a shuffling, as if Dick was sitting down. Jason imagined the look on his face: sapphire eyes focused, a slight crease between his brows.

“He knew I was gonna be there, Dick,” Jason went on, trying to keep the undercurrent of panic out of the edges of his voice. “And I thought—“

The words lodged in his throat, ashy.

I thought it was you. 

How could I do that?

Why did I think that?

Will you forgive me?

Jason took another deep breath.

“I thought it was you,” he finished quietly. Honest and hollow and awful. He felt terrible for saying it—all twisted up inside, like he’d taken something good and and pure and true ruined it. Only now, he was handing the mangled bits back, asking for forgiveness.

All Dick said was a soft, “I know.”

Jason squeezed his eyes shut tight again, tugging a hand through his hair.

“I’m…I’m still figuring out who it is,” he said eventually. “But I didn’t mean what I said. I didn’t mean any of it.”

“I know,” Dick said again, even softer. “It’s alright, Little Wing. You were scared. I…I pushed too hard. I’m—“

“No,” Jason found himself saying, almost frantic, almost angry. “No—Dick, this is my apology, okay? So shut the fuck up and let me aplogize, dumbass.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. For once, Dick didn’t argue.

“Um—okay.”

“Good,” Jason muttered, realizing just how much he was starting to hate the silences and how desperately he wanted this to go right. “I’m sorry for acting like an ass last night.”

“I forgive you, Jay,” Dick said with no hesitation. “And I don’t blame you.”

The ease at which Dick uttered those words nearly stole the breath from Jason’s lungs. The immediacy felt like warm water washing over cold skin.

Really? That easily?

The image of Robin—dripping in rain so thick it looked like blood—flashed across his eyes. A tiny hand slipped into Dick’s, a kind of peace that Jason had never seen on his brother’s face before.

The hatred on little Robin’s face as he watched Bruce cradle Dick to his chest.

Even after that?

Jason cleared his throat. If he went down that particular spiral, he would never surface.

“There’s this weapons deal going down tonight,” he said, steering them back to blessedly solid ground. “And I…I could use a second set of eyes.”

The question hung between them. Jason held his breath. Dick could say no. Dick could say no and Jason would completely understand—

“Of course, Jay.”

Jason blinked. The breath he’d been holding shuddered out of him. Absently, Jason wondered if Dick could hear his hammering pulse through the phone.

“I’m not asking for backup,” he said, and he didn’t know why. “Just…”

“Yeah,” Dick said. “I’ll be there.”

Jason stared at the floor. His shadow stretched long across the hardwood in the late afternoon sun. He felt…drained.

“Okay,” he said, hoarse. “Thanks.”

“Of course, Little Wing.”

Something wound up tight inside Jason uncoiled just a little.

But then Dick sighed. And Jason tensed immediately.

Here it came—the catch, the condition.

Jason should’ve expected this. Nothing was ever that easy.

“What?” Jason asked, already bracing.

“I—I just—“ Dick sighed again. “I need someone to watch Tim.”

Jason frowned. “Huh?”

“I hate leaving him alone. Especially after these past few days. He’s so young, Jay. And he…“ Dick lowered his voice. “He stays up. Waiting. I’ve found him passed out on the couch a few times, waiting for me to get back. I can’t do that to him anymore. He’s just a kid.”

Guilt, grief, and a tender-mushy-mess that Jason had no intention of ever naming churned inside him. He promptly shoved that tangled monstrosity into a box, filing it firmly under Deal With That Shit Later, subcategory Don’t Ever Fucking Look In Here. 

That shelf in particular was getting quite full.

Jason bit back a laugh. “Timmy needs a babysitter?”

Dick snorted, clearly rolling his eyes on the other end of the line. “Yes, Jay.”

Jason allowed himself the faintest smile. “I know just the guy…”

“Do you trust him?”

“Absolutely,” Jason smirked, something mischievous (and the tiniest bit petty) flickering inside him. “And he’s gonna be just thrilled to babysit Tim Tam for us.”

Dick hesitated.

“…Alright, Jay. I trust you. Suit up tonight, and I’ll bring Tim around?”

“Yeah,” Jason said. “I’ll send you the address. See you then, Dickie.”

“Bye, Jay…”

Neither of them hung up. The air thickened—Jason wondered if Dick could feel it. The rope bridge of trust between them—

Well. Maybe it was never a rope bridge at all. Maybe it was a hand, reaching out. Or an unbreakable bond—one so strong, it didn’t need blood.

Choice was stronger than some flimsy crimson liquid, anyways.

Dick broke the silence. 

“I love you,” he said softly.

Jason felt his whole face flush, neck to ears. 

“Whatever, Dickface,” he managed, nearly choking.

He ended the call before anyone could say anything else.

Jason paced the length of the safehouse.

It really wasn’t much—a small kitchenette, a rattling HVAC unit, and a singular bed tucked up against the far wall—but it was well-stocked and well-hidden. Some fourth-floor studio a few blocks from the docks. He wouldn’t bring Tim to the shitty apartment they ran their ops out of, smack dab in one of the worst neighborhoods of the Narrows. And there was no way in hell he was letting Henry anywhere near his actual apartment.

So he’d picked his “if-shit-hits-the-fan-by-the-harbor” safehouse. The guns deal was going down by the harbor anyways, and Jason just felt…better. If Tim was closer to them. Just in case shit hit the fan by the harbor. 

Jason paced another tight circle around the small space. He’d triple checked the security—not only of the studio, but of the whole damn building. He’d brought cash for takeout if the kid got hungry. He’d brought a panic button, too—just in case.

All this just in case was killing him. Setting fire to his nerves, making his skin itch.

If something happened to Tim, on his watch…

He reached up to rake a hand through his hair, only to hit the smooth metal of the helmet. Right. He itched for a cigarette. He wanted to sit down. He wanted to not fucking feel like this.

Why was he so nervous? This wasn’t—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Jason drew a pistol before the last knock had even finished echoing through the room. He crept toward the door in silence, peered through the peephole, and only then allowed his shoulders to drop half an inch.

He slid the lock back with a metallic clink.

“Henry.”

“Hey, boss.”

Henry stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a quiet thud.

“So,” he said, trying to sound casual. “What’s this job you’ve got for me?”

Jason didn’t answer right away. He turned and squared up, meeting Henry’s eyes through the slits of the helmet. Jason knew he could be very intimidating when he wanted to be. He unfurled to his full height, practically towering over Henry.

“Babysitting,” he said.

Henry blinked.

“And if you fuck this up,” Jason continued, voice dropping into the warped, metallic drawl the modulator gave him. “I will personally make you a bed in Gotham Harbor.”

Henry stiffened. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He gave a singular, sharp nod.

“Understood, boss.”

Jason backed off, clapping a hand just a tad too hard against his shoulder. “Good.”

“Wait,” Henry said, frowning. “Does this have to do with your personal matter? Oh my God—Hood. Are you a fuckin’ dad?”

Jason nearly threw up in his mouth at the implication. He swallowed hard, hoping Henry couldn’t see how he was fighting back a cresting wave of memories that threatened to knock him off his stupid rock and drag him out to sea.

“Not my kid, dumbass. Just…” Jason gestured in the air with a gloved hand. “Little brother.”

Henry’s mirth died instantaneously. He stared at Jason—mouth open, brows slightly creased—as if he couldn’t believe what Jason was asking him to do.

“Just for the evening,” Jason said. “While we take care of the deal.”

Henry studied him for a beat longer, his expression unreadable, before sighing heavily and running a weary hand down his face. “You do not pay me enough for this.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Jason didn’t draw his pistol this time—he knew who it was. He still checked the peephole, though (no one can say that Bat-paranoia isn’t genetic).

He opened the door.

Nightwing stood on the other side, his hair windblown. A small figure was half-tucked behind him. Jason hadn’t realized how tight his chest had become until something small uncoiled within him at the sight of his (alive) brother.

For a split second, he watched Dick’s chest rise and fall—his breathing slightly elevated from biking, probably. He flicked his gaze back up to Dick, who was watching him with a curious look in his eyes. 

Jason cleared his throat.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

There was a small smile on Dick’s lips. Jason wondered if Dick was glad to see him, too. He stepped inside and nudged Tim forward. He was dressed in an oversized blue hoodie that was most definitely Dick’s, his dark hair also slightly windblown.

“Jackson,” Jason said, reaching out and ruffling Tim’s hair. “Welcome to the bunker.”

Tim brushed the hair Jason had mussed out of his eyes and surveyed the small space. “We are not surviving an apocalypse in here,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

Jason huffed a laugh. “Good thing it’s only one evening, munchkin.”

Henry snorted. Jason turned toward him.

“Henry—Jackson. Jackson—Henry.”

Tim tilted his head. “You work for the Red Hood?”

“…Yes,” Henry said, glancing at Jason.

Tim nodded like that answered every single question Jason just knew was bouncing around his little brain.

A minute of awkward silence ticked by. Jason could feel his brother's presence behind him—a lion watching its cub. Dick stepped forward, placing himself firmly between Tim and Henry.

“Everything set?” Dick asked quietly, placing one blue-striped hand on Tim’s shoulder. Jason watched the younger boy lean into the touch.

Jason nodded. “This is a safe spot. No one knows it’s here, and no one can track it. The building’s all clear, too. And it’s close to where we’ll be.”

“I wasn’t asking about the building,” Dick said, voice low. Jason watched his eyes flick toward Henry beneath the white-out lenses of the domino. A question boiled under the surface—the thing Dick really wanted to ask.

Do you trust him?

Tim—bless him—interrupted.

“Can we watch a movie while you’re gone?” he asked quietly, leaning into Dick’s leg.

Henry seized the opportunity, apparently just as desperate to get a break from the thick tension curling around them all.

“You ever seen Revenge of the Sith?”

Tim frowned. “Star Wars?”

Henry gave a mock scoff. “The Star Wars, kid. It’s the best one.”

“That’s objectively false,” Tim replied with a raised brow of duh.

Henry’s eyes went wide; he looked genuinely offended. “We are fixing that right now. Buckle up—I’m about to introduce you to real cinema.”

Jason snorted. Dick remained still, but Jason could feel the tenseness of his muscles. He caught Jason’s eye and nodded to the far side of the room. Jason followed without a word.

“Are you sure about this?” Dick asked, quiet enough so that no one else could hear. “About him? He is double crossing you. I’ve looked into him. I know you said you pay him for it, but—“ Dick ran a hand through his hair.

“I know you said you’ve got a rat. How are you sure it’s not him?”

Dick looked over Jason’s shoulder to where Henry was struggling to put a DVD in the ancient TV. Tim sat on the old couch, his feet dangling off the edge, peppering Henry with questions about the morality of Anakin’s betrayal.

“‘Wing,” Jason met Dick’s eyes. “I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t sure. I trust him.”

Dick held his gaze for a beat, then sighed. “Okay, Little Wing.”

Jason turned to the window that lead out to the fire escape. “You ready?”

Dick gave a nod, then crossed the room over to Tim. He knelt in front of where the boy sat on the couch.

“Call me if you need anything,” he said softly, gently holding Tim’s hands in his gloved ones. “And I mean it—anything, sweetheart, okay? We’ll pick you up soon. I promise—we’ll come back.”

Tim nodded. “Okay, ‘Wing,” he whispered.

Dick rose and kissed Tim on the forehead. 

Henry was pointedly not looking at any of them. Dick met Jason back over at the window.

“Let’s head out.”

An incessant buzzing gnawed at Jason’s mind the entire grapple over—a horrible, unreachable kind of itch, one that softly whispered: you missed something. He couldn’t seem to shake it. Seeing the black and blue blur of his brother flying beside him had soothed some of his twitchy nerves, but only slightly. By the time they reached the warehouse, that you missed something buzz had wormed its way into his gut.

The stink of dead fish and oil wafted up from the Harbor. The warehouse squatted next to an abandoned shipping yard, old crates scattered about gravel like whale carcasses. Inside, nothing moved. Light shone through the grimy skylights.

“For a military-grade weapons deal,” Dick whispered as they cut through the side door’s rusted bolts, “it’s awfully quiet.”

Jason gave a tight nod, every muscle coiled and primed to spring. The buzz had bled into his limbs—the low, electric thrum of adrenaline and paranoia.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

History had taught Jason well:

Jason + warehouse + wrong = death.

But this time, he wasn’t alone. This time, he had his big brother with him.

He hoped it meant something.

Jason stepped through the door first, guns drawn, boots making no sound on the cracked concrete. Dick flowed in behind him—silent and fluid, eyes scanning. They fanned out instinctively, sweeping the warehouse with practiced intensity. The air inside was stale—heavy with dust and the cloying odor of rotting wood.

Jason’s heart beat harder with every step. He resisted the urge to throw up his hands like a petulant child.

“What the fuck?”

His voice echoed across the cavernous space.

Empty.

The whole place was fucking empty.

No AK’s. No M16s. No crates of ammo—only crumbling wood pallets stacked haphazardly along the far wall. 

Dick shook his head slow as he inspected the debris. “There’s nothing here, Hood,” he called, his voice echoing loudly in the too-quiet.

Jason’s skin prickled. His heart was flighty in his chest—a bird in a cage. Dread dripped cold and steady into his knotted stomach. He crossed the warehouse with hurried steps.

“There has to be something—“ But even as he said it, his HUD showed a clean sweep—no bombs, no heat signatures, no traps.

Something was really, really wrong.

“Hood,” Dick said quietly. His whole body was pulled taut like a sprung trip-line. “We need to—“

A sound—the groan of rusty metal hinges.

They both spun in an instant—Jason’s twin pistols raised, Dick’s escrimas alive and crackling.

A door creaked open, slow and hesitant. And stepping into view—

Ben Arnold.

His eyes went wide the second he saw them, a wave of panic crashing over his face.

Rage boiled Jason’s blood hot. “You motherfucker—“

CRASH.

Glass shards rained down from the skylights like diamonds, shattering the silence. A figure dropped through—black as a tear in the universe itself.

Fear unlike anything Jason had ever felt before seized him. His lungs refused to take in air. The world narrowed to cowl and cape.

Batman.

Jason didn’t move. Not a twitch, not a blink—like if he stood still long enough, he could melt into the space between atoms and hide.

He was exposed—mask peeled back, splayed open and pinned down like a dissected animal.

Batman’s boots hit the concrete with a deafening thud. He unfurled to his full height, the weight of him filling the whole space—suffocating Jason with thick black ink. Despite being nearly as tall as his father, Jason suddenly felt very, very small. 

His guns lowered an inch, fingers still primed on the triggers. Every instinct told him to move—to run, to bolt, to disappear—but his boots had fused to the concrete floor.

He wasn’t in a warehouse anymore.

(Well, not this one, anyway.)

He was back in an alley, tire iron in hand, standing before the mountain of carved obsidian that was the Batman. 

He was standing on a balcony, eye to eye with his father—knowing that this was it. Bruce didn’t believe him. 

He was lying in a miserable mangled heap, choking on his own blood. He was dying.

Distantly, he wondered if this was how Dick felt when he’d first seen Jason alive. Because Jason understood now: he wasn’t lost; he was losing. He was losing his grip on the now. He was losing his composure. 

He was losing his mask.

He wasn’t the Red Hood anymore. He wasn’t even Little Wing.

He was Jason Todd.

And Jason Todd was scared of his dad.

(So much about being the Red Hood was about being seen. Hell, Jason had built the whole persona around being noticed—seen by the city, by its scum, by him.

Jason had wanted to be the ghost, the vengeance, the thing that haunted his family. He thought it would feel gratifying. Give him back the power that the Joker had took from him. Ease the sting of betrayal when his father never bust down the doors of that stupid warehouse to save him like Batman saved everyone else.

He had gotten the ghosthood, alright.)

“Hood,” Dick breathed beside him. Jason wouldn’t have been able to hear if it weren’t for the comm in his ear. “Breathe.”

Slowly, slowly, the world bled back into focus. Dick had stepped up beside him. Jason could feel the barely contained rage rolling of his brother—see how tightly he was gripping his escrima, see the tick in his jaw where he clenched his teeth. Jason latched on to his presence like a drowning man clutches a reaching hand.

Jason felt like he was breathing underwater, that was for fucking sure. He slowly expelled the thickness from his lungs with each forced breath. Like infection from a wound, the panic had been drained away. And all that remained was—

“You son of a bitch!” Jason spun, voice cracking through the modulator, eyes blazing as he leveled both barrels of his fury at Ben.

Ben trembled, his limbs a few shakes from coming apart at the joints. His mouth twitched like he couldn’t decide whether to beg for his life or run for the hills.

Bruce stepped up, and Jason immediately refocused on him. The intensity of his presence nearly forced Jason to stumble backwards. The walls of the warehouse pressed in around them. Jason’s own hands were shaking—he gripped the metal of his guns so tight his fingers ached. His chest heaved, his pulse erratic.

But then Dick stepped forward, too—shoulders squared, his jaw set—ready to catch or fucking throw a punch. He strategically placed himself between Jason and Bruce. Jason hated how grateful he was for the barrier between them (for his big brother).

“What are you doing here?” Dick snarled. His glare was locked on Bruce with burning intensity.

Bruce said nothing. He didn’t have to, anyways.

Jason’s gaze snapped back to Ben.

Ben jumped with a pitiful sound that was almost a whimper. “What!? No!”

Jason raised his gun a fraction of an inch. Ben gulped.

“Okay, yes—I maybe told the Batman some…things. But I didn’t know you guys would be here—!”

Jason laughed. Hysterical, it spilled out of him unconsciously, his nerves making a desperate attempt to make sense of the shitstorm surrounding him. The modulator warped it into a sharp, cruel cackle. “You sold me out to the goddamn Batman and you’re surprised he showed up?”

“I didn’t know you were coming tonight!” Ben shrilled. His hands were raised, pleading. “Someone told me something was going down at the docks. They never said where—just that Nightwing and Red Hood would be there. So I—“

He stopped. His eyes darted to Batman and back to Jason.

He didn’t have to finish his sentence for Jason to know exactly what Ben had done.

Ben swallowed hard, the words tumbling out of his mouth. “And then I got another message saying I needed to be here—“

Beside Jason, Dick had a revelation.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he snapped, whirling back to face Bruce. “Are you fucking serious, B?”

Jason blinked. He was…confused.

“You’re tracking me?”

Dick’s tone was seething, his expression laced with furious disbelief—but also…betrayal. 

Like they had been rebuilding, and Bruce had just lit a fuse under it all.

Bruce didn’t flinch at Dick’s accusation, but he didn’t deny it, either. 

“You said you trusted me,” Dick said, quieter now.

Jason knew exactly where this was going. Dick’s temper, Bruce’s stubbornness—Jason knew exactly where this wildfire was headed. 

Bruce spoke evenly, detached, the way he always did when he was the Batman and not Bruce—the world was his chessboard, and he had already won.

“Your patrol patterns were irregular,” he said in a hard tone that bore no room for argument. “It was a necessary precaution, considering…” he trailed off. Behind the cowl, Jason could see Bruce’s eyes sweeping Dick’s body for injuries.

Ice crept into Jason’s veins, freezing his anger and confusion and betrayal into something worse. He didn’t know what “considering” meant—his death? Dick’s leap?

Or both?

In all honesty, Jason didn’t really want to know. It didn’t even matter. His whole body was buzzing now.

Because if Ben was telling the truth—

“Wait.” Jason’s voice cut through the room like a hot blade. Dick and Bruce turned from where their argument was about to burst into flames.

Jason stepped forward, lowering his guns just enough to get a clear answer.

“Ben.”

Ben flinched—startled from where he was trying to shrink into his shirt.

“Who told you to be here?”

Ben stared at him. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

Jason took another step.

“The message you got. Who sent it?”

“I—I don’t know,” Ben stammered. His eyes flitted between all three of them at a dizzying speed. “It was some unknown number. They said it was a personal matter.”

Fuck.

Dick’s eyes snapped to him.

Oh, fuck.

Nausea climbed up Jason’s throat. His bones felt hollow.

He looked at Dick.

Dick looked back.

Bruce and Ben were forgotten. A world away. Unimportant.

Jason’s mouth moved before his brain caught up.

“He has Tim.”

Before either of them could move—

BANG!

The gunshot ripped through the warehouse like thunder.

Ben’s body jerked violently. A damning red bloom spread across his chest, the crimson bright under the lights. His knees hit the floor first. Then the rest of him crumpled like a puppet with the strings cut.

Silence. Stifling, suffocating silence.

All heads turned.

And there, stepping out of the shadows, was—

Henry.

The gun was still raised, gun smoke curling lazily through the air. His expression was calm as he stepped over Ben’s cooling body.

Jason had seen a lot of death in his time—hell, he’d been the cause of a lot of death. But for some, terrible, unknown reason, he was frozen. Maybe it was his father’s presence around his neck like a noose. Maybe it was the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside him. But he was cemented to the floor, breath trapped in his lungs.

And then—he saw it.

A chair behind Henry. And in that chair, a small figure—slumped forward, limbs tightly bound. Unmoving.

Tim.

Jason couldn’t tear his gaze away. He couldn’t make sense of the sallowness of the boy’s cheeks, the clammy sweat on his brow. The way his eyes were closed. The way his little chest was hardly rising, hardly falling.

Jason’s heart dropped back into his grave, taking his stomach with it.

Dick stepped forward instinctively, but stopped cold when Henry’s gun shifted.

Toward Tim.

Henry grinned. It wasn’t maniacal, nor was it theatrical. It was just a smile—victorious.

“You trusted me right?” he purred, smooth and cold. “That was a stupid decision, Jason.”

Chapter Text

Okay, look—it’s not like Tim didn’t like Henry. 

They hadn’t exactly talked much since the movie started. Sure, Henry was a little awkward, and he kept sneaking glances at Tim out of the corner of his eye as they sat on the couch, but he wasn’t mean. And Jason trusted him.

But Dick…

Well. Dick didn’t—Tim knew that much. Dick had told him about Henry’s dubious double-crossing the night he’d come back from his disastrous dinner with Jason. Dick hadn’t said exactly what had happened—a fight, Tim assumed, judging by the sheer amount of guilt radiating off the older boy—but whatever it was, it’d been bad. Dick had tried to smile, to convince Tim that Jason just needed some space right now, but it hadn’t fooled Tim one bit. Dick’s eyes had been shiny and far-away—a kind of broken that made Tim’s heart hurt.

So Tim did what had always made Dick feel better: dragged his older brother to the couch, queued up The Great British Bake Off, and tucked himself under Dick’s arm until some of the self-flagellation ebbed away.

And what can he say—Tim liked being held by his older brother. Sue him.

But now, sitting on a lumpy brown couch in some tiny, mildewy safehouse, that warmth felt a million miles away.

The HVAC rattled just under the hum of the movie. Outside, far-away sirens echoed off the crumbling brick buildings. Tim fidgeted with the drawstrings of Dick’s hoodie, sleeves swallowing his fingertips. He wasn’t exactly anxious. He just…really wanted Dick and Jason to come back. Preferably right now.

But they had important things to do. Big vigilante things. And Tim’s a big boy. He could handle a few hours. Besides, he wasn’t alone this time!

He’ll just wait up until they get back. They never liked it when he did that—Dick would get all quiet, running his fingers through Tim’s hair long after Tim had pretended to fall asleep—but Tim couldn’t help it. He needed to be sure.

That they came back.

At the other end of the couch, Henry cleared his throat.

“So, kid,” he said. “You’re Nightwing and Red Hood’s little brother, huh?”

A warm spark flickered in Tim’s chest, swelling from his toes to the tips of his ears.

“Um—well, I’m Nightwing’s little brother,” he replied, voice small. He…wasn’t exactly sure if that automatically made him Jason’s little brother, too.

Henry’s mouth curved up into a small, smug smile. “Well, Hood told me you’re his little brother.”

“Really?” Tim whispered.

“Yup.”

Tim ducked his head, a smile tugging at his mouth before he could stop it.

“Okay,” he said softly. He tucked himself deeper into Dick’s enormous hoodie, hoping it hid the pink creeping up his cheeks.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim could see Henry still watching him. 

He pretended not to notice. He also pretended not to notice the small, insistent itch of wrongness pressing against the back of his mind. Like a popcorn kernel stuck between his teeth. No matter how many times he ran his thoughts over it, he couldn’t dislodge it from his brain.

Something wasn’t right.

But what could he do? Sit here and wait for Dick and Jason to come back?

Well, yeah.

The feeling didn’t fade, not even as they settled into the movie. The flash of lightsabers cast the small room in a soft blue hue. Tim could tell Henry wasn’t really watching—his eyes kept darting to the screen, his phone, to Tim, then back to his phone. Tim pulled his knees up, trying hard not to make it obvious that he was curling away from him.

On screen, Mace Windu fell to his death.

Tim froze.

(Tim took a few tentative steps forward. He was close enough now that he could hear Dick speaking to someone. His words were soft, incredibly gentle—and utterly defeated.

“Let me rest, Little Wing,” Dick said, looking down at no one. “I’m done.”

Then, slowly and deliberately, Dick lifted his foot.

And stepped up onto the ledge.)

Them memory hit Tim like cold rain on his face. A painful lump rose in his throat. His breath stuttered, invisible bands wrapping around his lungs.

He did not want to go back there.

He curled impossibly smaller inside Dick’s hoodie, hiding from the terrible memory flickering in his head. He breathed—in, out, in, out—the way Dinah had taught him to. He rubbed his thumb over the soft sleeves of the hoodie. He inhaled in the scent of Dick’s cologne that clung to the fabric. The couch’s vaguely uncomfortable texture pressed into the bottoms of his feet through his socks. 

Okay. He wanted Dick and Jason to come back. Right now.

His fingers found his phone in his hoodie pocket, brushing over the smooth screen.

He could call. Dick said he could always call.

They’d be back in ten minutes—maybe less, if Tim asked them nicely. They’d whisk Tim back to their apartment where they’d all be safe and warm and far away from the icky, wrong feeling that kept buzzing around Tim’s brain like a hive of foreboding bees.

Tim gripped the phone tighter, wondering if he could sneak off to the bathroom and text—

Henry stood abruptly. The motion startled Tim so much his phone nearly slid out of his pocket. For some reason, that felt like it would have been very bad.

And Tim just couldn't figure out why.

“You want some hot chocolate, Jackson?” Henry asked, already moving toward the kitchenette.

No, Tim thought immediately.

“Sure,” he said aloud, looking over his shoulder to where Henry stood. He hoped it came off more light and casual than he felt. His heart was still flighty in his chest, flitting against his ribs like an anxious little hummingbird.

Henry flashed him a grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Good kid.”

Tim turned back to the TV, though he wasn’t really watching anymore. From the kitchen came the clink of mugs and the hum of the microwave.

“Master Skywalker, there’s too many of them. What are we going to do?”

Tim frowned. He never liked this part.

The sweet smell of hot chocolate drifted from the kitchen, cutting through the musty air of the safehouse. Normally it would make him feel safe. Tonight, it didn’t.

Henry reappeared holding a steaming red mug.

“Careful, it’s hot.”

Tim took the warm mug, wrapping both hands around the ceramic. He brought it to his lips and sipped.

It tasted…weird. Metallic, maybe. And kind of bitter. He licked his lips and tried another sip. 

The second sip was just as weird.

Henry chuckled, the couch dipping slightly as he sat down.

“I’m sorry if it tastes a little funny, kid,” he said. “This building’s older than both of us put together. And God only knows how old them pipes are.”

Tim nodded slowly. He took another small sip, because Henry was still watching him and it felt rude not to.

He noticed Henry hadn’t made a cup for himself.

By the time a half of the mug was gone, Tim’s stomach was churning. He set it on the side table and hoped Henry wouldn’t notice.

The movie continued to play. Mustafar’s lava cast the room in an eerie red glow.

Tim blinked hard. Man. He was exhausted. 

The movie flickered and blurred. The edges of the room fuzzed, the voices onscreen stretching and warping. He shifted on the couch, trying to shake off the sudden heaviness.

When had he gotten this tired? He couldn’t remember.

Tim rubbed at his eyes, willing them to focus. He could stay up a little longer. Just until they get back.

But it was late…

And Dick had said they probably wouldn’t be back until past midnight.

Tim blinked hard again. The screen doubled. His head dipped forward, heavy and…strange.

I’ll just…rest my eyes, Tim thought as his head lolled against his will onto the arm of the couch. Just for a second.

Yeah.

Dick had promised they’d come back.

Tim’s tongue felt thick and tingly. His brain was made of molasses and underwater.

A shadow crossed his vision.

Right. Something was wrong.

But Tim was so tired. And his heart was beating really fast and he felt like he was taking in thin air.

So maybe if he closed his eyes for just a second…

Well, Tim didn’t really have a choice anymore. The world went dark.

“You trusted me right?” Henry purred, smooth and cold. “That was a stupid decision, Jason.”

The spotlight was blinding. The spotlight burned. Jason was onstage—naked, peeled back, dissected. Chest cavity opened. Skin and fat and blood pulled away, revealing his black lungs and his rotting heart.

The warehouse pressed down upon him. He was in his grave again.

Breathe. Breathe. BREATHE—

Jason’s head snapped to Bruce.

His father’s internal battle was written across his countenance, obvious to those with eyes to see. His lips were slightly parted in shock, the obsidian frame of the Batman facade cracked. Behind the white lens of the cowl, Bruce’s eyes were scanning Jason—searching for a shred of recognition. Of the boy from before

Jason had always been swing first, ask questions later. Flight was never a tool in his arsenal. But right fucking now, Jason just wanted to run. Every fiber of his being screamed to flee—to get out of the spotlight, to recoil like a hand that’d just touched a hot stove.

Bruce knew.

Every beheading. Every savage act. Every bullet, every life. All the blood the Red Hood has shed.

Bruce knew it was him.

The hands that had once held his father’s for comfort, for reassurance—those were now the same hands that had ended lives.

The small fingers that had clutched the black cape after rough patrols—now clutching the same weapon that he vowed to never use.

His father knew.

Every shard of Jason’s carefully rebuilt identity laid bare under Bruce’s gaze. There was no slipping away. There was no hiding.

Dick stood between Jason and Bruce, a barrier holding the panic at bay. He was the tether that held them all together—only now, that tether was stretched taut, creaking and ready to snap.

Tim looked so fragile where he was bound to the chair beside Henry. Jason could hear the shallow, labored breathing. Tim’s wrists rubbed red and raw from the tight ropes. Rage swelled under the panic, molten and bubbling. Jason fought to keep his breathing even. 

He can freak the fuck out after he’d dealt with the sick son of a bitch who’d hurt his little brother.

Henry’s lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile. “Oh, come on now, Jason. Don’t act so surprised.”

Jason nearly flinched at the sound of his name. Bruce, too, seemed startled. His cowl was still angled toward Jason, though his eyes were on Henry.

Henry’s head tilted, eyes flicking toward Ben’s crumpled body and the damning pool of crimson. “And poor Ben,” he said, shaking his head without a shred of pity. “He was mine the moment he wanted to join the Red Hood’s little crew. Stupid kid. He did anything I said. And you—“

He refocused on Jason.

“—you’re no better. I’m still shocked you didn’t see it! A simple ‘we should wait’ and ‘we don’t wanna spook ‘em’ and ‘trust me, Jason’—and you laid down like a damn dog.” Henry laughed, bitter and mirthless. “You even handed me your little brother. Your god damn little brother. I almost blew my cover right there, I could hardly fuckin’ believe it. You just left him with me! I guess I should be thanking you, Jason—you made this a hell of a lot easier for me.”

That living guilt, that helplessness that had plagued him like a demon-spector returned full force—wrapping its claws around his torso and squeezing. The leather of Dick’s gloves creaked from where he gripped his escrimas.

The barrel of the gun nudged Tim’s temple. Jason swallowed down the hot bile rising in his throat.

“Now, before anyone gets heroic,” Henry said. “I gave Timmy here a little something. You know, insurance.” His grin widened. “If you want to know what it is, well—I suggest you keep me alive long enough to tell you. You know those drug dealers cut their stock with—well, who knows? Rat poison, heavy metals, drain cleaner. Even I don’t really know what was in the stuff they gave me. Thanks for burning their lab, by the way.”

Horror, cold and freezing, ate its way through Jason’s bones, turning his fingers black, brittle, and frostbitten.

Wait. Timmy? How did he—

“What—” Dick snarled, raising his escrima, “the fuck did you do to my kid—"

Henry fired.

The bullet sliced through the air a hair’s breadth from Tim’s ear. Jason’s stomach dropped, his lungs seizing in his chest. The sound might of well have been centimeters from him. 

Tim didn’t even flinch—not a twitch, not a jerk. It was almost like he didn’t exist at all. The only thing proving he was still alive was his labored, shallow breathing. Dick stopped moving entirely. His breath was shaky, if he was breathing at all. The rage that had been rolling off his brother in boiling waves was now an icy fear.

Henry rolled his eyes—annoyed, almost, at the interruption of his own theatrics. 

“The next one,” he said, equal parts calm and sinister, “goes between his fucking eyes. Do I make myself clear?” His gaze flicked to Dick. “You already lost one brother, Dick. I wonder…what would it be like to lose another?”

If Dick had been breathing before, he wasn’t anymore. Neither, Jason figured, was Bruce. They were both statues—unmoving as the weight of the threat coiled around them like a living thing. Distantly, Jason wondered what kind of shitstorm was happening inside Bruce right now. If he was angry, or happy, or relived, or disappointed that his greatest failure hadn’t stayed dead.

Jason wasn’t really sure if he actually wanted to know anymore.

Henry’s venomous smile only grew. “Yes, I know who you are. And you, Batman—or should I say, Bruce Wayne?”

Henry let the words hang between them, a scalpel poised over flesh, clearly reveling in the joy of unmasking the Batman. 

“A little bit of blood—which, again, Jason, you just made it so easy for me—and I ID the Red Hood over here. Imagine my surprise! When the DNA match was for a dead boy! Bruce Wayne’s dead boy, of all people. And then I remembered—Robin disappeared right around the same time Jason Todd died. So I get to thinkin’—“ Henry furrowed his brows in mock contemplation, but Jason wasn’t listening anymore.

Bruce Wayne’s dead boy.

The warehouse might as well been empty of air for Jason. Every rational thought collapsed. Every nightmare he’d smothered under vengeance and rage was being exhumed. He couldn’t look at Bruce. He couldn’t look at Dick. Hell, he could hardly fucking look at Tim without being strangled by the living guilt tangled up in his ribs.

Instead, Jason decided to  focus on Henry—and all the sadistic things he was going to do to the fucker when he finally got his hands on him.

Unfortunately, Jason resurfaced into the conversation and the worst possible time.

Henry’s face darkened, anger simmering under his cold, calm veneer. “You broke my brother the same way you broke your little Robin.”

Henry’s fingers tightened around the gun. Jason tried to think of a way out—a plan, a distraction, something—but his mind was a broken, skipping record.

“Oh!” Henry said, a cruel smirk playing across his features. “Where are my manners? I haven’t introduced myself yet.” He nodded at the three of them. “Bruce, Dick, Jason—my name is Henry Kaminski. Now, you probably have no idea who I am, but you might know my younger brother—Petyr.”

Henry’s eyes burned with fury—not at Dick, and not at Jason—but at Bruce. There was a hatred in his features, one that Jason…recognized.

He’d seen it before, of course.

Every time Henry had talked about the Bat.

(“Don’t like him? I fuckin’ hate that guy, man.”

“He’s all ‘righteousness and justice’ but only for those he thinks deserve it. Yeah, he doesn’t kill anybody. But holy fuck—he definitely makes some of ‘em wish they were dead. The way he was beatin’ the shit outta people a few months ago? The way he uses people—desperate, vulnerable people in crappy situations—to get what he wants? What kinda fuckin’ justice is that bullshit?”)

The line of Henry’s body was taut with barely restrained fury.

“My brother was twenty-two,” he spat—the cool, calm mask evaporating. “Twenty-two, Bruce! And you snapped his spine in half because he pulled a knife on some shop owner. He was a fuckin’ kid. He was scared. Our mom was going through withdrawals—she needed help and we didn’t have any money. And you fucking broke him!”

Henry’s voice rose, righteous, desperate hatred coloring every syllable. “We were drowning, Bruce. And you—“ his lip curled—“you, the great symbol of justice, the savior of Gotham, tied some fucking weights to our ankles and watched us sink. Tell me, Bruce—what kind of justice is that?”

Henry’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “You ruined my brother. And for what? To make yourself feel like you fixed something? To keep your precious city clean?”

For a moment, the only sound in the warehouse was Henry’s ragged breathing. Oh, and the roar of blood in Jason’s ears.

Then, Bruce spoke. Jason hadn’t been this close to his father in a long, long time. The sound of his voice felt like a punch to the chest.

“Henry,” he growled, though the rougher edges of the Batman-voice were softened by guilt (which, again, felt like a physical blow). “I know I’ve…hurt you. Just let Tim go, and we can talk. I’ll—“

“Don’t give me that bullshit!” Henry roared. “Don’t you dare pretend you’re above this!”

Henry jabbed the gun toward Tim’s temple as if punctuating the sentence. “I’m just using little Tim here to get what I want. Just like you used my brother.”

Bruce’s jaw clicked shut. Henry barked a laugh, cruel and bitter. “Oh, the hypocrisy! Because it’s only unacceptable when it’s your son, right?” Henry grinned again, sharp and manic and wrong. “Petyr—he pulls a pocket knife on some shopkeeper and you sever his spinal cord. But when I poison Timmy here to get the three of you in a room together, suddenly it’s monstrous?”

He gestured toward Jason with the gun, like pointing out an exhibit. “You break one—“ his voice cracked, mocking and furious all at once, “—and just get another? I haven’t seen anything about the adoption of Timothy Drake in the papers yet, but I trust it’s coming. A new Robin, then? Another solider in your righteous crusade? I wonder what’ll happen to this little birdie…”

Tim’s chest made a shallow, ragged sound. Something dark and thick dripped from his lips, staining his shirt.

Blood. That was blood.

Jason’s stomach felt like it was filling with lava.

From beside him, Dick spoke.

“Please,” he all but begged, his voice soft and shaky. “Please—just let Tim go. I’ll give you whatever you want, just please—“

Henry tutted, shaking his head slow. Dick stopped talking immediately, eyes flashing between Tim’s pale frame and the gun.

Jason had a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad feeling about this. The gun drifted again, almost lazily.

From Tim.

To Jason.

To Dick.

To Bruce.

And back Tim.

Henry was savoring it—watching the Batman squirm as all his “sons” were lined up on the wall to be executed.

“Y’know, Bats,” Henry sighed, his tone flat and sickeningly conversational. “I wanted to kill you. But hey—I’m just a guy. I knew that was a little out of my ballpark. Plus, I’d be letting you down easy.”

Henry pointed the gun at Dick.

“An eye for an eye, or however that saying goes.”

He fired.

Time is such a funny thing.

It never obeys the whims of man, does it? Sometimes, we want the hands of the clock to tick by faster—and then they seem to drag on out of spite.

Others, we ache for just a moment, a second more—and we are denied.

Some want to save time in a bottle. More shake the hourglass in impatience for the sands to fall.

But here, for Jason, time slowed.

Bruce moved, his black cape flaring, batarangs already between his fingers—but he was too far away.

Dick shouted something, stepping forward in a desperate effort to get to Tim.

The world shrank to the edge of a bullet and the space between Jason and Dick. And Jason—because he loved his brother, because he will always love his brother—had just enough time. He lunged before his body even registered he’d moved. Maybe it was instinct, or muscle memory, or something much louder than his anger and much older than his grief.

The impact of the bullet knocked the air from his lungs. His knees buckled, pain blossoming like fire from his abdomen as he slammed into cement floor. He tasted metal on his tongue. Dick was at his side in an instant, panicked hands pushing hard into Jason’s gushing stomach. The pressure sending a searing burst of pain through is body.

“Hey—hey hey hey,” he said, raw panic in his voice. “Little Wing. Jason. Just—just stay with me, okay? Look at me. Don’t go to sleep. Please. I just—“ he choked on a sob. “I just got you back.”

Far, far away—through a haze of pain and a veil of encroaching darkness—Bruce’s figure moved as if through molasses. He lunged for Henry, fury incarnate.

Black spots crept into the edges of Jason’s vision. He could feel something warm and wet spreading beneath him. His head lolled toward Dick, blood trickling from his lips onto his cheek. He felt the helmet come off. A cool breeze brushed up against his face. Dick must’ve pulled it off so he could see him, so he could breathe.

Dick’s eyes—so wide, so alive—locked onto his. Dick tried for a reassuring smile, but the tremble of his lip and the tears leaking through his domino betrayed his panic.

“Why would you do that, Little Wing?” he whispered.

Because, Jason thought, though his brain was quickly filling with cotton. You’re my brother.

And I would trade places with you, if it meant you would live.

And besides—it was easy.

Easy as laying his head on his big brother’s shoulder as they sat on some rooftop. Easy as falling asleep in his arms after a nightmare. Easy as looking up at the big expanse of the sky, yet not feeling alone, because his big brother was there, lying right beside him. Easy as handing him a photo album as tangible proof of their unbreakable bond. Easy as jumping trains, fully trusting that he’d be caught.

Jason brought up a hand that did not feel like his own, weakly gripping Dick’s wrist. Dick slid his blood-slicked fingers between Jason’s. The pain was everywhere now—licking at his nerves, pulling him down, down, down. He felt like he was slipping under dark water.

Jason was cold.

“Jase! Jason, I need you to talk to me, okay? Keep your eyes open, Little Wing—please.”

Hm—his eyes? When had he closed them?

He squeezed Dick’s hand as tightly as he could.

Dick squeezed back.

There was something Jason needed to say.

“Stop—“ he coughed weakly, sending his abdomen spasming and more blood coating his lips. “Stop drowning, Dick, okay? Get out of the water. Just…stop.”

Dick’s brows furrowed, but he nodded anyways. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

“And…” There was something else. What was it?

A black void appeared to his left. It was blurry, but unmistakably—

Bruce.

Right.

“Get Bruce off the shore,” he rasped, his voice thick with blood. “I’ll…I’ll come to you, I promise. Just…wait for me, okay? Please. Just…just wait for me.”

Dick, now blurry, shook his head fast. “Okay,” he said, his voice a cracked whisper. He was clutching Jason’s hand tight, but Jason couldn’t get his fingers to hold back anymore. “I’ll wait for you, Jay. I promise. I’m waiting right here.”

Jason hummed, the world beginning to fall away.

He’s waiting for me. 

He eyes slipped closed.

I’m coming.

Panicked yelling. But it was far, far away. Somebody shook him.

I have a second chance. 

The world went dark.

Chapter Text

Bruce lunged for Henry, body acting on nothing but pure instinct. The gun clattered tot he floor as he wrenched it from Henry’s grip. His fist met Henry’s jaw, and the man stumbled back with a grunt. In one fluid motion, Bruce pulled handcuffs from his belt and cuffed Henry to a steel pipe lining the warehouse wall.

Henry didn’t continue spitting his fiery accusations. He didn’t even resist. He simply smirked up at Bruce, teeth bloody, triumph radiating from him like oppressive heat.

“Just remember what I know, Bruce.”

Bruce could crush him. Dear God, did he want to. For Tim. For Ben. (For…Jason?). Every fiber of Bruce’s being itched to pummel the smugness from Henry’s face.

“Just remember what I know,” Henry repeated slowly, savoring it. Blood dripped from his lips onto his chin. 

But Bruce didn’t. He didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t. He let Henry smirk and gloat and spit blood from his mouth while the gunfire still echoed in his ears. But beneath it was another echo—one that reverberated up his spine and through his skull:

“Just…just wait for me.”

His voice. His son’s voice.

That had been Jason’s voice.

Jason—lying still on the floor, bleeding, no longer responding to Dick’s frantic mutterings.

Jason—who was the Red Hood.

A killer. A murderer.

His son.

Alive.

“Jase! Jason, I need you to talk to me, okay? Keep your eyes open, Little Wing—please.” Dick’s pleas broke Bruce from his spiraling thoughts. He turned his back on Henry—laughing, the sick fucker was laughing—sprinting to where Tim was still bound to a chair, head dipped low. Something cold and heavy dropped into Bruce’s gut at the sight of Tim’s unnervingly still body. At how small he looked. Bruce sliced through the ropes with a batarang and pulled Tim into his arms.

The blood on the boy’s lips contrasted sharply with the pale, almost gauntness of his little face. He wasn’t shivering. He was barely even breathing. Iron and ice gripped Bruce’s lungs, his heart.

For a single, harrowing moment, Bruce wasn’t in a Gotham warehouse holding the feverish body of his newest son.

He was back in that warehouse in Ethiopia, amidst the smoke and rubble, cradling the mangled remains of his youngest.

Not again.

It was a desperate prayer.

Not again.

Jason had died. Bruce had been too late. He remembered—every second that ticked by as he dug through the ruble. The damning silence. The near weightlessness of a too-still body pressed against his chest. 

“Stay with me,” he whispered. If he was talking to Tim, or the Jason of that burning wreckage, he didn’t know. Maybe both.

Not again.

There was a choked sob.

“I’ll wait for you, Jay,” Dick said thickly. “I promise. I’m waiting right here.” 

Jason hummed, his eyes drifting closed.

“Jason?” 

That same damning silence filled the warehouse like thick smoke. Like the beeping of a timer. Like the utter helplessness of simply being too late.

Like rain, on a rooftop.

“Jason!” Dick shook him, but to no avail. He pressed against Jason’s stomach with red-soaked hands, kneeling in a growing dark pool. Dick’s chest shuddered with each breath, only emphasizing the damning stillness of Jason beneath him.

“I’m waiting, okay? I’m waiting. I’m waiting.” He repeated it over and over. If he stopped saying it, Jason would stop breathing.

Jason had stopped breathing, once.

Tim shuddered in his arms. Bruce looked back down. He felt like a ghost. He worried Tim would slip through his arms. Distant sirens echoed through the cavernous space.

Jason was alive and Tim was going to die and—

“B! We—we have to get them out of here. Back to the Cave. Please B, we have to go—“

Bruce looked back up. Dick was begging him—his face pleading, panicked, and tear-streaked. He looked—

Bruce felt his mind snap back into his body with aggressive clarity.

Dick looked scared. He looked so, so scared.

Bruce grit his teeth. With that same, icy-ironed fear, Bruce forced the facade of the Batman back into place. He willed his frantic heart to settle. He beat back the rising tide of panic.

Not again.

The sirens got louder, piercing through the haze of the warehouse. Bruce recognized the wails immediately—the GCPD. Bruce sighed internally.

Oh, Ben. Why couldn’t you have just trusted me?

(The irony was not lost on Bruce.)

They needed to move, now. Time wasn’t the only thing bleeding away.

“Nightwing,” Bruce barked, shifting Tim to one arm and grabbing a smoke bomb from his belt. “Can you carry him?”

Dick sniffed, jaw set, eyes hardening into frightening determination. “Yes.”

Bruce nodded sharply. He pulled the pin on the smoke bomb and threw it. Smoke erupted, thick and acrid, blurring the warehouse into a gray haze. He clutched Tim—breathing, he was breathing—to his chest. Beside him, Dick slung Jason’s arm around his shoulders, murmuring softly—promises, platitudes, pleas.

Every muscle in Bruce’s body demanded action. Vengeance, justice, something. But vengeance would kill them all. Justice had already ruined so many. So Bruce grit his teeth and ran, cutting through the smoke and the chaos toward the Batmobile.

“Agent A,” he growled into the comm. “Prep medbay. Protocols GSW and OD. ETA—less than twenty.”

Not again.

The Batmobile’s tires shrieked as Bruce tore into the Cave.

“I’m waiting. I’m waiting, Jay. I’m waiting for you. I promise. I’m waiting.”

Dick’s entire world had narrowed to the thready pulse beneath his fingertips and the slick redness of his hands. Jason’s face was nearly as white as the streak in his hair. Dick’s cheeks were gritty, his domino mask long torn off. He was up to his elbows in tacky, drying blood. 

Bile rose in his throat.

Blood.

There was blood on his hands.

Jason’s blood.

His throat closed. His arms tightened around his little brother, one hand pressed firm against his stomach. Was Jason getting colder?

Bruce was out of the car before it stopped moving, sliding across the hood and gently pulling Tim from the passenger seat. Dick’s slick hands fumbled for the door handle. He scrambled out after Bruce, clutching Jason as tight as he could as he dragged him out of the car.

Dick’s whole body was numb and shaky, his hollow bones clacking together, the weight of Jason’s blood simultaneously morbidly hot and sickeningly cold. The iron tang of copper slammed into the back of his throat. His stomach churned. 

“I’ve got you, Jay,” Dick rasped around the rising nausea. “Don’t you dare die on me again. Stay with me, please—“

Jason’s boots scraped uselessly against the concrete floor. His head lolled, his breathing uneven against Dick’s shoulder. Dick staggered under Jason’s weight. His little brother wasn’t little anymore. Dick couldn’t carry him. His limbs burned, straining, as he tried to drag Jason toward the medbay. His knees buckled and—

Falling. Jason was was falling and it was all Dick’s fault. His little brother was falling again and Dick couldn’t catch him this time.

“Dad!” The word tore out of him, half a sob. “I can’t—I can’t hold him, please—“

Bruce was there in an instant. He caught Jason before he could slide fully from Dick’s grasp, lifting him effortlessly. An irrational fear surged in Dick and he almost tugged back—scared that if he let go of his little brother, he’d lose him again. But his body ached and his hands were shaking and his little brother wasn’t little anymore. Dick would drop him. Dick would fail him.

But without Jason’s weight, Dick felt…empty. Floaty. Untethered. His heart skipped and stuttered in his chest. Every breath only brought in the poignant smell of metal. He was frozen—unable to to look at his little brothers lying too-still in their white cots. Instead, his eyes slid downward. To his hands.

There was blood on his hands.

It coated his wrists, darkening all the way up to his elbows. Memories of dreams and scrubbing and blood poured into his mind. His senses were stifled. There was only red, red red—

Something clattered to the floor. The sound echoed throughout the cave, slicing momentarily through Dick’s spiraling thoughts. His head jerked up to Alfred—his face sheet white, rampant shock written across his aging features. His hands—one holding the special scissors they used to cut away the suits, the other a clean cloth—were trembling.

Dick wished his ears weren’t so full of cotton. He wanted to know what they were saying. 

Dick turned away. He needed—what if he just checked, just to be sure he was awake—

“Master Dick.”

Alfred’s voice—slightly breathless, but no less commanding—cut through the noise of Dick’s head. “I need your help, and so do the young Masters. Go wash your hands.”

Dick blinked. His chest still heaved, his stomach still hot with nausea. The words hooked onto what felt like the last solid thing inside him. An anchor. He nodded once, jerky, and stumbled toward the sink. The sound of running water drowned out all else.

If I can wash the blood off my hands, I am awake.

The rule was old. He hadn’t needed it. But now…

Dick peeled off his gloves, took the soap, and scrubbed—not because he was trying to prove that he was awake, but because his brothers needed his help. He did not look at the red swirling down the drain. Behind him, the Cave had gone eerily quiet—a focused silence only punctured by the beeps of monitors and the hum of medical equipment. The kind of heavy, suffocating silence that meant someone might die.

Dick returned to where Bruce and Alfred worked in tandem, their hands steady despite the shocking revelation that Jason was alive. Dick’s heart and lungs had calmed slightly, now that his hands were no longer a glistening crimson—and that his dad was here.

Alfred leaned over Jason, once-white latex gloves slick and dark as he worked to extract the bullet. Beside him, Bruce flitted about Tim’s bed, running a steady stream of diagnostics—testing every drug, poison, and neurotoxin they’d ever faced. Antiseptic and the copper tang of blood hung heavy in the air.

Dick stepped up beside Jason’s bed. The steady beeping of the heart rate monitor wasn’t enough—he needed to see his little brother’s chest rise and fall. Alfred had cut away the entire top half of the suit. Jason was bare chested, looking so young on the table—

Dick’s stomach lurched. All the blood drained from his body into some hidden well deep within the Cave.

There—just below his sternum—was an autopsy scar.

Dick wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t blinking. He was just staring, the thick cords of the ropey Y burning like brands behind his eyelids. Jason wasn’t a kid anymore, but god damn he looked so young (twenty! He was barely twenty! And Dick didn’t get to see any of it!). This wasn’t Robin; this was the Red Hood. Older, scarred—brutalized by time and Gotham alike. Memories of Jason’s death ate at Dick like acid. He wondered if the guilt would corrode his very soul.

The bullet clinked softly against the metal tray as it came free. Alfred immediately began stitching with steady hands.

An autopsy scar. They had cut his little brother open. Because he’d died. And now—

“Breathe, Master Dick,” Alfred said without looking up. “The best way you can help Master Jason is by not joining him on the table.”

Dick sucked in a breath. He pushed another out. He tore his eyes away from the autopsy scar, knowing that it didn’t matter—he’d see the horrid thing in his nightmares, anyway. It was inevitable. Dick turned, relief only uncoiling the tightness in his chest by minuscule degrees.

Tim lay pale and motionless on the next cot, a tangle of wires and tubes surrounding his small frame. Bruce was hunched over a tablet, eyes scanning a dozen compounds and numerous test results. Dick instinctively reached out and brushed against Tim’s chilly fingers.

“Come on, Timmy,” he murmured, giving the boy’s hand a soft squeeze. “Fight. Please.”

Something beeped. Dick jerked, nearly jumping out of his skin. “Got it?”

Instead of replying, Bruce disappeared into the recesses of the Cave. He reappeared seconds later, several vials clinking in his hands. His fingers trembled—barely, just barely—as he filled a syringe. For a singular heartbeat, the world seemed to hold still as Bruce gently swabbed an alcohol pad over the crook of Tim’s elbow and pressed the needle into his vein with the utmost precision.

Dick only exhaled when the entire syringe was empty. Now, all they could do was wait.

Dick was just…standing. He didn’t really know what else to do. His chest was still heavy, his gut still twisted up in knots. So he just…stood between Jason and Tim’s cots like he was the last thing tethering his little brothers to this mortal place. 

Monitors beeped. Machines hummed. Color returned to his little brothers’ faces by shades. Everything was just…suspended. The aftermath of a great battle, when the very air is still as the earth seems to hold its breath. 

Alfred was back somewhere cleaning the scalpels. Dick couldn’t remember when he’d left. It was only then that he realized that Bruce was looking at him—his cowl was pulled back, the lines of his face tight. And he was waiting.

Waiting for an explanation.

Dick took a deep breath that was definetly not enough. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He looked Bruce straight in his cobalt blue eyes.

“He’s alive.” 

Bruce did not move a muscle.

Dick swallowed hard again. The weight of all that was unsaid pressed against him like a physical thing. “He’s alive, and I knew, and I didn’t tell you. And I’m not sorry, Bruce. I’m not.”

Dick didn’t have the strength to yell. He didn’t want to fight. What he wanted was for his dad to hold him—but he would never ask. Or maybe he could. Dick didn’t really know anymore. He was tired. If Bruce wanted to drop the match—fine. But Dick would not burn.

But…

Bruce’s eyes softened. There was no anger, or defensiveness, or accusation. Just…exhaustion. Guilt. And though Dick would be loathe to admit it—age. His father looked old. The sight knocked the wind out of Dick more than any argument ever could’ve. 

Then he moved. One step, and another. When he reached Dick, he didn’t say anything. He simply wrapped his arms around his son and pulled him in.

Dick froze for a half second before a breath shuddered out of him. His hands instinctively curled around the kevlar of Bruce’s suit—just like he used to do when he was Robin. He hadn’t realized just how desperately he’d needed solid ground, a heartbeat, for someone else to be Atlas. Dick was cold. Bruce was warm. Dick let himself feel small.

Bruce’s voice rumbled beneath his ear. “Thank you for bringing him home.”

The tears came then, hot and fast and unstoppable. Dick didn’t think he’d had any left.

“I got him shot,” he managed, the words strangled and wet.

Bruce pulled back just enough to look at him, one impossibly gentle gloved hand coming up to cup Dick’s teary cheek.

“Jason would never let you take a bullet for him,” Bruce said quietly. “He loved you too much.”

Dick shook his head, a sob catching in his throat, but Bruce’s grip tightened. He wiped away another tear with his thumb. He didn’t say anything else, but that was okay. He didn’t have to. Because Dick had his dad back.

After a long moment, Bruce’s hand fell away. Dick turned back toward the cots. Jason was still, his chest rising and falling in a steady, shallow rhythm. Tim was slowly regaining color, his monitor blinking green.

Alfred cleared his throat softly. “I’ll bring down tea.” He was already at the base of the stairs that led up to the Manor. “And perhaps the two of you might consider changing out of those suits,” he added with a slight wrinkle of his nose.

Dick nodded shakily. So did Bruce. With another glance toward Jason and Tim, the two of them made their way to the lockers to shower and change.

Here’s the thing about Dick: he is a creature of great emotion. His anger burns hot, yes—but it’s matched, maybe even outmatched, by something…harder to name. 

This thing—it’s not hope, exactly. More a kind of desperate belief, the kind that only survives when it’s been tested and burned and crushed but still refuses to die. The kind forged from going in circles with his father—someone who knows where every nerve is buried because they taught each other how to cut.

But they also know how to love, because they taught each other what love looks like. They built the very beams of each other’s support systems. They softened each other with warm, gentle hands. 

When you are known intimately, there is possibility of great pain—but there is also the possibility of great love.

So that thing in Dick’s chest.

Maybe you could actually call it hope. 

A slow rising—a very slow one. Thick and syrupy. Everything returned by degrees.

Jason was…warm. Something soft and heavy was tucked tight around him. Beeping, steady and rhythmic, was growing louder. The lingering taste of copper danced across his dry tongue. The air smelled of antiseptic and wet rocks.

Sleep tugged at his senses again, gently urging him back beneath the dark waves.

Somewhere far off, bats chittered.

The calm shattered immediately. 

The Cave. He was in the fucking Cave.

Memories poured in:

Batman. The warehouse. Tim. Henry. The crack of a gunshot. Dick, whispering desperate sweet-nothings he wouldn’t ever repeat to a soul.

Jason fought to keep his breathing even. He kept his eyes closed, his body lax, feigning sleep for a few more moments while he worked out a plan. 

He could…wait it out. Play along. Then grab a batarang or two from one of the work benches and get the hell outta Dodge. Maybe he could even find where they’d stashed his gear. Maybe he could convince Dick to distract Bruce, just for a minute, so he could—

An unconscious shift of muscle sent a white-hot flash of pain through his abdomen. Jason hissed before he could stop himself.

“Don’t move.”

The beeping spiked. Jason didn’t fucking move. Not a muscle, not a single molecule. Because that was—

“Don’t move,” Bruce said again, softer now. He sounded close. “You’re safe. Just…rest.”

Well, fuck—the cat was out of the bag. Bruce knew he was awake. Jason would just have to make up his grand escape plan on the fly. It’s not like it was the first time (those plans always ended up going miraculously right or horrifically wrong—it was tough to say which one it was going to be this time).

Jason peeled his eyes open, blinking away the blur. Familiar shadowy stalactites greeted him. The lights were turned low, the large monitors of the Batcomputer dark. Jason turned his head, muscles stiff.

Bruce.

He sat beside the cot as if carved from stone. The suit was gone, leaving just the man underneath. His hair was mussed, his eye bags dark, and there was a heavy stubble on his chin.

He looked…old. The conclusion stabbed something sharp through Jason’s heart.

Bruce looked old.

Jason hurriedly pushed the thought from his mind. He looked past Bruce.

Dick was slumped over the next cot, his head pillowed on his folded arms. Tim’s small form laid still beneath a light blanket, hooked up to various tubes and wires. Something bunched up inside Jason smoothed out at the sight of the faint flush of color back in the younger boy’s cheeks. They were just sleeping—resting, breathing, alive.

Jason swallowed hard. The memories continued to bleed in—Henry’s speech and the revelation of all he knew locked and loaded like the very gun he’d held to Tim’s temple. 

Bruce being there. Bruce hearing his name.

Jason squeezed his dry eyes shut. His body was sore and aching, but at least he was alive. Alive and unmasked. There was no running now.

Jason wondered what Bruce was going to do—if he was going to lock Jason up in Arkham or Blackgate. Yell, scream, lecture. Ship Jason off to some foreign prison, washing his gauntleted hands of his greatest failure.

Something heavy settled in Jason’s chest, primed to reach up and grab him by the throat. It was time to face his father.

When Jason opened his eyes again, Bruce was still watching him. Jason focused on him—searching. Looking for anger, for disgust. For hate. For condemnation and rejection. Hell, Jason knew he deserved it (and Bruce, for all his own hypocrisy, deserved it, too). But the longer Jason searched Bruce’s wrecked and exhausted features, the less he found. There was only an unbearable, searching stillness. And something that looked a lot like…

Well. Jason couldn’t name it.

“You’ve been out for a few hours,” Bruce said. “Alfred got the bullet out. We figured out what Henry gave Tim, and he’s responding well to treatment. Dick’s fine—he’s just tired. He wouldn’t…he wouldn’t leave you.” Bruce looked like he wanted to say more, but was stoping himself. 

Jason opened his mouth to speak. All that came out instead was a dry cough that sent spasming pain through his abdomen. A straw was at his lips in an instant, Bruce’s hands nearly trembling as he held out the cup. Jason took it and drank the lukewarm water slowly. Bruce raised the back of the cot so he could sit up.

Bruce looked at Jason like he would disappear at any second. Like if Bruce moved too fast or pressed to hard Jason would dissipate like a vanquished specter.

Like a ghost.

Jason was sick of being a fucking ghost.

Jason finished drinking, holding the cup between his scarred hands, pulse oximeter still attached to his pointer finger. Six feet of dirt weighed heavy between them. Bodies and blood and guilt and regret drew lines and chasms over the titles of father and son.

“I didn’t do it for you,” Jason said, his voice scratchy with disuse.

I didn’t take that bullet to save your other son.

I took it to save my brother.

There is a difference.

“I know,” Bruce said. Not a reproach, and there was no judgement. There was understanding, and something soft, almost…grateful

“But…thank you.”

Jason would’ve been less surprised if Talia al Ghul had burst through the Cave doors and claimed that she and Bruce had a secret child. The words bounced around Jason’s brain. They ran across his ribs like metal across iron cell bars. And they hurt. The other shoe was going to drop—it was. Jason just didn’t know when. Because not two nights ago, Bruce had walked into an auto scrapyard fully intending to take the Red Hood down.

Only now, the Red Hood wore the face of his dead son. His alive dead son.

(Did Jason…even count as his son anymore? Was death such a permanent severance?)

The soft blanket around him suddenly felt like the scratchy velvet lining of his coffin, the Cave the hole they’d buried him in. Machinery hummed. Jason gripped the cup as tight as he could with his still-weak fingers.

And Bruce was still looking at him.

Like a ghost. Like Dick had, all those nights ago, when he’d thought Jason was—

“Stop looking at me like that,” Jason snapped.

Bruce’s brows furrowed, but he did look away. Jason eyes drifted to Dick, still sleeping peacefully. The scar on his temple was visible in the low light. His big brother looked…young. Dick looked really, really young. It made Jason feel weird. He hated it, almost as much as he hated Bruce looking at him like some walking zombie.

Jason knew Bruce had caught Dick when he’d stepped off that roof. Jason also knew that there was a very high possibility that he might not have. That Dick would have fallen and died the same way his parents had—only his ropes had been cut by memory and guilt and abandonment rather than some Maroni mobster. And Bruce—blinded by his cowl and his coping and his contrition—would’ve been too late, again.

To get Dick out of the water, Jason had to get to Bruce. But to get to Bruce, Jason would have to get off the rock.

Jason scoffed. He didn’t know where the sudden anger came from, but he welcomed it. “I get how you never saw it.” 

Bruce’s eyes snapped to him. “…Saw what?”

“Dick,” Jason said flatly. “He’d stopped wearing his armor. Did you know that? He stopped wearing it, because it was too heavy. Have you seen the scars, Bruce? He did that on purpose. Where were you?”

“Jason—"

“He jumped, Bruce. Off a roof. Perfect, golden-boy over there jumped off a roof. And you—“ Jason’s eyes bore into Bruce’s, “—you caught him, but barely Do you even get what that means?”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly. When he reopened them, there was a heaviness there—guilt. “Yes.”

Jason huffed a bitter laugh that sent a lance of pain through his abdomen. “No you don’t. You think catching him makes it any better? You think being there after is enough? You let him fall in the first place!” Jason’s voice rose. “What if you weren’t there?”

The words echoed off the walls of the Cave. Jason’s chest rose and fell in heaves. He wasn’t really talking about Dick anymore, and they both knew it. 

Because once, long ago, Bruce hadn’t been there. 

And Jason had died. Alone. In agony. Never once doubting that someone was coming to save him. Even until the end—when he was drowning in his own lungs—he’d still held out hope. That he wouldn’t die alone. That someone was coming. His dad. His brother. Fucking Superman.

But no one had.

Then Jason died.

And then Dick—perfect, performing, pretending Dick—had almost died, too. Only, his would’ve been worse. An ending, all on his own. Not the way of Robins. No heroism or recklessness. Just…a quiet drowning. 

Jason knew he was pushing his luck with the accusations. But if Bruce was going to cart him off to Arkham or Blackgate regardless, he might as well give Bruce the verbal lashing that’d been burning holes in his brain ever since he’d first found Dick alone on his apartment rooftop.

Bruce opened his mouth, then shut it. He stared down at his hands. “You’re right.”

Jason blinked. He hadn’t expected that. He’d thought…well, he’d thought he’d at least get a fight. Some yelling, definitely. Not…this. 

Bruce’s voice was teetering dangerously close to broken. “I didn’t see it. I should have. I…pushed him away, after…”

A million things went unsaid in the span of that moment. Bruce continued.

“I buried the father with you,” he said quietly. “And I still had another son.”

Bruce’s eyes were damp. Jason felt weird. 

“I failed him the same way I failed you.”

Jason swallowed hard. The fight drained out of him almost as quickly as it came. Jason just…looked at Bruce. He didn’t know what else to say. He knew what he’d planned on saying, but…well, he hadn’t planned on this. He felt eerily similar to that very first night in Dick’s apartment, when he’d expected his brother to be shocked or furious or disappointed—and he’d gotten failure and defeat and guilt instead.

“He’s my brother,” Jason said quietly.

Bruce’s expression softened. “I know.”

Jason looked away, blinking rapidly, the anger burning itself down. His eyes caught the blood red glint of his helmet sitting on the Batcomputer desk. Bruce followed his gaze. 

Everything suddenly went very, very quiet. 

Jason slowly looked back at Bruce. When Bruce’s eyes met his, Jason decided he was going to cut the laces and drop the other damn shoe himself.

“What are you going to do?” he whispered. Fear crept through him, replacing the warmth with ice. Jason knew, distinctly, that he could not run. The gunshot wound combined with the amount of blood he’d lost would make him an easy target. He wouldn’t get very far.

The question hung, heavy and trembling—a gallows noose blowing in the wind. Jason didn’t even know if he wanted an answer. He worried the frantic pounding of his heartbeat would drown out Bruce’s response.

For a long moment, Bruce did not move, nor did he speak. He just stared at Jason—the son who’d ran off and died. Who’d come back wrong. Who’d cut up and crossed every line, only to realize he’d severed the ones that had connected father to son.

Or…had he?

Because maybe fathers and sons and brothers aren’t connected by lines, or even blood. Maybe it’s…something else entirely. Something a lot stronger, a lot older, and a lot deeper. 

When Bruce finally did speak, his voice was impossibly soft.

“What am I going to do?” Bruce repeated, his eyes searching Jason.

“Jason,” he said. “I am going to bring you home.”

Jason and Bruce were staring at each other. The heavy silence was cut by the gentle sounds of Dick stirring on the nearby cot. He groaned softly, fingers twitching against the white sheets. He blinked like a frog against the low lights. Several pops sounded from his spine as he rolled his neck. Then his gaze landed on the other bed. Dick's eyes roamed over Jason, inspecting. In disbelief, or gratitude—Jason didn’t really know. A lot of things were happening. But whatever Dick had been searching for, he’d found it.

“Little Wing,” Dick breathed. A smile ghosted his lips.

Jason felt very, very small. Fifteen, almost. Or twelve.

“Hi,” was all he could say.

Dick crossed the space between the two cots in an instant. His hands flitted about Jason’s shoulders before enveloping him in a bone-crushing hug. He was warm, so warm. Solid. An anchor, tethering Jason to the here.

“Jesus, Dick—“ Jason wheezed, as Dick pressed close, like he wanted to pull Jason right between his ribs. “Gunshot wound, remember?”

Dick did not relax his grip. Jason could hear the thump-thump of Dick’s heartbeat where his head rested against his big brother’s chest. A shaky hand ran through his hair. If Death were to come steal Jason Todd away again, the Reaper himself would have to pry Jason from the arms of his big brother.

“Shouldn’t have scared me, then,” Dick said thickly, voice rumbling against Jason’s ear. Slowly, Jason brought his arms up. And he hugged is big brother back. Distantly, he knew Bruce was still there, but he didn’t matter right now.

Alive. They were alive.

After a long moment, Dick leaned back just far enough to look Jason in the face—his tearful expression darkened.

“Don’t you ever take a fucking bullet for me again.”

Jason blinked, startled. Then, inevitably, he snorted. “Don’t get shot at then, Dickwing.”

Dick hufffed a wet laugh. The sharpness of his expression melted away. But before he could respond, there was a tiny cough from the other cot.

Tim’s eyes had fluttered open, his face still a tad pale but his gaze alert. He squinted. It was adorable. His voice came out soft and hoarse. “You’re all…really loud.”

“Tim!” Dick exclaimed. The relief in his body practically luminous. He was at Tim’s side in an instant, perching carefully on the cot, hands flitting about but not touching. “How’re you feeling, sweetheart?”

Tim opened his mouth to reply—instead, he got a straw shoved to his lips. A smile pulled at Jason’s lips. As soon as Tim finished drinking, he opened his mouth again—but Dick gently cupped his face before Tim could speak.

“Tim,” Dick said, his lightness dying instantly, replaced by a serious kind of…guilt. He held Tim’s face like he was made of glass. “Sweetheart, I am so sorry. I never should have left you—“

A guilt of his own bubbled up in Jason’s gut. “Actually,” he said, cutting Dick off. “That’s…that’s my fault. I had no idea that Henry…” He trailed off. The sting of betrayal was still so fresh.

Henry, who he’d trusted. With his past. With his empire.

With his little brother.

Tim’s big blue eyes drifted from Dick, to Jason, to Bruce, and back to Dick. There was something going on in his mind—some puzzle he was putting together that only he could see. Jason just didn’t know what. But cogs were turning, and something shifted behind his youthful gaze. Tim was a very smart kid, after all.

“It’s okay,” Tim said at last. “Really.”

Dick brushed a stray strand of hair from Tim’s forehead, the motion gentle and reverent. “You really scared us, kiddo.” he whispered. He pulled Tim into the same bone-crushing hug that he’d subjected Jason to. Tim melted into the touch.

Footsteps echoed from the stairs—the familiar clack of polished shoes on smooth stone. Alfred appeared, carrying a tray. His eyes swept the room—a visible weight eased from his shoulders.

“Well,” he said quietly. “It seems my work here has not been in vain.”

The guilt bubbling up inside Jason rose higher. He looked away, suddenly unable to meet anyone’s gaze, let alone Alfred’s. He refocused on the white blanket he was wrapped up in, scarred fingers picking at an invisible thread.

Alfred, of course, noticed. “None of that, Master Jason,” he said gently. His eyes crinkled when he added softly, “It is very good to have you back.”

All Jason could do was nod. Anything more and he might cry.

Alfred’s expression softened into his trademark faint, knowing smile. “Would you boys care for a snack? Perhaps some hot chocolate?”

Tim stiffened in Dick’s grip. He shook his head, emphatic even through exhaustion and Dick’s tight hold. “No—" He cleared his throat. “Um—no, thank you.”

Jason, Dick, and Bruce all frowned, passing a silent look over Tim’s head. They’d have to discuss that later. Alfred hesitated, then inclined his head graciously.

“Of course, my boy,” he said. “How about some tea instead?”

Tim gave a small nod. “Tea’s…good. Thank you.”

Alfred smiled. “Very well.” He turned to leave, but not before casting a glance back at Bruce. “Master Bruce,” he said in a tone that boded no argument. “I believe your children have shown adequate signs of recovery. You need rest, just as much as they do. I will have your dinner waiting in your room.”

Bruce hesitated for a single moment, his eyes roaming over each son one last time, lingering for an extra second on Jason. Jason just stared back, his emotions a tangled, knotted jumble that he’d probably never find either end to. With a tiny, satisfied nod, begrudgingly Bruce followed Alfred up the stairs.

Tim wiggled out of Dick’s grip. He tugged at his IV with a wince and was out of his cot before anyone could stop him. He crawled into Jason’s bed, careful of the bandages. He pressed close, head fitting neatly against Jason’s shoulder, his small hand curling into the fabric of Jason’s shirt.

Jason blinked down at him, startled yet filled with so much warmth. With a grunt, he shifted a little to make room.

Dick came up beside them and smiled. “Scoot over, Little Wing.”

Jason rolled his eyes but moved anyway, and Dick slid in on the other side—his long limbs tangled, the bed clearly too small for the three of them. But it didn’t matter.

For a long while, they just lay there.

Listening.

The Cave was never silent. Bats chittered high above. The Batcomputer hummed. Water dripped somewhere far away. Jason focused on the slow, steady, in-and-out rhythm of his brothers’ breathing.

Tim had long since fallen asleep. Dick was just dozing, his arm thrown out across the two of them. Jason stared up at the low lights. His muscles relaxed by degrees—his body was sore, his chest aching not only from the bullet.

Jason had died, once.

Dick had almost followed him.

Jason swallowed hard. Words sat heavy on his tongue.

“I love you,” he whispered.

A small, incandescent truth. A permanent thing.

For a moment, Jason thought maybe Dick hadn’t heard him. Then Dick’s fingers gently squeezed his arm.

“I love you too,” Dick said softly.

Because time and grave are nothing.

And hope is quite the feathered thing.

Chapter Text

[GCPD COMMUNICATIONS LOG]

Authorized Outgoing Detainee Call

Duration Limit: 5:00

Call Monitored and Recorded

“…Hello?”

“Pete—hey, Pete. It’s Henry.”

“…Hey, Hen.”

“How’re you?”

“I’m…good.”

“That’s good.“

“Yeah.”

“…”

“Did you—Hen, on the news…they’re saying you did it. Did you?”

“Petyr…you know I can’t—“

“Oh my God. You did. Henry—what? Why?”

“…”

“Henry?”

“For you, Petyr. I did it for you.”

“You…you what?!”

“To get back at that sick bastard.”

“What? What are you—the Batman? This is about Batman?”

“I know it sounds terrible, but Petyr—I need you to trust me. I need you to understand. He hurt you. He ruined your life. He calls himself justice, but he’ll never pay for what he did to you. I couldn’t wait on the law. The whole damn system’s broken, and they can never touch him. So…I made sure. That he paid.”

“By killing an innocent person?”

“You were innocent, too, Pete.”

“Henry—no I wasn’t. And we both know this. That shopkeeper…Mrs. Chen is seventy-four. She would’ve given us the old food from the back anyway. I was just…Henry, we both know this.”

“I know, Pete. But I had to. I had to protect you. Avenge you. Give you the justice you deserved.”

“Justice? Yes, hurt me. And yes, it was terrifying. But revenge? Are you serious? This is my life, Henry! You know I don’t blame him! Why would you…why would you do this?”

“For you. To make this right.”

“Right? Right?! How is any of this right? Killing someone—an innocent person—doesn’t bring my legs back. It won’t bring Mom back. And now—what? You’re going to prison? How does that protect me? And what about Batman? How’d that work out? I don’t see any news about 'Batman arrested’. Oh my God…Henry. I can’t—I can’t believe you—“

“Petyr, you have to understand that I—“

“That you what? Shot someone? Batman takes my legs. You take someone’s life. How does that even balance out?”

“Pete…please—“

“Oh my God—my grant.”

“Your what?”

“Wayne Enterprises…they pay for my therapy. You think a globally renowned company wants to pay for the brother of a murderer? If they rescind the offer…Henry, I can’t cover everything on my own. Oh my God…the meds, the OT, the insurance…Henry, what am I supposed to do?”

“…”

“Oh my God…you didn’t think that far?”

“…”

“Henry?”

“I know his identity.”

“What?”

“The Bat. I know who he is.”

“Huh? How? Wait—don’t tell me. You’re not…you’re not supposed to know stuff like that. Just—listen, Henry. Stop. I need you to…just don’t call me for a while, okay? I can’t risk everything I have here. Bruce Wayne himself has been visiting me. I can’t have you ruin that.”

“I...okay. Okay, Pete. I won’t. Just—be safe, okay? And keep working hard. You're doing so well.”

“Okay.”

“I love—"

[CALL TERMINATED]

Chapter Text

The early night sky was a deep violet, illuminated by the yellow of a rising full moon. Jason sat atop the roof of the WG & Truth skyscraper, back pressed to a rough brick chimney, surveying the city below. 

This time—when dusk descends, and twilight glimmers dim—was always calm. Not dark enough for anyone to prowl the shadowy streets, but not quite light enough for a comfortable evening stroll. It was not peace, per se, but more the absence of action.

Jason’s legs dangled over the ledge, heels softly tapping against the brick every now and again. Beside him sat a white box. His helmet lay off to his left, eyes dark. He breathed deeply, drawing in the token smell of Gotham smog and asphalt.

He knew he wasn’t alone.

A slow grin tugged at Jason’s lips. “So you’re never gonna stop following us, huh?” His words weren’t accusatory, or harsh—rather, a simple observation. His gloved fingers drifted toward the worn cardboard of the white box.

The air stilled, as if someone was trying to turn themselves invisible and melt back into the shadows from whence they came. After a moment, there was the soft crunch of gravel shifting under cautious feet. Tim emerged from behind the chimney—his cheeks an adorable shade of pink, his eyes focused intently on his shoes.

Jason chuckled, the lack of helmet rendering the sound soft and genuine. “Hey there, Baby Bird.”

Tim’s gaze snapped up for a fraction of a second, then dropped again. Jason patted beside him. “It’s okay, Timmy. Come sit.”

Tim obeyed, folding into himself, knees pressed to his chest. He stared out at the lights of the city, the white box between them. Jason waited, patiently, for Tim to sink into the rooftop’s strange, suspended calm.

By the time the violet sky deepened into a midnight blue, Tim had leaned back against the chimney, legs dangling just like Jason’s.

Jason swallowed. Unease fluttered about his chest like an unruly butterfly. “Timmy—“

Tim’s head snapped to his, a flicker of fear in his wide blue eyes. Jason cursed Jack and Janet Drake to hell and back, eternally grateful that all of Bruce’s custody paperwork had been approved and they were now brothers, for real—though, they had been brothers for much longer than stated on any trivial piece of paper.

Jason forced the words past the growing knot in his throat. “I’m not mad, Tim. Not at all. In fact…I’m actually glad you followed me up here.”

“Dick was always easy to follow,” Tim mumbled, looking away.

Jason filed that jewel away for the next time he and Dick got into an argument and continued. “I’ve got something for you.” He patted the white box. “Why don’t you open it?”

Tim shot him a quizzical look. “What is it?”

“Something that belongs to you,” Jason echoed, the words—from a literal lifetime ago—not his own.

Tim opened the box with the utmost gentleness, blue eyes growing wide at the contents. Reverently, he picked up the Robin suit inside as if it were woven with gold. His big, youthful gaze fixed on Jason, full of…something Jason couldn’t quite place. It made his insides squirm, unfit for such awe.

“You’ll grow into it in a few years,” Jason said with a small smile.

Ever so carefully, Tim folded the suit and returned it to its white box. “Thank you, Jason,” he whispered. His thumbs lingered over the kevlar as if memorizing the texture.

Jason felt heat rise in his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “You’re the only one who’d ever deserve it,” he said. “This…this is my formal passing of the torch. You’re Robin now, Tim. I give you my wings.”

Tim’s mouth hung open for a fleeting second before he launched himself at Jason, wrapping his arms around his neck. He pressed close, whispering frantic thank you thank you thank yous again and again into Jason’s chest. Jason’s arms closed around Tim in return, squeezing his little brother with the fierce, unwavering strength of a quiet vow: no one will take you from me.

“Did he say yes?”

Tim jumped in Jason’s hold, startled, as Dick stepped from the shadows. He was smiling—luminous with pride despite the domino.

“Because I’m taking that as a yes.”

Jason blinked away tears from his eyes. Dick sat beside them, feet dangling over the city below, Tim squished between them. Lights glittered like scattered stars in the inky universe of asphalt, but Jason’s focus was on the two heartbeats beside him. He wondered, absent minded-ly, if Tim would alter the suit. Make it his own, in some way.

They stayed like that for a long while—three brothers on a rooftop, hearts beating in tandem. Like wings of the same bird. Brothers, knit together—but not by blood. Rather, by something a lot stronger, a lot older, and a lot deeper. Something much louder than anger and much older than grief. Neither separated nor severed by lines or seas or chasms or even death itself. A desperate grabbing hold of. An unyielding refusal to let go.

So there, on that same rooftop where Dick had given Jason his wings, Jason let himself hope.

Because hope always starts and ends with birds.