Work Text:
The Batcave echoes. Any whisper, grunt, scuff, or cough reverberates along the cave walls, rustles the sleeping bats, and you can hear their velvet wings brush against each other, their soft chirps. Alfred silently sets a tea cup down next to Jason, and the clink of porcelain echoes too.
The 78 mocks Jason. His eyes burn as he watches the footage back—his quarterly test spar with Bruce, a system he set up to track Dick’s progress, that he now uses to track Jason’s progress—and he hits the exit button with more force than necessary. He already watched Dick’s quarterly tests, per Bruce’s instructions. Dick scored better. Consistently.
“Master Jason, you have shown consistent improvement with every test, I’m sure you will—”
“You’ll do better next time,” Bruce interrupts, eyes on the monitor.
Jason swallows, his throat tight. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t.”
Jason wipes his eyes. “You suck at comforting people.”
“I’ve been told.”
Alfred sighs, muttering something about polishing silverware and returning to the Manor.
Jason clears his throat and walks toward the training mat. “When are we sparring?”
“We’re not.”
His heart trips. Is it because of the grade? Bruce didn’t seem angry, but he’s not above withholding Robin when it comes to training failures. Bruce would’ve said something though, unless he’s planning to do something drastic like put him on probation after he just got off of it—
“Hey, little wing!”
Jason’s eye’s jump to Dick. His motorcycle tilts on its axis, leaning on the kickstand, helmet hanging off the handle. Dick closed half the distance between them before Jason knew he was there, and he dons red gi pants and a wife beater.
Shit.
“Hey,” he says, frowning.
Dick’s expression falls, mirroring Jason’s. “Bruce told me about the test. I thought I’d drop by and we could spar today before patrolling together. What do you think?”
Jason resists rolling his eyes. Of course, Dick would come over and then ask Jason how he feels about it. But excitement sparks inside of him, ‘cause this is more than sparring; it’s a chance. He grins. “Let’s do it.”
Dick claps. “Yes! Let’s do this—Bruce, come referee. You’re in family time too.”
Bruce grunts, but he closes the file he was reading.
Dick flips him off and turns to Jason. “What have you been working on?”
The words scrape his insides. “Escrima.”
“Sweet! Then we’ll spar with those specifically.”
They’ll spar with escrima sticks—Dick’s domain. Jason huffs and grabs his pair off of the wall. They’re Dick’s from his beginning stages of experimentation, when he hadn’t left to establish himself as Nightwing, but was flourishing into Robin. Scuff marks tatter the hardened rubber and Robin stickers fray on the bottom. Jason scoffed at Bruce when he first brought up learning Escrima, but he understands why. Of course he does. Before Jason crafts his own mythos as Robin, he has to follow his predecessor. He just wishes it wouldn’t take so long.
Dick trades his steel escrima for rubber ones, matching Jason’s. They hop on the mat and circle each other. Jason squares his shoulder and grits his teeth. He’s gonna win.
Dick dives forward—always on offense, putting Jason on defense. Their escrima trade hits back and forth, Jason catching hits on his thighs, side, arms. He doesn’t stop and continues defending himself, but it’s a hopeless game. Dick will continue his endless lightning strikes, and Jason will defend, praying for an opening.
The escrima catches his jaw. Jason moves with the hit so he doesn’t worsen the blow, turning away to hinge over and rest his hands on the mat, panting. It stings and reverberates across his face and he scrunches his nose and eyes. He won’t touch it. He won’t. At least it wasn’t steel—Jason shivers at the thought. If it were steel, and if Dick and him were fighting at 100%, that would’ve broken his jaw.
“You alright?” Dick asks, standing straight and unaffected. Jerk.
“‘m fine,” he mumbles, turning to face him. His eyes burn and the pain pulses. “Let’s go again.”
This time Jason goes on offense. But Dick blocks every hit, and Jason’s hits are hail to his lightning, which only angers Jason more. He just had to come here, to show Bruce how much better he is than Jason; to rub salt, pour lemon juice, poke and prod and stick his fingers in the wound. Everyone here knows Dick is better. Jason convinces himself that this is a humiliation ritual, another test to see if Jason has resilience to stay here. What if he can’t? A bolt of fear runs through him.
Dick sweeps his feet out from under him and the air knocks out of his lungs, the pain of empty left behind. Jason gasps on the mat, but before he can stand himself a hand hovers above him. Calloused palms, experienced and knowing. He tames the urge to bite it.
“Come on.” Dick says, smiling. “You’re doing good.”
Bullshit. He’s doing a terrible job. Jason glares at him, stoking the fire inside, and claps his hand into Dick’s. He hauls him up, effortless, and they resume positions.
Jason’s jaw throbs and he forces himself to focus. This time Dick grapples him to the ground, quickly, not even giving him the chance to fight back, and probably to show off that he can still grapple with his hands occupied. Asshole. But Jason grits his teeth, and he tries, and tries, even though Dick has twenty pounds on him, and Jason awaits his growth spurt.
Dick pins him, his escrima pressing on his neck, enough so he struggles to breathe, but not enough to choke him. Always precise. Asshole.
“Aaaaand you’re dead. Nice try Jay, but you gotta—” Dick pauses, glancing at Jason’s clenched fist. “Hm.”
“What.”
Dick removes the escrima from him and steps back. “Nothing. This was good, I’m serious—you’re doing a great job for just starting to work with the weapon. It takes time—”
“It didn’t for you.” Jason snaps.
Dick blinks. “What? Yeah it did, what are you talking about?”
His face burns and he takes a breath, looking away, uncurling his fists. “Nothing.”
Silence. Both Bruce and Dick’s eyes are on him, questions permeating the air. Fine. Let them. Jason and silence befriended one another years ago and he knows when to shut up. Jason stands up while the silence and shame waterfall down his body.
“I think we got a lot done today, Bruce?”
“Yes.”
“See? Even Bruce says so. How about we go patrolling now? Nightwing and Robin style?”
Jason looks at Dick. He’s trying, and Jason is being shitty and having a bad attitude. God, he sucks. And so he smiles, tries too, and Dick’s responding grin cleans the shame away in a single wash. “Nightwing and Robin style.”
Dick whoops. “Alright! Let’s take the Batmobile, I haven’t driven it in a while.”
“Which is exactly why you won’t be taking it,” Bruce interrupts, “it has new upgrades. You’re not wrecking the Batmobile again.”
“I was twelve Bruce, for God’s sake—”
“I spent 42 hours on repairs.”
Twelve? Jason hasn’t driven the Batmobile once, and he’s almost fourteen. He rolls his eyes. “C’mon, B. I know the updates and can walk Dick through them. Besides, they’re not that extensive either. I think you’re just traumatized.”
“I second that.”
Bruce looks between the both of them, silently making a decision. “I’ll be on comms.”
They suit up and leave.
The ride into Gotham’s inner-city lasts 20 minutes, and Jason keeps his eyes out the window while the streets blur into charcoal impressions. Bruce and Dick chat the entire time, or well, Dick talks the entire time. Alfred told Jason he wasn’t always like that. For a while, Dick was a mini-Bruce, and it was like watching Bruce brawl with himself. Burn their fat and tissue away, and it reveals matching cores. But not Jason. He’s not like them.
Jason toils in the guilt and jealousy that the thought arouses. Even though Bruce took him in—took him away from piss-slicked streets and cigarettes that ashed his twelve year-old lungs, Jason has the audacity to what? Feel upset because he’s not like them? Instead of butting heads with Bruce on every matter, he’s approached everything in earnest. He’s so relieved to have food on the table, and touches that don’t bruise, that he’s too happy to be an adversary.
But Jason witnesses their connection. Their partnership, forged from years of violence; a familial bond linked by blood but in a different way. His ingratitude feeding into greed, wanting more than a home, disgusts him. Home for him never held permanence, but Jason watches Bruce, Dick, and Alfred, and sees permanence. They’re fused together from experience and trial. So if Jason proves himself useful, meets Dick’s measure of excellence that’s kept him here all these years, then they’d have no reason to discard him. Jason won’t ever return to Crime Alley unless a bat shadows him.
Dick tucks the batmobile in their normal spot: an alley between two abandoned apartment buildings that haven’t met renovation, reconstruction, or demolition. They scale the buildings and begin patrol, and Jason readies himself for the opportunities of proving himself he has ahead of him.
Robin, you’ll be observing Nightwing tonight. Watch him. Study him. We’ll discuss his approach to combat and de-escalation during debrief.
Shit.
To Dick’s defense, he tries. “B, I think Robin could handle—”
This is not a negotiation. He watches.
The weirdo has a hyper-empathy thing that reminds Jason of Green Martian, where his cowled eyes scream I know this upsets you, Little Wing, but don’t worry. We’ll have fun next time. And Jason can only nod and clench his mouth, keeping his venom to himself.
They phantom over streets and alleyways, keeping on high ground. When they encounter petty crime—the pickpockets, muggers—Dick descends from their brick empyreans and makes swift work of them; nothing excessive, but enough to deter them long enough from potential victims. Most of the time they don’t have weapons and are acting out of desperation. It’s then that Dick steers them away from a life of crime and directs them to applying for a job at Wayne Enterprises.
“There’s a sort-of agreement with Wayne Enterprises,” Dick says to the guy across from him, arms crossed, “We give the names of guys like you who need work, and they ensure you get it.”
Jason observes on the parapet, mouth agape. Dick’s good. People—including muggers—relax enough around him to actually listen to what he has to say, it’s almost a superpower on its own. Some of them run, but most don’t. Dick even manages to crack a couple of jokes, and Jason considers how much his shitty puns and charisma alone could prevent Gotham’s crime. Bruce’s cowl has the technology to ID the faces of the mugger and input it in the Wayne Enterprises system so they’ll receive job offers, and Bruce can continue in his anti-social ways.
Are you watching?
Jason nods. “Yeah.”
It’s another two hours of catch and release before they start back towards the Batmobile—Dick unscathed, Jason’s jaw knotted and throbbing. They land three buildings away from the alleyway and hear a scuffle below them. The assailant faces the mouth of the alleyway, his back to them. He points a gun at the other man, waving it around and demanding he cough up every last penny. It’s the last one of these they’ll see for the night, and all Jason did was stand around and watch. He didn’t prove himself.
“I got this one.” he says, and drops down before Dick can stop him.
Robin, you are not authorized to handle this.
Jason ignores him and creeps down the fire escape, bending over railings and feathering down on the street, silent. If he’s going to get this right, he’s gotta go the ambush route: once he disarms him he can submit him and Nightwing can come in, doing his thing.
Nightwing, visual.
“He’s trying to sneak up on him. I can’t do anything yet, if the guy sees me he’ll see Robin. He has a gun.”
Silence. Jason swallows. Bruce’s presence acts as an omnipotent God and he can feel the wrath that he knows he’ll meet at home. No. Screw that. Jason grits his teeth, feeling that familiar fire whip inside him. He’s frickin’ Robin, he’s got this.
Jason attacks from behind, grabbing his wrists and kicking the back of the man’s knee so he falls. The man is maybe 5”11, strong, overweight—they grapple, like Jason and Dick did before, struggling for the gun. Jason is quickly losing control, but it gets worse when the man slams him against the ground, knocking the breath out of him.
It’s a stalemate. The tendons of his arms twist and scream in pain, keeping the gun away from his head or any part of his body. It won’t be long before his arms snap and lead enters his body.
Nightwing descends.
He delivers a swift, hard kick to the mugger’s side, almost knocking him into the wall five feet away. Jason scrambles up, still holding the gun, his grip tightening on it.
The mugger trembles beneath Nightwing and so does Jason. Charisma absent, a rage matching Bruce’s present, Dick’s words lead from his gut, a low growl that echoes in the alleyway. “Get out of here.”
Jason almost scurries off with the guy, but Dick’s glare cements him to the damp street. “We’re leaving.”
It’s the same tone Bruce’ll take with him when Jason disobeyes an order or questions him too many times. Those flames roar inside of him and he glares, holding onto it. “I had it! Why did you stop him?”
Dick deflates and leans into his heels, crossing his arms. The escrima sticks jut out of his elbows like wings. “No, Robin, you didn’t have it. He was gonna shoot you.”
Humiliation seeps in and whips his cheeks, but he focuses on the fire. “I did! You’re not better than me!”
“What? Who the hell said anything about—“
Get in the Batmobile. Stop arguing in the middle of an alleyway. Christ.
Dick turns and ascends the fire escape. Jason grips the gun, unloads it, takes the magazine, dumps the gun in the dumpster, and follows. His hands are cold and hungry, bitten by gravel and aching. He screwed up for real this time. This isn’t like other instances of disobedience—skipping on ledges and hanging off of gargoyles. Jason proved something alright; his weakness, his lack of focus, his inability to do anything right, and that he’s a horrible imitation of Bruce and Dick.
It’s not a question that he’ll be put on probation. Jason guaranteed himself probation the moment he ignored Bruce’s command. The question is if this was enough to get him sacked. If Dick will look at him with eyes of pity for eternity, or as long as they keep Jason around after retiring him as Robin.
Keeping him seems unlikely. There’s no point if Jason has nothing to offer, nothing to bring to the table. Without Robin he’s just a kid from Crime Alley that committed attempted thievery. Returning to the Batmobile, dread douses any fire licking his costal, and what was once erupting now dies into silence.
They drive back. Bruce’s omnipresent rage returns—both of them feel it.
But still, Dick remains courageous, opposite to Jason. “What was that about?”
Jason can’t say anything. A veneer of numbness covers his panic.
“Robin.”
“I’m sorry. Please don’t get rid of me.” Jason mumbles, more to Bruce lording over the car.
“What? What are you talking about? You’ve been acting weird all night and I thought it was just the test that bugged you, but now you’re talking all kinds of crazy—”
“I know you’re better than me. But…Robin it’s—” Jason’s throat closes. “It’s all I got. Please don’t make me give it up. I don’t want to leave.”
Silence. Jason hears an exhale. Bruce’s.
Dick grips the steering wheel. “No one’s getting rid of you. I don’t know what put that idea in your head…but it’s impossible. Stupid. You could be the dumbest, worst Robin—shit, you could not be Robin at all—and you’d still be here. You’re not—shit.” He curses, exhaling. “You’re family.”
Family. Permanence. Dick’s words seethe, but all Jason can feel is relief. They cool his internal blisters, soothing their burns. His throat still tightens though, and tears brim behind his mask and slip under.
Dick reaches a hand across and grips his shoulder, squeezing.
Jason looks at him. “Am I good?”
The hand tightens to the point of bruising. Not blood, but close. “Of course.”
He nods, and doesn’t dare address Bruce, won’t beg for an answer to the question. It’s hard to tell what the silence means now—if his rage still simmers in their ears—but Jason prays Bruce’s omnipresence grants him the ability to feel Jason’s tight throat, burned body, and scraping tears; that with his temporary theosis, he can feel some sort of pity for Jason. Dick’s hand stays on his shoulder.
They arrive in the Batcave. Jason watches the bats slumber in their crags as he takes off his mask and exits the passenger's seat, wishing he could fly up there while he listens to Bruce’s steps thunder towards them, most likely to scold him up close and personal.
Arms wrap around him. Jason smells kevlar and sweat. Bergamot. Bruce. Jason falls into him, legs scuffling, the adrenaline inking away, and he steels his arms around him.
“I’m sorry.” He croaks.
A huff. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I…I didn’t know you felt that way—I should’ve. Tell me next time. Please.”
Jason nods.
“…You don’t need to be Dick. I didn’t take you in because I wanted you to be Dick. I took you in because you’re you, because you bring something to Robin no one else can. You won’t be like Dick. You don’t need to be. You’re Robin.”
He nods and detaches, looking at Bruce. Purple bags fold under his eyes and it looks like the last hour aged him a decade.
Jason turns to Dick and suddenly he feels his wet face and the snot leaking out of his nose and wants to die. This is mortifying. He looks down. “Sorry for being an asshole. And ruining stuff when you were trying to help.”
Dick opens his arms and Jason shuffles into his side, getting noogied with Dick’s empty hand. “All good. What’s family time without a breakdown here and there?”
Jason looks at Bruce. “Sorry again.”
Bruce shakes his head. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. Get some rest.”
Jason washes up in the cave’s shower and changes into pajamas. He can hear their hushed argument as he ascends the stairs to the elevator—it echoes.
You need to get your shit together, Bruce. Jay nearly killed himself because he was trying to fucking prove himself to you—
Nothing like that will ever happen again. Drop it.
Don’t tell me to drop it when you’re not the one who had to watch it happen, Bruce. That kid—he thinks he has to be of USE to you in order to—
The rest fades away as the elevator doors open, Jason steps in, and they close. His reflection shows a boy. He turns his head, the metal distorting his purple bruise into a blooming flower on his jaw. Always bruises, never blood.
Alfred waits for him in the kitchen with premium grilled cheese and homemade Oreos. They say nothing, and Jason sits next to him, picks up the grilled cheese, and takes a tentative bite. Jason never asked how Alfred made the grilled cheese, he just knows it’s nothing like he’s ever had before, and the not knowing makes it holier, kinda like God.
So he eats, and Alfred watches, and the ice-maker in the state-of-the-art steel fridge runs, and the ice falling sounds like footsteps. It echoes.
Alfred pushes Jason’s hair back, checking his forehead for cuts under his mop of hair. Satisfied, he gets up, walking to the fridge.
He opens it, retrieving an ice pack. “…Master Bruce never said so, but when Master Dick went to pursue his own…aspirations, he had quite the empty nest.”
Jason takes the ice pack from Alfred, pressing it to the purple flower on his jaw. “Yeah right.”
Alfred smiles a little, amused. “When he found Dick at the circus, the first thing he did was call me. And I remember he said to me, clear as day, ‘Alfred, prepare a room.’”
The ice pack numbs his jaw, and it relaxes him, enough that he can’t bring himself to say anything else, to tell Alfred to stop comparing him to Dick, to let him breathe and eat his divine grilled cheese in peace. So he just nods a little, watching as Alfred begins to prepare tea.
And Alfred fiddles with the stove, a flame circling around the kettle. “And then, years later, after one bird left the nest, Bruce called me again one day. And he said, ‘Alfred, prepare a room.’”
Jason’s eyes widen, his voice unsure. “…My room?”
Alfred turns to look at Jason, smiling. “Your room.”
His throat closes, and his eyes burn—the fire escaping them, running down his face as tears. And he wipes them with his free hand, still holding ice on his jaw, sniffling as he tries to be strong, to collect himself. But Alfred goes to him, and his arms drape over him in a configuration of a hug.
“That’s quite alright, my boy. You’re alright.”
What bonds Jason to Bruce, Dick, or even Alfred eludes him. He can’t claim with confidence anymore that it’s their shared experience or spilled blood that binds any of them together—because his experience can’t measure up to theirs, and his blood shed can’t have filled a pint compared to their gallons—but he knew family. He knew safety. And for the first time in the year he’s slept in this manor, he knows safety and family once more.