Work Text:
The apartment smelled like grease, cheap pepperoni, and the lingering metallic scent of gun oil. It was a distinctive Blüdhaven bouquet.
Jason Todd sat on the floor with his back against the radiator. He wasn't sure why he was still here. The mission was over hours ago. The bad guys were zip-tied for the police. The adrenaline had faded into a dull, thrumming ache in his knees. By all logic, he should have been on his bike and halfway back to Gotham by now.
But he wasn't. He was picking at a loose thread on his tactical pants and watching Dick Grayson try to salvage a torn escrima stick holster.
"You're going to make it worse," Jason said. He didn't look up.
Dick didn't stop. He was sitting on the battered sofa, illuminated by the yellow glow of a streetlamp filtering through the blinds. "It's fine. I just need it to hold together until I get the new gear shipment on Tuesday."
"It's not fine. You're using the wrong adhesive. It’ll melt the polymer."
Dick paused. He looked at the tube of glue in his hand, then back at Jason. He grinned. It was that annoying, easy grin that made people trust him. "I knew you were watching. You can't help yourself."
Jason huffed. He finally looked up, narrowing his eyes behind the helmet he hadn't bothered to take off yet. He felt safer with it on. It was a barrier. A reminder that he wasn't really "Jason" right now. He was the Red Hood. He was a guest. An intruder. Not a brother.
"I'm watching because if your gear fails mid-swing, I'm the one who has to scrape you off the pavement," Jason said. "And I don't do cleanup."
"Sure. You're strictly the big picture." Dick tossed the glue onto the coffee table. It landed next to the empty pizza box. "You want a beer? I think I have two left. They might be terrible."
"If they're in your fridge, I assume they're terrible."
"I'll take that as a yes."
Dick got up. He moved with that fluid, irritating grace that Jason used to try to copy when he was twelve. Jason shifted his weight. The radiator was burning his back, but he didn't move. Moving meant acknowledging comfort. Staying put felt temporary. Like he could bolt the second things got weird.
And things usually got weird. Usually, this was the part where Dick would start the lecture. He’d talk about Bruce. He’d talk about "coming home." He’d ask how Jason was really doing, with that earnest tilt of his head that made Jason want to punch a wall.
But Dick just came back with two bottles. He didn't sit next to Jason. He sat back on the couch, keeping a respectful distance. He twisted the cap off one bottle and held the other out.
Jason took it. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
They drank in silence for a minute. The city outside was loud. Sirens wailed a few blocks over, but they weren't close enough to matter.
"You were decent tonight," Dick said eventually. He was looking at the ceiling, not at Jason. "Your timing on that breach was perfect."
Jason stiffened. He waited for the 'but.' You were decent, but you were too violent. You were decent, but you didn't follow orders.
"The police barely knew what hit them," Dick continued. "Clean hand-off. Keeps my life easier when I don't have to explain broken bones to the Captain."
Jason blinked. He took a sip of the beer. It was lukewarm. "I didn't do it for you. They were just... not worth the ammo."
"Whatever you say, Little Wing."
"Don't call me that."
"Habit."
"Break it."
Dick chuckled. It wasn't mocking. It was tired. "You know, you could take the hood off. It's just us. The pizza guy is long gone."
Jason touched the edge of the hood. The thing was itching. He wanted to take it off. He wanted to scrub his face and breathe without the filter of a persona. But taking it off felt like an admission. It felt like saying he belonged here, in this crappy apartment, drinking bad beer with the golden boy.
He wasn't ready for that. He wasn't part of the club. He was the caution tape around the crime scene.
"I'm good," Jason said.
Dick didn't push. He just nodded and took another drink. "Suit yourself. But you're staying until that leg stops bleeding."
Jason looked down at his left thigh. There was a dark stain on the cargo fabric he had been ignoring for the last two hours. It was just a graze. "It's fine."
"It's dripping on my rug, Jay. That rug really ties the room together."
Jason rolled his eyes. "It's a ten-dollar rug from a discount bin. I saw the tag."
"Sentimental value," Dick countered. He reached under the coffee table and pulled out a first-aid kit. He slid it across the floor. It stopped inches from Jason's boot. "I'm not going to mother you. But clean it up. I have enough ghosts in this place without you bleeding out on the floorboards."
Jason stared at the kit. It was an olive drab pouch, standard issue. He looked at Dick.
Dick wasn't looking at him with pity. He wasn't looking at him with judgment. He had picked up a remote and was flicking through channels on the TV, looking for late-night news. He was just... existing. He was letting Jason exist near him.
It was a low bar. But for Jason, it was the only bar he could clear right now.
He reached out and grabbed the kit. "Fine. But if you try to help, I'll stab you with the epi-pen."
"Duly noted," Dick said, settling on a re-run of a cooking show. "Try not to get blood on the gauze. I'm running low."
Jason unclipped his thigh holster. The tension in his shoulders dropped, maybe half an inch. He wasn't staying the night. He wasn't moving back to the Manor. He wasn't forgiving anyone.
But he opened the kit. He started cleaning the wound. And when he asked Dick to pass him the trash can for the wrappers, he didn't sound like he was looking for a fight.
"Hey," Jason said, after the bandage was secure.
Dick glanced over. "Yeah?"
Jason gestured with his beer bottle toward the busted holster on the table. "You have a leather punch in that toolbox by the fridge?"
"Yeah. Somewhere."
"Get it. If you use glue, it's gonna snap the first time you grapple. I'll show you how to stitch it so it actually holds."
Dick smiled. It was smaller this time. Realer. "You don't have to."
"I know I don't have to," Jason snapped, though there was no heat in it. "But I'm not letting you die because of shoddy craftsmanship. It reflects badly on the training."
"Right. The training." Dick stood up to get the tools. "Thanks, Jay."
"Shut up and get the punch."
Jason took a long pull of the beer. It was still terrible. But he didn't leave. He waited for his brother to come back.