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It’s been surprisingly quiet today.
No tiny Robins popping up at inhuman hours. No one needing advice, reassurance, or a distraction from their own spiraling. No voices in his head whispering that he’s a failure— that he screws up everything he touches, that he should've died years ago.
Just him.
Just Dick.
He huffs out a soft, humourless laugh.
Yeah. Right.
The silence won’t last long. It never does. Something always breaks it— a crisis, a phone call, a memory with claws.
Dick climbs into his apartment window with a wince, muscles stiff from patrol. He lands lightly, rolling his shoulders with a groan.
A hot shower and some ice will do the trick.
Maybe a gun to the head too.
He snorts.
He toes off his boots, letting it fall beside his couch. He drops his escrima sticks on the coffee table and shrugs the top part of his suit, letting it rest around his waist and pulls off his mask.
Dick flops onto the couch with a grunt, stretching his arms over his head. The muscles in his back pop, one by one, and he exhales slowly— like letting the air out of something that's been overinflated for far too long.
God. He’s so tired.
He runs a hand through his hair, pushing damp strands out of his face. They fall back annoyingly. He gives up.
His gaze drifts to the ceiling.
Silence settles over him like a heavy blanket. Warm. Suffocating. Strange.
He tries to remember the last time his apartment felt this calm, this empty, this… normal.
Hmm…
Whatever.
Later. He’ll think about it later. Or never. Never works too.
He shifts on the couch, dragging a cushion over his stomach. His eyelids droop. The apartment hums softly around him— fridge, traffic, water pipes. Normal things. Real things.
He tells himself he’ll get up in five minutes.
He won't.
Dick’s half-asleep when his phone— somewhere on the floor, because of course it is— buzzes once, then again, then again.
Persistent.
Annoying.
He groans, rolls off the couch, and lands on the floor with a thud.
He reaches blindly until his fingers brush against the familiar shape of his phone.
Do not answer, the caller ID reads.
Dick squints at it, vision blurry, brain still booting up. When it finally registers to him, he exhales slowly from his nose… then places the phone back down and turns his head away.
A beat of silence.
He closes his eyes again.
Bruce can wait thirty seconds.
…
Dick does not get thirty seconds.
He barely gets three.
The phone buzzes again— this time longer, insistent, vibrating against the floor like it’s personally offended he dared ignore it.
He mutters something deeply unpleasant into the carpet.
Another buzz.
Then another.
Then—
BZZZZZ—
He turns to his phone with the speed of a man who has spent his entire life being trained— emotionally, psychologically, and possibly through trauma— to never let Bruce Wayne’s calls go to voicemail.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, snatching the phone like it owed him money.
He swipes to answer and puts it on speaker, already dreading whatever is coming.
“I’m awake,” Dick grumbles loud enough to be heard, voice rough with sleep, bringing his arm to rest over his face. “Whaddya want, Bruce?”
There's a pause on the other end. A single, weighted breath.
“Dick,” Bruce says, tone clipped. Dick knows that tone— it’s the “something unexplainable happened in Gotham and he needs Dick’s help” kind of tone.
Dick scrubs a hand over his face. He wonders if Bruce ever remembers that it isn't just the two of them anymore— that Bruce has friends and other children to help him. That he didn't need to rely entirely on his oldest son who is thirty minutes away and is barely home.
“What is it?”
There's another pause.
Not the dramatic kind.
The Bruce kind.
Heavy. Brooding. Made of gravel and unspoken bullshit.
Dick closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Bruce,” he prompts, because if he wants to wait for his dad to volunteer information on his own, he’ll be here until the death of the universe.
“...Something happened.”
Of course it did.
Dick exhales through his teeth. “That much is obvious. Or else we wouldn't be talking right now.”
A grunt.
Dick waits for an explanation.
It doesn't come.
“Bruce,” he hisses, sitting up a little. “I swear if you don't tell me this second, I’ll hang up.”
There's a sound on the other end— voices, maybe. Small ones. Echoing like they’re in the Cave. Someone shuffling. A hush that doesn't sound like Alfred.
Then Bruce lowers his voice but something in his tone is wrong— too flat, too careful. Not relief. Not anger. Something else.
“Jason's here.”
Dick blinks, and an unimpressed expression immediately appears on his face, even though Bruce can’t see it.
“Oh, wow. The world is ending because your second oldest son is finally home,” he says dryly. “Isn't that what you always wanted? Why are you being so dramatic about it?”
A sigh.
“I think you should come and see this for yourself.”
Dick frowns, annoyed. “That's not an answer. You either tell me or I’m not going. Some people have to sleep, by the way, unlike the great Dark Knight.”
Bruce is silent again.
And it’s getting on his nerves.
Dick’s eyebrow twitches.
“Bruce.”
“Jason’s been… de-aged.”
There's a long, thick moment of silence.
Dick’s brain does not— will not— process the word.
He stares at the phone like it’s just said something in a language he doesn't speak.
De-aged.
The word sits there, heavy and wrong, refusing to connect to anything meaningful. His brain skids around it, searching for context, logic, a punchline— anything that makes sense.
It doesn't find one.
“...What?” He finally says, his voice flat despite how hard his pulse has started to thud in his ears.
Bruce doesn't answer right away.
Which annoyed Dick even further.
“Bruce,” Dick says again, sharper this time, sitting fully upright. The cushion slips off his stomach and thumps onto his lap. “What do you mean, de-aged?”
Another breath on the other end of the line. Controlled. Measured. The kind Bruce uses when he’s trying not to let something leak into his voice.
“He appears to be physically younger,” Bruce says. “Eight. Maybe nine.”
Eight.
Younger than Jason had been when he became Robin.
Younger than when Jason met them.
“What happened?” He asks, running his fingers through his hair, feeling much more exhausted than he was before. “This isn't something that just happens.”
Bruce sighs softly on the other end, slow and deliberate, like he’s carefully choosing each word with tweezers.
“Magic,” he answers. “There was an incident on patrol. Zatanna already confirmed it. Said it’ll take a day for him to get back to normal.”
“Okay,” Dick says slowly. “Is Jason hurt?”
“No,” Bruce says immediately. “Just… disoriented. Confused. Defensive.”
Dick pauses for a beat.
“...Does he remember?”
Silence.
Fuck.
“Bruce.”
“He… no. He doesn't remember anything past his current age,” Bruce tells him carefully.
Because of course being de-aged meant mentality regression too.
Double fuck.
Dick presses his thumb against his temple until it almost hurts. “And you called me,” he says, not a question.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
There's a hint of hesitation on the other line. “He asked for you.”
That surprises Dick.
“But why? He doesn't remember me. He doesn't know me.”
“No, he doesn't,” Bruce confirms. “But he’s asking for Robin. And there’s only one Robin that he knew at that age.”
Dick snorts humourlessly. “I’m not Robin anymore. I’m not a child anymore.”
“You may not be Robin anymore,” Bruce says, “but you’re still everyone’s Robin. No matter what age or what name you choose— you’ll always be everyone’s first.”
The words land heavier than they have any right to.
Everyone's first.
Dick lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh and fails halfway through. It sticks in his chest instead, sharp and unwelcome.
“That’s not—” He starts, then stops. Tries again. “That’s not how that works, Bruce.”
“It is,” Bruce says quietly. Not arguing. Just stating a fact he’s carried for decades.
Dick squeezes his eyes shut. For a second— just a second— he sees it.
A too-small kid with scrapes on his knees and a mouth that never stopped running, clinging to the idea of Robin like it was a promise instead of a job. Jason, before the mantle. Before the blood. Before the grave.
Eight years old.
Asking for Robin— asking for the one person that isn't the same person who Dick is now.
He swallows hard.
“So let me get this straight,” he says, forcing his voice back into something sharp, something nonchalant. Safer that way. “You’ve got an eight-year old Jason Todd in the Cave, surrounded by bats, computers and unresolved trauma, and your solution is to call me.”
“Yes.”
Great.
Just when he thought he could finally get some rest tonight.
He could tell Bruce to suck it up and wait until tomorrow instead. Tell him to deal with it alone because Dick has better things to do. Tell him to go to any other children for help.
But it's— it’s Jason. The one brother Dick refuses to fail again. The one person who catches him even when Dick refuses to be caught.
And he knows there's only one person Jason trusts when shit hits the fan— and it's Dick.
He drags a hand down his face, palm lingering over his mouth. “What exactly is he doing right now?”
Another pause. Shorter this time.
“He won’t leave the medical bay,” Bruce admits. “Won’t let anyone touch him. He calmed down briefly when I mentioned Robin, but—” He trails off. “He keeps asking where you are.”
Dick rests his forehead against his knees, sighing softly.
“Did you tell him I was coming?” He asks quietly.
“No.”
Good. Thank God.
Dick rubs at the back of his neck, fingers digging into sore muscle. Something restless stirs under his skin— an old, familiar pull. Instinct, maybe. Responsibility. The reflex to show up when someone small and scared needs him.
“Give me five minutes to change out of my suit and twenty to get there,” Dick says, grabbing his phone and pushing himself to his feet. “And Bruce, for God’s sake, don’t keep the kid in the Cave. Try to convince him to go upstairs.”
“...I’ll try.”
Dick hangs up before Bruce can say anything else.
The apartment feels too quiet again.
He stands there for a second, phone still in hand, just processing the situation. Something restless stirs under his skin— not panic, not yet, but a familiar uneasy prickle. Like an instinct waking up.
Later, he tells himself. He’ll unpack that later.
Right now, Jason needs him.
And Dick Grayson has never been very good at not answering that call.
The drive to the Manor blurs past in familiar fragments— streetlights, turns taken on muscle memory alone, the low hum of the engine filling the space his thoughts keep trying to occupy.
The gates slide open with a faint groan. Dick pulls into the drive and parks a little crooked. He kills the engine and sits there for a second, forehead resting against the steering wheel.
There's a kid that needs him, he thinks. Said kid is his own little brother who came back different. Wrong. He can do this. He’s done this before.
…Sorta.
He straightens, gets out, and heads inside.
The Manor is quiet in that particular, curated way it always is at night— too clean, too still, like a museum after hours. He always hated it when he was younger. Lights are soft and warm. Alfred isn’t there to greet him, which is its own kind of wrong.
Asleep, maybe.
Or is busy trying to keep the others away from Jason to avoid freaking him out even more.
Because Dick knows how fucking nosy his siblings can be.
He doesn't call out, though. He doesn't need to.
He knows where Bruce will be.
The study door is ajar. Dick enters it, unsurprised to see it unoccupied. Bruce definitely gave up trying to coax Jason upstairs. He turns the grandfather clock’s hands, watching it slide open.
Dick steps onto the platform.
“Hey,” he calls lightly as he descends down to the BatCave, pitching his voice up just enough to be non-threatening. Familiar. “It’s me.”
The Cave answers him with its usual hum— computers, cooling systems, distant dripping water. Bruce stands near the medical bay, arms crossed loosely but his posture rigid. He looks… tired. Older, somehow.
Dick clocks all of it in a glance.
“Where is he?” He asks, already walking.
Bruce shifts, stepping aside. “In there.”
The medical bay is dimmer than usual. The harsh overhead lights are off, replaced with softer lamps pulled low. A blanket is draped over a lump on the examination table like someone tried— awkwardly— to make it less clinical.
Dick slows at the threshold.
He hears it before he sees him.
Breathing. Quick and shallow. The faint rustle of fabric. A small, frustrated huff that tightens something behind Dick’s ribs.
Peeking out of the blanket is a familiar mess of black curls. The lump shifts, causing the blanket to slide down further, exposing the small, chubby face.
Jason.
He’s… tiny.
Smaller than Dick remembers him ever being. Smaller than he should be. All sharp elbows and knees, like a kid still growing into himself.
He approaches the examination table, purposely making his footsteps loud enough for Jason to hear.
Jason’s head snaps up at it.
His eyes are blue— something Dick thought he’d never see again. Bright. Wary. Too old for his face.
Dick stops a few feet away and raises his hands, slow and deliberate, showing Jason he’s no threat as he lowers himself into a crouch slowly, making him smaller.
“Hey there,” he says gently. “Easy.”
Jason’s gaze flicks past him— toward Bruce, toward the shadows, cataloguing exits like a trapped animal. His shoulders hunch.
“Where’s Robin?” He demands, voice cracking just a little at the end.
There it is.
Dick doesn't look at Bruce. He keeps his attention where it belongs.
“I’m him,” Dick says simply.
Jason squints at him. “No you’re not.”
Fair.
Dick smiles, small and crooked. “Okay,” he says. “That’s fair. I don’t look like him right now.”
Jason’s fingers twist in the fabric of his sweatshirt— his, Dick notices. He never knew Bruce kept his old clothes. That sentimental hag.
“Robin wears red,” Jason says stubbornly. “And yellow. And green. And he— he flips.”
Dick huffs a soft laugh despite himself. “He does flip a lot, doesn't he?”
Jason’s eyes sharpen. “You know him.”
“Very well,” Dick replies easily. “We go way back.”
There’s a beat of silence. Jason studies him with unnerving intensity, gaze tracking every micro-movement. Bruce shifts behind Dick, clearly itching to intervene.
Dick lifts one hand slightly, palm out. A silent don’t.
“You don’t have to believe me or talk to me if you don't want to,” he continues softly. “But I was told you were asking for Robin. So I came.”
Jason swallows. His chin trembles, just barely, before he clamps down on it.
“They said I was looking right at him,” he mutters. “They said I was confused. But he didn't look right.”
Dick’s chest tightens.
“I’m sorry about that,” he says quietly. “That must've been scary.”
Jason’s eyes flicks back up to him. Searching. “You won’t lie?”
Dick meets his gaze, steady, honest and open. “No.”
Another long beat.
Jason shifts, uncurling just enough to sit upright. His feet don't reach the floor. The sight of it hits Dick like a punch he keeps breathing through.
“...Are you really Robin?” Jason asks, smaller now.
Dick pulls the Robin insignia from the pocket of his hoodie— an old one, from one of Dick’s old suits, deliberately brought tonight. He twists it enough for the light to catch the familiar yellow and black etched into the fabric.
Jason’s eyes widened.
“Oh,” he breathes.
Dick’s smile softens. “Hi, kid.”
Jason stares at him for a second longer— then launches himself forward without warning.
Instincts flares and Dick catches him, arms wrapping around a small, shaking body as Jason buries his face into Dick’s shoulder, hands fisting tight in his shirt.
“There you are,” Jason almost sobs, voice muffled. “They wouldn't stop looking at me.”
Dick closes his eyes and holds on.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, rubbing circles on Jason’s back. “You’re okay. I’m here.”
Behind him, Bruce exhales— long and quiet.
Dick doesn't look back.
Right now, there's only one thing that matters.
Jason shifts in Dick’s arms after a moment, pulling back just enough to look back at him. “Robin… where’s Ma and Pa?”
Dick freezes.
Shit.
Jason at eight years old still had his parents— of course he’d ask where his parents were.
He turns his head just enough to make eye contact with Bruce, careful to block Jason’s view of him. The man only winces back at him.
Dick grits his teeth and sighs softly— he’d promised Jason he won't lie, but here he is, not even five minutes later, already breaking that trust.
Not that Jason will know.
Instead, he adjusts his grip on Jason instead, one arm firm around the kid’s back, the other coming up to cradle the back of his head, just to stall. Just to come up with a lie.
Jason’s eyes are still on him, blue and wide and terrified in that quiet way kids get when they’re trying to be brave when adults are watching. Dick feels the weight of it settle squarely on his chest.
Dick swallows.
He flicks another glance at Bruce, who keeps quiet, a telltale sign that he trusts Dick in handling the situation.
Dick looks back at Jason.
“Okay,” he says slowly, choosing every word with care. “Here’s the thing. Your Ma and Pa? They love you a lot. And right now, they can’t be here.”
Jason’s brows furrow. “Why?”
Because they’re dead.
Because the world is cruel.
Because Gotham eats parents alive.
Dick doesn’t say any of that.
“They’re busy with grown-up stuff right now,” he says instead. “That’s why you’re here. Remember those scary people you saw?” Jason nods faintly. “Yeah, they told them to take care of you for a day or two. They’ll be back soon, don’t worry.”
Jason’s shoulders relax just a fraction.
“But they’re coming, right?” Jason asks, quieter now. Hopeful in the way that hurts to look at. “I know… I know they’re not very good people but they always come back for me… they will, right?”
Dick’s throat tightens.
God, he hates this part— the part where kids cling to certainty like it’s oxygen, where hope is fragile and bright and unbreakable. Where the truth is a blade and lies are bandages that never quite stick.
He smooths a hand through Jason’s curls, slow and careful, grounding himself as much as the kid in his arms.
“Hey,” Dick murmurs, gentle but steady. “Of course they will.”
Jason searches his face like he’s memorising it. Like he’s weighing whether Dick is solid enough to hold the weight of that promise.
“They promised,” Jason whispers. “They don’t break promises.”
Dick nods, firm. “And neither do I.”
That seems to do it.
Jason exhales, a long, shuddering breath that empties something heavy out of his small chest. He leans back into Dick fully this time, forehead pressing into the hollow of Dick’s shoulder, trust settling in with quiet finality.
“Okay,” he says, small and tired. “I can wait.”
Dick closes his eyes for half a heartbeat and holds on like it matters. Like it’s the only thing keeping the world from tipping sideways.
Behind him, Bruce shifts again, voice low. “We can move upstairs. Alfred’s prepared a room.”
Dick considers it, then looks down at Jason. “How do you feel about that, bud?”
Jason peeks up, wary again, and Dick has to resist the urge to coo. “Is it far?”
“Nope,” Dick says. “Just a few stairs. And I’ll carry you if you want.”
Jason thinks about it for exactly two seconds before nodding. “Okay.”
Dick adjusts his hold and scoops him up properly this time— light as air, all angles and warmth. Jason loops his arms around Dick’s neck without hesitation, cheek pressing into his shoulder like it belongs there.
Dick stands, steadying himself.
“Lead the way, B,” he says quietly.
Bruce nods and turns, relief loosening something in his posture.
As they move out of the medical bay, Jason’s fingers curl tighter in Dick’s collar.
“Robin?” He whispers.
“Yeah?”
“You won’t disappear, right?”
Dick presses his forehead briefly to Jason’s hair, voice soft but unshakeable. “Not a chance.”
Jason hums, content at last, eyelids drooping as the Cave fades behind them.
Alfred insists on the bath.
Not sharply. Not out loud. Just with that look— the one that says this child has been through hell and deserves warmth before sleep.
Dick doesn’t argue.
“Call me or Alfred if you need a hand,” Bruce says quietly, placing a hand on Dick’s shoulder and squeezing it gently. He glances at the sleeping kid in his arms briefly before leaving without an answer.
Dick lets him.
The bathroom in the guest bedroom is dim and warm, steam already curling against the mirrors. Alfred has drawn the bath just right— not too hot, not too cold— bubbles piled high like a ridiculous, frothy mountain.
“Hey, Little Wing,” Dick whispers, gently patting the sleeping boy awake. “C’mon, let’s take a bath before sleeping, yeah?”
Jason whines softly, pressing his face against Dick’s neck in protest.
“I know, I know,” Dick coos, trying to unlatch Jason’s arms around his neck, “it’s already getting too late and you’re tired. But you need a nice hot bath so you can get a good night's sleep. Don’t you want that, kiddo?”
Jason grumbles something unintelligible, the sound more vibration than word, and tightens his grip like that will somehow anchor him in sleep.
Dick huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Wow. Okay. Strong opinions.”
He doesn’t force it. He never does with kids— especially not ones who clings like this, like letting go might make the ground disappear. Instead, he shifts his hold, bouncing Jason once, twice, slow and rhythmic.
“Just a quick one,” he murmurs, voice low and coaxing. “Then straight to bed. I promise. You can even fall asleep right after.”
Jason cracks one eye open. Suspicious. Betrayed.
“...Promise?”
Dick presses a kiss to the side of his curls before he can think better of it. “Cross my heart.”
That seems to do it. Jason sighs, long and dramatic, the way only kids do when they’ve decided to cooperate despite the great injustice of it all.
“Okay,” he mutters solemnly.
Dick smiles, dimples popping as he sets Jason down on the bath mat and crouches in front of him, helping him out of his clothes piece by piece. Jason goes pliant again, swaying on his feet, eyes half-lidded. Dick keeps one hand steady at his back the whole time, keeping him upright.
The bath works its magic almost immediately.
Jason eases into the water with a quiet hum, shoulders drooping as the warmth wraps around him. Dick kneels beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, and pours water gently over Jason’s hair, careful and slow.
“That good, Little Wing?”
Jason nods, chin dipping until bubbles tickle his mouth. He blows at them weakly, watching them pop with faint fascination.
Then, it occurs to Dick that this might be the first time he’s ever taken a bath in a bathtub.
“Feels… nice,” he says, sleepy and sincere.
“Yeah,” Dick says softly. “Thought it might.”
He washes Jason’s hair with practiced hands, fingertips light, avoiding the eyes, talking the whole time— about nothing and everything. How Alfred makes the best cookies. How the others won’t disturb him while he’s here. How bats are actually kind of cool once you get past the whole bat thing.
Jason listens. Drifts. Leans back against Dick’s arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
By the time Dick lifts him out and wraps him in a towel, Jason is barely awake again, head lolling against his chest, even when Dick is blow drying his hair.
They make it to bed. Dick dresses Jason in his old Superman pyjamas that Alfred had laid out. He tucks him in. Smooths the blanket. Pushes the curls off his forehead.
He straightens.
Takes one step back.
And Jason’s hand shoots out, small fingers wrapping around Dick’s sleeve with surprising strength.
“No,” Jason says immediately. “Don’t leave.”
Dick freezes.
“I’m not going far,” he says gently, dropping back down. “Just gonna grab something and—”
Jason shakes his head, curls bouncing. His grip tightens. “I don’t wanna sleep alone.”
The words land heavy. Simple. Devastating.
Dick exhales slowly, something in his chest softening and aching all at once. He glances at the too-big bed, the unfamiliar walls, the way Jason’s eyes keep flicking to the corners of the room.
“...Okay,” he says after a beat. “I get that.”
Jason blinks. “You do?”
“Yeah,” Dick assures, voice warm. “I really do.”
He scoops Jason back up, and he barely reacts— just reattaches himself like a koala, cheeks pressed into Dick’s collarbone.
“Where we goin’?” Jason mumbles.
“Somewhere better,” Dick replies.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He turns down the hall and opens a door that still feels like his, no matter how long he avoids it.
His room.
It smells faintly of tea tree oil and laundry soap. Smaller. Cozier. The bed is just right— not too big, not too empty. Alfred’s touch everywhere, quiet and caring.
Dick climbs in and settles Jason against his side.
Jason sighs, full-body, immediate. Curves into him like gravity made the choice for him.
“This is nice,” Jason mumbles, already drifting.
Dick wraps an arm around him, palm resting between small shoulder blades, steady and sure.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “It is.”
Jason’s breathing evens out within minutes.
Dick stays awake long after.
Just in case.
Morning comes gently.
Which is new.
Never in his vigilante life did it come peacefully and gently.
Dick wakes to warmth and weight— an arm slung across his ribs, a knee jammed into his thigh, curls tickling his chin. Jason is sprawled across him like an octopus who has decided this is his human now.
Oh how Dick will never ever forget this moment— nor will he ever let Jason forget. He’s gonna need so many pictures.
He quietly chuckles to himself, unwilling to wake Jason up just yet. He breathes as he stares up at the ceiling, letting the moment exist.
Eventually, Jason stirs, nose wrinkling as he presses his face deeper into Dick’s shirt.
“...Smells like pancakes,” he mumbles, voice slurring with sleep.
Dick hums softly. “That must be Alfred. You hungry, bud?”
Jason’s eyes crack open. Blue. Clear. Immediately focused on Dick.
“Oh. You’re still here.”
Dick smiles. “I promised, didn't I?”
Jason studies him for a long, silent moment— then nods once, decisive, and tightens his grip like that settles the matter forever.
“C’mon, Little Wing. You must be hungry, huh?” Dick pats Jason’s thigh lightly. “Let’s brush our teeth and then head downstairs to eat breakfast. How does that sound?”
Jason considers this with the gravity of someone being asked to sign an important contract.
“Can we stay for a minute longer?” He asks quietly, voice small and rough with sleep.
Dick’s chest does something uncomfortable and warm all at once.
“Yeah,” he says easily. “We’ve got time.”
Jason relaxes instantly, cheek pressing back into Dick’s collarbone, breath evening out again like he’d just needed permission to fall back to sleep. One of his legs hooks more securely over Dick’s waist, preventing him from leaving.
Dick stares at the ceiling and lets himself have it— the weight, the warmth, the uncomplicated trust. He memorises it. Tucks it away somewhere safe and painful. Because he knows once Jason’s back, he’ll most definitely avoid Dick for months.
That’s how his brother is. Unwilling to show his vulnerability to anyone despite being the most emotional in the family.
After a bit— when Jason’s stomach lets out a traitorous growl— Dick finally shifts.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “That’s your cue.”
Jason groans dramatically but doesn’t fight him when Dick carefully untangles their limbs. He sits up, hair sticking out in about eight different directions, blinking like the light is personally offensive.
Dick laughs under his breath. “Wow. Intimidating.”
Jason scowls, looking like an angry kitten instead. “Shut up.”
“There he is,” Dick teases, standing and offering his hand. “C’mon.”
Jason takes it without hesitation.
The bathroom in his room is bright and too big, unlike the guest bedroom. Jason pauses just inside, shoulders tensing as he takes it all in. Dick clocks it immediately and crouches to his level again.
“Hey,” he says gently. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
Jason nods once, relaxing a fraction. “Okay.”
They brush their teeth together— Jason copying Dick exaggeratedly, foam dribbling down his chin because he absolutely refuses to spit when Dick tells him to. Dick pretends not to notice until it’s ridiculous, then wipes it away with a laugh.
Jason waits for him outside the bathroom door, peeking in as Dick switches his hoodie for a tank top. It’s gotten stupidly warm with Jason attached to him all night like a second shadow, always touching, always close.
Downstairs, the smell hits them full-force.
Pancakes. Bacon. Something sweet and buttery that makes Jason’s stomach audibly revolt.
Alfred looks up from the table, eyes softening immediately. “Good morning, Master Jason, Master Dick.”
Jason freezes from behind Dick’s leg.
Dick places a gentle hand on his head. “That’s Alfred. He’s nice.”
Alfred smiles warmly. “I make very good pancakes.”
Jason peers at him, suspicious. “Better than Ma’s?”
Dick winces internally.
But Alfred doesn’t miss a beat. “Different,” he corrects kindly. “But I hope you’ll like them all the same.”
Jason considers this, then nods once.
He doesn’t let go of Dick’s hand.
At the table, Jason refuses the chair, opting instead to climb straight into Dick’s lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Dick lets him, one arm settling securely around his waist.
One by one, the family walks in, Bruce being the first after them. He pauses in the doorway, stares at them with eyes filled with softness and jealousy— which Dick throws a smug look at him— before making his way to his designated seat.
Damian arrives next, taking in the scene with a raised eyebrow. “Richard,” he greets, then turns to Bruce. “Father.”
Then, almost hesitantly, Damian turns to Jason and inclines his head. “Hello. Again.”
Jason blinks at Damian before nodding slowly, leaning closer into Dick’s chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his tank top like an anchor.
Quietly, he says, “Hi.”
Damian nods stiffly in response before walking to his seat.
Dick holds back a snort.
Tim appears next, eyes half opened as he drags himself to his chair, barely acknowledging anyone.
Cass slips in last, quiet as a shadow. She doesn't speak. Just looks at them in silent greeting.
Jason watches her carefully, head tilting.
Cass smiles. Soft. Gentle. Safe.
Jason lifts one hand in a tentative wave, fingers barely moving.
Cass mirrors it exactly.
Something softens in Dick’s chest.
Breakfast passes in a strange, almost fragile peace. Jason eats like he’s never been fed before, perched sideways on Dick’s lap, alternating between shoveling pancakes into his mouth and stealing bacon off Dick’s plate like it’s a game. Dick lets him, redirecting sticky fingers when they get too ambitious.
Alfred watches with fond approval, refilling plates without comment.
Bruce takes pictures subtly when Jason isn't looking.
After, Dick doesn't even suggest anything. He lets Jason drag him around the Manor, exploring the many rooms until they end up in the library.
Jason looks around in awe— eyes wide, mouth parted just a little, like he’s walked into a huge playroom instead of a library.
“That’s… a lot of books,” Jason says in amazement.
Dick smiles, soft and fond. “Yeah. Bruce’s late mom likes to read.”
Jason’s mouth curls into a little ‘o’. He wanders forward, fingertips brushing spines as he goes, like he’s afraid they might disappear if he doesn't touch them. He stops in front of one of the lower shelves, crouching with a little grunt.
He pulls a book out at random. It’s thick, heavy, with white lettering he can’t quite read yet. He squints at it, tongue poking out in concentration.
But Dick recognises the book.
Frankenstein.
Older Jason's favourite.
“...Can you read it to me?”
Dick doesn't hesitate. “Of course.”
Jason brightens instantly and scrambles up onto a nearby couch, patting the space beside him with urgency. Dick sits, and Jason crawls onto his lap again like it's instinct, the book placed on his own lap.
Dick flips it open, adjusting his voice, making it animated without being too loud. Jason listens, with rapt attention, eyes tracking Dick’s mouth more than the page, like the words matter less than the sound of him saying them.
At some point, Jason’s head tips forward, then backwards, then settles against Dick’s chest.
His grip on the book loosens.
Dick keeps reading anyway.
He doesn’t stop until he’s sure Jason’s asleep— breathing deep and even, lashes resting against flushed cheeks, utterly tired from waking too early.
Carefully, Dick eases the book from Jason’s hands and sets it aside.
Jason shifts immediately, frowning in his sleep, fingers clutching at Dick’s hand like he sensed the loss.
“I’m still here,” Dick whispers automatically, free hand smoothing through curls.
Jason relaxes.
Dick leans his head back against the couch and stares up at the ceiling, heart full and aching all at once. It won’t be long until Jason turns back to normal.
Bruce appears in the doorway sometime later. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches.
Dick glances at him, then back at Jason.
“How is he?” Bruce asks quietly.
Dick shrugs with one shoulder. “Like a kid he is.” Then, as if stating a fact, “He’s gonna disappear if he knew what happened once he turns back.”
Bruce hums. “I know.”
They leave it at that.
They stay like that for a while— quietly watching Jason sleeping against Dick with fondness and guilt in their eyes— until Dick finally shifts just enough to scoop Jason up.
Jason barely wakes as Dick carries him upstairs, face tucked into his shoulder, trusting without question.
Dick lays him back in his bed, tucks the blankets around him, and starts to pull away—
A small hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist.
“No,” Jason murmurs, eyes still closed. “Don’t go.”
Dick freezes.
Then, gently, he sits back down on the edge of the bed and lets Jason curl into his side again.
“Okay,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And that’s a promise.