Chapter Text
The manor kitchen was empty at 11 PM. Exactly how Jason liked it. He'd been avoiding everyone for hours.
Not obviously—he wasn't a coward. But... strategically. Training when others were sleeping. Eating when others were done. Answering texts with one-word responses. He'd been in the field alone for six straight nights, taking the shifts no one else wanted, the ones that bled into dawn and left him hollow.
It was fine. He was fine.
Okay, maybe this situation with Dick is a bit messy.
The nickname thing had blown up in his face so spectacularly he still couldn't breathe right when he thought about it. Dick had looked at him with those kicked-puppy eyes—the same eyes that had looked at him across the dinner table a thousand times, the same eyes that had said welcome home, little wing when Jason came back wrong and angry and nothing like the boy who'd died—and Jason had doubled down because that's what he did. Pushed harder when he should have stopped. Made it hurt so he wouldn't have to feel how much it already did.
“It's embarrassing, Dick. I'm not a kid. Knock it off.”
In front of Roy. In front of Kori. In front of everyone.
Dick had nodded. Said okay. Quiet. Too quiet.
And then... nothing.
No "little wing" since then. Not in public, not in private, not in texts. Not even when Jason left himself open—standing too long in doorways, lingering after conversations, waiting for the word to slip out. Dick still talked to him—short sentences, necessary information, polite distance. Like Jason was a coworker instead of a brother. Like the years of blood and grief and late-night talks on rooftops meant nothing.
It was what Jason wanted. Right?
He opened the fridge. Leftovers. Good. He'd eat standing up, alone, and then he'd go back to his safehouse and pretend he didn't lie awake wondering if he'd broken something irreparable.
Movement behind him. Jason tensed—then relaxed. Dick's footsteps were unmistakable, even when he was trying to be quiet. The particular rhythm of them, the weight distribution from an old ankle break that never quite healed right.
"Hey." Jason didn't turn around. Kept his voice flat. "Leftovers are in here if you want."
"I'm good." Dick's voice was soft. Careful. Like Jason was something that might startle. "Just getting water."
The fridge hummed. Jason grabbed a container. Closed the door.
Dick was at the sink, filling a glass. His back was to Jason. Shoulders tight. The line of his spine rigid with the effort of not saying something. Jason knew that posture. He'd seen it in the mirror a thousand times.
Nine days. Two hundred and sixteen hours of this.
"Dick."
Dick turned. Face neutral. Polite. A stranger wearing his brother's skin. "Yeah?"
Jason opened his mouth. Closed it. The words I'm sorry sat on his tongue like stones, but his throat wouldn't push them out. What was he supposed to say? I miss you calling me a name I told you to stop using? I didn't mean it? I'm terrified you'll stop loving me because I'm too broken to know how to be loved?
"Nothing. Never mind."
Dick nodded. Drank his water. Left.
Jason stared at the empty doorway. The refrigerator hummed behind him, a lonely sound.
Day four.
Jason found himself in the living room at noon—a mistake. He'd forgotten Dick sometimes took lunch there, sprawled on the couch with a book or his phone, stealing moments of quiet before the chaos of the night. Dick was there now, curled into the corner of the couch, reading something on his phone. He looked up when Jason entered.
"Hey." Neutral. Careful.
"Hey." Jason stood in the doorway like an idiot.
Silence.
Dick went back to his phone.
Jason should leave. Should go find food somewhere else. Should stop standing here like a dog waiting for a scrap of attention.
"That case from Tuesday," Jason said. "The smuggling ring. You got the reports?"
Dick glanced up. "Yeah. Sent them to B this morning."
"Good. That's—good."
More silence. The clock ticked. Jason's heart hammered.
"Look, Dick—"
Tim appeared in the hallway behind him. "Jason! You're up. Alfred's making sandwiches, you want one?"
The moment shattered. Jason nodded, let Tim drag him away. He looked back once. Dick was watching them go, his face unreadable. Said nothing.
Day five.
Jason cornered Roy in the training room.
"Did I fuck up?"
Roy raised an eyebrow, didn't pause his sparring routine. "Define 'fuck up.'"
"With Dick. The—the nickname thing."
Roy stopped. Looked at him. "Jay, you've been eating alone for five days. You think?"
"I told him to stop. He stopped. That's what I wanted."
"Is it?"
Jason's fists clenched. "It's not my fault he's being weird about it."
"Has it occurred to you," Roy said slowly, "that maybe he's not being weird? That maybe he's respecting what you asked for, and you're the one being weird about him respecting it?"
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Yeah, it does." Roy grabbed a towel, wiped his face. "You told him to stop. He stopped. But you didn't actually want him to stop, you wanted him to know you without you having to say it. You wanted him to see past the bullshit. And when he didn't—when he just did what you said like you were any other person giving any other order—it hurt. Because it proved what you're secretly afraid of: that maybe he doesn't know you that well. That maybe the connection isn't as strong as you thought."
Jason was silent.
"Am I close?"
"Shut up."
Roy's face softened. "Talk to him, Jay. Before this gets worse."
Day six.
Jason tried. It’s really the most effort he gave for years.
He found Dick in the library, shelving books. Alfred's system, but Dick had always been the one to maintain it—something soothing about the organization, he'd said once. Jason leaned in the doorway.
"Dick."
Dick turned. Same careful expression. "Jason."
The name hit like a slap. Not Jay. Not little wing. Jason. In the flat normal tone. Like they were strangers.
"I was thinking—" Jason started. Stopped. Started again. "The new Thai place on 4th. They're supposed to be good. Maybe we could—"
"I've got patrol with Tim tonight." Dick's voice was apologetic, but not sorry. Just... information. "Maybe another time."
"Yeah. Sure. Another time."
Jason left. Didn't look back.
Day seven.
Jason woke screaming.
The nightmare was old—the warehouse, the bomb, the Joker's laugh—but the ending was new. In this version, Dick was there. Dick watched him die. Dick let him die. And when Jason reached for him, gasping for help, Dick just shook his head and said you told me to stop, Jason. You told me you didn't need me.
Jason sat in his safehouse bed, shaking, until the sun came up.
He didn't go to the manor that day.