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Dick Grayson was jetlagged, sore, but so so happy. Returning to Earth with Donna by their side was like finding a piece you hadn’t realized was missing. She’s his other half, his long-lost-sister, and landing the ship with her among the Titans once again felt like the tingling pins and needles of blood flowing through a numb limb. Terry was so excited, the team was reunited, and everything felt whole. For a moment, things felt good.
Then Danny told him what he saw on the computer, and Dick felt his heart fall through his feet. Jason. The boy had died in the suit Dick had given him, in the name he had given him. Using Bruce’s password, he finds the sordid details. Ethiopia, the relief camp, the Joker. Sheila Haywood. Jason had only wanted to do good, and he was punished for it. Bruce adopted the kid to give him a better life, a chance at a better future, and all it got him was dead. The boy who lost his last baby tooth at the age of 13 because the ripples of malnutrition kept spreading outward, which tooth Dick painstakingly replaced with a shiny dollar coin (the molar which he keeps safe in an old ringbox, shut up Roy, you’ll understand when it happens to Lian).
Despite Kori’s best efforts, Dick shuts himself away. For a week, he ignores everyone’s calls, emails, their polite knocking on his door. It’s only once he starts to thaw, slipping from his dissociative state, does he even find the voicemails. There’s two of them, the first one a little under three minutes long.
Uh, hey Dick. I know you’re on a mission, and it’s important, but I’ve never been in space so I wasn’t sure if you would pick up at all. I get it, though, you’re busy. I just need to get something off my chest for a second.
We were looking for this woman, Sandra Woosan, and it turns out she was this super awesome martial artist, and I just thought…I don’t know. I thought it would be cool if it was something we could bond over. But it didn’t matter anyway. We’re in Ethiopia now. It’s not space, but we’re doing our own traveling. There’s–
Here, the call gets quieter. On the other end of the line Dick can hear shuffling, then Jason speaks again at a much lower volume.
This woman, Sheila. She’s my mom Dickie. Like my real actual birth mother. I love Catherine, but…It’s just different. She’s a doctor, she helps people. She saves lives. But the Joker is here, he’s blackmailing her and hurting the people she helps. Bruce is going after the trucks, and I’m gonna go back and help her. She does so much for others, it’s time someone saved her. And that’s what Robin does.
Anyway…talk to you soon, Dickface. Miss you. Love you.
After the first email breaks his heart, Dick promptly vomits on the floor and forgets to listen to the second one. A second depression follows, longer, darker, deeper than the first. He hasn’t mourned like this since his parents died, and it’s only fitting that Jason is killed in the same colors. Dick spends a lot of the subsequent month wondering if the red, yellow, green is a curse and why he’s the only one being spared. Eventually, Dick returns to Gotham for the first time since they learned about Donna. The funeral has passed, Bruce never even called him, and in Gotham Cemetery Dick finds the headstone bearing JASON PETER TODD-WAYNE next to Sheila’s own grave. A marble angel watches over Jason while he sleeps. He reads the autopsy, imagines how Jason felt as he suffocated on smoke. How it felt to lie there, beaten, broken, mutilated, crushed, and alone, waiting for someone to save him.
It’s summer now, May showers giving way to June showers, because it’s always raining in Gotham–the only difference is the temperature. Dick is at home, in Blüdhaven, eating a microwave dinner when he checks his phone for the voicemail the precinct left this morning. They’ve been accommodating and kind, but he’s not sure if he’s ever coming back. Opening the inbox, he sees one voicemail from April, unread, timestamped about two hours after the first one Jason left. It’s eleven minutes long. Dick feels the lukewarm meal climbing back up his throat as he presses play with a shaking thumb.
Timothy Drake is a boy of action. His parents taught him to be confident and assertive in an effort to prepare him to eventually take over the family company, but they always made it clear that these are attributes that will help him in day-to-day life as well. So when Batman was hurting the city more than helping it, and it was clear none of the adults were going to, Tim took it upon himself to step up. Tim saved Batman, and now he gets to be Robin. It’s not an internship he can put on his resume, but it’s still impressive. He’s sure his parents would be proud, if he could tell them.
Since taking up the mantle at the start of the school year, Tim has established a place for himself in the Wayne household. Bruce is amicable, Alfred is kind, and Dick has even started to warm up to him. Despite initially being wary and withdrawn, Nightwing has started taking Tim out to practice backflips once a week. The older vigilante is teaching Tim how to be a brother, and he cherishes every minute they spend together. That’s why he’s in Blüdhaven–Dick’s birthday is coming up (two months) and Tim was hoping to surprise him with a brothers-weekend. He’s even brought some of Alfred’s tiramisu to celebrate.
It’s Friday. After getting out of Latin Club, Tim took two buses to get to Dick’s apartment, so it’s already dark when he knocks on the door. When no one answers for six minutes, he tries the door to find it unusually unlocked. Careful and cautious, Tim eases the door open and takes a quick look around. There are no lights on inside. The only illumination comes from the streetlamps that shine through the single kitchen window. In its entirety, the unit is small, with one open space acting as three distinct rooms. Down the hall, three doors lead to the only bathroom in the apartment, a sparse linen closet, and the single bedroom. One door is open. It’s quiet as he takes a step over the threshold, until Tim holds his breath and can pick up the sounds of voices drifting from the cracked door. Keeping his backpack and shoes on, Tim uses his Robin training to sneak down the hall, checking corners and shadows for anything suspicious along the way. As he approaches, the sounds become more clear, and they carry a tinny quality. Breaking down the noise, Tim identifies two voices, and…that’s screaming. The sound of something heavy hitting flesh.
The moonlight casts Dick Grayson in an eerie glow. From the doorway, Tim can only see his back as he sits on the edge of his bed, unmoving. His phone beside him seems to be the source of the sounds.
“Forehand or backhand? Don’t make me repeat myself again.”
Horrific laughter is distorted through the phone speaker, nauseating Tim. It’s discordant, arhythmic, followed by the sickening thud of something colliding with a body. A child screams, painful, raw, terrified. Tim is sweating, shivering despite the cold, what is Dick listening to? Does someone need help? Should Tim call Batman? Before he can make a decision, his tidal wave of questions is drowned out.
“Oh Little Bird, cry for your Batman, cry for your ‘Dickie,’ no one is coming to save you.”
The child is sobbing, muffled cries of “please, please.” With a spine-chilling, skin-crawling, gut-wrenching realization, Tim reaches a hand out to steady himself against the doorframe. He doesn’t have to wonder. New questions overwhelm him: why does Dick have this, why is he sitting alone in the dark, listening to this recording? The Joker taunts Jason again, and there’s a crack as something gives way under blunt force, and Jason’s scream breaks into a wet gurgle. Tim can’t stop the tears that spring to his eyes, his bloodless grip on the wood of the frame. He’s frozen, unable to enter or exit or stop stop stop. The voices get louder.
“Oh c’mon, Pumpkin. Say ‘help me, Daddy’ right into the speaker for me. We want to catch this in high-definition.”
“Gghhck. Hrhnck.”
Tim watches Dick lift the phone from the blanket and bring it close to his body, cradling it in his lap like a wounded bird.
“Let’s leave a nice message for dear old ‘Dickie.’ What do you want your last words to be? ‘Bye bye, Birdie?’”
“Dgh–Dhuh.”
“Mhm. Pity. Some toys aren’t built to play rough. Some toys are made to be broken.”
There’s a metallic clang, a harsh thud, and soft rhythmic thumps that fade out. Then it’s just a crackling, thick rattle of breath until–
“Dd–Ddh. Dhih–” Jason sucks in a breath of air so sharp it sounds painful and startles Tim from his dazed state. He jerks and gasps, the sound causing Dick to spin and stare him down. In the dark, his unblinking eyes catch an inhuman glow from the moon. Like a panther, sleek, coiled, powerful. At the same time Dick speaks, Jason’s voice rings out from the phone.
“Jason?”
“Dad?”
Months pass and they don’t talk about that night. Dick spends more time at the manor and Nightwing takes Robin trainsurfing. While Tim’s never had a brother before, he thinks this is what it feels like: awkward, ill-fitted, but genuine and warm when it matters, like a secondhand coat. It’s not easy, but things eventually fall into place. Still, Tim can’t forget what he heard, the panic and obsession in Dick’s eyes, the taste of tears and bile. Some nights, Tim recognizes the look that takes Dick back to his dark, cold apartment by himself. Years pass, and they haven’t talked about that night.
Jason Todd is almost certainly the most normal person in the room at any given point in time, and that’s really saying something. But Bruce has the emotional range of a wet dress sock, Dick is so spacey he’s pretty sure the man spends his days with one foot in the waking world and the other in a dream, and he once watched Timber fill a Big Gulp with 5-hour energies.
The cotton candy kind.
And listen, Jason would know what qualifies as not normal, okay? Murder via the crowbar-bomb combo doesn’t leave a man unscathed, not to mention the subsequent reanimation and digging-oneself-out-of-one’s-own-grave special.
Maybe he’s not a perfect individual, but sometimes, he learns things about the other Bats that make him consider if therapists should offer family discounts or punchcards.
Get the fifth diagnosis free!
Sometimes, for instance, Tim flinches whenever someone says “Jason.” At first, he thought it was residual trauma from his “attack” (read: hazing), but they’ve talked about it, fought about it, and talked about it some more until finally the situation came to a head after they both broke down over a little fear toxin, homemade lasagna, and Marley & Me. Tim’s not afraid of Jason. They’ve established this. He’s also noticed that Tim never reacts when anyone says “Red Hood,” or a variation of the nickname “Jay.” Just “Jason.” So that’s weird, but maybe it’s a Tim quirk.
Sometimes, Jason catches the tail end of tension in the air whenever Bruce and Dick are left alone for too long. The last time he felt it, Jason had been swinging by to “borrow” (read: steal) some extra bandages, replacement grapples, batarangs, smoke pellets, Liquid IV, eggs, and $60. In the cave, Bruce is typing tersely at the computer–which is not the same as typing disappointedly or begrudgingly–as Jason rides in on one of his older, louder bikes. Fortunately, he’s distracted enough for Jason to collect his harvest before heading for the stairs up to the office. He passes the New Cape on the Block, who’s in the medbay with Alfred receiving stitches across the back of his shoulder. Upstairs, he finds Dick in the kitchen, who slams a couple cabinets and doors, and then stomps out of the room while huffing like a bull. But Jason made a promise to himself once, not to get involved with Bat drama, so he takes as many eggs as he thinks he can get away with, then nabs the keys to the Porsche.
All in all, Jason considers himself pretty functional in comparison.
He enters the cave at dusk, hoping to catch Dick before patrol so they can share casenotes. Timmy’s at the computer, reviewing CCTV footage, studying for chemistry, playing minesweeper, and on a call with Impulse. His attentive inattention is impressive. With his left hand, he skims the tape, his right flags a mine, and his eyes rake over his notes. Judging by the background, the young speedster is racing through…Thailand? He holds his phone in one hand and three different skewers in the other. This…probably isn’t sanctioned use of the computer, but Jason’s not a snitch. It’s just Tim here, no one else yet.
“Hey, Timbit, Dickwing break another phone lately? I left him a voicemail asking for his case, but I haven’t heard back.”
Tim responds without tearing his eyes away from the screen. “Yeah, Dick doesn’t check his voicemails anymore.”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“Yeah, he hasn’t–” Freezing in his seat, Tim sits ramrod straight from his previous slouch.
After a minute of silence, Jason probes for answers. “He hasn’t what, Birdie?”
“Hm?” Tim isn’t blinking, just scans his notes and places another flag.
“Tim.” He puts some weight on his tone, deepens his voice. “Why doesn’t Dick check his voicemail?”
“Hm? Oh, he doesn’t? How strange.”
“Timothy, either you tell me, or I ask Dick himself. Or Bruce.”
He’s still tense and won’t look at Jason.
“Drake, if you don’t give me what I’m looking for, I will tell Alfred about your stashes. All of them.”
His fingers flex above the mouse and keys. One more push and he’ll break.
“The one in your air vent. The one behind the firewood. The guest bathroom toilet tank. The willow.”
Finally, he relents, throwing his hands in the air. “Fine! But you’re not gonna like it.” He ends the call with his teammate, saves his notes, closes his game with a sigh, pauses the footage and shuts the entire computer down in a few keystrokes. Jason is reminded how smart the kid is as he spins around in the chair.
Briefly, Jason gets a good look at this boy who might one day be his little brother, and he looks like shit. Pale skin giving him a sickly pallor, bags under his eyes that rival most college students, dark shadows emphasized by his bloodless face. Christ, has no one else noticed? The kid levels Jason with a look, as if he knows what Jason is thinking and it’s a conversation he’s not willing to rehash right now, so maybe there are others looking out for this twerp’s health.
“I found out entirely by accident, alright? I wanna make that perfectly clear…”
Dick can't find his phone, which is annoying, because he just got a new one after breaking his when it fell out of his pocket mid-frontflip. He's just finished checking Wayne Manor from cave to crow’s perch, so he's heading back to his apartment in Blüd in case he missed something. Of course, it's not like he can call anyone and ask, so this is a mystery he has to solve on his own. Turning the key in his front door, the first thing he notices is Jason's boots by the door, which is a pleasant surprise. Opening the door wider, his joyful greeting withers when he focuses on the sounds coming from his living room.
“Lookie here. Tried calling ‘Dickie,’ hm? Expecting some company, Bird Wonder?”
Rounding the corner, he locks eyes with Jason, who is sitting on the coffee table, holding Dick’s phone, and the world falls out from under his feet. His blood has been replaced with helium, and he goes lightheaded so fast he doesn't have time to brace himself. Had Jason not sprung up to meet him, he likely would have concussed himself on the accent table. Instead, he comes to seconds later, lying on his couch. Jason is seated on the floor near his head. The phone is on the table, quiet. They’re both quiet, until a rapid knocking disturbs the peace.
“Come in, Timberly.”
He does, slamming the door shut and racing around the corner. “I’m here, sorry, I took the RedBike, is everything–” Interrupting himself, Tim takes in the scene. “What happened?”
Dick would also like to know.
Heaving himself up with a grunt, Jason whistles the quick short mid-short low tone they all know to mean “come here.” It’s a testament to their acquaintanceship that Tim listens, walking in and seating himself in the empty space Dick leaves after he sits upright. Jason moves to stand in front of them and claps his hands together.
“Alright. I’ve called this meeting of the Order of Robins because it seems there is something we have to address.” Cocking his head and furrowing his brow, Tim is the picture of youthful confusion, while Dick has one hand on his chest and the other gripping the arm of the couch, trying to control his breathing. “I want to talk about the voicemail. Park it, Birdie.” Having immediately stood up, Tim is scolded into sitting back down with a sheepish look on his face.
“It has recently been brought to my attention that there is a certain voicemail that you both are aware of. Correct?” They nod mutely and Jason sighs, steepling his fingers in front of his face.
“Alright. Am I also correct in assuming that you haven’t had a conversation about this?”
Neither of them say anything; Dick looks down at his lap and Tim stares blankly at Jason.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Seriously, tell me this is a joke.”
Jason’s eyes dart between Dick and Tim, as if they had both just sprouted antennae and told him that their favorite member of the Justice League was Booster Gold.
“For Christsake. It’s a miracle we’ve made it this far.” Directing his attention to Tim, the younger vigilante maintains that same empty eye contact. “Timmy. This have something to do with Dickhead and B fighting?” The kid barely winces but nods in agreement.
“There was a, uh, a big fight.”
That’s an understatement. Dick’s upper lip curls in a snarl as he reflects on the first time he met Tim in the cave.
(Dick in Bruce’s personal space, red in the face and screaming.
“It’s YOUR FAULT. He died because of your NEGLIGENCE.”
Storming across the cave, pointedly ignoring Tim on the stairs. He grabs the nearest object–a prototype cowl–and hurls it as far as he can. Screams so loud his voice breaks.
“You killed him! He's my boy, and YOU KILLED HIM!")
It was not his finest moment.
“And this also explain why you freak out when you hear my name?”
Picking the skin around his nails, Tim nods weakly.
(They’re in the cave, tracking a heist ring. Bruce is analyzing shoe prints to build a profile. Tim is dissecting the code they used to hack into the security cameras.
“Jason, can you bring me the blood sample we found at site 2?”
Tim’s breath hitches, but he complies with ease, placing the evidence baggie beside Bruce.
“Thanks, lad.”)
Tim attempts to shrug nonchalantly. He is unsuccessful.
“Unbelievable. Miracles, mental marvels, both of you.”
Dick is getting whiplash. Or maybe motion sick. It’s hard to focus. When he rejoins the moment, there’s a half-eaten bowl of pasta in his lap. He’s got a blanket around his shoulders that feels downy soft under his fingertips. Tim is slumped against his side, snoring softly. Jason carefully takes the bowl from his hands.
“Give the kid a hug, Big Bird. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” A kiss is pressed to his forehead, and Dick melts into the gentle touch. Large hands adjust him until he’s laying down on his couch again, this time with Tim sprawled on top of him. His Little Wing, all grown up, sits down on the floor in the same sentinel position he had earlier. Perfectly close enough, Dick comfortably snuggles Tim closer with one arm as the other loops around Jason’s neck. The angle forces him to shift until his head is resting on Dick’s chest. Jason meets his eyes, something happy, something sad, and Dick palms the back of his neck to kiss the top of his head.
“Love you, Little Wing.”
“I know, Dickie. We’ll figure this out. That’s what Robins do.”