Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing Jason noticed about Dick’s new apartment was that it had two bedrooms.

Which—okay. He wasn’t judging. Good for Dick, really. This was his actual apartment—not a safehouse or crash pad—so a second bedroom was completely normal. Expected, almost, just in case he had a guest or needed extra storage or something.

Completely normal for a normal person.

Dick was not a normal person.

Jason scanned the apartment from where he stood in the shadowy living room. The stove light wasn’t on, which was weird—Dick always left the stove light on when he went out for patrol. Several red and blue Superman magnets were stuck to the fridge. A fluffy brown throw blanket sat neatly folded on the couch.

Jason didn’t know why he was here. He didn’t even know what he expected to happen.

The plan—if he’d ever even had one in the first place—had been to wait. All he wanted to do was see Dick. Jason had eyes everywhere—and none of those eyes had seen Nightwing in weeks.

But someone had spotted him tonight, and Jason’s legs had carried him to Dick’s apartment. Maybe part of Jason wanted to see if Dick still cared. Cared that he was alive, cared that he’d died. Because shit—it didn’t look like anyone else did. But now, standing here, everything in him was screaming at him that this was a terrible mistake.

What the hell am I doing here? Like what the actual fuck am I doing here in his living room.

His fingers twitched toward the gun tucked into his belt. He didn’t come suited up. He didn’t know why—he just didn’t. The Red Hood was bloodthirsty and ruthless and violent. Maybe Jason…maybe Jason didn’t want to be that right now.

It wasn’t the newness that shook him. Something had happened, and Dick was back in Gotham for some reason. That much was made clear by the Midtown apartment Jason was currently standing in.

What really threw him was everything else. The way things had shifted, the way people had moved on.

And he hadn’t been there.

The thing is, Jason was supposed to have been there.

So no, it wasn’t the newness that was wrong—it was how he didn’t see himself in any of it. The ghost of an empty space he hadn’t filled. The way life had kept going like he hadn’t mattered at all. Things had changed and Dick had moved and Jason hadn’t been there.

Jason stood like a rock in the middle of an angry sea. Around him, the water raged: roiling, pulling everything relentlessly forward. Time and tide wait for no man, after all. The wind burned his eyes and he could taste the salt on his tongue. But Jason did not move. The waves slammed into him, over and over, foam clinging to his boots. It was cold and lonely and he stood there, stuck—while the world surged past, never once looking back.

Had he been left behind, or forgotten?

Had Dick forgotten him?

But still—Jason wasn’t…ready for all of this. Being this close to the lighthouse that was Dick Grayson. Being this close to…domesticity. There were little signs all over the place. A small blue hoodie slung over the arm of the couch. One of those giant water bottles with stickers all over it sitting beside the fridge. A pair of tiny sneakers tucked neatly under the coat rack.

Dick’s apartment has two bedrooms.

Jason glanced at the second bedroom door for the fifth time in as many minutes. It was shut, a light glowing softly from underneath—like a nightlight or something.

Long-buried emotions stirred in Jason, rising one by one until they crowded his mind, his chest, pressing against the edges of his composure. He swallowed, steadying himself, and pushed them back down.

Jason shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. He froze instinctively. Seconds ticked past.

Nothing.

He exhaled slowly, heart thudding against his ribs. Why was his heart beating so fast? He’d gotten what he’d come for. Dick was alive, obviously. Jason could leave now.

Jason could leave now.

He legs wouldn’t cooperate. Neither would his boots. He was transfixed, body and mind, rooted like a tree in his big brother’s living room.

Jason could leave now.

So why didn’t he?

The window in the kitchen slid up. Jason stiffened, slinking further back into the shadowy corner of the living room. His heart kept beating in his chest like a flighty bird.

Fuck.

Jason stayed frozen. He was cemented where he stood, watching. 

Dick silently climbed through the window and shut it behind him. He peeled off his domino with a sigh, rubbing his eyes, the same way he always did. The glue irritated his skin more than most. Jason knew this.

Jason could see the post-patrol high on his face, in his stance—the kind of tiredness that came from flying across rooftops and saving kittens from trees. The adrenaline crash that followed kicking a would-be mugger’s ass or thwarting a bank robbery. Jason knew that, too.

Dick turned the stove light on. Jason went completely still—Dick was the best vigilante he knew. There was no way he hadn’t seen Jason by now—

Dick’s stomach rumbled and Jason almost laughed. A smile ghosted Dick’s face as he reached for a cupboard. In the dim light, Jason caught a glimpse of several cereal boxes.

Dude, he thought, don’t you have like, real food?

The answer to that question came in the form of macaroni noodles with no water, a completely destroyed microwave, and a very disgruntled neighbor. A smile tugged at Jason’s scarred lips at the memory.

Dick turned back to the sink, sliding off his gloves and flipping on the water. Then—he stilled.

Jason knew, in that second, that Dick had made him. His whole body went cold, muscles tensing, brain kicking into high alert. His heart pounded against his ribs.

Would he…would Dick even recognize him now? Jason was bigger—that much was obvious (this, too, felt wrong—like he’d flown too far and wasn’t sure if he could find his way back to the winds of his older brother). Taller than Dick and broader in the shoulders, too. He’d grown into himself in the League. Honed like a weapon into something sharp and cold. A man now, not a boy. Far from that little bird who donned the traffic colors and dangled his legs over rooftops.

The scars that marked his skin like dried river beds definitely didn’t do him any favors.

Would Dick even see him beneath all of that?

Dick was his older brother—not by blood, but by choice. And that had to mean something. It…it had too. Choice was stronger than blood, wasn’t it? Dick choosing Jason had to be more important than some flimsy crimson liquid. Choice meant wanting each other. 

So Dick couldn’t have forgotten Jason. He wouldn’t. They had been brothers until the end.

Right?

Jason’s tense muscles were starting to make his body ache. But he held completely still, waiting. He braced himself, not even knowing what exactly he was bracing himself for. A fight, maybe. Screaming, yelling, the whole shebang. Maybe even a few punches. Jason really didn’t want to fight his brother—but he was standing ominously in the living room he just broke into. And Dick was a trained vigilante.

And Dick’s apartment had two bedrooms.

A complicated mix of emotions crossed Dick’s face, the foremost of which being defeat. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and took several deep breaths.

Jason was…confused. Fucking totally thrown, if he was being completely honest. What was happening? Dick looked like the weight of his world had just crashed down around him—his chest hitched with each deep breath.

After what felt like a cursed eternity of the two of them just standing there breathing, Dick pulled his hands away. He swallowed hard, casting a look that Jason could only describe as crushed at the second bedroom door. As if he was afraid of waking someone—someone small.

Jason’s stomach twisted. He could taste the salt—it tasted like the end of Jason’s entire world, yet the sun rose the next morning as if nothing had changed.

Dick looked back at Jason.

“Hi, Jay.”

The blood in Jason’s veins flash froze to ice. He didn’t dare breathe. Dick’s voice was so soft—like he’d just found an old picture in a drawer, fingers brushing gently over the nitrate film.

Dick wasn’t shocked that his long-dead little brother was alive and breathing in his living room. Hell, he wasn’t even surprised. It was something else, something much heavier, something that made Jason’s heart drop right into his stomach: resignation.

Dick’s wrist twitched and he grit his teeth, looking at Jason as if he was trying not to look at anything else. Jason stared right back, utterly bewildered. Dick clenched his hands at his sides. Jason knew it was to get them to stop shaking (Bruce did the same thing).

“You look older,” he whispered, eyes misting over.

If Jason was in his right mind, he would’ve said well no shit, Dickie.

But nothing about this situation was right—so instead, the only thing his mind could supply was a repeating loop of what in the wild blue fuck, Dick.

“You’ve never looked this old before,” he continued.

All Jason could do was blink at his brother as he unraveled before him. Jason’s brain was too busy short circuiting for him to sort through the emotions crowding his mind and his chest, too busy standing on that stupid rock as the tide beat around him.

Before? What do you mean fucking before , Dick?

“I always…I always wondered what you would’ve looked like if you—“

Jason couldn’t move. His mouth was dry, his tongue nearly strangling him in his throat. The end of the sentence hung between them like the angled blade of a raised guillotine. 

Jason itched to step forward into the light. To grab his brother by the shoulders and scream I’m here! I’m alive! I came back! For you!

But he remained still, body tense, blood frozen. 

Because he had no idea what to do. No idea what it would do to Dick. He felt like he was eavesdropping on his own fucking funeral. 

Jason watched Dick bite his cheek to stop from crying. He watched him fail. Dick let out a shaky sigh, swiping at his cheeks with his sleeve. Jason worried he was going to be sick. He clenched his fists to keep his own hands from shaking.

Dick continued talking as if he’d done this a hundred times—a wretched, practiced routine. Dancing with a ghost.

“Alright, Little Wing,” Dick said hoarsely, opening the cereal cabinet. Jason’s heart seized at the nickname.

He still…he still calls me that? Thinks of me that way?

“What are we feeling today? Lucky Charms? Though I know those were never your favorite—“

They weren’t

“—How about Cap’n Crunch? I got a fresh unopened box of Oops All Berries that’s been calling my name. And if you’re wondering if I’ve got any real food—“

Yes. He had.

“—the answer is duh—but I’m just in the mood for some good ole creature comforts.”

To put it bluntly, Jason was horrified. This was…Jason really didn’t have any words for whatever the fuck this was. Was Dick expecting an answer? Why was he looking at him like Jason was going to give him one? Those long-buried emotions squeezed him tighter, stealing the air from his lungs. Jason had to remind himself to breathe.

A hurt look crossed Dick’s face, and he gave a minute shake of his head. He pulled the fridge open.

“All I’ve got is oat milk,” he said with a laugh that barely passed for one. “You know how Tim’s stomach is.”

The funny thing is, Jason doesn’t know how Tim’s stomach is. Because he doesn’t know who the fuck—

Oh.

Dick’s apartment has two bedrooms.

You see, if Jason didn’t put a pin in that particular line of thinking, he might actually explode. Again. So Jason filed that lovely little tidbit of information away under Deal With That Shit Later and refocused on the conversation his brother was having with the ghost who wasn’t dead anymore.

Bowls clinked as Dick grabbed them from another cupboard.

“Not feeling very talkative today, are we Jay,” he murmured.

Jason’s throat closed up and he nearly choked, swallowing hard and taking several silent, deep breaths. His chest shook with the effort. Little black spots dotted the corners of his vision. Every time Jason thought he’d heard enough, Dick kept talking—saying terrible, horrible, awful things. Things that made Jason’s bones ache with guilt.

Dick poured the cereal in the bowls—two of them, holy shit there were two bowls, one for Dick and one for Jason—like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like Jason wasn’t being strangled where he stood, mere feet from his big brother who was still convinced he was dead.

“There’s a new guy on your turf. He calls himself the Red Hood. And he’s…well, he’s a handful, that’s for sure. Killing crime bosses just to take their place. I wonder what you’d think of him.”

Panic flooded every single one of his senses. Jason needed to get out of there, now.

Jason had done the unforgivable.

Had crossed every line. Had broke every sacred law.

And Dick knew.

Dick turned to pull two spoons out of the silverware drawer. Jason took the opportunity—

And fled.

Chapter Text

The creak of the floorboards woke Tim.

To be honest, Tim wasn’t ever really asleep in the first place. This was the first night Dick had gone on patrol since they’d moved into their (their!!) apartment. Actually, it was the first night Dick had gone on patrol since…

Well. Since he’d tried to jump off a roof.

Tim’s stomach somersaulted just thinking about it. Two nightmares had already scared him awake—one where Dick hit the ground like a bug on a windshield, and another where he turned away and left Tim on the roof. After the second, Tim gave up on sleep altogether. It would be easier if he just waited up until Dick returned from patrol.

Plus…he wanted to make sure.

That Dick came back. To him.

Because sometimes it all felt too good to be true. A dream, too sweet and too fragile—if Tim even so much a breathed wrong, the illusion would shatter, and he’d be left. Alone.

(Tim should probably mention that to Dinah when he goes on Wednesday.)

So he’d laid in bed, eyes fixed on the soft green constellations of the glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across his ceiling. A nightlight cast eerie shadows across his walls. He listened intently, straining his ears for the familiar slide of the kitchen window.

And then, he heard it.

The near-silent thump of a practiced body landing on carpet. Someone was slipping through the living room window.

The wrong window. 

Tim’s heart gave a sudden, violent jolt in his chest, thudding wildly against his ribs. The air seemed to thicken around him. There was another creak—the intruder easing the window closed behind him. Tim stayed frozen beneath his covers, unbreathing. He waited for…something. A thief rummaging through drawers. Or—hopefully—Dick making cereal.

But the apartment was still. The silence stretched long, making Tim’s skin crawl.

Slowly, Tim relaxed by degrees, his limbs loosening and his breath returning to normal. Maybe his brain had conjured it all. Another trick of his anxious mind, his wound-up heart.

And then the floorboards creaked.

Tim’s body locked up again, a breath caught in his chest.

Someone was inside the apartment.

It could be Dick, his mind offered. He probably just came through the other window.

Tim remained still as a corpse. He curled his shaky fingers into his red blanket, the soft knit pattern only comforting him slightly. By the sound of it, the intruder hadn’t moved—there were no more creaks, no quiet shufflings or the opening and closing of drawers. Maybe Tim’s tired brain was imagining things—

Unless the intruder was trained to be very, very quiet.

A cold sweat gathered on Tim’s brow—his limbed itched to move, but he remained perfectly still. He couldn’t give away that he was awake. That would be bad.

Then, Tim heard another window slide open—the kitchen window. Dick.

Tim wanted to bolt out of bed and sprint down the hall, grabbing Dick and warning him that someone else was there. That something was wrong. And God—more than anything—Tim really just wanted a hug right now. The noises, the nightmares—they had eroded his psyche and worn him raw. He was tired and twitchy and wanted to get the hell out of his dark room.

But maybe…maybe there wasn’t anyone else there. If Tim ran out of his room like a bat out of hell, Dick would worry. And this was Dick’s first night back on patrol—he’d been so excited. Tim couldn’t ruin that. Couldn’t let his own fear—loud and irrational as it was—jeopardize what he had here with Dick. So Tim stayed, sweat cooling on his back, clutching his red blanket, ears still straining to catch every sound, every shadow a sharp threat.

A faint light appeared beneath his bedroom door.

Dick must’ve turned on the stove light.

That assuaged his fears a little. Dick was a good vigilante; if someone was there, Dick would’ve seen them. Or sensed them or whatever.

Tim heard the sink turn on, then off. And then it got really, really quiet.

Just when Tim thought Dick had left the kitchen entirely, he spoke—so softly, Tim almost didn’t hear it:

“Hi, Jay.”

Tim bolted upright.

Huh?

All the air in the apartment vanished. Everything was still, like a cemetery.

Still, like a funeral.

There was more talking, but it was too muffled for him to hear. Tim’s heart broke in his chest, splintering and cracking like thick ice. 

Dick was really getting better, too.

He knew that Dick didn’t only see him when he looked at Tim. There was always another boy—one with curls and teal eyes and a heart of solid gold. Tim stood in the echo of someone else’s name. A buried boy. A dead one. 

Tim had always wanted a brother. Now, he had two: Guilt, and a Ghost.

(Sometimes, Tim wondered if Dick ever wished it was Jason, not Tim, coming around the corner when he called. But Tim couldn’t think about that for too long. It hurt.)

Tim heard the clink of bowls and the plink of cereal being poured. He let out a small, shaky breath—if Dick was making cereal, then maybe the intruder wasn’t a threat. Maybe, there wasn’t even an intruder at all. And obviously, Dick was talking to…

Dick was still hurting. Would probably be hurting for a long, long time. Tim didn’t want that for him. Not for his big brother.

He swallowed hard, the shadows of the room feeling suddenly heavier, pressing in on all sides. As silently as he could, he slipped out from under his covers and padded across the floor and pressed his ear to the door.

“He calls himself the Red Hood,” came Dick’s muffled voice. It had an old, deep sadness to it. “And he’s…well, he’s a handful, that’s for sure. Killing crime bosses just to take their place. I wonder what you’d think of him.”

Right. The Red Hood.

Tim had been doing some research of his own on Gotham’s newest player. He was helping people—in his own twisted, ruthless way. He had scourged Crime Alley’s underbelly and instated himself as its infernal protector. He would never tell Dick, but Tim was really close to figuring out—

SMASH

Tim flinched so hard he nearly whacked his head against the door. His breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat, exhales stuttering. His heart thundered in his ears—loud enough that he was shocked Dick couldn’t hear it through the walls.

There was someone else in the apartment—

Tim’s body moved before his brain fully caught up. He yanked open his door, bare feet thudding on the hardwood as he raced out to the kitchen. Hot adrenaline coursed through his veins, though it was cold at the edges.

“Dick?!” Tim’s voice cracked as he skidded into the room, panic thick in his throat. “Dick! Are you okay? Is there—"

Dick whirled at the sound, chest heaving, hands shaking. Not with fear—but rage.

For one terrible second, he just stared. His eyes darted across Tim’s face as if he was searching for something his heart knew he wouldn’t find. His wrist twitched—Tim knew he wanted to check the time, but his watch wasn’t there anymore.

He thinks I’m Jason, Tim thought as he stared back, unable to move despite his heart still hammering away in his chest. He doesn’t think I’m real.

The sounds of Dick’s ragged breathing filled the apartment. He balled up his fists, but they still shook.

Not dropped, Tim realized, eyes sliding down to the massacred cereal before him. Thrown. Smashed. 

Dick was angry.

Well, duh. Dick had been getting better. They’d been going to therapy and Dick even took time off from patrol to heal (he’d actually had no choice in that matter—the injuries his body had sustained the night of the blackout decided for him). Hell, he and Bruce were actually speaking again—as stilted and awkward and full of heavy yet unsaid grief as it may be.

And then tonight, he’d seen Jason again. 

And here came Tim, running around the corner—

Something cold plopped into Tim’s stomach. It spread up to his chest, his fingers, and down through his toes. It made his skin pickle and his eyes water. He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to squirm under Dick’s gaze—eyes desperately searching for a boy six feet in the ground. 

Something in Dick’s expression broke.

Actually—everything broke. Dick’s whole face just seemed to cave in on itself. His wide, red-rimmed eyes glistened with unshed tears, his jaw shut tight to hide some awful, swelling emotion. He looked utterly defeated—crushed in soul and mind.

“Tim?”

His voice was so raw it scraped over Tim’s ears. He sounded hollow—gutted out like something inside him had just gave way. He looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with patrol. His shoulders sagged. Tim wondered if it was because of all the grief he carried. Of all the things he refused to set down, to let go, because that would mean letting them go.

And Dick Grayson didn’t let people go.

There were shards of ceramic all over the floor between them, milk seeping into the grout and colorful berries scattered across the tile like marbles. Tim stepped forward, carefully maneuvered around the debris. The tile was cold on his bare feet. He reached out a small hand, brushing Dick’s wrist with a tentative, soft touch. Dick’s pulse beat hard against Tim’s thumb.

“You’re awake,” Tim whispered, so quietly he barely even heard himself. “This is real, Dick.”

They’d done this before.

(It was nice out—the sun filtering through the trees that lined the sidewalk, the sweet scent of toasted pistachios and orange blossom syrup drifting from the Arabic food truck they’d just passed.

After a few days of bedrest and a week of going stir crazy, Alfred had finally allowed Dick out of the house—on the condition that Tim went with him.

Tim had wanted to melt into the floor. But then Dick had turned to him with his thousand-watt grin and said, “Good thing I already bought two movie tickets!” And, well—Tim couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips.

So here they were, side by side, walking past storefronts on their way to the theater.

The day was pleasant. The sidewalk was crowded. Dick reached down and took Tim’s hand. Tim startled, glancing up.

“Can’t have you running off on me, now can I?” Dick said, nodding toward his arm sling. He was smiling, but there was something else behind his eyes.

Fear.

Tim didn’t know exactly what Dick was afraid of, but he let the older boy hold his hand anyways. Besides, it filled up that bowl inside him—the one that often stayed painfully empty.

They kept walking

At first, Tim didn’t notice. But with every shop window they passed, Dick tensed—his hand gently squeezing Tim’s, as if to stop it from shaking. His eyes flicked to the glass—then forward again. He nearly stepped into traffic before Tim yanked him back by their joined hands.

“Woah,” Dick breathed. “Sorry, Timmy. I guess I wasn’t really…”

Dick swallowed hard, chest hitching on a deep breath that caught halfway. They turned down a side street and kept walking. Not once did Dick let go of Tim’s hand.

He glanced at another shop window. A taxi cab passed them by.

Dick froze.

His hand twitched in Tim’s. His chest hitched—panic radiating off him in sharp, invisible waves.

“Dick?”

The older boy didn’t answer—just continued staring at the shop window, eyes wide, breaths spiraling. He looked down at Tim. The panic in his expression was unmistakable—raw and unfiltered, as if it had him by the throat. He looked back up at the glass

And Tim understood.

“Dick,” he said softly, squeezing Dick’s shaking hand. “This is real. You’re awake, okay? We’re going to the movies.”

But Dick wasn’t quite with him. Tim pressed his thumb into the inside of Dick’s wrist, feeling his wild pulse, trying to ground him in the here and now.

“We were just at the Manor,” Tim continued. “Alfred dropped us off a couple of blocks from the theater so we could walk. He said it would be good for you.”

Dick swallowed hard, blinking. Some of the tension leaked from his frame. His breathing slowed.

He was back. Kind of.

“This is real,” he whispered. “I am…”

“Awake,” Tim finished for him.)

Dick blinked down at him. Then he took a shaky breath, closing his eyes and scrubbing his face with already tear-soaked hands. When he pulled them away, there was that same deep, old sadness in his blue eyes, his frame.

Tim knew why. Dick had been getting better.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

Tim gave a small shake of his head. “You didn’t. I—" He swallowed. “I…waited. Up. For you.” His voice was small, his eyes focused on his feet. The white tile looked light brown in the dim glow of the stove light.

Dick didn’t say anything right away. He just breathed, slow and shaky.

Tim wondered what he was thinking.

“Okay,” Dick whispered at last. Tim could tell he wanted to say more, but he didn’t.

Without a word, Tim stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Dick’s waist. He was still in the Nightwing suit—it smelled like kevlar and smoke. Dick’s arms came around him a moment after that, hesitant, then tight. They were warm and a little shaky, but Tim didn’t care. He pressed his face into Dick’s sternum—his heartbeat was uneven. But it was there.

Dick was here. He came back.

They stood like that for a long time, breathing in sync, the apartment silent save for the hum of the AC and the occasional sound of tires on pavement as a car drove down the street below. A few tears landed in Tim’s hair.

“…you okay?” Tim whispered.

Dick let out a long, slow breath before answering.

“I…don’t know.”

It wasn’t a lie. But Tim knew it wasn’t the whole truth, either.

Gradually, the tension leaked out of Dick’s body. Tim’s eyelids grew heavy.

“C’mon,” Dick said softly, nudging him toward the living room. “How do we feel about some reruns? You grab a blanket, and I’ll go change.”

He glanced at the angry mess of cereal and ceramic on the floor behind them.

“I’ll clean this up later.”

Five minutes later they were curled up on the couch together, the warm weight of a fluffy brown blanket cocooning them both. Tim was tucked against Dick’s side, holding the red blanket to his chest and knotting it around his fingers.

Dick flicked on the TV with the remote, flipping absently through channels until he landed on Cartoon Network reruns of Dexter’s Laboratory. 

Neither of them really watched. Tim listened to the even rhythm of Dick’s breathing, and the reassuring thump of a heartbeat beneath his ear.

After a while, Tim lifted his head.

“Dick?”

“Hm?”

“Can you…can you leave the stove light on? When you go out?”

Dick looked down at him, something unreadable in his expression.

“Yeah Timmy. I can do that.”

“Okay,” Tim said softly, settling back down. Dick wrapped an arm around him like he might disappear.

Tim knew how deeply Dick loved Jason. Grief, for Dick, was the last and final translation of that love. It will never end—that grief will keep reaching back for what is not there. It’s a circular staircase, each step looping Dick back to where he began every time he remembered the name he couldn't call. Every time he remembered the hand he couldn't hold, the hair he couldn't ruffle.

And Dick will translate this last act of love—walk the looping, sorrowful steps of that circular staircase—for the rest of his life.

The roar of Jason’s bike paled in comparison to the cacophony inside his head.

“You look older.”

“You’ve never looked this old before.”

He sped down back alleys and side streets toward Crime Alley, the wind biting at his exposed skin. A part of him wished he was wearing his suit—he wanted to hide. To take shelter in the persona of the helmet.

“Killing crime bosses just to their place.”

Which, okay, fair—Jason had been trying to get Batman’s attention.

And those slimeballs needed to be…dealt with. So Jason dealt with them. Loudly and violently, yes—but also permanently. There would be no Arkham breakout second-chance. Afterwards, Jason simply stepped into the power vacuum they’d left behind. But he never planned on Dick being in Gotham. Especially after some of the fights he’d had with Bruce…

But now his brother was here. In Gotham. Living in an apartment with two bedrooms.

Jason’s thoughts twisted inwards, buzzing and sharp, his mind loud and revving like a chainsaw. All he’d wanted was to see him. To make sure he was still breathing. Because his scouts hadn’t seen Nightwing in weeks—in Blüd or Gotham—and neither had the media, much to its lewd disappointment. And if Dick had been—

Jason narrowly avoided a semi crossing the intersection of the red light he was running. He swerved hard, tires skidding on asphalt. The smell of burning rubber filled his nose as he righted himself. He gripped the handle bars so tightly his hands ached, trying to swallow down his heart pounding in his throat. 

But Dick wasn’t. He was alive. 

And something was really, really wrong with him. Dick may be alive, but something in him was dead. Goldie had cracked.

Jason wondered who had broken his brother.

The city around him blurred, metal and glass giving way to crumbling brick as downtown slipped into the Narrows. The residual horror from his encounter with Dick still sat heavy and uncomfortable in his chest.

Jason—selfishly—had went searching for answers. His body had carried him to his brother’s apartment in the haze of an almost desperate hope. He wanted proof—proof that he mattered, proof that Dick, in some menial way, had cared. Maybe even that he still cared. Jason needed to know if his big brother had mourned him. If, in life, Jason had meant anything to the person who’d once been his whole fucking world.

And what he’d gotten was worse. Jason had found his big brother, alright—whatever was fucking left of him.

He’d watched Dick accept defeat. Tears in his eyes, Dick had resigned himself to failure and welcomed it like an old friend. He’d watched the hollow disappointment physically settle around Dick’s shoulders like an iron chain.

It made Jason sick.

The glance at the second bedroom door—like there was someone there he couldn’t risk waking. Someone Dick couldn’t let see him like this, as if he wasn’t the only person he’d disappointed by seeing the ghost of his little brother in his living room.

(Was there a kid in that second bedroom? Was Jason an uncle? That feeling—of standing unmoving on a rock as the world barreled on without him—hit him full force in the chest.

Jason had a nephew.)

Jason stashed his bike in an alley, body carrying him almost instinctively to the roof. The walls of his apartment were too small for the roiling storm inside him. If he stepped inside, they’ll collapse, and so will he.

His boots scraped against rusty metal as he climbed to the top of his building. It was near-dawn—bits of pink poking through the fading midnight sky as the sun rose. He vaulted over the ledge, startling a group of pigeons. They cooed at him, annoyed, feathers flapping as they took off to find another (less occupied) perch.

The early morning was warm, but not comforting. It nearly suffocated Jason as he paced the rooftop, shoes crunching on gravel. The awakening city hummed around him—sirens, distant engines, people in their homes shuffling about as the day began.

It all nipped at his senses, sparking his fried brain and agitating his frayed nerves. 

He didn’t know what he’d expected. 

But it was not that.

Not the soft, sad recognition—like seeing Jason standing there was normal. Expected, almost. Habit, routine, and a bunch of other awful things that made Jason’s chest feel like it was filled with cement. No whispered “Jay?” with an reverent outstretched hand and a caught breath. Just painful resignation, like Jason being not being real was just the way things were.

Jason would’ve even been okay with a fight—fury, rage, something. A few punches, maybe a kick and an over-the-top Nightwing flip. Did Jason want to fight his brother? Fuck no. But it beat whatever self-flagellation bullshit he’d witnessed in the apartment.

Jason paused his pacing, lungs squeezing in his too-tight chest. His fists were clenched so hard his fingernails dug little half-moons in his palms. He took a shaky breath, leaning his back up against the ratty AC unit before his body decided to drop him.

How many times?

The question was heavy. Jason didn’t know if he wanted the answer. He couldn’t even fathom what the answer looked like. What it implied.

How many times did he see me?

The realization hit Jason like a crowbar to the ribs: Dick hadn’t been shocked or horrified or ready to punch Jason in the face because he was used to it. Used to seeing Jason, used to hearing and talking to him, used to needing him enough that his brain simply filled in the gaps. Dick hadn’t even flinched. There was no surprise, because Jason standing in Dick’s living room wasn’t surprising. It was only disappointing, because it meant—

Well, it meant that Dick had done more than simply mourn—he’d died alongside Jason, grieving him a thousand times over, and then learned to live with seeing him anyway. It meant that Dick hadn’t let him go, either.

Jason had only died once. He often relived it in his dreams. He wondered how many times Dick relived it—how many times he saw Jason just for him to be taken away again by the cold, unforgiving truth of reality. 

Trying to process this revelation felt like trying to untangle a ball of yarn with numb fingers—he couldn’t find either end and his body was—frustratingly—not cooperating.

Below him, the city continued to wake. Mourning doves cooed somewhere off in the distance. His phone buzzed in his pocket—he ignored it. Jason shuddered, suddenly cold. He scrubbed his scarred his face with an equally scarred hand, heaving a sigh. He slid down the unit, unsteady legs threatening to give out. Everything wasn’t supposed to be this damn complicated. 

When Jason came back to Gotham, the truth had seemed so simple: he’d died and the world had moved on. The Joker still lived and walked free. His killer—the man who took him away from his father (a father that stood for justice, for vengeance)—went unpunished. Jason wasn’t a fool, and it wasn’t hard to connect the dots on what that meant.

Jason scrunched his hands in the gravel, the rocks biting into his palms. 

And this—this is what made Jason angry. Bruce—blindly, stupidly—ignoring the graveyards the Joker has filled. The thousands who have suffered, the friends he’s crippled. Jason…Jason thought that he would be the last person Bruce would ever let him hurt. Because it’s not Penguin or Scarecrow or Dent. It was him. 

Because he took Jason away from his dad.

At least he hadn’t been replaced—at least Bruce had the wherewithal to not put another child in the tattered remains of his suit and send him off to die. But it also…hurt. Why did it have to be him? Why was he the one that had to die?

Sudden, stubborn, stupid tears prickled at his eyes. A tightness settled in his chest alongside the heaviness—Jason tried to breath through it, but the invisible bands only tightened. And there was also…something else. Something thick and dense and pulling:

Grief.

Not for himself, but for what it had done to Dick. His brother. For what it had carved out of him, for the way it had destroyed him.

And the part that hurt the most? The part with claws and venom, the part that tangled itself up in his heart and squeezed—was that Jason remembered. He remembered what it felt like to be loved. To love, and be loved in return. To feel the sun from both sides. Loved, as Jay—the little brother. Pain in the ass idiot kid who stole Dick’s hoodies and wanted his father and brother to make up so they could all live together as a family.

So yes, the part that hurt the most was that Jason remembered where the love used to be.

But the worst part was that he also remembered why the love wasn’t there anymore.

Jason closed his eyes and raked a hand through his hair. He tipped his head back toward the lightening sky. 

It was never supposed to be this damn complicated.

Take over Crime Alley. Protect his people. Make Bruce pay. That was the plan. Nowhere in that plan was Dick.

(But really—could Jason ever stay away from his big brother?

His favorite person in the entire world? The only person who’d ever really seen him, fully? The only person who’d ever really loved him, unconditionally?)

Jason sat for a while, hollowed out, exhausted from trying to process all the shit going on in his crazy fucked up (second?) life. His head hurt. The sun peaked over the buildings. Absently, his thoughts wandered to the last time he ever spoke to his big brother.

(Oh my God. 

He’d found her.

Sheila Haywood. His birth mother. He’d found her.

He had to tell Dick. She was in Ethiopia—if they snagged the Batplane, they could be on their way tonight. Maybe even get there tomorrow morning.

He could have a mom tomorrow.

Jason shut his computer, racing downstairs and into Bruce’s study. He could hear the yelling the second he opened the grandfather clock.

“Need me here? You haven’t wanted me here in years!”

Jason paused at the top of the stairs. Dick sounded angry—really angry. He could feel the heat of the argument from where he stood.

“You made your choice, Bruce. You threw me out. And now what? You want me back on a leash? Because you’re scared? Because you don’t think I can do it?”

Jason swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat. This fight was not new. Jason had heard it, had felt the simmering aftermath as he crept through the house on eggshells, trying not upset either of them further (though, the fights often ended with Dick slamming the door on his way out).

 It was quiet, but the silence wasn’t empty. It was cold and tense and hollow. It made Jason’s skin crawl, and he shivered.

“I’m going,” Dick said at last. “Whether you like it or not. I’m not your little soldier anymore. I’m not your kid sidekick.”

Jason rolled his eyes despite the fact that neither of them could see him. Low blow, Dick.

“If you walk out of this cave, don’t expect me to come running when it goes wrong.”

What? Jason thought, panic spiking. Bruce, you can’t mean that—

“I never did,” Dick said flatly.

It was suddenly harder to breathe. Jason swallowed again, trying to dispel the tightness that crawled from his chest to his throat.

What?

It got quiet again, and Jason could hear the gentle hum of the Zeta tube warming up. If he didn’t go now, Dick would leave.

Leave him .

He raced down the stairs, steps light. Bruce wasn’t in the Cave anymore—he probably disappeared down one of the alcoves to brood.

Jason opened his mouth to call out to Dick, but stopped short.

Would Dick even…want to talk to him? Jason was about to ask Dick the very same thing that Bruce had.

To stay.

Would he…?

Before he could decide, Dick turned, smoldering eyes landing on Jason. Jason could see the embers of his anger still lit in his chest.

“Hey, um,” he said, voice cautious. “I know you’re mad but I just…” he trailed off, unsure of how to continue. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and tried again.

“I heard you’re leaving?”

Dick huffed a sigh through his nose. “Yes, Jason. I’m leaving.”

So yeah, Dick was still angry. Jason could hear it in the sharp edges of his voice.

Jason blinked, jaw working as he tried to figure out what to say. He looked away, swallowing hard.

“I mean, I don’t care or anything, just—did Bruce say you were actually going to Tamaran?”

Jason was dancing around the question because he was nervous to ask it. Because he’d never seen Dick this angry before—never had this much of his older brother’s ire primed and ready to fire at him.

Jason squirmed, Dick’s back still to him.

“Yes, Jason,” he said, clearly annoyed.

Jason shifted his weight from foot to foot again.

He could ask. He had to ask.

Jason cleared his throat.

“Do you really…have to go?” he asked softly, trying not to reignite the fight from earlier.

“I kinda…”

Jason really needed his big brother.

“…need you here right now.”

Dick turned slightly at that, voice tight and brittle. “Now’s not the time.”

The words spilled out of Jason before he could think them through.

“There’s—there’s something I found. And I might need…your help. I think my mom—“

“Not now, Jay,” Dick snapped, turning back to the Zeta tube. Jason’s jaw clicked shut. “God—can’t you just leave me alone Just this once?”

Jason almost stumbled backwards. He swallowed hard, quickly schooling his features.

“Fine. Great,” he muttered, trying to mask his hurt with defensiveness. His shoulders rose like a shield. “Go run off to space. Whatever.”

This was, in hindsight, not what Jason should have said.

“Jesus, Jason,” Dick said, whirling on him, eyes blazing. “Not everything is about you. I’m not abandoning you. I just need some goddamn space.”

Dick’s fury lashed out and burned him. Jason’s breathing hitched, stupid tears welling in his stupid eyes. He could almost feel the hurt in his stomach.

After a tense second, Dick heaved another sigh. “Look, Jay—“

“It’s fine,” Jason cut in, eyes sharp. His throat bobbed with the effort of keeping it together. “It’s fine, Dick. Doesn’t matter anyways.”

Again, in hindsight, Jason should not have said this, either. But his big brother had never spoke to him like that before. And he simply reverted back to what a life on the streets had taught him: get defensive so it doesn’t hurt as bad.

Dick threw up his hands. Jason almost flinched.

“Then get out, Jason! Go away! This goddamn family and fucking control issues. I’m done.”

Without looking back, Dick stepped into the Zeta tube.

A tear slipped down Jason’s cheek.

Fine.

He’ll go by himself.)

Jason’s phone buzzed again, breaking him from this thoughts. He swiped at his eyes and fished it out of his pocket.

~Missed call from Henry~

Henry

5:07 am: Yo boss you didn’t go out tonight?

~Missed call from Henry~

Jason blew out a breath. He probably should’ve told his top lieutenant about his little…detour.

5:22 am: Personal matter. Will be back tonight.

Henry responded almost immediately.

Henry

5:22 am: Personal matter my ass. Don’t come in today.

Jason rubbed his gritty eyes. He definitely needed to eat, and sleeping off the emotional fallout of the night wasn’t far behind. He typed out his reply

5:24 am: I’ll see you at base.

Henry’s exasperation was palpable through the screen.

Henry

5:24 am: Whatever you say boss.

Jason stayed on the roof, watching the sunrise, until his back ached from leaning up against the AC unit. Only then did he haul himself up and make his way back down the rickety stairs of the fire escape into his apartment—chest still heavy, nerves still frayed.

His big brother was not okay.

Her kidneys were failing, and he couldn’t give her one. Their blood types weren’t compatible, you see. The irony was so cruel it was almost poetic. He would do anything for her. But the one thing she needed—the one thing that could save her—he couldn’t give.

'Til death do us part—though they hadn’t even made that vow yet. They were supposed to, though. Next spring. The ring—too big now for her thinning fingers—glinted in the dim light of the hospital room.

It was nearly two in the morning. He needed to leave. He had work in a few hours. So he rose from his seat, kissed her on the forehead, and promised that he’d be back tomorrow.

Streetlights flickered and buzzed as he passed beneath them. The night was warm, but it offered little comfort. She’d been on the transplant list for three and a half years. She wouldn’t make it to spring.

He didn’t see the Bat until he was already standing in front of him.

He was taller in person. The cape swallowed all light—the Bat stood like a tear in the universe itself. There were no eyes—just twin white slits that pierced his very soul. The Bat spoke.

“You can’t help her.”

The Bat was right.

“But I can.”

There was no where to run, and it’d be futile to try. So the man just stood, heart pounding, awaiting his judgement.

“I know who you work for.”

The man staggered back a half step, eyes darting down the alley to his right.

“You tell me what he does. You report every move to me.” The gravelly voice echoed off the brick walls of the empty street.

“I—I can’t,” the man stammered. “If he finds out—"

“He won’t.”

The Bat said it with such surety the man almost believed him. But even if he didn’t, there wasn’t anything he could do, anyways—he stood at the crossroad of loyalty and desperation, and his options were rock and hard place.

“I’ll pay you three times what he does.”

The man swallowed, nodding.

“And I’ll see what I can do about Sophie’s place on the transplant list.”

He knew her name. Of course he did. There was truly no running now—and no way out but through.

The Bat didn’t wait for an answer, because he already had one. He vanished between blinks.

Chapter Text

Jason hadn’t slept much.

In all reality, Jason hadn’t done much of anything at all.

He lay on his back on his worn leather couch, one arm flung over his eyes. It was the third nap he’d attempted—and just like the last three, it proved unsuccessful. His mind hadn’t stopped spinning like an out of control top since he’d stepped into Dick’s apartment. Jason’s whole world—everything he knew, every terrible truth he’d come home to find—had been flipped inside out.

And his stupid brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

The crushed look in Dick’s eyes, the second bedroom door. The resignation. The way Dick just…caved in on himself. The way self hatred rolled off him in frigid waves.

Jason sat up with a frustrated grunt, shoving his restless hands through his hair until it stood on end. His stretched his stiff joints, pushing himself to his feet. He started pacing. Again.

He tried to distract himself from…well, himself. He moved to a stool at the kitchen counter, opening his laptop with a huffed sigh. A report from Henry waited for him in his inbox—he got maybe three lines in before his eyes completely glazed over. He threw his laptop shut with another irritated grunt.

Jason stood and continued pacing. He sat back down. There were ants crawling beneath his skin. He stood again, and paced some more. It was dusk now, the sun barely a sinking sliver on the horizon. Pinks faded into deep blues outside his window.

It wasn’t dark enough to grapple.

Jason was halfway out there door before he even realized he’d moved. He slung his jacket over his shoulder, keys jingling as he pulled them from the hook.

The helmet sat on the kitchen counter like a taunting severed head.

“I’m just checking in,” he told it. “I just want to…”

Jason had no idea where he was going with that.

The helmet continued to sit, untouched, the white slits of the eyes dark.

Jason turned away and headed out the door.

Jason stood outside of Dick’s apartment for a long time.

Dusk gave way to night proper, the sky inky, dark, and starless. Though it was warm, Jason kept his hands shoved in his pockets, his heart hammering a little too fast for his liking. The ride over had been a blur—one moment, he was talking to his helmet. The next, he was here.

I’m just checking in.

He stared up at the windows. Most of them were dark.

Dick could…Dick could be on patrol?

Jason’s phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket.

Henry

10:11 pm: Ben just updated me. Nightwing hasn’t been spotted.

Jason pressed his lips together.

Well wasn’t that just fucking hilarious.

He thought about turning around. 

The fire escape was old. Jason scaled it slowly, careful not to make a sound as he climbed the rusty iron steps. He was getting really tired of his body acting without his permission—getting even more tired of not knowing what to expect.

An empty apartment? The kid from the second bedroom? Dick, with a bottle, passed out on the couch?

Jason reached the sixth floor and paused. Maybe Dick—

His heart skipped a beat.

The window was open.

The stove light was on. The curtains rustled in the wind.

The window was open.

Jason’s stomach turned over, lungs tightening in his chest. His feet moved on instinct, climbing the next set of stairs with mounting urgency. It made no fucking sense, but that didn’t stop the cold press of panic from coiling in his gut.

Dick wasn’t out on patrol, yet the stove light was on. Which meant he wasn’t there. And the window was open. Which meant—

Dick, Jason thought, the coil of panic in his gut reaching up toward his throat, I swear to God, if you—

He reached the edge of the roof and pulled himself up.

Dick sat a few feet away, back to the ledge, unseeing eyes staring ahead. His hands were limp at his sides. The moonlight caught the curve of his jaw. His face was blank, but Jason knew his brother—there was a storm inside him, surging and retreating and nearly drowning him.

Jason froze, breath catching in his lungs. Dick could see him—Dick could definitely see him.

But his brother kept his eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance, head slightly tilted up to the smoggy sky. Jason could see tear tracks down his cheeks in in the pale lights of the distant city.

Something sharp poked at Jason’s heart. Holy hell, Dick looked exhausted. Mind tired, heart tired, soul tired. Like he was trapped in a losing battle—with no choice but to fight and be defeated, over and over again.

And Jason knew Dick. He would fight until it killed him.

Jason realized that, though Dick was sitting, his body was tense. He closed his eyes with a slow blink. His wrist twitched.

“Not again,” he whispered.

Jason blinked. This time, he found his voice.

“Dick. What the fuck.”

Had Jason wanted to say that? Not particularly. But it was all he could grit out at the moment, given the circumstances.

Dick took a slow breath. A siren sounded in the distance. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, and pained.

“Jason. Little Wing—not tonight. I just…please. I can’t do this again.”

Jason felt like he’d been punched in the throat. And the gut. Repeatedly, with a steel toed boot. Or a crowbar. Suddenly everything ached and was wrong and all he wanted to do was run back to his apartment.

He wondered how many times Dick relived it—how many times he saw Jason just for him to be taken away again by the cold, unforgiving truth of reality.

Jason had only died once. And Dick…Dick had died with him. And woke again the next morning.

“I love you Jay,” he said, voice raw. “I always have, and I always will. Time and grave are nothing. I just…I have Tim now. And he needs me. And I can’t—“ he hiccuped and swallowed hard. More tears rolled down his cheeks. He didn’t look at Jason, his head still angled slightly up toward the sky. Almost as if he was begging.

“I can’t,” he whispered, “I can’t, Jay.”

Jason’s voice failed him again. He didn’t know where his heart was, and his lungs had decided to shrivel in his chest. His insides had been pulled out and shoved back in with hasty hands, and Jason was expected to sort through it all.

All he could do was stand in the face of so much grief.

Jason took a deep breath. He reached deep and pulled himself to-fucking-gether.

“Dick,” he said, voice rough. He cleared his throat, taking a shaky, tentative step forward. The gravel crunched softly beneath his boot. “Dick. I’m—"

I’m real?

I’m alive?

“I’m here,” he settled on. “I…came back.”

All Dick did was shake his head, slowly, defeated. He closed his eyes.

It made Jason want to scream. It made Jason want to grab his brother and shake him. He desperately wished he knew what Dick was thinking.

“You know why I can’t believe you,” Dick said, his voice barely above a cracked whisper. “You always s—"

He hiccuped another suppressed sob.

Jason always hated how he did that—how he took everything that hurt him and shoved it in boxes. How he tucked away all his pain and grief in little jars and let them rot on shelves in his mind until they nearly consumed him. How he would never even let himself cry.

“You always say that.”

The silence was nearly suffocating. Jason felt hollowed out. He had no words, there were no thoughts. The city buzzed in the distance. A warm wind tugged at their clothes, lifting the ends of Jason’s jacket and ruffling Dick’s hair.

Jason’s body wanted to pull him away, but his heart and mind anchored him to the rooftop. He couldn’t leave. He wouldn’t. 

The anger—the one that rose and boiled hot whenever he thought about his father—reared it’s ugly head. Because where the fuck was Bruce? Did he not see this? Did he not fucking know? There was absolutely no way Bruce didn’t fucking know—

Everything clicked into place so quickly Jason nearly staggered back. 

Nightwing hadn’t been seen in weeks.

Dick lived in Gotham now.

He could almost hear the puzzle pieces snap together. They sounded like breaking bones.

Something happened. Something terrible and awful and horrible happened.

To Dick.

Something happened to his brother.

Dick’s eyes were open again, tearful and empty, cast toward the sky.

Jason still stood, unmoving, just a few feet away. A cold sweat trickled down his back despite the warm night. He clenched and unclenched his fists, horribly unsure what to do

Time and grave mean nothing. That’s what Dick had said.

Time and grave mean nothing. But what about bodies? What about blood? What about choice? Jason had chosen—had he not? To stay away. To kill those people. Maybe not in the League, but still—his hands were dripping red. A crimson baptism, sealing his fate by the work of his own stained decisions. If his brother knew what Jason had done—would he be able to look at him?

A small, awful, merciless voice whispered he can’t even look at you now.

Suddenly, Jason felt like he was twelve again—the weight of years peeling away to reveal a scared kid.

(He was coming.

He was angry and he wasn’t coming for Jason.

He was coming for her .

“No—NO!” The garbled noise was choked out of him. The world warped and twisted and collapsed like it wanted to drown him. Terror had him by the throat, the chest, bound around him like thick ropes.

There was raised a fist. Or a belt or a bottle or—

“Please don’t—please don’t hurt her—"

There was a voice, distant and muffled, like it belonged to someone else. Someone far, far away.

More footsteps. He was coming. He was coming closer and he was angry and—

“Jay.”

No. It wasn’t a bottle, it wasn’t a fist. Oh God it was a—

“Jay, can you hear me?”

He can’t—

“It’s just a dream.”

Jason rocketed upright, body still panicked. The room, dark and unfamiliar, blurred around him. His chest heaved and he couldn’t slow it down. His eyes burned and his whole body shook like it was coming apart and he was coming—

Dick. Dick was here.

Tears wet his cheeks, every shadow jumping out to get him. His heart beat in his chest like a trapped bird.

“You’re okay, Jay,” Dick said softly. “You’re okay. It was just a dream.”

More than anything, Jason wanted to believe him. But everything hurt and the dream was still trying to drown him. Suddenly his breath caught and a sob broke free from his shuddering chest and then—he couldn’t stop crying.

Jason hated it. Jason hated it so much.

He waited for Dick to pull away, to get uncomfortable and leave. He waited for Dick to ask questions. Hard ones, painful ones, one Jason didn’t want to answer.

But instead, the springs squeaked and the couch shifted as Dick climbed onto the pullout. His arms wrapped around Jason, strong and steady—like a shield. Dick pulled him close until Jason’s face was pressed into his chest, his heartbeat a slow, steady drum. 

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Jason curled into his big brother without even meaning to. His fingers clutched Dick’s shirt, lest the ropes of terror drag him back. He hoped Dick didn’t mind the tears wetting the fabric.

“I’m here, Jay. It was just a dream.”

Jason’s chest shuddered.

“H-he was c-coming and I—"

His voice cracked.

“I—"

He couldn’t finish—the tide of terror rose again. Jason didn’t want to relive it.

Dick shushed him gently, almost as if he knew.

“My mom gave me the name ‘Robin,’” Dick said, smoothing Jason’s hair away from his clammy forehead, still resting over Dick’s heartbeat. “‘Don’t you ever stop moving, mro chavo?’ my dado would ask…”

Jason let the words wash over him, the story weaving around him like a blanket. He anchored himself in the rumble beneath his ear. And slowly, the panic began to fade. His chest stopped stuttering, his breaths evening out. His heartbeat matched the steady thump of his brother’s.

Jason sniffled and said the first thing that came to his mind.

“Did you know that pigeons were the first domesticated birds?”

Dick chuckled quietly. “No, Jaybird. I didn’t know that.”

Jason hummed, eyes growing heavy.

“5,000 years ago,” he mumbled. “In Mesopotamia and Egypt.”

Dick held him tighter, almost like he was tucking him away in his arms. Like he was protecting him from something, some foe that only Dick could see.

“You’re very smart, Jaybin.”

Jason didn’t answer. Sleep tugged at him again, gently, and he let himself be pulled.

He was in the arms of his big brother. Nothing could get him here.)

Now, Jason was standing on a rooftop, watching that brother unravel. He shifted closer, the gravel crunching under his boots. A warm, gentle wind blew again, bringing with it the token smell of Gotham smog and cigarette smoke. Jason cleared his throat, trying to sound steady.

“You left the stove light on,” he said, hoping to snag Dick’s attention and pull him back from wherever his mind had gone. It was also the only think he could think to say.

Dick didn’t answer. He just blinked slowly, tears still rolling down his cheeks.

Jason swallowed hard. “You’re—you’re on the roof, Dickie. I can see you’re cold even though it’s warm out. Also—you left the window open. And like—holy shit, dude. You never do that.”

Jason softened his voice as best he could. He tried to hide the waver of panic.

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

Jason took another slow, tentative step forward. In the pale moonlight, he was close enough to see—

Holy fuck. 

Jason had seen a lot of fucked up shit in during his time. Hell, he done a lot of fucked up shit. Decapitating eight people was not for the weak. He liked to think he’d developed a pretty tough stomach over the years. Between a life on the streets, his mother’s addiction, his time as Robin, the stint in the damn League of Assassins, and everything he’d done as Red Hood, Jason liked to believe that not much could phase him anymore.

Wrong. Jason was so, so, so wrong.

Scars.

Jason saw scars.

The worst of them was a deep, crescent-shaped gouge that started just above Dick’s temple and arched back into his dark hair. Jason’s couldn’t pull his eyes away—it had to be damn near fatal based on the placement alone.

Nausea rolled around Jason’s gut, hot and thick. It clawed it’s way up his throat. He fought to swallow it back down.

There was another—one on his jaw, almost as if the skin had split. It looked painful. It’d been a full minute since Jason last took a breath.

Dick was wearing short sleeves. 

The grief was new—grieving not his death, but what it did to those he loved was something completely alien to Jason. It was weird and it hurt—but, as of right now, was not the worst thing about seeing his brother on this fucking rooftop.

It was the helplessness. 

The helplessness of being dead. The helplessness of not being there.

The helplessness of standing on that stupid rock in the middle of that stupid ocean. Only this time, the salt was bitter and tasted like guilt.

Dick was wearing short sleeves, and in the pale moonlight, Jason could see the scars that crisscrossed his forearms.

The helplessness was unacceptable. It was unbearable. It was terrifying, really, but no simple word could capture the true fear. It was more a feeling than anything, anyways. Horror tangled with guilt so thick it was damn near a living thing. It rose up and strangled Jason, breaking his ribs and pointing them all inward. He was paralyzed.

Jason had never been good at fear.

“What the fuck, Dick,” he said, anger rising in him like the tide. “What—what the fuck, Dick?”

With the anger came traitorous tears. They welled in his eyes, hot and threatening to spill.

This, at least, got a reaction out of him. Dick’s eyes finally slid down from the sky—they were glassy and bloodshot and damp, but at least they focused on Jason. Dick’s brows twitched in as if he meant to frown.

“You know,” he said, voice rough and thick, “Dinah said my brain is scared, not broken, and it’s trying to protect me.”

His eyes roamed over Jason, still unbelieving. When he next spoke, the defeat in his voice kicked Jason square in the gut.

“Little Wing, I feel pretty broken right now.”

Jason forced out a breath. Sucked another one in. Forced that one out too. He wanted to be angry. Fuck—he was angry. Furious, so much so that it filled his body up with static and danced across his vision. It filled him up like hot blood.

Dick was the Golden Boy. The Boy Wonder. The first. The first sidekick, the first son. Batman needed a Robin, and there was no one better than Dick Grayson.

So how the hell had he fallen this far? And who the fuck had let him?

(Jason’s accusing finger found Bruce. But then again—it always did.)

Dick didn’t catch his parents, but he spent the rest of his life catching everyone else. He’d caught Bruce. He’d even caught Jason.

So who—who—had let Dick fall? Who had turned away? Jason was the dead one. Who had left Dick to rot?

No—no. Jason knew.

Jason knew.

Because he knew Dick, better than anyone else on the fucking planet. Dick was many things—but above all, he was a performer. Smoke and mirrors and sleight of hand. Fake, all of it—and Jason fucking knew it. Dick had put on the performance of his life—gluing his broken pieces back together with bloody fingers between acts, then stepping back onto the stage like he’d never cracked. Then he would shine so bright he would blind and the crowd would be none the wiser because look, it’s the Boy Wonder! And they loved it and they bought it and they demanded an encore. Dick would string himself up, dancing and denying and deflecting as the crowd cheered because God forbid anyone see the mask slip. And then he would limp home in the dark because he had them—wrapped around his little gloved finger.

Someone should’ve caught Dick. Not now, though—now was too late. Dick had already fallen and shattered. He needed to have been caught—

Well. Jason wouldn’t know. He’s been dead.

Jason grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. The static in his vision, the ringing in his ears—it was all too much. To much too much. His fingers twitched, itching for his gun, for a fight.

But there was no one for Jason to sucker punch. No one for him to fill up with lead. So Jason continued to breathe, in and out and in and out, until he could speak without shouting. He clenched and unclenched his fists until his fingers ached.

“Dick,” he said, slow and controlled. “You—I—"

He took another shaky breath.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he repeated. “We—we need to get you back inside. Someone—someone’s…waiting. For you. Right?”

Dick hummed. “Tim,” he said lightly, almost dreamlike.

Jason swallowed. “Right. Tim. He’s…he’ll be worried.”

Jason reached out a hand—then froze mid air when Dick suddenly stiffened and recoiled.

Jason’s breath hitched, that horrible living guilt wrapping its hands around his lungs. Jason’s hand was still outstretched, shaking. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. So he just stood.

A thousand questions begged, screamed to be answered. A thousand terrible questions with a thousand terrible answers—ones Jason didn’t know if he wanted, but couldn’t live without all the same.  The rage, the panic, the horror—they all scraped Jason out and left him exhausted. His bones were heavy, his heart heavier. 

The night dragged on.

“I’m bigger than you now,” Jason found himself saying with absolutely no idea where he was going. They needed to get off this fucking roof. “So…Little Wing—I’m not sure that works anymore.”

“No.”

Jason frowned.

Dick was looking at him again, eyes locked on Jason’s with rising intensity.

“No.”

“Dick—"

"No."

It got quiet. The wind rustled the trees lining the sidewalk below.

Then, quiet, reverent, and drenched in nostalgia, Dick said, "You’ll always be my Little Wing.”

Oh.

A lump formed in Jason’s throat. He swallowed it back down with the fresh wave of tears.

“Okay…well, you’re either gonna take my hand or I’m gonna manhandle you back down the stairs. I highly suggest you pick Option A, because honestly, I’m not exactly thrilled about the idea of wrestling you down like some amateur firefighter and I’ll definitely knock your head against the ceiling out of pure spite for making me carry your fatass—“

Cold fingers ghosted his.

Jason squeezed them tight, like Dick might fall off the damn roof if he let go. He pulled his brother to his feet, gravel scraping, Dick allowing himself to be tugged like a ragdoll. Jason swallowed it all down—the horror, the anger, the guilt (though, that one lingered in the back of his throat), and gently pulled Dick toward the fire escape.

Once, when Jason was very young, he and his mom had been walking on the streets of the Narrows. It was evening, and they were on their way to a convenience store for something lost to time.

A man had sat on the corner with a beat up guitar and an even more beat up hat set out at his feet.

“Does anyone know,” he sang in a sad, drawling voice, “where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours.”

Jason hadn’t understood what the old man had meant at first.

Ten years and a death later.

He understood now.

Chapter Text

The ease at which Dick let himself be pulled made Jason’s stomach churn with hot nausea. His hand was nearly limp in Jason’s, as if all the fight had been scooped clean out of him and dumped somewhere far away. Jason guided Dick down the squeaking stairs and through the open window with all the gentleness he could muster. It didn’t even matter—Dick complied without resistance.

Once inside, Jason shut the window behind him and eased Dick onto a stool at the kitchen counter. He didn’t bother with the light—the soft glow of the stove was enough. 

(He also didn’t think he could stomach seeing the scars on Dick’s arms again. That was a whole mental breakdown and a half waiting to happen, and Jason was already barely holding it all together.)

Superman magnets on the fridge glinted in the dimness, holding up several Polaroids. It was too dark to see who was in them. Jason pointedly decided not to look to preserve what little emotional capacity he had left.

“Alright, Dickie,” he muttered, glancing toward the second bedroom door. If Dick didn’t want to wake Tim, or whoever the hell was in there—then fine. They wouldn’t fucking wake Tim. “You probably didn’t eat anything. Because you’re you and you do stupid shit like that.”

Dick didn’t answer. His eyes were still unfocused, but some of the tension had eased from his frame—Jason claimed it as a victory, however small and cold.

Part of Jason could hardly believe he was here—in Dick’s kitchen, making a midnight snack like it was the most normal thing in the whole world (like they used to do before). He’d spent so long…well, dead. To the world at first, yes—but then, to the people he loves.

Well. Loved. Or that used to love him. 

Jason quickly shoved that ugly mess down and turned to rifle through the cabinets, looking for anything with some goddamn protein.

The silence was, frankly, fucking unbearable. It filled up his ears and pressed against his lungs like second-hand smoke. Everything about this was wrong and weird and Jason could barely stand it. Helplessness weighed heavy on his heart, the grief and the guilt leaving a bitter taste in his mouth

To save his sanity, Jason kept talking.

“Now that you’ve got—"

The word kid got caught in the back of his throat.

“—someone else living with you—"

Yep. That worked.

“—I hope that you’ve finally got some real food around now.”

Dick hummed softly.

Jason turned at that, a cautious hope flickering in his chest, but—

Dick was shivering, restlessly glancing at his wrist, twitching like muscle memory couldn’t let it go. 

Jason bit is cheek, a question heavy on his tongue. He leaned forward on the counter to hide how tight his hands were gripping the ledge. 

“Hey—what’s with the wrist thing?” he asked, trying to sound casual despite being exactly two seconds away from crawling out of his own skin. “You checking the time or…?”

Dick’s head snapped up. A horrible, freezing feeling dropped like a shard of ice in Jason’s stomach—one that screamed abort abort abort. 

Dick scrubbed his face, stress returning to his body like tightening springs. When he pulled his hands away, he looked—

Little Wing, I feel pretty broken right now.

The dim light made the scar on Dick’s temple look twice as deep. The dark circles beneath his eyes looked like bruises. Jason wanted to sedate him.

What, exactly, the fuck happened while I was gone?

“Jay?” Dick breathed. He sounded strange, looking at Jason but not seeing him.

“Yeah?” Jason said through grit teeth, knuckles white against the countertop.

“What—what time is it?”

Jason’s brows twitched. “It’s, uhh…”

He turned to where the oven sat behind him. His heart pounded in his chest and Jason wasn’t exactly sure why.

“12:53.”

Dick nodded like it affirmed a question only he knew the answer to.

It was Jason’s turn to stare.

That was…it?

Silence stretched between them, thick and viscous, although Jason had a feeling it was only quiet for him. One by one, he slowly peeled his aching fingers away from the countertop. His palms were damp.

When he couldn’t take it anymore, Jason spoke again.

“Are you…late for something?” he asked carefully.

Dick shook his head.

Jason’s mouth twitched. “Ookay.”

“I am awake,” Dick whispered. “This is real.”

Jason blinked at him.

Dick, he thought. Dickie. Dickwing. When you come back from wherever the fuck you are right now, we are having one hell of a conversation.

“You know,” Dick said, light and eerie and tired, “the scars make sense.”

Jason’s heart pulled a full stop for the second time. He opened his mouth—and nothing came out. He was unable to fathom an answer. He wasn’t ready. He was scared for whatever fuck shit Dick was about to say next. It was so quiet in the kitchen.

“It’s—it’s nice,” Dick said, eyes glazing again. Jason was losing him. “You know. Instead of…”

Dick swallowed hard, paling. His wrist twitched again.

Jason’s mouth was still open.

“Instead of what, Dick?”

Oops. That inside thought slipped out.

Dick flinched like he’d been hit. His whole body recoiled, breath stuttering, eyes going wide.

“Jason,” he said, almost pleading, almost scared. “Please don’t make me—"

Jason had his heart broken before—by his own mother, not once, but twice. First, when he found Catherine on the tile after promising that this was the last time. And then, when Sheila had handed him over to the Joker to be tortured to death.

Neither of those hurt like this.

“Dick.”

Dick’s mouth snapped shut. There were tears in his eyes. Jason was going to throw up in the sink. He ran a shaking hand through his hair, down his face, and back through his hair. He reminded himself to breathe, pulse so loud in his ears he worried he might wake…

“Dick,” he repeated. “I’m here.”

Dick didn’t move, disbelief still coloring his features.

Jason took a risk. He stepped around the counter, closer to Dick.

“This is real,” he said. Dick had said it first. Jason hoped it was safe.

Dick’s head tilted, just barely. Some of the clouds cleared from his eyes. 

A sliver of relief trickled through Jason. Maybe he was—

“I’m sorry,” Dick whispered.

Jason blinked. “What?”

“I’m—“ Dick’s voice broke, soft and desperate and so loud in the silence of the cemetery that was Dick’s kitchen. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jay.”

Something swept through Jason’s chest—and he knew, in that very moment, that he never wanted to feel it again. It was cold and alive and it was going to pull him right back into his grave. It was grief and guilt and helplessness and standing on a rock in the fucking ocean as indifferent tides went out and came in without him.

“What—why are you—?” Jason’s throat tightened. He took another step. “Dick, what are you talking about?”

Jason would cry if he sat down and thought about what was happening right now. He was scared—and Jason didn’t do fear well.

“I’m sorry,” Dick repeated, more broken this time. Like Jason was dying and it was the last thing he wanted to say. Tears welled in Dick’s eyes and spilled down his cheeks “Jason—please, I’m sorry, I—“

Jason’s hands curled into fists.

“I died,” Jason said out loud, because he had to. Because the fucking room was tilting and Dick’s guilt was going to suffocate them both. “Dick, I died.”

He was shaking. He didn’t know when that started. Anger was beginning to burn up from underneath the cold in his chest.

Jason didn’t do fear well.

“I don’t blame you. You didn’t—Dick, you couldn’t have—“ Jason didn’t know how to articulate the storm inside him—the freezing, burning, raging mess that tangled up the eighteen inches from his head to his heart in a hopeless knot.

“It wasn’t…I died, Dick. It wasn’t supposed to happen to you, too.”

Grief. Not for himself, but for what it had done to Dick. His brother. For what it had carved out of him, for the way it had destroyed him.

Dick had both hands pressed into his face now. His shoulders trembled with every breath—Jason wasn’t even sure if he was hearing him anymore. The room seemed to shrink, walls pressing upon the two of them like…

A coffin. Walls pressing in like a coffin.

Jason didn’t do fear well. He didn’t know what this was, and it scared him. So he did what he knew how to do. He did what protected him.

“Dick—what the fuck.” His voice was sharp, bouncing off the walls. It was louder than he’d meant. Or was the kitchen that quiet? Jason couldn’t tell.

“My death wasn’t your fault,” he practically growled. “You go that? It wasn’t, Dick—and I never blamed you for it. Don’t pull this…this self-sacrificing bullshit. Whatever Bruce put in your head, whatever crazy shit you think, it’s wrong, okay? Don’t—don’t do this, Dick. Don’t—“

Jason’s voice broke. Or he cut himself off. One of the two.

Dick didn’t answer. He was looking at Jason with sad, tired, grieving eyes. His mouth opened, no doubt another hideous apology clawing it’s way up his throat.

Jason wanted to punch him.

Instead, he swore under his breath and turned toward the cabinets, snatching a glass and filling it with water. His limbs felt like they weren’t his—he was simply piloting his body. Residual, useless anger simmered in his blood. He walked back to Dick, water nearly sloshing the water over the rim of the glass.

“Here,” he said, holding the glass out. “You’re just—whatever this is, you’re…you’re crashing. Just—just drink, okay?”

Dick just stared at him, eyes wide, a kind of horrid recognition creeping across his face. Jason wished he knew what Dick was thinking—wished he could stop kicking his brother down his internal spiral with every little movement, every fucking word.

Jason risked it again and stepped closer.

“Come on, Dick. Just—“

Dick reached out. Slow, trembling fingers closed around the glass—

—and it slipped right through his hands.

The glass hit the tile and exploded. Shards burst outward, skittering across the floor in all directions, water splashing the cabinets. The crash seemed to echo throughout Dick’s small apartment. The silence that followed was deafening. 

Jason flinched and stepped back to avoid the shards.

He expected Dick to recoil, or flinch, or something.

Instead, he was frozen—as if watching something only he could see. A memory, maybe. Jason didn’t fucking know. Dick stared down at the shards like he could put them back together with his mind.

“Okay,” Jason said quietly, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat. He breathed through the hot spike of anger that rose up in him. His hands ached from clenching and unclenching his fists so many times. “Okay, Dickie.”

His breath caught a few times in his chest before he could speak again. Dick tore his eyes from the glass and looked up at him with an expression Jason couldn’t even begin to read.

“Dick, you don’t have to say sorry. Not to me.”

Jason swallowed hard. He hated this. He hated this so fucking much—

There was a soft click, and a creak

Jason turned, bracing for some new horror, some next fucking thing—

Oh, fuck.

Standing in the doorway was a kid—clothes ruffled with sleep, hair sticking up at odd (adorable) angles. One hand was braced against the doorframe, the other clutching a red-knit blanket.

Jason stared—hands still shaking, heart still flighty, anger still simmering beneath the weight of mounting exhaustion.

Tim.

That had to be Tim.

Jason didn’t breathe. Too much emotional input. He had to sacrifice something. Tim’s eyes jumped between him and Dick, wide as saucers.

Jason remained unmoving—hoping that maybe if he stood still enough, if he didn’t acknowledge this, the kid would just wander back into his room and Jason could return to having just one catastrophic mental breakdown at a time.

Jason stood still.

No such luck.

The kid was still there.

Jason’s brain flailed. Jason’s brain felt like a microwaved fork. Could humans bluesceen? Because that’s what Jason’s brain was fucking doing right now. Bluescreening. Jason.exe has crashed. Please restart your PC—

Okay. You know what? Okay. Dick has a kid now.

That’s—that’s fine. Of course he does. Jason knew he’d been gone a long time—

Jason squinted at the kid. His stomach dropped six floors.

The kid was no older than eleven.

Jason had been gone for five years

The math wasn’t fucking mathing.

On days when they were sick, Dick and Jason would lounge around, commiserating and watching hours of trashy reality television. Jason remembered some gaudy, over-dramatized and awkwardly personal episode where a guy had got caught having a second family.

A poisonous spike of jealousy shot through Jason at the thought of Dick having a second family.

Jason didn’t know whether to evacuate, punch a wall, or sit down before he passed the fuck out right there on the tile. He couldn’t tell if the heat building in his chest was fury or grief or sheer fucking panic, but it burned.

Dick has a kid.

Jason glanced back at Dick, who was staring back down at the tile, stuck in whatever mental sinkhole he’d fallen into. Meanwhile, his kid (Jason’s fucking nephew) was just…standing there.

Jason considered himself goddamn phenomenal at compartmentalization. Given the fucked up life he’d led, he had no choice. But right now, whatever this fucking mess was wasn’t sliding nicely into any of his little compartments. He could hardly breathe around it, let alone cut it down small enough to shove in a box and chuck.

So Jason did the next best thing: he buried it. He buried it so deep no Lazarus Pit could ever resurrect it.

It was unnerving, the way the kid studied him. Jason fought the urge to squirm despite his body being frozen solid not ten seconds earlier.

Jason saw it in the kid’s face—a flicker of realization, a silent oh behind his big blue eyes, as if something just…clicked. His little fingers tightened on the blanket. His breath hitched, just barely. So quiet, that if the apartment wasn’t as silent as the grave, Jason wouldn’t have heard it at all. But he did. 

He knows who I am.

Jason was getting real tired of that shit.

The kid—Tim—finally tore his eyes away from Jason (who still hadn’t moved) and focused on Dick (who also hadn’t moved). Another emotion crossed his face—worry. But it wasn’t new worry. Not oh-no-what’s-happening worry, Jason realized with burgeoning clarity. No, this was old-worry. Familiar-worry. As if Dick had been hollowed out like a dead tree, and Tim had stumbled upon him in the forest a long time ago.

Something happened. Something terrible and awful and horrible happened.

To Dick.

Something happened to his brother.

Jason’s throat tightened. His hands and jaw ached from how tightly they were clenched.

Tim looked back at him.

“Hi,” he whispered.

Jason forced open his mouth and unstuck his tongue from his throat. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

“Hi.”

“Tim?”

Despite being no more than a scraped whisper, Dick’s voice made Jason jump. He turned to face Dick, who was now looking at Tim with an expression so soft it made Jason’s stomach twist like he’d eaten too much sugar.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”

Jason’s mouth fell open.

“Did I…did I wake you again?”

Tim shook his head and padded over to him, wrapping his arms gently around Dick’s waist. Dick held him close, resting his cheek on the top of Tim’s head, eyes pointedly averted from Jason.

Jason continued standing in the kitchen like the fucking ghost he was.

Dick was backsliding. 

Dick was backsliding so fast and he couldn’t catch himself.

He’d been on the roof—the fucking roof.

And Jason. He’d been there too. Was here too. 

He hadn’t even meant to end up on the roof. It just kind of…happened. One minute, he was in his apartment, flipping on the stove light and heading back to his room to suit up. The next, the walls were caving in and so was his chest and he’d just needed to get the hell out.

So he’d went to the only place where he felt like he could breathe.

That place just so happened to be the roof.

And then Jason had showed up, and Dick had wanted to punt whoever said healing isn’t linear into the sun.

Dick was back in his kitchen now, quite unsure of exactly how he’d gotten there. Everything was coming back slowly—his ears unclogging, the world coming back into focus frame by frame.

The first thing he felt—that wasn’t guilt or tears or writhing self-hatred—was weight. A small one, curled into his side, little arms wrapped around his waist.

Tim.

Dick’s arms were already around him (when had he done that?), his cheek rested against soft hair that smelled like coconut kid’s shampoo. 

His brain felt…scrubbed out. Like someone had taken a steel wool sponge to his insides and decided yup—everything needs to go. He ached all over, his cheeks gritty, his head pounding.

As the world filtered in around him, so did something else. Something that made Dick hold Tim tighter, something that made his heartbeat spike and his breath catch and the goddamn world end—

Jason.

Jason was standing in the kitchen.

“Dick,” Tim said softly into his chest. “Your heart is beating really fast.”

Dick swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut. A couple of tears leaked out of the corners.

Funny. Dick didn’t think he had any tears left.

“Sorry, Timmy,” he whispered, voice rough.

“It’s okay.”

Dick’s arms tightened around Tim.

He was not going to look at Jason. Tim was here. Tim was real.

Jason wasn’t real.

He could admit that to himself now.

Jason wasn’t real. Jason was dead.

Jason wasn’t real.

But, for some terrible, torturous reason, Dick knew he was still standing there. Waiting, watching, just like he always did.

Dick hoped he wouldn’t be too mean this time. 

Dick hoped he wouldn’t be bloody and butchered.

I am awake, he thought. This is real.

My brain is scared, not broken, and it’s trying to protect me.

The minutes ticked past. Dick never wanted to let go.

“Don’t leave,” Tim said at last, voice still muffled.

Self-loathing spiked inside Dick, a hot knife twisting up his insides like overcooked spaghetti. He really was the worst person to ever walk the face of the earth, wasn’t he?

“I—I won’t, sweetheart,” he stammered, unsure of how to articulate the words at the depth he needed them to be said. “I’ll—"

“Not you.”

Dick stopped, brows furrowed. Tim’s hair tickled his nose. He opened his mouth to say something, but Tim beat him to it.

“Obviously you, Dick. Just—also…”

There was a split second of silence before Dick Officially Lost It.

This was it. Honestly, this was really and truly it. His leap from the roof hadn’t done it—but this will.

He was dreaming. He’d been dreaming this whole time.

Dick bit his cheek as barbed wire wrapped its way around his throat.

After everything—the hell he went through, the therapy, the healing, the three full months without seeing his little brother—this was how it ended. In his kitchen.

Dick was broken. There was no denying it now. Jason’s death had severed him.

It was a sad, quiet thing.

A door slowly closing.

Grief is a circular staircase, and the steps were well-worn.

Dick continued hugging Tim, hoping he would wake up soon so he could do it in real life.

A question floated around Dick’s mind—one that had plagued him ever since he saw Jason in his living room the night before. One he could finally ask, now that he knew he was dreaming. That this wasn’t real. He refused to open his eyes, though. He wasn’t going to subject himself to that torture.

“Why are you old now?”

A beat of silence. Dick wondered if Jason was thinking it over.

Could he even…do that?

“Why am I—Dick, what the fuck does that even mean?”

The sarcasm was definitely new. From what Dick could remember of his hallucinations, Jason had never been sarcastic before. He wondered what kind of psychotic break he had to be having for his hallucination to develop sarcasm.

“You’re normally…”

Dick didn’t know how to explain what his hallucinations normally looked like to his hallucination. He tried anyway. It could be absurd—absurd was better than the complete panic attack smoldering at the edges of his senses.

“Normally, you’re younger. And…smaller. And more b—"

Burnt. Mangled. Disfigured. Cold. Dead.

The only viable option for Dick to finish that sentence would be for him to literally throw it up. He swallowed down the rising nausea and tried again.

“I’m just curious, Little Wing. I mean, it makes the scars—“

His voice broke off, his stomach in his throat. He swallowed thickly again. Maybe, if he kept talking, it would help. Like thinking of California Girls playing in the middle of a scary forest instead of the Halloween Theme.

“Well, you know I’ve seen them all. So I guess…I don’t know. It’s nice to see you this way. This is better than…”

The blood. The burns, the bones. The hatred. The disgust.

“That.”

It was silent again.

“Dick,” Tim began, cautious, face still smooshed into Dick’s chest. “Jason is…here.”

Dick hummed.

“I know, Timmy.”

Slowly, Tim unwound himself and pulled away. His hair was sticking up in all different directions. It was adorable—Dick fought the urge to reach out and ruffle it.

Oh right. This is a dream.

Dick reached out and ruffled Tim’s hair, further mussing it. A small smiled tugged at his lips as Tim swatted his hand away.

Jason used to do that.

The ghost in the corner of his vision was still there—tall and broad, standing in his kitchen. Dick ignored him, choosing instead to look at Tim’s little face. He was so young.

“Jason?” Tim said, and Dick felt like he was being cut open.

I’m dreaming. Jason is in my kitchen and I’m dreaming.

“Y-yeah?”

Tim took Dick’s shaking hand and pressed his small thumb into his wrist, just over his pulse-point.

Their grounding technique.

Something between the two of them—a Tell of their own.

All the air in Dick’s lungs vanished. The softness of the moment snapped and reality slammed into him at breakneck speed. 

I’m…I’m not dreaming.

This is real.

“I am awake,” he breathed.

Tim met his gaze with a small, certain nod.

Alright—too much. Everything was way too much right now and Dick really couldn’t handle it anymore.

He was breathing but he wasn’t and holy shit his heart was really starting to beat fast and everything hurt and he just wanted it to stop, oh God he just wanted it all to stop—

“I know how this goes now, Jay.”

His voice barely made it past his throat. He’d never felt so broken in his life. Was this how it was going to be? Forever?

Dick had loved his little brother. Dick had loved his little brother so much.

Grief is a circular staircase—and Dick had let himself grow sick walking the spirals of those steps. Around and around and around. Therapy. Acceptance. He’s lost Jason again. Again and again and again. Losing, always losing.

He loved Jason. He lost Jason. He loved Jason. He lost Jason.

He kept his eyes fixed on Tim—his messy hair, his tired eyes—still refusing to acknowledge the figure in the corner of his vision. He wouldn’t be nice today—it didn’t work that way. It never worked that way. Dick tried to breathe through the mounting panic, the rising guilt, but he was taking in thick air and his lungs couldn’t hold on to it.

(“Trauma isn’t a problem to solve, Dick,” Dinah had said during one of their first sessions. “And healing isn’t a checklist. You’re not going to mark yourself ‘fixed’ and move on. And you can’t hold yourself to that, either.”

Dick had nodded at the time. He’d even written it down, though he didn’t fully believe it. He thought that maybe he’d get there. Eventually. Hopefully. He better. There was no alternative.)

Jason was standing in his kitchen. And Dick knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his little brother was some grotesque horror tonight. If Dick looked, the world would end and he would fall apart.

Breathing was becoming entirely too difficult so Dick just stopped doing it altogether. And he waited—for the hatred in his little brother’s face, for the injuries that so often marred his little robin body. Maybe this time Jason would say something new. Maybe something worse.

Dick couldn’t look—so he didn’t. Instead, he focused on the tile floor beneath Tim’s slipper. He refused to blink, lest Jason appear behind his eyelids.

Still, Jason didn’t speak. 

Dick’s chest ached with the pressure of swallowed sobs and held breath. His spine was collapsing with the weight of failure, the gravity of defeat. Tim’s little hand was warm against the clammy skin of his wrist.

“I am awake,” he murmured. “This—this is real. And I—”

Dick knew how this went.

“I know how this goes.”

The silence felt like a horror movie. Maybe Tim was a hallucination too. Maybe none of this was real—

“Dick—what? Stop saying shit like that—”

Jason’s voice cut through the quiet of the kitchen. Dick’s whole body went rigid. Tim pressed his thumb against Dick’s wrist—Dick hoped it would stop him from falling through the fucking floor. He gripped Tim back like he was the only thing tethering him to reality. He probably was.

“No. Dick, seriously—what the fuck?”

That was…new. There was no bitterness, no rage, no scorn. No hatred. Just…bewilderment. A kind of anger that Dick recognized as fear. It distantly reminded Dick of when he saw Jason in his living room the previous night.

Dick shook his head violently, squeezing his eyes closed as more hot tears slipped form the corners. He swallowed a choking sob with a shudder.

“I won’t tell you to go,” Dick said to the phantom in his kitchen. He…hadn’t been mean. That was okay. “But I just…I can’t look, okay? I love you, Jay, but—”

Another suppressed sob.

“I can’t.”

Dick was cold. Cold like death. His teeth chattered. Distantly, he registered the smell of anise. Tim had thrown the red blanket around his shoulders. It was warm.

“Okay,” Jason said.

Dick’s grip on Tim’s wrist faltered. He was shaking too much.

And he waited. For Jason to say exactly what Dick already believed. The tile swam before him.Tim wrapped his arms around him again, squeezing him tight.

“Dick,” he said, muffled by Dick’s shirt, so small and soft it nearly cut Dick to ribbons. What was wrong with him? 

“This—this is real, I promise. Jason is here. He’s in the kitchen. You’re awake.”

In the ruins of Dick’s dreams, hope laid like an wounded bird, waiting for a chance to fly. It was the hardest love he carried—hope. It was an obscene cruelty, and it never let up for a minute. Hope hurt. Hope hurt so fucking much.

Dick wouldn’t survive hope again.

“Look, Dick, I don’t—I don’t know what you’re seeing right now,” Jason’s ghost said. “But I’m here. I’m…real. I’m really here. And…you don’t have to look at me if you can’t. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Dick opened his mouth but nothing came out. He wanted to say you’re not real and I’m sorry and I’m so fucking tired, Little Wing, please—

But he didn’t. He was cold. He was going to fold in on himself and collapse—

A gentle tug on his wrist. Dick looked down, blinking through the static in his vision.

Tim was pulling him forward, up and off the stool.

Dick stood slowly, legs hollow and unsteady, following Tim. He felt like he was dreaming. He itched for a clock, a mirror—something to tell him if any of this was even real.

He honestly didn’t fucking know anymore. He didn’t even really care. He was tired and cold and his heart felt sick.

Dick’s chest hitched as he tried to breathe, sobs pressing in on all sides. In, out. In, out.

Tim tugged him gently toward his bedroom. He could tell Tim was tired—and it made guilty worms squirm in Dick’s stomach. He’d woken Tim, in the middle of the night, again.

They paused just outside the door. Dick felt like he was floating. Tim shifted his weight from foot to foot, hand tightening in Dick’s.

“Can you…stay?” he asked, voice was impossibly small.

Tim is also talking to my hallucination, Dick thought with mounting hysteria. Cool. Are shared hallucinations a thing? Maybe I should talk to Dinah about that when I go on Wednesday. Great.

If Dick wasn’t so tired, if the looming panic attack wasn’t like a dark storm on the horizon, if he wasn’t actively fucking falling apart, he might’ve laughed.

“Look, kid—" Jason started.

“Please? Just…for tonight,” Tim said, quieter now. “You can take the couch. It’s a pull-out.”

Despite the tears in his eyes, despite the pain in his chest, despite his soul shriveling inside him like burning paper, Dick almost smiled.

This is fine. Everything is fine. I’m fine. My hallucination is going to sleep on my pullout. This is fine.

Dick had to fight to keep his eyes on the dark wood floor of the hallway. Was it morbid curiosity, or habit that bade him to look at his brother? Dick didn’t know. But he lost the battle of self and risked a glance and—

Wow. Dick would’ve rather been shot again.

Because Jason looked older.

Dick hadn’t really been all there on the rooftop, and he hadn’t gotten a good look when Jason had shown up in the living room. But here, in the glow of the stove light, Dick could really see—the scars, how tall Jason was now, how big he was. There was no more baby fat around his jaw. His hair had gotten curlier.

It twisted up something inside Dick. He was supposed to be there for that. He was supposed to watch Jason grow up. He was supposed to be a big brother.

Was he…was he not a big brother anymore? Jason was dead. Did that mean Dick was no longer an older brother? Did that, too, die with Jason? What was he now? The world didn’t wait for him to grieve. It turned and turned and turned, every second only putting more distance between Dick and his Little Wing.

His little brother wasn’t so little anymore.

And Dick didn’t get to see any of it.

Apologies rose in Dick’s throat like the tide. More tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them, his chest tightening. Goddammit, how much more can he possibly cry?

Jason glanced between them—Tim to Dick, and then back again. In the dim light, Jason’s hair looked white again. Dick made a note to ask the hallucination what that was all about the next time he saw his little brother.

Jason nodded.

“Alright,” he said at last. “Yeah, kid. Couch it is.”

Tim gave a satisfied little nod and tugged Dick into the bedroom. He cracked the door behind them.

Tim curled up against his side, wrapped once again in the red blanket, his warm presence chasing off the last of Dick’s shivers. He remained awake long after Tim’s breaths had evened out.

I am awake, he thought, even as he heard shufflings from the living room. This is real.

Dick laid in the dark, wondering if the silence inside him now was a beginning or an end.

Chapter Text

The springs of the pull-out squeaked as Jason rolled over for the eightieth time. It wasn’t even a bad pull-out—the brown throw blanket was soft (though his feet stuck out at the bottom) and the pillow was squishy enough to fold just the way he liked it. And it wasn’t like Jason wasn’t tired. The night had thoroughly exhausted him, emotionally, mentally—fuck, metaphysically. There wasn’t an atom in him that didn’t feel wrung out.

His head was just so loud. Everything Dick had said—every broken utterance that had left Jason floundering in the deep end of their shared grief—bounced around his microwaved-fork brain like someone was trying to pop fucking popcorn in there.

He pushed his hair out of his face and rubbed his eyes. Any sleep he had gotten was more a twitchy, restless doze than anything.

Jason rolled over again. The springs squeaked. He huffed a sigh that devolved into a yawn.

Early, early dawn sun peaked through the curtains. Jason gave up and heaved himself out of bed, rolling his shoulders until a few satisfying cracks popped down his back. He shuffled into the kitchen. 

Surreality hit him like a cartoon piano.

He was in Dick’s kitchen.

In Dick’s apartment.

Dick’s apartment that had two bedrooms.

And the kid who slept in that second bedroom knew who he was.

Jason wanted to know how the little munchkin figured it out.

Jason also wanted to turn tail and disappear off the face of the fucking earth.

And Dick…

Well, Jason still didn’t know what to do about that. Questions rattled around his brain like marbles in a glass jar—he didn’t even know if he had the capacity to ask them all. The broken apologies Dick had laid at his feet like offerings filled Jason up like hot acid. He shuddered. He never wanted to hear Dick talk like that again. Jason had died, and that was the end of it.

No one else was supposed to die, too.

His body began to buzz like it was full of bees. Loud, panicked bees. Bees under attack.

Okay, Jason thought, taking a deep breath and blowing it out slowly. Okay.

He ran a hand through his no-doubt abysmal bedhead. This was…this was fine. All of it. Fine. Fine fine fine.

Twenty-four hours ago, he’d still been dead to his family.

The buzzing was growing louder. Jason needed to move. Instinctively, he began rifling through cabinets, not really sure what he was even looking for—

The flash of a familiar blue box caught his eye. A laugh slipped out of him. He couldn’t fucking believe it. Before his brain even caught up, he was dumping Krusteaz powdered pancake mix into a mixing bowl, limbs on autopilot. Now, where was the cinnamon—

His phone buzzed from somewhere on the couch. Jason paused, making his way back over and digging through the blankets.

Henry.

Jason cursed under his breath and accepted the call.

“Where the hell are you?”

Jason blinked. “Morning to you too.”

“You were supposed to check in last night. We’ve got meetings lined up. I got two guys askin’ me if Bats got to you—”

Jason shivered at the name.

“Something came up,” he said through clenched teeth.

Henry’s scoff crackled through the phone speaker. “What, another personal matter? Your missus givin’ you trouble? Wonderin’ where you sneak off to all night?”

Jason heaved a sigh, rubbing his temple with the hand not holding the phone.

“Actually, I take that back. There’s no way you got a missus—or a mister, I ain’t judging—and do the kinda shit that you do. What do you even look like under that helmet, anyway? I bet—"

Jason cut him off. “I’ll be back tonight.”

Henry chuckled, clearly self-satisfied. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Jason ended the call and tossed the phone back on the couch. He rubbed his eyes again, trying to puzzle his life back together now that he had fifty-two more pieces and none of them were corners.

He needed to do something insane again—lop off a few more heads so his guys remembered who he was.

Jason shuffled back to the kitchen to continue with breakfast. He reached out a hand to pull open the fridge when something caught his eye. 

Superman magnets.

They were holding up pictures.

He’d seen them last night—but between Dick’s spiral, the revelation of his newfound uncle-ness, and the last threads of his sanity nearly snapping, Jason had decided to save what little emotional stability he had left and chosen to simply not look.

But now, they beamed up at him in the pale dawn light filtering through the curtains.

Dick standing in the empty apartment next to a smiling Tim holding a pair of keys.

Bruce asleep at the Batcomputer, face down.

Tim and Dick sitting at a table, surrounded by delicious looking food and that one old neighbor Jason vaguely remembered.

And—

Jason and Dick.

Jason stopped breathing. He couldn’t look away.

The two of them, noses and cheeks nipped pink by the cold, swallowed up in snowsuits.

Jason reached out and gently pulled the photo from the fridge, a reverent finger tracing slow, shaking circles around the film.

The ski trip. Their ski trip

(“Ten points for the blue blue jacket,” Jason said, snowball in hand, a cocky grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Jason glanced over—Dick wasn’t even listening. He was just…staring. At him. Not saying a word. Jason raised a brow. “What?”

Dick didn’t answer. 

He had some stupid look on his face—eyes so wide and soft it made Jason want to squirm. He scowled a little, immediately suspicious. “Helloooooo,” he said, waving a gloved hand in front of his brother’s eyes. “Earth to Dick.”

They were slowly rising up on the ski lift, the snowy mountains beneath them unfolding like a picture-perfect postcard. Other skiers zipped below them, interrupting the glittering landscape with their various colorful suits.

The two of them had planned this together. Bruce had been on his ass like crazy, and it was starting to chafe. Every tense stare down, every sizzling argument, and Jason understood more and more why Dick often stayed so far from the Manor. It was like Jason turned fifteen and BAM—he’s suddenly “too reckless” and “too impulsive” and “too violent”. 

That last one hurt the most.

So Jason needed out, even if it was only for a few days. And Dick…well, he always seemed to make things better.

He was a little worried, at first, that Dick would turn him down when he’d asked to go shopping for gear. Things were already tense at the Manor between Jason and Bruce, and adding Dick into the mix would just be adding oil to the hot pan. But Dick had made some funny face when Jason asked and said yes without hesitation. A small knot of tension had loosened in Jason’s chest.

And it had been…civil. A little tense, a little awkward, but they had emerged victorious. One week later, Dick had packed his car full of top of the line ski gear and the two of them were off to upstate New York for a long weekend.

Dick blinked, snapping out of whatever daze he’d just been in.

God, he was so weird sometimes.

“Too easy,” Dick said, a wicked grin to match Jason’s on his face. He nodded toward the slopes. Jason followed his gaze to where a figure in traffic-cone orange tore down the slope at breakneck speed. “Twenty points.”

Jason scoffed, but eyed up his target nonetheless. “Who do you think I am? Green Arrow?”

“Are you saying you can’t do it, Mr. Baseball.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Shut up and let me focus, Dickhead.”

The Mr. Baseball thing was still a little embarrassing, if Jason was being honest. Dick talked about it like Jason had won the damn World Series. The season had been fun, and Jason had worked his ass off for that win, but Jason was pretty sure Dick was more excited about the award than he was.

Even Mrs. Rhodope had asked him about it once—after he’d helped take her groceries up to her room one evening when he was visiting Dick in Blüdhaven.

It had made Jason blush and squirm and rub his neck. He’d just…played baseball. He didn’t understand why it was such a big deal to Dick. But his brother had been adamant on treating Jason like Mookie Betts, so Jason put up with it. It made Dick happy.

And…it kind of meant something. To Jason. Dick was proud and annoying about it and brought it up at every single possible chance. But it also meant he saw how hard Jason had worked in a way that had nothing to do with baseball.

Jason hated how much that mattered to him. But then again, he didn’t. Fuck it—he didn’t know. Whatever.

Jason fired his snowball—it hit Traffic Cone with a thud. His head turned so sharply he nearly fell over, ski poles going flying.

“Yes!” Jason whooped. “Alright Dickie. Your turn.”

Dick held his snowball in his gloved hand, scanning the people below. “That one,” Jason pointed. “The one with the red helmet. Nail ‘em.”

Dick snorted, aimed, and—

Smack.

“Oops—"

Jason doubled over laughing, nearly falling off the lift. Dick grabbed him to keep him upright. “‘Oops’ is right, Dickhead,” he wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye with a gloved hand. “You pegged him right in the neck!”

It was true—poor Red was twitching like someone dropped a live snake down his suit. A snowball to the neck had to suck.

They skied down the slope, adrenaline and speed washing any residual tension away. It was nice, just him and his brother in their own little winter wonderland. They tossed snowballs on every lift after that, racking up points and heckling each other the whole way. 

Jason was winning, obviously. Dick was eyeing up his own home run throw when the ski patrol finally caught up to them.

“We’ve recieved numerous complaints—"

Despite Dick’s best charming efforts, they were both personally escorted off the slopes. Jason had never laughed so hard in his life. It was absolutely worth it.

The two spent the rest of the day thawing out in the lounge, toes by the fire, hot chocolates in hand. Jason giggled every time he thought about poor Red Helmet twitching like a wet cat.

Maybe…maybe everything was going to be okay.

That night, they snuck out onto the back balcony of the lodge, bundled in layers, their breath turning to fog in the freezing air. They laid side-by-side on the snow covered deck, staring up at the glittering sky.

Jason didn’t say much, because never really knew what to say when it got so quiet like this. But he didn’t have to say much of anything at all—because Dick was there.

He felt so small, laying beneath the big black expanse of the heavens. A spec on a floating rock hurtling through space. 

But that didn’t matter—Jason had his whole world laying two feet to his left.)

The sound of bare feet padding on hardwood broke Jason from his thoughts. He hastily slapped the picture back on the fridge, fingers still lingering for a half second too long. He turned and saw—

Big blue eyes, sleep-mussed hair, and an oversized Gotham Knights t-shirt that was most definitely Dick’s. 

Tim.

Jason’s voice took a poorly timed hiatus. The gravity of last night’s…events still weighed heavy and thick in the room. If Tim was shocked that Jason had stayed, he didn’t show it. There was not a flicker of doubt on his face—as if when he’d asked Jason to stay, he believed Jason actually would.

And—well. Jason was here. So. Even with every muscle in his body dragging towards the door

They stared at each other. Everything just felt so…weird. Like they were in their own little bubble of absurdity. The outside world knew nothing of what had happened here last night.

It made Jason feel like he was damned to be stuck in the past forever. Cursed to his rock, chained to that warehouse, nailed to a fixed point in time—and as the world spun on, the fabric of reality bunched and tore around him.

Dick had a kid.

Jason’s skin prickled. The staring was getting awkward. He felt like an intruder in a life he had absolutely no business in being a part of. Finally, he pried his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“I’m making pancakes.”

Nice, Jason. 10/10. Holy shit.

Tim blinked slowly. Jason blinked regularly. He didn’t know what do with his hands or his feet or—

“Okay,” Tim said at last. He padded over to the kitchen counter and climbed onto a stool.

Jason turned back to the cabinets. This is the most normal morning ever. 

“The spice cabinet’s above the stove,” Tim said softly. “If you’re looking for the cinnamon.”

Jason’s hand froze mid-reach. He had so many questions for this kid, like how did you know that and what am I doing here and how the fuck do you know who I am.

But all he said was, “Alright,” and grabbed the cinnamon from the top shelf. 

He dumped a generous amount of cinnamon into the mix, along with some cloves and nutmeg he found. Did the pancakes need it? No. But Jason put them in there, because using his soul to measure out some extra spices was better than feeling it clink around his chest like a pouch full of broken glass. He ran the bowl under the faucet, because measuring was for losers and regular people who didn’t wake up in existential crises.

He opened a few drawers before he dug out a spatula and held it out to Tim, who’d been studying him the entire time.

“Wanna mix?”

Tim took his eyes off Jason looked at the spatula like it was made of solid gold that had been blessed by the Pope—then back up at Jason, who froze immediately.

Holy shit, kid.

No one had ever looked at Jason like that before—with big, awe-struck eyes, like he’d just hung a star for him or something. Something in his chest caved a little.

Tim took the spatula with both hands, as if he might break it. Jason suddenly had to fight the bizarre urge to take it back and swap it with something better—like a Death Star Lego Set or a puppy or a decent goddamn childhood—

He grimaced and filed that goopy thought, too, under Deal With That Shit Never, subcategory Don’t Ever Fucking Look In Here.

Turning back to the skillet, Jason busied himself with warming the pan and hunting down some maple syrup—anything to keep his hands moving while the rest of him sat on the precipice of a mental breakdown to rival Dick’s.

Jason suppressed a shudder at the memory of last night.

“Dick,” Tim had said. “You’re heart is beating really fast.”

The kid had been scared, yes—but he wasn’t shocked. As if Dick going pale and clammy and nearly spiraling into a full-blown panic attack wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. It…scared Jason. Because what else? If that wasn’t irregular, if Dick fucking hallucinating him was something that just happened, what else? What else was there?

What did bad look like?

Jason found the bottle of syrup in the fridge, clenching it with both hands, knuckles nearly going white.

“Not again,” Dick had whispered when they were on the roof.

“I won’t tell you to go,” he had said in the kitchen, eyes glued to the floor. “But I just…I can’t look, okay? I love you, Jay, but—I can’t.”

At the time, Jason had absolutely no fucking idea what to say. His heart had splintered in his chest. This was wrong, so wrong, and Jason had no fucking idea what to even do. It was torture, watching his big brother fall and shatter before him. He had drowned in the waters of his own grief—for Jason.

Jason, who had come back believing no one had grieved him at all.

His father stood for vengeance—yet Jason was unavenged.

His father bled for justice—yet Jason’s killer was still walked free.

Jason had been taken away from his dad.

And the world had continued to spin.

He slammed the bottle down a little harder than necessary on the counter, trying to knock the thoughts from his skull. Behind him, Tim sharply looked up from where he’d been carefully mixing the pancake batter.

Jason grimaced. Right—kid. There was a kid here.

He cleared his throat, the glinting shards of glass on the floor catching the light of the rising sun coming in through the windows. 

Right. That.

“Hey, uh…where does your—"

He stopped himself. An awkward half-second passed, the unsaid word hanging between them.

“…Where’s the broom?”

Tim’s whole body went still, face tight.

Jason frowned. “You okay?”

“He’s not my dad,” Tim said, so fast Jason barely caught it.

Jason blinked.

Okay. So there’s…that. Guess the adoption gene is genetic, then.

He took in the dark hair, the blue eyes.

Yep.

Jason never really believed Dick had a hand in…making the kid (he was also super relieved that Dick didn’t have a secret second family. Jason didn’t want to share). But what Jason didn’t doubt is that the kid was Dick’s.

Jason’s never raised a brow so high in his life.

“My parents are still alive.”

He leaned back against the counter, arms folding across his chest.

“Never stopped anyone before,” he shrugged.

It was Tim’s turn to blink.

It was…cute. He was all bedhead, practically swimming in Dick’s too big t-shirt. There was an intelligence behind his blue eyes, and something else—something Jason couldn’t quite name.

“There’s a dustpan,” Tim said, ears an adorable shade of pink. “Below the sink.”

Jason fought a smile as he pulled out the small broom and pan from the cabinet.

I’ve got to teach this kid some curse words.

Jason swept the shards into a neat pile, crouching to scoop the glass into the dustpan. 

He frowned, thoughts once again turning to last night. A dark cloud had passed over Dick when Jason had handed him the glass, a storm brewing when it fell and shattered. For the millionth time, Jason wished he knew what Dick was thinking.

He looked over his shoulder. Tim was still at the counter, back to diligently mixing like his life depended on it—tongue poking slightly out to the side and everything.

Jason almost chuckled.

This kid—with that thing in his sparkling blue eyes that Jason couldn’t quite name—reminded him so much of…

Himself.

This kid reminded Jason so much of himself.

A twisted, warped, fun-house-mirror version of himself. Jason had a sick feeling that if he handed this kid green pixie boots and a domino, he’d launch himself into the night with a fervor only matched by Jason himself. 

Jason, before he’d died, of course.

Jason, before he’d lived again in the world that had broken his heart.

The kid had to know everything—of that, Jason was positive. He just wondered how much of everything he knew. How much Dick had told him, and how much he’d figured out on his own.

But the way Tim had looked at him last night—had trusted him, almost implicitly—made Jason squirm. He didn’t know how to carry all of that. He didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t a hero, or anything good. He’d killed people—and he didn’t feel bad about it.

Jason had done terrible things. And yet—Tim still had asked him to stay. 

Because Tim was scared.

The thought lodged like a splinter in his ribcage.

He rose slowly, stretching the stiffness from his back and shuffling toward the garbage, glass shards clinking in the plastic dustpan.

Jason wondered if Tim had been there—if he’d witnessed whatever horrible thing had happened to Dick. He didn’t know what Tim was to his brother. A littler brother? A found kid? A son-adjacent?

But what Jason did know, is that whatever they had, it was real. 

And God, Jason really didn’t want to fuck that up.

“Alright, Tim,” he said, waving a hand over the pan to feel the warmth. “Skillet’s warm. You done mixing?”

Tim nodded, handing the bowl out to Jason.

Jason took with a nod. “Great job, Master Chef. Gordon Ramsay would approve.”

Tim ducked his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

Jason scoffed softly, amused. I see how you got got, Dick. He ladled the batter onto the skillet in perfect circles. Jason turned back to Tim, planning to ask his opinion on chocolate chips. The kid was watching him intently, big blue eyes fixated on the pan in an adorable little frown. His gaze flicked up to Jason.

Wait.

Realization hit Jason like a goddamn truck.

He’d been so focused Dick, so zeroed in on the fact that Dick had a fucking child that he didn’t realize he fucking recognized him.

A neighbor kid. A neighbor kid with dark hair. He was young, way younger than Jason. He’d seen him around, mostly at galas, dragged along by picture-perfect parents that Jason distinctly remembered not liking.

“You—you’re Tim Drake!” he said, pointing the spatula at him.

Tim went very, very still. His eyes got even bigger, shoulders rising—like he was trying to making himself small. Jason was pretty sure he wasn’t even breathing anymore.

The reaction lanced a hot spike of anger through Jason’s gut. Not at Tim, just…the whole situation.

Dick—where the fuck did you find this kid?

Jason ran his other hand through his hair. “You’re…our old neighbor. Is that how you found out?”

Tim still didn’t speak—he just sat there, like if he stayed quiet long enough, he might go invisible. Like Jason might un-say what he just said.

But there was another question Jason needed to ask.

He dropped his voice low. “Do you know who I am?”

Jason felt like he was asking two questions.

Tim considered him for a moment. He remained still, eyes still big, but something flashed across them.

Tim nodded.

Jason felt like he was answering both.

A tense moment passed, Jason’s brain scrambling to catch up. He opened his mouth to say something else when—

Holy shit.

Jason grit his teeth, grimacing internally.

Tim looked freaked out.

He was clutching the spatula, knuckles almost white. Jason was pretty sure he hadn’t blinked in two full minutes.

Jason swallowed his questions, because now was not the time. He sighed and held up both hands. “Hey,” he began, trying to soften his voice. He didn’t mean to scare the little munchkin (though, something told him he was failing at this directive). “I’m not mad. If anything, I’m kinda impressed”

He shrugged. “Besides—you already know everything, apparently. It’s not like there’s any going back.”

He turned back to the pan, flipping a perfectly golden pancake and casting a cursory glance at the hallway.

“And you’re living with Nightwing, so—congrats, I guess. You’re basically in the Bat-cult now. So…yeah.” Jason ran out of words.

But thankfully, before Tim could open his mouth, there was a soft shuffle of steps from the hallway. Jason’s stomach clenched. He gripped the spatula tighter, preparing.

Would Dick freak out again? Another panic attack? Another…episode?

Jason swallowed hard. His hand shook slightly as he flipped another pancake.

Dick appeared in the kitchen. Jason turned to face him—from the corner of his eye, he saw Tim do the same from where he sat at the counter.

Dick yawned, rubbing an eye. “Are you making pancakes, Timmy—?”

He froze, whole body going rigid, eyes fixed on Jason.

It got really quiet. Jason was pretty sure he could damn near hear the pancakes cooking on the skillet.

Dick blinked. Then blinked again. His dark hair stuck up in odd directions, and one pant leg was bunched up around his knee. His long-sleeve sleepshirt was on backwards.

Jason thought of the scars hiding beneath the thin fabric. Suddenly, the sweet smell of the cooking pancakes was borderline nauseating. He didn’t know if he should speak. Honestly, he didn’t even know if he could. His tongue felt too big for his mouth.

The pancake was burning.

Dick was just…staring at him.

Jason remembered last night—how everything he did seemed to kick his brother further down his mental spiral. Jason did not want to go there again. So he just continued…staring.

The kitchen stool scraped on the tile behind him. Tim appeared, slipping his hand into Dick’s and bonking his head against Dick’s side. Without taking his eyes of Jason, Dick wrapped his arms around the kid at his hip.

“Morning Dick,” Tim said softly. “Jason made pancakes.”

“I, uh—" Dick whispered, hoarse, eyes still glued to Jason. “I can see that, Timmy.”

Tim pressed his thumb into Dick’s wrist over his pulse point, just like he did the night before. Jason wondered what it meant. “You’re awake,” Tim said. “This is real.”

Dick nodded slowly. “Uh-huh.”

Tim’s eyes flicked to Jason as if to say now it’s your turn, dumbass.

Jason unstuck his tongue from his mouth. It felt like sandpaper. He was going to have to have to toss this pancake—it was definitely burnt now.

He gestured at the pan. “Pancake?”

Wow. Absolutely phenomenal, Jason. 

Jason cleared his throat— then cringed internally as it came out too loud in the quiet. He tried again.

“Pancake? Not this one though. I, uh…burnt it. Am burning it. Actually. So.”

Dick still didn’t answer—neither did he move, or blink. Tim dropped his face into his palm with a sigh.

That funny feeling returned, the one that made his bones feel see through. Like an imposter—because Dick was looking at him but not seeing him. It was weird. Jason didn’t like it.

He’s looking for a dead boy. He’s not looking for you.

He’s looking for something he’ll never find. Because the Joker may have killed Robin, but Jason buried the boy.

Jason needed to scrape the pancake off the pan before it caught fire, but he couldn’t seem to move. He was frozen in place, pinned like a butterfly under his brother’s gaze—just like he was in the living room two nights before.

When Dick could function again—when he wasn’t being dragged under every time he looked at Jason like he was some reanimated nightmare—they were going to talk. A lot.

Tim’s small fingers gently tugged on Dick’s hand, trying to lead him toward the counter. Jason was overtaken by a hideous deja vu of the roof—of Dick, complacent, allowing Jason to guide him down the fire escape with no resistance. He looked like he was sleepwalking: each step slow and heavy, unblinking eyes locked on Jason.

Oh my God, Jason thought, panic curling hot and bitter in his chest. He probably thinks this is a fucking dream.

Tim’s words echoed in his head:

“You’re awake, Dick. This is real.”

Yup. He and Dick were going to fucking talk.

Jason finally uprooted himself from the floor and turned back to the pan. The pancake was beyond saving now—just a brittle, black corpse. Jason could almost taste it. He scraped it into the trash; it clinked as it landed right on top of the broken glass from last night.

The thoughts of last night hung like a guillotine blade above his head.

He reached for the batter again, hands trembling as he grasped at the straws of domestic normalcy. “I’ll uh…make a new one.”

Silence was his answer. Jason wondered what Dick was thinking—lately, it felt like that’s all he did.

This is fine, he told himself, ladling batter onto the skillet with a tad more force than necessary. This is so fine. This is super fine. Dick is a traumatized cat and his handler is our eleven-year old-neighbor he adopted. Or stole.

Jason frowned, brain snagging on that point. Aren’t Jack and Janet still…alive?

Hadn’t the kid said that?

So why was Jason making him pancakes? In Dick’s apartment? On a Monday morning? Shouldn’t he be in school? Shouldn’t Jason be somewhere else entirely?

If Jason kept up that line of thinking, he was going to need a smoke break—and he hadn’t brought a pack with him, because he wasn’t fucking planning on staying the night. So instead, he shoved that whole mess down and focused on breakfast. It was hard to do when he could feel Dick’s eyes burning holes in the back of his skull.

He yanked open cabinets to busy his hands. He snatched a few plates from one, then opened another for glasses—and stopped.

His heart rate spiked at the thought of last night. The glass shattering as it hit the floor, the way Dick just disappeared, even though he was sitting right in front of Jason. 

Yep. Jason did not want to repeat that.

He turned sharply back to Tim.

“You, uh—thirsty kid?”

Tim nodded, small fingers still curled tightly in Dick’s—who was still staring at him. Jason’s skin crawled.

“Stop—"

The words tumbled out before he could catch them, sharp and raw with exhaustion.

“Stop fucking looking at me like that.”

Jason regretted it instantly. The oppressive silence that followed sucked all the air out of the kitchen. He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Dick—"

“I think your pancakes are burning again,” Tim said softly, a pointing finger in solemn judgement.

“Shit.”

Jason spun bak to the stove and frantically flipped each pancake, relief blooming in his chest when they came up only slightly more golden than intended. There’s one thing that was salvageable. He kept his back turned, latching onto his duty of pancake management instead of spiraling.

It helped, a little. Spoon batter. Wait in awkward silence. Flip. Plate. Repeat.

By the time he was done, there were enough pancakes to comfortably feed a family of five.

He cleared his throat. “Alright, Tim,” he said, still refusing to turn around. “How many pancakes?”

“One, please,” came the small voice from behind him.

Jason plated him three. He reached for the fridge, pulling out the oat milk and orange juice—because this was a fucking normal morning now.

“Milk or juice?”

“Juice, please.”

Jason grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it. He searched through more cabinets, looking for—

“Silverware’s in the third one.”

Jason nodded and pulled open the drawer—and frowned.

Matte. All the silverware was matte.

What pretentious fucker has matte silverware?

Dick, apparently.

Jason pulled out a fork—can eleven-year-olds even use knives?—and added it to the plate. He let himself take one more breath. Then he turned.

Dick was no longer staring at him—he was staring at Tim, still clutching the kid’s hand like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. It probably was. Jason approached slowly, as if Dick was a wild animal waiting to strike. Fuck, that’s what it felt like.

He set the plate and glass down gently in front of Tim, the soft clink loud in the near-suffocating silence. He pushed the syrup over.

Before he could pull his hand back, Dick moved.

His hand flew out, latching on to Jason’s wrist. Jason locked up immediately, blood freezing to ice, muscles tensing. Dick’s eyes bore into his—but this time, they weren’t empty. They were searching. The awareness punched Jason in the chest—how present his brother looked. How awake.

Dick didn’t let go. Jason held his breath. The room faded out and it was just the two of them. 

A moment passed. Then another. And another, until it stretched and threatened to snap in half.

“You’re warm.”

Jason blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

Jason didn’t know how to answer that. So he said something stupid.

“Yup,” he said, popping the p. “That’s…what happens. When you’re…alive.”

Dick’s fingers twitched lightly on Jason’s wrist, moving over his pulse point. His brow furrowed, head tilting just slightly. 

Jason swallowed. The air was thick and thin all at once and it seemed to do nothing when he breathed it in. His heart pounded in his chest—he hoped Dick could feel it.

“You’re…real.”

All Jason could do was nod.

“You’re—“ Dick choked. “Alive.”

“Little Wing—you’re alive.”

They’d finished their breakfast in painful silence. Dick only nibbled at his pancakes, choosing instead to rip them into small pieces. Jason had wrapped the rest in plastic wrap after they’d cooled, hoping Dick might at least try to eat one later.

Jason had folded the couch back in while Dick had called Tim out of school, citing a “family emergency.”

It warmed Jason up inside, a little. That Dick still considered him family.

I love you, Jay. Time and grave are nothing.

The words echoed through him. For some irritating, desperate reason, Jason secretly hoped they were true.

Jason heard the muffled rush of the shower from his seat on the couch. Dick had asked for a few minutes alone, and Tim had nodded silently—casting a quick look at Jason before retreating to the bathroom.

Before, Jason had been almost desperate to talk. But now—across from his brother who was looking at him like he was some sort of undead miracle—he wasn’t so sure. The tension was so thick Jason could taste it—the weight of unasked, unanswered questions cloying in the air around them.

Jason shifted on the couch, growing restless, exhaustion pulling at his mind. Dick sat rigid, hands in his lap, looking like he wanted to reach out but kept stopping himself. There was this look on his face—a tangled mess of soft and hopeful and hurt and broken all at once. The pancakes curdled in Jason’s stomach. He deliberately did not look at the crescent-shaped scar on Dick’s temple.

It had been quiet for so long, Jason almost thought they were gonna skip the talking thing altogether.

Jason’s tongue felt like sandpaper. He swallowed the thick silence and spoke anyway.

“So…you have a kid now?”  he asked, jerking his chin toward the bathroom.

Dick blinked at Jason, as if he wasn’t expecting the question. Absently, Jason wondered just exactly what Dick thought he was going to say. So far, Dick had accepted that this was real—or at least, Jason thought (hoped) so. Still—Jason felt like he was walking through a minefield: one wrong step, and he’d send Dick right back down the mental sinkhole he’d fell into last night.

Finally, Dick spoke. “He’s not my kid.”

Jason raised the same brow he’d raised Tim. “Uh-uh. Where’d you find him?”

Dick looked away, bringing a hand up to absently rub at the scar on his temple. “More like…he found me.”

“So I’m not an uncle?”

Dick exhaled a small chuckle. “More…an older brother?”

Two things slapped Jason clean across the face: the first being he still thinks of me as his brother and the second being oh my God I'm a fucking middle child.

It got quiet again. Dick’s face fell back to that soft-hurt-hopeful-broken mess. 

Jason shook his head slowly. There was something heavy and unsaid between them, something lurking in the shadows that Jason desperately wanted to drag into the light but didn’t know how. There was so much he didn’t know. So much he didn’t even know how to ask.

Helplessness returned with a vengeance, wrapping a claw around his throat and settling tight amongst his ribs. He swallowed hard.

“What happened to you, Dick?”

Dick tensed immediately, jaw clenching, eyes glued to his hands resting limply in his lap. His fingers twitched. Jason heard him swallow thickly.

When he spoke, his voice was so broken it almost made Jason ill.

“Can—can I ask you first?”

Jason was stunned silent. The water was still running in the bathroom.

There was so much—so much Jason needed to say to answer that, and he had no idea if he could. He felt a sudden, almost overwhelming need to apologize—but for what? For dying? For not staying dead? For not coming back sooner, even when he could have? 

He swallowed the apologies down. They left his throat raw.

“Sure.”

Dick looked up at him, eyes watery and bloodshot—grief etched into every line of his face. Jason had to physically stop himself from leaning away to protect himself from the sheer weight of it. When his brother spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

“What happened, Jason?”

There were two ways Jason could do this: the short, brutal way, or the long, harder way.

Jason chose neither.

“Um—" he began, voice suddenly tight. Fuck, this was hard. He’d never really tried to put all the shit he’d went through into words before. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’ve…been back in Gotham. For about six months.”

There was so much more—but Jason didn’t say. He couldn’t tell Dick, not when it would shatter whatever fragile pieces remained of his brother.

Dick’s eyes swept over his scars—sliding from his face down to his exposed arms. Jason’s mind was brought once again to the ones hiding beneath Dick’s sleeves. Jason could feel the edge of something sharp and hot pressed to his throat—guilt, maybe. Or anger. Or fear. He couldn’t tell—the three seemed to blend like paint. 

“Dick,” Jason said, sharp and sudden, “we can’t—we can’t do this if you keep looking at me like that.”

If you keep looking at me like you're searching for something you will never find. 

I’ve killed people, Dick. 

I’ve killed your Little Wing.

Dick’s eyes found his, and stayed there.

“Okay,” he whispered. “I’m s—"

“If you tell me you’re sorry I’m gonna fucking punch you.”

Dick’s jaw clicked shut.

The silence that followed was nearly unbearable before Dick spoke again.

“Why didn’t you come home? When you came back to Gotham…why didn't you come back to m—to us?”

Jason’s heart lurched as if someone had just twisted a hot knife in his ribcage. He knew the question was coming—he knew Dick would want to know why Jason hadn’t come running back into the arms of his older brother.

And God, had Jason wanted to do just that—have his big brother wrap his strong arms around him and tell him that everything was going to be alright. That he was okay. That he wasn’t a monster.

That he wasn’t better off dead.

Jason clenched his fists tight, nails digging little half-moons into his palms—because the question also made him angry. He wanted to grab Dick by the shoulders and shake him. Why didn’t I come home?

Maybe because I didn’t have one anymore?

Maybe because the Joker had to live and I had to die?

Maybe because that clown ruined me—to spite Bruce.

And he. Did. Nothing.

Jason squeezed his fists tighter to stop them from shaking. He breathed deeply once, twice, trying to dispel the anger. He swallowed it down. It felt like swallowing fire.

“I—I don’t know,” he said, rough and uneven. He had to fight to keep the heat out of his voice. “Maybe I wasn’t ready. Maybe…I needed to figure some stuff out.”

Maybe because I’m not the brother you remember. Because if I came home, you’d see me. You’d see what I’ve become. And I don’t think you could handle it.

Jason knew Dick could tell he was lying by the way he was looking at him—studying him, open emotion written across his face. Jason wanted to tell him everything. Jason wanted to tell him everything and then have his big brother love him anyways. The truth was there—it flickered at the edges of his vision, lodged itself like a stone in his chest.

I am the Red Hood.

I killed those people.

I am your little brother. Please love me despite the blood on my hands. Please love me despite what I’ve done.

Because I still love you.

Jason felt tears prickle at his eyes. He looked away, blinking furiously, anger rising in him once again. This wasn’t about him, and he was getting tired of the fucking interrogation.

“My turn now,” Jason said, leveling Dick with a hard look. “Dick. What happened?”

Dick sighed deeply—Jason could almost see defeat settle around his shoulders like an iron chain. There was something else, too—something that Jason would almost call shame.

It was quiet. Jason distantly registered that the water was no longer running. The early morning sun cast the living room in a soft, domestic glow. Jason felt…weird here. Wrong here. A ghost haunting his own life, watching those he loved grieve him in real time—when he thought he was never mourned at all. 

And yet, Dick had grieved him so hard he’d seen Jason. The grief was so great that his brain had simply been unable to cope with the cold hard fact of Jason’s death—and so it just…didn’t. Instead, it filled in the gaps, forcing his brother to relive the reality Jason’s death over and over and over again.

Jason had only died once. He often relived it in his dreams. He wondered how many times Dick relived it—how many times he saw Jason just for him to be taken away again by the cold, unforgiving truth of reality. 

Dick’s voice was barely a hoarse whisper when he spoke, but he might as well have shouted at Jason:

“I asked you for one more miracle, Little Wing. I asked you to stop being dead.”

Before Jason could process that fucking bomb, the bathroom door creaked open.

Tim stepped out, hair damp. He froze in the hallway, eyes darting between Jason and Dick with mounting embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” he squeaked, already stepping backward into the bathroom. “It got really quiet so I thought that—“

“It’s okay, Tim,” Dick said softly, looking at Tim over the back of the couch. Jason found himself grateful for the interruption—he had no idea how the fuck to respond to Dick. Did he feel a little guilty? Maybe. But…he needed time. And space. To process. And scream a little and maybe even punch a few somethings who knows right.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Jason ignored it.

But then it buzzed again.

And again.

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose. He didn’t need to look at the screen to know who was calling. Or what it was for.

Red Hood business—AKA stuff that doesn’t give a shit about his “personal matters.”

Jason almost felt the need to hide his phone, the call. Like he couldn’t even risk these two worlds colliding. Like Dick would figure him out by the buzzing alone.

“I should go,” Jason said, moving to stand.

It only hurt a little that Dick didn’t argue—Jason would’ve fought him on it, anyway.

“Will you come back?” Dick asked quietly.

Jason froze, hand in his pocket, halfway off the couch. He recognized instantly that it wasn’t a question—or at least, not entirely. It was almost a plea. A fear, a desperate ask that Jason not disappear again because Dick didn’t want to lose his little brother a second time (or a third? A fourth? Just how many times did Dick…see him?).

“Um,” Jason began, because that was really all he had at the moment, “I don’t know when, but…yeah. I will.”

Dick blinked up at him, expression unreadable. Jason’s phone buzzed again in his pocket.

Just as Jason was turning to leave, Dick’s hand shot out for a second time and grabbed his wrist. Jason froze, tensing, Dick gently pressing his thumb into Jason’s pulse point.

“You’re alive, Little Wing,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re warm. You’re alive. This is real.”

Jason swallowed down a tide of emotions that threatened to drown him.

Time and grave are nothing.

Jason wanted to tug his wrist away from Dick’s grip, but he waited until Dick let go first.

“You still have my number?” he said, moving to stand as he let go of Jason’s wrist.

Jason nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak, couldn’t find the words to say I memorized it. Because when I needed help, I called you first.

Tim finally crossed the room, standing next to Dick. He smelled like coconuts. Jason fought the urge to reach out and ruffle his wet hair.

So. Not an uncle, but I can still definitely teach this kid some phenomenal curse words. Or maybe beat him at Mario Kart.

He was looking up at Jason, that thing in his eyes on full display. For the second time, Jason wondered what the kid had seen. What the kid knew.

“I’ll text,” he said to Dick, while still looking at Tim. “I promise.”

“Okay,” Dick said softly.

Jason’s phone buzzed again as he opened the door.

“Jay,” Dick called before he could step out.

Jason looked back, hand on the doorframe.

“I meant what I said,” Dick said. “Time and grave are nothing.”

Jason didn’t think Dick was even lucid enough to remember that.

Jason’s voice was still untrustworthy, so he just nodded.

And then he was gone.

Jason waited until he was standing at his bike before he answered Henry’s call.

“Dammit, Hood, finally! Where the hell are you?”

Jason rolled his eyes even though he knew Henry couldn’t see him. Didn’t they already have this conversation?

“I’m on my way back to the Narrows,” he said, unclipping his bike helmet from the handlebars.

“Thank fuck, boss. Because we got a huge problem.”

“What?”

“I think we’re being double-crossed.”

Jason sighed. “Henry,” he said, exasperation bleeding into his tone, “you are double-crossing me. It’s what I pay you for.”

“And not nearly fucking enough, if I do say so myself. But uh—no, boss. This…this one ain’t me.”

Dread, cold and heavy, sunk in Jason’s gut.

“I think we have a rat.”

Chapter Text

The phone sat on the desk.

Bruce swore it was looking at him—judging him, almost. If the dark screen had a brow, it would’ve certainly been raised.

Nightwing hadn’t gone out for patrol last night.

And as much as Bruce had wanted to call—had almost called—he didn’t. Instead, he’d sat in the Cave, staring at the steady, sure blink of Dick’s tracker—firmly stationary at his apartment. It never moved, and neither had Bruce

He hadn’t slept. He’d just sat there, still suited up from patrol, hand hovering over the phone, frozen in indecision until Alfred had appeared behind him. In that quiet, pointed way of his, he’d told Bruce to go upstairs.

And Bruce had obeyed—sort of. He wasn’t stupid enough to out-stubborn Alfred.

When he woke this morning, the first thing he did was check his phone. No headlines, no movement in Midtown, no sightings of Nightwing—and no missed calls from Dick.

But now it was midmorning, and Dick’s tracker still hadn’t moved. And Bruce still hadn’t called. He wanted to give Dick space.

But he remembered the last time he gave Dick space.

No—the last time he let fear push his son away.

(For a single, harrowing moment, Bruce wasn’t on a wet rooftop in Blüdhaven, holding his (breathing) eldest son.

He was back in that warehouse in Ethiopia, amidst the smoke and rubble, cradling the mangled remains of his youngest.)

Bruce’s throat tightened. He rubbed his hands down his arms, trying to shake the phantom weight from his limbs.

Maybe Dick just…wasn’t ready yet. Two nights ago had been his first patrol in months. And he’d worked so hard during those months to get back on his feet—physically and emotionally. He’d been seeing Dinah. Training, when Alfred had finally allowed him back into the Cave. He’d even moved back to Gotham—not into the Manor, to both Alfred and Bruce’s dismay—but it was still closer than Blüdhaven.

But Bruce knew Dick—knew how long his son could go before his restlessness got the better of him. After Bruce had…caught him, Dick had made it a week before he’d nearly climbed out his bedroom window.

Dick had gone on patrol two nights ago. He didn’t go last night. That had to mean something.

Bruce ran a hand down his tired face, through his hair.

Maybe Tim was sick. Yeah. That was plausible, wasn’t it? Dick could’ve stayed in to take care of him.

The thought of Tim softened the sharper edges of his worry. That impossibly smart, stubborn little kid who had wiggled his way into their lives like he’d always belonged. Tim was living with Dick now, at least until Bruce and his lawyers finalized the neglect case they were building against the Drakes.

Technically, Bruce would be Tim’s foster parent. But in all the ways that mattered, that kid was Dick’s.

Bruce walked over to the door of his study and shut it with a soft click. Back at his desk, he shuffled about papers and skimmed over some of the paperwork for the newest branch of Wayne Enterprises.

The folder Tim had given him, all those months ago—the one filled with his…victims—might as well have slapped him in the face. It forced him to look in the mirror, cowl and all. And when he finally did—when he finally sat down and went through all hundred names—the copper tang from the red on his gauntlets turned his stomach.

There was little Batman could do for the ones he’d hurt. But for maybe, for once, Bruce Wayne could do more. 

So, he added a new branch to his social services foundation—one focused on funding medical costs and lost wages for victims of violent crime. Rehab, therapy, long-term care, funeral expenses—it was all covered. Bruce spared no expense. It still seemed insufficient.

In the first month of the program, Bruce had set himself a personal goal: personally visit each admitted victim. Especially the ones from the folder.

He’d seen Petyr Kaminski two days ago. The kid was paralyzed from the waist down, but he was fighting through therapy like a champ. And he’d been so stunned that Bruce Wayne had personally come to see him.

Bruce had gone home and thrown up.

He shuffled the papers again. He fiddled with the paperclips holing them together. He glanced at his phone.

Was he stalling? Absolutely.

The grandfather clock chimed one p.m.

It was just a phone call. No work talk.

Bruce just wanted to see how Dick was doing.

He’d already lost one son—he was not going to lose another.

Bruce picked up the phone. The line rang three times before Dick answered.

“Hi, B.”

Relief hit Bruce so fast he forgot to respond.

“Hello? Bruce?”

Bruce cleared his throat.

“Hey, Dick,” he said. “It’s—uh. It’s me.”

“Yeah,” Dick said. There was light amusement in his voice, but Bruce could hear the fatigue beneath it. ”I figured.”

Bruce swallowed, hand tightening around the phone. Why was he so nervous?

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he said. “I just…wanted to check in.”

“You okay?” Dick asked immediately. “Everything…alright over there?”

“Yes. I mean—nothing urgent. I just…”

The silence on the other end wasn’t hostile, but it was expectant. Dick was waiting. 

Bruce caught himself, mouth already forming the beginning of why didn’t you patrol last night?

He bit the inside of his cheek. That felt…accusatory. That was the Batman, not a father. And much too late had Bruce realized that Dick still needed a father. He pivoted, swallowing the words down and burying them deep.

“How are you?”

There was a beat of silence. Bruce couldn’t read it this time.

“I’m okay,” Dick said. “A little tired.”

Bruce’s hand tensed on the armrest of his chair. He agonized to ask—nightmare?

Between Dick and Tim, Bruce had been able to piece together the hell that Dick had gone through—the nightmares, the sleepwalking, the hallucinations. Bruce knew Dick hadn’t told him everything, and that he probably never will. Even then, Bruce didn’t really need him too—the severe injuries he’d sustained had painted Bruce a terrible picture with Dick’s own blood.

Bruce ached to be there—to chase away the nightmares like he used to when Dick was little.

But Dick wasn’t little anymore.

So instead, Bruce asked another question:

“Are you eating enough?”

A soft snort crackled through the speaker.

“Did Alfred put you up to this?”

“No.”

Another pause. Bruce couldn’t tell if it was hesitation or…consideration. He wondered what Dick was thinking. He wondered, not for the first time, where he went so wrong.

“Um—Tim and I had pancakes this morning. And, uh, an old neighbor of mine dropped off some meals a few days ago.”

He didn’t answer the question, the detective part of Bruce’s brain bristled.

“And you’re…?”

An exasperated sigh, just shy of a groan.

“Yes, Bruce. I’m eating.”

Bruce pulled the phone away so he could let out the breath he’d been holding. Relief trickled in slow, leaving his heart flighty and his ribs feeling hollow.

“Good. That’s—good.”

The conversation hit a lull—one of those awkward gaps that Bruce never really learned how to fill. He was grasping at straws, walking through the minefield of their shared grief.

“You sound weird,” Dick said eventually.

Bruce frowned. “Weird?”

“Weird for you. Like—concerned.”

Bruce shifted in his chair.

“I am concerned…” Bruce hesitated. He took a risk. “About you.”

“Yeah,” Dick said quietly, but not defensive. Just…acknowledging. “I know.”

Bruce wanted to say more. He wanted to ask if Dick had slept. If he’d had any nightmares recently. Why he didn’t go out on patrol last night. But every question felt like a landmine beneath the earth of their fragile truce.

He really didn’t know where to go from here—the unasked questions were a heavy weight on his chest.

He pivoted again.

“How’s Tim?”

Tim was usually safe ground.

“He’s good. He’s…he’s really good.” Dick let out a soft, fond chuckle. “You should see him, B. He’s a whole different kid now. Still too smart for his own good, but if you get him talking, he’ll talk. For hours.”

Bruce found a small smile on his lips. The pride in Dick’s voice was palpable.

“That’s really good, Dick. I’m glad.”

Another silence, though Bruce was grateful this one was a tad less awkward. He wondered if this was as hard for Dick as it was for him.

“Um—speaking of Tim,” he asked gently. “You two still good for family dinner on Sunday?”

“Of course,” Dick said, without hesitation. “We’ll be there.”

“If you guys bring dessert,” Bruce added with a faint smirk, “just pick something up. Please don’t try to…make anything.”

Dick huffed a laugh.

“How was I supposed to know baked Alaskas were that complicated? Or…explosive?”

Bruce chuckled softly. It felt…good. To laugh with his son. 

He could feel the call winding down, the natural end approaching—and for some, heartsick reason, Bruce didn’t want it to.

“I’ll…I’ll see you then,” he said, quieter now.

“Yeah. See you then.”

Neither of them moved to hang up.

“…Bruce?” Dick said at last, voice soft. Small.

Bruce was glad Dick couldn’t see the way he straightened instinctively in his chair.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For calling. It…thanks.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a half second before responding.

“Of course, chum.”

“Bye, B.”

“Bye, Dick.”

The line disconnected. Bruce set the phone down on the desk.

He didn’t say anything for a long time.

The Bat was on the roof. The man was on the roof.

The man didn’t see the Bat.

He leaned over the ledge, cigarette between his fingers, smoke filling the night air.

She’s getting worse. 

The florist came by to ask about flower arrangements for their wedding.

She told her not to bother.

The man had to excuse himself to the bathroom lest he lose his lunch on the cold hospital tile.

The night was warm. He took another drag.

“Those will kill you.”

The man startled, nearly dropping his cigarette.

“Jesus, Bats,” he said, heart racing. “You’re a fucking creep.”

The Bat said nothing.

The man ran a hand through his hair. It’d be gray before next spring. He put out his cigarette on the ledge and turned to face a suspiciously thick section of shadow across the rooftop.

“What do you want to know?”

“The Red Hood wasn’t seen for two consecutive nights. Why?”

“Does it hurt to speak like that?” the man muttered, nervous. “All gravelly and ‘I am the night’?”

The Bat said nothing.

“She’s getting worse, you know that?” the man said. “You said you’d help her. So—just—fucking help her already, dammit!”

The Bat said nothing. He’s playing chess with people’s lives.

The man swallowed. He might be dead before her.

“I don’t exactly know why he didn’t go out,” he began. “But no one could reach him. Not even his second. Not until this morning, when he said he’d be back in the Narrows by tonight. And he didn’t go out as Hood, because no one saw him. Like, no one. His second checked the street cams—though, they’re shitty in the Alley and half of them are fucking fake—and he couldn’t find anything. So Hood must’ve gone out as…whoever he is underneath. Which—“ the man shook his head. “Is damn near impossible, because we all know he doesn’t even have a civilian identity. No none knows who he is. We can’t figure it out.”

“You don’t know who he is?” the Bat asked, voice sharp.

The man laughed, bitter.

“You—you think if I fucking knew who he was we’d even be having this conversation?”

The Bat said nothing.

“He—first of all, he’d fucking kill me if I sold him out to you of all people. And it wouldn’t be slow, either. Everybody knows that Hood hates the bats, and your guts specifically. Hell, that’s why half his crew joined him in the first place. Everybody’s got a damn grudge against you, Vengeance. He’s just the only one crazy enough to act on it.”

The man laughed again, but this one bordered on hysterical.

“I’d tell you. You’d get Sophie her kidney—though, I don’t even know how you’d even fucking do that—and then I’d be tortured to death in some basement somewhere. Nobody’d ever find what’s left of me. Or, the fucker would keep me alive—"

“So he disappeared,” the Bat cut in. “And came back this morning. Did he say where he went?”

“No. Just said he’d be back in the Narrows by tonight. He’s out right now, if you’re wondering.”

The Bat said nothing.

The man sighed. He wanted his cigarette back. His phone buzzed in his pocket—he knew instinctively that it was Hood's second, calling to ask where he was. Time was up. The man needed to leave.

“You gotta help her,” he said, tired. “You just—you’ve got to.”

The Bat reached into his utility belt. He held out a thick envelope. 

“That’s triple,” he said. “Call the number on the card.”

The man took it, ripping it open. A business card was tucked amongst the bills.

He looked up—and the Bat was gone.

Chapter Text

The warehouse’s office stank of mildew and rotting paper. Despite the grimy lighting, rusty filing cabinets, and the occasional rat, it was the perfect location for the Red Hood’s most covert meetings. Though, Jason never liked to stay in one place very long (call it a healthy dose of Bat-paranoia) and made sure to change locations monthly.

Jason restlessly paced the length of the small room. “So you think we have a rat?”

Henry nodded, solemn. Jason wished he could press his hands to his face—he figured it’d look pretty stupid with his helmet in the way.

After Henry had called to inform him about the rat that morning, Jason had immediately requested he meet him at a secure location that night so they could talk in person—just in case any of their lines were tapped. In between then and now, Jason had scoured his paperwork, searching for any inconsistencies. So far, he hadn’t found any signs of a traitor in his ranks. Yet.

Was Jason pissed? Abso-fucking-lutely he was. So much so that he was able to almost compartmentalize all the other shit he’d discovered the past two nights.

Key word being almost.

He shook the thoughts from his head and refocused on Henry.

“I say,” he purred, voice laced with venom, “I pay a little visit to all our guys. Remind them exactly who they’re loyal to.”

Jason really just wanted to beat the shit out of some people. 

He’d been in full gear for the past four hours as Henry debriefed him on what they knew about the rat, along with all the meetings he’d missed while on his…hiatus. He was itching to get out on patrol—anything to numb the complicated jumble of emotions churning inside him.

Henry sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I don’t know, boss…”

Jason frowned beneath the helmet. Even though Henry couldn’t see it, he trusted his second could read the disapproving vibes Jason was so clearly giving off.

“What do you mean ‘you don’t know’? We have a rat, Henry. And snitches get dead.”

“That’s what I’m saying, boss.” Henry ran a hand through his short hair. “They don’t know we’re on to them. And—if I’m being completely honest—we don’t even know who they are. What if we just…wait?”

Jason balked. Henry could read the vibes. “Wait?”

“Yeah. Let them think they’re safe, then they’ll slip up or something. Get too comfortable. We’ll just…start slow. Be careful of what we say around who. Lull ‘em into a…false sense of security.”

Goddamnit, Jason really wanted to beat the shit outta somebody.

But…Henry made a good point. If they acted too soon, they could spook the rat back into whatever gutter he'd crawled out of and then they’d never find him.

“Fine,” Jason bit out.

Henry nodded. “Alright, boss, I—"

There was knock at the door.

Jason stiffened, hand instinctively ghosting the gun holstered at his thigh. He opened his mouth to bark something, but Henry beat him to it.

“Come in!”

Jason blinked. Huh?

The door opened slowly, rusty metal hinges squeaking—and a man stumbled in. He was breathless, obviously nervous, a stack of papers in one hand and…a cup of coffee in the other. His shirt and hair were ruffled as if he’d sprinted there.

Jason frowned behind his helmet.

“Ah!” Henry grinned, taking the coffee. “Thank you, Ben.” He plucked the papers from the man’s hand, then waved him off.

Jason studied him. Ben couldn’t be any older than twenty-seven—still older than Jason was, but still too young for this life.

Jason was…honestly floored. These pre-patrol meetings were reserved for Jason and his highest ranking lieutenants only, and even then he and Henry had even more confidential meetings just between the two of them.

Meetings like the one they were having right the fuck now.

Jason’s tone was light when he spoke—or, it would’ve been, if not for the helmet. “Henry. Who’s this?”

“This is Ben,” Henry replied, breezy.

“I can see that.”

“Don’t get your hood in a twist, boss. He’s my…protégé.”

“You have an intern?”

“A protégé.”

“Sure.”

Henry sighed and turned toward Ben, who was still warily eyeing the hand Jason had resting on his holstered gun.

“That’s all, Ben.”

The man nodded, backing out of the room like Jason was a live grenade.

At least somebody still has some fucking fear in their heart, Jason thought as he watched Ben leave. 

He would’ve chuckled if it weren't for the snarl still on his lips. “How do we know he’s not the rat?”

Henry leaned back, coffee in hand. “Trust me, Hood—he’s not. Guy’s in a fuckin’ tough spot. His fiancée’s in the hospital. She’s got like some kidney disease or somethin’—she’s been waitin’ on the transplant list for years. The bills are pilling up, and you know how that shit is. So I’m…helping him out.”

Jason snorted. “We do healthcare now?”

Henry huffed another short laugh. “I just…I dunno. I know what it’s like, I guess. Having someone in the hospital. Not being able to just…fix them. And the system’s a bitch, everyone knows that. You can’t pay for the care they need, but…they need it. To survive. To fucking function. So I’m just…”

He trailed off, gesturing with the hand not holding the coffee.

Jason nodded slowly. He understood quite well, and much more than he wanted to admit. Desperation was one hell of a motivator. It turned people into soldiers—and, more often than not, into criminals.

“We’ll pay him more,” Jason muttered. “Make sure he can eat on top of the bills.”

Henry raised a brow. “You’re going soft.”

Jason tilted his head slightly. “Henry, I highly recommend you shut the fuck up before I decide it’s time to shake down the entire chain of command.”

Henry snorted and went back to debriefing. Jason tried to focus. Unfortunately for everyone (Jason included), his mind began to wander.

His body was here, armored up and standing across from his second-in-command. But his head was somewhere else—somewhere colder and salt-stung.

His brother was drowning in the waters of his grief—being drowned, and drowning himself. Jason knew Dick. He liked to think he knew his brother better than anyone else in the world. The waters would rise, slow and quiet at first, and Dick wouldn’t run. He wouldn’t seek higher ground, because that meant leaving the sea. No—he’d let the tide in. He’d break his own levies to feel the flood, to drown in the way he thought he deserved.

And clearly, he had.

And Bruce stood on the shore, dry and deathly still, watching his son disappear beneath the waves. He won’t reach out a hand—not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. Because to reach out for Dick, Bruce would have to step into the water. He’d have to wade in the same grief he’d spent his life outrunning. He’d have to drown a little, too.

And Jason knew—Bruce would never do that.

A story started to form in Jason’s mind, one foamy wave at a time. He’d spent nights wondering where the fuck Bruce had been, why he’d let Jason’s killer take him away from his dad. But now, Jason wasn’t asking where Bruce had been for himself—he was asking for Dick.

Now, he thinks he knows.

And then there was Jason: standing on that stupid fucking rock, watching the waves lap at a shore he’d never reach. He’s not dry, and he’s not drowning, just…stuck. The spray hits his face and its cold and it stings and the salt gets in his mouth and coats his teeth yet he stands—a fixed point in time. He watches the horizon. If he stands here long enough, will the tide decide what to do with him?

But time and tide wait for no man, remember?

So Jason stands. And Dick drowns. And Bruce watches.

Dick moves apartments.

His father moves on.

And Jason stays on that rock.

“I’m Robin, the Boy Wonder!”

“He’s a drug dealing pimp! I didn’t think I had to prop up some pillows before I took him out!”

He waits for time to turn back, for his father to turn around. For the tide to bring him in—but it won’t. Because Jason’s world had ended when he’d died. And the sun had rose again the next morning. And the morning after that and the morning after that and—

“I don’t even know why we do these meetings when I know you’re not listening to a single fuckin’ thing I’m saying.”

Jason blinked, thankful that the helmet hid his face because he had no idea what expression was on it.

Beside him, Henry exhaled sharply. “Something to do with your…personal matter?”

Jason glanced up from where he’d been staring at the table, jaw tight. “Drop it, Henry.”

“Sure,” Henry said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Absolutely dropped, boss.”

The look he gave Jason said quite the opposite. The matter was very much not dropped.

“…are we gonna continue with the debrief, or are you just gonna keep brooding?”

“I don’t brood.”

Henry leveled him with a look so incredulous Jason wondered if he should fire off a few rounds into the first unlucky soul who crossed his path just to remind his second exactly who the Red Hood was.

“Whatever you say, boss,” Henry said with a shrug. “Anyways, one of the newer dealers up by the Narrows is cutting his stuff with something shitty…”

The cool night air was a balm to Jason’s fractured soul—but that was about it.

The dealer had been an easy mark—skinny, jittery, and obviously new to the whole “crime thing.” All Jason had to do was loom—rattling off a few warnings about what exactly Jason would do to him if he was caught again—and the guy had bolted, a hundred apologies falling from his lips along with the promise of never dealing again.

The whole encounter had left Jason more agitated. He wanted the adrenaline. He needed something to burn off the wildfire in his chest. 

So he climbed, quick and fast and sure, to his usual perch—his favorite gargoyle overlooking the veins of the city. This spot was his. He’d claimed it back when he was still R—

Well. Before.

The city sprawled out before him, glittering and grimy. It was an interesting duality, one that had always called to Jason. He exhaled slowly, trying to feel the city buzz beneath him as he dangled his feet over the ledge. But his perch offered no comfort tonight.

Jason wanted to scream. He wanted to punch something. He felt…raw—like the helmet was the only thing keeping his thoughts from spilling out of his eyes, his armor the only thing keeping his heart inside his chest.

“I asked you for one more miracle, Little Wing. I asked you to stop being dead.”

Jason shuddered. What—

Something shifted in the shadows of the rooftop across from him. 

He tensed, muscles coiling on instinct.

Most goons and criminals conducted their shady business in dark alleys and suspicious side streets—they often did not dare venture to the rooftops, because they all knew just whose territory it was.

Jason narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the figure.

There. Across the rooftop, illuminated by the light of a full moon shining through Gotham’s smoggy sky, was—

Jason’s lungs locked up. His mouth fell open.

No way.

No fucking way.

Nightwing?

The city dropped out from under him for a split second—and Jason stared, frozen, as Nightwing flipped and grappled across buildings.

First of all, what the fuck was Dick doing out?

Second, why the fuck was he on Jason’s turf?

Jason reached for his grapple—then froze.

Part of him wanted to tackle Dick and duct tape him to a chair—because what? What was he doing out here? Not twelve hours after Jason found him on the roof, babbling nonsense, dissociating to hell and back? Questioning his own fucking reality?

Dick was beyond emotionally compromised. What if thought he saw Jason out here? What would he do?

“I asked you for one more miracle, Little Wing. I asked you to stop being dead.”

A shiver ran up Jason’s spine. The scar on Dick’s temple had burned itself into his mind—the damning almost-fatality of it, the question of how it happened. The slashes on Dick’s arms, the utter defeat in Dick’s voice when he spoke to someone he thought so surely wasn’t really there—all of it weighed on Jason’s chest, compressing his ribs against his lungs and his heart.

Another part of Jason wanted to fire a warning shot in his brother’s direction. Just a little reminder: this is my turf, Nightwing. Go haunt your own fucking graveyard. He’d made it very clear all those months ago exactly what he thought of the Bats. Crime Alley was his.

And yet…

The smallest part of him—the scared little brother that looked up to Dick Grayson like he hung the damn moon, the scared little kid that worries his brother will never look at him the same—wanted to run. To hide. 

Maybe because I’m not the brother you remember. Because if I came home, you’d see me. You’d see what I’ve become. And I don’t think you could handle it.

This is what I’ve become. Maybe I was better off dead.

So Jason stayed frozen on the rooftop, watching his brother flip and fly across the skyline as if nothing had ever changed.

They used to do that. Together.

Jason forced the memory down, burying it with the rest of the things that fought to rise up and strangle him.

He doesn’t know, Jason thought, taking a slow, deep breath to calm his flighty heart.

He’ll just…scare Dick. Spook him and chase him off. Maybe that’d work (it wouldn’t, but Jason found himself moving towards his brother anyways).

The chink-vhiiip of his grapple offered a familiar rhythm as he launched into the night. Air whistled around him. Nostalgia rose up in his throat, thick and warm and cloying, nearly choking him. He swallowed it back down. The small part of Jason that wanted to run was almost screaming now. He silenced it.

He dropped onto the rooftop across from Nightwing, boots hitting the concrete with a heavy thud. He didn't try to be quiet. There was no point. Nightwing turned, easy and relaxed in the stupid way only Dick could manage.

Jason stared, once again grateful that the helmet hid his entire face. You were on a roof twelve hours ago, he thought, eyes narrowing, reading Dick’s light countenance like the mask it was. And I thought you were going to—

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jason said, cutting the thought off before it drowned him. His voice came out harsher than intended, but whatever. The anger was better than the hot blade pressed up against his throat. It shielded him better than any armor.

Nightwing raised a brow in that smug-asshole way Jason always hated. “You’re a Crime Lord. I’m a vigilante. I’m doing my due diligence.”

He even had the audacity to gesture at the rooftop they were standing on.

“Besides,” he added casually, “this isn’t your territory. Park row ends there—"

He pointed a blue-striped finger across the street.

“—so technically, I’m not in violation of your little border.”

Jason’s fingers twitched at his side. More anger bubbled up inside him, hot and boiling.

Jason fought to keep his voice even. “Are you serious?”

Dick tilted his head, flashing Jason that infuriatingly blinding grin. “Quite.”

Jason stared at him—his stupid trademark smile, his effortless calm. Classic Nightwing. The Golden Boy.

It was a mask. A fucking mask, and Jason knew it.

He breathed in slowly. First of all, fuck you, Dickface.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked lowly, hoping it came out through the modulator as more growl and not as desperate as he was beginning to feel. “Do you have a fucking death wish?”

Dick blinked. “Um—I’m stopping crime?”

“No,” Jason snapped, stepping forward before he could stop himself. The storm of emotion inside him twisted and spiraled—an F5 touching down. “I mean what the hell are you doing? You—you were on a fucking rooftop!”

Jason’s voice broke, and he swallowed hard. His thoughts were a fucking mess. He’d tried to cool off, to escape, to let the adrenaline of patrol and the buzz of the city wash the fire from his veins. Instead, he’d found Dick.

Dick went very, very still. The smile dropped of his face like—well, like glass slipping through his hands and shattering on the floor. He stared at Jason. But there was something else there, too. Almost…panic.

“…How do you—"

“You need to go home,” Jason said, as if it were an order.

Dick was going to get himself fucking killed out here. Another dead bird

Jason was supposed to be the only one that died. It wasn’t supposed to happen to Dick, too.

And yet here he was—stringing himself up and dancing too close to the edge. Dick had already flashed Jason his blinding smile, but Jason knew. He knew how broken his brother had been the night before, looking at Jason like he was seeing a ghost—or completely unable to look at Jason at all.

How many times—how many times did Dick flash that same smile? And blind those who asked? How many times must the show go on? How many times did Dick step behind the crimson curtain—stained red with his own blood—then reappear as if hadn’t just stitched himself back together with smoke and mirrors and sleight of hand?

Jason clenched his fists.

Not anymore. You can’t fool me, Dick.

I see you.

“…How do you know about—?” Dick whispered. He hadn’t moved a muscle. “You weren’t—we didn’t even know about you yet. There’s no way—"

Jason’s pulse thundered in his ears, body still tense.

Shut up. Shut up shut up. Don’t say another word.

He couldn’t tell if he was asking Dick, or himself.

Dick shifted, hands readjusting on his escrima. “Who are you?”

Too far—Jason had gone too far. His mask had cracked and he’d let it.

Jason didn’t breathe. He could feel his heart in his throat. Every instinct demanded he run—but he couldn’t. He was rooted to the cement of the roof, the same way he’d been rooted to the floor of Dick’s living room two nights ago. Unable to move, unable to reach out a hand and pull his brother up from the waves.

A million emotions flickered across Dick’s face as he studied Jason, eyes narrowed.

Don’t see me, Jason thought. Please don’t see me. Not like this.

Jason didn’t get a chance to answer.

(Not that he would have, or even could have, anyways.)

“Hood!”

The moment between them shattered.

Jason turned just in time to see one of his guys—Gavrilo, a newer one—vault up from the fire escape with a gun already drawn.

The moment he clocked the blue bat symbol on Dick’s chest—

He fired.

Jason lunged before his body even registered he’d moved. Maybe it was instinct, or muscle memory, or something much louder than his anger and much older than his grief.

He shoved Dick back and threw himself in the path of the shot, his own weapon rising in the same breath. He heard the bullet whizz past his shoulder and embed itself in the brick of the chimney behind him.

CRACK!

Gavrilo went down screaming, a bullet in his bicep. His gun clattered to the concrete. Gavrilo’s bloody fingers scrabbled at it. Before he could do something even more stupid, Jason kicked it away. It skittered across the rooftop and out of reach.

“Stand down, you idiot!” Jason roared, voice booming through the helmet’s modulator. “He’s not a fucking threat!”

Only then did Jason realize how quiet the rooftop had become. His ragged breathing was loud in his ears, the gunshot echoing and echoing and echoing—first between the buildings, and then between the bones of his ribs and skull. He wondered if Dick could hear how hard his heart was beating.

Gun smoke curled lazily in the air between them. Gavrilo gurgled and whimpered where he laid on the concrete, crimson fingers clutching his sluggishly bleeding arm.

Dick was still behind him. Jason didn’t dare look.

What the fuck did I just do?

He quickly redirected the rising flood of fear and panic inside him.

“Gavrilo,” he barked, gun still pointed at the young man on the ground before him. He squeezed the metal tight to keep his hands from shaking. “The next one goes between your fucking eyes.”

Gavrilo nodded hastily, fear visible in his eyes. He scampered down the fire escape seconds later.

It got horridly quiet again. Jason still hadn’t turned around.

“…Why would you do that?”

Jason’s stomach plummeted to the first floor of the building they were standing on, taking blood and breath with it. His heart was trying to beat it’s way out of his ribs—thump thump thumping against bone and lung like a bird in a cage.

His fingers curled tighter around his gun, trigger finger itching—but there was no enemy to aim at. Just Jason and his brother. His mind scrambled for something to say, but he came up empty.

So Jason didn’t answer. Because what, pray tell, in the fuck was he supposed to say?

I did it because I love you.

Because I died and what it did to you is killing me.

Because if I turn around you might never look at me the same. I could survive death, Dick—I did. But I don’t know if I could survive you looking at me like the monster we all know I am. As if I was better off dead.

Jason’s brain was still floundering, his back still turned to his brother when he heard shuffling from the chimney behind him.

Jason’s head snapped up.

Someone else was here.

“‘Night, Timmy,” Dick whispered, running a featherlight hand through’s Tim’s hair.

Tim stirred, rolling over and cracking an eye open. “Yer goin’ out?” he mumbled, bring up a hand to rub at his groggy eyes.

Dick flashed him a small, guilty smile. “I gotta, Timmy. I can’t…” he trailed off, a sad look in his eyes. “I just have to.”

He continued running a light hand through Tim’s hair. He wished Dick would stay. He didn’t want Dick to go out—with everything that had happened, Tim thought it was a really bad idea.

But Tim also knew there was nothing he could do to stop Dick.

Dick leaned closer and pecked Tim on the forehead. He smelled like kevlar and mint from the gel he used to keep his hair out of his face. Tim liked it—he smelled like home. 

And Tim had never had something be like…home before.

“I’ll be back, I promise. I’ll even come in and give you a squeeze okay?” Dick tapped a finger on Tim’s nose; he giggled in response. “Just don’t wait up for me, okay? I’ve called you out of school for the rest of the week, but you still need to get good sleep.”

Tim nodded, his tiredness already beginning to fade, replaced with a familiar giddy excitement. “I promise, Dick.”

Dick smiled and stood. “Alright, sweetheart. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Tim rolled over with a faked yawn. “See you in the morning.”

The door closed behind Dick with a soft click. Tim waited exactly fourteen minutes.

Then sprang out of bed.

Dick was always the easiest Bat to follow, anyways.

Jason whirled, finger tensing against the trigger, already preparing for another one of his dumbass guys trying to pull something stupid—

His brain, unfortunately, was still buffering.

“Tim?”

The name slipped out before Jason could wrench it back.

The half-shadowed figure peeking out from behind the chimney—the chimney with a fucking bullet embedded in it—squeaked and disappeared back behind the brick. But it was already too late.

Dick rounded on Jason instantly. He stepped into Jason’s line of sight, all righteous fury and crackling blue light flickering over his face. His mouth was curled into something venomous.

“How the fuck do you know him?” Dick snarled, muscles pulled taught and ready to pounce.

Jason’s thoughts skipped and stuttered like a scratched record. He tried to reel it all back in, desperately searching for something to say that wouldn’t make everything worse. But his brain was waterlogged and salt-encrusted. He felt his ears clog, his limbs leaden.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen. Dick wasn’t supposed to be out here. Tim wasn’t supposed to be out here. This life…it was separate from that.

The gentleness in Dick’s voice, the hope in his eyes when Jason had promised to call—it would all evaporate the second he figured out what Jason was. The door would slam shut and there’d be no coming back. Jason would forever be left on the outside.

His throat burned. He still felt raw—every nerve exposed, crackling and dangerous. His lungs constricted, the armor squeezing him, pulling him down. The helmet was suffocating.

(…and it stung, just a little, that Dick thought he would hurt Tim. Even if Dick didn’t know who he was. Yet.)

The night air rushed back in and ice cold shock pulled him from his spiraling thoughts.

Tim was what…eleven?

What the actual fuck was he doing here?

“What the hell are you doing here, kid?” he said, voice sharp. The modulator crackled it out as a growl.

Tim had moved behind Dick, dressed in black sweatpants and a hoodie. He peaked around Dick’s leg and locked eyes with Jason.

He had a feeling the kid was looking through the helmet, to the man underneath. I know who you are, his intelligent blue eyes seemed to say.

It unsettled Jason, and he fought the urge twitch. He remembered their conversation in the kitchen—Jason had asked two questions, and Tim had answered both.

And now he was here, on a rooftop, where he could’ve been fucking shot.

His gazed dropped to where Tim stood—barely and arm’s length from Dick, his body angled toward him. Almost…defensive.

He’s not scared, Jason realized. The little munchkin isn’t scared at all.

He was protecting Dick, too. That’s why he came out here.

Because Dick had been on the roof last night. Dick had been dissociating and spiraling and Tim and been there to pull him back.

And now Dick was out here, doing God knows what, while Tim sat at home and waited for him to come back—not knowing when or how. Or if he would even come back at all.

Jason got it now.

He looked up, back at Dick, and—

Fuck.

Jason swore internally. He could feel the intensity of Dick’s eyes as his gaze flicked between them, clocking the invisible thread. Something shifted behind the white lenses of his big brother’s domino: recognition.

Dick was thinking. He was putting the pieces together, because he of course he fucking was—he was fucking Dick Grayson.

The thick tension reached down Jason’s throat and choked him. He shifted where he stood, just barely, but Dick’s eyes zeroed in on him like a sniper scope.

And, in that moment, Jason knew.

Dick was staring right through the red metal—through every wall Jason had ever built between them in his absence—and looking. Right. At. Him.

Dick stepped forward.

Jason stepped back.

Then, so softly, with so much raw, open reverence that Jason felt sick, Dick spoke.

“Little Wing?”

When the Joker had beat Jason to death, it had been agony. But then again, agony wasn’t strong enough to describe the kind of pain that clown had inflicted upon him. Agony. It was too short, too quick, over and out of your mouth before you could taste the iron (was it his blood, or the crowbar, that burned the metallic tang on his tongue?). Even pain and horror and torture could never articulate the kind of nightmarish, sadistic torment that Jason had endured. But—there it is again: another word that fell short—nightmare. Because it wasn’t a nightmare, was it? It was real, and it had happened, and Jason had endured it.

Well, no. Jason hadn’t endured it. He’d lost. He’d been murdered. He’d died.

He’d died screaming. He’d died waiting. He’d died crying and alone and scared and in so much pain there were no words in any language to even capture the essence of it.

Right now—with the way Dick was looking at him—he felt like he was back on that goddamned warehouse floor, feeling his very soul being torn from his body. Drained from his blood, peeled from his bones, ripped from his skin. Wrenched open. Split apart. Exposed.

Jason felt exposed.

Dick had taken that blinding fucking spotlight off himself and turned the full force of it on Jason.

What do you see, Dick?

Dick stepped forward.

Jason stepped back.

His muscles tensed, jaw locking—bracing for a punch, or a scream, or an escrima to the ribs. He would look at Tim if he could break away from the intensity of his Dick’s gaze.

He had asked him two questions. Tim had answered both.

Jason’s chest rose and fell in rapid bursts. Panic slithered up his spine, cold and gripping. It squeezed his lungs. His body shook like was back between the four wooden walls of his coffin, beneath six feet of indifferent soil, running out of air and Bruce, Bruce, please help m—

The panic took and took and took until it swallowed everything and there was only one thing left.

“You’re the Red Hood.”

A crowbar to the ribs. Metal in his mouth. An accusation? Confirmation?

Jason…didn’t deny it. There was no fucking point, anyways.

Dick’s breath stuttered, caught somewhere in his throat as if he couldn’t get it to leave his body. His face twisted and twitched like he didn’t know which expression to wear—anger? Disbelief? Sorrow? He looked—

Lost. He looked lost.

No—it was something else. Dick’s hands trembled, his wrist twitching. His jaw worked uselessly; words would not come. Beneath the domino, Jason could see his brother’s eyes searching the helmet, the armor, as if seeing him for the first time—trying to make sense of the stranger turned not-stranger standing in front of him. Dick’s body stood frozen as if panic had a its chilly fingers around his throat, too.

So no. Dick did not look lost.

He looked like he was losing.

The panic, the fear, the anger (the desperation, God there was so much desperation Jason was drowning in it) all rose up inside Jason like a great battle. But anger won out, as it always did.

“You think I wanted you to find out like this?” He snapped, putting as much ferocity into his words as he possibly could. He buried any tremor beneath the modulator and his teeth.

He clenched his fists to stop them from shaking. Dick did the same, as if trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will. Tim was still at his side with an unreadable expression on his face. Jason couldn’t focus over the panic threatening to pull him down to the concrete below. But if he could, he might have called it hope.

Jason shifted his stance in preparation for a fight. He raised his defenses so he wouldn’t be drowned. His body knew this was a battlefield, but Dick was not the enemy. It was the raw, open, sheer vulnerability. The sting after being unmasked so forcefully.

“Jas—"

No. No no no. Nope—no. Too much. Hearing Dick say his name—so soft, so broken, so pleading—it was all too much and Jason simply couldn’t run fast enough while still standing in front of Dick. 

For a second time, he fled. Down the fire escape. Off the roof. Away, fucking away—

Whether Dick followed, Jason didn’t know. He never looked back.

The rooftop was silent as the grave.

Dick’s hand was still outstretched, as if he could grasp the absence Jason had left behind.

Tim was at his side. He slowly brought the hand down to wrap around the kid’s shoulders.

“Let’s go home, Tim.”

Chapter Text

Jason had ditched the helmet the second he stumbled through his apartment door, caught in the eye of an emotional hurricane. His head was an echo chamber, every thought ricocheting against the inside of his skull. The red metal had only made it worse—amplifying each reverberation, bouncing back the thoughts until they rattled his very bones.

“Time and grave are nothing.”

“You’re the Red Hood.”

“I asked you for one more miracle, Little Wing. I asked you to stop being dead.”

He tore off the rest of his armor like it was on fire. And maybe, it was—it had burned his brother, after all. The shower was cold, and he’d scrubbed at each scar as if he could erase the past from his body.

But no amount of scrubbing could wash away him.

“Little Wing?”

Dick’s face was seared behind Jason’s eyelids—the disbelief, the ache in his big brother’s tone that yanked on Jason’s heart. It gnawed at him—skin to bone—until he couldn’t stop shaking. Until his skin tightened around him the second he sat still. Henry had called and left a voicemail—some stupid message about the dealer Jason had caught last night and where he got his stuff—but Jason ignored it. His head was too full, and the looming breakdown over holy shit I have a fucking snitch threatened to kick him right over the edge. So he paced.

Now, the serenity of late afternoon sunlight slipping through his open curtains mocked his internal spiral with cruel warmth. His anxious footsteps thudded against the wood floor.

Dick knew now.

Every beheading. Every savage act. Every bullet, every life. All the blood the Red Hood has shed.

Dick knew it was him.

The hands that held the gun—those were the same ones that clung to his brother’s shirt in the dead of night, desperate to not fall back into the dark.

His brother knew.

And Jason had absolutely zero fucking idea what to do with that—no box he could fit that Goliath of a revelation into, no mental shelf sturdy enough to hold the weight of that knowing. Jason ran another trembling hand through his two-toned hair and down his scarred face.

In the back of his mind, an old, familiar British voice chided him for pacing a hole in the floorboards. Jason swallowed it down with a fresh wave of panic.

Would Dick tell Bruce?

They were talking again. Dick was living in Gotham for fuck’s sake—back in the orbit of the Bat. When Jason was R—

Jason nearly choked on the name.

Before, he settled on. Before.

Before, Dick and Bruce could barely last twenty minutes in the same room without tension coiling around them like a too-tight spring.

What if Dick tells Bruce?

The thought sent the walls of the apartment drawing closer—pressing in, like the bones of his own ribs were squeezing his lungs.

So much about being the Red Hood was about being seen. Hell, Jason had built the whole persona around being noticed—seen by the city, by its scum, by him.

The Batman. His father.

His father who had moved on. His father who had left him unavenged. His father who let Jason’s killer go free when Jason had to be tortured to death, cold and alone and scared and Dick, please come back I’m sorry I need you—

Jason had wanted to be the ghost, the vengeance, the thing that haunted his family. He thought it would feel gratifying. Give him back the power that the Joker had took from him. Ease the sting of betrayal when his father never bust down the doors of that stupid warehouse to save him like Batman saved everyone else.

But it didn’t.

Jason had gotten what he’d asked for, alright. The ghosthood.

And all it did was make him feel dead again.

(Jason shoved the small present toward Dick with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

“Here. Happy birthday, Dickie.”

Dick took the present as if were made of glass. He stared at it—then at Jason, eyes wide, mouth flapping like he forgot how to speak.

Jason scoffed, flush creeping up his neck. “Just open it.”

Dick tore at the neat wrapping—courtesy of Alfred—to reveal a book.

Not just any book—a photo album.

The cover picture was a selfie Jason had snapped of the two of them—faces squished together, half laughing, half smiling, their blue eyes bright under the flash. Dick opened it and gasped.

Six months ago, he and Dick had been rooting around in the Manor attic. Bruce was off in space for a few days, and the Manor felt…big, when Bruce wasn’t around to fill it with sheer presence. Jason always hated it, and Dick must’ve too—he stayed with Jason all three days Bruce was gone.

Bruce and Dick were on…okay terms. Dick was trying—for Jason. 

Jason wished he didn’t have to.

But in that attic, they’d found an ancient camera: a Polaroid Impulse 600, to be exact. They weren’t even sure if the dusty thing even worked. But then Jason had found some film—and an idea.

Dick’s birthday was coming up.

So Jason had spent the next six months carrying it around, just…snapping stuff. Little things. Everything that reminded him of his older brother. Jason knew how important memories were to Dick. All the people he loved were there—folded into the warm, eternal embrace of Dick’s mind to live on forever. 

Jason had wanted to find a way to…give that to him.

Dick flipped through the album, lips parted, fingers ghosting over each picture with so much awe that Jason really didn’t know what to do with himself. Dick could be so weird sometimes, and right now was one of those times—when he got all quiet and reverent when Jason would do the most basic things.

Things like giving him a birthday present.

There was that one of them on patrol, looking like dorks in their gear, perched on Jason’s favorite gargoyle. Another of Ace napping in the sun after a long, hard day of begging Alfred for scraps. Bruce in the ugliest Christmas sweater Jason could find. The two of them covered in flour, a faintly amused Alfred in the background. Jason in his junior league Gotham Knights uniform, grinning like an idiot with his home run ball in hand. Dick smiling behind a (horrendous and hardly edible) dinner he’d cooked for Jason at his Blüdhaven apartment.

All those dumb little moments that meant nothing to anyone else, but felt like everything to Jason. And he hoped, by extension, everything to Dick. Because the album was filled with them being brothers. It was immortalized now.

Forever.

“Jay…” Dick said, voice cracking. His eyes were shiny. “I—this—“

“Alright, save it, Dickie. You’re gonna give me hives.”

Dick set the book down and suddenly Jason was pulled into a hug. Jason squawked on instinct, but didn’t pull away. He didn’t want to.

Dick tucked his chin on top of Jason’s head like some kind of over-emotional giraffe and just…held on. And Jason let him.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Jason could tell he wanted to say more—he could feel it in his big brother’s chest. Jason never knew how to say things the way Dick did. There were moments that were just so full and Jason simply didn’t know how to say what he wanted to say.

So he didn’t. 

Instead, he handed love to his big brother not in a grand declaration, but in a small incandescent truth:

The truth of being loved in a language older than words. One of moments, presence, and the quiet miracle of being remembered.

Jason loved his older brother.)

Time and grave are nothing. That’s what Dick had said.

Maybe, it didn’t just mean that for Dick. Maybe, neither time nor grave to sever Jason from his big brother, just as Dick wouldn’t let time nor grave sever him from Jason.

Jason’s body moved. He knew where he was going this time.

Jason sat outside of Dick’s apartment for a long time. It was dark, the smoggy sky obscuring the moon and stars. His feet had carried him to a crumbling bus stop on the corner—the kind nobody used anymore except to deal or smoke. Broken glass crunched beneath his boots as he sat down on the rusted metal bench. Grass grew through cracks in the cement. From this particular spot, Jason could see Dick’s east-facing apartment window. The kitchen light was on.

Jason wondered what his brother was doing; if Nightwing had gone out, Henry would’ve notified him by now. And after several texts asking after Jason’s personal matter, Henry had given up on trying to figure out if the Red Hood was patrolling tonight (his answer was a resounding no.)

Jason never felt more like a ghost in his life. The line, he’d realized, between haunting and memory was very thin—and Jason walked that razor wire every night.

So he sat—in full gear, head tipped back against the cool metal of the bus stop awning. His helmet was in his lap, only the domino over his eyes. He couldn’t…he didn’t want to be all of him right now.

He told himself he’d only stay five minutes. He just…wanted to watch. To see.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

Then—thirty minutes later—a figure appeared beside him. Jason tensed, gloved fingers curling tight against his pants, but he didn’t look up. The presence was soft and familiar. He’d been so lost in his head he hadn't even heard them approach.

But he knew who it was. He would always know.

“You planning on catching a ride somewhere?”

Jason snorted softly. Of course he’d start with something stupid.

The old bench creaked as Dick sat down beside Jason—not right next to him, but not too far, either. He caught a whiff of oregano and that mint hair gel he always used wafting off Dick’s blue hoodie.

Nostalgia slapped Jason clean across the face. It filled him up, slowly, like warm water, until he had to blink the onslaught of memories from his eyes. He swallowed hard. He didn’t trust his voice, so he didn’t speak.

The light above the old bus stop buzzed softly—moths fluttered about its yellowed glow. Jason stared down at the helmet in his lap. He couldn’t look at his brother.

It was quiet for a long time. The silence was heavy—as if it were full of things too big for mere words, packed with a grief too intricate for simple English. Jason wondered if Dick felt the same way. He wanted to know what Dick was thinking.

Finally, he got his answer:

“Can I…” He swallowed hard, nodding toward the domino. “Can I take it off?”

Jason looked up, heart fluttering in his chest. He didn’t know what he was expecting to find in his brother’s gaze—hate? Disgust? Disappointment?

There was no going back now.

“Why?”

“I…I want to see your eyes.”

Slowly, Jason turned toward Dick. He hesitated—the fear of Dick seeing him in all his bloodstained glory still very real and very present. The instinct to protect himself, to hide all but screamed in protest. But Jason nodded anyways. Dick reached out, fingers brushing against Jason’s temple as he slowly and gently peeled the mask away.

Jason’s teal eyes met Dick’s sapphire ones. For some stupid reason, Jason instantly felt the urge to cry. He bit his cheek to stop his eyes from watering.

Dick was looking at him like he was real.

Not a ghost. Not a hallucination or whatever cursed thing that had been haunting his brother in Jason’s place for God knows how long.

Just…Jason.

Dick set the mask aside and reached out again—this time, for Jason’s hand. He gently pushed up the sleeve of Jason’s leather jacket, sliding his finger beneath Jason’s glove to feel the pulse point on his wrist.

Dick’s voice was still a cracked whisper when he spoke. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jason let out a bitter laugh, a flash of anger igniting in his chest. “Are you serious? What the hell was I supposed to say, Dick? ‘Hey Dickie—I’m back from the dead and oh! By the way! I’ve killed people!’ What would you have done? What was I supposed to do?”

But just as fast as the anger lit, the fire died out, leaving him cold. Jason licked his lips and looked away—but he didn’t pull his hand back. Dick didn’t answer. It got really quiet; Jason could hear the moths plinking against the glass of the light above them. He took a deep, shaky breath.

“Because…” Jason all but whispered. “I didn’t know how. You…I just—“ He ran his free hand through his hair.

Because a killer slept on the couch one door down from your kid. Because you were looking at me like you couldn’t even believe I was alive.

Because you were so happy that I was alive.

“Because every version of this,” Jason continued, voice wavering, “ended with you looking at me like I wasn’t your little brother anymore. Because being…what I am…meant I couldn’t be your little brother anymore. You would look at me like I was just some thing wearing his face. I couldn’t—Dick, I’ve—”

Jason felt like he was unraveling—like someone had found the loose string of his soul and pulled on that motherfucker. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dick’s face crack.

“You know who I am now,” he said, voice low. “You know what I’ve done. I was…I was dead—"

Dick flinched, but Jason barreled on. He couldn’t stop now, not even if he wanted to. It was pouring out of him and he couldn’t dam it all back up. He kept his eyes averted, not wanting to meet his brother’s gaze or see the new scars that marked his face.

“—and when I came back, I wasn’t the same. I didn’t know if I even counted as—as Jason anymore.”

And the Joker was still alive, he thought but didn’t say. And Bruce had abandoned me, even in death.

The words were out now. Jason felt hollow—like he’d scraped out all his ugly insides and presented them to his brother. Jason blinked, lashes wet. His eyes were glued to a crack in the cement next to Dick’s worn sneaker.

Dick’s other hand hooked a finger around Jason’s chin and gently lifted it, forcing Jason to look at him. With his thumb, he ghosted the horrid J scar on Jason’s cheek. Jason closed his eyes as a few hot tears spilled over.

“Little Wing,” Dick said. “I need you to look at me.”

Jason flinched, as if the name physically struck him. He felt broken open. The child inside him—the one he thought he’d killed and left in the ground—opened his eyes and stepped out of Jason’s ribcage. His breathing shallowed.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t call me that if you don’t mean it.”

I could survive death, Dick—I did. But I don’t know if I could survive you looking at me like the monster we all know I am.

“I do mean it.”

Jason’s breathing hitched. He blinked fast, but it didn’t stop the tears. He looked up at his brother—and he saw hope.

“You’re my Little Wing,” his brother said, with a kind of firm finality that soothed Jason’s broken heart. “I told you—time and grave are nothing, remember?”

Dick let go of Jason’s wrist and cheek—and pulled him into a tight hug. Jason stiffened at first, unsure of what to do. He raised his arms, gearing up to push Dick away out of instinct. But…he didn’t.

And God, had Jason wanted to do just that—have his big brother wrap his strong arms around him and tell him that everything was going to be alright. That he was okay. That he wasn’t a monster.

Maybe now he…could.

He wrapped his arms around Dick, squeezing him back. Dick was here—and he smelled like mint and oregano and he gave the same hugs and he still loved Jason. 

Jason wanted to sob. He could feel the dam inside him breaking loose, water and tears threatening to drown him. But he swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut.

He still had shit to do tonight, after all.

But as for right now, he could afford to stay in the strong, warm arms of his big brother for a little while longer.

Jason pulled away only when he was sure he wouldn’t cry. Dick had scooted closer, their shoulders brushing. The streetlight above them flickered. Jason absently wondered how long it’d been since he first sat down—it could’ve been five hundred years or five minutes.

Vulnerability was winding its way through Jason’s skin, and he fought to not squirm. He cleared his throat and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Jesus. We’re getting really touchy-feely out here,” he muttered.

Dick grinned a stupid grin that made Jason want to punch him in the arm. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone and ruin your…image.”

Jason punched Dick in arm. He squawked, dramatic, and Jason rolled his eyes.

Silence fell over them again, but it wasn’t as heavy this time. Jason looked down at the helmet in his lap.

“There’s, uh…” he mumbled. “Something. Tomorrow night.”

Dick eyed him, brow slightly raised.

Jason’s cheeks warmed. “You…down?”

Dick’s face broke into a small smile. “Of course, Jay.”

He bumped their shoulders together. “Big Wing and Little Wing, kicking ass and taking names?”

“Don’t push it.”

Dick ran through one final check of his gear before flipping on the stove light. The apartment was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the AC unit or the occasional thrum of tires on pavement as a car passed below.

He reached for his escrima sticks sitting on the counter—but instead of grabbing them, his fingers just kind of…hovered. He leaned up against the kitchen island, rubbing his temples with his gloved hands.

Jason had asked him for help. His little brother had asked him for help.

Dick had always known the word didn’t split cleanly into right and wrong. Bruce always had his lines—his walls, more like—that he’d drawn decades ago and would never cross. Rigid and inflexible and yes—these were good. If they weren’t, he’d be a tyrant. Not a vigilante. Judge, jury, and executioner, though he himself was imperfect. His judgment, his deliberation, his execution.

The Batman doesn’t kill.

Bruce doesn’t kill because no one deserves to die.

And the thing is, Batman would never cross that line. The walls were too high and too thick and too old. No matter how suffocating, no matter how many times he would drop off a criminal at the station just to watch them walk out the next morning, Batman would never push someone into their own grave—regardless of whether they had dug it with their own two hands.

(Bruce was never supposed to be faced with that question, because Jason was never supposed to die.)

But Dick…his morality was more like a palm than a wall—anchored to the ground, but bending in the wind. Dick, too, had lines he’d never cross. He’d packed up abusers and sent them to the precinct, only to watch them walk free the next morning and kill their partner that night.

And then his little brother had been murdered.

And he’d watched his father fall apart, his violent grief turning him into someone Dick no longer recognized. Maybe Dick, too, became someone else entirely. Warm clay in grief’s cold hands—it was easier to be molded than to hang on to who he was. Jason had taken a piece of Dick with him when he’d died, anyway. 

But he was back now. And he’d asked Dick for help.

Jason didn’t draw lines—or at least, none that Dick could see, and certainly none that Bruce would see. Jason tore them up, pulling them from the ground and anchoring them to nothing but himself. Judge, jury, executioner. 

But despite that—maybe even because of that?—Dick had pulled his little brother close last night and said I love you in everything but words. Because he did. 

(He’d stepped off a roof with the promise of seeing him again.)

Sometimes, Dick had nightmares about the roof. Standing, in the rain, a small hand in his. He’d be overwhelmed with this sense of…peace. Finality, almost. Quiet. Calm. Hush. Another step, and he’d be back with his little brother. Another step and he could fly again.

Let me rest, Little Wing. I’m done.

And then—he’d bolt upright, stomach swooping, heart racing. He’d nearly trip over himself, scrambling as quietly as possible to Tim’s room. Gently, he’d crack open the door, and watch the little boy’s chest rise and fall. Dick would match Tim’s breathing to his own as sweat cooled on his brow.

I’m here, Tim, he’d think as his heart tried to escape his rib cage. I’m staying. I’m not leaving. 

I love you.

Trying to fall back asleep after those dreams always proved difficult.

Dick heaved a sigh. He needed to go. Jason was waiting on him at their rendezvous.

Jason didn’t need fixing. He was doing what he thought was best, just and Dick and Bruce were. But maybe…maybe Dick could be a little voice in the back of his brother’s mind—the one that said you’re not a monster. I love you and you don’t have to stay in the dark anymore. And if Jason didn’t believe that yet, well—Dick would just have to believe enough for the both of them.

Dick abandoned his escrimas, instead reaching for his laptop to review his notes on Jason’s crew. If he was going to help his little brother, he needed to know what he was walking into.

Plus—checking the backgrounds of your kid brother’s friends was just what big brothers did.

Jason—for his part—had done a thorough job of keeping his crew off the Bat’s radar. Most of them were small time criminals or people in tough spots. But there was one in particular…

Dick scrolled down, eyes flitting over various mugshots and GCPD records.

Ah—Jason’s second.

Henry Stone.

He was double-crossing Red Hood, that much was obvious. Little things here and there. Dick was surprised Jason didn’t know. 

Dick huffed a laugh. Jason would know, soon enough. No one double crossed his little brother and got away with it.

Dick grabbed his escrimas before he could hesitate again. He secured them to his back with a click—but before he could secure his domino, his phone buzzed on the countertop.

Dick glanced over at the lit screen. 

Bruce: Be safe out there, chum.

Dick sighed, rubbing his eyes. He couldn’t tell Bruce—not yet. If Bruce found out Jason was the Red Hood—the killer they’d been tracking for the past six months—it would ruin the small, fragile hope growing between Dick and his little brother. Bruce would turn it into a mission, a showdown, an extraction—judge and jury. And Dick would lose Jason all over again.

And Dick was not going to let that happen. Not under any fucking circumstances.

He typed out a quick smiley face and set his phone back on the counter. Whatever it takes, he thought as he secured his domino to his face. No one has to know.

Dick would keep Bruce out of it. Hell, he would keep everyone out of it. Jason was his Little Wing. Jason had trusted Dick. Jason—scared and alone, up to his wrists in blood, having broken the only rule Batman never touched—had come to him. To Dick, because Dick was his big brother and he trusted him.

A soft shuffling broke Dick from his thoughts. Tim stood in the hallway, drowning in Dick’s blue hoodie, his red blanket around his shoulders.

“You heading out?” Tim asked, rubbing his tired eyes.

Dick closed the laptop slowly. “Yeah, Timmy.”

“Okay. Be safe.”

Dick’s heart cracked in his chest. Guilt wound its way around his ribs, settling its heavy weight right between his lungs. 

He’d done some research on the Drakes and their shitty parenting—enough to get Bruce to start gathering evidence for a custody case. And the more Bruce’s lawyers’ dug up, the uglier Tim’s home life became.

Dick knew, in this moment, he was acting just like Jack and Janet Drake.

He walked over and knelt to Tim’s level. His eyes were misty. Dick’s heart fissured a little bit more.

“Are you okay?” Dick asked softly, but he already knew the answer.

Tim just sniffed and looked down. His little shoulders came up in a small shrug.

Dick hesitated. He wanted to stay. In reality, he probably should. He felt torn—one little brother needing him here, another needing him out there. It was a terrible feeling, one that pulled his heart apart by the cracks.

He gently reached up and cupped Tim’s face. They hadn’t talked about what had happened on the roof. Had Dick wanted Tim there? Fuck, no. A bullet had embedded in the chimney he was hiding behind. That—that could’ve been a bullet embedded in Tim! 

But Dick knew, deep down—in the part that recognized something achingly familiar (achingly Robin) in Tim—that there was nothing he could do to get Tim to stay.

Tim sniffed again, and Dick gently wiped away a few stray tears with his thumbs.

“I—" he began softly, “I’m going—"

“To get Jason,” Tim said, voice small. “To…bring him back.”

Dick pulled Tim into a tight hug. The little boy buried his face in the crook of Dick’s neck. He was warm.

“Yeah,” Dick said, running a hand through Tim’s hair. “Yeah, Timmy. But I promise—I’ll always come back to you, okay?”

“M’kay,” Tim said. His little fingers curled into the hair at the nape of Dick’s neck.

Dick squeezed his eyes shut. This isn’t right, he thought, gently scooping Tim up and carrying him to bed. It shouldn’t…he shouldn’t say that. 

Once Tim was settled into bed, he pressed a kiss to the little boy’s forehead. “I will always come back to you, Timmy. I promise.”

Dick quietly shut the door behind him. He exhaled slowly, trying to dislodge some of the guilt in his chest.

Warm air greeted Nightwing as he opened his window and quietly slipped out into the night.

His Little Wing was waiting for him.