Chapter Text
Jason goes underground.
He makes his way to his closest bolt hole and all but collapses on the bed, sleeping for another 12 hours. When he wakes up, he forces some food and water down his throat, then moves to a different bolt hole and flops into bed again. He mindlessly sets things on rinse and repeat for eight days, before he opens his eyes at 4:00 one afternoon and finds his headache is mostly gone. The wound on his arm is healed to a minor irritant, and if he moves slowly, his bruised ribs can be managed without much trouble. He packs a bag, hops on his bike, and takes off.
He's got no destination in mind beyond getting the hell out of Gotham, outrunning the heavy sense of disquiet that’s settled over him since the day Dick got grabbed. He makes it about five miles outside of Gotham before he rolls to a stop in the middle of the deserted country road.
He knows the disquiet will follow him no matter how far he runs. The way they’d left things before Markowitz grabbed Dick, and the things Jason had done to him weigh heavy. Guilt isn’t a thing he wears very often, and usually he can easily strip it off. But this time, it’s cut from a different cloth, one that makes him itchy and uncomfortable for reasons he doesn’t want to think about.
He curses and turns his bike around with the intent of finding Dick, apologizing, and then hitting the road with a lighter load, moving on.
Jason knocks on Dick’s door like a normal person for once. It takes long enough that he’s starting to think Dick isn’t there—that maybe he’s recuperating at the Manor—when the door finally swings open to reveal Dick, leaning on a set of crutches. The bruises on his face have faded to a sickly green/yellow, making the sutures under his eye stand out in even stronger relief. Jason knows that when they eventually come out, they’ll leave behind a thin pink scar. Dick’s wrists still carry remnants of the rope abrasions: scabbed skin circling both of them, set in cuffs of discolored skin. He’s in sweatpants and a t-shirt, and, Jason notes, his feet are wrapped in compression bandages and stuffed into fluffy pink slippers. “Jason,” Dick says, sounding surprised, but his face is an unreadable mask because he’s learned that from the best.
Jason’s mouth goes dry and all the words he’d planned to say evaporate from his head. “Hey,” is all he comes up with.
“Hey,” Dick says, equally ineloquently.
They stare awkwardly for a moment, until Dick shifts and takes a small hop backward. “Come in,” he says, hooking a foot on the edge of the door to swing it open further.
Jason skirts past Dick into the apartment. His eyes sweep his surroundings. He’s only been here a few times—only once when Dick was there—and he’s always been moving quickly to get gone as soon as possible. He takes it in this time. The open loft is minimally furnished, and it has an easy, lived-in feel to it without being outright messy. The bed is unmade, and a few things are tossed haphazardly on surfaces; it looks comfortable but not chaotic. In one corner, the Knights game is playing on the big-screen TV which is affixed to the wall. There’s no score yet in the first period.
“Uh, have a seat,” Dick says, hobbling over to the couch in front of the television, which is the only place to sit besides the two chairs at the small dinette, or the bed across the room. It’s obvious Dick sits on the right side of the couch: the television remote and an open can of protein shake are on the side table there. On the right side of the coffee table in front of the couch is a book, open and face down. Jason winces when he sees how the binding is strained—has the idiot never heard of using a goddamned bookmark?
Jason doesn’t want to fucking sit down. He’s on a razor’s edge, he wants to pace, he wants to punch things, he wants to be far away from here as soon as possible. But he sits, passing to the other end of the couch and leaning into the arm, as far from Dick as he can get. As Dick carefully eases himself into his spot and mutes the television, Jason realizes he’s clenching his own fists reflexively and he forces himself to stop, makes his body relax. Outwardly he’s calm, but inside he feels ready to burst out of his skin.
“I’m glad to see you,” Dick says once he’s settled.
Jason blinks at him. “Why?”
The small crease between Dick’s eyes gets a little deeper. “What do you mean, why? The last time I saw you, you’d been shot in the head, among other places. Bruce said you disappeared from the hospital and no one could find you. And trust me, they looked.”
Despite everything else, Jason is smugly pleased that he was able to successfully evade the other Bats. Once, not long after he and Bruce had come to an understanding, he got itchy in his skin and had stayed away from the other bats for a few weeks. One morning, when he’d returned to his apartment after patrol, he’d found a plate of Alfred’s cookies on his kitchen counter. He had no idea which of the others had breached his safe house, but he’d panicked and left town for a month. After that, he never stayed more than a few nights in any one place if he could help it, bouncing from one safehouse to another on a random schedule. If he’s honest, it’s exhausting, and sometimes he just wants to gather some moss.
“Jason,” Dick says, startling him from his thoughts. Possibly he’s not as recovered from his head injury as he had thought. Possibly, he just wants to lie down and rest for once in his life.
Dick is watching him closely. “Are you okay?” he presses, his eyes flickering up to where Jason knows there’s a two-inch-long, half-inch-wide scab, where the bullet creased him on the side of his head. It’s all surrounded by an inch-width of shaved bristle. His hair will eventually grow long enough to cover it, but it will never grow in the scar.
Jason grunts, waves his hand dismissively, then rubs his eyes.
“Why are you here?” Dick asks, and it’s annoying how carefully he seems to say it, how his face gives away nothing.
Jason scowls. “I know you think I’m a fucking asshole, but I’m a big enough man to apologize when the situation calls for it.”
Dick frowns. "I don't think you're an asshole." He shakes his head as he continues, “And you don’t have anything to apologize for.”
Jason tips over off that razor’s edge he’s been on. “Of course, I fucking do,” he snaps. “Jesus, have you looked at yourself in the mirror? You look like hell. I fucked you up.”
Dick smiles. “Jason, I’m fine.”
Jason hates that fucking smile. “Don’t do that,” he snarls.
“Do what?” Dick asks, playing it all innocent like he doesn’t know exactly what Jason is talking about.
“That bullshit Dick Grayson thing where you pretend everything is great, even when you know damn well it’s not. You’re the opposite of Bruce and it’s just as fucking annoying.” He can’t sit still any longer. He stands up and paces a couple times before heading for the kitchen.
“What’re you doing?” Dick calls after him.
“Making you some real food,” Jason snaps. “Who the fuck knows when the last time you had something nutritious to eat was. You’re a fucking grown man, for god’s sake. You should act like it instead of drinking fucking protein shakes for dinner.”
He throws open the refrigerator and is not surprised to find it well stocked with fresh produce and staples; Alfred has no doubt been by regularly. He digs around to see what he’s got to work with, then starts pulling out fresh vegetables, thinking to make a pasta primavera.
He hears the soft creak of the crutches, and from the doorway he hears a sigh. “I made myself an omelet and some fruit for a late breakfast. I was just drinking the shake to tide me over until dinner.” He sounds slightly frustrated.
Dick has a bit of a sweet tooth and that has ballooned into a ridiculous family myth that he eats like a child with no restraint. But they all know that he could never maintain his level of physical conditioning if he didn’t eat smart. Jason’s an asshole, though, so no one should be surprised when he says asshole-ish things. Jason just grunts and fills a pot with water and puts it on to boil, then starts chopping. The mention of the omelet, though, reminds him of what Bruce had said in the hospital. He’s been looking at you like he wants to eat you for breakfast since you came back. He feels his face heat at the memory.
He’s sautéing the vegetables in a pan when he hears Dick crutch up right behind him but he doesn’t say anything, so Jason ignores him and just keeps working. A moment later, Dick closes the last bit of distance between them and he feels Dick press his forehead into the back of his neck. Jason freezes.
Dick takes a deep breath and Jason can feel the warm gust of his exhale. “I was terrified,” he says.
He says it so quietly that Jason can barely hear him, so he slowly turns off the burners to stop the hiss and crackle from the pan and the rolling boil of water in the pot. He doesn’t turn around, though, because Dick hasn't moved and if this is how he wants to do this, then Jason will respect that. He braces himself for whatever will come next. He deserves it. Whatever Dick has to say, Jason deserves it and more, there's no doubt in his mind about that. If he's honest with himself, he will admit he's relieved not to have to look Dick in the face for this. He would, if he had to—he's not a coward—but if he doesn't have to, that's more than okay with him. He closes his eyes and waits for Dick to mete out his punishment. It must be a full minute before Dick sucks in a shaky breath and continues.
“He had me hanging up there for more than 3 hours. He didn’t hit me—I guess he was waiting for you before he started that—but he’d shove me every couple of minutes so I couldn’t keep any weight on my feet for very long, and he’d just stand there and watch me. He enjoyed it, seeing me struggle. It was hard to breath. All I could manage were shallow breaths and after a couple hours, I kept feeling like I was going to pass out, and I knew if I did, he wouldn’t do anything about it and then my arms would be fucked for sure, if I even survived.” He pauses and takes a couple breaths. “I’ve faced a lot of bad situations, Jason, but I’ve never been so scared. I can take a beating. You know I can. We all have, and we come back from it without any problem. But you can’t come back from nerve damage. It’s permanent.” He stops again for a moment before continuing. “I was nearly at the end of my limits. I could feel my legs starting to give and my arms were numb. So, when you walked into that room,” he makes a choked sound and then takes a deep breath. “All I felt—all I felt—was relief. Because I knew you’d understand the stakes and I didn’t doubt for one second that you would figure out a way to help me.”
Jason braces his hands on the countertop on each side of the stove and stares at the food in the pan. He's not trying to excuse himself when he speak, but just to explain. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I kept trying to find a different way,” he says, reliving the hell of that day, “but they were too spread out with the guns, and I knew if I made a move on one, the others would shoot you.” He feels Dick nodding a little, his forehead still pressed against Jason’s neck. “Your feet—” Jason starts but the rest of the words get caught in his throat.
“Are fine,” Dick says.
Jason shakes his head. “If I had messed them up—”
“You didn’t. But if you had, I would have just had to spend more time flying through the air instead of running across rooftops.”
Jason shakes his head. “Don’t joke about it.”
There’s a beat, and then he feels Dick nod again. “Okay,” he says softly.
Jason takes a deep breath and lets it out. It comes out slightly ragged and he doesn’t even care.
The pressure on the back of his neck disappears. “I’ll give you until you finish with the pasta to flagellate yourself if that’s the path you think you need to take to salvation, but I won’t walk it with you,” Dick says. “Until dinner is ready,” he repeats, “and then you gotta let this go, Jason, because all I’m ever going to feel is grateful to you for what you did.” His voice is gentle, but with a hint of steel behind it. With that, Dick crutches away behind him, out of the kitchen.
A moment later, Jason hears the familiar sound of hockey announcers coming from the television. He turns the two burners on and goes back to work.
Twenty minutes later, Jason takes the food out to the living room and hands a plate to Dick. He snatches the remote on his way past to his end of the couch and mutes the television. Dick turns to face him.
“You gotta…you gotta give me a few more minutes,” Jason says, teeth clenched and ready for a fight.
Dick sighs, then gestures with his hand to indicate that he should go ahead.
“Tell me how your feet are. I mean, besides the fact that they’re encased in those ridiculous goddamned slippers. I mean, what the fuck?”
Dick smirks. “Steph thought she was being funny, but,” he shrugs, “they’re comfortable. I think she was mad that I liked them.”
Jason huffs but doesn’t let Dick distract from the question. “You’re feet,” he prompts. “Be honest,” he adds.
“They’re fine. Some deep bruising, is all. They honestly didn’t hurt nearly as much as the time Titus stepped on my foot and broke one of my metatarsals. I’m just using the crutches so I don’t over-compensate and strain something else.”
Jason thinks for a moment then says, “The rest of it?”
“Jason, it’s just some bruising, and you and I both know that I’d be a lot worse off if Markowitz had used me for a punching bag instead of you. I’m fine. I swear.”
“I tortured you,” Jason pushes out. There. He said it.
Dick shakes his head. “No,” he says, that steel back in his voice. “You didn’t. Markowitz did, a little bit. But what you did was protect me.”
Jason cocks his head sharply. “Did B tell you to say that?”
Dick gives him a bemused look. “No.”
Jason pokes at the penne on his plate. “Look, you gotta let me say it,” he says, then raises his eyes to Dick’s.
Dick rolls his eyes, but then his face shifts to something more serious and he says, “Yeah, okay. Say what you need to say and then we move on.”
“I’m so sorry, Dick.”
Dick smiles. “Okay. I forgive you,” he says brightly.
“Oh, fuck you if you’re not going to take this seriously.”
The smile wavers minutely and he says, “I am taking it seriously. I already told you, I’m only going to be grateful to you. You said your piece, made your apology, and I accepted it. Can we move on now? I’m starving and this food smells amazing and I want to eat it while it’s still hot.”
Jason closes his eyes and snorts softly, shaking his head. He opens his eyes and stabs some penne and vegetables onto his fork. “Yeah, okay, asshole, whatever.” He shoves the food into his mouth and turns toward the television, unmuting it as the Knights attempt a powerplay.
Jason doesn’t want to let it go. It shouldn’t be that simple. He doesn’t deserve such easy forgiveness. But it’s hard to keep pushing when no one pushes back and Dick isn’t going to give him a brick wall to run up against. It’s frustrating as hell, like so many things in his life when it comes to Dick Grayson. He should just leave. He’d said what he’d come to say, fed the guy, for Christ’s sake, and yet, Jason can’t find it in himself to walk away. Instead, he sits and eats dinner with Dick, and watches the Knights lose again.
When the buzzer sounds signaling the end of the game, Jason growls in frustration and turns off the television, tossing the remote none to gently onto the coffee table. He grabs his plate and Dick’s and heads to the kitchen to start cleaning up. He loads the dishwasher and fills the sink with soapy water. He’s wrist deep in it scrubbing the sauté pan when Dick comes in and hoists himself to sit on the counter near him.
“So Bruce came to see me yesterday,” he says.
“Uh huh,” Jason grunts, not looking up from the sink. Given Bruce’s fretful presence in Dick’s hospital room, he’s not terribly surprised that the man would check up on him now and then.
There’s a hesitation and then Dick says, “He offered to adopt me.”
Something cold settles in Jason’s gut, but he’d never begrudge this for Dick. “So the old man finally got his head out of his ass and did the right thing. Good for him.”
Dick studies him. “You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you?”
“Nope,” Jason lies.
“Uh huh,” he says. He sounds dubious but Jason keeps his face blank (he also learned from the best). “I just wonder because the timing was kind of interesting.”
“Life’s full of strange coincidences.”
“Sure,” Dick says.
They both know Jason is lying, but Dick doesn’t seem too angry or inclined to challenge him on it.
Dick leans forward and grabs the pasta pot from the stove and hands it to Jason, who dunks it into the soapy water. “I told him no.”
Jason turns. “What? Why? I thought you wanted that.”
Dick shrugs. “I did. I do. But…” He stops, looks down, rubs at the scabs on his wrist a little.
He seems nervous, which… Dick Grayson never looks nervous. “But what?”
Dick takes a deep breath, lets it out and looks up at Jason. “But there’s something I want more. Something that would be…complicated, if I were legally Bruce’s son.”
Jason closes his eyes. “You’re an idiot,” he says softly.
“I don’t think so.”
When he opens his eyes again, Dick is watching him with a penetrating gaze. “Dick, you shouldn’t give up something you’ve wanted for so long for me.”
“I can't think a single thing that wouldn't be worth giving up for you," Dick says, matter-of-factly. He shrugs. "Besides, I know Bruce loves me, and him offering is as good as any piece of paper.”
Jason tries to wrap his head around the words, the way Dick said them. Tries, for once, to accept something good when it's on offer instead of assuming the worst. It scares him in a way that the possibility of physical harm never does and his pulse skyrockets. But he's outwardly calm as he raises an eyebrow, says, “So you’re not going to be my brother.”
“Nope,” Dick says with finality, popping the ‘p’ at the end, and grinning like a fool.
Jason snorts and grabs a kitchen towel, dries his hands and tosses it on the counter. When he steps over in between Dick’s knees, the asshole’s expression turns a little bit smug in victory, and Jason wants to kiss that self-satisfied smirk right off his face, so he does.
As his lips meet Dick’s, Jason acknowledges that it’s probably time to admit that since the first time the original Boy Wonder smiled at him when he was 13 years old and caused his stomach to swoop like he was on a rollercoaster, all the roads of his life keep returning him to the same place—to Dick Grayson. Some might say fate has a plan for him, but Jason doesn’t believe in that bullshit. He knows if he has the courage to shine a light into the deep, dark corners of his heart, it’ll illuminate the fact that he’s in love with Dick Grayson, and always has been.
Jason flips the switch and leaves it on, uses the light to lead him home.