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At any given moment, it’s hit or miss whether Jason is willing to stand a Bat’s presence. He usually doesn’t turn away Cass or Stephanie, even less so Duke. Tim, he grudgingly accepts on his good days, because he knows Tim is as stubborn as the rest of them, and barely tolerates on his bad days. On his really bad days, Jason’s not even in Gotham. Damian, he likes more than Tim, but dislikes more than Cass, Steph, or Duke. When it comes to Bruce, the less said the better.
Dick, on the other hand, he can never tell if Jason hates him outright or just pretends to hate him as some defensive measure. He swears they’re getting better, they’re getting closer to how they were before, before Jason died, after Dick stopped being an asshole and taking his anger out on a kid who just wanted a home. The good days outnumber the bad days, though, and Dick tries not to think too hard about it.
He shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to make it look like he hasn’t been awkwardly standing in front of Jason’s door for the past five minutes, waiting for his little brother to answer. At what point will someone come out of a different apartment and start passive-aggressively trying to convince him to leave Jason alone? He’s well aware how this floor views Jason, how all of Crime Alley looks up to Red Hood, he gives it another five minutes before he’s intolerable.
Not wanting that, he knocks again at the door. Dick could just break in, but – they’ve been trying, lately, to respect Jason’s boundaries. There hasn’t been enough of that, they’ve all realized. Breaking into his safehouses is one thing, he does the same in return, but his apartment, his real actual apartment that he gave the address of willingly, is completely different. He doesn’t want to chase his brother out of the city again like they had in the first six months when all they did was fight and bleed over morals and rules and compromises.
His phone buzzes. Go away, says the text message from Jason.
Dick frowns. That’s…unusual. Very unusual. His gut churns. He knocks again, a little louder, a little more insistent.
Jason: I mean it. Go away. I’m not in the mood.
“We had plans,” he says out loud. Real, actual plans that didn’t involve anything that had to do with their nightlife. It’s the whole reason he came down from Blüdhaven, found people to cover his classes. He turned it into a weeklong vacation after he realized he really missed his family.
I fcking know, ok? Reschedule.
He falters at that – Jason heard him. Jason’s close enough to hear him. Dick shuffles closer, light on his feet and sidestepping that one spot that creaks and presses his ear against the door. He can hear quiet, labored breathing and warmth seeping through the cheap wood. He glances down and there’s a blotch of shadow.
Not a bad day, because Jason’s texting him, replying. Not a good day because – he doesn’t know what this is. This has never happened before. Dick chews on his bottom lip, staring at that blotch of shadow.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly. The shadow shifts.
Peachy. Why aren’t you going away?
“Why are you texting me?” There’s a hitch on the other side of the door, a hitch and then a wheeze. Dick’s heart kicks up a notch. “If you wanted me to go away, you could’ve just not texted in the first place.”
Didn’t want you to break down the door.
Dick sighs a half-laugh. “Thought about it,” he admits. “Decided you weren’t gonna like that.” He taps his forehead on the door as a noise comes from the other side, strangled and that strange little wheeze again. “C’mon, little wing, what’s going on?”
Nothing. Go away.
“Jason, please. You’re my brother. I’m your brother. Let me help with whatever it is. Did you get hurt on patrol?” he asks even though he knows Red Hood hasn’t been seen in two days. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t gone on patrol, but it lends credence to him not being hurt. Hood being hurt is generally street newsworthy – he’s pretty sure the last time Hood had been horribly hurt on a case at least three new graffiti murals popped up. Massive ones.
No, is the next message. Then nothing for a long moment except ellipsis indicating he’s typing before: don’t yell at me.
Dick stares at his phone. Don’t yell at me, echoes in his ears and he hates that he can hear it in his brother’s voice. That gruff tone he gets when he’s defensive and mad and thinks the conversation is going to turn on him. He had that same tone as a kid, and it breaks his heart a little to know it’s one of the few things that followed him home.
“I won’t.”
There’s a scoff then a hitch and a wheeze. His phone case creaks in his grip. The shadow moves, he can hear Jason on the other side. A lock clicks and the knob turns. When did Dick start holding his breath? He breathes out, shuddery and heavy. This is good, that Jason’s opening the door and not just leaving him out here. This is very good, but also very bad, he’s pretty sure. Don’t yell at me. Yeah, very bad.
Jason’s face is pale except a pink flush to his cheeks. His hair is damp like he’d just gotten out of the shower. His lips are pressed into a thin line. He’s already dressed for the day, like he’d been planning on going out with Dick this whole time and something just…stopped him. It’s cold, yeah, Dick’s pink nose and fingers are a testament to that, there’s the threat of snow in the air, but Jason’s got layers on and a thick scarf around his neck.
“Hey there, little wing,” Dick says, tries to keep the softness from his voice but knows he fails by the irritated twitch of Jason’s eyebrow. “You good?”
Impossibly, the thin line of his lips get thinner. Jason stares at him for a long moment, blocking him from entering his apartment. His teal eyes are bluer than normal, bright and unnerving. Finally, his shoulders sag and he shrugs, stepping to the side to let him in.
The lack of a verbal answer has Dick frowning as he enters. He doesn’t get far before he’s turning back to Jason, watching him close the door with ginger movements. He moves like he’s hurt, but not in a way that imply recent hurts. More like – oh.
“If the cold’s getting to you, you could’ve just rescheduled when they announced the temperatures,” Dicks says.
With the shit they get into, the broken bones and all that, there isn’t a single one of them that doesn’t suffer some sort of chronic pain. Dick’s always flares up when he goes on an extended missions or if the sky swells up for too long without actually raining.
Jason’s shoulders hunch to his ears before he forces them down. “Didn’t think,” he rasps out. Those words sound like they hurt; Dick can barely hear them. “First…” the sounds fail to come, but Dick hears them anyway. It’s his first winter back in Gotham, he realizes.
“What’s wrong with your throat?”
Because that’s the most pressing issue right here. Jason moves like it hurts, but he speaks like it’s agony. Dick steps forward then freezes when Jason takes multiple steps back, hitting the closed door behind him. He holds up his hands placatingly and backs off.
“Sorry,” he says with that soft tone again. Jason doesn’t bristle like he normally would. There’s something a little wild in his eyes, something that takes Dick a moment to pinpoint before he clocks it as fear. He swallows. “Do you still want to go out? I won’t make you talk. – Or we can hang out here, order in, watch a movie.” Jason’s lips part like he’s going to answer and Dick lurches a little. “No, don’t. Um, just Sign it, or something.”
His hands are shaking, and he fumbles a little, but he Signs out “second option,” effortlessly. Of course, not in ASL like a normal person. Dick huffs out a fond laugh at the Bat phrase for ‘second option.’ He hands over his phone, a delivery app already pulled up, as he takes off his (relatively minimal) layers.
Jason raises an eyebrow. “You realize you’ve just handed me keys to the kingdom?” Something has settled in his shoulders; his hands flow steady around the words he Signs. He doesn’t take off his own layers, but he moves further into the apartment, already scrolling the app.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” he calls and laughs again when all he gets is a middle finger without Jason looking back. Don’t yell at me, he thinks. Why? Why would he yell at Jason? “What’re we getting?”
“Indian. I want paneer.”
He nods. “Yeah, okay. I can deal with that. Order me – .” He scrambles to catch the phone sailing towards his face. Jason laughs silently, followed by the hitch, and wheeze he heard earlier. “Not cool. Totally not cool.” He goes to order his own food only to see the notification of the restaurant preparing their food and the company looking for a driver blinking at him. Jason had already ordered his usual meal and some garlic naan. “Didn’t realize you knew my order.”
Jason taps his temple then Signs, with a shit eating grin, “Raised by the World’s Greatest Detective and it’s food. Of course, I know it.”
Dick’s chest warms and he grins Robin-bright. There’s a flicker of the same type of smile across Jason’s face, Robin-bright, just a different Robin. Only a flicker before it’s gone to be replaced by that almost-blank expression he’s been wearing since Dick arrived. The only indications of what he’s feeling is in his eyes and the lines around his mouth – reluctant and scared. Don’t yell at me.
He gestures for Dick to make himself comfortable and disappears into his bedroom. Dick throws himself on the surprisingly comfortable couch, looking around. It’s not everyday he gets to spend more than five minutes in his brother’s apartment and it’s exactly how he pictured it – a bookshelf crammed full, contents spilling over to other surfaces. He’s got every genre, some more than others, and even study guides stacked up on his side table. There’s a display of weapons he’s never seen Jason use before and a cabinet under the bookshelf he’s pretty sure contains a safe.
The most interesting things are these: a purple notebook on the television stand, glittery and shimmery; a birdarang in the style Tim uses now next to a whetstone even though there’s a perfectly good mechanical sharpener in the cave; one of Babs’s hair scrunchies hangs off the key hook; a pair of extra dance shoes that belong to Cass; with Jason’s study guides is a creative writing book tabbed in yellow and black that’s definitely Duke’s.
Dick’s heart kind of hurts that he hasn’t been able to settle here like the rest of his family has, but, at the same time, he can’t help the love that swells up in his chest for them all. He wonders if Damian’s been here, if he’s left something behind that he just can’t see.
He’s musing on his plan to leave behind his beanie when Jason comes out of the bedroom, layered in a Gotham U sweatshirt, sweatpants, thick socks, and, weirdly enough, another scarf. It’s not as thick as the other one, but he can imagine it would’ve been hard to function in your own home with how thick it’d been.
Dick shuffles over to make room and Jason actually takes the spot, folding his legs and tucking his feet between the cushions. They’re quiet as he pulls up whatever streaming app he wants to use then shoves the remote at Dick to pick the move. He goes for a classic Disney movie because familiarity breeds comfort and they’ll need it for this. The opening scene plays, and he turns down the volume until it’s barely audible.
Jason’s watching the screen intently, like he’s never seen this movie before even though he has pictures of him and Bruce watching it, courtesy of Alfred. Dick turns so he’s facing his brother full on and Jason just…refuses to look at him.
“We’re going to talk about this,” he declares. “I won’t yell at you or be mad or however you think I’m going to react.” Jason looks away from the screen, but in the opposite direction of Dick. He curls in slightly on himself. Dick takes a deep breath. “I know I don’t know everything’s that happened to you. Part of that is because you won’t tell us. But I don’t remember anything happening to your neck for you not to be talking right now.”
“None of your business.”
Dick sighs through his nose. “It is my business because, like I said, you’re my brother. I care about you. I worry about you. I know it’s been rough since, since you came back, but this is me continuing to try. Meet me halfway, at least.”
Finally, Jason turns towards him, wary and resembling more of that street kid Bruce picked off the streets in the very beginning before he showed his true colors of bright laughter and sharp smiles. He peers at Dick’s face like he’s looking into his soul. And, for a moment, it really does feel like that. Dick feels a shudder run down his spine and he grits his teeth. Freaky.
“He picked,” Jason says out loud. “I don’t blame him.” It sounds like he gargled a cup full of glass.
“Who picked what?” Dick says, frustrated. “Please stop being cryptic. It’s not cute.”
Jason hesitates then carefully starts unwrapping his scarf. His chest is still, his expression closed off. Dick stares at his neck as tan skinned is revealed and – he sucks in a breath, eyes wide. What the hell? What the hell?
“What is that?” he demands. He lunges forward, hands out to grab onto his brother. Jason recoils violently, nearly upending over the couch arm. Dick freezes, arms extended, breathing rattling around in his ribs. “Jason. Little wing. What the hell is that?”
Because he has to be wrong. He has to be seeing things. That can’t be a scar, red and inflamed, across his brother’s throat. His little brother. His first brother. With a slit throat. The scar tissue is thick enough to show off how deep it’d been, how long it took to heal, how long it took to get treated. It doesn’t look that old. It hasn’t faded like their scars usually do with the salves they’ve stocked up on. He knows Jason has an increased healing factor from the Pit so that means – that means –
It's not that old. Don’t yell at me. He picked. I don’t blame him. Dick was also raised by the World’s Greatest Detective.
Dick feels tears stinging his eyes. “Bruce?” he asks even though he’s not really asking, voice catching and breaking. That wary look is still on Jason’s face when he nods, curling away from Dick, arms crossed over like he’s protecting himself. “Bruce Wayne. Batman did this to you? When? Why? What the absolute fuck, Jason?”
Jason flinches and lurches off the couch like he’s going to run away. Dick follows him, emotions a chaotic tangle in his head.
“No, wait – I’m not. Jason, please. I’m not yelling at you. I’m so sorry. I’m just – . ” Jason stops cold, head ducked down, shoulders heaving. A crackling sob shatters the air. Dick can’t help the tear that falls in response. “Oh god, little wing. I’m so, so sorry. I – I wish I could be surprised that he would do that. I really wish I could.”
Jason whirls around, eyes wide with shock, and, and hope? Like he didn’t think Dick would believe him? Dick’s resolve crumbles and he’s moving forward again, faster than Jason can react, and he’s wrapping his little brother in a tight hug. Jason clings to him, face pressed against his neck, and he can feel the tears dripping onto his skin. He’s shaking, his cries are quiet, and Dick doesn’t know if it’s the pain or the fact that someone else knows now or what, but he rubs a hand up and down Jason’s spine, presses his cheek to his temple.
“He sucks at emotions,” he’s murmuring into Jason’s ear. Jason’s grip on his shirt gets tighter. “Absolutely, one hundred percent sucks at expressing his emotions in a healthy way. That’s one of the reason Tim felt the need to become Robin in the first place. I wouldn’t be shocked if you told me right now that when you confronted him back then, it turned ugly.” Jason nods against his neck. “Yeah, thought so. It always turns ugly with him because he just doesn’t know how to deal. Violence got in involved because of course – and he missed, didn’t he? He missed what he was aiming for and got you instead?
Jason nods again. He gasps wetly and wheezes, “Joker – .”
Dick closes his eyes, because of course.
Never let go unless you’re sure what you’re going to hit is what you’re aiming for, is what Bruce always said, what he drilled into each and every one of them. It’s a sound rule, good practice. And Dick knows every single one of them have failed it at some point in their lives because they’re human, they’re fallible – and if there was ever going to be a moment when Bruce failed his own rule it was going to be when the Joker is involved, when his son has come back from the dead and, he assumes, demands well-deserved justice.
Anger burns low in his stomach, crawling hot to bloom through his chest. He grits his teeth. Not a good enough excuse for almost killing your own son – Dick can almost picture the entire thing in his mind’s eye even if he wasn’t there. The cowl footage of that night must be somewhere.
Bruce needs to be benched – needs the cowl taken away from him for a while. He needs to know if Bruce even knows, if he’s aware how close he came to breaking is number one rule and having his own son be the victim for the life of the Joker. If he knew. Gods, if he knew what he did. If he just left Jason there, choking on his own blood. Dick doesn’t, he doesn’t know what he will do, but it’s not going to be pretty. This is beyond anything that man’s done before.
He hopes, he hopes that Bruce didn’t know. That he thought Jason got away unscathed physically – completely beaten emotionally and mentally no doubt, and that’s not going to be pushed to the wayside just because it’s not a mark on his skin – that maybe he didn’t see where his batarang went. It doesn’t make up for the rest of it. Not knowing doesn’t absolve you of the fact that you did something like this.
But maybe, not all is lost if he didn’t know.
Not all is lost, but some of it is because – Dick presses his nose to his little brother’s temple and takes a deep, steadying breath.
Diana and Clark would be more than happy to help enforce the benching while they investigated and probably beyond that too. Bruce hasn’t been okay for a long while now and it’s time they did something about it – Dick hates that it had to get this far; Bruce hiding all of this, Jason unsure if he could ever tell anyone. Dinah will have to be called, see if she has any referrals because this family is going into therapy, damnit.
“I’m mad,” Dick admits. Jason stiffens. “Not at you. Never at you, little wing. I swear. I get it. I do. I wish you’d just come straight home. I’ve missed you so much – but I promise I’m not mad at you. I’m pissed at Bruce.”
Jason makes a small noise. He pulls him away and shakes him slightly.
“Jay, I’m not mad at you,” he insists. “I’m so, so happy you’re alive. I’m happy you’re back no matter the circumstances of your return. Do I wish it was a little less bloody? Yeah, of course. But only for your sake. I’m so very glad I can be in your apartment, watching a kid’s cartoon about singing lions and having food delivered that we’re going to eat together. I would never yell at you about something like this. There were a few bad choices, yeah, a few bad things done, but I get it. That doesn’t make you a bad person, okay? That doesn’t mean you deserved this.”
Jason drops against him again, holding him impossibly tighter. Dick lets him until his back starts to ache and then he slowly leads them back to the couch. They sit without parting. His hand smooths up Jason’s spine to the nape of his neck, squeezing it gently.
“When it doesn’t hurt to talk,” he says quietly. “I would like to hear the whole story from you, please.” Jason nods before he pulls away. His eyes are rimmed red, his cheeks pink. He grinds the heel of his palms into his eyes, groaning lowly. Dick lets the hand on his neck linger before he reluctantly takes it back. “You got anything for that?”
He pulls out his phone and types for a little bit. Dick’s phone buzzes seconds later with a list, instructions, and locations. He grins as he stands. “Food should be here any minute,” he says then, before he walks away, he risks sliding his fingers through Jason’s hair.
Jason smacks it with a scowl, face twisting. Dick laughs loudly, swipes in to ruffle it, then dashes off before Jason can get violent about it. He doesn’t have to look to know he’s getting swears slinged at his back. In the kitchen, he pulls out Babs’s contact, the corners of his lips twitching down before he forces them back up. If anyone can get the cowl footage of that night, it’s her. They have some work to do.