Chapter Text
It wasn’t just that Bruce still had access to all of his mission reports. If he had somehow managed an encryption that would lock the old man out forever, Dick would still feel the crushing weight of his disappointment. Yes, Dick was a grown, independent man who would forever seek the validation of his father, he’d accepted this about himself—but he was also an individual with incredibly high standards for himself beyond his strict upbringing. Tonight’s performance was a disappointment.
Dick missed living at the manor. Even disregarding its many amenities (which were really just poor Alfred busting his ass to take care of him and Bruce), it was just easier to crash right after a grueling patrol. But Dick was now an adult living alone in the heart of Gotham City, which meant he’d have to change out of his gear and drive back to his apartment, rather than doze off in the passenger seat of the Batmobile like he did as a kid.
These nights, he missed having someone at his back on the streets. By the time he was fourteen, he’d made a habit of leaving Bruce’s side whenever possible, eager for whatever morsel of freedom he could get, but it had always been comforting to know he could rely on Batman to swoop in whenever Robin got in over his head—which, he hated to admit, was fairly often.
Bruce was semi-retired now. He could squeeze back into the costume if necessary. But Dick would never dream of taking the man away from his baby sister.
Dick had only seen Helena a handful of times since her birth, and every time, she’d appeared more fragile than the last. She’d morphed from a sickly gray alien thing immediately postpartum to this tiny, shriveled red lump with the littlest fingers Dick had ever seen. Already, he loved her with his whole heart, and he knew with every fiber of his being that Bruce did the same. Of course Dick was going to give Bruce as much time as possible with his daughter.
This meant that he just had to be more careful.
Most of the injuries he’d acquired throughout the night were from his own forgetfulness, anyhow. Failing to check his blindspots because he was expecting to see a black cape there, mistiming his feints, that sort of thing. They were little nicks and slices that he could barely feel on most nights, but tiny injuries tended to add up.
Bruce would’ve never had this problem. Batman began as a solo act. Robin, meanwhile, grew under the watchful (if at times stifling) eye of a mentor. Now that he was the sole defender of Gotham’s streets, he had to be better. He had to prove himself—not just to Bruce, after years of claiming he was ready to go solo, but also to himself, to prove that he wasn’t just a little kid playing dress-up. To prove that he was somebody outside of Batman’s shadow.
At least, those were Robin’s problems. Dick Grayson was supposed to be just a friendly, slightly harried young lawyer just starting out at a firm.
He was on pretty good terms with his neighbors, or so Dick thought, and the front desk people besides. It wouldn’t do to skulk into the building with a scowl visible from miles away, as that would only raise questions, and Dick was ready to collapse into his bed right then and there.
Schooling his face into a bland, affable smile, Dick tossed an easy grin to the flagging college student behind the front desk and called, “Heya, Freddie!”
Tiredly, the kid smiled. “‘Sup, Dick,” he replied. He glanced at the clock and let out a low whistle. “They really do have you working crazy hours, huh? Glad I never got into law. Nope, just hospitality and hotel management for meeeeee…” Poor thing was dead on his feet too.
Dick could relate, even if all of the heavy-duty stuff Freddie was thinking of was more or less handled by the paralegals and legal assistants around the offices. Dick wasn’t going to correct him.
“Ah, can’t complain,” Dick said instead. “It’s what I signed up for.” He sidled up to the desk and rang the little bell once, a constant temptation he always failed to resist. “Bet you love sitting here with nothing to do, huh?”
“Nothing to do?” Freddie snorted. “I’ll have you know, I replenish the candy bowl every couple of hours.”
Dick saluted him as he fished a Warhead out of the aforementioned red ceramic bowl. “Thank you for your service, soldier.”
The creaky front door announced the presence of another night owl. Not an altogether strange occurrence for Gotham, but a little for Dick’s apartment building. Not too many people coming and going at this time of night. Dick turned to look and was greeted by the sight of the guy he’d dubbed The Hot Neighbor running a hand through his windswept dark hair.
Yeah, yeah, if there was anything Dick was supposed to glean from all those years by Bruce’s side, it was that the man’s paranoia was actually a benefit and that Dick could never be too careful, yada yada. But in Dick’s defense, he’d only seen the guy a couple of times since he moved in a few months ago, and he was swamped with cases from both his day and night jobs. Dick didn’t even notice he and The Hot Neighbor lived on the same floor until, like, a week ago.
“Hey, Jason,” Freddie called, doing most of Dick’s detective work for him.
“Ngh,” said Jason eloquently.
Dick hummed, faintly amused. “He always this rude?” Caveman noises had their appropriate times and places, he conceded.
“No, no,” replied Freddie, “he’s just the quiet type. Would’ve been ruder if he just ignored me like everybody else.”
“I don’t ignore you,” Dick protested. He turned to look over at Jason, who was waiting at the elevator. Dick was tired, sure, but he was also an incurable flirt. It would be the death of him someday. “Mm. I like shy guys. Night, Freddie. I’m gonna go shoot my shot.”
“You’re gonna eat the guy alive, Dick,” Freddie laughed. “Go easy on him.”
Dick winked. “No promises.” He sauntered over to the elevator, wincing when he remembered that he fucked up his hip earlier that night. What should have been a graceful prowl turned into more of a pathetic limp.
The doors had already opened and Jason was standing at the very back of the lift, leaning against the railing. God, he really was gorgeous—and that was coming from Dick Grayson. Jason’s bone structure was impeccable, with high cheekbones and a well-defined jaw, further defined by a lack of buccal fat most could only dream of replicating with surgery. A long scar traced up the side of his face from the corner of his mouth to his temple, giving him a rugged look.
He had pretty green eyes, too, with long lashes, that fixed themselves onto Dick as he stepped up to the elevator. His pursed lips, though lightly chapped, were plump. Jason’s muscular legs went on for days—the man had to be at least 6’4”. He was very tall, to put it plainly. Tall enough not to have to step forward in order to reach the buttons.
“Thanks,” Dick tittered as the elevator doors closed on him.
Wait a minute.
He hadn’t even made it past the vowel before the elevator chimed and then began whirring upward.
It was the natural conclusion to think the guy was holding the door open for him, right?
By the time Dick snapped out of his shock, the red number above the elevator read ‘5’ mockingly and continued to climb.
Dick heard a bright peal of laughter and turned to see Freddie pressing his hand to his mouth. “Sorry! I’m sorry,” he wheezed. “I wasn’t expecting him to do that. I wasn’t laughing at you, promise.”
Dick smiled weakly in response.
It was getting to the point in the night where even blinking became difficult, as the act of opening his eyes every time they closed became increasingly herculean in nature. If Dick stood around waiting, he’d probably pass out before the elevator got back down to him. Damn it. Stairs it was.
As Dick trudged up the first landing, he sent a furious glare at the security cameras affixed to the wall. Couldn’t even just grapple up to his apartment. Why on earth had he decided to rent a flat on the thirteenth floor again? Oh, right. Roof access.
Yeah, it wasn’t fucking worth it.
For most people, the way they woke up served as a forecast for the rest of their day. Dick Grayson was no exception.
Dick woke up feeling like shit.
He was stiff, and he was sore, and waking up fully dressed had been terribly disorienting. He vaguely remembered faceplanting onto his bed and going out like a light, so it made sense, but still. It wasn’t an awful wake-up in the way bad hangovers were, pounding headaches and instant regret. But there was the thickness coating his mouth and the immovable weight on his entire body as it refused every attempt to get up.
Nevertheless, Dick persevered and managed to peel himself out of his clothes and shower. After making sure his little pup was fed, Dick breathed a sigh of relief as he caught the time on his phone. With any luck, he could make it to Bruce’s before Helena got put down for nap time.
Thank God it was the weekend so he wouldn’t have to go to the office today. He didn’t think he could manage it—neither the actual work nor the judgment and office politicking surrounding the only outfit Dick could be bothered to squeeze into. Athleisure was his second skin, but he doubted his coworkers at Cranston & Associates would be very supportive of the look, completed, naturally, with his messy hair and sunglasses. Their loss.
Clutching his empty tumbler with a furious need for coffee, Dick made his way down the building with all the pep he could muster—which wasn’t a lot. Luckily for him, most of the people he crossed paths with took pity on him.
Mrs. Brunswick, who lived on the first floor because of her bad knees, wished him a “good morning and an even better day.” Lloyd, the owner of a placid Samoyed named Fluffernutter (also known as Haley’s best friend), allowed Dick to hug it out for about five minutes with his dog. Francine, Freddie’s replacement at the front desk during the day, sucked in air between her teeth and muttered “Yikes,” but it wasn’t out of malice or mockery. For the most part, Dick lived with pleasant people.
And then there was Jason, sorting through his mail like a jackass.
He stood facing the mailboxes, turning when he heard Dick return Francine’s greeting with a kinder one of his own. Their eyes met, and if Dick was just slightly more optimistic, he’d think Jason looked a little chagrined.
“Good morning, Jason,” Dick spat through gritted teeth.
“Whoa,” Jason said, lips curing into an infuriating smirk. “Not sure I like the tone of your voice there, buddy.”
“Well, I’m not sure I like walking up thirteen flights of stairs,” Dick snapped. “Coincidentally, that’s what I did last night. Technically this morning, actually.”
Jason arched a brow and canted a hip. “Isn’t your door near the stairway access door anyway? Besides…” His eyes traveled up and down Dick’s body, a movement Dick might have preened at under other circumstances. As it was, he gagged. “You look like a guy who needs to use the stairs often.”
Dick’s mouth fell open. “What the hell did you say to me?”
Jason blanched. His eyes darted around for a second in bewilderment. What the hell was he so confused for? Of course Dick was going to get offended, and of course no one was going to back him up! Dick was hot as fuck. And what Jason had said was out of pocket—that too. “Wait, I…” Jason’s face hardened, brows coming together above a pronounced frown. “You heard what I said, bro. And I meant it.”
“Whatever, asshole.” Dick spun on his heel, unwilling to put up with any more of this today. So much for being the bigger person and putting this behind him. He’d have to come up with another nickname for Jason, because The Hot Neighbor wasn’t cutting it. The Fuckass Stupid Neighbor, maybe. Or The Fat-shaming Douchebag Neighbor Who’s Also Blind.
As he stepped out of the building, Dick forced himself to stop and calm down. Deep breaths didn’t seem to work, but thinking about seeing his little sister again, and her dimpled little smile, did. He couldn’t show up to the manor all worked up; Bruce and Alfred would pick up on it immediately, and he wasn’t going to expend any more energy on this than he already had. Dick forced a smile on his face, first smoothing his cheeks upward with his knuckles, then letting go to see if it stayed naturally on its own. Then, when he was satisfied with how the expression sat on his face, he continued walking over to the garage.
Hopefully Helena would turn out to be better company than the jerk who lived across the hall.
Dick was quite exceptional at being undercover, actually. It was one of the things he missed most from before the time Bruce began his retirement. Robin couldn’t really afford to take any “extended vacations” these days, so sue him for finding his fun where he could.
Dick’s’ favorite part was the secretiveness of it all—planting the proverbial (and sometimes literal!) dynamite to scurry behind cover and send everything sky high. He was a fan of the guerrilla aspect of espionage, essentially. But as good as he was, Dick could tell he was currently too excited to be as unnoticeable as he would like. He was like a kid on Christmas morning who’d caught a glimpse of an Amazon package on the porch in late November.
His current cover—feigning interest in Francine’s boy troubles—was less than ideal, given that it required at least partially diverting his attention. Really, Dick didn’t need auditory attention on the fruits of his labor; he was watching the doors to the elevator like a hawk anyway. But the 360 surround sound experience would be nice.
“Uh-huh,” Dick said to Francine, just after she finished detailing her exploits in exploring the Andes mountains with a sherpa.
It was just then that Jason entered the building lobby, dark hair pushed about by the eternally set-to-high AC. Dick looked away as he strode past them, ‘refocusing’ his attention on Francine.
“Wait,” Dick said, “aren’t sherpas from Tibet?”
“Oh, now you’re listening,” Francine the front desk girl muttered. She caught Dick looking at the mirror attached to her station, ostensibly allowing her to see who entered and exited the building even if she wasn’t facing their direction—only it had conspicuously been oriented to offer a view of the wall of mailboxes to the person speaking to her instead. Popping her gum, Francine shot Dick an unimpressed look and loudly asked, “Do you, like, have a crush on him or something?”
As if she couldn’t help but make Dick’s mortification even worse, she lifted a hand and pointed directly at the back of Jason’s head. Luckily for Dick, the ass-hat in question was busy staring warily at his very warped mailbox.
Dick scoffed in response at the same volume, a noise that sounded more like he was choking. “Me, on him?” he cried. “An inconsiderate piece of crap who enjoys—no, needs, to make people around him miserable? Girl, don’t make me laugh.” He turned to stick his tongue out at Jason.
The man was looking back at Dick, a sizable amount of what appeared to be hurt in his eyes. Dick refused to feel guilty about it. Jason had made this bed, and now he was lying in it, covers pulled up to his chin and all. If he didn’t want Dick to live up to his name, he shouldn’t have been a dick to begin with. Jason broke eye contact first, returning his attention to the comically overstuffed mailbox under his name and muttering, “Whatever…”
When the postman arrived with his burden (and took seven trips to and from his truck and four of those white plastic bins), Dick had felt bad. The poor man was not the target of his ire, nor the countless other citizens whose deliveries he delayed with his wicked scheme. But it was funny—first, seeing how much paper those metal boxes could actually hold before bursting, and then secondly the mere thought of how hysterical it would be to see it all spill out all over Jason. Now that the moment was at hand, Dick was too giddy for shame.
He watched as Jason took a quick breath, seemingly steeling himself, and then slowly inserted the key. Jason turned it gingerly, and Dick could hear the crinkling of cardstock as the locking mechanism moved. Jason tried to open the door gingerly, but the floodgates were already open. A veritable cascade of papers flew out and fluttered around Jason, the rustling of it almost loud enough to drown out his furious yell of “Oh, what the fuck?!”
A tenant entered through the front door as Mrs. Brunswick’s daughter, accompanied by her fourteen-year-old son, chastised Jason for his language. “Lady, I guarantee you that kid has said way worse shit than what just came outta my fuckin’ mouth,” Jason retorted. He didn’t even seem to react much to the backdraft the entry had created, causing some of his erstwhile correspondence to billow into the street. He flipped his critic the bird and rounded on Dick, a murderous glint in his eye.
Such a look of angry befuddlement was the wind under Dick’s wings as he glided out of the lobby, an extra pep in his step. So what if Jason still looked stupidly handsome even with that doofy expression? He’d be stuck scurrying after his mail for at least an hour, if the breeze hadn’t already blown a good chunk of it into the bay.
If the criminals of Gotham’s underbelly seemed to notice a new levity to Robin’s kicks, none of them were foolish enough to mention it.
Admittedly, Dick knew very little about child care, besides the fact that he was once a child, and that he had also once been cared for. He was even more clueless about how to take care of an infant.
The real question was whether he knew less than Bruce. The man himself didn’t seem to think so. That would explain why he foisted Helena onto Dick while he jetted off on a business trip, Selina at his side. To some degree, Dick could understand. The two were probably crawling on the walls for some time alone away from a helpless meat sack that cried all the time. Dick got it.
But on the other hand—WHY.
Bruce was lucky that Dick was a meta, his power being the capability to build (and keep!) long-lasting, meaningful friendships—especially with his exes.
Babs only babysat a couple of times in her life for petty cash—all when she was fourteen and never again when she realized it was unfair to the kids, having a guardian that viewed them as a detestable burden. But she was plenty insightful, and like many young white moms around her age group, she discovered the perfect solution—distracting Helena with a screen. Not that she was without her criticisms of course.
“Don’t you think,” Babs said slowly, as if Dick was also a child, “that Jane and the Dragon might be a little too sophisticated for a four-month-old?”
“You didn’t say she had to understand it,” Dick replied smoothly. Helena gurgled in his arms, a sound that had him melting into a puddle. Haley sniffed curiously at her stubby little toes, and Dick lifted the baby higher to keep her out of the pup’s reach. “Just look at her—she’s enraptured by the pretty colors. And besides, I’m kind of digging it. That whole UST thing between Jane and Gunther? Who knew they made these kids shows so spicy?”
“First of all, ew. Second of all, isn’t that just plain ironic?” She leaned her head onto Dick’s shoulder, taking his dog into her lap and trapping Haley against her. “Explain it to me one more time? Maybe it’ll finally make sense.”
“What is there to say?” Dick mumbled.
“A guy closed an elevator on you, and then you went and committed mail fraud?”
“You know, when you say anything in that tone, it’s always gonna sound more ridiculous than it actually is.” Pouting, Dick jostled his shoulder so that her head slipped off.
“I’m sorry,” Babs said, almost sounding sincere. “How am I exaggerating it?”
“Because he closed the door on me, doubled down on it, and said I was fat!” Helena’s lower lip began to quiver and Dick swept her up into the air. “Oh, no, no, no, princess! Please don’t cry! Don’t turn me into that neighbor when I already suffer so!”
“Oh my God,” Babs said gleefully. “You’re actually deranged!”
She bulldozed over his squawk of protest. “Is this a quarter-life crisis sort of deal? Because you’ve been acting really weird ever since B did the whole settling down with a wife and kid thing. I can only assume this is your absurd attempt at regaining some semblance of control due to your abandonment issues?”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” Dick scowled. The expression must’ve been hilarious to the baby, because Helena’s splotchy face soon cleared into a Teletubby-sunny smile. “I’m too sober for that. Of course an orphan’s gonna have abandonment issues. ‘Cept this time my sole remaining parent voluntarily abandoned me and left me with a decades-long legacy of being the most terrifying and commanding being to ever prowl Gotham City.”
Babs paused. Sounding vaguely apologetic, she eventually said, “Dick, I was just joking around. You know I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dick interrupted. He hated ruining the mood, being the stick in the mud. She had a biting sense of humor most of the time, but he knew she was never outright malicious. His agitation only set Helena on edge again, and Dick increased the volume of the show to distract her. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, it’s just…”
“You can tell me anything,” Babs said.
Dick gave a listless, one-armed shrug. “It’s not anything major, I’m not having a meltdown,” he said simply. “Is it so weird for me to be a jerk to a guy who was an asshole to me first? I mean, I’m flattered that you think so highly of me, hon, but I’m honestly way pettier than you give me credit for. Do you remember that time in pre-calc when—”
A pungent odor wafted up into his nostrils. When Dick tilted his head downward, it struck him with full force. Dick gagged, his eyes watering. Babs scrambled to the opposite end of the couch, reaching for her chair as Haley leapt free and bolted for the safety of Dick’s bedroom, the furthest room in the apartment. “What the fuck is that?” Dick gasped, regretting it because he only inhaled more of the noxious fumes. “Mustard gas?”
Covering her nose and mouth with her shirt, Babs made a shooing motion at him. “The baby needs a diaper change, you idiot. Go get the diaper bag.”
“Is it…” Dick lifted the baby by her armpits and held her away at arm’s length. Helena gave him a gummy smile, and that was almost enough to forgive her for the absolutely rancid smell emanating from her. “Is it too late to box her up and ship her to her parents?”
In his defense, Dick really did mean for it to end there.
One offense, one retaliation. An eye for an eye, without going on to blind the rest of the world. Dick was stressed. Maybe it was a little unfair to take it out on one guy, but it was done and over with. He just needed to get it out of his system.
Clearly, Jason never got the memo.
His mailbox was completely spam free, by the way. Though tedious the process must have been, Jason had canceled all of the subscriptions Dick foisted onto him by the end of the week. Whatever solicitations he received now were ones he was going to get whether or not Dick was involved.
No, war was declared when Dick returned home one night and found himself unable to park because a monstrous eyesore of a motorcycle was three inches into his parking space. Dick paid good money for that spot, but his friendly neighbor had decided to park his bike sideways—as if he had Akira-slid in; honestly, if it wasn’t such an inconvenience, Dick might’ve been a little impressed—and block Dick’s car. The majority of Jason’s bike was still within his own space, so he had some margin of plausible deniability.
Dick knew better. And he knew he would never, could never, let something like this go.
From there, it just got worse.
They really only crossed paths at night, which probably actually made things worse. Dick, agitated and still high on adrenaline from patrol, and Jason being… his usual self, Dick supposed. It was a recipe for disaster. Or at least it would be, if Dick had been homeschooled and therefore never been subjected to the billions of ways his name could be turned into an insult. As it was, mostly snide comments passed between them.
Dick had tripped Jason once, the height of maturity, and it seemed like the man was prepared for it in every other subsequent interaction. But just the once had been good enough, the triumphant feeling derived from bringing Jason Poopyhead Todd to his knees—okay fine, one knee—enough to sustain Dick for a month.
As time went on, neither felt like they could back down. More than anything, Jason’s ‘pranks’ were inconveniences. He hid Dick’s mail once (rather poorly, in a potted plant nearby), in a laughable attempt to make Dick squirm. The walk to retrieve his item was bothersome, but it stuck out like a sore thumb. If it had been Dick, he would’ve kept the thing for a few days before hiding it on the opposite side of the planter with the variegated leaves covering most of the cardboard box. This was why Dick was the Master of Mischief, and Jason was… Jason.
Dick’s latest scheme, for instance, was a stroke of brilliance. Sure, most of it had been motivated by just how loud the party in Casa Todd currently was, but he’d been sitting on this for a hot minute. He even gave Jason a little grace period—he’d pounded on the wall next to the door, the universal sign for shut the fuck up—and when all he got was mocking pounding in return, Dick figured it was as green a light as any.
Slow Ride had just reached the halfway point as it polluted the hallway, practically shaking the entire 13th floor. Then, it suddenly stopped, as did all of the light fixtures in Jason’s apartment. All of the electronics therein, actually. It didn’t suddenly become all quiet—a chorus of groans and noises of confusion arose from Jason and his friends. But it was a nice audioscape. The sweet song of victory.
Dick was shaken out of his haze of self-satisfaction by a flurry of teeth-rattling knocking on his door. He jumped (only a little bit) and a tiny amount of dread began to set in before he remembered—oh yeah, he was Robin. He opened the door to an expected sight.
Jason stood, arms crossed, with one of his friends peeking from behind Jason’s own door. But in spite of the anger that had startled Dick in the first place, Jason looked… tired. He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Look, man, what exactly is your problem with me?” he asked wearily.
Dick blinked innocently. “I don’t understand what you mean. Why on earth would I ever have a problem with you?”
Shoulders drooping, Jason replied, “Can I just have my electricity back? Please?” It wasn’t the fight Dick was half-hoping for. In fact, it seemed more like all of the fight had left Jason entirely.
But it wasn’t an apology.
“Just go home,” Dick said, a lot less smugly than he imagined he’d be mere minutes ago. “I’m sure it’ll be back soon.”
Jason shot Dick one last exhausted look over his shoulder as he loped back to his apartment. With him went all the wind out of Dick’s sails. After a few moments, there was a buzzing noise, then a pop, and then Jason’s speakers started blaring again. There was a synchronized cry of joy tempered by a light ‘aww’ when the music was turned down to a much more reasonable level.
That hadn’t been fun at all. Dick frowned, alone in his own apartment with this weird, irritating feeling sitting in his chest. This wasn’t anything like the mailbox caper where the measure of Dick’s success was in how ticked off Jason got. This time, he was just sad, which in turn made Dick… not happy. He wouldn’t dare say that he sympathized with the man. In fact, Dick was sure this had only increased his annoyance towards Jason tenfold. How dare he make Dick feel crummy?
And the longer their feud dragged on, the more baffling Jason’s behavior became. Two days after Dick had yoinked and then promptly restored Jason’s electricity, there was a large cardboard box set upon Dick’s front step. On it, there was a tiny post-it attached to the top reading, ‘so your dog will stop FUCKING barking all the damn time <3’. Dick understood immediately that it had come from his archnemesis, but he was completely in the dark as to its contents. Best case scenario, it was just those popper scrunch things designed to make you shit your pants. Worst case scenario, anthrax. Dick wanted to believe Jason was above that, but Dick was also an incredibly paranoid person.
(Thanks for that, Bruce.)
When Dick opened the box, he was several feet away using an industrial grabber. Only when hew satisfied nothing was to jump out at him or cause him bodily harm did Dick approach. Gingerly, he moved open the other flap and peered in.
It was just a bunch of dog toys.
Brand new, by the looks of them. There were seven in total, and underneath were five accessories just Haley’s size. Jason must’ve seen them around the building, in addition to hearing her while Dick was out. As Dick lugged the box into his apartment, the pup crowded his ankles, rearing up on her hind legs to press her paw on his thigh. She apparently adored everything Jason got for her, though Dick wouldn’t allow her to touch anything until he’d tested it all to make sure they weren’t coated in anything harmful. All of the gifts checked out and Haley was a happy girl.
But there was just one thing Dick didn’t get.
What exactly was the prank?
The doggie treats incident was the last Dick had ever heard from Jason in a while. They still lived across from each other, and they passed by each other in the lobby, but it was quiet. Almost like Jason had given up. Dick wasn’t going to be fooled so easily.
One of the (many) crappy things about Dick’s building was that there was no in-unit washer and dryer. Residents had to travel all the way to the basement to do their laundry, and few suffered more than those living on the 13th floor. It pained Dick especially to see Jason’s clothes just sitting there in the porthole of the front-load washer, motionless and waterlogged.
That was why he was standing in the elevator with a sopping, dripping garishly red laundry basket with all of his mortal enemy’s crap. In college, he would’ve done the nice thing and moved it over to a dryer. But not now, and certainly not with him. Dick’s intention was just to upend his basket on the dingy welcome mat and then scurry back down to the basement and get his loads started.
But then he noticed Jason’s door was ajar, with raised voices coming from within. For a man as ridiculously private as Jason Todd, it was enough to raise some red flags.
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but Dick found himself hovering by the entryway, basket pressed against his hip. A wet spot formed from where Jason’s wet laundry peeked through the slits.
Jason’s friends tended to be loud, which is why Dick was certain the two middle-aged smokers shouting at Jason weren’t any of them. For one, they were several decades too old, and they were more angry than playfully aggressive besides. The voices were familiar, though, and Dick’s blood ran cold when he finally placed them.
A distinct rasp belonged to someone he’d previously encountered on patrol. Two-Face’s men were infamously disloyal, ready to run in the event of an unfortunate coin toss, but the unique rattle leaving Jason’s apartment belonged to one of his most ardent supporters. Despite the man’s fairly low status in the organization, likely on account of the man’s brains (or lack thereof), he worked tirelessly to earn his boss’s approval. Dick wondered if this was another one of those extracurricular activities.
There was a loud crash of upturned furniture, making Dick jump. He nudged the door open wider.
Jason was pinned to the cushions of his couch by a knee, red-faced and rapidly losing circulation to the arm wrenched behind his back. A heavyset man, whom Dick labeled Goon 1, pressed the fullness of his bulk onto Jason, a sneer on his face. Nearby, a much skinnier man with scruffy and patchy facial hair, the zealot (AKA Goon 2), paced the length of Jason’s living room. It looked like six tornadoes had blown through the room at once. From his vantage point, Dick couldn’t tell if Jason had any injuries. But it wasn’t looking good for him.
“I didn’t do anything! I don’t have it!” Jason cried, his voice cracking with desperation. “C’mon, d’you really think I’m stupid enough to steal from the big boss?”
Goon 2 tipped a shelf over in response. Dozens of books spilled out and tumbled to the ground, pages crushed and creased and the covers of paperbacks torn.
“Dunno,” said Goon 1. He grinned wickedly, nicotine-yellowed teeth glistening under the artificial light. “Your old man was pretty stupid, wasn’t he?”
Jason thrashed underneath him like a wild animal. “Shut the hell up!” he snarled, baring his teeth. “Don’t you fucking dare talk to me about him, you sacks of shit!”
“Oh yeah?” asked Goon 2, whirling on Jason. Hey yanked him up by his hair and began screaming in his ear. Dick could finally get a good look at Jason’s face—especially the beginnings of a black eye on his right. “I’d like to see you fucking do something about it, Little T! Your daddy couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag, so I’m sure—”
A feral noise ripped its way out of Jason’s throat and Dick took the opportunity to step fully into the room. The impact of the door against the wall was quiet by comparison, the flash of motion drawing the trio’s attention instead. Clearing his throat, Dick attempted his best Karen impression and tossed his imaginary bangs out of his face.
“Excuse me,” Dick said, pulling his voice as high as it could go without hitting a falsetto. He injected as much of a Ben Shapiro nasality as he could muster. “Do you know how late it is? It’s—” He checked his phone. “10:08. You’re being so rude. You know, it’s illegal to be this loud.”
“Who the fuck is this?” Goon 1 gawped. He eased up lightly on Jason, who took the opportunity to try and squirm free.
“I’m Dick Grayson—you know, Bruce Wayne’s kid, junior associate at Cranston & Associates?” He pointed at Jason. “I’m his neighbor, which means I can hear you and all of your crap, and let me tell you—it’s too freakin’ loud.”
Goon 2 sneered. “Listen, fella, I don’t think you understand what—”
“No, I don’t think you understand how noise regulations work,” interjected Dick with a Jamie Lee Curtis finger wag. He pulled up emergency services on his phone and hovered his thumb over the call button. “In the state of New Jersey, all noise between the hours of 10 PM and 7 AM has to be kept to 50 decibels and below—NJAC 7:29, look it up. Wanna guess how much over the limit you two chucklefucks were, or would you rather get the cops over here to decide for you?”
“Hey, Dickhead—”
“Ah!” Dick feigned touching the red circle on his screen. “You scram, or I’m calling the GCPD right now. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have money and my daddy has money. They’ll come running for me the second the dial tone starts.”
Grumbling, the two knuckleheads looked at each other, then down at Jason. After one particularly rough punch to the back of Jason’s head that made Dick flinch, they decided whatever they were looking for wasn’t worth it and stumbled out of the apartment.
Dick set the basket down by the door and rushed over to Jason, who was sitting up to cradle his arm and hack a lung up. “Are you hurt?” Dick asked, gently checking Jason for contusions or broken bones. Jason hissed something fierce when Dick lightly brushed over his cheekbone. “They really did a number on you, huh?”
“Nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” Jason forced out as he coughed into his fist. He wheezed, palming at his own ribs. There was dried blood caked around one of his nostrils, and he had a split lip. Dick couldn’t be sure if the bruising around his eyes was from a broken nose, but the way he was talking made it sound like he was… as close to okay as someone who looked like him could get. “I think I’m good. Did you just pull all of that out of your ass? The NJ 4:20 stuff or whatever.”
“The regulation exists,” Dick told him. Upon confirming that Jason’s injuries weren’t life-threatening and that he was capable of sitting up himself, Dick leaned back and rested his weight on the balls of his feet. “But it’s for commercial and industrial properties, not residential ones. I’m a lawyer.”
Jason’s eyes widened. “Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool, cool,” said Jason. “I’ve just spent the last six months in a dick-measuring contest with a guy who could make up a bullshit reason to get me evicted and have the fine print to back it up, that is just… cool.”
Dick laughed. “Gonna make you think twice before you try some shit, huh?”
“I haven’t tried anything in a hot minute,” Jason protested. He really hadn’t, Dick could admit. The hand Jason had been lightly massaging his throat with moved around back to rub at the nape of his neck. He suddenly looked much younger in his sheepishness. “Thanks… for saving my ass. I appreciate it.”
Dick’s cheeks warmed. This was weird. He wasn’t used to being civil with Jason, let alone being the recipient of gratitude. He wasn’t yet sure if he was ready to admit it was a pleasant feeling. “Oh, don’t worry about it. It was nothing,” he mumbled.
“Yes the hell it was. You were brave to take on two guys at once. Most people in this city prefer to keep their heads down and look the other way. You didn’t, and that was pretty fuckin awesome of you,” Jason replied.
There was a pause, and then his eyes drifted over to a spot above Dick’s shoulder, right by his front door. His brows furrowed. “Hey… Is that my laundry?”