Chapter Text
“Did you know,” Dick says, “the Joker almost killed me, once?”
“Did you know,” Jason mimics, pitching his voice as he keeps his eyes on his book, “the Joker actually killed me?”
“What?” Tim asks, looking up from his homework. “Like, recently?”
Dick smiles faintly, shaking his head. “No. Years ago. When I was twelve.”
“What’s your point?” Damian asks. “I’m twelve. Are you saying I could die? Because I assure you, I will not allow it. And neither will Father, and neither will you.”
“No, that’s not my point.” Dick says patiently, reaching out to ruffle Damian’s hair. “I’m just saying. I’m glad I’m still here. That’s all.”
Dick is running away.
Dick is packing his things, and running away.
He’s running away, and he’s not coming back, and then maybe Bruce will understand. Maybe he’ll understand when he finds Dick’s empty room, and maybe he’ll feel remorse when he looks Alfred in the eye and has to explain why. Why Dick left, why it’s all Bruce’s fault, and why he regrets everything he ever said and did.
Dick is running away, and Bruce isn’t even here to stop him, and he won’t notice until it’s too late, and then there will be a frantic search and maybe he’ll think that Dick was kidnapped, and it will serve him right -
“Ahem.”
Dick freezes.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
That’s not Bruce. It’s not Alfred either.
He turns slowly, hand already moving to the belt hidden under his T-shirt (he’s not stupid, and Bruce may have locked up the suit but Dick’s still Robin, he’s still completely capable of defending himself against home invasions). Dick turns, and looks up, and up and up into a menacing red helmet. There’s an absolute tank of a man standing in the west wing hall, hands on hips (and yes, those are guns) and it occurs to Dick, probably too late, that kidnapping may not be off the table after all. The night is still young. And there’s a strange man in full body armor standing in the middle of the hallway.
“None of your beeswax,” Dick says, fingers coiling slowly around his baton. He doesn’t have his panic buttons. His tracker is sitting on his bedside table, the watch on full display as a final eff you for Bruce to find in the morning.
Oops.
“Looks like you’re running away.”
“Looks like you’re breaking and entering,” Dick shoots back, and takes a step back. The man takes a step forward.
“Didn’t break anything,” the man says, and Dick wishes suddenly that he could see his face. It almost sounds like he’s smiling. That could be good, or that could be really really bad. “Didn’t need to, seeing as I know all the codes. Although,” and here he pauses, head tilting and hand moving to rest against the gun at his left hip. “I could. What do you think? Great Grandpappy Wayne would look pretty funny without a nose.”
The man takes another step forward, and Dick takes another step back. He could run. He could get out, and that’s probably what Bruce would want him to do. In fact, he knows that’s what Bruce would want, they’ve had this conversation about a million times, ever since Dick was first assaulted at the ripe old age ten. Get out, get away, get safe. Let the ‘authorities’ deal with the rest. But Bruce isn’t here, and neither is Alfred, and if Dick runs now and this man burns down the manor - well. Dick wants Bruce to worry. He doesn’t want him to worry like that.
And the problem is, this man doesn’t look like an idiot. He doesn’t look like some random criminal who just happened to break into the richest house in Bristol. And Dick isn’t a shrimp (no matter what the other kids say) but he hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet either, and this guy is easily three times his size, easily as big as Bruce. And this wouldn’t usually be a problem, except. Except he has guns. And full armor. And Dick has neither.
Because Dick’s armor is locked up in the cave, and if Dick dies now that will totally be Bruce’s fault.
“Look,” the man says, taking a third step forward. Dick steps back, and his back hits the wall. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. Now, I’m all for easy -” Dick lets his bag slide to the floor, and the guy actually sighs, like he’s the one being inconvenienced. “Guess it’s the hard way,” he mutters, and squares his shoulders just as Dick launches himself from the wall and attacks.
It ends with Dick wheezing on the floor, pinned down with an arm to the throat and a knee in his stomach. It ends with the masked man cursing to high heaven, snarling something about eels and demons and bloody revenge.
It ends with Dick slipping a smoke grenade into the man’s chest plate, wondering if he’s going to die, and wondering if Bruce will have any regrets when he does. Probably. Pity Dick won’t be there to find out.
Dick is running away.
He’s actually going to do it this time, because screw Bruce.
Because apparently, saving the manor and Bruce’s heritage and all their worldly possessions isn’t an excuse for not finishing one’s homework. Because apparently, the realization that Dick isn’t safe in Wayne Manor means that rather than being safe at Bruce’s side, rather than being safe as Robin, Dick is being locked safe in the Batcave like some helpless damsel in distress. Like he’s actually scared of some random dude in a helmet, who didn’t even have the balls to properly choke him to death.
So Dick is running away, he’s packing his bag and he’s leaving, and maybe then Bruce will understand, maybe then he’ll regret everything he ever said, he’ll understand what real danger is -
“Really? Again?”
Dick spins around, hand dropping from the window latch.
“What do you want?” he complains, not quite keeping the whine from his voice.
“An apology would be nice,” the man drawls, the same one from last night. He’s sitting on the chaise lounge, feet kicked up and arms draped over the armrests. He’s not wearing the helmet this time (because Dick cracked it and then fried the circuitry, ha!) but he still has a domino mask glued over his eyes. Dick is rather pleased to see that his nose is taped and swollen, bruises spreading to either side. It had been a trick, breaking it through the helmet.
“How about you apologize,” Dick says, and gestures to his throat. “You could have killed me!”
“You fucking ruined my helmet. You literally smoked me out of my gear. You broke my nose, you got what you fucking deserved.”
“Well, I’m leaving.” Dick announces, squaring his shoulders and reaching back for the window latch again. He’s not stupid, he’s not about to turn his back, but he’s also not falling for the same trick twice. So he can’t beat the guy. So maybe he doesn’t care, because Bruce apparently doesn’t. “You can go ahead and steal everything, I don’t care.”
“Ah-ah,” the guy says, sitting up, and Dick tenses. “You’re not going anywhere. Do I need to repeat myself?”
“What do you even care?” Dick asks. He’s not scared. He’s fast, probably fast enough to be out of the window before the guy even stands up. But he’s not faster than a bullet, and even though he doesn’t have his armor, the man still has his guns.
There’s a pause, a brief silence that hangs in the air in such a familiar way that it sends chills crawling across Dick’s arms. The silence of an unanswered question, a million things that want to be said but never will be. It’s the same silence Bruce carries with him, the same one Dick has slowly been picking apart, learning how to interpret. It’s not something he expected from a stranger.
“How about we watch a movie?” the man suggests, words falling with faux casualness into the still air. “You ever watch IT?”
“I’m running away -”
“No, you’re not. Do you really want a repeat of last night? Because I sure as hell don’t.”
Dick doesn’t want a repeat of last night. His throat is still sore, and his shoulder-blades are bruised from being slammed into the floor. And despite everything, there’s a not so small part of him that’s curious. He’s curious about the random guy who doesn’t want to kidnap him, and doesn’t want to kill him, and doesn’t want him to run away. And he knows Bruce updated all the codes yesterday, and put the security on high alert. And yet here they are again, with nary an alarm to be heard. Dick somehow doubts the cameras will have anything either.
Dick wants to know what this guy knows, because apparently, it’s a lot. Apparently, it’s more than Bruce.
“Fine,” Dick says, and drops his bag. “But I want popcorn. And I need a name.”
The man smiles a shark’s smile, rising gracefully to his feet. Trained, Dick’s brain whispers, assassin, dangerous. Dick straightens, and puts on his most stubborn look. So maybe he’s a prisoner in his own home (and at least half of that is Bruce’s fault, even if it’s someone else literally holding the gun) but he’s not about to be intimidated.
“Sure thing, pipsqueak,” the guy says, and holds out a hand. “The name’s Jason. Do you want salty or sweet?”
Dick is running away.
This is it, for real now. Bruce is out on the town, Alfred is in England for the rest of the week, and there’s really no point in Dick staying at the manor alone.
He goes straight out the window this time, climbing the well worn path through its limbs, swinging from branch to branch and down, dropping lightly to his feet. The moon is high in the sky, a waning crescent casting its blue light across the grounds. Beautiful, if Dick were in the mood for such things.
“Jesus Christ. Don’t you have any other hobbies?”
Dick startles. He startles bad, jumping about a foot in the air and turning towards the house, toward where Jason is standing in the shadows, glowering.
“I could ask you the same,” Dick sulks, already resigning himself to another failed escape. “Are you stalking me? ‘Cause that’s creepy.”
“Wrong br-” Jason begins, and then cuts himself off, and starts again. “I’m saving your scrawny ass. You’ll thank me for it later.”
“Doubt it,” Dick mutters.
“Too bad,” Jason says, and then gestures towards the patio door. “After you.”
They spend the first two hours playing Mario Kart. It’s actually kind of fun, especially when Dick keeps beating Jason. And Dick starts to relax, and Jason does too, and maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice when Dick starts asking questions. Maybe that’s why he answers, tongue between his teeth as he yanks the control side to side, as if that will help him go faster.
“Where are you from?”
“Gotham.”
“Why are you here?”
“Didn’t I already say that? I’m saving you.”
“I can save myself. Why are you saving me?”
Jason’s cart crashes into a candy house, and he curses. “Because I fucking care, you punk. Why else?”
“Yeah, but why? You don’t even know me.”
Dick crosses the finish line effortlessly, and turns to find Jason watching him, an odd expression on his face. The mask is still over his eyes, making it hard to read, but if Dick had to guess, he would have guessed the expression was something like resignation. Something like silence, and a million questions that will never be answered.
“That’s not true,” Jason says at last. “You don’t know me. There’s a difference.”
That’s true, Dick supposes. Even if it’s still a little creepy.
“Fine. Maybe I should get to know you, then. Why do you have white hair?” Dick asks, gesturing to his own bangs.
Jason reaches up to pinch his nose. “That’s not important.”
“What are you saving me from, then?”
“Your own stupidity,” Jason snaps, and then, before Dick can open his mouth to defend himself, “How about this. Why are you so intent on running away?”
Which is how they end up in Dick’s room, Dick at his desk and Jason’s glare holding him in place, arms crossed as Dick debates the merits of going boneless. If he turns into a puddle of limbs and complaints, maybe Jason will give up and leave him alone. If he’s annoying enough, maybe Jason will decide it’s not worth it, and maybe he’ll even agree with Dick (unlike Bruce, who never agrees with anything Dick has to say). Maybe Jason will agree that this is a useless exercise, a waste of Dick’s time, and beneath his dignity to complete.
“I can do it,” Dick points out, trying the same thing he’d told Bruce two days ago. “Why do I need to prove myself? It makes sense! I answered all the questions already, I know what the book was about, why do I need to write a paper on it too?! This is dumb, I already know how to write a paper.”
“Do I look like I care?” Jason asks, raising an eyebrow. “Pen to paper. Write.”
Three hours later, and there are two paragraphs on the page, and Dick is beyond tired and is fighting the embarrassing urge to burst into tears. Fighting, and losing. He knows what the book is about, he does. He read the whole thing, got an A+ on the test and everything. He even knows how the paper is supposed to go, what he’s supposed to write and what quotes he’s supposed to use to prove his point. But it’s two in the morning, and Bruce is coming home in an hour, and there’s no way he’s going to be finished, and that means another night of no Robin. That means another night of words floating uselessly in his brain, sticking behind his eyes and refusing to move to the page, and it’s not fair, and he honestly feels a bit like throwing himself to the floor and having a meltdown.
He presses his forehead to the paper, and takes a big breath, trying to calm his racing heart, trying to cool the burning behind his eyes. He knows how to write a paper, he’s not stupid, he’s not dumb or uncultured or any of that. He just - he can’t. And he doesn’t understand why, and neither does Bruce (because Dick can’t explain, he can’t find the words, just like with this stupid paper), and then Bruce is disappointed and Dick is a failure, and it almost feels like the world is ending.
It feels like Dick should just run away and drop out of school and become a full-time vigilante, because obviously he’s not good for anything else.
“Hey.”
Dick turns his head, looking blearily at where Jason is sprawled in his beanbag, being completely useless. He has that look again, that one that Dick doesn’t quite understand. Like he knows something Dick doesn’t.
“This the book that you’re reading?” Jason asks, waving Macbeth in the air. Dick nods, reaching up to rub at his eyes. Jason opens to the first page, eyes skimming the words, before he looks back up, offering a crooked smile.
“Tell you what. If you’re still here tomorrow night, I’ll write it for you.”
Dick sits up, squinting. “What?”
“I’m bribing you,” Jason patiently explains. “So? Sound like a deal? You stay safe, I’ll write your paper.”
“I can do it -”
“And I believe you. That’s not the point, right? So get some sleep. I’ll see you in the evening.”
“I - okay.” It’s two o’clock in the morning, and Dick has school tomorrow, and he has to face Bruce and another detention, and - and Jason believes him. So maybe it’s okay. Maybe it’s not the end of the world after all, and maybe he’ll feel better once he gets some sleep. Maybe he won’t get to be Robin for another night, but maybe that’s okay because Jason will be here. And he’ll write Dick’s essay, and they can watch another movie, and Dick can do something he actually enjoys, like playing The Floor is Lava or throwing knives at the statuary.
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”
The fourth night, Jason comes without his mask.
The bruises are starting to fade beneath his eyes (and maybe Dick feels a little bad, now that he actually knows the man) and when he knocks on the door and Dick lets it swing open, it takes him a minute to recognize him. He hasn’t worn his armor since that first eventful night. He still has his guns, and Dick knows he likely has many more weapons concealed across his person besides. But he’s not wearing his mask, and when green eyes look down to meet Dick’s, he pauses, standing still in the doorway.
“What happened to your mask?”
“Those things itch like nobody’s business.”
Jason pushes past Dick, striding into the manor like he owns it. Dick follows him into the kitchen, to the table where Dick has his paper laid out and ready. There’s one more sentence tacked onto the end, an awkward thing wrung out of him by Bruce’s insistent presence. They had been working on it, right up until Bruce excused himself to go fight crime, and Dick put on a show of sulking and complaining about not being able to come along.
Joke’s on Bruce. Turns out Dick is going to have fun anyway, because Jason is here.
“Do you want gummy bears?” Dick asks, digging through the cupboards.
“Hm,” Jason replies, pencil scratching across the paper as he writes in carefully looping letters. He’s copying Dick’s handwriting, and doing an alarmingly good job.
“That’s a yes,” Dick decides, and puts the candy to the side. “What about sprinkles? We also have Nestle Crunch, and M&Ms. Do you like cherries?”
Dick scoops out two large bowls of ice cream, and starts liberally topping them. Whipped cream, chocolate sauce, caramel sauce, strawberry sauce, candy, sprinkles, chocolate chips, cherries, raspberries, blueberries. By the time he’s done, Jason has finished the first page, and is well on his way through the second, and Dick is pleased to call his culinary works a masterpiece.
“Do you know Bruce?” Dick asks, watching as Jason erases a few words, the eraser pilling and little pieces spilling to the ground.
“Yes,” Jason says, before pausing, and looking up at Dick somewhat cautiously. “But he doesn’t know me.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Well it’s true.”
“Is he always this unfair?”
Jason puts the pencil down, reaching up to rub at his temples. “You’re like the goddamn inquisition,” he mutters, but before Dick has time to respond, says “Listen, kid. I’m gonna say this, but I’m only gonna say it once, because it’s putting my entire reputation in serious jeopardy. You listening?”
“...Yeah.”
“Bruce isn’t unfair.” Dick opens his mouth to protest (what did he just say), but Jason holds up a hand, narrowing his eyes. “No. Let me finish. He might be a little dense sometimes. He’s definitely in way over his head, and I think most of the time he has no clue what he’s doing. And that’s not your job to fix. But grounding your preteen kid is not unfair. That’s normal, and it’s about the most normal thing he ever does. What did he make you for dinner?”
Dick knows where this is going. “Spaghettios.”
“And what’s your favorite meal?”
“That’s not the point -”
“Life is unfair. Bruce is not. Life will kill you in a heartbeat, and Bruce will fight everything in existence to keep you alive. You can be mad at him all you want, but at the end of the day, he loves you. Think very carefully about your next words.”
“Whatever,” Dick grumbles, sighing and raising his eyes to the ceiling. “I guess you have a point.”
“Right.” Jason pushes his empty bowl away, turning back to the paper. “Now that we have that straight. How long does this have to be again?”
Jason finishes the paper, and then has Dick read over it as he loads the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. It’s not a masterpiece. It’s not going to get Dick any sort of recognition, but Dick thinks that might be on purpose. He knows about cheating, and he knows that the most important part is to not get caught.
“Where do you go when you’re not here?” Dick asks, half an hour later as they’re scrolling through Youtube, looking for videos to watch.
“Places,” Jason says. “None of your business.”
“You could stay here.”
Jason goes completely still, remote control freezing in place as he blinks at the television screen. Dick looks at his hands, fingers tangling in the blanket he’d grabbed before settling on the couch.
You could stay here. It would be nice, Dick thinks, to have someone to hang out with. It gets a little lonely, sometimes.
“I mean, we have enough room. And I’d vouch for you.”
“What,” Jason says. And then, louder, “You don’t know me.”
“So?” Dick asks, frustration coiling in his chest. It shouldn’t matter. Jason can do what he wants, and he’s right, they don’t know each other. But somehow it does matter, because somehow Dick likes hanging out with Jason, and somehow it matters that Jason knows this. “I didn’t know Bruce three years ago. He didn’t know me, and here we are.”
“I can’t stay here.”
“Why not?”
Jason sets the control down, and reaches up to run a hand through his hair, looking unstable. Like Dick has just threatened to yank the rug from under Jason’s feet, and he now has to tread very, very carefully.
“Dick,” Jason says again, “I’m not staying. I can’t.”
“Then why are you even here in the first place?”
It’s not meant as an accusation, although as soon as the words leave Dick’s mouth he’s forced to admit they kind of sound like one. He just doesn’t get it, and Jason isn’t explaining, and it’s leaving him feeling prickly and defensive and unsure. And Dick isn’t an idiot; he’s been watching Jason, ever since he first stepped foot inside the manor. And despite what Jason says, despite his closed lips and vague words, Dick gets the feeling that Jason wants to tell him. And the more Dick nags, the more questions he asks, the closer Jason is to spilling.
But he doesn’t. He purses his lips, and then says, quietly and clearly, “I’m saving you. That’s all.”
“You still won’t say what you’re saving me from,” Dick says after a beat, but it’s half-hearted, and only earns him a sideways look. And maybe Dick should have been paying attention, maybe he shouldn’t have been pouting about being in danger (and the longer Jason stays silent, the longer that danger remains a mystery, the more dangerous and terrifying it becomes). Because the next second Jason swings out an arm and grabs Dick into a headlock, yanking him against his side.
“Hey, let go - !”
“Shut up, I’m proving a point, look how easily I just - OW! Fuck, goddammit -”
Dick drives his knee into Jason’s kidney, breaking free only for Jason to grab his ankle mid-flight, bringing him crashing back to the couch.
“I am not helpless! You want a fight, I’ll give you a fight! Winner gets to hold the bowl of popcorn!” Dick shouts, and rolls over, bringing a pillow with him to smack into Jason’s face.
“You’re on,” Jason growls, and proceeds to wrap the blanket around Dick’s legs, completely entangling them.
Five minutes later sees Dick wedged between the couch cushions, unable to move and gasping for breath as Jason literally sits on top of him, reveling in the hardwon win. And Dick might have been upset, except that there’s a small curl of excitement twisting through his chest, waking up and looking around and suggesting that maybe this is what it’s like to have a brother. Maybe dodging headlocks and having your face shoved into old leather is the price to be paid for ten o’clock sundaes and questionably completed homework.
And maybe Jason really can’t stay at the manor, but maybe he’s just being dramatic and maybe he can. Whatever the reason, Dick is going to find out why.
After movies and popcorn, of course.
Jason leaves ten minutes before Bruce gets home. Dick curls up under his blankets, pretending to sleep and listening as Jason rises from the beanbag, places his book quietly on Dick’s desk, and walks on silent feet to the door. There’s the click of the door handle, and then ten minutes of silence, and footsteps. Heavy and purposeful, and another click, and Dick doesn’t move, he doesn’t look, but he knows that it’s Bruce standing there, looking quietly in.
If Dick had had his way, the bed would be empty. If Jason hadn’t been there, Bruce might be panicking. But Dick is here, so Bruce only pauses for half a second, before closing the door again and heading down the hall to his own room.
More fool Bruce.
Dick sits up, pushing his blankets off and forgoing slippers in order to walk silently in sock-clad feet. He slips down the hall, checking doors and running silent as a shadow through the moon-lit darkness, all the way to the front door. There’s a toothpick wedged half an inch off the ground, right where Dick had stuck it three hours ago. Jason didn’t leave through the front, then. He checks all the other doors, all the windows in this wing of the manor, running from window to window and checking the sills for dust and the cracks for toothpicks.
An hour later, and Dick comes to the vaguely thrilling conclusion that Jason never left. That Jason is still here, still on the grounds, still in the manor. He’s been checking the interior rooms as he goes, and so far there’s been nothing, but that doesn’t mean anything except that Dick hasn’t looked hard enough.
Thirty minutes, and it’s four thirty in the morning, and Dick is standing in Bruce’s office, staring with some trepidation at the old dysfunctional grandfather clock. There’s half a toothpick on the ground beside it, but Dick hadn’t expected anything less; he’s pretty sure that’s Bruce’s doing. What has his stomach twisting though, what has him wondering if maybe he should go get Bruce after all, is the position of the clock hands.
Bruce is a man of habit. He has a strict order for the world in which he lives, and there are certain things that he does every day like clockwork. Rise at ten, read the morning paper, work until eight. He breaks the habits intentionally and with forethought, or not at all. And one of his habits, one of the things he does that Dick had never really noticed before this exact second, is that he always resets the clock to the same time. Ten forty-seven to open, six thirteen to close. It will close on any time, and Dick certainly pays no heed to how he himself locks the clock, but everything Bruce does has a purpose, and looking at the clock now, Dick thinks he knows what that purpose might be.
Because the clock isn’t locked to six thirteen. It’s locked to eleven twenty-seven, demonstrating a single hasty, careless turn of the knob. And Alfred isn’t here, and Dick hasn’t been to the cave since this morning, which means that Bruce should have been the last one out. Which means that the clock should be at six thirteen, but it’s not, which means that someone else has accessed (or tried to access) the cave since Bruce went to sleep at three.
Dick has a sinking feeling that that someone might be Jason.
I know you. I know Bruce. You don’t know me. It’s a riddle, and one Dick has been trying to find the answer to. And Dick is usually a pretty good judge of character, and Jason has attacked him, sure, he nearly strangled him that first day, and he seems insistent on being the gatekeeper of Dick’s confinement in the manor, but the uncomfortable gut feeling Dick gets in the presence of sketchy people is absent. Jason is a puzzle that Dick wants to solve, and even though he should tell him, even though he’s going to get hell for this, he doesn’t want to tell Bruce. Not yet.
Dick opens the clock, letting it slide silently along well-oiled hinges. He creeps down the stairs, listening to the soft shush of the river, looking at the way the dim light reflects off the slick rocks. The main lights are off, but the computer is on. A low voice carries through the air, distorted by the background noise and bouncing off the hard surfaces to create a strange echo.
He reaches the last stair, and pauses, staring up at the displays, at Jason, turning slowly back and forth as he lounges in the desk chair.
“- a million times, they’re asleep.”
Well. That’s a little embarrassing, because Dick is definitely not asleep.
On the screen is a map of Gotham, and it takes Dick a second to realize that it’s specifically Amusement Mile, and the surrounding neighborhoods. Two dots are blown up in the corner, each moving slowly through the streets. Trackers, Dick knows. Probably who Jason is talking to.
“Here me out. How about Timmy and I swap jobs, and I’ll take over interrogations. Pretty sure we’d have our answers by now.”
Looking for something, then. Something in Gotham, which may or may not have to do with Batman and Robin.
“Yeah, but guess what would make him even safer? Killing the Joker and this Sauron wannabe and getting the hell out of here.”
It takes a minute for Dick to puzzle out this sentence, watching as one of the dots pauses, as Jason’s expression goes blank, and then drops into a fierce scowl. Dick is the one in danger, they’ve spent the last four nights establishing this. And it would appear that he’s in danger from the Joker, and someone going by the same name as the dark lord of Mordor.
“So what?” Jason speaks up again, voice quiet in a way that speaks of barely held control. “So fucking what? To hell with the timeline, Replacement. We’re already saving one kid. Why not save another? Why not kill that fucking lunatic before he even has a chance - ”
Voices come, rising over the comms, unintelligible except for the fact that they’re loud enough to be heard from across the open cave. Jason is sitting up in the chair, back ramrod straight as he grips the armrests with white knuckled fists, lips pressing tight. In one sudden motion, he reaches up and rips the comm from his ear, tossing it to the table with a look like he might be sick. Another second, and then he raises his hands up, digging the palms into his eyes, mouth twisting in something that could have been misery, or exhaustion, or some combination of both.
Timeline, time travel, Dick thinks, frozen. I know you, you don’t know me. Someone from the future, from Dick’s future. Have stranger things happened? Not really. Time to get Bruce? Not yet. He unsticks his feet, moving silently to the left, to the cubbies lining the wall. There’s a bin of extra comms, and a quick look with binoculars tells Dick what channel Jason is using - or rather, ignoring.
He’s just sitting with his fists in his eyes, breathing.
Two minutes later, Dick has his own earpiece tuned and ready, and Jason finally sits up and puts the comm back in his ear.
“I’m back.”
“I’m sorry -”
“Shut the fuck up, Replacement, I’ve heard it a thousand times, I know . Now let the Demon Spawn speak, last I heard he actually had an idea.”
There’s a plan that revolves around saving Richard John Grayson. Saving Robin, saving Big Bird, saving the Golden Boy. Names get tossed around like leaves in a storm, but Dick is paying attention, he’s lining everything up in his head like Bruce taught him to, painting a picture that makes his breath stop in his lungs, that makes his fingers tingle and his vision go a little staticky around the edges.
They’re talking about the future. They’re talking about a villain from the future, who wants Dick dead, who wants to nip Robin in the bud. A master puppeteer pulling at the Joker’s strings, an idea slowly taking root: all Robins must die. Dick has watched Inception, he knows how these things go.
And he also realizes, as the hours tick by, that he knows these strangers. In some shining future, a someday he had thought impossible, there are people who care about him so deeply that they risk tearing apart the fabric of reality to keep him alive. People he must care about in equal measure, for any of this to make sense.
“Yeah, well big brother isn’t here, so I guess I’m stepping up. You guys get some sleep. Tomorrow night. We’ll catch him.”
Big brother.
Father.
Home.
All words, all coming together. Dick pulls his knees to his chest, resting his chin and staring out at the cave without really seeing it. People he doesn’t know are risking their lives for him. It feels wrong, it goes against everything he’s ever told himself. He’s the one who’s supposed to be fighting, he’s the one with the skills and the training, he is the one who cares.
They’re going to use Damian as the bait. They’re going to put him in Robin’s colors, in Dick’s, and they’re going to send him out into the dark in Dick’s place. And he may sound like Alfred, he may speak with uncommon eloquence, but Dick knows (in no small part due to Jason’s initial protests) that Damian is no older than him. Damian is twelve, and Tim is older but not old enough, and Jason… behind the tense posture and sharp words, Jason looks scared.
They have a plan.
Dick has a better one.