Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Dick wasn’t planning on opening the door. Not when the doorbell rang the first time, not when the doorbell rang the second time, and especially not when the doorbell rang the third time. He has plans, god damnit, plans he doesn’t want interrupted by anybody, namely watching a movie or three and wallowing in self-pity for having to miss patrol because of a fractured ankle. So, important plans.

The doorbell doesn’t ring a fourth time, but neither can he hear the visitor leave. Straining his ears, Dick lingers in the shoebox-sized hole he calls his hallway, listening for any sign of who might be the asshole disrupting his evening and coming up empty. Whoever is out there doesn’t move at all, just loiters in front of his door, and it irritates him to no end. Mostly, because he did think about getting a door camera, yet put it off for too long since he so very rarely gets any visitors in his Blüdhaven apartment and now he suffers the consequences of not knowing, which is the possibly worst torture for a boy raised by the most paranoid and controlling asshole ever.

With a heavy sigh, Dick stomps to the door and rips it open. Screw subtlety. If whoever is out there means him harm, they’ll find out exactly what happens when confronting an irritated Nightwing.

Only… The anticipated attack does not occur.

The visitor startles at the sound of the door being opened, twitches upwards with wide eyes and a defensive snarl, and falls back immediately afterwards, like struck by an invisible fist. Hastily, Dick smoothes out his frown. Anger seems inappropriate, because this, the unexpected and, frankly, unwelcome visitor, is Jason Todd. And he looks like shit.

Dick doesn’t know a lot about his father’s newest ward. Jason Peter Todd, former street kid, former orphan, current Robin. Thirteen years old. Or twelve? He looks younger, but Dick prowled the streets of Gotham for long enough to have learned what malnutrition and poverty can do to growing children. He met Jason only four times to this date, with the first three encounters admittedly quite hostile and painted in negativity, for which Dick takes full responsibility. The fourth time he did his best to reconcile, but a street kid doesn’t survive long by trusting every kindness thrown his way, so he doesn’t begrudge the kid for reacting with more suspicion than gladness.

Jason standing here, on his doorstep, seems all the more strange because of it, since Dick would probably be the last person he’d ever turn to if anything went wrong. Which means something went wrong. Horribly so.

“Congratulations“, the kid says irritatedly at his wordless stare, voice slightly hoarse. “We’re having a sleepover.”

Surprised, Dick just blinks at him and takes him in, really in. Red rims around the eyes. He must’ve cried recently, probably on his way to Blüdhaven. With Bruce nowhere in sight, Dick can only suspect the kid took public transportation and that means a train and two different buses to reach his apartment from Wayne Manor, so a commute of about one and a half hours. More so if he had to leave without Bruce noticing. For the red rims to still be this prominent, he must’ve cried quite a lot, which is probably more worrying than Dick can fathom right now. He doesn’t know the child well enough to truly tell, but when Dick screamed in his face, those first one, two, three encounters, he had not shown a single tear, simply rolled his eyes or stared back with a stony expression. So. Yeah. Not a good sign.

The rest of Jason’s appearance doesn’t do much to ease the worries clawing brutally in Dick’s throat. His outfit is random at best, muddy Oxfords paired with carefully ironed dress pants and a wrinkled red hoodie, topped by tangled curls falling over his forehead. All in all, Jason Todd is a mess, and Dick gets the distinct impression that the boy enjoys this getup even less than Dick would.

“Can I come in or are you just gonna keep staring at me like I’m your favorite trash TV show?”, Jason snaps, irritation making way for defensive anger.

Dick steps to the side, allowing Jason to slip in, to silently close the door behind him. He stares slightly baffled, because while closing doors silently isn’t usually an impressive skill, with this one it kinda is. Age and bad handling distorted the wood and the door jams when closed. It took Dick a week to figure out the perfect way to lift it just the tiniest bit before allowing the lock to snap into place, to avoid the ear-curdling screeches of metal on metal and the annoying grating of wood on wood. Jason Todd, who never once visited this house before, has absolutely no right to figure that door out without ever having to close it wrong.

Dick clears his throat as the boy drops what appears to be a backpack on the floor and kicks his shoes to the heap of footwear to the right of the door, all the while resolutely refusing to look into Dick’s face. Something happened, something in Gotham, something he needs distance from Bruce for, and something bad enough that the kid feels like Dick’s shitty apartment in Blüdhaven (that the kid shouldn’t even know the address of) is the only safe option to go to. He’d ask, but he feels like that would only attract hostility and scare the kid away, so he doesn’t. He’ll figure it out anyways. Wasn’t raised by a detective for nothing, after all.

“So”, he settles for instead, careful to keep his tone light. “Sleepover, huh?”

It fails spectacularly. Jason freezes immediately, eyes darting to his shoes as if contemplating how fast he can snatch them, grab his backpack, and be out the door again. Dick is almost relieved that he doesn’t, because while he is certain he could catch him and force him back into the apartment where he would at least be safe until Dick figures out what exactly the problem is, it probably wouldn’t do much positive for their relationship.

“If you don’t want me here you can just tell me to fuck off”, Jason bites out, shuffling imperceptibly towards the shoes, though Dick has no doubt he’d have no qualms about running in socks, if it came to it.

“Whoa, come on”, he tries again with the easy voice, the light one that de-escalates usually. “I didn’t say that.”

Jason scowls. “I’m not stupid. The implications…”

“There were no implications”, Dick interrupts hastily. There were, of course, because a sleepover is the worst excuse he ever heard and that doubt probably bled through his question, but the implications aren’t important. Not really. Not yet. “Just. Come on in, okay? It’s a bit unexpected.”

“If I’m unwelcome…”, Jason repeats stiffly and Dick only barely suppresses a groan, before shaking his head. Jason is unwelcome. But that doesn’t mean Dick won’t do his best to help him nonetheless.

“You hungry?”, he asks in an attempt at a bad distraction and briefly thinks about throwing an arm around the boy’s shoulders before burying that thought as deeply as possible in the depths of his mind. He looks twitchy enough as it is, no need to make it worse. Instead, Dick steers him carefully into the kitchen, mentally cataloguing the food he has currently in possession. “I’ve got cereal”, he offers slightly awkwardly, and throws open the refrigerator. “Or. Uhm. A carrot?  A bell pepper? I have. Well.” Slightly lost, he throws the refrigerator’s door shut again. None of that is an acceptable meal for a thirteen-year-old at eleven pm. “We can just get takeout.”

Jason’s glare is positively scathing. “You are an embarrassment to adultkind”, he states bluntly, moving towards his refrigerator again. “How do you even survive without Alfred?” But he doesn’t seem mean, Dick notes somewhat surprised, just. Socially inept?

“What’s your problem with takeout?”, he asks amused, but settles back as Jason begins rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, scowling at empty drawers and fishing boxes and whatever seems even remotely edible out of others.

“It’s fucking expensive”, the kid complains, easily jumping on top of the counter to balance a pan, a spatula, and a selection of spices from one of the upper drawers. He moves through the kitchen like he’s done it a thousand times before and briefly, Dick wonders if Bruce has floor plans of his apartment in his files, extensive enough to warrant the confidence Jason holds himself with. God, he hopes not, because that would lead to another conversation with Bruce, would lead to another fight with Bruce, would lead to way too much shit Dick really can’t deal with right now.

“So what, you’re cooking?”, he asks the kid.

Once again, his reaching out is rewarded with a scathing glare. “You think I can’t?”

Christ, Jason is in a bad mood.

“I know I can’t”, he snorts. “You gonna teach me?”

That makes Jason stop in his tracks, almost guiltily letting the pan fall onto the counter. “I didn’t mean to monopolize this. We can get takeout. If you want to.” Stiff. Tense. Scared. He anticipates Dick throwing him out every second now, and he is afraid of it, doesn’t know where else to go. It tugs on Dick’s heartstrings in all the wrong ways.

“I meant it”, he says softly. “Teach me how to cook? I mean, it looks like you have something of a plan, and that’s more than I’ve managed in my years of living without Alfred.”

Suspicion flashes over the kid’s face, before he hesitantly resumes gathering cooking utensils. “Are noodles okay?”, he asks carefully, eyes never leaving Dick’s face as if he is searching for microexpressions that might betray how Dick doesn’t want him here, wanted him gone. Dick makes sure not to show any.

“Noodles are good”, he says cheerfully. “I know how to cook spaghetti.”

“Do you now”, Jason asks dubiously, a bit of his former spunk returning, and Dick gasps in mock offense.

“I’ll have you know my record is eating noodles for sixteen consecutive days when my DoorDash didn’t work”, he brags only half sarcastically, the record being real and the shame admitting it brought with it was too, but Jason only laughs.

“You are disgusting”, he says and Dick stops, stares, because he sounds fond. Fond. Of Dick. Of the man who should’ve been his older brother and instead spent ninety percent of their time together screaming and insulting and threatening the kid. And yet.

“You gonna use the vegetables for the sauce?”, he asks, throat weirdly scratchy, and snatches the bell pepper from the counter where Jason placed it meticulously next to the single shriveled-up carrot that was in the refrigerator.

“I am genuinely surprised you even know what vegetables are”, Jason drawls and snatches it back, pushing the spaghetti in Dick’s hands instead. “But I don’t trust you anywhere near my future sauce. So fuck up the spaghetti instead, okay?”

Christ. The mood wings of this kid are something to be studied. But. Dick himself is starting to get hungry and he trusts Jason to whip something at least somewhat edible up, so with a cheery “Aye aye, Captain”, he fills the pot Jason hands him with water.

As he gets to work, he observes Jason from the corners of his eyes. All those bursts of confidence, the banter, the defensive insults aren’t nearly enough to cover up the fear surging through every vein of the kids body, evident in the way he holds himself rigidly, pretends to concentrate on the vegetables he started cutting in even pieces while his eyes dart through the room, always finding their way back to Dick, always Dick, and whenever they do, the kid’s grip on the knife tightens, just the tiniest bit, before he seems to convince himself Dick isn’t a danger, not yet at least, and the play begins anew.

His clothes speak of a hasty departure, too hurried to allow Jason the moments to assemble an outfit appropriate for the general public. Unfortunately, while that is worrying, it doesn’t give Dick much to work with. It might mean Jason was in the Robin suit and just grabbed whatever lay near to get out of there. It might mean that Jason was at a Gala, throwing on the hoodie to ensure he wouldn’t freeze in the autumnal cold that settles in the nights despite the warm late summer sun still so present in the afternoons. Dick racks his brain to remember if there was a gala tonight, but he doesn’t even keep up with the ones he is supposed to attend, let alone the ones he isn’t. It might also mean something else entirely - Dick isn’t delusional enough to believe he has any clue what makes Jason work or act.

“You disgust me”, Jason interrupts his thoughts calmly.

Startled, Dick looks up. “I what now?”

“Get away from the stove”, Jason says flatly, one corner of his mouth twitching in disgust. “I understand exactly why Alfred doesn’t allow you in the kitchen.”

“What did I do?” He acquiesces, of course, there’s no need to make this day any harder on Jason than it is already, but his mind is running a thousand miles a second. He didn’t talk. Didn’t really do anything. Was it the way he observed Jason, that set the kid off? Was it -

“What kind of monster breaks spaghetti?”, Jason grouses, miserably stirring the pot while his own (perfectly even pieces of, what the fuck, that is genuinely disturbing) vegetables lay forgotten at the side, and Dick barks out a startled laugh that has Jason suppress a flinch. Christ, the kid is twitchy. It isn’t a good look for him at all, so Dick really needs to get to the bottom of what the hell happened that had Jason run from Bruce. And, in that respect, why the fuck Bruce hadn’t managed to track him down yet? Dick knows that he has trackers in every piece of clothing the kid owns and even more so on his body, so not having received a call or having the older man kick in his front door is worrying to say the least. If something had happened to him, Jason would’ve said it though. Right?

“The pot is too small”, he defends and snorts at Jason’s scrunched-up nose, worry creeping through his tense fingertips. As he watches Jason juggle the pot of Spaghetti (which fit perfectly now that they are slowly getting softer, underlined by Jason’s pointed glances and his grumbled commentary) and the pan in which the vegetables are simmering, the nerves take over and, as casually as possible, knowing full well that he’ll fail spectacularly at that, he asks “So when is B gonna kick in my door?”

The reaction is instantaneous. Jason is up and out of the kitchen in seconds, barely stopping to dive for his shoes before stumbling out of the apartment, one shoe in his hand, the other still in the hallway, his socked steps soundless on the wooden floor. Swearing, Dick leaves the sizzling veggies behind - if the house burns down, he’ll so bill Bruce for it, for allowing his feral little child to destroy Dick’s life - and sprints after said feral little child.

He doesn’t think it was that bad, asking about Bruce. It’s not- Bruce is not- not an abuser or anything. The mere mention of Bruce entering shouldn’t send Jason into such a frenzy. Briefly, he considers fear gas as the reason for the kid’s twitchiness, but it seems the wrong kind of nervousness for that to be true, which is relieving of course, but once again means Dick has no clue why or how Jason ran away.

“Jason!”, he yells, nearly slips around the corner, down the stairway. “Fucking stop, Jason!”

Swearing at the literal five-year-old is probably not the most pedagogically valuable decision, but then again, Jason most likely knows far more swear words than Dick could ever comprehend, and he has no time to feel bad about it. His ankle throbs from the hasty movements, sends shivers through his entire body, up his spine. He should bill Bruce his medical costs too, and he totally would, if he weren’t already sure that those he puts on the Titan’s budget from the Justice League get paid by Bruce anyways.

Jason has no mercy with Dick’s bandaged foot, slides down the bannister with only one hand steadying his descent. How he manages that without getting splinters or ripping open his pants is beyond Dick, but he can’t dwell on it, because Jason throws back a single glance before ripping open the door and ducking out of the apartment block.

“What the fuck are you running from?”, Dick bellows at the top of his lungs, has to catch his balance by lunging for the open door, just before his ankle finally resigns from service and sends him slithering to the ground. His voice cracks, tears stinging in his eyes. Damn traitors. He’s Nightwing, he doesn’t cry from a simple fractured ankle and whatever the fuck this is. He doesn’t.

Across the street, Jason falters, his steps slowing. When he turns around, bone-deep panic is written all across his features and once again, Dick has to catch his breath, if only to realize that maybe, despite it all, he underestimated this situation immensely. This is supposed to be the little spitfire kid Bruce told him about?

For once, looking pathetic and miserable seems to have advantages, because Jason doesn’t keep running. Neither does he come closer, but not vanishing into the vast streets of Blüdhaven is enough of a win for now. Dick would have to call the Titans to catch up to the kid and that would surely destroy any hope for them to ever have anything close to resembling a sibling-like relationship.

“Are you alright?”, Jason calls softly across the street, his voice trembling minutely, his hands flexing nervously.

Dick swallows hard, stares at the kid. Is this it, the reason Bruce made Jason Robin? He can see it, as much as he hates it, the kindness even in the face of his biggest fear, whatever that may be. Jason is good in ways even Dick might not be, and Dick hates that realization more than he ever could’ve thought it possible to hate anything.

Back and forth, Jason rocks on the tips of his toes, readying himself to continue his sprint while simultaneously assessing Dick’s need for help. Dick may have to apologize to Bruce for giving him so much shit for choosing Jason as a successor for Robin. He hates that.

“Dick?”, Jason hedges nervously.

Truth or guilt tripping? Dick sighs heavily, shifts slightly upward, hoping desperately that none of his neighbors sees this dramatic performance. He can do without their nosy worry. “My ankle is fractured”, he admits begrudgingly. “That sprint was not exactly beneficial for recovery.”

Just as expected, guilt flashes over Jason’s face, and his movements still just for a moment. “Fractured?”, he repeats barely audible, inches forward, brows creased. “Does it… hurt?” A resigned kind of misery spreads on his face, sneaks into the slight curl of his lips and the paleness of his cheeks. He probably already knows he won’t be running anywhere tonight, knows it as well as Dick does. Not that he couldn’t, it’s just that he’s too kind to do it. Pity can be a weapon in and of itself.

Christ, Dick really needs to find out what messed the kid up this much.

“Help me up”, he demands tiredly, even though he could definitely get up himself, and reaches forward. The misery on Jason’s face is palpable, but he crosses the street nonetheless, without looking even. Maybe he hopes for a truck to speed down the street and take him away to release him from his suffering or maybe he just knows as well as Dick does that this part of Blüdhaven is basically dead as soon as the sun sets and there’s no need to worry about vehicles in the streets.

“This is a trick and you are an asshole”, Jason mutters and reaches for Dick’s arms to heft him up. His strength is not quite enough, but he does a good enough job to support Dick’s weight as they awkwardly hobble back inside the apartment building.

“Why did you even run?”, Dick shoots back and briefly contemplates reaching for the bannister instead, but he fears Jason will run off again, so he leans a bit closer to the kid instead. Jason doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too focused on Dick’s legs, observes them with sharp eyes to make sure he keeps stepping one foot in front of the other, not tripping over the stairs. Like he’s done this a thousand times before.

In Jason’s files, Dick remembers reading of an addicted mother, of a son keeping her alive and alive and alive until it worked no more and suddenly, the guilt tripping feels like a much worse plan. Robin is supposed to help people, but to force that responsibility on Jason is cruel.

“It’s alright, Jason”, he murmurs, gently pushing the kid’s arms from his biceps. “I can walk. Just. Just come inside and we’ll have some food and we’ll figure out whatever is wrong, okay?”

“You don’t want Bruce in your apartment”, Jason says dejectedly. “And I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

That’s why he ran? Because he feared Dick’s anger? Like, Dick knows he fucked up with Jason, their first encounters are hard to forget after all, but he’s still Nightwing, vigilante, hero. For Jason to be this scared, he must’ve fucked up a whole lot more than he ever thought.

“I’m not mad”, he promises softly. “And I don’t mind Bruce kicking in my door. I can fight him off, you know that.”

Jason’s lips twitch. “As if”, he scoffs, bounces forward to open the door that fell shut in Dick’s pursuit of the boy. Once again, he instinctively lifts it just right and it swings open soundlessly and this time Dick is more impressed than jealous. He’ll have to ask the kid how he does it, later on. “It’s Batman. You can’t just fight off Batman.”

“Watch me.” Dick grins. He’s not entirely sure he could, but then again, he’s certain he won’t need to. Bruce isn’t a monster and he won’t force his way into Dick’s apartment if the little boy inside is this terrified of him. In fact, he’s almost sure that whatever happened was just one big misunderstanding, but until he can resolve it, he needs to give Jason at least a measure of safety and security.

“You don’t have to.” Jason drops his shoe next to the other, pointedly not looking at Dick. “I can just leave. Your relationship with B is rocky enough as is. No need to…”

“Nope, you’re staying”, Dick interrupts, plastering a thick amount of cheer on his voice. “Sleepover, remember?”

“That was a stupid excuse”, Jason grumbles and slams the door shut without lifting it, just to be an asshole apparently.

“It really was.” He snickers. “Say, what do you think of Chinese? I think your veggies are burnt by now.”

That of all things brings the frown back on Jason’s face, so dark and sad that one could think the world is ending. “I hope your apartment burns down”, he says miserably and stalks into the kitchen. Like a little lunatic. Dick has no idea how to read that kid and he finds it’s kinda fun to be surprised at every corner. He’s not sure exactly what elicited this kind of response, but he’s reasonably confident that Jason won’t burn the house just because Dick allowed his precious veggies to become inedible.

A second later, the smoke detector goes off.

Does that maniac actually try to burn down his house?

Dick scrambles to the kitchen, swear words on the tip of his tongue, only to be greeted with a frankly hilarious sight. Jason stands stock-still, a burning pan in his hands, the flames reaching for the ceiling, and he only blinks, makes absolutely no movement to put the fire out. Tiny sparks lick at his hands, but he doesn’t twitch, just stares, and his mouth is slightly open.

“I didn’t do shit. It was burning already”, he says, and he sounds so absolutely baffled by this fact, that he completely forgets to be afraid of Dick’s reaction. Which is great, because it gives Dick the chance to burst out laughing, nearly dropping to the floor as his legs give up beneath him and he stumbles against the wall. Jason throws him a slightly helpless look.

“I didn’t do shit”, he repeats bewildered, while Dick pulls out his phone. To not document this would be a crime, simple as that, and Jason doesn’t even seem to mind overly much.

The fire alarm keeps beeping, shrill and hysterical in their ears. No one bothers to switch it off. Instead, Jason in a show of surprising maturity, puts the pan back on the oven and reaches for the pan’s lid to smother the flames. It works so-so, and he only burns himself a little bit, so Dick doesn’t feel too bad about filming the entire disaster. One day, he hopes, he’ll be able to bully Jason with this. Like brothers are supposed to, he believes. Not that he ever had one before.

On the ceiling, scorch marks are emblazoned.

He’s so gonna bill Bruce for this, if he ever bothers to get it repaired at all. He can already imagine the man’s exasperation dripping off whatever text he’ll send as a response to the bill. Sucks to be him. Shouldn’t’ve gotten himself two kids if he didn’t want to pay for shit like this.

“You’re so useless”, Jason grouses, when the flames start dwindling beneath the lid. “Can’t believe you just watched.”

“You did so great though”, Dick snickers. “Awesome, dude. Also, you’re the one who tried to burn down my house, so it’s only right that you have to take responsibility.”

“Shut it. It’s your food. And your house. And your pan. And you are the adult in this situation. Which you failed, by the way. Greatly.”

Twenty is difficult to classify as adult, in Dick’s opinion, but at thirteen he too thought that everything after eighteen was the epitome of maturity, so he can’t exactly fault Jason for this assumption. Watching and judging is so much more fun though.

“Can’t believe you actually tried to burn down my house”, he says gleefully. “Is this like revenge for…”

A deafening boom interrupts them. Jason immediately whirls around, eyes wide, even as Dick twitches upwards. For a second, no one moves, their eardrums almost torn apart by the horrifying combination of the fire alarm and the dark bass echoing through the apartment, before Dick gets a grip on himself and fumbles for his phone. “Ringtone”, he explains hastily, and curses Wally for thinking this canon-like sound was a funny way of announcing Bruce’s calls. To be fair, he thought it was funny as well, back when they switched it, but watching Jason jerk at every boom again and again and again is somehow not funny at all.

Then again, the explanation doesn’t exactly calm him down either. Maybe he already knows it’s Bruce on the phone. Scratch that, he most definitely knows.

“Don’t tell Bruce”, Jason begs feverishly, steps forward as if to reach for Dick, only to stumble back again, as if struck by an invisible hand. “Please, Dick, don’t tell Bruce I’m here, don’t tell…”

For a second, all Dick wants is to throw away the phone and wrap Jason in a hug, protect him from everything that scares him, everything that reduces the spitfire little boy Bruce and Alfred describe so very fondly to this shivering mess, but he knows Bruce, and, unfortunately, Bruce knows him just as well. No matter the fights, no matter their icy relationship, Dick will not ever ignore Bruce’s calls. Not answering the phone may as well be signing a huge letter proclaiming “I’m hiding my baby brother” and that’s exactly what they want to prevent.

“You’re alright, Jason”, Dick promises. “Nothing bad will happen.”

A humorless snort escapes Jason.

Bruce won’t hurt you, Dick wants to say. I won’t let him hurt you. But the words peter out on his tongue and he thinks of screaming, of yelling “Just you wait until B notices you’re not that perfect child he’s been waiting for either”, of threatening “Don’t come crying to me when Bruce finally kicks you out”, of hissing “You bring shame on it once, and I’ll rip that suit of your body and make sure you’ll never wear anything like it ever again”, and he wonders just how much of this mess is his own fault. Jason didn’t scream back, back then. He just listened with a cocked head and a bored expression and Dick didn’t notice then, but every little twitch told him even then that Jason put a whole lot more trust into his words than ever intended. Dick’s anger isn’t honest. Jason’s fear makes him believe it nonetheless. Whatever Bruce did, whatever happened, it must be Dick’s fault as well, for making this child believe that he will not ever be enough, will not ever be safe in that new home of his. He feels nauseous just thinking about it, has to swallow the bitter bile rising in his throat.

Dick answers the phone with a curt “Bruce.”

Jason jolts once again, stares miserably at his socks.

What did you do?, Dick wants to ask Bruce, and maybe scream a little bit, but he can’t betray Jason. He ran once before and if Dick proves himself untrustworthy, he has no doubt the kid will run again. Jason survived years on the streets. He knows how to keep himself safe. The only mystery Dick still has to solve is why Jason thought Dick was safe in the first place, what happened to make him think Dick could protect him better than Bruce ever could. Or, what happened to make him think he needs Dick as a wall between himself and Batman. Whatever.

“Is that a fire alarm, Dick?”, Bruce asks sharply, foregoing all pleasantries.

Not exactly what he expected, but okay. Dick’s eyes flit to the black remains of what was once vegetables in the pan, and to Jason’s pale face, the slight tremble of his lower lip, the tears glinting in his eyes. The kid is terrified. Christ.

“Yeah. It’s. Uh.” He clears his throat. “I tried to cook. Didn’t work out so well.”

The hope bleeding from Jason’s eyes hurts. The kid fully expected to be thrown under the bus with that first sentence and honestly? Dick can’t even blame him.

„You cooked“, Bruce echoes flatly and Dick immediately feels the need to argue, to insist on his own capability, but Bruce doesn’t grant him the chance.

„It does not matter“, he says, voice tense, and Dick mirrors the sentiment. This is it. This is why Bruce calls. This is why Jason stares at the phone like it’s personally responsible for murdering him.

„Is Jason with you?“, Bruce asks, tone unreadable, which tells Dick absolutely nothing. Great.

“No”, he lies, noting the way Jason’s breath hitches like suppressing a sob, something closer to relief than to that suffocating fear he’s been drowning in for the past few minutes that he’s been at Dick’s place. “Why?”

Bruce audibly grinds his teeth. “He’s gone.”

Which, wow. If Dick really didn’t know anything about this situation, he would now obviously believe Jason’s been kidnapped. As Robin, probably. Bruce really needs some help with communication. Maybe Dick can gift him that for Christmas next year, a course on rhetoric or maybe just a few therapy sessions. God knows it would be the most reasonable present Bruce has ever received.

“What do you mean, gone?”, he questions Bruce instead, while the object of Bruce’s worries curls up in front of him, shoulders hunched and eyes twitchy. “Don’t you have trackers on him?”

Jason’s face twitches.

“He cut them out”, Bruce says.

Of course he did. Bruce wouldn’t’ve made Jason Robin if Jason were stupid. Only…

“Don’t tell me the ones in his clothes were the only trackers you have on him”, Dick snorts, desperately pulling humor over himself like a blanket of comfort, because he can’t mean…

“He cut them out”, Bruce repeats resigned. “Found his blood near the train station and after that, all traces go cold.”

“He cut it out?” Nausea threatens to overwhelm Dick and his eyes twitch down, to where the dress pants stick awkwardly to Jason’s skinny leg. He didn’t notice before, but knowing what he does now, it’s obvious to recognize blood seeping through the fabric for these folds and wrinkles. “Christ, Jason. What happened?”

Tears glint in the kid’s eyes, panic taking over as he glances at the phone like Bruce himself might jump out of the screen any second now. Right.

“I’ll keep an eye out”, Dick mumbles into the speaker. “Just. What the fuck happened?”

“Call me if you find anything”, Bruce says and suddenly he sounds infinitely tired. “And stop trying to cook.”

“You can’t tell me what to do”, Dick shoots back and immediately feels bad, but he ends the call nonetheless before this evolves into something like a father checking in on his son, because that’s not what it is. This is a father calling his acquaintances to ask for his real son, for the thirteen-year-old he snatched off the streets and adopted legally, and that’s it. Nothing more, nothing less. This is about Jason.

Dick takes the phone off his ear, a million questions still on his tongue, but not a single one he can ask without betraying Jason’s brittle trust.

The kid’s leg is bouncing up and down nervously, he’s hyper-fixated on Dick’s every move, and it’s then and there that Dick decides to move the investigation back. Sleepover, Jason said, and that means he’s planning on staying the night, so Dick has until at least the early morning to find out what happened and what to do, and the best way to do that is to gently coax the kid into feeling safe and subtly questioning him then. So. Until then…

“Chinese?”

A tiny smile tugs on Jason’s lips, hesitant, but there nonetheless, and for the first time this evening Dick feels like it’s all gonna be just fine. “Fried Rice?”

“Yeah. Fried Rice sounds amazing. I’ll order, alright?”

“Just.” Jason swallows hard. “One, maybe?”

One what? One portion? For both of them? Like, Dick knows Jason grew up poor and is probably used to eating little and sharing lots, but despite the tiny apartment, Dick is not actually poor. He’s got enough of Bruce’s money on his account and a little bit of his own and Jason worrying is sweet, but utterly unnecessary. “What? We can both have some, it’s not too expensive.”

The kid winces. “It’s not about money”, he admits. “But if Bruce checks your bank account, he’ll know you ordered two, and then he’ll connect the dots and. You know. He’ll be pretty mad if he finds out you’re hiding me, no?”

Probably yes. Bruce is smart, unfortunately. And Jason, apparently, is right up there on his level.

“Good thinking”, he praises, not missing how Jason first twitches and then looks kinda mystified, like those two words in that order are something he’s never ever heard before. “I’ll order just one. The portions are enormous anyways, we can just share, alright?”

“Yeah. I’m. Hm. Thank you.” Jason cringes. “Sorry.”

Christ. This is the kid Dick spent so much time ranting about? He might be a monster. Jason’s a literal cinnamon roll and Dick is about ready to go to war with Bruce if it really is the older man’s fault that Jason is this scared.

“Don’t be. I’m not that hungry anyways.“

That gets him a raised eyebrow and a scoff. He snickers.

“Alfred says you’d eat eight full meals a day whenever possible”, Jason deadpans. “So that’s like a worse excuse than me saying this is a sleepover.”

Alfred talks to Jason about Dick. That’s totally fine and not unexpected at all. Why wouldn’t he, after all? It’s not like Alfred and Dick are fighting, the whole tension is only between Bruce and Dick. So. Totally fine. Dick should probably call Alfred up again these days. Just to see if he’s doing fine.

It’s a moment later that he notices Jason having quieted down and his expression almost suspicious again and he realizes he’s probably been silent for too long. “You make me sound like a food-vacuum”, he complains lightly and is rewarded with a tiny grin, which gives Dick just enough courage to address the next topic. Namely, the blood soaking through the kid’s pants.

He doesn’t even have to say a single word before Jason winces at his worried look. “Like you haven’t done that before”, he mumbles and shifts. “You got a first aid kit I can borrow?”

“Borrow kinda implies you’re gonna give the stuff back, and I really don’t want your bloody bandage”, Dick says, trying and failing spectacularly to keep his voice light. He has, in fact, not ever cut out Bruce’s trackers from his skin. He likes his skin uncut, thank you very much, and he’s never once had to escape Bruce urgently enough to warrant this level of self-harm. Found his blood near the train station, Bruce said. Like that’s normal. Like that’s to be expected when Jason Todd runs away. Which, well, it probably is. Jason didn’t seem the type to do anything half-assed, including running away.

“I’ll just use toilet paper or whatever.” Jason grimaces and turns towards the bathroom. He shifts weight on his bloody leg like he feels no pain at all, and now that Dick thinks about it, he didn’t seem especially bothered by it when sprinting down the stairs either. Either he has a damn high pain tolerance or some sort of congenital analgesia. Bruce should probably test that. If he hasn’t already. It’s not like Dick ever bothered to truly pay attention to Jason’s file past that one time skimming.

The door to the bathroom is nearly closed by the time Dicks brain finally catches up and processes what Jason just said, and he jumps forward with a yelp to push his foot in the door to prevent it from closing. His ankle throbs painfully. “You can’t use toilet paper to treat wounds! Christ, Jason, what the fuck? Use my first aid kit. Or no. I’ll use my first aid kit. Just. Sit down, okay?”

Slightly bewildered, Jason complies. He struggles to pull the dress pants over his knee, the dried blood fusing with the wound and ripping open to allow fresh blood to flow once more, but when Dick suggests cutting it, Jason just throws him a scathing look and mumbles something barely audible about Dick being a disgustingly rich trust fund baby, like he himself isn’t one too. Before Dick can tell him that, he pulls a face and rips the pants with a single brutal strike off the wound. The fabric holds, the wound is torn open and starts flooding the edge of Dick’s bathtub and Jason looks disturbingly satisfied. Right up until his face crumbles and he asks “Do you think I’ll ever get the blood out again?”

Probably not. Jason knows that as well, but maybe he can’t yet accept that he just destroyed multiple thousand-dollar trousers with a wound he cut himself. Dick decides to just ignore the question.

“Hold still, you lunatic”, he mumbles and kneels down in front of the knobby knee. Now that he sees the depth of the wound he feels almost nauseous with the knowledge that he didn’t notice before. It spans five centimeters, is at least two centimeters deep, and it’s clear that speed and efficiency were far more important to Jason than making it pretty and small. By the way the edges are almost shredded, he’d guess that Jason used his fingers to catapult the tracker out of the wound.

Jason snorts. Apparently, Dick’s Pokerface is not as good as he thought it was. “It’s just a flesh wound, Dick.”

It’s not. Or well, of course it is, but it’s also a stark reminder that barely three to four hours ago Jason was panicked on the run and stopped at nothing to prevent his pursuit. He wants to ask. Needs to ask. “What happened?”, lies on his tongue, but then he sees Jason blinking at him through his lashes, eyebrows slightly furrowed and still worried, so very afraid of what Dick will do, of what Bruce might do, so he swallows it down.

“We’ll have to hurry”, he says instead. “I don’t want to have to open the door with bloody hands. The poor delivery driver might think I am trying to murder you.”

“Aren’t you?”, Jason asks critically and eyes the antiseptic Dick is pouring generously on the wound, uncaring of the tiny hisses that escape his small patient. Not totally immune to pain, apparently. Dick gentles his touch.

“I’ve got police- and Bat-training in medicine. I’m basically a doctor.”

“Yeah, sure. Doctor Dick has a nice ring to it.”

Dick splutters. He’s heard every single joke that exists with his name already, but hearing those jokes from Jason of all people feels wrong. He’s like, tiny. He shouldn’t even know what that means. “You’re twelve!”

“I’m thirteen, asshole.”

With narrowed eyes, Dick gives him a once-over. He really is small for his age. “Are you sure?”

“Stick to cooking, Doctor Dick”, Jason mocks and takes the cloth out of Dick’s hand to dap on his wound himself. His hands are shaking.

“Bruce said I shouldn’t.” The reply comes almost automatically. For half a second, Jason’s hand stills before he resumes dapping, giving no other indication that the mention of Bruce’s name might bother him.

“You do know he’s using textbook reverse psychology, right?”, Jason asks. “Like, when he tells you not to cook. He was really proud.”

“No he wasn’t”, Dick replies irritatedly, because that doesn’t sound like Bruce at all. Bruce isn’t proud of Dick. He isn’t.

Jason rolls his eyes and mutters something that sounds suspiciously much like “emotionally constipated dickhead”, and then he reaches for a needle and Dick dives forward to intercept whatever the fuck this is supposed to be.

Jason, apparently, does not appreciate having the needle ripped out of his hands. “I’m not incompetent”, he hisses and snatches it right back. The thread is shaking in his hands, his knuckles white where he grips it too hard. Chewed-on fingernails fixate the surgery thread in tiny kid’s hands and Jason scowls at them when they just won’t stop shaking.

Dick swallows, bile rising in his throat. That’s not how a thirteen-year-old should work. A kid shouldn’t feel the need to prove his worth by suppressing emotions and pretending to be something more than they are, yet here Jason is, afraid to rely on anybody, and it’s Dick’s fault. Dick’s and maybe Bruce’s, who knows what he did, but Bruce wasn’t the one to yell “Just you wait until B notices you’re not that perfect child he’s been waiting for either” in the kid’s face, so Dick can’t really push the fault on him. This, Jason biting down his tongue until he draws blood in concentration as he needles the threat through the tiny hole, is Dick’s fault.

And he doesn’t know how to fix it.

Jason stitches himself up. His stitches are perfectly even and perfectly spaced, better than any doctor could’ve ever done them, and Dick just stares, doesn’t even think to offer local anesthesia or pain meds or to just do it himself until the last stitch is placed and the guilt threatens to overwhelm him once more. Jason Todd is just a kid and Dick doesn’t know how to fix what he’s broken.

The doorbell ringing saves him from the awkward silence. He takes the opportunity to flee without a word, and the way Jason just lets him go, like he never once expected something else, hurts more than it should.

The last time they met, Dick tried to remedy what he’s broken. He brought donuts, sat down at the table in the dinner room and watched Jason stare at the donuts like they were an attempt to poison him. Bruce wasn’t there and Alfred was shopping and that was the only reason Dick dared to visit, because the kid’s empty eyes when screamed at wouldn’t leave his mind and Roy told him flat out that while his absolute hatred was somewhat understandable and downright funny at times, it was also partly directed towards the wrong person, because there’s no way a thirteen-year-old just walked up to Bruce and demanded to be made Robin. So. Not Jason’s fault. And Donuts were supposed to fix all that screaming and the curses from their first three encounters.

He should’ve expected it not to work, really. They sat around for a grand total of twenty minutes before Jason finally dared to nibble on a donut, when Dick finally apologized. Or, well, it wasn’t an apology exactly. More of a “Sorry we got off on the wrong foot, let’s try to change that.” The kid fled the room about five minutes later when Alfred came back from shopping and for the entirety of his drive back, Dick kept wondering if Jason was simply too scared of him to leave beforehand.

It’s why he was so very surprised that even after that disaster, Jason felt comfortable enough to flee to him instead of simply vanishing into Gotham’s streets again, the one place even Batman might not be good enough to find him. Which, again, leads to the question of what the fuck happened in Gotham that Jason felt the need to flee not only from Bruce, but the entire city.

The delivery driver grants him a for Blüdhaven uncharacteristically wide smile when he receives his money and it’s only when the door has fallen shut again that Dick realizes he just tipped four times the price. With a sigh, he turns to divide the food onto two plates. One of the less horrible mistakes he’s made today, at least. No one’s crying and no one’s having a panic attack. That’s great.

Jason shuffles out of the bathroom just when Dick realizes he has only one clean fork left. Failed adult, Jason said. He might’ve been right, though he doesn’t comment on it again as he plops onto one of the chairs and observes Dick hastily running water over one of his dirty forks. His leg is covered in bandages, his dress pants still just above the knee and he has to pull the chair right up to the table to sit even remotely comfortable. He’s so small.

Dick places the acceptably clean fork next to his own plate and hesitates to sit, thinks of twenty minutes awkward silence and a donut halfway eaten and he thinks of Jason fleeing the room and he thinks that he really can’t do that again, but Jason doesn’t begin to eat as long as Dick doesn’t sit, so he does and picks up the fork and tries not to ask any questions, not to pressure Jason into revealing things he not yet feels comfortable to say.

He fails miserably.

“Do you like it?”, he asks and points to the food, and “Does it hurt?”, and his hand wanders further down, his gaze lingering on the bloody trousers. Silently, he curses himself when Jason is quiet for just a moment too long for it to be excused by the food in his mouth, but the child (brother, his brain supplies, and he shuts it up, because just like hours, days, weeks ago, he knows not what to do with that) only takes a moment to think.

“It’s good”, he settles on and grins. “Both of it. I mean, I’m Robin, right? This shit is not enough to bring me down.”

Robin. Sure.

Dick swallows. Jason’s grin blinks out of existence, his eyes flickering down to his food, his gaze turning sullen. He’s far more perceptive than Dick would like. It’s a good trait for a Robin to have, and by now Dick really can’t deny that Jason, despite stealing a name that was never his, is a damn good Robin, but for a little brother, it’s too much. Dick likes to believe he has a good grasp on his emotions, but around Jason, he needs iron control to not scare him away, and it’s exhausting.

“If this is a sleepover”, Jason interrupts his mental downward spiral with his eyes still locked onto his food, and once again Dick has to wonder if Jason noticed, or if he changes topic just because, “we should watch a movie or play games or something.”

Right. Because they’re pretending that this is a sleepover, not a desperate escape from Bruce.

“Monopoly?”, Dick suggests weakly and chews his rice without tasting anything.

A tiny smile twitches over Jason’s face. “Yeah”, he says, perks up already. “I’d like that.” And then, half a second of hesitation later, the words just flood out of his mouth like there’s no tomorrow. “Did you know”, he starts out, excitement bubbling up while he shovels food into his mouth, “that Monopoly was used to help prisoners of war escape in the Second World War? The MI9 partnered with Waddingtons, you know, the game manufacturer, and they’d build monopoly games with hidden compartments with money and files and escape maps and then they’d send those games with Red Cross Care packages to the prisoners. Not just monopoly, there were also chess games and playing cards and so on, and it’s not known how much it actually helped them escape, but hundreds of those games were sent out, and estimates state that almost a third of all allied prisoners fleeing were aided by those games.”

The rush of fondness takes Dick by surprise, leaves him feeling unmoored and overwhelmed, because of course Jason is a nerd. His little brother is a nerd and he’s excitable and he’s so small, so very small, that Dick needs to protect him. Protect him from what made him run, from what makes him flinch whenever Dick moves too fast, from what elicits the fear he so bravely tries to hide. And if he protects him best by playing Monopoly right now, then why not do it? It’s not like he actually had anything better to do.

“I did not know that”, he says and suppresses the urge to ruffle Jason’s fluffy curls.

The kid preens slightly. “Last time I played with B, we made a cheating rule”, he adds on, voice only faltering the slightest bit at the B. “With tax evasion, bribes, and so on. Alfred had to forcefully end the game, cause it was like three a.m. on a school night and Bruce was poring over legal texts to somehow get his mortgaged hotels back.” He snickers. “He didn’t manage, by the way.”

Had Bruce really done something bad, could Jason still speak this fondly of him? Once again, Dick curses himself for never bothering to get to know the kid in front of him before. This would be so much easier if he could tell. Because, of course, it sounds like Jason adores Bruce, or at least adores the fun times they seem to have had, but a child growing up in an abusive household might consciously separate the fun part of their parent from the abusive part. Dick has seen it time and time again - heard kids tell him their parents are awesome, are lovely, only to drop their voices and whisper that sometimes the monster takes over, and that it’s not their parents’ fault. Not that Dick thinks Bruce is abusive, but he’s really grasping at straws here.

Jason munches on his fried rice, mood considerably better than before, while Dick sets up the game and entertains the kid’s chatting. His little brother, if Dick may call him that, turns out to take Monopoly pretty seriously. It also turns out he knows how to evade taxes pretty well, which is knowledge Dick did not know a thirteen-year-old could possess, yet here Jason is, chattering on and on about gaslighting the state and hiding assets and offshore accounts, though he refuses to share how that helped him decimate Bruce at Monopoly.

Dick soon finds out that Jason’s stories of ripping Bruce off were most definitely not exaggerated. A delightfully mean cackle echoes through the kitchen whenever Dick has to pay up. Four rounds into the game, Jason has secured the most expensive streets, built his first houses and Dick is nearly bankrupt.

“You’re cheating”, he accuses and Jason looks impossibly smug, but doesn’t deny it.

“You’re a policeman”, he says, “so figure it out.”

Dick doesn’t. Not for a lack of trying though, because Jason is right - he’s a policeman and a son of the world’s greatest detective, after all - but the kid is a criminal mastermind and by the time Dick gives up, Jason has exploited his concentration on the game to snack half of Dick’s fried rice. Criminal mastermind, really.

“Is that why you’re fighting with Bruce?”, Dick groans an hour into the game, feeling validated in his decision to not go into business school, because this is simply horror. “Cause he’s mad you’re so much smarter than him?” He says it as a joke and yet his heart beats far too loudly, the fear of pushing the kid away again prominent. Confidence does wonders for Jason though, so he doesn’t seem all too scared, takes it as the joke it is supposed to be instead.

“Bruce said he won’t play with me anymore”, he says, slight amusement coloring his voice, and he sounds only the slightest bit strained. “So no potential to fight there.”

It’s progress. It might be the reason Dick dares to push further.

“Then what did Bruce do?”

Jason stills, knuckles white from how harshly he holds onto the dice. His eyes are on Dick again, calculating, cold, suspicious. For a few seconds, silence settles between them, heavy and bitter, before Jason, ever so calm, ever so carefully says “What do you think Bruce did?”

It’s a loaded question, one with a thousand layers. It invites Dick to guess, valid answers existing in a range from “tried to kill you and you’re trying to get into witness protection” to “made you eat your vegetables and you’re throwing a fit”, but that’s not what Jason is trying to ask. Not really. He needs to know where Dick’s mind wanders, wants to know what Dick truly suspects. Because Jason Todd is scared of what Bruce Wayne is capable of, and every lie will be discovered and torn apart until all that remains is an empty apartment and a boy on the run.

So he assumes, at least.

The kid’s dad, not that his biological progenitor really deserves that title, was an abusive piece of shit, if Dick remembers his file correctly. Hospital records of the back then only five-year-old tiny Jason Todd range from bruised faces to shattered ribs. A grasp too hard, a spar gone wrong might frighten Jason off enough to make him run, unwilling to put up with this kind of behavior a second time, but Dick can’t picture Bruce making a mistake quite this stupid. Bruce is an asshole on his best days, but he isn’t an abuser and he loves this kid to the moon and back, and he speaks to him softly, acts slowly, telegraphs his movements long before making them. He knows of Jason’s trauma and it made Dick mad, the first time he saw how Bruce treats the child like Jason is made of glass, but he understood it, after reading the file. It was one of the reasons he brought donuts, that fourth time he met the kid.

So, the answer “Did he hit you?”, would scare Jason away now, despite being absolutely ridiculous, realistically.

The thing is though, Dick doesn’t know what Bruce might’ve done. He can’t imagine anything that would trigger this reaction. Except he was the first to threaten that Bruce would kick him out, and for a boy who was taken off the streets and stuffed in a suit that wasn’t his, that might sound far more realistic than it actually is. He might be scared of what Bruce does when he’s not useful anymore, not the perfect child Dick told him Bruce was looking for.

Jason’s gaze is heavy on Dick. With a loud clatter, the dice fall onto the table. None of them bothers to count the eyes.

Twisting his voice to be as gentle as humanly possible, Dick asks “Did he fire you?”

It’s a possibility. A not exactly unreasonable one. It is, after all, the exact reason Dick fled his home not even a year ago and Bruce did tell him once Jason is remarkably similar to him.

Annoyance flickers over the child’s face. “Why would he fire me?”, he asks irritably. “I’m doing good, out there. I know you think I’m incompetent, but I’m…”

“I don’t think you’re incompetent”, Dick interrupts hastily. “I just think Bruce worries too much and makes stupid decisions sometimes.”

“Well, I think he doesn’t”, Jason snaps back. Feisty. And confusing. Why the hell does Jason defend Bruce, when he’s clearly so terrified of him? Dick wants to snap back, wants to tell Jason that Bruce isn’t as perfect as he pretends to be, wants to disillusion the kid because that hero worship pisses him off, except…

“Bruce didn’t make a mistake”, he realizes, hardly dares to breathe the words. “You did. And now you’re what. Scared of the punishment?”

The air freezes over. He shouldn’t’ve said that, Dick thinks, he should’ve learned when to shut up with Jason. He fucked up, now. Fucked up again, like he always seems to, with his little brother slash not little brother slash that little boy in his apartment he doesn’t know what to do with.

The kid’s hands hover over the dice, not moving, not even a tremble running through the tensed muscles. Jason’s eyes rest on the board game, wide open and unblinking. The only movement at all is his chest, rising and falling in cut-off motions, almost mechanically in their rhythm.

Dick has seen Jason scared, before. He has seen the fear burning in those blue eyes of his, has seen him running for his life. He knows what fear looks like, for Jason Todd. This is not it. This is not fear. This is something so much worse.

He doesn’t know how to fix it.

“Jason”, he whispers softly, and can see how his words don’t register in the way the kid doesn’t twitch, doesn’t react at all. Cold sweat runs down the pale face, curls sticking to his forehead.

How can one fix this? Fix a child that is broken beyond belief? Fix trust that was never there in the first place?

Jason made a mistake.

That’s alright. That’s fine.

It’s not like he outright murdered someone, because if he had, Bruce would surely not have sounded that worried over the phone. Neither did he publish their secret identities, because if he had, Bruce would’ve warned Dick that they’re compromised. Whatever that mistake was, it must’ve been minor compared to what might have been, yet to Jason it means he’s not safe in Gotham anymore, not safe with Bruce.

“Jason”, Dick repeats gently. “It’s alright, Jason.” He does not dare touch the child, but he inches closer nonetheless, just enough for the kid to know he’s there. “Whatever you did, I don’t care, okay? I don’t care if you’ve, I don’t know, murdered someone or if you’ve broken a million-dollar vase or whatever the hell you did. I don’t care.”

A shuddered gasp escapes the kid.

A reaction, at least. Not a good one, but he’s slowly easing out of the panicked frozen state. Dick breathes out, exaggerating the motion. In and out again. Chest rising and falling, just fast enough for Jason to mimic it. He doesn’t at first, but after a few minutes his erratic gasps grow slower and Dick dares to talk again, to disrupt the tense silence.

“We don’t have to talk about it, Jason”, he says softly. “It does not matter, not to me. You can just stay here and we’ll play games and no one has to know where you are but us, does that sound good?”

The breathing hitches, tears glinting in Jason’s eyes. He flexes his fists, blinks erratically. Frozen still, but slowly becoming undone in the midst of Dick’s apartment.

This kid does not need Robin, this kid needs a therapist, Dick thinks bitterly, but he doesn’t say it, asks “Everything alright?” instead, knowing full well that nothing is alright, nothing at all.

Jason blinks, eyes red.

Dick cocks his head. It’s obvious, then, the way Jason wrangles for control of himself, fights those emotions he does not want to have. The kid shudders, a minuscule tremble running through all his muscles before he very consciously lets loose, fist curling open and flopping onto the table. The process lasts barely a second, and when he’s done, Jason looks almost put together again.

Magic, almost.

“Sorry”, Jason says, voice the slightest bit raspy, and frowns. “I’m not. I’m.” He clears his throat and Dick’s heart aches at the sight of him clinging on for dear life, because weakness is what gets one killed and Jason fights, fights for his right to survive. What did they do to mess this child up like this? How dare they treat him so carelessly?

“I’m fine”, Jason says and frowns at the dice like they are the reason for his distress, not Dick’s carelessness. They spell out a seven, which leads Jason right across the finish line and allows him to collect another two hundred monopoly dollars.

“You know”, Dick says lightly. “I think the only way for me to get rid of my debt is to sell myself into slavery, and I feel like that would end the game on a too dark note.” That earns him a weak grin at least.

“I don’t think Monopoly has much use for slaves”, Jason says, voice still weak.

“You’re probably right.” Dick throws him a smile and hopes it looks more genuine than it feels. “I’ll surrender.”

Scandalized, Jason’s head snaps up, the surprise almost enough to overshadow the lingering terror. “You’d be a fuckin’ horrible politician”, he says and still he laughs a little bit. His laugh is probably the sweetest thing Dick has ever heard, light and earnest and so childlike it hurts.

“I could teach you how to cheat”, Jason says and shuffles his money, and when the notes come to rest again, they have nearly doubled in value.

Dick gapes.

“You’re freaking magic”, he accuses and notes how Jason doesn’t freeze, just cackles lightly and he thinks that maybe he prove that he’s safe, and it feels so warm all of a sudden. That’s my little brother, he thinks, and the words don’t feel like mocking anymore, and neither do they feel like a lie. That’s my little brother, he thinks, and he’s hurting and I don’t know how to help him, and it’s so warm it burns and then Jason is teaching him how to shuffle cards, and he looks so happy and at ease, Dick can’t even be mad at the notes falling to the floor. He praises Jason’s ingenuity with slipping cards into his sleeve and shuffling them into his stack of money and then he says “You didn’t shuffle the money that often”, and Jason grins so widely it must hurt, and teases him that he should figure the rest out himself.

By the time Jason starts stifling his yawns behind his sleeves, all fear has vanished from his eyes and when Dick suggests going to bed, he only manages to nod. Midnight has long since passed, the hand of the clock next to Dick’s fridge steadfastly creeping towards two o’clock. Kids like Jason should probably have a bed time, but then again, Dick is not his dad and he gets the feeling that Bruce doesn’t enforce shit like that either, so he convinces himself he doesn’t feel guilty for allowing Jason to stay up this long, and the tiny flicker of guilt he does feel dies down pretty quickly when Jason grants him a tired little smile and looks so very comfortable.

“You can sleep in my bed”, Dick says. “I probably have some sweats around you can wear, too. That stuff can’t be too comfortable.”

“I’m fine on the couch”, Jason says and sorts the notes by value and the playing figures by size. “Do you have a second toothbrush?”

“I do. And I insist on the bed”, Dick says and wiggles the game’s lid on the box.

Jason frowns. “Thanks. And no thanks.” He gets up a little too abruptly and Dick backtracks hastily. Last thing he needs is Jason fleeing the apartment at night because he doesn’t feel safe anymore.

“Sure”, he says, “Couch. That’s cool with me. I like my bed.”

Jason’s smile is a guilty little thing. “Cool”, he echoes, and then he takes three minutes in the bathroom to brush his teeth and splash cold water in his face, and he drowns in Dick’s sweats, but at least in far too big sweatpants he can’t run as fast. Dick could probably not catch him anyways, should he decide to sprint away, but the Titans sure could, and he puts them on speed dial, just to be safe.

He feels mean for doing it, when Jason falls asleep minutes later. He feels that maybe Jason ran because no one trusts him anyways. He feels that maybe he’s part of the reason Jason ran.

When a door slams at four o’clock, he doesn’t know what to feel anymore.

This is Jason, he thinks.

This is Jason and he’s my brother.

This is Jason and he’s hurting.

This is Jason and I can’t help him.