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The first time he meets him, he thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him.
Mostly because it’s his suit, his name, his legacy on another black haired blue-eyed boy who fights with an efficiency that can only be taught by one person. Or maybe it’s because he never thought Bruce would replace him, didn’t think that Robin was just some suit to be passed down to the next kid dumb enough to believe that Bruce Wayne knew best.
Either way, he was never really prepared for Jason Todd.
The kid is a walking contradiction, his smile wide, eyes bright despite the death and decay snapping at his heels like hounds of hell. It’s not childlike, the wonder and determination in his eyes, not for someone like Jason, but more of a conscious decision to see the good. To wake up and put on the suit and make a difference. There’s no innocence to be found within him, no matter how well the kid can pretend.
A true performer, he thinks. Like any good Robin should be.
He’s annoying, at first. All smug smiles and cocksure attitude, but over time, when things start to settle and the team resembles less of a mix-match group of odds and ends and more of a family, he sees a change.
Jason is, beneath it all, absolutely starving for attention.
Any of it. All of it. Good or bad, no matter whether it's a harsh tone or a gentle caress, Jason leans into it like a flower to the sun, drinks it in, basks in it. Hordes it close like it’s something precious and revered.
It’s telling that Jason is more relaxed and attentive when being scolded than he is being praised. When a compliment makes him blush to the roots of his hair, stiff shouldered and trying desperately to shake it off, and a harsh reprimand from one of the team has him loose and calm, face serene like welcoming an old friend.
But, despite Hank’s short fuse and the teens’ pointless bickering, there really are more praises than not. Jason’s a smart kid, and talented to a fault. Dick can recognize that, can respect it, and he never fails to make it known.
Words, Jason is hungry for. Encouraging, damning, he takes it all, seeks it out. He would rather be spoken to in anger than to be left alone, ignored.
But there’s one thing that Dick can’t quite understand.
Jason avoids touch like another being's skin is toxic.
Even if it’s meant to be friendly, when an arm is raised and anywhere in Jason’s vicinity, his eyes stay locked onto it, wary, his whole body shifting imperceptibly away from it, until the threat of contact has passed and he can loosen once again. Can smirk and make a jab about how he stinks from training, how his shoulders are bruised, his skin is a little sensitive, you snooze, you lose, you should have been quicker than that, as if the pitiful excuses aren’t seen as exactly what they are.
Every accidental touch is something alien and foreign. Gar offering a hand up in training, Dick brushing a hand along his side to correct his form, Hank knocking their elbows together as they pass in the kitchen, it all leaves Jason quiet. Like his brain is trying to process, to understand what all just took place and reboot. Afterwards, when Jason shakes off the shock of it and can smile and laugh, he almost seems normal. Back to his loud, faux confident self.
It’s too bad that Dick can see right through him.
And he gets it, sort of. The kid has been strung along through abusive relationships his entire life, home after home, family after family, until his last stint on the streets before Bruce. There are two years in his file that are just… blank. No records at all.
Dick can read between the lines.
He tries to be the brother he always wanted, tries to take all of Jason’s jagged edges and smooth them out, give him direction, give him a purpose.
Tries.
Jason is a lot of things, but not malleable, and he’s only had himself to count on for a long, long time. Dick’s learned that in this business, a hero that doesn’t play well with others is a dead hero. Even Bruce had seen that, had made sure he had a team to rely on like the majority of the caped community.
Jason seemed to fall in the slim category of vigilantes that chafed more than flourished among others. No amount of team bonding sessions would fix that, and he would always squirm under another’s leadership. He liked his control iron-clad, his style brazen. While the rest of the teens waited for orders, Jason trembled with the need to move. To act. Another hard life lesson he’d had to learn too young: You hesitate, you die. You think too hard, pause for too long, and someone else dies.
Dick still tells him to wait.
Inadvertently asks for his trust.
“I’m not sitting here with my thumb up my ass while people die,” Jason had snarled, eyes bright with fury, every line of his body taut with the strain of holding himself back. “That’s not my job.”
He forgets too easily that Jason trusts no one.
For a moment it feels as if the anger he’d carefully squelched throughout the whole ordeal will come bubbling up again, cold and seething, but he deliberately stamps it down in favor of glaring over at Jason.
And, yeah, okay, maybe this is a little bit his fault, because Dick sure as hell isn’t winning any Best Big Brother of the Year awards, but he’d thought they’d gotten past this.
The constant need for Dick’s acceptance, his praise, his recognition, the need to prove that he was good enough, that he belonged, but it seems as if he’s underestimated Jason’s insecurities yet again.
The kid’s staring up at him, face covered in dust and debris and eyes comically wide. He doesn’t even seem upset, or worried. He still thinks everything’s a joke, thinks that this is some kind of game. “I—“
“Evac isn’t for another hour.” He snaps, too frustrated to even think about keeping calm for Jason’s sake, because if he’d just listened — “What the hell were you thinking?”
Jason doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink, just stares at him, expressionless. He’s startlingly good at it, and it irks Dick to no end, so much so that he brings up a hand to snap his fingers in front of the kid’s face.
Jason goes deathly still. The kid doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.
“Earth to Jason.” He says, not quite able to keep the snide tone at bay. “I’ll ask again. What. Were. You. Thinking.”
There’s a tense silence, and in it, Dick’s temper flares, something ugly and mean, and it must show on his face because Jason says, hurriedly, “I wasn’t.”
He says it like it’s the right answer, like that’s what Dick wants to hear. A reflexive answer to an age old question.
Dick ignores the dozens of alarms going off in his head.
“Exactly.” He snaps, and he’s not— not normally like this, but he’s tired, and he’s sore, and he had twinged his shoulder when the building had come down on them. The mission was blown to hell, and he just wanted to take a shower and sleep.
Jason says nothing to that, just stares down at the rubble under his face and breathes a familiar exercise, one Dick remembers from Bruce.
The space they’re in is small, barely able to be called an air pocket, but he doesn’t dare try to dig out. Shifting the rubble and the metal catwalk keeping the building from toppling on them isn't a good idea, he knows.
Not exactly his first time being trapped in a collapsed building.
He sighs, shifts more towards the center of the space and safely away from dislodging any of the inner debris currently keeping them alive, cracking a glow stick as he goes. Jesus, him and Jason are going to be having words.
“Hey, c’mere.” Dick pats the floor next to him, and Jason watches him, eyes shining in the dim glow. “There’s too much of a risk if you stay there.”
Because Jason’s right at the edge of their little tomb, almost touching the mess of debris that tower up around them, flat on his stomach with his elbows supporting himself. He crawls forward obediently, movements slow and exaggerated so as to not trigger a shift in the rubble.
When he’s close enough, Dick reaches for him and drags him close, finally letting the anger bleed into worry. “You okay? Didn’t get nicked in the fall?”
Jason is stiff, muscles bunched and tense as if to push away, but he doesn’t. Just holds himself perfectly still. “I’m fine.” His tone sounds flat and wrong even for Jason.
“Okay,” Dick concedes, but eyes the tremor in Jason’s hands, the tic in his jaw and the filmy glaze to his eyes. “Donna’s on her way.”
Jason nods, shifts the slightest bit away from Dick’s side. He’s not usually this quiet, this compliant, but if the kid wants to pout, that’s not his problem. Maybe he’d think next time before running into a rigged building.
Minutes tick by, agonizingly slow, and the air has started to grow stifling. It’s overbearingly warm, and sweat is slicking the inside of his gloves and loosening the glue to his domino, tickling at his back and sliding down his temples.
He groans, tries to wipe his face against the coarse fabric of his cape and grits his teeth at the way it irritates his skin.
Jason doesn’t complain, but Dick can see the sweat glistening on his skin.
Another oddity. The kid liked to whine and chatter mindlessly on a good day, even more so on a bad day. Granted, everything had changed after Deathstroke, but he knew Jason’s mannerisms. The small things that no one else would think twice about, and he can't shake the horrible, grating feeling that something is wrong.
“Hey,” He keeps his voice low, tries to keep any emotion other than concern out of it. “Are you sure you’re—“
“Sorry.”
Dick blinks. “What are—“
Jason presses his forehead to the ground, lifts it, then slams it back down. His head cracks loudly against the dusty concrete, and Dick jerks forward, heart pounding.
“Jason,”
Another dull, sickening thud.
“Hey hey hey, Jason, no, stop —“
Heart pounding, Dick slides his hand between the ground and Jason’s head, cushioning the blows. The soft give of his hand just seems to spur Jason on, and he keeps going, lifting his head, throwing it down. Again and again and again.
He repeats, soft and uncharacteristically small, “Sorry, sorry, sorry, I’m sorry,”
Dick’s hand is going to be bruised to hell after this, but he ignores the pain in favor of trying to figure out what the fuck even triggered this.
“Jason, hey,” Dick winces when the kid bangs his head down particularly hard, his knuckles throbbing from the impact, but keeps going, his other hand rubbing up and down Jason’s trembling back. “You’re okay, calm down. Take a deep breath for me, okay? I’m not mad.”
Jason pauses, panting.
“Not mad.” Dick says again, watching him carefully.
“Stop,” Jason gargles out, words slurred and wet, and Dick barely has time to yank his hand out from under the kid before he starts heaving.
“Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay. It’s just you and me, we’re fine. Deep breaths, bud.”
There are tear tracks streaked through the dust and grime painting the kid’s face, and Dick can only crouch there uselessly, alternating between rubbing at his back and trying to figure out how to best get him lucid again. If he freaks out, if he starts fighting Dick and manages to dislodge the rubble…
Jason’s body seems to come to the conclusion that it won’t bring up anything more than bile and ceases it’s retching, and Jason slumps to the side, barely missing the wet puddle in front of him.
“Jason? C’mon, open your eyes for me.”
Jason’s shaking so hard Dick worries for a moment that he’s seizing, eyes closed and face white. He looks scared. Scared and impossibly small, and Dick drags him as much as he can into his lap and holds on.
“You’re okay,” He’s trying not to focus on the mumbles spilling from Jason’s lips, tangles of ‘Dad’ and ‘Accident’ and ‘Please’. “Come back to me, Jay. I’m here.”
This isn’t in Jason’s file.
He’s panicking and underprepared and dealing with an unresponsive teen in some kind of episode and all he can think about is the fact that none of this is in the fucking file.
He triggered this, let his anger get the best of him and didn’t think twice about how Jason would react, sure.
But it could’ve been avoided.
They’d established a set system for triggers a long time ago. Being a vigilante slash trauma survivor kind of called for one, and everyone, even Dick had written down a list. They all had a copy of it in their files, a means of avoiding situations like now.
There’s a reason Hank hasn't accidentally or otherwise killed Dick, and it’s solely because of the line ‘Don’t touch me without my permission’ that the man had put on his list.
The lists were a sure fire way to avoid any unnecessary accidents. Or at least as sure as a list could be in a tower of vigilantes with a variety of disorders.
He imagines opening Jason’s file himself, scrolling down to the bottom and making a side note in all caps that reads ‘JASON TODD HAS PTSD’ to go along with the plethora of other observations Bruce has already recorded.
“I’m sorry,” Jason breathes, and there’s blood trickling from his nose, his face pressed flush to Dick’s armored thigh, and Dick bites back his own apologies and pets at the nape of the kid’s neck. Jason’s face will be covered in quite an impressive bruise when this is all over. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to.”
“You’re okay,” He offers lamely.
“I’m sorry,” The kid repeats.
Evac takes a long, long time.
Jason won’t look at him.
It’s been days since the botched mission, and still the kid flits about the Tower like a ghost, as if terrified to even breathe in his direction. Terrified of reminding Dick that he exists.
None of the team had commented on Dick’s additional notes to Jason’s file, and hadn’t complained when he’d recommended they read through each other’s lists again.
There’s some impressive bruising across Jason’s face, the darkest of it an almost perfect impression of his mask, and it looks dark and painful and ugly. It’s a glaring reminder, a damning accusation, that Dick has once again failed him.
It’s almost a relief that Jason keeps his distance, as cowardly as the thought is.
“Maybe you should talk to him,” Kory suggests one night, quiet and uncertain, watching him carefully for a reaction.
“How?” The smell of sweat and dust and fear is still stark in his brain, Jason’s body curled up, shaking. “It’s not exactly an easy conversation starter, and if you haven’t noticed, it’s Jason.”
“I know it’s Jason,” Kory smiles, eyes kind, and Dick doesn’t know what he would do without her. “That’s why you’re the best person for the job.”
The best person for the job, he thinks wryly, standing outside Jason’s door, replaying the conversation in his head. Like hell am I—
The door swings open, and Gar’s head pokes out, a scowl on his face, but it brightens when he registers who it is.
“Oh, hey, Dick, what’s up?”
“Looking for Jason.” There’s the distinct sound of a panicked curse and movement further in the room. Dick sighs. “Is he in there?”
“Uh,” Gar has always been a horrible liar, and the panic in his eyes and the bright red flush crawling up his neck gives him away. “No?”
“Yes.” Dick says, deadpan, and knocks on the doorframe. “Jason? We need to talk.” Then, to Gar, “Don’t lie, either. Integrity goes a long way.”
There’s a sputtered “What the hell? You lie all the time—“ from Gar before the door swings open fully and Jason stands before him.
The kid narrows his eyes, but his voice is light. “I’ve got it, Gar, thanks. I’ll see you later.”
Despite his obvious reluctance, Gar tears himself away and mopes off.
Jason waits until they’re completely alone, arms crossed and bruised face pinched, before he says, “You can't fire me.”
Dick blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“Batman outranks you.” It sounds childish, almost, but the pure faith in Jason’s voice is unwavering. It hits Dick, then, how high in esteem Jason actually holds Bruce. And how low he holds Dick. “So if you’re trying to kick me out, you can try. But you can't take Robin.”
His first response is to say, “I’m still Robin, too,” but he bites it back and instead grits out, “What the hell? What is wrong with you?”
“Well, you’ve seen it.” Jason says bluntly. “You're really going to look me in the eye and tell me you’re comfortable with me in the field now? That you trust me to have your back?” Dick opens his mouth to argue, but Jason says, firmly, “I’m a liability. And I understand, bro, I do, but you’re not taking Robin from me. I’d rather die.”
Dick lets out a startled laugh. “Jesus, kid, slow the fuck down.” This is quickly spiraling out of his control, and he strains to wrestle it back. “Nobody is taking Robin from you, and you’re not a liability.” Jason scoffs. “You’re not. If you’re a liability, then we all are. Every single one of us has been compromised in the field. I didn’t come to kick you out, I came to tell you that you’re not alone.”
Jason just stares at him.
“You should have— could have told me, Jason.” How many times had they revised and updated files? How many times had he urged the team to edit them themselves? “It’s not… unheard of for someone with your past to struggle.”
“Struggle.” Jason says dumbly, then laughs. Dick thinks that he’s stuck his foot in his mouth, but Jason breezes by it with, “That’s one word for it.”
Dick cringes. “Are you… okay?”
It’s a stupid, unnecessary question, and the amused look Jason gives him tells him as much.
“Other than the nightmares and the throbbing face, yeah, I’m fine, Dick. Thanks for…” He makes an awkward, vague gesture. “Helping out.”
“Of course. Just… let me know next time, if I’m being a dick, okay?”
Jason says, “You’re always a dick,” with a genuine smile, eyes brighter than they’ve been in days, and just like that Dick can breathe again.
Dick is in deep conversation with a female officer when he’s quite literally yanked away from her.
He stumbles, barely righting himself before he’s being dragged towards an alley. He has just enough sense to shout, “One moment, please, sorry,” before they’re effectively cut from view and he can round on his kidnapper.
Jason is sweaty and nicked from the fight, eye black smudged around the edges of his domino, but it’s the flighty look about him that gives Dick pause and stays a biting comment.
“Um, hey, so I was thinking that when we get back we could maybe watch a movie or something, but don’t let Hank pick this time, because he only chooses action and it’s getting boring. Also, I got a few of the witnesses to leave statements with Dawn, so we should have some solid leads on that end. She told me to stop sending them her way, but she’s more approachable than I am, and I told her that. I think she’s mad at me now, but—“
“Jason,” He says softly. “Take a breath.”
Jason obeys too quickly. “Yeah, I know, I’m— I’m trying.” After a moment of erratic, stuttering breaths, he adds quietly, “Shit’s hard.”
Dick huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well, you have me.” There’s a quick flash of Jason’s teeth before his expression shutters again. He’s fighting hard, but he can practically see the kid slipping. “Hey, can I touch you?”
Jason swallows hard, looking vaguely ill at the prospect, but nods, slow and hesitant. His voice is uncharacteristically small when he whispers, “Please be careful.”
As if Dick would ever do anything to put the fear back in Jason’s eyes. He tries for a reassuring smile, aware of his own dirty state, and pulls Jason into his arms.
The kid lets out a noisy breath, ear pressed above Dick’s heart as if straining to hear it through the reinforced kevlar.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, and Dick hums.
“‘Course, you’re doing exactly what I asked you to.” And when Jason has finally caught his breath back and the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest matches Dick’s, he presses his face to Jason’s hair, pointedly not thinking about the blood and sweat soaking the curls, and says, “So proud of you, kid.”
He thinks the heat of Jason’s embarrassment has somehow managed to leak through his suit, but if anyone needs the praise, it’s Jason. He ignores the token, rambling protest Jason is spouting into his chest and just holds him tighter.
He was never prepared for Jason, for the fiery temper and rival stubbornness, but he thinks that somehow, despite it all, they’re doing just fine.