Chapter Text
It ends like it was always going to end, after everything started to fall apart: with bodies and screams and the world being burnt to ash. A battle lost, and the war lost with it. What hurts is that they’d almost won, instead—they would have won just as they had every other time before, if it weren’t for the internal fractures that had caused just enough distrust for there to be hesitations, that had created just enough of a disadvantage due to skills and techniques left unshared and unrefined.
It’s not the Bats’ faults, really. Family is messy, and the battle had been fought by many more than just them alone. They’d done as much as they could, and it wasn’t truly their fault that “as much as they could” had fallen just short of being enough.
It ends like it was always going to end.
But that doesn’t mean that the story is over.
~
Gotham’s Prodigal Prince has finally returned home, and everybody who’s anyone is hosting a glamorous event for him to make a fool of himself at. Nothing too scandalous happens, of course, but news of Bruce Wayne’s skiing accident had circled the globe, as had the revelation that the man had lost the majority of his brain cells due to it, and the results are certainly entertaining to witness. A shame, couples draped in silk and jewels simper to each other over glasses of wine. The young man had just finished his third semester of medical school before he’d gone globe-trotting, determinedly following in his fathers’ footsteps. Now dear Brucie can’t even remember the names of people he’s socialized with for years, much less the names of the parts of the human body.
Bruce, for his part, is having a blast. The rigid expectations and endless social niceties of Gotham’s elite had always grated on him, and now he gets to thwart them as flamboyantly and ridiculously as he pleases, all to his own benefit. Alfred is exasperated with him, of course, but even the stiff-lipped Brit can’t deny that the ruse is fulfilling its purpose exquisitely.
So long as Bruce doesn’t slip up, the ruse won’t ever be discovered—he had taken a tumble while skiing, after all, and even gotten a mild skull fracture out of it. He really should’ve known better than to challenge Talia, but in his defense, he hadn’t anticipated that she would figure out skis that quickly. Fortunately, Bruce hadn’t actually received any brain damage to accompany the skull fracture beyond a moderate concussion, and he’d recovered perfectly well from both.
…Presumably.
The tests say he has, at least, but as far as Bruce can figure, some sort of lingering effect from the injury is the only rational explanation for why he keeps looking for things that aren’t there.
It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, searching for something meant to fill a space that’s been left empty. It’s an integral part of grief, and is one that Bruce has experienced on a daily basis for most of his life. Even after he’d stopped subconsciously expecting Dad to walk into the house whenever the garage door opened and Mom to come and haul him outside every morning when there’s snow, the Manor has felt empty. Too still, too quiet. Like things—like people are missing, and Bruce’s home is haunted by their absence. Bruce has always felt it most keenly in the family hallway, surrounded by bedrooms that have never been used in his lifetime, as well as in the living room, the informal dining room, the theater room, the library, and even out by the old, wooden playset nestled in the back of the grounds. Places where a family—his family—should have gotten to spend more time together.
All of that is rational, though. Expected, even, considering how early he’d lost his parents. With only him and Alfred in the Manor, it makes sense that the place feels empty.
What doesn’t make sense, and is entirely irrational, is how Bruce has been experiencing the same thing during patrol.
Finally moving forward with the plan that he’d been refining for half of his life had been the best part of returning to Gotham. His first few patrols had been exhilarating, and even though the novelty has since faded, it’s still Bruce’s favorite part of the day—or, night, rather. He’s still working with Lucius to do as much as he can with the infrastructure and social welfare side of things, but as the Bat, he’s personally making a difference to individual Gothamites’ lives. It’s early days yet, but already rumors have spread, and alongside them a new sense of hope to be found where there was previously none.
But as Bruce has settled into the role of the Bat, he’s started… looking. Looking for what, he doesn’t have the slightest clue, but he’s been turning with words on the tip of his tongue to find himself addressing nothing but empty rooftops and silent alleys, and he’s been catching himself searching the shadows as if there’s something meant to be hidden in them. Every time there’s nothing there, because of course there isn’t, a cold, heavy weight grips his lungs, and he can’t shake the sense that something is missing.
All of it is irrational. It’s irrational, and irritating, and distracting, and after weeks of research, Bruce comes to the vague conclusion that some screw in his brain had shaken loose and landed in one of the cracks of his psyche when he’d knocked his head. He’s not in denial about the fact that he’s traumatized and has taken up probably the most counterintuitive coping mechanism possible to deal with said trauma, so it’s really just another thing to add to the list.
Doing so doesn’t mean that Bruce is going to entirely ignore the issue, though. In order to counter the pervasive sense of missing, Bruce starts focusing a little more on what’s actually there. Grounding himself in the real world by paying attention to sights and objects and people. Just because Bruce isn’t overly attached to the fine things of life doesn’t mean that he doesn’t appreciate them, after all, and it can be beneficial to regularly stop and smell the roses, so to speak.
Although, he’s not entirely sure when this newfound habit turns into impulse buying.
Bruce has always had… strange basic favorites—those being things like his favorite color and favorite animal. While Bruce generally prefers black in terms of actually using color, his favorite color isn’t black or even one color at all, but is actually three colors: red, yellow, and green. And it’s not that all three colors are tied for first, Bruce vaguely remembers explaining to his mother at some point, but that it’s the three colors together that makes them his favorite. In terms of individual colors, red, yellow, blue, purple, and black all tie for his favorite.
Why Bruce is partial to traffic-light colors, he doesn’t really know, and to be honest, he doesn’t particularly care. But in his quest to ground himself and dismiss that sense of missing, he finds himself venturing into stores and shops more and more often, wandering until something catches his eye, and anything with the red-yellow-green combination—which isn’t generally a popular one—ends up coming home with him. But it’s not just those. To Alfred’s despair, Bruce ends up returning to the Manor with cookbooks and swords, stuffed animals and cameras, frozen waffles and video games. Some of the more pricey things he ends up getting on impulse include a beautifully leatherbound set of Jane Austin’s works for the library, several sets of collectible card games for the gaming room, and renovations to turn various rooms in the Manor into an art studio, a dance studio, a gymnastics room, and a dark room.
It all… helps, somewhat. Not as much as Bruce would like it to, but enough that he can ignore the way that he keeps glancing to his side on patrol as if expecting someone to be there. Enough that he can cut off the paranoid musings. It’s not really that big of a deal, anyway. Bruce is a busy man and has more than enough to otherwise focus on, impulse buying sprees included.
And if Bruce starts to occasionally have fractured dreams about boys with dark hair and bright eyes and girls with strong frames and fierce grins, dreams that he remembers only fragments of whenever something catches his eye, well, that doesn’t have anything to do with anything at all.
At least, it doesn’t until Bruce’s eye catches on a poster with red-yellow-green, and a closer look reveals the colors to be worn by a couple standing with a boy with dark hair and bright eyes.
It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t even really qualify as a coincidence. But Bruce’s gaze lingers on the Flying Graysons anyway, and he makes a note of the date and the time. The show is tonight, in only a few hours, and he resolves to see it, if he can fit it into his packed schedule.
Bruce does end up making it to the show.
He doesn’t manage to make it backstage in time to keep the Graysons from falling.
~
They weren’t supposed to fall.
Dick had checked their equipment. He’s always checked their equipment, ever since he can remember, because it’s important. Mami and Papa use a net during practice, but they don’t during shows, which means—which meant—if they fall—
Dick has never liked watching his parents fall, ever since he was a baby. It’s only been a few years since he stopped crying every time Mami or Papa missed a catch during practice, and Dick still isn’t allowed to watch them when they’re choreographing a new routine since they fall into the net so often. They’d worried a lot, since there wasn’t a lot that made Dick sad, and they weren’t sure why them falling made him so sad since nothing had ever really happened before.
Dick doesn’t know why them falling made him so sad either, especially since he didn’t even understand that them falling would hurt them when he was little. But it did, and it still does—although he’s gotten good at pretending that it doesn’t, since he wanted to learn to fly, too. Him falling isn’t scary at all, so there’s no reason why he shouldn’t fly with Mami and Papa. But Dick’s still made sure to always double-double-check that their equipment is all good, though, especially when they’re doing a show and don’t—don’t have a net—
He’d checked. He’d checked. But the line snapped, and they fell, and now Mami and Papa aren’t moving and everyone’s screaming—
Dick doesn’t realize that someone else has gotten onto the platform with him until strong hands pull him back from the edge. “Easy now—”
Dick is twisting around before he can even think about it, a high, broken sound spilling out of him as he buries his face in the man’s shoulder, clinging to his suit jacket. The man is big and warm and safe, and Dick wants to just close his eyes and have it all go away—
He’d checked—but they still fell—
“I’m so sorry, chum,” the man says softly, holding Dick almost as tight as Dick is holding onto him. He sorta sounds like he’s going to cry. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Somehow, the man gets them both down to the ground. Dick’s arms end up looped around the man’s neck in the process, but Dick barely notices. He doesn’t notice much of anything, really, as everything’s gone cold and heavy and he keeps seeing Mami and Papa falling again and again and again—the trapeze wire flings out and down after it snaps—
“Breathe, chum,” the man murmurs, and Dick sucks in a lungful of air like he says. It hurts, but he’s got to keep doing it—because it’s important—he’d checked—
Breathing. He’s breathing. Why is it so hard?
A sob bubbles up Dick’s throat just as the man says, “You’re going to be okay, chum, I promise. I know that this is a nightmare, but I’m going to make sure that you’ll be okay.”
Dick wants to scream that nothing will ever be okay again, but somehow, a small part of him believes him.
~
There’s no denying that Dick belongs in the Manor.
It’s an odd thought, and one that Bruce shies away from examining too closely. But his discomfort with it doesn’t make it any less true, and Bruce only becomes more certain of the idea as the weeks march on. It had only taken days for Dick to figure out how to navigate the Manor, and even less to get both Bruce and Alfred wrapped around his finger. The boy is traumatized and still grieving, of course, and Bruce is gradually discovering all of the various spots where Dick tends to tuck himself away and stare into space on bad days, but he also brings an energetic light to Bruce’s life that had been sorely missing. Dick is giggles from under tables and previously empty corners and backflips off the banister and endless questions about everything under the sun and then some. They have movie nights and take trips to the zoo and come up with stupid jokes that make Alfred sigh, and most of the time Bruce is woken up for the day by Dick crashing onto his bed and demanding hugs.
Dick’s social worker—the fourth in a quick succession of them, as Bruce had ferreted out the first three as corrupt—has remarked that it’s surprising just how comfortable Dick is already. It’s a good thing, of course, but even children as tactile and friendly as Dick typically aren’t so quick to so fully trust two men they’d never previously met, especially after having had their life so traumatically upended. Bruce had just smiled and said something noncommittal in response, trying not to think about red-yellow-green and how the gymnastics room had already been set up exactly as Dick likes entire months before Dick had even set foot in Gotham.
There’s a lot of things Bruce hasn’t been thinking about, because if he thinks about them then he’ll have questions, and he’s all too aware of how obsessive he can get when his questions are left unanswered. This isn’t something he wants to ruin, and some part of him knows that ruin would be his only prize if he tried to follow that path.
Not thinking about any of what he notices doesn’t mean that he’s ignoring them, though. It’s not like he really could in some circumstances, anyway, even if the actual particulars tend to be subtle.
“Dick, no.”
Dick blinks. “But I didn’t even—”
“No,” Bruce repeats, injecting as much authority into the word as possible. “You’ll tear it right out of the ceiling if you try to swing on it.”
Dick folds his arms with a pout. “I was just looking!”
“Staring,” Bruce corrects, exasperated. “You were staring.” And Bruce hadn’t even needed to follow his gaze to know exactly what had been running through the boy’s mind.
Dick grumbles incoherently, and Bruce sighs. “No swinging from, climbing on, hanging from, sitting on, or otherwise touching the chandeliers please, chum.”
“Fine.”
Bruce ends up creating and installing reinforcements on the chandeliers over the next several nights anyway, just in case. It quickly proves to be a warranted precaution, as Bruce comes home from work not even a week later to find Dick hanging upside down from the sitting room chandelier as he reads a comic book.
“Richard John.”
Dick just flashes a cheeky grin at him, then goes back to reading.
Bruce sighs.
Of course, all that turns out to be only the very tip of the iceberg in terms of just how far Dick will go when he sets his mind on something. Bruce doesn’t know when Dick found out that his parents’ deaths had been caused by Tony Zucco, or when he’d found the Batcave and put together that Bruce is Batman, but Bruce becomes aware of both things when one of his habitual glances at the shadows on patrol has him finding a small red-yellow-green figure instead of emptiness.
It says something about the general situation that Bruce doesn’t actually realize that no, Dick is very much not supposed to be out here for an entire fifteen seconds.
Dick isn’t happy to be hauled back to the Batcave, and he’s even less happy to be told in no uncertain terms that he won’t be joining Bruce on patrol.
“You can’t stop me!” Dick hisses with an impressive amount of vitriol.
Bruce is still trying to wrangle back the sheer panic that’s singing through his veins. It’s not going well. “You are eight years old—”
“Almost nine!”
“That’s not any better! You’re a child, and you don’t have any of the skills—”
“Then train me!” Dick cries. “I can help—”
“I don’t want your help!”
Dick jerks back as if struck, and Bruce realizes with a stab of horror that he’d been shouting. He immediately backtracks, forcibly lowering his voice as he tries, “Dickie…”
But Dick’s chin is trembling, his eyes filling with tears. “You don’t… you don’t want… don’t—don’t you trust me?”
No, that’s not— “Of course I do, chum, but—”
“Then why aren’t you letting me help you?!” Dick shrieks. “I’m supposed to be out there!”
The words seem to echo around the Batcave, and Bruce can’t breathe. He’s feeling too much, terror and pride and anger and love of a thousand flavors colliding, and for a split second it’s not a child standing across from him with his chest heaving but a teenager, jaw clenched and eyes flashing with fury and hurt.
Red-yellow-green and shadows left too empty, and somehow both Bruce and Dick know what’s meant to fill the space.
Dick takes a step back towards the stairs that lead up into the Manor, a choked sob forcing its way out of his chest, and Bruce can feel the way that something between them is about to snap—
Bruce lurches forward, falling to his knees and catching his son’s hand just as he turns to run. Dick jerks to a stop, staring at the ground as tears roll down his face.
“Dickie,” Bruce breathes, and he hates this, hates himself for making Dick cry, “look at me? Please?”
Dick sniffles. He looks up, and his chin is still trembling and tears are still rolling down his cheeks but his eyes shine with fire.
Bruce opens his mouth, but no words come, so instead he tugs his son a little closer. Some of Dick’s hair has fallen over his forehead, so Bruce brushes it back, his hand trailing to cup Dick’s face. Dick is still small enough that it feels like his entire head fits in Bruce’s hand, and Bruce starts gently wiping the tears away with his thumb. He raises his other hand and does the same on the other side, and Dick sniffles again, leaning into Bruce’s touch.
“I trust you, chum,” Bruce ends up saying, although the words come out barely louder than a whisper. “I promise. I just…”
Dick’s gaze is locked with his, blue eyes shining, and Bruce can just as easily visualize those eyes full of laughter or accusation or grief as he can visualize how Dick will look when he’s grown, sporting a gymnast’s build and hair long enough to let his waves show.
Bruce breathes out shakily. “It’s not safe. And I can’t—if you got hurt because of me, I…” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I can’t lose you, Dickie.” The echo of a gunshot flickers through his mind. “I don’t think I’d survive.”
He’d certainly never be able to forgive himself.
There’s quiet for a few moments. Silence except for the sounds of their breathing and the distant chittering of the bats.
Dick inhales. “B… I need to be out there. Not just because—because of Zucco, but because… people need my help. And I need to help people, just like I need to—need to watch your back.”
“That is not your responsibility,” Bruce interjects.
“Maybe,” Dick says quietly. “But I think—I think it’s who I am.”
Blue on black and a brilliant grin standing proud and tall at the head of a group, there and then gone in between blinks. Bruce searches Dick’s face and finds a certainty that turns the blue in his eyes into steel, his expression set in a way that’s achingly familiar.
“Please, Bruce,” Dick says, still quiet. “You’re not going to be able to stop me.”
Bruce bites back the urge to swear in despair. He sighs through his nose, deliberating.
“Okay,” he finally folds. “Okay. But you don’t get to go out until you get some actual training and armor first, alright?”
Dick lights up, and then he’s throwing his arms around Bruce’s neck. Bruce catches him and holds him close as he babbles, “Thank you thank you thank you—”
Bruce huffs. “Just… let me keep you as safe as I can, alright?” he murmurs into his ear.
Dick’s hold tightens. “...Okay.”
They stay there like that for a bit, clinging to each other. Then, Dick mumbles just loud enough for Bruce to hear, “Love you, B.”
A flood of warmth pushes away some of the icy fear. “I love you too, chum.”
~
Being Robin is amazing.
It did take a while for Dick to get trained up enough for B to be comfortable with him joining patrol, and Dick still isn’t allowed to patrol on more than the weekends since he’s got school, but Robin is well-known as Batman’s partner by now. Dick loves everything about it—he loves grappling between rooftops, and working on cases in the Batcave, and trying to make Batman laugh during stakeouts, and dropping down to distract criminals from doing muggings and assaults, and walking people home to make sure they’re safe. And he’s really good at it, too! If he doesn’t already just sort of know what to do or say or look for, then he learns it really fast.
This is what he was meant to do, Dick knows for sure. It wouldn’t feel so right—so much like coming home—otherwise.
Of course, not everybody agrees.
Commissioner Gordon is still gaping at Robin, who’s walking on his hands along the edge of the rooftop. Robin has to focus real hard on where he’s putting his hands so that he doesn’t start giggling—B says that they have to play nice with the Commish, and Robin is trying to do his best since the Commish seems really nice.
“Batman—what—” Commissioner Gordon sputters.
Batman grunts. He hasn’t moved at all since Robin had cartwheeled out from under his cape.
“That’s a child,” Commissioner Gordon finally manages.
“I’m Robin!” Robin introduces brightly, still upside down.
Commissioner Gordon’s voice gets higher. “Batman, tell me you haven’t been bringing a child along to beat up criminals like the rumors I’ve been ignoring say you are!”
Batman grunts again, this one translating to something like, what do you think?
“In B’s defense,” Robin says, flipping back onto his feet, “he did try to stop me. It didn’t work.”
The Commish makes a sound like a deflating balloon.
That night isn’t the last time that Commissioner Gordon tries to scold Batman for having a child crime-fighting partner, but he does it less and less as time goes on. Robin finds it funny that he finally stops almost completely after the time that Robin sits on B’s shoulders and eats a yogurt cup while B makes a report.
Criminals also aren’t ever happy to see Robin, but that’s because everyone learns real fast that where Robin is, Batman isn’t very far behind. And of course the opposite is true a lot of the time, too—Robin especially loves clinging to B under the Batcape in just the right way to not be easily seen, only to spring out to help take the bad guys down at the perfect moment.
It doesn’t take them too long to fall into this sort of rhythm—but then the rogues start popping up, and that changes the whole game. The Joker is the worst of them, the one that Dick and B both hate a lot and that Robin isn’t allowed anywhere near, but there’s also Poison Ivy and Penguin and Riddler and Clayface and Mad Hatter and so, so many others. After Joker, Dick thinks that Two-Face and Scarecrow are the worst, Two-Face because there’s something about him that makes Dick freeze up inside and Scarecrow because Fear Toxin absolutely sucks. B doesn’t really like Robin going out to help with them, either, but a lot of the time Batman needs the help, and Robin is good at what he does.
And then there’s Catwoman, and honestly, the less said there, the better. Although learning to pick locks and break into safes and display cases is really fun.
Dick loves almost everything about being Robin, and it’s probably because there’s so much to learn and do that it takes a couple years for him to really start feeling lonely.
The Manor has always felt empty. There really isn’t any way for it not to, what with how absolutely massive it is—there are nine wings, for pete’s sake—and only three people living in it. Dick knows that even Bruce thinks it’s empty, and Bruce grew up in it, not in a busy circus with dozens and dozens of people like Dick did.
At the beginning, Dick had thought that that was why Bruce bought random stuff so often—to try to fill up the space. But after a little while, Dick had started to notice… patterns isn’t really the right word, but it’s the closest one that Dick’s been able to think of. Everything that Bruce buys has someplace specific to go, even if “someplace specific” isn’t really anything more than in the theater room or in the library or in one of the various bedrooms in the family hallway.
It was really those last ones that helped Dick start to put things together.
There are certain things that Dick and Bruce don’t talk about. Things like how Dick has always been able to understand what Bruce means when he grunts, or how Dick sometimes uses moves that Bruce hasn’t taught him yet, or how Dick had understood Bruce’s meticulous filing system without needing it to be explained. Things like how Bruce had already had a bedroom set up in a way that was pretty much perfect for Dick before Haly’s Circus even got to Gotham, not to mention the whole gymnastics room and other things like the entire shelf full of boxes of the sugary American cereal that Dick loves or the random things all over the Manor patterned with Robin colors. Things like how it’s obvious that there’s something going on that isn’t exactly normal.
But in the same way that Dick knows that there’s something going on, he also knows that talking about it—trying to make sense of it—isn’t a good idea. Or, maybe feels is a better word than knows—because it feels wrong to try to point it all out. It’s not like they can do anything about it, all the bits of knowing and feeling and wanting that appear like muscle memory and slip away like dreams. It’s just… how things are for them.
And how things are includes the Manor feeling empty and quiet and lonely, the common areas and family bedrooms slowly filling up with things that nobody is using. Dick sometimes finds himself wandering around the building looking for people who aren’t there, checking the theater room or the game room as if all he has to do is stick his head in and he’ll find—
Someone.
Someones, plural, because there’s no way that the art studio and the dark room and the dance studio and all the new, untouched books in the library are all meant for the same person. Dick himself really only uses the gymnastics room often, and considering the lot of them along with the number of bedrooms that B randomly adds to—and that Dick has started adding to, almost absent-mindedly…
Suffice to say, even though Dick doesn’t talk about it, he has at least a general idea about what it is he’s looking for when he starts checking over his shoulder during patrol, why he feels so lonely whenever B is busy. The Manor is too big, and there’s too many empty rooftops and alleys to cover on patrol, and some part of Dick is already impatient to have those spaces filled. It’s the same part of him that recognizes the things that sometimes pop into his head like half-remembered dreams, flashes of mischievous smiles and firm hugs and bursting waves of pride and anger and love and hurt. All Dick can do is collect everything that doesn’t fade away and tuck it all away next to his heart like a dragon hoarding gold.
Dick knows, but he also doesn’t know, and B is half in denial about his own knowing. And unfortunately, they don’t know nearly enough to go looking for what they’re missing.
But Dick thinks that it’s only a matter of time before they find them anyway.
~
Being a street kid really, really sucks. There’s no getting around that, even if Jason seems to have a knack for finding the best places to bunker down at and the right people to wheedle supplies out of. Jason’s instincts are real good—good enough that he never lingers enough in one part of Crime Alley long enough for anyone but the working girls and guys to notice that they are. It wouldn’t do him much good for somebody to think that he’s meta or something stupid like that, after all. He’d get snatched for sure.
But still, somehow being good at being a street kid doesn’t keep it from being really, really sucky. Jason’s not dumb enough to get his head stuck in the clouds daydreaming, but that doesn’t stop him from wishing, especially on nights when it’s bitterly cold and Jason doesn’t dare fall asleep. He wishes that Mom hadn’t died, or even that Willis had gone to jail for good before he’d broken Mom’s collarbone and Mom had gotten hooked on the pain drugs. He wishes that he could live somewhere warm, somewhere with books and a soft bed and maybe a cool kitchen for him to try to make stuff in. Jason’s always wanted to try cooking.
It’s not unfamiliar, the wishing. Even though wishes don’t count worth nothin’, he’s always wished for something or another. He’s wished for a baby sibling, although that was mostly when he was littler. He’s wished that he could keep going to school, or actually check out books from the library. He’s wished—and still wishes—that Batman and Robin would actually do something to help Crime Alley, instead of abandoning it just like the rest of Gotham does.
He wishes that he didn’t still sorta idolize both of the vigilantes despite the fact that they’ve done nothing for him.
Jason catches glimpses of them every once in a while. Rooftops are useful places to hide, especially when there’s a rogue out and about, and the Bat and his Bird don’t completely avoid Crime Alley. Robin’s bright colors make him definitively eye-catching, but Jason’s never had any problem picking out Batman from the shadows, either, so he’s spotted them both making their way across buildings a number of times. Once he’d even seen Robin drop down into an alley to land on a creep who had cornered some poor lady—Jason had almost had a heart attack when Robin had gone over the edge of the building, but Robin had been fine, obviously. He hadn’t even needed to use those taser-sticks that people sometimes say he has, and soon enough he’d been grappling back up onto the building, where Batman had been watching like a proud mama bird. Robin had bounced and chittered, and Batman had grunted his approval, and then Robin had ducked under Batman’s cape only to reemerge with granola bars held high in triumph, to Batman’s fond exasperation.
It’d been… weird, watching all of that, because instead of finding it ridiculous or stupid or cute or anythin’ like that, it’d just seemed familiar. Familiar in a way that made the hole in Jason’s chest hurt just like it hurts whenever he thinks about Mom, except even worse, somehow. Like that makes any sense.
Jason ignores the feeling, of course, because what else is he supposed to do? He’s a street kid, and being a whole ten years old now doesn’t mean diddly-squat other than the fact that when he’d noticed that his birthday had passed it’d already been well into autumn. His life is already miserable enough without him actively tormenting himself, thanks.
So obviously, this means that Jason is absolutely thrilled when merely weeks later, Robin starts venturing into Crime Alley alone.
Ha. Yeah, no, absolutely not.
“What is that dickhead doing?” Jason hisses to himself as he clings to a fire escape. Out on the street, Robin is taking on seven gun-wielding goons with nothing but his fists and some birdarangs, the rooftops around him completely empty of a watchful Bat.
Robin makes it out of the fight alive but not unhurt, the viciously bright smile slipping off of his face as soon as the last guy is knocked out. As he carefully inspects the bullet graze on his arm, some part of Jason’s chest tightens—but the rest of Jason just wants to smack the idiot upside the head, because what did he think was gonna happen when he came into Crime Alley without backup? This isn’t his turf, which means there’s astronomically higher chances that he could get killed.
Of course, even being minorly shot isn’t enough to keep Robin from doing what he wants, so the idiot keeps coming back. Granted, his detours through the Alley—‘cause they really are detours from his regular patrol route, Jason can tell—are pretty brief, but the point is that he keeps doing it. And Jason has to rearrange his whole plan for hunkering down at places during the increasingly-freezing nights just so that he’s always somewhere along the Boy Idiot’s path, because apparently Jason can’t friggen sleep peacefully if he’s worrying about whether or not the dickhead is still alive.
And seriously, where’s the Bat?!
On vacation was apparently the answer. Or possibly injured. One of the two, anyway, because after a handful of weeks Batman starts showing up during Robin’s detours. They’re not always patrolling together, per se, but they’ll at least cross paths, and the Bat is always close enough nearby to swoop in to the rescue whenever his Bird needs it.
Jason doesn’t know what to think about the fact that he’s relieved and irritated by the development at the same time.
A handful of weeks pass like that, and then everything comes crashing down.
Sort of.
Okay, Jason might be being a touch dramatic. But in his defense, emotions are hard even when you’re not always worrying about possibly not waking up every time you fall asleep.
Jason has generally moved on to hunkering down in relatively warmer places—emphasis on relative—after Batman had shown back up, but he’s kept an eye out for Robin’s detours when he can. It’s pretty much habit now, and hey, it’s basically a risk-free hobby so long as Jason sticks to the rooftops. Considering his living situation, that’s basically emotional gold.
But apparently it was leprechaun’s gold, because it’s something that Jason notices while watching them make their way across buildings that tips the first domino.
The funny thing is, is that technically, Jason had noticed it before, the way that Robin sometimes glances over his shoulder as if looking for someone. But before, Batman had been conspicuously missing, so Jason had assumed that Robin just wasn’t used to flying solo yet. And that was a rational conclusion to make, right?
Except apparently, Jason was wrong. Because Batman is back, and Robin is still glancing at the shadows—and so is Batman. And not only do they both do it despite obviously knowing where the other is, but they do it while they’re right next to each other.
Which means that they’re looking for someone else.
And with that realization, Jason isn’t able to keep ignoring everything that he’s been stuffing into a box in the back corner of his mind for months now. The way he was able to pick up on the Dynamic Duo’s ever-shifting patrol routes so easily, his knee-jerk exasperation at Robin’s puns, the way something warm in his chest lights up whenever Batman does his little huff-laugh, and so many other things…
Jason can’t keep ignoring that somehow, he knows them.
Because if they’re looking for someone, then maybe they know him, too.
It’s a stupid idea. It’s a stupid, emotional, suicidal idea, the sort of thing that gets kids to let their guard down and end up trafficked, dead, both of the above, or even worse. Jason can’t afford to entertain daydreams or fantasies, especially not when he’s going on day four of not being able to properly feel his fingers.
But.
Fantasies and daydreams are supposed to be like perfect, wonderful things, right? Happily ever after and all that, or whatever. And this—whatever this is—isn’t entirely good. There’s hurt and anger and something that Jason can really only call stress aimed at the Dynamic Duo. Jason doesn’t really have context, just these sort of flickers here and there, like he’s half-remembering something. Listening to screaming matches. Having something taken away. Not being trusted.
Blood red and acid green.
But then there’s also regret, and sadness, and most of all hope. And all of it being mixed together at the same time is really confusing, but overall, it’s good and warm and safe and Jason wants to go—he wants his—Jason wants—
…Well, he wants to stop doubting his own sanity, for one.
Although, considering that he’s currently actively tracking down Robin, it might be a little bit too late for that one.
Jason is less than surprised to find Robin brawling with a bunch of goons in a back alley. Or, well, the goons are brawling; Robin is doing his flippy acrobatic shtick, rapid-firing quips with a brilliant smile.
Robin has whittled the group down to the last two when one of the goons behind him regains consciousness and reorients himself enough to go for his gun. Robin drops one of the two guys in front of him, but he hasn’t noticed gun-goon behind—
“ON YOUR SIX, DICKHEAD,” Jason hollers from the fire escape, and Robin backflips immediately, coming down hard on gun-goon’s arm before the guy can even aim. He then somehow manages to backroll onto his feet and then handspring back onto the last guy, like an absolute showoff.
Jason decides to ignore the newly-discovered fact that the snap of bones breaking doesn’t even make him flinch.
Robin zip-ties the goons and confiscates their weapons with a speed and ease that can only come from years of experience—but as soon as he’s done, he looks up at Jason, his smile turning more genuine. “You okay up there, kiddo?”
“Call me kiddo again and I’ll kick you in the balls,” Jason growls.
Robin stares for a second—he blinks under the white-out lenses, Jason’s pretty sure—before saying, “Noted.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m pretty sure that that building’s condemned, so could you come down?”
Jason squints suspiciously at the pile of goons. None of them look like they’re starting to stir, so he scrambles down the last few flights of fire escape and drops down off of the last platform. Robin squawks, lurching forward just in time to catch Jason, backpack and all.
“What was that?” Robin demands.
Jason rolls his eyes and squirms until he’s standing on the ground. “Like you weren’t going to catch me,” he scoffs, doing his best not to give away how his heart is racing, because Robin is right here and he’d just caught Jason and—
And what if Jason’s wrong?
Boy Idiot starts to say something, then abruptly course-corrects when he spots what Jason’s holding. “What’s that?”
Jason looks down at the tire iron, then back up at Robin. “It’s a lollipop,” he deadpans.
Robin huffs a laugh, but he’s looking more closely at Jason now, obviously cataloging his layered, ragged clothes, the grime that covers him from head to toe, and the way that his face is too thin. Jason’s face heats, but he just stares back resolutely. He’s survived, and he’s not gonna let anyone keep him from being proud of that.
There’s a growled, “Who’s this?”
Jason’s whirling with a yelp before he’s even registered what’s happening, swinging the tire iron as hard as he can at the massive guy that’s looming behind him. It connects solidly, making the guy double over, but Jason’s already scrambling backwards—
And right into Robin’s arms.
There’s a long moment of silence, during which Jason abruptly registers that the guy is Batman. He just hit Batman with a tire iron, and now Gotham’s terror is wheezing.
“...Holy hotdogs,” Robin says faintly. “Batman, are you—”
“You deserved that,” Jason interrupts.
Jason feels more than sees Robin look down at him sharply, but at the moment he cares more about the reaction of the man in front of them, who is currently… laughing?
Yeah, Batman’s laughing. And it’s not even his usual amused huff, but actual chuckles.
Surprisingly, Jason is proud of himself for that. Or maybe not so surprisingly, all things considered.
Batman slowly straightens, one arm wrapped around his torso. “I suppose that I did.”
“B?” Robin questions. He’s still got his arms wrapped around Jason like a backwards hug, although it’s a bit awkward thanks to Jason’s backpack. Normally, Jason would never let anyone grab him like that, but this is Robin, and Jason just feels safe.
It’s really friggen weird.
“I’m fine, Robin.” Batman hesitates, then corrects, “I’ll be fine, anyway.”
Robin relaxes, and when he speaks again he sounds amused. “Dang.” He squeezes Jason a bit. “How hard did you hit him, Little Wing?”
“How hard d’you think, Big Bird?” Jason fires back dryly.
They both freeze.
Then Jason’s being turned and scooped up, and next thing he knows he’s dangling from Robin’s grasp like a pet ferret. Robin is squinting, studying Jason’s face, and Jason almost can’t breathe, his heart is pounding so hard.
Slowly, Robin’s face splits into a grin—and then Jason’s being crushed against his chest as the idiot spins like a Disney princess, squealing.
Jason regrets everything.
“We found you!” Robin cheers.
“Put. Me. Down,” Jason wheezes into Robin’s armor. It ends up sounding more like “Pu. Ee. Dow,” not that it really matters because Robin either doesn’t hear it or purposefully ignores it.
“Robin,” Batman gently chides, “he needs to breathe.”
Robin stiffens, then drops Jason like he’s a hot potato. Thankfully, Jason manages to land and stay on his feet.
“Dickhead,” Jason wheezes as he catches his breath, shooting Robin a glare.
Robin giggles, high enough to border on the edge of hysterical, then cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I—yeah, sorry.” He takes a deep breath, and a sort of sobriety washes over him, his shoulders squaring. Jason blinks, suddenly remembering that oh yeah, this guy is technically a superhero. “It’s just nice to finally meet you. You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting.” Robin glances past Jason, then corrects, “How long we’ve been waiting.”
Oh, right.
Batman.
That confusing mix of hurt and hope, warmth and anger, trust and regret surges, and Jason has to brace himself before he turns. Unsurprisingly, Batman is still Batman—it’s not like that had a chance to change since Jason last looked at him—but this time Batman is looking back, and as far as Jason can tell, he’s stuck somewhere between pain and wonder.
For some reason, seeing that he’s hurting too makes Jason’s own hurt fade, letting hope and warmth get stronger.
“Hey, old man,” Jason says softly, the words themselves pulled from flickers and dreams. His voice catches like he’s about to start crying, which he is very much not about to do, not in some random alleyway.
Emotions are stupid.
When B speaks, it almost sounds like a prayer. “Jaylad.”
Jason doesn’t really mean to move, but next thing he knows his arms are thrown around B’s neck and B’s arms are wrapped securely around him. It’s not all that comfortable, what with the armor, but it’s familiar. And…
And it feels like a promise.
~
Jason takes to the Manor even better than Dick did, which Bruce hadn’t really thought was possible. Jason’s bedroom turns out to be the one that Bruce had been filling with books and various Wonder Woman merchandise, so Bruce isn’t at all surprised when Jason starts disappearing into the library to read with every chance he gets. Between Bruce and Dick, they’d reportedly managed to collect most of his favorite titles—and then some.
“We’ve got eight copies of Pride and Prejudice,” Jason ends up exclaiming in exasperation at breakfast one morning. “I mean, if you’re gonna have any book eight times over, it’s definitely a great choice, but c’mon. We need, like, three at max.”
Dick is delighted to finally have a little sibling, and it’s not long before the pair of them are getting each other into all sorts of trouble. Jason may be close to six years younger than Dick, but the boy’s got fire, spunk, and the determination to see even the most questionable dares through. Bruce finds himself pinching the bridge of his nose more and more often as he comes across the pair mid or post-disaster, and he’s already dreading the eventuality of them turning their mischievous little schemes on him.
Of course, not everything is smooth sailing. Despite their particular circumstances, it takes some time for Jason to lose his wary caution towards every good thing that comes his way, and there are small incidents here and there. The boys may have fallen into being brothers as easily as breathing, but that just means that they bicker and fight like brothers, too, and on occasion something small blows up into something big that results in slammed doors and cold shoulders. Things usually end up fine within a day or two, but there’d been one memorable span of five days when both boys had dutifully pretended that the other didn’t exist.
Things aren’t entirely easy on Bruce’s end, either. Many of his interactions with his younger son tends to trigger disproportionate emotions that can range from fond to nightmarish, and sometimes Jason ends up pinching him or kicking his shins in order to get him to stop “staring at me like an abandoned puppy, B, geez.” Other times it’s Jason who reacts disproportionately, blowing up at an innocuous comment or taking offense at an accidental slight. Jason seems to startle himself just as much as he does the rest of them with those, and once he’s cooled off he either wordlessly apologizes, usually by taking over some chores for the day or baking some sort of treat, or goes on about his day like nothing had happened, depending on who he believes had been in the wrong.
It’s tempestuous, to say the least, but as weeks turn into months and Jason truly settles in, things start to even out. Evenings are spent watching movies and playing board games together and with Bruce playing mediator as the boys squabble over homework questions, and weekends are full of outings into Gotham and training in the Batcave. It’ll be at least a year before Jason will be able to join them on the patrol, his body needing to recover from living on the streets just as much as it needs to learn how to fight, but Jason’s not letting that stop him from helping people. He’s thrown himself headfirst into helping with as much casework as he can with a grim determination that would be a little bit startling to see on a ten-year-old if it wasn’t so Jason. Jason cares for Gotham’s people—especially those of Crime Alley—so rawly and fiercely that he practically shines with it, and it’s that that drives his desire to hit the streets with them, not any sense of purpose or duty.
Bruce is already so proud of him. Him and Dick both.
Bruce silently thanks whatever force that’s bringing his family together as he presses a kiss to Jason’s curls. His boys are fast asleep, Dick sprawled on his front across the couch with his head in Bruce’s lap and Jason curled up tight against Bruce’s shoulder. They’re in the sound-proofed and windowless theater room, the projector long since shut off—it’s the only place in the Manor where the crashing of thunder can’t reach them.
For whatever reasons, Bruce’s boys generally don’t sleep well during thunderstorms.
Dick shifts a bit, mumbling something indecipherable. He doesn’t seem distressed, so Bruce keeps lightly running his hand up and down his back and tries not to let his mind wander to the bedrooms that still don’t have occupants.
Hopefully they won’t have to wait another seven years to meet the next member of their family.