Jason wakes up to the smell of blueberry pancakes, an accented voice singing in the kitchen and the ugliest blanket that he's ever seen on his chest.

"Dick?" He groans because of course, it's Dick.

Dick pops his head out of the kitchen and grins at Jason, as wide and empty as ever, "Hey, Jaybird," he says easily, as though this weren't the first time in months that they've seen each other. "I've got blueberry pancakes."

He doesn't add your favourite, doesn't ask, want to stay and eat? Because that would be too presumptuous, too hopeful, leaving a perfect opening for disappointment.

Jason yawns and, just to keep Dick on his toes, says lightly, "Sure. Whatever."

Dick tries to hide the way that he lights up, but he's never been so good at hiding his emotions as he says, "I'll get you a plate."

The manor still screams Bruce, just bare touches of Dick showing that he's taken over during Bruce's absence. "Nothing's changed," Jason notes, and something crumbles in Dick's face as he glances around and shrugs as though to say, is that so?

"Tim's still searching for Bruce," Dick says carefully, neutrally, setting a plate on the coffee table in front of Jason. There's something tense, coiled in his shoulders like he wants to run, and Jason almost wishes that he would. But no, Dick could never run, never leave when duty calls and he must go and be the perfect Golden Boy, serving everyone and trying to be everything to everyone despite the fact that in this business, you can hardly be anything to anyone, let along everyone.

"And we both know that Tim's off his rocker," Jason snorts, and Dick just sort of shrugs as though to say, can't argue with that.

"I trust Tim," Dick says.

"You trust me, too," Jason sniffs the pancake before taking a bite, "I can't just take your word for these kinds of things."

There's that familiar stubborn set to Dick's jaw, jutted out and unmovable, "You are trustworthy."

"I could try to kill you twenty different ways, Dicky, and you wouldn't give up on me." Jason taps a finger against his chin, "Oh, what's that, I have tried and you still trust me?" It's not fair to Dick, the mocking way that Jason speaks, the drawl of his words, but these things are never quite fair.

"You always came through for me," Dick shrugs, and Jason would laugh if it weren't for the fact that Dick earnestly believes it.

"I'm never there for you," Jason sneers, and Dick shakes his head.

"I don't need you to be," his voice is so cold at that moment, so like Bruce, that Jason can't help but be reminded who he's talking to. The original Robin, the first of them all, the one who started at the age of nine and paved out a path that nobody could follow.

"Right," Jason scoffs. It stings, just a bit, the reminder of how broken this attempt at a family has become, "You've got the demon brat."

Dick's eyes lock onto Jason's, "Don't call him that," his voice is sharp, serious, and then it fades into a forced smile, "I'm going to get more pancakes."

"You're so scary," Jason calls mockingly into the kitchen.

He thinks that he might hear Dick swear back.

Dick sends him little packages sometimes, which is irritating because every time that Jason receives a parcel on his doorstep he has to go through a process of seeing whether it's a care package from his annoying older brother or a bomb sent by the Joker.

"Anne of Green Gables, really, Dick?"

Dick keeps his face carefully neutral as he flips into a handstand, "If I recall correctly, your old copy burnt up in the explosion a few months ago."

Jason can't bite out a scathing answer, can't mock Dick, not when he knows the thought (and money) that went into buying Jason a limited edition copy. "You need to stop sending me apples, I have way too many."

Dick doesn't say, I thought you loved apples, but it shows in the hesitancy that he has before he flips out of his handstand. "Oranges, then?" He asks, very pointedly avoiding Jason's eyes.

"No, I mean," Jason runs his fingers through his hair, and throws Dick a bone, "Apples are my favourite. I keep eating them and forgetting to eat breakfast, is all. It's unhealthy."

A smirk tugs at the edges of Dick's lips, "Too much fruit. Never thought I'd hear the day that you said you had too many apples."

Jason runs a finger against his lower lips, "You're sending me enough for me to have three a day."

Something slips into Dick's features, somewhat surprised, "I never know when I can send you another care package," He shrugs, "Got to make sure you've got enough to last a while."

Jason studies Dick's face, "You're not dying, are you?"

"What? No. Of course not," Dick shrugs, "But then again, we're all dying, aren't we? We've all got time bombs strapped to our chests. Yours has already gone off."

His voice doesn't hold any of Jason's bitterness, not of Damian's callousness or Tim's skittish paranoia. It's pure experience, voice carefully light to keep up Dick's facade of being well adjusted.

Jason snorts, "You say that as though it's normal."

Dick hums, "I'll hold off on the apples," He says, "Maybe just send you the packages once a week?"

Jason groans and buries his face in his hands, "I don't need care packages. I'm not some fresh-faced eighteen-year-old kid."

Dick shrugs, "Do you like John Green? I like John Green. Turtles All the Way Down was really good."

Jason swears at Dick and holds up his middle finger.

"I'll take that as a yes," Dick kisses Jason on the cheek because he's an asshole, "You know, it's strawberry season. You like strawberries, right?"

Jason leans against the doorframe. Rolls his neck, raises an eyebrow. "A police officer, Dickie? And here I was, thinking that you'd run away and join a circus."

"Why would I do that?" Dick's voice is wistful as he runs through a series of flips.

Show off.

"It's where you belong," Jason watches Dick with something akin to envy, "You've always loved that. Showing off with your fancy tricks and flips."

It's a bit too honest, too earnest, and Jason can tell that Dick knows this by the look that Dick shoots him, curious and a tad guilty. "Police work seemed to call me," it's a painful attempt at brushing Jason off, one that neither of them is buying.

"Bullshit," Jason crosses his arms over his chest, "This is you and your fucked up moral obligations again, isn't it?"

"First of all," Dick's voice is mild. He sounds so much like Bruce that it makes Jason want to hit him, "It's not fucked up. It's perfectly normal morals."

"No shit," Jason snorts, "Because everyone goes off and becomes a super vigilante to defend an entire city form psychos."

Dick raises an eyebrow, "You do that, too, and you don't see me judging you."

"Fuck off, Dickie."

Dick holds up his hands, "Just saying."

"Well, don't," Dick stops flipping and runs a hand through his hair, "Are you going to go and be an English professor now?"

"I'm legally dead," Jason snarks, "Can't exactly get a Ph.D. like this, now, can I?"

"I know that you're studying your Undergrad," Dick drinks some of his water, "Double major in... let's see... English and the Classics, right?"

"Roman history," Jason watches Dick for a reaction, but there is none. "You already knew that, though, didn't you?"

Dick shrugs, infuriating, just like Bruce had been, "My memory's not as good as it used to be." His words are measured. Familiar. And not in a good way.

"You're a real bat now, aren't you?" Jason asks bitterly, eyes boring holes into Dick's face.

"If all goes right on Tim's end," Dick returns the stare, burning eyes and downturned lips, "Then I won't have to be the Bat for much longer."

He's tense. Has been this entire conversation. And Jason knows that Dick, for some reason, trusts him implicitly, so that means...

"Christ," Jason swears, "What happened to you?"

Dick just sort of laughs, a little hopelessly, and shakes his head. "Tell me about gladiators," he says instead of answering.

And Jason wants to push. Wants to poke and prod and break through Dick's flimsy smile, but that's not what he does. That's what Dick does, what he's teaching Damian to do, so Jason leaves it, "They didn't actually die that often, you know," He takes a step closer, and watches Dick consciously unwind a bit, "It's a myth. They were expensive to train, and..."

"Never knew that you wanted to be an astronaut," Dick gingerly steps over the mounds of books on astrophysics in Jason's safe house, "What's with all the books on rocket science?"

Jason glances up, quick, distracted. "Caught the good end of a lecture at the University," he shrugged, "Sounded cool."

"I see," Dick offers a pale, wry smile, "Think you'll ever do something with that big brain of yours?"

"Can't," Jason shrugs, "I'm dead, remember?"

Dick's smile widens because he's a freak that smiles when he's uncomfortable. "We both know that you could whip up some identity in no time, Mr. Jason Grayson."

Jason ducks his head down, trying to force the heat in his cheeks away with sheer willpower.

Dick grins, clearly catching sight of Jason's red cheeks. Lucky bastard never has the problem, skin too dark to redden. "No matter. It's easier for you to stay on Earth anyway, easier to track you."

"Gee, thanks," Jason rolls his eyes, "That really makes me want to stay on Earth."

"You know it, Jaybird," Something in Dick's face softens as he sits down next to Jason, "Teach me something?"

Jason stares at his book, at the graphs and numbers, letters floating on the page, disconnected for a split second before he sighs, "Don't you have better things to do?"

"Than be with my little brother?" Dick nudges Jason's shoulders, "What could I possibly do that's better than this?"

"Literally anything in the world," Jason snarks, and Dick shakes his head, rolls his eyes. Displeased, "Okay, fine," Jason sighs, "I've been sneaking into the Intro to Astro classes at the university. You can come next time. But I ain't explaining shit to you."

"Language," Dick doesn't say anything confirming or declining Jason's offer. He knows far better than to do that, especially in their line of work.

"Fuck off," Jason says, and Dick laughs.

Dick goes off the grid after Damian's death.

Just straight up vanishes for a month or so, not so much as a word goodbye. He attends Damian's funeral, and after that, he's gone. Bruce makes no attempt to find him, and Tim is depriving himself of too much sleep to be anywhere near efficient.

"He's your son," Tim says, "And you're just going to leave this alone?"

"He would want me to," Bruce says, eyes closed.

Jason wonders if he's talking about Damian or Dick.

Jason thinks about trying to find him, but he knows he won't be able to, and if he does, it'll be because Dick wants to be found.

He doesn't know grief, not this kind, but he understands it just a bit, so he leaves it.

"I'm too close to him," Babs shrugs when Jason asks her about it, "He knows all my tricks, so he can avoid all of my attempts to find him."

"You're the best, though," Tim says, sounding resigned.

Jason blows out the smoke from his cigarette, slow and steady. It floats up in front of his eyes and then vanishes.

Babs frowns disapprovingly at the smoke, and then eyes Tim, "Not when it comes to Dick," she says quietly.

"Then who is the best?" Tim asks, something almost desperate in his voice.

Babs stares at Jason's cigarette as he drops it and grounds it beneath his heel.

Her silence is enough.

"Oh," Tim says, sharp and soft and grieving.

Jason walks away, ash on the floor and his cigarette ground up.

Tim picks it up, shoulders sagging.

Cass is like Bruce. She leaves it alone.

"I cannot help," Cass says simply, and Jason trusts her, because Cass is a marvel at human nature, and besides, she and Dick were never quite close anyway.

"Dick?" Stephanie echoes when Jason mentions it over smoothies, "He never talked to me much anyway."

Jason doesn't press, he can't, not when he sees the pile of photos of Stephanie and Damian carefully (oh so carefully, so unlike Steph that it's heartbreaking) piled up in a gold and jade case (far too expensive for Stephanie to buy herself, but green was the color of the Al Ghuls, and Talia always said that gold retained its value).

Around two months after Damian's death, Jason gets a little blue box in his current safehouse.

Inside is a chocolate protein shake, a piece of rock (folded with a bright blue sticky note reading I climbed Mount KMJ! and a smiley face) and a brand new copy of Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe.

Jason thumbs through the novel, searching for any hints of anything, but Dick has kept it clean, just the way that Jason likes it.

He almost wishes there was a little scribble in the corner saying something like see you soon.

(But he knows, in this business, promises are like a plate made of China. They practically beg to be broken. So, really, he should be glad that there is no promise.)

When Damian returns, Dick smothers him.

"Tt," Damian clicks his tongue, "You better not have done anything stupid while I was gone."

Dick laughs and ruffles Damian's hair.

There's something know and sharp in Damian's eyes, and Jason thinks that perhaps that's part of why he doesn't resist when Dick hugs him.

Jason doesn't mention the period where Dick vanished. Nobody does.

A week or so later, Dick and Damian show up in the Intro to Astro class.

"Hey, Jaybird," Dick slings an arm around Jason's shoulders, "How's life?"

"Well, there's this bastard who has his arm around my shoulders, see," Jason answers casually, "And I'm wondering if I ought to shoot him or not."

Dick laughs.

"I'm wondering if I should slit your throat or not," Damian hisses, and Jason rolls his eyes.

"I'll take your threat seriously when you can reach my throat, short stack."

"You insolent..."

"Dami, Dami," Dick rubs Damian's head, "It's fine. Jason's just joking."

Damian crosses his arms over his chest, "That's ridiculous."

Something in Jason's chest aches when Dick smiles, bright and ridiculously happy.

He hasn't seen that smile in a long time, he thinks, not since before Dick had been Batman and Damian his Robin.

He doesn't quite remember how it happens, but it's the third night in a row that Jason's slept in the manor and he's worried that this will become an issue.

There's the smell of blueberry pancakes and when he turns his head, there's a platter of blueberry pancakes on the coffee table. The stack looks like it's taller than Damian.

Jason closes his eyes.

Opens them.

The stack is ridiculously tall.

"This is defying the laws of physics," he mumbles, rolling off the couch.

Slams into the floor.

Ow.

"You opened up your stitches again," A voice sighs, tongue clicking against teeth.

"Maybe he'll actually die this time," Another voice answers. Laughs a bit.

"Maybe you'll die, tater tots," Jason mumbles into the carpet because lame insults are his attempt at dignity.

"Jason," Dick sighs, and Jason rolls onto his back.

"Ow," Jason says.

Blond hair fills his vision, and Stephanie sighs, "I made blueberry pancakes. Batman the Second said that you liked those."

Jason squints at her. Sideglances Dick. "She seriously calls you that?"

"She rotates," Tim stretches his arms above his head. They make a gross popping sound. "I heard her call him Flippy once."

"It's my way of showing affection," Stephanie says, unnecessarily so, because out of all the Bats, her way of showing affection is by far the most obvious.

Tim kisses her cheek, groggily, and says, "Can I get more coffee?"

"No," Dick says at the same time that Damian mutters, "Disgusting," in the most childish voice that Jason has heard him use thus far.

"Pancakes?" Stephanie asks hopefully.

Jason stares at her. Stares at the other boys.

"Is this a Robin meeting or something?" He asks.

"No," Tim shakes his head at the same time that Dick giggles, "Yes."

Jason runs a hand over his face.

Sighs.

"Do you have any syrup?"

"Oh my god," Stephanie watches Jason eat with an expression somewhere between fascinated horror and flat-out disgust, "I did not think that such a syrup to pancake ration was humanly edible."

"He likes syrup," Dick sighs, far too used to Jason's tendencies to say anything against it.

Jason stuffs his face, too busy eating to argue.

He pauses. Swallows. Turns to Stephanie.

"Fight me," he deadpans, before turning back to eat.

Damian looks like he wants to, but is unsure of how to do so. "Your files don't say that you have any health issues," he mumbles. "But Grayson says that this is common..."

He looks so confused that Jason almost laughs. (Almost, but he doesn't because he is eating.)

Tim, the mess of a human that he is, doesn't even bother gaping. He taps away at his laptop, trying to figure out his most recent case as he holds a Hawaiian pizza halfway to his mouth as though he were about to eat it but forgot about how bodily functions worked.

Jason tries to remember how he came from Red Hood, terror of the underworld, to this.