A few people have asked me if Dickie is from the YJ or the TT universe, so I thought I'd just clear that up once and for all: I know that I alluded to the YJ show in my original comment, but I quickly decided that I didn't want to box myself in by basing Dickie off of one source. So Dickie is a mixture of shows, comics, and personal headcanons- which is why he may not hold up to every characteristic.

(Though everyone please continue to interpret his character however you want)

The universe he is currently in, however, is supposed to be based off of comics, (with some tweaks) so Grayson was a part of the Teen Titans, and Tim was the one that helped form Young Justice before they reformed Teen Titans 2.0.

I am so sorry for the long wait you guys, I went on some medication months and months ago to help with my disassociation and that has made it pretty difficult to write. I'm working on it. But! As something of an apology to you guys, this chapter is a whopping 20,000 words. So you have fun with that. ;)

Chapter 6

Finding the Pieces

Dickie's Perspective-

Dick can't take his eyes off the window as he and Bruce drive through Gotham.

He's seen snippets of this world's Gotham, the skyline of tall buildings and the luminous glow coming from the city at night- he's even spotted the Bat-signal a few times. But Dick hasn't gotten an up-close and personal look until now.

Just like Bruce and Alfred, this Gotham is almost identical to Dick's own, with a few minor changes.

The fourteen-year-old can't help but take it all in, the new skyscrapers and rebuilt schools, the Thomas/Martha Wayne Clinics and Homeless Shelters located around the city.

There seem to be a lot of Wayne funded projects and buildings set up in Gotham. Which makes sense, Dick's own Bruce had been working on cleaning up and the reconstruction of Gotham back when Dick first moved in with the man.

But he hadn't gotten this far.

"Man, Bruce," Dick breathes, chuckling over his words as they pass a Wayne donated park- the banner with his name still hanging over the fence. "You've got your fingers in all the pies, don't ya?"

Bruce gives the teenager a side-eye as he continues driving. "I am a well-known philanthropist," he says, and it's deadpan, but Dick can hear the joke hidden underneath his tone. "Though both Tim and Dick have their own projects around Gotham."

Dick hums, nodding as he turns back to the window.

It's still weird to hear Bruce call someone else 'Dick' and not be referring to him, a little jarring in a way. It will probably feel the same when Dick's out in the field and Damian will be using the name 'Robin'. That's jarring too, but for different reasons.

Dick twists the strap of his backpack between his fingers, fiddling with the bag in his lap as Bruce takes another turn. He feels jittery and excited, not only will he be away from the Manor for more than a few hours, (the longest he's been from home in months) but he's going to be hanging out with Jason too.

It feels just so, so normal.

Going to a friend's house for a sleepover to chill for a couple of days. The circumstances are a bit odd Dick will admit, he doesn't know a lot about Jason, and Dick it technically Jason's little brother- which yeah, weirdness.

But Dick thinks it'll be fun, and he's hoping that he can learn more about Jason as a person. The way the others tiptoe around Jason sometimes or the way Bruce looks at him when Jason isn't paying attention- something's happened between the family and Jason, and no one's let anything slip to Dick over the past three months.

Which is driving the detective in Dick crazy.

It's not like Dick's going to go snooping through Jason's house or bombard him with questions or anything, Dick's just hoping that he'll learn something over the next few days.

Bruce takes another right turn, merging with traffic. He's going a longer route to get to Jason's side of town, they're also driving a nondescript car with tinted windows. Because while Bruce insisted on driving Dick to Jason's, that doesn't mean he's going to take any chances.

Dick doesn't mind the longer drive like he normally would though. It just means he gets to take in more of Gotham, alive and bustling with people, looking cleaner than the teenager remembers, with the sun glinting off of high windows, a beautiful July day in the city.

It's when they pass the Gotham Zoo that the fourteen-year-old perks up, it's been relocated to a bigger lot, much larger than the dinky one Dick remembers visiting as a kid, and one side is still under construction.

"They finally revamped the Zoo, huh?" Dick comments, still reading off the large flags with different animal facts printed on them. "It's about time."

Bruce hums in agreement but doesn't say anything, his eyes still on the road ahead of them as they circle around to the front gates of the Zoo, clearly visible even from the car.

It's then that Dick sees the name, in huge golden letters- 'Zitka Zoo'.

Dick's pretty sure he bodily jumps in his seat, blue eyes wide and blinking in shock as Dick twists around in his seat to read the name over and over again until he can no longer see it from the moving car.

"…Bruce," the teenager chokes out the word as he turns back around to gawk at his father figure. "Did that…did that say 'Zitka Zoo'?"

It takes Bruce a moment to answer, purposefully elusive, anything but nonchalant. "It was renamed once ownership changed," he says, still not looking at Dick.

Dick has to actively force his mouth closed, straightening in his seat as something stunned and elated expands in his chest, squeezing around his lungs and making it hard to breathe. "Who owns it?" he asks, already knowing the answer, wanting to hear it said out loud anyway.

"Haly's Circus was looking to place some of their older animals," Bruce says, his blue eyes sliding over for an instant to take in Dick's reaction. "I needed a place to store said animals, they obviously couldn't live on the Manor grounds."

He says it in a tone that indicates there was no decision making, like Bruce had always intended to take Zitka once she was too old to perform- and Dick wonders if maybe Bruce had always planned that. If he had kept the idea in the back of his mind for years, waiting until he could make his move, only to surprise the Elder Dick later.

Dick wonders if his own Bruce had been planning the same thing.

He knows it might be stupid, might be counterproductive in the grand scheme of things- but he hopes so. Dick hopes that his own Bruce had loved him as much as this Bruce clearly loves Grayson.

"Gotham Zoo was run down and too small, however," Bruce goes on, not-oblivious to Dick's internal shrieking- because he's Batman and he sees everything- but going on, nonetheless. "So, I bought it out as a gift to Richard and he co-runs it now."

Dick stares, gaping at the glove-compartment in front of him and most definitely looking stupid while doing it, but not caring whatsoever- as he tries to make his mouth form something coherent for a few spectacular moments.

"You bought him a Zoo," Dick restates slowly, because his mind is spinning, and he needs a minute to soak this in. "So he could keep Zitka?"

"She's living comfortably in a large habitat with a few other elephants," Bruce opts to say, "Richard is one of her caretakers, so he's there periodically, Damian tags along from time to time."

Dick has no words, he sits there taking it all in- Zitka, his childhood elephant, who he has memories of riding and playing with, helping to feed and bathe, falling asleep in her train-car after they were both happily exhausted from performing- now lives in Gotham.

"Once we figure out your public aliases, I'm sure Richard will be happy to take you to see Zitka," Bruce finishes softy, like he knows that Dick's brain has exploded, his right hand coming up to engulf the teenager's left shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

The rest of the car ride is spent in a compatible silence, one where Dick pulls his mind back together and tries to shove down his excitement at this news, and Bruce's hand stays on his shoulder for longer than what is strictly necessary.

They finally pull into a rundown neighborhood, it's located in one of the outside boroughs, not too far from Crime Alley (where Dick knows Tim lives, even if he's never been to the other boy's apartment) though there are a few refurbished buildings that stand out against the rest.

There's an apartment complex that looks newly fixed up, a large soup kitchen with the Wayne Seal on the outside, and another free clinic on the corner, though this one says 'Catherine Todd Clinic' instead of Thomas/Martha, which gives Dick pause for a moment.

But then Dick thinks of Bruce buying out a zoo so his oldest could keep his elephant, thinks of Tim's personalized chair down in the Batcave with a Red Robin insignia stitched onto the back, thinks of Damian and his pet cow at the Manor, thinks of Stephanie and her housekey even if she isn't technically one of Bruce's kids- and it just makes sense.

Dick wonders if Jason had been involved in the design of the clinic, or if it had been a surprise from Bruce.

Dick doesn't ask though, because he gets the feeling that the clinic, along with so many other things, is just another detail of the mystery tension between Jason and Bruce.

Three blocks over from the clinic and Bruce finally pulls up to the curb, setting the parking-brake before he glances over to Dick, angling his body toward the teenager.

Dick sits up straighter in his seat and cocks his head to the side a little, trying to look attentive, because he knows when he and Bruce are about to have a Discussion.

"I don't anticipate you needing this," B starts, and then he pulls a phone out from the inside pocket of his jacket and passes it over to Dick. "But I want you to have a way to contact Alfred or myself," he goes on. "The other kids are already programmed into the phone, and Richard has told me to tell you not to hesitate to call him."

Dick rubs his thumb over the phone, blinking down at it for a moment. He wonders when Bruce had shifted to calling the Elder Dick, 'Richard'- Dick must have let something on his face show when the man referred to Dick's older counterpart as 'Dick' earlier, Bruce wouldn't have switched otherwise.

It takes Dick a second to answer, his eyes scanning over his contacts, both Clark and Diana are in there, he wonders if those numbers are strictly just for emergencies. "Thanks," the fourteen-year-old says, looking up from the phone. "Once I get his number I'll be able to prank call Wally."

Bruce still has his 'Discussion Face' on, it's very close to his 'Thoughtful Face', but with less furrowed eyebrow and more clenched jaw. "Jason will bring you back to the Manor on Thursday when he stops by for the weekly med check. But I'd like for you to check in before then, Alfred has had you on a strict diet up until now and I know he'll want to hear from you."

Dick can't hold back his knowing smile as he says, "yeah, I'm sure 'Alfred' will be worried," a teasing quality dripping off his words.

Bruce's jaw jumps in a way that most people wouldn't notice, or in a way they would probably misinterpret as a slight tic. But Dick knows what a begrudging smile looks like on Bruce.

"We shouldn't keep Jason waiting," Bruce says, gesturing across the street with a slight jerk of his chin.

Dick glances over his shoulder, finding Jason standing out on the sidewalk, hands stuffed into the front pocket of his maroon hoodie. He hadn't been there a second ago.

"Right," the fourteen-year-old says, stuffing his new phone into the outside pocket of his backpack as he undoes his seatbelt. "Oh," he mutters after a beat, "do you have the charger or…?"

"Second pocket of your backpack," Bruce supplies.

Dick smirks, raising an eyebrow at the man, "sneaky," he comments.

Dick's hand is half-way wrapped around the door handle, poised to pull, when he lets go and leans over to give Bruce a quick hug. He's prepared to pull away after only a second, but then the man's large hand comes up to rest in Dick's hair, cupping the back of the teenager's head.

When they lean apart Bruce lowly says, "have fun." Continuing as Dick opens up the passenger door, "try not to drive Jason too crazy."

Dick scoffs, feigning offense as he slides out of the car. "I'll have you know, I am a delight to have around." He gives a wink as he shuts the door, throwing his backpack over one of his shoulders as he spins around to face Jason.

"Don't ya know it's rude to keep someone waitin'," Jason says once Dick has crossed the street.

Dick shrugs, his backpack thumping against his ribs. "Well I mean, you didn't have to greet me out on the street."

Jason scoffs as he turns around, leading the way into his apartment building. "And take the risk of the Boss Man comin' up to my place with ya?" he says, "no thanks."

Dick hums something noncommunal as he follows Jason, discreetly glancing over his shoulder as Bruce pulls away from the curb.

It shouldn't have been this easy, talking Bruce into letting Dick stay with Jason, but here he is. Dick turns back around, smiling to himself as the doors shut behind him.

"Let me give ya the grand tour of the place," Jason says as the two of them enter his apartment, kicking the door shut behind himself. "That's the livingroom," Jason points a finger in one direction.

"Amazing," Dick says.

"That's the kitchen," Jason jabs a thumb in the opposite direction.

"Fantastic," Dick comments, feeling a wry smile wiggling its way onto his lips.

"And there's a bathroom and two bedrooms somewhere over there," Jason finishes, gesturing to the lone hallway with an indication of his chin. He toes off his shoes and walks a few feet, flopping unceremoniously onto his couch.

"Cool," Dick chirps, following Jason's lead and slipping off his sneakers before he plops himself next to the older, letting his backpack slide to the floor with a dull 'thump'.

"The rules are simple." Jason brings up his fingers as if to count them off. "No wakin' up b'fore 10:00am."

"Obviously," Dick agrees, smiling but trying to hide it, pressing his lips together firmly as he fiddles with the zipper of his jacket.

Jason puts up a second finger, but he's using his thumb and middle finger. It's completely ridiculous.

Dick does his best not to laugh, it's a losing battle.

"If ya eat my leftovers you will be stabbed, this is non-negotiable," Jason says, pointing his middle finger at Dick like a gun, squinting at the younger.

Dick nods, swallowing down his laughter and trying for seriousness, "of course," he complies, eyeing the finger-gun pointed at his nose.

A third finger now, Jason's pinky joins in, making his hand a misshapen claw. "You can read whatever you want, but if ya move my bookmark I will drop you in the ocean."

Dick hums, "a punishment that fits the crime."

"And lastly," Jason elongates the word, drawing it out as if this last rule is something big and daunting. "No shoes on the couch."

Dick can't bite back the smile anymore. "Doable," he agrees.

"Alright kid," Jason says, stretching out his arms above his head and plopping his feet on the coffee table in front of him, "you got free rein then."

The first hour or so is spent sort of lazily, which is fine with Dick.

He snoops around Jason's house a little- but does it technically count as snooping if Jason was fully aware that Dick was snooping around in the first place?

Probably not.

Jason's kitchen is on the small side, with an island in the middle, two mismatched barstools pushed up against it, a substitute for an actual table. There's an expensive tea-set on his counter that Dick asks about, (a present from Alfred) and a little cactus that was apparently a housewarming gift from Tim.

The livingroom is connected to the kitchen, which has the one blueish-gray couch and reddish-brown chair that seems to be second hand, and a wooden coffee table in the middle. The space gives a lived-in vibe, with the way the furniture is worn and how it smells faintly of old books and something spicy.

But Dick can tell by the dust that coats the bookshelves, the walls left bare, the food in the cupboards expired, the space undecorated- that Jason doesn't live here full time.

It leaves Dick feeling curious, leaves him with more questions than it does answers.

But Dick doesn't broach the subject, not yet, because he has bigger things to ask and he's waiting for his opportunity. Patience isn't something that is ingrained into Dick, but it is something that he has cultivated over the years.

Dick's sitting on the carpeted floor and fiddling with his new phone, Jason sprawled out on the couch behind him and reading, when the older asks, "he just give ya that?" without looking up from his novel.

Dick glances up from where he had been personalizing his ringtones, one earbud hanging out so he can hear Jason. "Uh, yeah," the teenager nods, "I think Alfred programmed it though, 'cause everyone's contacts are with their full names."

Jason makes a considering noise as he turns another page of his book, there's a long second of stillness between them before he speaks up again, "he bugged it y'know."

Dick snorts, amused despite himself. "Yeah I know," he says, and it feels so odd to share this with someone, for someone else to understand Bruce's overprotective tendencies.

"Just in the interest of full disclosure," Jason goes on. "Probably bugged some of y'r clothes too," he says, almost an afterthought.

Dick purses his lips, considering for a moment. "What's the weirdest place you ever found one of his trackers?" the teenager asks, thinking up a few of his own. "One time I found a bug in my sunglasses."

Jason twists around on the couch, his book splayed across his stomach. "How'd you find that?" he asks, sounding incredulous.

Dick shrug, "I dropped'em," he says, "when one of the lenses popped out it fell out too."

Jason looks considering for an instant, eyebrows furrowed in thought. "In the bridge?" he asks.

The fourteen-year-old nods, "yeah, he drilled a little hole and slipped it inside, then covered it back over with the lens."

"The hell," Jason breathes.

"Yeah," Dick agrees.

It takes a minute, but Jason does eventually speak back up. "I don't know what the weirdest place would be," he mummers, "but we had this game goin' for a while." The way he speaks is almost wistful, his voice on the edge of a laugh. "I found a tracker sewn into the hood of one of my jackets," Jason starts.

Dick can't help but think of the first time he noticed a bug sewn into his school uniform, his fingers finding it by pure mistake. He had checked the other seams on the rest of his clothing, finding multiple more and not understanding why. As a ten-year-old, only having been Robin a little over a year and living with Bruce no more than two, Dick hadn't known if the tracers meant Bruce didn't trust him.

As the years went on though, Dick learned that Bruce shows his love in strange ways and bugging his loved one's clothing in case of emergency is just one of those ways.

Being raised by The Batman is an experience, to say the least.

"And I dunno," Jason continues, gaze still fixated on the ceiling. "I thought it'd be funny to slip it into one of B's jackets- wanted to see how long it took him ta notice. But I wanted to know if the same bug ended up back in my stuff, so I put a tiny bit of superglue on it, so I could tell."

Dick nods even if Jason isn't looking at him, his phone forgotten in his lap.

"It was 'bout a week later that I noticed it hidden in one'a my lamps," Jason breathes out a chuckle, "I almost forgot, but when I saw it was the same one it was Game On."

"It got pretty ridiculous," Jason says, and he's shaking his head a little, book sliding down his stomach before he catches it one-handed and shuts it with a 'snap'. "We kept tryin' ta top each other. I think it was after I stuck it in Bruce's ty that I found the freakin' thing in my shampoo bottle."

Dick laughs, feeling something delighted and warm spreading through his limbs as he pictures a younger Jason and Bruce sneaking into each other's rooms, planting the bug in the strangest places they could think of.

"How long did it last?" Dick asks, rocking forward a little as he presses down on his crossed knees.

Jason waves an arm over his head, "months," he intones, "at least three. Probably closer to four."

"Who won?"

"I…" Jason stops, his eyebrows scrunching up. "I don't actually know," he says, "I think one of us must'a hidden it too well and the other didn't find it." He lets out a heavy sigh, his tone shifting back to something more normal, Dick finds it oddly disappointing. "We must'a forgotten about it."

It stays silent for a long minute, long enough that Dick wonders what it was like for Jason when Bruce first took him in.

Dick wants to know- he wants to know how Jason did with the fundraisers with fake smiles and too much perfume. He wants to know if Jason also had trouble adjusting to private school. He wants to know what it was like for Jason those first few times he went out as Robin- if he felt that same elation that Dick did, that same sense of purpose.

But instead, Dick says, "I bet it's still hidden somewhere."

Jason glances over at the younger, not speaking for a few seconds before he replies, a little distant, "yeah…maybe."

Dick's laying on the floor, basking in a pool of yellow sunlight that's seeped through Jason's balcony window and trying his best not to fall asleep- when Jason's phone goes off and the older rolls off the couch and stalks into the kitchen.

"Alfred says I gotta feed ya," he calls, opening up a cupboard and setting something down on the counter with a clatter.

Dick stretches out on the carpet, closing his eyes and soaking in a little more of the heat before he sits up. Fingering some tangles out of his hair as he walks into the kitchen, plopping himself onto a barstool a moment later.

"I can just have cereal or something," the teenager says, propping his chin up with a hand, elbow on the counter.

Jason glares at him from over his shoulder, both arms poised to grab ingredients. "Cereal is not a meal," he says.

Dick shrugs, "says Alfred."

Jason scoffs, "says everyone."

Dick squints at the older, taking him in for a moment before he says, "oh my god, you're a food snob!" Feigning incredulousness. "You're a Foodie," he stage-whispers, widening his eyes in mock-horror.

Jason rolls his eyes, "I'm not a Foodie, I'm just not a Neanderthal."

Dick leans forward on the island, "has Alfred taught you his food making ways?" he asks, hushed.

Jason throws a stirring spoon at him, Dick catches it on instinct.

"What are we havin'?" the fourteen-year-old asks, tossing the spoon back to Jason.

"Puttanesca," the older answers, grabbing a pot and setting it on his stove.

"Sounds fancy," Dick says, "we should just do takeout." He's only partially serious, he mostly suggests it to get a reaction out of Jason- which it does.

"Y're as bad as the Golden Boy," Jason says, he rolls his eyes again, but somehow his whole body seems to exude the gesture. "C'mere," he says a moment later, waving Dick over.

Dick hops off the chair, bouncing over to Jason.

"The rest of the Bats are culinary delinquents," Jason tells the younger as Dick stands next to him. "Don't follow in their footsteps."

Dick smirks, whispers, "culinary delinquents."

Jason smacks him on the back of the head as he says, "hand me the capers, Imma show ya how to make something other than cereal."

Turns out puttanesca is basically spiced up spaghetti.

It's pretty good, even if Dick did manage to overcook the noodles.

The hands wrapped around his throat press down harder and Dick splutters and scrabbles against them, wheezing for breath and kicking out with all his power.

The alien's claws are digging into Dick's neck, biting into sensitive skin and making Dick's ears pop. He can't reach the Invader, even as it looms over him, so the teenager does his best to attack the alien's arms, trying with all his might to get its backward-facing joints to buckle under his fists.

But Dick's strength is waning, his vision spotting with black clusters. He can't seem to hear anything but his own terrified heartbeat, pounding so hard Dick thinks he might've choked on his own pulse if he wasn't already being strangled.

The Invader presses down further, taking delight in the boy's helpless struggling, Dick feels his eyes roll back in his head with the added pressure.

He scratches at the floor, searching for something, anything, that he might be able to use as a weapon, but there's nothing and he's running out of oxygen. It's all Dick can do to-

Dick jerks awake, a half-formed sob spilling from his lips as he blindly strikes out. He overbalances as he jolts upright, getting tangled in something that he can't see through the darkness and his tears.

Dick glances around for something familiar, looking for the collage of posters taped to his walls, or the Zombie comics Wally lent him, the stack of half-finished schoolwork on his desk, or the ticket stubs from the latest Play he and Bruce went to.

But nothing is where it's supposed to be, and Dick has a startling realization.

He has no idea where he is.

It leaves the fourteen-year-old dizzy with the makings of a panic attack. Disoriented and heart pounding as he struggles to untangle himself from a nest of foreign blankets. Gasping for breath as Dick tries desperately to remember why he isn't in the Manor.

For a sickening moment, Dick can't distinguish which memories are fake and which are real, what is past and what is present, and in that moment it's all Dick can do to keep breathing.

When Dick finally does register where he is, it's so abrupt it's almost startling.

He isn't on his world.

He's safe.

He's not being hunted by the Invaders.

He's safe.

He's in a new reality.

He's safe.

He's staying with Jason.

He's Safe.

He's fine, nothing's wrong.

He's Safe.

. . . Dick doesn't feel safe.

The teenager's trembling body needs a few minutes to catch up with his mind, his legs coming up to his chest as he presses a shaking hand to his face and just breathes.

Jason's guest bedroom is much smaller than Dick's bedroom back at the Manor. There are fewer shadows to fill up the space, not as many places to hide, and Dick's eyes wrack over every hidden spot he can think of as he sits half-curled in bed, trying to regulate his breathing.

His counting method is a little beyond him right now, not that Dick really thinks it would help matters much anyway.

He hasn't had that intense of a nightmare in a while, and it hasn't been this hard to come back to the present in even longer. But Dick can't seem to calm himself down, can't quite pull his unraveling thoughts back in.

Maybe it's the change of setting, the fact that Dick has hardly left the Manor in months, and suddenly, he's in a new place, sleeping in a different bed, half a city away from Bruce, and his body's first reaction to changing locations is to revert back to old instincts.

Dick sits shivering in bed, limbs locked and hardly blinking, his mind spinning and his mouth still tasting of blood- when the abrupt need to get out of this room becomes so pressing Dick thinks he might be choking on the sensation of it.

Dick's movements are jerky and stilted as he crawls off the mattress, tripping over twisted sheets as he pulls away from the bed and to the door. The teenager shuts it hastily behind himself, backing down the hallway and taking large gulping breaths of air as he tries to calm himself down.

The fourteen-year-olds in the middle of rubbing a hand up and down the wall, in search of a light switch, when the overhead lights in the kitchen unexpectedly flick themselves on.

Dick jumps in surprise, twisting around to find Jason leaned up against one of the counters, his arms loosely crossed over his chest as he quirks an eyebrow at Dick.

"Hey," Jason greets, voice low, because it's the middle of the night, a time for soft whispers and hushed words.

"I…" Dick feels off-kilter, unbalanced, he hadn't expected Jason to be awake. "Did I . . . wake you?" the younger asks after a moment, moving toward the kitchen and into the yellow light.

"Nah," Jason says, waving a hand dismissively. "Only got home a bit ago." Jason's hair is still damp from a patrol in the rain or a recent shower. He's wearing clean sweats and an easy expression, not looking sleep rumpled like Dick must- he probably hasn't been home long.

"Y'want some tea?" Jason asks, filling up the silence that Dick hadn't meant to leave floating empty. "Mine's not as good as Alfie's but it's not bad either," Jason goes on, pulling down two mugs before Dick can reply, setting them next to a kettle already heating on the stove.

Dick nods numbly, feeling cold even in his sweatshirt and oversized pajama pants. The teenager stumbles the three steps it takes to place himself against one of the corners of the low cupboards and wills himself not to sink to the floor.

Jason's doing a very convincing job of making it seem like he isn't watching Dick, but Dick knows he's taking it all in. Every little twitch Dick can't seem to taper down, all the stupid catches in his breathing he can't control.

And Jason definitely sees Dick's full-body flinch when the teakettle lets out a high-pitched whistle, all but banging his elbow on the countertop.

Jason pulls the kettle off the stove to let it steep for a minute, saying, "my mom had one of these when I was growing up." Dick makes himself go still, listening. "I always hated how loud it would get," Jason pauses, "still do."

He leaves it at that, but Dick understands.

Understands that certain things are worth the reminders, things that didn't use to matter or things that felt so insignificant before, they become irreplaceable treasures.

The quiet drifts between them for maybe longer than it should, but Dick doesn't know how to break it. He doesn't usually have trouble with his words- normally he has a surplus, a witty retort or a pun always lining the inside of his mouth -but Dick's words seem to have all dried up for now, leaving his tongue chalky, his throat too tight.

Dick goes to bite his lip, hissing out a breath when his teeth graze over a cut. The fourteen-year-old brings shaky fingers up to his mouth, probing at it gently. He had thought the taste of blood was just remnants leftover from his nightmare, he must have bitten the scabbed over gash in his sleep, making it open again.

"Here," Jason says, snapping Dick out of his thoughts. He grabs a paper towel, wetting it in the sink before handing it to the younger.

"Thanks," Dick says as he dabs at the cut, discreetly exploring the area with his tongue. He's made it worse, reopening the scab from Damian and adding a new tear to the inside of his lip.

"How'd you get that anyway?" Jason asks as he pours the tea, snatching a bottle of honey from a nearby cabinet a second later. "Honey good?" he interrupts himself, raising an eyebrow in question as he half-turns to Dick.

Dick nods, paper towel still pressed firmly to his lip. He takes a moment before he answers the first question, watching as Jason stirs the steaming tea. "Damian and I," Dick falters, brings one arm up to his chest, hugging it around himself. "We had a…thing."

Jason makes a noise in the back of his throat, half a scoff, half a snort. "Don't take it personally," he says, "it's how the bat-brat shows affection. If he tries ta stab ya, that's when you know he truly respects ya."

Dick blows out a raspberry as he balls up the paper towel and throws it into the trash. "Well I doubt that'll be a problem then," he mutters as he turns back around.

Jason hands Dick his cup of tea without a word, withdrawing to the stove to grab his own a second later. He takes a lengthy sip from his Wonder Woman mug, and when Dick thinks he's about to move out of the dinky kitchen, Jason sinks to the floor instead. Sitting against a row of drawers and drinking his tea like this is nothing out of the ordinary.

Dick blinks down at the man in a stuttering sort of bewilderment for a moment, and then he sags to the floor too, grateful that they are hunkering down in the kitchen, and not knowing why he feels that way.

Dick folds his knees up, balancing his hot cup on top of them, and tracing the tips of his fingers over the Batgirl symbol painted on the front. It feels better to be hidden behind the cabinets, to have something solid at his back and under his feet. It makes Dick feel a little more balanced, like he'll no longer fall over under the slightest bit of pressure.

For a while, they both just sip at their tea in a comfortable silence. The warmth of it helps Dick to feel more human, to thaw out his limbs and loosen his tongue. It's when the tremors in his hands have receded into small jitters, when his cup is most of the way empty, that Jason speaks up again.

"It gets easier, after a while," he says.

When Dick looks up at him in question, Jason elaborates, "the nightmares. The more time that passes the easier they are ta deal with."

Dick glances down at his mug, running a finger along the damp rim, he doesn't have the energy for eye-contact right now. "Yeah?" he asks, faintly disbelieving, voice soft.

Jason shifts, stretching one leg out and wrapping his hands around the other, setting his cup down on the floor next to himself. "They don't go away," he admits, "I don't…I don't think they ever go away. But they stop havin' sucha hold. Get easier ta brush off."

Dick rests his cheek on top of his left knee, hugging his legs to his chest as he lifts his eyes back up to Jason.

For once Jason actually looks his age.

He looks like the twenty-year-old that he is supposed to be. Sitting here with Dick on the kitchen floor, baring his feelings to Dick in an unexpected bout of seriousness. Allowing himself to be more on Dick's level than what he'd normally tolerate.

And maybe that is why Dick finds the courage to ask.

Maybe it has nothing to do with the fact that it is the middle of the night when it is far too easy to reveal secrets. Maybe it has nothing to do with the fact that both of their walls have been knocked down and Dick is seeing a new side of Jason. Maybe it has nothing to do with the fact that Jason has given Dick some pure pieces of honesty and he thinks he might be able to ask for one more.

Maybe it's just because in this moment, Jason looks as worn and tired as Dick feels.

Whatever the reason, Dick finally asks the question that has been burning up inside of him ever since he saw that display case. "What happened to you?"

Jason drops his other leg to the floor, holding his breath in that way he does sometimes, balling his hands into fists on top of his thighs as he scans Dick, seeming to think things over.

It's a long moment of silence, of decision, of debate. But then, all the tension abruptly drains out of Jason's body.

He lets out a sigh through his nose, his hands unclenching from their white-knuckled hold, fingers flexing over his knees as he glances up to the ceiling, finding his words.

"I died," he says, and it's as if all the air has been sucked out of the room, leaving Dick to asphyxiate. "When I was Robin," Jason goes on, eyes a little glazed, one hand wrapping around his opposite wrist and squeezing. "I was fifteen, and stupid, and…" he pauses, blows out a breath, "…and I died," he repeats, voice reverent.

"Still not sure what happened exactly," Jason says, swallows. He's still not looking at Dick, doesn't seem to be looking at anything really. "Talia al Ghul got ahold of me somehow. I ended up in a Lazarus Pit." He makes a soft scoffing noise that sounds like it aches. "There's some lost time 'n between, stuff that'll probably never make sense."

He stops there, and Dick is left reeling in the aftershock that this reveal has caused. His chest is throbbing, his heart and lungs trying to reacclimate after being sucker punched with nothing more than harsh recollections and somber words.

'Jason Todd – A Good Soldier.'

The last piece of the puzzle fits itself in, painting a picture that Dick had not anticipated, a truly horrifying kind of clarity.

There is always that possibility that any mission could be their last, that a minor slip up could cost them their lives, that someday someone will get the upper hand, and no one will be there to save them.

It's the price-tag for the kind of lives they lead.

Dick has known for years that he probably won't make it to old age- not if he continues doing Hero Work, and that's something he can't live without. -And later on, when the Invaders came, Dick had to come to terms with the fact that he wouldn't even make it to adulthood.

But it's one thing to know it could happen, and a complete other to actually have it happen.

It hurts to think about, there's an overwhelming ache in Dick's chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to swallow. His voice is hoarse when he asks, "who?"

It's only after he's muttered his question that Dick thinks he might need to elaborate, but Jason already knows what he's asking. "Joker," he answers, and Dick feels gutted.

It makes so much sense; the mournful glances Bruce sends Jason when the younger man isn't looking. The way the other kids sometimes tiptoe around Jason. The monument dedicated to Jason down in the Cave.

Dick knows what it feels like to lose your partner while on the job, he knows that pain intimately. It burrows inside of you, makes a home in your chest, ripping at your insides until there's nothing left but pain, pain, pain, pain.

Dick knows how much that hurts.

And he knows it would have destroyed Bruce.

So how in the world did it not?

The silence stretches on again, but this time it isn't filled up with warm tea and sweet honey, it's weighed down by heavy truths and sad realities.

Dick swallows past the lump in his throat and looks Jason in the eye, he can't imagine what it must have been like, to wake up from the dead, for the last thing you remembered being your own murder.

There isn't anything for Dick to say, there are no comforting words or any amount of promises that can make these horrible things better. That's how it is sometimes, sometimes you just have to take the traumas and terrors with you and move on in spite of them.

Dick thinks of the taste of black ash and the feel of acid rain, he thinks of scorched earth under his feet and fallen cities surrounding him, he thinks of a deafening explosion and the feeling of being wrapped in an oversized cape- and he says the one thing he'd want said to him, "I'm sorry that happened to you."

Jason looks at Dick with a strange kind of intensity for a long moment, frozen with Dick's words still suspended in the air, eyes far away. But then his features soften out and he replies, voice just above a whisper, "yeah, me too."

The next morning Dick wakes up to the sound of Jason rummaging through the kitchen. He had accidentally fallen asleep on the couch, the two of them having migrated to the livingroom after their talk last night. Watching old reruns until the sun was peeking up over the horizon, rays of light stretching across the apartment to paint it in a soft early-morning pink.

Dick doesn't remember falling asleep, doesn't remember when he acquired a blanket either.

The teenager laces his fingers through the kitted-holes of the blanket, stuffing his nose into it, humming a note to himself as he stretches his legs across the couch. Dick feels sleep soft and drowsy, he's fine to continue dozing lazily- until Jason walks over and promptly sits on Dick's back.

The fourteen-year-old groans into the couch, Jason wiggles his butt in response, pretending to get comfortable. "Mornin'," he says, voice too chipper, mouth full.

Dick turns his head out of the cushion before he yawns, saying "g'morning," in a sleepy mumble, and then, slightly raspier, "y're heavy."

Jason flicks him on the forehead, Dick tries to bat his hand away, but his movements are uncoordinated, limbs still waking up. "Rude," Jason scoffs, "and ta think I was gonna even let ya outta the house."

Dick perks up, or he would have, if Jason wasn't crushing him. "I take it back," he wheezes, "you're light as a feather, a 200-pound feather."

At that, Jason shimmies back, getting himself situated between Dick and the back of the couch before he abruptly shoves Dick off the side.

Dick falls to the floor with an 'oof', and then he just continues laying there, boneless, nose smooshed into the carpet, limbs sprawled out at odd angles.

"That was uncalled for," he says, voice muffled against the floor. The fourteen-year-old jabs a finger into the top of Jason's foot in retaliation, easily finding a pressure point.

Jason yanks it away, poking the back of Dick's head none-too-gently, using the toes of said foot. "Was tired of you monopolizing my couch," he says.

Dick flips over onto his back, "that's fair," he concedes as he rubs a hand over his eyes, dragging it back to get his bangs out of his face. "What time is it?" he asks.

"Late," Jason says around a bite of cereal, "even for a Bat."

Dick sits up to look at the clock on the stove, it's almost two in the afternoon, Alfred would be appalled. "Whoops," he says, not even trying to sound remorseful.

"Get dressed, eat, whatever else," Jason says airily, flicking on the TV, turning to a News Station. "We're goin' out when y're ready."

Dick feels a burst of excitement just at the prospect, he can't help the slight bounce he gives as he rolls to his feet. "Where are we goin'?"

Jason shrugs, taking another bite, "no idea."

Jason's Perspective-

Jason isn't made to comfort, he wasn't built for it.

Or maybe he was for a time, but the world made sure to wipe the sentiment out of him before it could become a permanent fixture to his person.

What that evidently means, is that when Jason came home from a mundane patrol, having just gotten out of the shower, and heard something like a half-choked sob come from his guest bedroom- Jason was left floundering in uncharted waters.

He would be begrudged to admit he faltered in the hallway, hand poised to open the bedroom door, knowing he needed to probably do something, but not knowing what that something was.

Jason wasn't soft, he wasn't the person that could, or should comfort a traumatized kid after a nightmare. He didn't know how to deal with other people's ghosts, he was still in the lengthy process of figuring out how to deal with his own.

So, in that moment it was the easiest thing to fall back on old habits.

Jason may not know instinctually what to do in this situation, but he still remembers the protocols.

Those nights when things were harder to deal with, when the nightmares were too much, when a patrol went sideways. That's when Alfred was there, a cup of tea or hot chocolate (depending on the level of needed comfort) at the ready. Always a listening ear and reassuring words to go along with it.

So Jason did what he knew how, he backed away from the door that Dickie lay behind, and made his way to the kitchen, starting a pot of tea and figuring out his next step.

Jason thinks he did an okay job overall, sitting with the kid until he passed out on the couch.

"Safety first," Jason says sarcastically, tossing the spare helmet at the kid before he slides onto his bike, starting the engine and waiting for Dickie's arms to wrap around his torso before taking off.

Jason hadn't planned on a day out, but he knows what happens when you're left to your thoughts after a night like that. Distraction is key, having something to do, to keep your mind and body occupied.

Normally that would mean throwing on a mask and finding some trouble, or at least it would for Jason. But that isn't exactly an Alfred approved coping mechanism, even if it is the family's own personal form of therapy.

So, for now, Jason just drives.

Dickie whoops from behind him, Jason thinks he might've fist-pumped if they weren't taking such a sharp turn. The delight in the kid's voice makes Jason smirk to himself, he revs the engine in response, going faster.

They end up down by the harbor, where a large Market Place is bustling full of random shops and too many people.

It isn't exactly Jason's scene, but the kid's eyes light up when he hops off the bike, he stumbles a little, having to wiggle the numb feeling out of his legs- a side-effect of a long motorcycle ride.

He does an exaggerated little dance to shake the feeling off, Jason rolls his eyes at the younger and walks away.

Dickie weaves around the other Gothamites with a wistful expression that doesn't belong on such a young face. He takes everything in, the people and the shops, the colors and sounds and smells, he seems to soak it into the pores of his skin.

Jason doesn't know what else he was expecting.

He's seen the reports, seen the footage, seen the data- he knows what Dickie's been through, they all do. It's part of why they've all been handling him with kiddie-gloves, making sure the kids able to adjust without having a psychological breakdown.

But it's one thing to know what Dickie's been through, and a completely other to see it reflected in such young eyes.

So Jason lets himself be dragged around, doesn't say anything when Dickie wanders aimlessly, doesn't protest when he lingers, doesn't gripe when the kid pauses and just watches, the only complaining Jason does is in a way Dickie will know is teasing.

The kid ends up buying a basket of exotic teas for Alfred, smiling crookedly up at Jason as he stuffs the cash back into his pocket. (Jason doesn't bother telling him that he bought that same set for Alfred a few months back)

When it looks like it's getting to be too much for Dickie, Jason makes up some excuse about being too hot in the sun- even though it's actually pretty pleasant with the breeze coming off the waterfront -and drags Dickie back to his bike so they can grab something to eat.

Jason doesn't really think about where he's driving, just heads in a direction, letting his subconscious do the steering. When they end up at Jason's favorite burger joint it isn't really a surprise.

They slide into a booth on the far end, the place isn't busy, it never is. Jason thinks that's part of the charm, that this place doesn't get a lot of new customers, but you'll end up on a first name basis with everyone who does regularly come here, it's how it stayed in business so long.

Dickie glances around, taking in the old style black and white floors and the roundabout counter, the jukebox in the corner and the specials handwritten on the chalkboard.

"I don't think I've ever been here before," he says, eyes still scanning over the place.

Jason snorts, leaning further back in the booth. "Not surprising, I didn't figure you and Brucie hung aroun' this side of town all that often."

Dickie smirks, eyes twinkling, "not during the daytime," he says, and then he has the audacity to wink at Jason.

Sometimes the kid will do things that Jason wouldn't have ever expected, take a left when Jason's brain swears he would take a right. Jason isn't sure if that is because he had never known Dick Grayson at this age, or maybe Dickie has been changed enough by his experiences that Jason isn't going to be able to predict his every move.

But other times, like right now, he is so very Dick Grayson.

To the point that, sometimes that's all Jason can see.

Maggie is on shift tonight, she comes over with a pen and paper, platinum blonde hair up in a bun, lipstick an odd plum color. "Hey Pete," she greets, "what can I get f'r ya?"

Jason grins at the waitress, "a number five for me," he gestures at Dickie with his chin, "number three for him, and fries for the table."

Maggie jots that down, nods, "comin' right up," she says, flashing a grin and walking away, heels 'click-clacking' against the linoleum floor.

When she's out of hearing range Dickie squints at Jason, asks, "Pete?"

Jason shrugs, "my middle name," he says, and then in a low tone, "I'm a dead man walkin', kid, that means a new ID."

Dickie opens his mouth, shuts it, runs his tongue over the cut on his lip, takes a moment before he says, slightly raspy, "right."

Jason changes the subject, he might be fine with the whole Zombie Thing, but that's still soaking in for Dickie. "This is me and Tim's place," he says, glancing around like he doesn't have the layout memorized. "We usually have lunch on Wednesday, but the kid's outta town this week."

Dickie perks up, looking back to the rest of the place like this new piece of information has brought the stingy restaurant into a new light. He smiles at Jason, happy for no reason. "You come here every week?"

Jason shakes his head, "nah, we like ta change it up sometimes. But no other place can compete with the burgers here."

Maggie comes back with their food when Jason's in the middle of telling Dickie about the first time Tim tried a burger from here- after a rough few days of chasing leads and turning up empty-handed. How Tim had looked haggard and worn, so Jason broke into his place, forced the kid out of his nest and threw some real food at him. How Tim's eyes had gotten big and sort of glassy before he had demanded to know where Jason had gotten the food from.

Conversation veers off after that, to nonimportant things, and it's easy, maybe too easy to talk to Dickie, to let some of his walls down and just be Jason with him- not the Red Hood, not the Outcast of the family, not the Dead Robin, just Jason.

So when their burgers are finished and most the fries are gone, when it's dark outside and they're the only people left in the restaurant, Jason doesn't even think about it when he orders them two large milkshakes.

Stephanie's Perspective-

Something they don't teach you when you jump into the hero biz is that it is built on gossip, it is a constant mill of scandal, the latest goings on and the craziest thing to have happened lately.

Or maybe that's just the Bat-clan.

(Stephanie isn't a big enough hero to associate with the League or Titans other than when the world has gone to utter garbage and they feel the need to call in every vigilant from all corners of the Earth.)

So maybe the rest of the Superhero Community is a little more considerate of other people's privacy, Stephanie doesn't know.

The Bats, however, thrive on knowing all the ins and outs of other people's business. That could be a side-effect of hanging out with too many detectives who pride themselves on being perceptive know-it-alls, or, Stephanie guesses, it could just be a side-effect of knowing Bruce Wayne.

Whatever the reason, in their 'family' you're not going to be able to keep up if you aren't willing to step over insignificant things such as personal boundaries.

It's a two-edged sword, which is why Stephanie does her best to still distance herself from the other Bats and their usual melodramatic brand of drama.

Unfortunately, it's pretty hard to stay in the metaphoric dark when you're friends with Barbara Gordon.

Red Hood had apparently mentioned to Oracle that he was gonna be gone most the day today, and that would leave Dickie alone in the tiny apartment for a large chunk of the day.

Barbara, in turn, mentioned it to Stephanie.

And that's how Stephanie has found herself outside of Jason Todd's apartment, standing here like an idiot and waiting for Babs to break through all of the Hood's security before Stephanie can even think of knocking on the door- because they are anything but normal and this is Stephanie's life.

There is an almost inaudible 'beep' and then a few clicks and Stephanie is good to go, which makes this sound like she's on a drug bust, not about to barge into a sort-of friend's apartment with surprise takeout.

Stephanie sighs, trying not to roll her eyes at herself.

She gives a warning knock and then lets herself in, calling out, "don't punch me, I'm friendly," as she lets the door shut behind her.

Dickie sounds surprised as he asks, "Stephanie?" from the next room, and then, "is that how people walk into rooms now? No greeting, just a request to no bodily harm."

Stephanie snorts as she rounds the corner, "it is when you walk in uninvit-" she cuts off as Dickie comes into view. He's sat cross-legged on Jason's small kitchen island, a mess of scattered half folded papers surrounding him, a newspaper hat on top of his head.

He smiles cheekily at Stephanie as she says, "wow, you needed me more than I thought."

Dickie laughs, making a few pieces of colorful paper flutter to the floor. "Yeah, you didn't catch me at my best moment."

Stephanie painstakingly steps around all the little pieces of paper on the ground, taking care not to crush any of them as she sets the pepperoni pizza down on the opposite counter.

She stoops to the floor, picking up a little origami bat from the growing pile and examining it for a long silent moment. There has to be close to a hundred of them, all different colors and sizes, Stephanie sets the one in her hand by Dickie's socked foot.

Another bewildered moment passes before Stephanie asks, "why?"

Dickie smiles, all teeth, it looks a tad manic. "So Jason had to work today," he explains, to which Stephanie nods. "And before he left, he threw some paper and markers at me and said I was too old for daycare, but I could still do Arts n Crafts."

He sounds utterly offended as he repeats the words, Stephanie does her best not to laugh.

"So," Dickie starts, folding the wing to a bright blue bat. "I'm doing Arts n Crafts," he says, "and when I'm done Jason'll have origami bats comin' out his wazoo."

Stephanie can't help it, she cackles. "That is beautiful," she says.

Dickie nods, grinning, "revenge usually is."

Stephanie pulls up a stool, grabs a dark purple sheet of paper (eggplant) as something of an inside joke with herself and asks, "can you teach me?"

Dickie's eyes light up, he shifts on the island, making room for Steph to work without actually getting off the counter. "Sure," he says happily, "it's pretty easy."

For the next few minutes, Dickie shows Stephanie where to fold, helping her as he demonstrates with his own yellow piece of paper. And then, when she has it down, he absolutely beams at her, that bright Dick Grayson smile that usually leaves Stephanie warm inside.

She hadn't expected to feel that same warmth when this younger Dick Grayson directed that smile at her, but Stephanie isn't sure why she thought it would be any different. This Dick Grayson might not be the one Stephanie has come to know, but he is still Dick Grayson, and some things, like age or realities, can't change the fundamental parts of a person.

Tim has always called Dick their own personal sunshine, Stephanie wonders how things will work, now that they have two.

"Now that I've recruited an extra pair of hands," Dickie says, chuckling under his breath, "this'll go by so much quicker." He grabs the scissors, starts making smaller pieces of paper. "Do you think you'll be here long enough to help me hide'em?" he asks.

Stephanie grins at the younger boy, "I got nowhere to be," she says, and Dickie whoops.

"Awesome," he says, "aaand you brought pizza," he goes on, jumping off the counter and somehow navigating through the cluttered floor with ease, he grabs two plates and passes one to Stephanie, asks, mouth full, "work while we eat?"

Steph nods, taking a bite herself, "more efficient that way," she agrees.

Dickie pulls up the other stool, dragging it across from Stephanie so they have more counter space. "That's what I was thinkin'."

It's another ten minutes of idle chatter and paper folding before Stephanie asks, "so do you know how to make anything other than bats?"

Dickie glances up from his absurdly tiny paper-bat and gives a shrug, his lips twitching upward. "I know how to make a bunch of animals, actually," he says, listing some off. "Just thought this would be funnier."

Stephanie nods, adds another bat to her own growing pile, asks, "so it was a hobby or something?"

Dickie laughs, shakes his head, explains, "when I first became Robin, Bruce had me learn to help with my dexterity," he pauses, wiggles his fingers at Stephanie. "Nine-year-olds have clumsy fingers. It taught me precision." He pauses, scrunches his nose at Stephanie, "B never had any of you do that?"

Stephanie shrugs, "none of us were young enough when we met up with Bruce to need it," she says, amending after a moment, "well, except for Older You."

Dickie goes to bite his lip, stops himself before he can mess with the cut there. "I wonder if he learned," he ponders aloud, looking down at their collection of origami bats with something thoughtful in his eyes.

Stephanie hums at him in agreement but lets the subject drop.

It's a little bit later, when most the pizza is gone and there are so many paper-bats on the kitchen floor they've started spilling into the livingroom, that Stephanie says, "maybe we should hide this batch before we make anymore."

She isn't sure how many Dickie wants to make, but there has to be somewhere near three hundred here. They've gotten pretty efficient, Stephanie now making teeny ones as well, saving their paper and better for hiding.

Dickie glances at the clock behind him, makes a considering noise. "Yeah," he agrees, "good idea. Once these are all hidden we'll know how many more we need."

Stephanie stands, grinning. "I wish we had tape or string," she says, grabbing a medium sized bat and placing it in the butter drawer of the refrigerator. "That'd open up a lot more possibilities."

When she turns back to Dickie he's standing on the stool with a gleam in his eye, fishing wire and scotch tape held in his hands as he crackles, this time it sounds devious. "Well would you look at that," he says, "great minds do think alike."

Dickie's Perspective-

Jason's in the middle of getting ready for patrol, lacing up his combat boots and checking his guns (rubber bullets, Dick had asked) when Dick says, "think I could tag along?" going for nonchalant and doing a moderately good job of it.

Jason gives him a look, raises an eyebrow as he gets up from the couch and walks back to his bedroom. "Y're still on my list, kid," he says as Dick trails him down the hallway. "Don't think I forgot."

Dick sits on Jason's unmade bed, kicking at tangled mismatched sheets as he grins, saying, "you told me to do Arts n Crafts, I did Arts n Crafts."

Jason grabs his helmet from the inside of his closet and pulls a little red bat out of it, (Stephanie's doing, not Dick's) before he scrunches it up and throws it at the fourteen-year-olds forehead, saying, "watch yourself," somewhat threateningly.

Dick smirks before he grounds himself, standing to show his seriousness, doing his best not to fidget as he looks up at Jason. "You're not doing anything big tonight, right?" he says, "just a normal patrol. All I'd need is a domino-mask."

Jason pauses, his helmet held half-away over his head. "You're serious?" he asks, incredulous. "You haven't even gone out with The Bat yet. No way in hell he'd approve of me takin' you out."

"He wouldn't have to know," Dick tries.

Jason scoffs, loudly, pointedly.

"Okay, so he'll know," Dick relents, "but I'll take the blame."

Jason slips on his helmet, fully Red Hood now, but it isn't like when Bruce pulls on the cowl, he's still Jason underneath, with the way he crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head at Dick. "You know that's not how things work."

Dick sighs heavily, glancing out the bedroom window toward the city-lights as he takes a moment before he speaks.

He's burning up inside, it's a nagging, wiggling feeling that itches under his skin, one that Dick can't seem to scratch anymore. He'd been able to alleviate it somewhat with an advanced acrobatic routine or a light sparring match, but that's not enough anymore.

Dick wants to fly.

The fourteen-year-old turns back to Jason, gesturing dejectedly at the window and then to himself. "It's just…it's been such a long time, Jason."

Hood doesn't say anything for a solid minute, it's long enough that Dick wishes he didn't have his helmet on, he wants to see what Jason is thinking, but all he has is the blank expression of an emotionless mask.

And then Jason breaks the silence with a hissed, "damnit," before he turns back to his closet and disappears inside.

Dick feels a smile split his face, he can't help it, he does a little shimmy as quietly as he can, feeling a rush of excitement hit him so hard it almost topples him over.

Either Jason still hears him, or, he just knows Dick that well, because he calls out, "watch yourself," again, and Dick fights not to snicker.

Dick bounces a bit on his toes, sneaking a glance at Jason behind the closet door. He's at the large safe in the back, pulling out two boxes before he turns around and stomps over to the bed, dumping them down a second later.

He jabs a finger at Dick next, it might've been threatening if it wasn't Jason underneath the mask. "There're ground rules, kid," he says, "if y're comin' with me I'm not messin' around. If you get hurt on my watch B's gonna skin me alive, so no takin' risks, got it?"

Dick nods solemnly, he hadn't planned on playing around, it won't be a problem. "Got it."

Jason pops the lid off one of the boxes, pulls out a red-domino and some glue. "This shouldn't be too big," he says, and then, "I don't have armor that'll fit ya, so stay on the defensive, don't give'em a chance ta tag ya."

He pulls the black utility-belt he had slung over his shoulder down, unfolding it on the mattress. "Belt's arranged how B taught us, mostly. Familiarize yourself with it."

Dick takes the belt from the bed, checking the compartments and pockets, memorizing where smoke pellets, lock picks, antidotes, projectiles, explosives, etc, are placed as Jason continues.

"You stick close to me. You run off and I'll kick y'r skinny-ass," Jason drops down a grapple-gun on the edge of the mattress, grabs a communicator next. "We still wear comms in case. Shouldn't run into any other Bats tonight, Timbo's the one who butts-up against my territory, but he won't be back for another few days."

He glances over his supplies one more time, maybe checking off a mental list. Before he turns back to Dick, says, "we good?" through the vents of the mask, making his voice sound gruffer than it really is.

Dick squeezes the utility-belt in his hands, picks up the domino-mask with something nervous, and excited, and so very ready in his chest, and looks back up at Jason, smiling as he replies, "we're good."

Dick takes a running leap across the gap between two buildings. The wind whipping at his sweatshirt and tugging on his hood, pulling at his body in a game of chicken with gravity. He hits the next rooftop with a practiced roll, and then, the best part- Dick gets to do it all over again.

It's wonderful.

It's terrifying.

It's liberating.

Dick can't believe he managed to go so long without the mask. Now that he's gotten a taste for it again, it's a wonder he didn't go utterly and completely stir-crazy in these months without it.

It's like gaining the ability to walk back, like finding a missing limb, like a piece of Dick has been returned to him. Dick feels more whole, more alive right now, than he has in months, maybe ever since the Invaders first touched down on his Earth.

He had forgotten what it was like to jump around a live city, what it felt like to enjoy the freefall for what it is, what it was like to run for the thrill of it and not because it meant survival.

It isn't the same as being Robin, not without Bruce by his side, and a yellow cape at his back- and that hurts a little bit, that Dick won't have that again, his name, his colors, his partner.

But as Dick runs around this new Gotham, taking in the differences in the skyline and the changes to their city- Dick thinks, maybe that's okay.

Maybe it's okay that he doesn't get to be Robin again. Because that means he will have only been Robin to his Bruce's Batman. And isn't that a good way to honor his Bruce? To keep that partnership just between them? To let it go now that Bruce is gone? If Dick wants to move on, he needs to move on from Robin too, right?

Dick isn't the same person anymore, so maybe that means he doesn't fit the role of Robin anymore either.

Dick thinks he's coming to the conclusion that maybe that isn't such a bad thing.

The soles of Dick's shoes scrape against smooth cement as the teenager sprints forward, and then there is nothing but wind to catch him. His body suspended in the air for an astonishingly breathtaking moment, Dick's lungs fill with a tingling delight, a burning sense of adventure, and the oh so sobering shock of ecstasy.

Dick lets gravity take control for a few seconds, twisting in the pull of it, reveling in the thrill of dropping, dropping, dropping, because how can you possibly fly, if you never let yourself fall?

Dick flips himself back upright, laughter spilling out of his mouth and riding away in the wind as he waits until the last possible second to shoot out his grapple-gun. He swings up a few stories before he lets go, momentum sending him up a bit more before Dick shoots out another line.

When he catches back up with Red Hood the man comments, "show off," in a tone that says he doesn't mind. Dick salutes him mid-air, knowing there's a grin permanently stuck to his face.

They run across an uneven rooftop, Jason jumping between two brick pillars and Dick vaulting himself over a low wall, in a race for a connected fire-escape that will lead them to the next rooftop- when a new voice unexpectedly crackles over their comms.

"Well this is a surprise," they say.

Dick's steps falter over some metal sheeting, sneakers squeaking in protest, but he keeps going, looking at Jason to see how the older reacts.

"Didn't know Batman gave his approval for a new vigilante to hit the streets," the woman goes on, heavily sarcastic.

Hood scoffs over the line, "like I need his permission," he says. But he does stop, stalking his way over to the cover of a roof-access door, leaning up against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest.

Dick instinctively pulls back too, skipping a few hyper steps over to Jason as he listens in on their conversation.

Dick stretches out his arms, reaching down to his toes and wiggling in place. He can't seem to stop moving, there's a thrum of excited energy under his skin, making it impossible to stand still.

Dick fights the urge to do a Back-Walkover.

Jason hadn't said anything, but he must have noticed Dick's energy because somehow, they've ended up closer to the main part of Gotham City. Where the buildings slope up and down unevenly, where construction is always a constant, where the terrain is that much more unpredictable.

The parts of Gotham that are the most fun to jump around and do flips off of, an obstacle course made of metal and steel and far up high places.

"Uh-huh," the woman says over the communicator, voice dripping with disbelief. She catches Dick off guard when she asks, "how'd you talk Hood into taking you along short-stack?"

Dick drops his foot from where he had been executing the Big-Toe-Pose, twisting around to give Jason a questioning look. The older only shrugs in response, so the teenager says, "uh, y'know, Red Hood's just a big'ol softy under all the false-bravado." And then Dick has to scuttle back, cackling when Jason lunges for him.

"Oh, we all know," the woman agrees over the sound of Dick's snickering, a smile in her voice.

Jason squares his shoulders, marching up to Dick and getting into a loose fighting stance, waiting for Dick to do the same. "I'm only nice when I wanna be," he says, and then he throws a punch toward Dick.

The fourteen-year-old whoops delightedly, dodging around the bigger man and jabbing him in the side playfully, earning a huff in response. They scuffle for a minute, Jason's fingers skimming over Dick's scalp in something that could have been a tug, Dick nudging the back of Jason's knees in a similar warning.

Dick's busy evading all of Hood's tame throws, twisting around the bigger man lazily, when Jason decides to try and pin Dick.

"Didn't think I'd see you out on rooftops for a while," the woman says after a moment, either oblivious to Jason and Dick's game of chase or valiantly ignoring it. "I'm Oracle by the way," she introduces herself.

"Oh," Dick says stupidly, only half listening, distracted as Jason makes a swipe for him and Dick's almost too slow to get away.

"It's nice to finally meet you," Dick says over an exhale as he bounds up a wall, using the tread of his chucks to scale over some brickwork.

Unfortunately, not having a suit means a lot more than missing tech and gear, it means no insulation, no body armor, no steel-toed boots. Which also means that Dick has less of a grip when he levers himself over the lip of a building.

He stumbles, and that gives Red Hood the split-second he needed to catch up.

Jason is on top of him the moment that Dick's steps stutter. "Wormy little-" Jason starts as he finally nabs Dick, pulling one of the teenager's arms back and grabbing Dick behind the left knee, hoisting the teenager up into the air an instant later.

Dick splutters, half surprised half indignant, wiggling and twisting around to test Jason's hold. When the older boy grips him tighter in response Dick lets himself go limp, making Red Hood bear his full weight.

Jason doesn't even shift to account for Dick's body mass.

That is either a testament to Jason's strength or to Dick's weight.

"…So, the famous Oracle," Dick says from his place up in the air, still in Jason's arms, voice a little strained. "Heard a lot about you."

Oracle hums over the line, "all good things I hope."

Dick smirks to himself, kicks at Hood's knees with his free leg as he says, "I heard that you can hack better than anyone and you make amazing spice cookies," Dick says conversationally.

Jason makes a weird noise from behind Dick, mutters, "oh my god, I forgot about the cookies."

At the same time, Oracle laughs, says, "both true. One of these days I'll have to have you over to try some," and then, addressing Jason, "spice cookies still your favorite Hood?" She doesn't pause to let him answer, "we wait a month 'til you're legal and we can have some with my special hot chocolate."

Dick wiggles in Jason's grip, asks, "special hot chocolate?"

The chin of Jason's mask brushes against Dick's head as he answers, "whiskey," and then, to Oracle, "like I didn't sneak plenty of that stuff when I was a kid."

Oracle's reply is lost to Dick as Jason finally lets the teenager drop, setting Dick down roughly at the same time his other arm comes up to muss Dick's hair, his large hand almost knocking the boy over.

A moment of quiet passes between the three of them before Oracle asks, "so short-stack, what do I call you while on patrol?"

Dick smirks over at Jason, waggling his eyebrows under the domino as he replies, "oh, didn't you hear?" Voice chipper, eyes on the emotionless mask of the Red Hood as he speaks. "I'm the Red Hood's sidekick," Dick pauses for dramatic effect, letting his teeth show in a smile. "The Hoodlum."

Jason turns away from him with a chocked off noise, "oh my go-" he starts.

But Oracle's laughter interrupts as she says, "ohh, have we got our hands full."

Before Dick can ask what she means by that, Oracle is telling them about a nearby robbery in progress, naming off locations and coordinates in quick secession.

Dick turns to follow Jason, but the man is already bounding away, his voice smug over the comms as he says, "try to keep up, Hoodlum."

There's really nothing for Dick to do but chase after him.

Dick sits curled up at the corner of Jason's couch, bare-toes pressed in-between the sofa cushions because he's too lazy to find socks, humming distractedly to himself, as he texts Grayson about the pros and cons of wearing a cape.

Riccard Greysin- my biggest problem with it was that it got in the way of flips

Dikkie Grayne- Yeah but we're trained to deal with it.
Dikkie Grayne- A cape can be really usegul.
Dikkie Grayne- *useful

Riccard Greysin- sure. but our fighting style is heavily influenced by acrobatics
Riccard Greysin- it comes down to if u want that extra protection or if u want to be able to move around more freely ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Dikkie Grayne- Idk, a cape just seems like a good thing to have.
Dikkie Grayne- It has a lot more uses than just extra protection.
Dikkie Grayne- It saved my life more times than I can count.

Riccard Greysin- true, but I can say the same for the opposite
Riccard Greysin- not having a cape in the way has saved me more than a few times too
Riccard Greysin- idk kiddo, it's all personal preference

Dikkie Grayne- Wouldn't our personal preference be the same?

Riccard Greysin- well obviously not...
Riccard Greysin- because u still think curly fries r better than regular fries

Dikkie Grayne- a fry is a fry but curly fries are! more! fun!

Riccard Greysin- but curly fries r fancy
Riccard Greysin- and sometimes I don't feel fancy

Dikkie Grayne- I agree that they are fancy
Dikkie Grayne- but dip them in a shake and they aren't fancy anymore

Riccard Greysin- that's just disrespectful to the essence of a Curly Fry
Riccard Greysin- it's unnatural

Dikkie Grayne- holy heck
Dikkie Grayne- a fry is a fry

Riccard Greysin- nope

Dick scoffs from his place on the couch, rolling his head back on the armrest so he can peer at Jason upside down. "Jason," he says, "which is better, normal fries or curly fries?"

It's hardy a second before Jason answers, "neither," he flicks his eyes over to the fourteen-year-old, challenging as he says, "crinkle fries are the best."

Dick makes a face at him, scrunching his nose as he says, "you're no help." He flops back over, watching as some colorful origami-bats hang from the ceiling, spinning in time with the breeze of the air-conditioner.

Dick hums to himself as he types another message to Grayson.

Dikkie Grayne- Jason says curly fries are better.

Riccard Greysin- he did not
Riccard Greysin- he likes crinkle fries
Riccard Greysin- u sneak

Dikkie Grayne- dang it.
Dikkie Grayne- what does Tim like?

Riccard Greysin- he likes wedges

Dikkie Grayne- …
Dikkie Grayne- Does that even count as a fry option?

Riccard Greysin- I asked the same thing
Riccard Greysin- he says objectively a potato wedge is just a bigger fry

Dikkie Grayne- Others?

Riccard Greysin- Damian refuses to participate in our fry debate
Riccard Greysin- Babs likes sweet potato fries
Riccard Greysin- we'll have to ask Steph next

Dikkie Grayne- All this controversy.
Dikkie Grayne- and I thought we were supposed to

Dick stops typing as a shadow passes by the livingroom window. Stealing his attention away from his phone, thumbs paused over the screen as he looks up, text half written.

There is a cat balanced on the railing of the fire-escape, a fluffy calico with big blue eyes that stare back at Dick unblinkingly.

The fourteen-year-old pushes himself up from where he has been slouched down on the sofa, watching as the cat jumps forward, crouching on the outside windowsill. It starts pawing at the glass, mewing pitifully to get their attention, tail flicking from side to side.

Dick glances back in time to see Jason straighten from where he had been eating in the kitchen, looking over his shoulder at the cat before he silently stands up and steps around the island, his bowl of Mac n Cheese forgotten on the countertop.

Dick watches wordlessly as the older grabs a small dish and a can of tuna, popping the lid and pouring it out before he walks over to the window. Jason expertly unlocks the latch with one-hand before he places the bowl on the sill, running light fingers over the whining cat's head before he turns back to the kitchen.

Dick gapes bewilderedly as Jason goes back to his Mac n Cheese, at a loss for words as he glances back over to the now happily eating cat.

It takes Dick a full minute before he asks, "you have a cat?"

Jason's spoon clicks against the ceramic bowl before he blinks over at Dick. He looks a little perplexed like he'd forgotten another person was in his apartment with him. "No," he replies, deadpan.

"But you just fed it," Dick points out, gesturing to the cat.

"I feed you, y're not mine," Jason throws back.

Dick ignores him, gently sliding off the couch cushions and tiptoeing over to the fluffy cat. "I can't believe you didn't tell me you had a cat," Dick says, an almost-reprimand.

"It's not my cat," Jason says, insistent this time.

Dick very slowly extends his fingers to said cat, petting its head and neck softly as it finishes off the tuna (or, on further inspection, what seems to be actual cat food) "Is it a girl or a boy?" Dick asks.

"I don't know," Jason says, "because it's not my cat."

Dick scratches under the cat's chin, crouching under the window so he won't be looming over it. It doesn't seem skittish, which is a rarity with a stray, it purrs at Dick, rubbing its face up his forearm in a blissed-out sort of way.

The teenager takes his time coaxing the cat with pats before he finally reaches out to pull it inside. It doesn't seem bothered by it, actually, it butts its head against Dick's chest, mewing at him, seeming pleased.

Dick has made a new friend.

Dick crosses his legs, propping the cat up with his thighs as it kneads at his t-shirt. It's clearly starved for attention, but it seems healthy otherwise. Dick hasn't found any injuries on it and it obviously knows where to find food.

The teenager runs his fingers through the matted fur along the cat's back before he says, "we should probably give it a bath." It can't be comfortable with all these knots in its hair, it doesn't smell great either.

Dick wonders how soft the cat will be once it's clean.

"We shouldn't do anything," Jason insists from his place in the kitchen, "because it's not my cat."

Dick stands up with the cat cradled in his arms, it's still purring quietly, though it's getting louder the longer Dick runs his fingers along its head. The teen scratches behind its ear as he asks, "what do'ya think we should name it?"

"We aren't namin' it," Jason says, "because it's not my cat."

"It's probably a girl," Dick goes on, ignoring Jason. "Since it's a calico, but maybe the name should be gender neutral just in case it turns out to be a boy."

"Oh my god."

"Maybe its name should be a play on words," Dick ponders aloud.

"No-"

"Oh! Or a pun!"

"We aren't naming it a pun."

"So you agree we are namin' it?"

"You are insufferable."

Dick smirks over at Jason, feeling smug. He turns and carries the cat down the hallway, "start comin' up with naãames," he calls in a sing-song voice as he enters the bathroom.

"Y're cleanin' up whatever mess ya make in there!" Jason yells back.

"You're just jealous of my new best friend," Dick calls as he sets the cat down on the tiled floor, she starts rubbing her head against his legs, circling him happily.

Dick hums at her, thinking up names as he opens up Jason's cabinets, he needs scissors and Dawn Dish Soap. Dick starts digging around, putting a pink paper-bat back inside when it falls out, setting aside Jason's large first aid kit (something no Bat should be without) and moving cleaning products out of the way- when he stumbled upon a box of black hair dye.

Dick stares at the box in utter silence for a very long minute before he picks it up, mouth hanging open in disbelief as he stumbles back down the hallway and out to the livingroom.

Jason is still absently eating his Mac n Cheese, eyes on his phone, but when Dick walks back in he looks up, glancing at Dick and then the box of hair dye. He scowls as he says, "stop."

"Are you tellin' me you don't naturally have black hair?!" Dick asks, delighted, voice to high. "You gotta tell me your natural color."

Jason lets out a long-suffering sigh as he gets up from the stool, circling around to dump his bowl in the sink. "Don't ya have a cat ta clean?"

Dick bounces in place, "oh my god, Jason – Jason, are you a blond? I bet you're a dirty blond. No! Bleach blond, please tell me you are a bleach blond."

"I could kill you," Jason says from his place at the sink.

Dick laughs, "yeah and so could anyone else in our messed-up family," he dismisses, quickly getting back to the right topic. "Jason, for the love of Superman, you gotta tell me, I'm dying here."

Jason rubs at his eyes, pulls a hand down his face as he gives Dick a very impressive Bat-glare. "I'm a redhead," he grits out, like the words are being dragged out of him.

Dick chokes on his glee, a strangled noise scraping up his throat, Jason jabs a menacing finger at him in warning.

It's a standoff for a long moment- Dick trying to hide his growing smile behind the box of hair dye, Jason's frown growing deeper and deeper as his eyes narrow at Dick

And then the cat comes out and meows at them, breaking the silence.

Dick stoops down to pick her up, biting his lip to keep himself from laughing, but Jason knows, it's why he's still glaring at Dick.

Dick is halfway down the hallway when he calls, "I bet you make a very pretty redhead."

To which Jason yells, "watch yourself!"

Jason's Perspective-

Sometimes it's hard to sleep after patrol.

Most of the time it isn't; once Jason gets back to an apartment or safehouse, once he grabs a bite and takes a shower, once he shucks off his armor and feels more 'Jason' than 'Red Hood'- then it doesn't take much for him to fall asleep.

Tonight is not one of those nights.

They're in Jason's dinky livingroom, squished up on the couch because neither of them dared move the cat from the recliner- she's still pissed after her bath, Dickie's scratched up arms are a testament to that.

The fourteen-year-old is pressed into Jason's side, just as much of a cuddle-leech as his older counterpart, dozing next to Jason and pretending he isn't.

The apartment is dark, save for the light of the TV, which bathes the room in flickering, hazy, blues. The volume is low, quiet enough that Jason can hear the soft purrs of the cat to his left, Dickie shifting at his right.

But Jason can't relax, can hardly breathe, because this is wrong- this night of ordinariness, this pocket of domesticity, this moment of contentedness.

It doesn't belong to Jason.

Because this kid doesn't know, he doesn't know the things Jason has done, the crimes he's committed, the blood staining his hands, the bodies he's buried.

Dickie has no idea, and if he did, he wouldn't be here.

Jason has been marked now, he isn't like the others, because unlike Damian, unlike Cassandra- Jason killed after.

After he was Robin.

After Bruce took him in.

And that's what sets him apart.

Dickie won't be able to see it any other way, because he's a Bat, and Bat's see in solid blacks and whites with none of the grays in-between, and Jason lives in a world of unwavering gray.

Jason feels coiled too tightly, sitting stiff and uncertain as the TV switches to another commercial, as paper-bats swing lazily from the ceiling, as Dickie sleepily tips over, temple resting on Jason's shoulder.

Jason can't take it, can't take the blatant trust.

He lurches off the couch without thinking, Dickie's touch scorching him, leaving Jason feeling sick and dirty and wrong.

"...mmhmph-!?" Dickie makes a confused and slightly betrayed noise when he falls face first into the couch cushion. Looking up at Jason with blurry sleep-glazed eyes.

Jason resists the urge to pace, he clenches his hands over his forearms instead, digging his nails in, focusing on the pinch of pain. "Look, Dickie," Jason starts, huffs out a breath. "There's a reason no one likes me aroun'."

Dickie pushes himself up with fumbly hands, he still looks half-asleep, but he's making an effort to be more alert, blinking up at Jason. "What do you mean?"

Jason holds in a breath, letting his lungs burn for a moment, savoring that ache, the pull in his chest. "I've done some stuff in my past," Jason speaks as the TV changes, painting the room over in a dark red.

"Stuff that gets ya on Bats' bad-side," he goes on, "stuff ya can't undo." Not that Jason would take it back. He doesn't regret that he killed, that he went after mobsters and drug-dealers, human-traffickers and pedophiles, that he had the courage to do what needed to be done.

But Jason had been a different person then, he had been grief-stricken and heartbroken, he hadn't cared who he hurt or what the repercussion caused, he hadn't even cared if he lived or died.

It was an agonizing, hopeless time in Jason's life, one that caused him a lot of pain and suffering. That's why Jason gave it up, so he could let go of that boiling hate and anger, so he could move on.

Jason doesn't kill anymore, and not because he's sorry, not because he thinks it was wrong, not because he doesn't still want to. But because Jason knows that if he didn't stop, he'd end up dead, again, and for good this time.

And a lesson Jason had to learn the hard way, was that he does still have things to live for.

The pause after Jason's declaration is only a few short seconds. "Do you do those things now?" Dickie softly asks.

The question throws Jason off for a moment, he had been expecting blunt scrutiny, not gentle inquisitiveness. "No," Jason answers, tongue feeling too thick for his mouth. "I haven't… It's been a couple years."

Dickie sits up straighter on the sofa, watching Jason solemnly, but there isn't any judgment in his eyes, no, it's something closer to understanding.

Jason isn't sure what to do with that response, he had imagined this conversation going a very different direction.

Then it hits Jason, he's waiting for the Elder Dick's reaction.

He had expected an interrogation, he had expected raised voices, he had expected to hear old arguments, he had expected to be left feeling angry with rage and hollowed out with misunderstandings.

But there are no past ghosts between Jason and Dickie, there are no wounds to cover over, no words to take back, no mistakes to atone for.

This boy is just a stranger with a familiar face.

"Then…then I don't need to know," Dickie says from his place curled up on the couch, somehow looking far older than he should, but at the same time, younger than what Jason finds himself expecting.

"If you moved on, then it isn't important," Dickie tells Jason, glancing over to the window and then to the napping cat, taking a moment before he speaks again. "Something I learned on my world…" Dickie stops, takes a ragged breath, he runs his fingers along the lining of his sweatshirt, a tic.

"The world-" he cuts himself off, "the universe isn't how Bruce taught us it is," Dickie mumbles. He's not looking at Jason, he doesn't seem to be seeing anything really, his eyes are far-away, staring at something that isn't there. It's a look Jason understands all too well.

"It's full of things we aren't equipped to deal with," Dickie goes on, words just this side of rapid. "Things that we have no way to fight, things we can't— that we can't ever understand." Dickie glances back up to Jason, his features painted in a dark purple for a moment before it washes away to a pale yellow.

"And…and that's when we have to make compromises," Dickie says, voice hushed, like he's telling Jason something secret, something important. "That's when sometimes our morals don't— they don't matter anymore."

Dickie sighs, looking worn and tired in the same way Jason finds himself feeling. "I've done some stuff I'm not proud of too," Dickie breathes the words, letting Jason glimpse at some of the bloodied jagged pieces of himself- pieces that Jason hadn't even realized where there.

"But I think…" Dickie's eyes are locked with Jason's, but it doesn't feel oppressive, it doesn't leave an itch along Jason's spine like such intense eye-contact usually does, it just feels like they're on even ground. "I think we just gotta learn how to be okay with that. We gotta figure out how to move past that."

Dickie glances away from Jason, looks down to where his hands are bunching up the hem of his sweatshirt. He forces himself to let go, nibbling at his lip instead. "Don't you think?" he asks, uncertain in the face of Jason's silence.

Jason nods, looking down at this kid in front of him, and having the sharp realization that he doesn't have a clue- doesn't have a damned single clue about him.

"Yeah," Jason says, feeling lighter and somehow heavier at the same time. "Yeah, I do."

Dickie's Perspective-

He's on the back of Jason's motorcycle, fingers clutching to the man's leather jacket, speeding through Gotham, when Dick remembers- "Sundae needs food," he calls over the wind, "also, toys."

"How is that my problem?" Jason yells back, glancing at Dick from over his shoulder.

Dick scoffs, tugging on Jason's jacket in the direction of the store. "C'mon, pull over," he says, "it'll be quick."

Jason makes a big show of moaning and groaning as he turns into the Walmart parking lot. "Nothing has ever been quick with you, except y're death," he threatens.

Dick is hardly paying attention to Jason as he glances to the half-lit store, saying, "uh-huh," vaguely and getting cuffed on the knee for his effort.

It's nearing three in the morning, so there are only half a dozen cars in the lot, but Walmart is open twenty-four/seven, which makes it a perfect pitstop after patrol.

Sundae (that's what Dick has decided to name Jason's cat, because she's mostly white with splotches of brown and blond fur, like a scoop of vanilla ice-cream with chocolate and caramel on top) has adjusted well to the apartment.

Unfortunately, there isn't much for her to play with, other than Dick himself, and he'll only be at Jason's for another day. So Dick needs to pick her up some toys and dry-food.

Jason had a few cans of wet-food for when Sundae would show up begging, but that isn't going to be enough now that they are keeping her.

Jason pulls up to the side of Walmart that isn't lit, parking the bike in the shadows before he slides off his Red Hood helmet. He pauses to ruffle up his flat hair with one hand- it reminds Dick of what B does post-cowl, but he doesn't tell Jason that.

Jason stows their helmets and sets the alarm on his motorcycle, turning to raise an eyebrow at the fourteen-year-old as he says, "get goin', I need my beauty sleep."

Dick smirks up at Jason before he spins around, headed inside.

It's late enough that no one is there to greet them, there's hardly any movement in the store itself, just a handful of customers wandering around, the typical two or three checkers waiting at the registers.

The place gives off that other-worldly vibe that most stores tend to have in the middle of the night, where everything seems to be on pause because time is no longer tangible.

Dick stops to read over the signs above the aisles, -making out the echoing voice of Shania Twain coming from the tinny speakers overhead- before he spots 'Pets' and gestures to his left, "this way," he mutters to Jason.

It doesn't take Dick very long to find what he needs; he grabs the best brand of food he can and hands the bag off to a grumbling Jason. Then he hunches over and picks out a few toys, hoping that Sundae will like at least one or two of them.

They're walking back down the main aisle, sneakers squeaking against recently polished linoleum-floor, headed for the registers- when Dick's hyper eyes wander to his right, attention-catching on shelves stacked full of colorful hair dye.

The fourteen-year-olds steps falter, he stops in the middle of the aisle, Jason standing behind him. "Jason…" Dick starts, biting at his lip as he considers. "You know how to dye hair."

Jason's eyeroll is almost audible as he grumbles, "you make one more joke and I swear t-"

Dick distractedly shakes his head, cutting the older off. "No-no," the teenager says, taking a step forward into the hair dye section. "I meant, you've done it before."

Dick pauses in front of a row of blond and brunet packages, looking them over with thoughtful eyes. "If I decided to dye my hair…" Dick starts, quiet, still thinking over the words even as they come out of his mouth. "Would you help me?"

Jason takes a few large steps into the aisle, facing the shelves, cat-food still held under his arm, eyes scanning the colors with Dick. "Why the sudden interest in dyin' y're hair?" he asks.

Dick glances over at Jason and then back at the browns. "If I wanna start goin' out in public and having a life, then I'm not allowed to look like me, right?" he says, a rhetorical question. "This would be the first step in doing that."

Because Dick does want that.

He wants to be able to venture outside of the Manor with Bruce, he wants to go to the park with Tim and Stephanie, he wants to run errands with Alfred, he wants to help Grayson with Zitka at the zoo.

But Dick can't do any of those things as long as he looks the way he does.

It would be different if their family wasn't in the spotlight. If Bruce Wayne and his children weren't on the Gotham Gazette every other week, if the Wayne's didn't occasionally appear on Talk Shows, if Bruce didn't host Fundraisers and Galas every few months, if they weren't celebrities.

But being associated with Bruce Wayne in any sort of context automatically puts you in the press's crosshairs.

It wouldn't take long for people to see the similarities between Richard Grayson and Bruce's newest son. Grayson's adolescent years are all documented for the world to see, all it would take is one persistent reporter or crazed fan to connect the dots.

And sure, those dots probably wouldn't lead them to the truth, -that Dick is from another universe- but wherever they led still wouldn't be good.

So if Dick wants to make a life here, if he truly wants to be a part of this family, then he needs to make some changes, has to be willing to make a few more sacrifices.

"Can't go blond," Jason says from his place beside Dick. At Dick's raised eyebrow he shrugs, continues, "you wanna go for a natural look, y're skin-tones too dark ta be a blond."

Dick hums at Jason, smirks as he comments, "I could be from Spain."

Jason rolls his eyes, "don't wanna stand out," he says, "the closer to y're normal hair color the better."

Dick feels a smile stretch across his face as he says, verging on sing-song, "I didn't know red hair and black hair were all that similar."

"Y'know, I saw a bus station not too far from here," Jason mock-ponders aloud, "I could always drop ya off th-"

Dick shoves at Jason, says, "nah, that's okay, I think I'm good."

It's another minute of mute contemplation, some old Taylor Swift song echoing from the ceiling, before Dick picks up a box labeled 'Warm Brown'. "I wasn't gonna go blond anyways," he says, "think maybe I'll give Brown a try."

Jason nods, gives the box a sort of approving glance before he strolls down the aisle, mumbling under his breath, "gonna need bleach."

Dick smiles, feeling an excited buzz tickle through his chest. He glances down at the box one more time before he turns and follows after Jason.

It's 3:24 when Dick and Jason clamber back into the apartment.

Jason dumps the cat-food on the floor, locks the door behind them, and heads for his bedroom without a word. Dick crouches down to say hi to Sundae from where she has run up to greet them, combing cold fingers through her warm fur.

Dick unpacks the cat-toys a minute later, throwing a pink mouse to Sundae as he grabs a bowl and pours out some food for her.

The apartment building is quiet around them, just the sounds of the city outside and the creeks of settling wood on the inside.

Paper bats make shuffling noises from the ceiling, another flutters from the top of a cabinet when Dick shuts the door. He has to climb the tabletop in order to put it back, Sundae hops onto the counter to see what all the fuss is about, bumping into the dishes on the drying rack.

Dick hums at her, sliding back to the floor and heading over to the last of the bags. The teenager bites his lip as he takes out the box of bleach and hair-dye, studying the picture on the front for a long moment.

He feels antsy, jittery and excited.

Dick wants to make this change now, while the decision is still fresh, while the anticipation of it still thrums under his skin. He doesn't want to wait until he second-guesses himself, he doesn't want to sleep on it, doesn't want to make room for any doubt. Dick wants to take this step now, he wants to take a hold of this choice and run with it, take the leap without worrying about the drop.

Dick sucks his lip into his mouth, mindful of the scab there, as he sets the box-dye down on the counter. He could maybe pester Jason into staying up to help him, (he's pretty good at nagging) but Dick was hoping that Jason would be a willing participant, not a begrudging one.

The fourteen-year-olds in the middle of debating whether to do it himself or just wait until morning, when Jason tromps back into the room. He's changed into a Gotham Knights shirt and dark sweatpants, hair dripping from a shower, towel still around his neck- Dick hadn't heard the water running.

Jason steps over the cat on the livingroom floor and slides the window open. "Gotta air the place out," he says as he turns back to the teenager. "Place's gonna smell like we just finished cleanin' up a crime scene."

Dick cocks his head to the side, bites back a smile. "We're doing it now?" he asks, trying not to bounce in place and mostly failing.

Jason scoffs at him, raising an incredulous eyebrow at the younger as he crosses his arms over his chest. "What," he asks, "you got other plans?"

Dick smirks at Jason as he picks up the bleach, says, "I guess I got a minute."

Jason strolls over, flicking Dick's ear as he passes and ignoring the teenager when Dick dances in place. Jason pulls one of the barstools around the island into the middle of the kitchen, hunching down under the sink to grab a garbage bag a moment later.

Dick uncaps the bleach and asks, voice sounding too loud and energetic for this time of night. "That bag for the body?"

Jason stabs a knife through the top of the bag with a sharp grin, answers, "obviously," and works on making the hole a little bit bigger.

Dick mixes in the powdered bleach with the developer and throws the gloves at Jason. Spinning around and bouncing down the hallway to change and find his phone. Sundae bounds behind him, curious about all the excitement.

Dick shuts the door behind them, shucks off his dirty patrol clothes and digs into his backpack for pajamas. He thinks about forgoing a shirt since they're about to dump bleach on his head- but then Dick traces a finger over the pale acid scar on his shoulder, looks at the puckered skin of a once-stab-wound -and decides to pull on a t-shirt.

Dick grabs his phone off the charger and heads back out to Jason, flicking through his playlists. He settles on his 'Chill' music and places the phone on the counter, letting it provide background noise.

"You all dolled up y'r majesty?" Jason asks when Dick sets down his phone.

Dick sticks his tongue out at the older, because he never claimed to be mature. "Put on the gloves, peasant," he replies before he pulls the garbage bag over his head. Jason hits him while his face is still covered in plastic.

The latex gloves that came with the dye are too small for Jason's hands, so the man has to go fetch some from the first aid kit. Throwing the useless ones at Dick's forehead.

When Jason comes back, distractedly reading over the directions on the bleach, Dick looks at him and observes- "you do have big hands. You think yours are bigger than Bruce's?" Bruce has huge hands, they dwarf Dick's in comparison, but that probably makes sense. Most everything about Bruce is built to be bigger, and Dick has always been slender. And now that he's met Grayson, Dick knows he'll stay that way.

Dick wonders if Damian will end up like Bruce, he has a similar build- wide shoulders, long torso, muscular profile. But for now, Dick and Damian are almost the same height. Dick thinks about ending up taller than Damian and almost laughs when he imagines how disgruntled that would make the other boy.

He kind of doubts it will happen, but boy oh boy wouldn't that be something to hold over Damian's head, quite literally.

Jason eyes Dick from over the bleach, "d'ya always use Bruce as your base measurement?" It sounds somewhere in the middle of judgmental and wry.

Dick scrunches his face, tells himself not to think about the implications of the question too hard, and shrugs. "I could use Clark as a base, but that just isn't fair."

Jason scoffs, says, "or you could use a normal sized person."

Dick smirks, says, "nah, that'd be boring."

Jason rolls his eyes at the fourteen-year-old as he turns away, grabbing the bowl of bleach that Dick already mixed and giving it an intimidating swirl. Dick didn't know you could stir something threateningly, but Jason does a good job of it.

"I should probably warn ya, I have done this exactly one other time," Jason tells Dick.

Dick wiggles on the barstool, the garbage bag around him crinkles with the movement. "That's more experience than I've got," he says.

Jason shrugs and scoops some bleach onto the brush. "If you sneeze and make me blind ya with this crap that's on you."

Dick smirks, but only says, "noted."

And then Jason's tilting Dick's head forward and grabbing a section of his hair, brushing the strong-smelling bleach onto the teenager's ends and working his way up to Dick's scalp.

It feels like there should be this big moment, that something ceremonious should happen, that Dick should feel different the instant that Jason starts combing the bleach into his hair.

But the room is quiet around them, a soft song from a movie soundtrack plays from Dick's phone, Sundae leaps onto a toy in the livingroom, the rest of the world continues to sleep on without the two of them.

It just feels like an ordinary moment, but maybe that's the thing, that stuff like this has become Dick's new ordinary.

Dick doesn't know what he expected when he asked Jason to help him, but the older boy isn't rough when the comb gets caught in a tangle, he doesn't slap the bleach onto Dick's head or pull on his hair. He uses his fingers to deal with knots, brushes Dick's bangs back so they won't get in the teenager's eyes, runs the comb through every inch of Dick's hair.

It's silent between them for a few minutes as Jason works, concentrated, focused. Dick thinks maybe he'll get uncomfortable with the quiet, that he'll need to fill the space with banter, but Dick's a little surprised with himself when that urge just…doesn't come.

It's when most of Dick's head is covered, his scalp tingling with bleach, his mind a touch buzzed off of the fumes and floaty with exhilaration- that Jason tugs on a stand of his hair and mumbles, "we should'a cut y're hair before we did this," more to himself than Dick.

"Nah," the fourteen-year-old answers, "I wanna grow it longer."

Jason snorts, breathes out a chuckle. "Gonna sport a mullet?" he asks, "maybe a man-pony?"

Dick wants to twist around so he can glare at the older, but he restrains himself. "Um, no?" he huffs, incredulous. "I said long-er not long, that would get in the way. And also, a mullet? You slanderer."

Jason laughs again, it sounds knowing, scheming, Dick doesn't like what that suggests. Jason leans down after a second, mouth right next to Dick's ear- like he's gonna tell Dick a secret. "Y'know Dickiebird, there might be a reason I named off those two styles specifically."

Dick freezes where he sits, thinking it over before he gasps, horrified. "He didn't," he whispers.

Dick might not be able to see Jason's smirk, but he sure can hear it. "Oh-ho, but he did."

Dick feels his face do a funny thing where it can't decide what facial expression it wants to make. "Holy cheese balls. How am I gonna get any respect when that guy is my predecessor!?" he splutters.

Jason chokes on his spit, surprised into a laugh, he accidentally splatters bleach on the floor as he hunches over himself, the closest thing Dick's seen Jason express to joy, and of course, it's at the teenager's expense.

"I hate you," Dick says, not meaning it at all.

They're up long enough to watch the sunrise, the sky going from a blackish-purple to a pinkish-orange. It makes the apartment seem other worldly, like they're stuck in a soft moment that they weren't supposed to have seen in the first place.

Dick watches the color of the sky change and thinks about what a sunrise meant to him only a few months ago. How it meant another day survived, how it meant the nightly hunt was over, how it meant they could be more easily spotted, how it meant they needed to find shelter as quickly as possible.

Dick remembers a time not too long ago, his ribs throbbing, his ankle sprained, sitting in the dust and dirt, surrounded by the husks of cars, the smell of gasoline and gore protecting them from their pursuers.

Bruce had been sleeping, because Dick had insisted, he had begged- 'please, please rest. Just for a little while Bruce, just a few hours.'

Dick had shoved himself into the driver's seat and stared unblinkingly through the shattered windshield. On guard, on watch, terrified that he'd miss something, that he'd accidentally drift off, that he'd make a mistake that would cost them their lives.

Dick had sat rigid and cold, wide-eyed and petrified, jaw clenched so his teeth wouldn't chatter, hands fisted so tightly he couldn't feel his fingers- until finally, the sun came up.

The sky had looked like fire, reds and oranges, yellows and pinks, all mixing together, bleeding into one another to make something breathtaking, something beautiful.

Dick remembers something cold and horrible curling around his lungs, seeping into his stomach as he watched a new day be born. He remembers blinking back tears as he thought- 'how dare the world try to be beautiful, how dare it try to be anything other than horrifying, how dare it try to be warm and alive when it is nothing more than an ugly dead thing.'

And then, Dick remembers holding his breath so he wouldn't make a sound, so he wouldn't alert anyone to their hiding place, so he wouldn't wake Bruce who lay behind him. Dick remembers letting his lungs burn and his eyes blur as he thought- 'this is me now, this broken bitter thing, that's who I am now.'

Dick blinks himself back into Jason's apartment, pushing down the pressure filling up his chest and trying to leak out his eyes. He looks up at the Gotham sky and realizes he doesn't feel those things anymore, not here, not in a world that hasn't been destroyed, not on an earth that is allowed to be beautiful.

"You okay?" Jason asks from his place on the couch, staring at the teenager sitting on the floor across from him.

Dick doesn't know what he must have done to make Jason ask that, what he let slip, what his face must have shown. But Dick tries for a grin anyway, it goes lopsided as he shrugs. "Just lost in thought."

Jason looks considering for a long second, he leans back into the couch cushions, laces his fingers together in his lap. "What about?" he asks.

Dick looks away, glances back to the morning sky as he plays with the drawstring of his pants. "Just…" Dick starts and doesn't know where to go with the sentence.

He feels odd, off, but not necessarily in a bad way.

Dick thinks he might be finding pieces of his old self, collecting the scattered parts he didn't even know were in his reach anymore. And maybe they won't fit together quite right, maybe they're jagged and chipped, maybe they won't make the same picture they used to.

But maybe…maybe that's okay.

Dick isn't the same person he was before.

That had become abundantly clear to the teenager as he stared at himself in the mirror after his second shower of the night. Skin damp and hair newly brown, scars scatted along his body, ribs still too apparent under his skin.

He isn't that same kid from Haly's Circus, he isn't the Robin to Bruce's Batman, he isn't that desperate boy on the run for his life. He's someone new, someone he doesn't fully know yet- a brother, a fighter, a son, a survivor.

He's all of them, somehow, all at once.

That doesn't fully make sense to Dick, he isn't sure it ever will. How can all those different contradicting parts of himself fit together? How does that work?

Dick doesn't know yet, but he's figuring it out.

Dick glances away from the sky, looks over at his brother, thinks about what it's like to have brothers. "I don't know," the teenager says, shrugging a shoulder and smiling a little. "Just, fresh starts, I guess."

Dick turns back to the window and watches a new day unfold, and it's still a little bit scary, but this time it's in all the right ways.

You know when you have so many ideas you no longer know where to start? That was this chapter...I actually ended up leaving certain things out, pffft.

I hope you guys liked this monster of a chapter! It tried to strangle me a few times, but we've powered through.

I wanted to thank you all for your lovely and well thought out comments, I think out of all the stories I have written this is the one that I go back and re-read the reviews on the most. Half the time it's your guys' comments that help me get through my writers-block, so, thank you. 3

That's all for now, Fernandidilly-yo out.