Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Well, Hooded Jay muses as he stares at his travel companion, they’re sure the smallest one I’ve encountered.

Of course, he’s not unfamiliar with them. Anyone who’s been in this business long enough knows about the League of Assassins’ Demon. They’d been making a name of themselves, in the quiet way that Weapons do.

He didn’t think the League was the type to rent out their Weapons, but here the Demon is, sitting across from Jay on the plane that’ll take him to his next set of handlers. Judging by the look of disdain aimed at him, clearly the Demon thinks themselves above him. Jay grins back, but since he’s wearing his helmet he makes his amusement known in sprawled body language and a lifted chin.

“Awfully far from home, Demon,” he comments, testing to see how much of a rise he’ll get. The first conversation is as much a source of amusement for him as it is a litmus test. What gets a rise out of the Demon? What’ll spark an argument, what’ll cause silence, what will invite a fight?

Jay has made an art form out of poking buttons and it’s his favorite game to play.

The Demon says nothing. Snooty bastard. They don’t even shift their weight. It’s like Jay never spoke.

Oh well. He loves a challenge. The silent ones are always so interesting when they finally crack.

“Aww, did someone get in trouble?” It’s a bit of a reach, but it’s not uncommon for an organization to rent out their Weapons as punishment; a sort of ‘this is what it would be like without us.’ Personally, Jay has never had to deal with it, but that’s because he’s more of a mercenary type anyways. “Made their handlers mad and got put in timeout?”

“Just because your handlers treat you with such little respect does not mean that I am shown the same dishonor.” The Demon doesn’t turn their head, still staring resolutely at the wall of the plane’s interior hold.

Jay grins. Gotcha. “Well, aren't you special? How much money are you earning your org with this ‘respectful loan’?” The Hooded Jay is worth a pretty penny, though he can’t imagine the League strapped for cash. Their Demon has always been hoarded like a dragon with gold–either someone’s paying a huge sum, or the Demon is bluffing.

“That is none of your concern,” the Demon says dismissively. Too bad that Jay refuses to be dismissed, especially by another Weapon.

He hisses in mocking sympathy. “Ooh, someone’s only worth a few hundred a week, I bet. Upset that your makers don’t think of you as valuable?” C’mon, he thinks. Show me the fire everyone talks about. You’re loyal, aren’t you?

The Demon doesn’t do anything so undisciplined as twitch, but they do turn to look at Jay. “It shows your lack of training that you waste your time in such speculations.”

Jay leans forward, though there’s not much give in his straps and the Demon is belted in on the other side of the cargo hold. “What’d you do? It can’t be just failing an assignment, everyone knows the League finds you too useful to dismiss you over something as little as that.” Realization strikes him. Underneath his helmet, his lips stretch in a delighted smile. “Oh, you compromised yourself, didn’t you? Let yourself get seen? By someone big, I bet.”

“I am not so poorly trained as to do such a thing,” the Demon snaps, and ooh, there’s the reaction Jay wanted. “I am simply here to show the strength of the League’s alliance with the Reach.”

“And I’m here because I’m bored,” Jay says back. It’s not a lie, technically–he is bored, and that is part of the reason he was sent here. “Sounds like you got the short end of the stick, Little Imp.”

“Hold your tongue, lest I use said stick to beat you,” the Demon retorts.

Finally, a Weapon that isn’t so beaten down and can actually fight. “Touchy, touchy.” Jay clicks his tongue. “You’re a fun one, Demon. I like you. Here, how about we start over.” He lounges in his seat as much as he can. “I’m Hooded Jay, he. Handlers call me Hood, but since we’re getting along so well, you can call me Jay. You?”

“You are fully aware of my title,” the Demon says imperiously, which is amusing, especially for a Weapon. “And it is far superior to yours. A common bird, really?”

“Take it up with the people who made me,” Jay says dismissively. He quite likes his title, actually. It sounds disarming, because people forget that jays are also corvids. Just like they forget he’s a threat until they’re lying dead on the floor. “Your trainers seemed to have big plans for such a tiny knife, naming you the Demon.”

“And I continue to live up to them,” the Demon says. They’re touchy once you get past their shields. And delusional, apparently, because no trainer will ever think a weapon is ‘good enough.’

Jay hums. “If you say so.” He’s glad the League never bothers with renting Weapons, insisting on making their own. Something tells him they wouldn’t find Jay’s attitude acceptable, which is a fucking crime, actually. It’s his charm.

There’s a garbled hiss from the Demon’s voice modulator, and they are fully glaring at him, but don’t respond.

Hands raised in lighthearted surrender, Jay laughs. “Alright, alright, I get it.” He’s mostly got what he wanted from them, anyways. No need to make them want to actively kill him. “I look forward to being wielded next to you, Demon.”

The Demon sniffs dismissively, but their posture straightens, and they give him a nod. Which is probably as good as Jay is gonna get.

The guards lead Jay and the Demon through blank hallways (typical), and through a door. When the door locks behind them, Jay figures that’s their final destination.

The room has two doors, both closed, and four cells built into the walls, separated by walls instead of bars.

There’s a table bolted to the floor, and a man is leaning against it. Maybe a little older than Jay, but once he sees his face, Jay adjusts his assessment. Not a man. A Weapon. (Jay stays up to date on the other threats in the field, and it’s easier to identify Shrike than most other Weapons- because of the types of mission he’s sent on, there are a few photos of his face available to Jason’s organization.)

He’s pretty sure he’s worked tangentially to Shrike, once–his target happened to be a coworker of Shrike’s mark, and Jay remembers seeing the Weapon through his scope. Those eyes are pretty distinct, even with colored contacts in. Something about the shadows they hold.

Another Weapon stands further back, closer to a corner but still in view of the handlers. It’s in the tilt of their stance, deferential yet alert; how their head doesn’t move under their hood but their limbs have a coiled grace waiting to be unleashed. Jay doesn’t need to know who they are to recognize a tool when he sees one.

The grunts abruptly salute, catching Jay’s attention to one of the doors as it opens. What interests him more, however, is how Shrike flinches into his standing posture yet the other Weapon is almost languid in their rapid movement to come to attention.

Interesting.

The figure who steps through the door frame matches the description of the Handler given during the debrief: not tall, but rooted in stance, with a serious expression and cold dark eyes that lock onto Jay almost immediately.

“Weapons,” comes the low acknowledgement, which is more of a recognition than Jay has gotten with handlers before. “Demon. Hood.”

Jay tilts his head but otherwise doesn’t move, feet square and hands folded behind his back. The Demon flinches like they’re holding back from dropping to a knee–damn, does the League teach that? Fucking elitist pricks.

“Shrike,” the Handler continues–ignoring the twitch that incites–”Ghost. These two will be wielded alongside you.”

And holy fuck, the weight of Ghost’s attention is crazy. The sensation is akin to having a heavy blanket thrown over you. Jay grins behind his helmet. That’s fun.

“Don’t kill each other,” the Handler orders, and without any further instruction turns and walks out.

The guards leave after the Handler, and it’s only once the door has closed and locked behind them that Shrike moves. He shudders slightly, and looks up to meet Jay’s eyes- or his helmet- then glances over at Demon.

“Hey,” he says, and his illusion of normalcy is brittle at best, “nice to meet you. You’ll be staying here, probably. There are gear lockers on that wall-” he gestures to them- “that’s the bathroom, and the other door is to a training room. Ghost and I are in the two right cells, you can decide which of the others you want.” He follows his speech up with a weak smile. 

“D’you often get others rented here?” Jay asks, striding over to the left cells to poke his head in each one. They’re both the same standard bare concrete with a mattress on the floor, but–in a true sign of luxury–they each also have the flattest pillows to ever exist and a single blanket. Seems like these people understand the utility of things like decent sleep and not having hypothermia.

The leftmost cell has a mattress that Jay is pretty sure is ever so slightly bigger than the other, so he throws his gloves and helmet in there to stake his claim. Debrief mentioned something about not giving a shit if they’re geared up so long as they’re ready within thirty seconds of being summoned. He can work with that.

Shrike is hovering annoyingly behind him. “If there’s anything I can do to help you, just let me know.”

Jay gives him the driest look he can muster. “What, are you playing hostess? We’re Weapons, not guests renting a motel.”

“Sure,” Shrike says, after a short pause, “but it’s important to trust your team members, right? For cohesion and stuff.”

Is this guy fucking for real? And here Jay thought he had a smidge of respect for Shrike, since the Weapon is infamous for being one of the only successful disguise specialists, but any water that held has long dried up. “Are you stupid or just naive?”

Shrike shrugs, with a wry smile. “Probably closer to stupid? I’ve been in this business for a while, so naive isn’t as likely.”

Part of Jay wants to poke into the opening, maybe compare stories from early on, but–well. He’s not going to lay down his whole hand to this guy just because he’s acting pathetic. “Still, I doubt Handler’ll send us out together. Pretty sure we’re all specialized differently.”

“Then why put us together?” Shrike asks, “we’d be able to take a wider range of missions as a team. Harder ones, too.”

Jay pushes past Shrike, set on investigating the facility. “Why keep your weapons in separate locations when they can all go in one armory?” Okay, so Shrike wasn’t lying–door number one leads to a utilitarian bathroom, and door number two opens into a training room, which actually looks interesting. “Doubt the Demon would cooperate with others,” he adds. “They're feisty.”

“They will if the Handler tells them to,” Shrike says, and then his eyes widen, and he barely manages to dodge some sort of projectile from the middle-left cell. Demon.

Jay bursts out laughing, because Shrike looks like a dumbass, thrown off his guard so suddenly. “Nice try, Demon,” Jay calls, turning to see those indignant eyes staring out the cell. “Shame he dodged.”

Shrike sighs. “I’d suggest we at least try to get along. I’ll settle for neutrality if I have to, but none of us will be properly functional if we have to watch our backs in here as well as out there.”

Big words from a thing without autonomy. “What, like you and no-face over there are besties?” Jay asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to where Ghost still hasn't moved from their location against the wall.

The side of Shrike’s mouth twitches, and not in a good way. “We cooperate. You should try it, it’s easier and more helpful.”

“I do what's necessary to get the job done,” Jay tells him. Which is true–he's damned good at what he does, it's what he's made for–but that doesn't mean he'll go quietly. “You won't have any issues with me compromising missions.” 

Not like the little imp still glowering at everyone from their cell. The Demon is like a yapping dog, baring their teeth as if their attitude makes up for their size.

“Thank you,” Shrike says, like Jay’s cooperation is a choice and not something expected of him. “And… is there anything you’d prefer me to call you, when not on missions? Aside from your title.”

Is. Is this guy insane? The fuck is he trying to do here? Whatever it is, it’s a stupid decision. Surely there's monitoring here, surely he'll get corrected for such a misstep.

“Handler calls me Hood,” Jay says, cold and careful because he may like to stir the pot but he's not reckless. Corrections and retraining is never fun. “That works for me.”

“Okay, Hood,” Shrike says, watching him carefully. “If that changes, let me know.”

Telling Demon about his nickname on the plane was easy, because transfers never have monitoring. It's not like Weapons are going to escape when they're thousands of feet in the air, so there's always the chance to let your guard down. The fact that Shrike expects him to do the same here says something about him, or the handlers here, or how this place is arranged. Either way, Jay doesn't know enough yet to step too far out of line.

Dick has been on harder missions than this.

That’s what he keeps reminding himself, anyway. He wishes it would help. 

For one, this isn’t a mission. This is Dick and Tim getting transferred into a wholly new room, and then two other Weapons showing up and apparently moving in with them. Great. Dick loves surprises, and changes, and seeing the Handler unexpectedly. 

He’s managed to get all of the Weapons in the same general area, which took less skill and more waiting until they happened to be facing the right way, and they have to start talking tactics sooner or later. 

None of them want to, but that’s why Dick is here.

That might be the only reason why Dick is still here.

He’s broken.

Not in the way that they broke Tim, of course, it’s completely different. But sometimes, (horribly,) Dick thinks that he’s more broken than Tim is. 

Which isn’t true from a person’s perspective- Dick still thinks for himself, Dick still responds to his name, not that there’s anyone around to say it anymore. But from a Handler’s standpoint, it definitely is.

Dick has always taken orders well- he learned young. But introducing Tim to the mix had been a mistake, at least where Dick’s obedience was concerned. As Tim changed more and more, so did Dick, in the opposite direction. He snapped back. He refused orders. He pushed and pushed until finally, they pushed back hard enough to shatter him.

He knows he’s not as useful as he once was, and there’s no room for sentimentality in the Reach. He’s on his way out, and it’s entirely his fault, and then there won’t be anyone around to talk to Tim like he’s a person, or even like he has thoughts and feelings.

Dick can’t leave Tim alone. But he can’t stop flinching, either, or going away like Tim does, but even less responsive, or panicking, or any of it. 

He’s been in this role a long time, though. Which means he’s at least got knowledge that the Reach doesn’t quite want to let go of yet. 

And, damn what happens to him, he’s going to make sure Tim is still seen as useful for as long as possible. And that means working with the new Weapons, which means, “We need to talk.”

Demon gives him an imperious eyebrow, while Hood pauses in his repetitive tossing of his helmet in the air to look at him from the corner of his eye. Did it land on heads? Dick thinks, semi-hysterically, but saying that would be a terrible idea. 

Dick gathers himself mentally, and continues. He’s stronger than this. “We should probably go over our skills. Strengths, weak areas, that sort of thing. Nothing you don’t want to share,” he adds hurriedly as Demon reaches into their pocket, wary of a throwing star, “but just things that would be helpful if we end up working together.”

“Why don't you give us a glowing example, bird boy?” Hood asks, a smirk on his face like it's his default expression. It might be, for all he knows.

“Sure.” Dick mentally catalogues his thoughts- most trainers have already been briefed, and he doesn’t want to prove his worth here, he wants to talk to them like they’re people. “So, along with general thefts, assassinations, and the like, I’m often used as a scout or spy, and I tend to go undercover a lot, which means I’m pretty good at distractions, persuasion, and that sort of thing. I’m very flexible, and I work well under pressure.” 

Weaknesses. Right. 

“I… used to work well under pressure,” he admits, very aware of the risk he’s taking with the next set of information. “I can have an adverse reaction to some people, and my left shoulder isn’t as strong as it used to be.”

“Getting rusty?” Hood asks, staring at Dick like he's watching a juicy TV show.

“Not exactly,” Dick says, keeping his face as neutral as possible. “It happens under very specific circumstances.”

Hood clicks his tongue. “Must be quite the circumstances.” He tosses his helmet in the air and catches it on the tip of his finger like a basketball. “I'm trained muscle, basically.” There's a mean glint in his smile, before it fades away. “Ground combat is my main use, but I'm also competent in a variety of weapons and used as a distance sniper, sometimes.” 

Suddenly the air around him changes, Hood straightening from his slouch and locking eyes with him. “Handlers know this, but I'm used best when aimed in a direction and set loose. Allies have to be carefully pointed out or marked lest they wanna get caught in the crossfire. So don't cross me unless you have a death wish.”

“Understood,” Dick says, grateful that Hood shared anything. He’s been expecting maybe one sentence maximum, but this is better. This is good. “We’ll make sure not to get in your way, then.”

“Smart.” Hood grins, this one looking a little more real than his other smiles. “Can't tell you how many idiots tried to fight me on that. It's manufacturer's design, I can't change it.” Then he shifts, looking over at Tim. “What about you, Ghost?”

Dick takes a quiet step closer to Tim, keeping his hands low and nonthreatening just in case. He seems to remember Dick most of the time, but it’s always good to be careful. “You wanna share, or should I?” Dick barely manages to cut any names or terms of affection out of the sentence- he’s not sure how Hood and Demon might react. He’ll risk whatever ire they have if push comes to shove, but if they can get through this conversation first, everything might be a lot easier.

Tim meets Dick's gaze, giving him an almost imperceptible nod. “Ghost,” he says, voice that odd sort of quiet that comes with a complete lack of intonation. “Scout. Sabotage. Infiltration. Stealth.” 

Dick smiles freely at him. His little brother is still in there. Tim is so brave it takes his breath away- Dick wouldn’t blame him if he left forever, went wherever he goes and stayed, just to get away. But he’s so desperately grateful that he still gets to see Tim, gets to talk to Tim, sometimes. “Thanks, buddy.”

Shit, nicknames. He glances up at Hood. Hopefully there are more important things for the guy to be focusing on…

Hood's fingers tap on his helmet, his gaze locked on Tim, but he doesn't look like he's about to do anything. “Sabotage, huh? Interesting.” Then he leans back, loose and unbothered.

“He’s great with technology, too,” Dick adds, “I swear, he can make a bomb out of just about anything. And hacking, of course, comes with the whole technology thing.” 

Dick knows that he’s rambling, but there’s panic rising in his chest, now that they’re discussing his brother’s abilities. Dick doesn’t care what they think of him, what they do to him, but if they don’t think that Tim is good enough, Dick won’t be able to protect him. 

Dick is never able to protect him, not when it matters.

“Useful,” Hood remarks with a tilt of his head. “My trainers never taught me. Might take you up on one of those bombs, Ghost.”

That topic cuts off quickly as the fourth member in the room decides to speak.

“I am skilled in many areas,” Demon says, “but I specialize in stealth, infiltration and assassination, as well as battle strategy. I am trained with most bladed weapons, but proficient in almost any others as well.”

So, he overlaps with Tim a bit, except for the technology. That’s good- the more unique skills Tim has, the more likely it is that they’ll keep him around. At least they’re not replacing him. That’s good.

“And weak points, Little Imp?” Hood pokes, teasing but with bite behind it. “C'mon, Handler already knows from your manual, it's only a matter of time before we learn, too.”

Demon sniffs dismissively. “I occasionally strategize faster than my handlers can give orders. So as to see the mission done properly, I sometimes must take liberties.”

Oh, a loose cannon. Not great, but as long as nobody else on the team follows Demon’s lead, it should be fine. 

“Is there anything you’d like me to call you other than Demon?” Dick asks them, and they stare at him like he’s insane, and they’re worried the condition is contagious. 

After a second of that, Demon turns to Hood. “And what are your titles, Hood? Or are you too ashamed to share them?”

“Not ashamed,” comes the immediate counter, “just not stupid. I've been passed through enough hands to know some don't enjoy any bit of…distinction.”

“Isn’t it already in your manual?” Demon taunts.

Hood points at him. “I like your fire, Demon. But just because something is in my manual doesn't mean the new handler will agree with it. Take it from a veteran: learn your wielder before you try to be a double-edged sword.”

Well, Dick isn’t quite sure what the hell Hood is trying to say, but it sounds right. It seems like Hood and Demon already have some sort of understanding.

“I don’t need advice from you,” Demon says, but their tone isn’t as biting as before.

Hood shrugs. “Probably not. But while I can't say there's a title I prefer, I will say that my full callsign is Hooded Jay. It's too long for the field, though, so mainly I'm just Hood.” For all intents and purposes, he's doing no more than giving straight facts, but Dick is quickly learning that talking with Hood is like trying to untangle a long cord. Every time you think you've got a strand free there's something hiding under it.

He can’t say there’s a title he prefers, but his handlers call him Hood. Even though he’s already told them that, he made sure to say his full title. “Okay, Jay,” Dick says, and hopes he’s not making a mistake. 

“Huh,” the Weapon says. “Maybe you aren't as stupid as I thought.”

Jay it is, then.

“Thanks,” Dick says dryly. He glances over at Tim, just checking in. Not that he can usually tell what Tim is feeling unless it’s strong or he’s actively signalling Dick, and he doesn’t do that often anymore, but it makes Dick feel better to check.

Tim’s focused directly on Jay, staring him down. Jay doesn't falter, looking unimpressed. “What, is your blank-ass doll face supposed to be intimidating?”

Shit. 

Dick doesn’t want to start a fight, and Jay is smart enough to notice that Dick is protecting Tim if he does, but fuck if Dick is going to let anyone be mean to his little brother when he can stop it.

“He’s wearing his kit,” Dick says, keeping his tone as even as he can, “he likes to be prepared. That’s not a bad thing.”

Jay sneers. “What, the dead thing can't talk for itself? Needs permission even when the handlers aren’t around?” 

“He doesn’t need permission,” Dick snaps back, “especially not from me.” Dick wishes those words didn’t feel like lies. If he had to fully order Tim around, he thinks it might break him. “Maybe you’re just not worth his time.”

Instead of getting aggressive, Jay grins like a cat who caught the canary. “I was wondering if you were all bark and no bite.” 

“Not in this line of work,” Dick responds, already exhausted by the energy it takes to keep track of all these new people and the threats they bring.

Jay hums, crossing his arms. He's still got that smug grin on and doesn't look like it'll change any time soon. “Good, because I don't respect pushovers, Weapons or otherwise.” Then he looks over to Tim. “Maybe one day I'll be worth your time. It'd be fun to talk grenades and shit.”

Tim stays silent, but his eyes slide off Jay in the way Dick has learned means he's judged them not a threat. Huh. 

“I think you might get there,” Dick says, still watching Tim. He’d honestly expected Jay to blow up about that too, but this whole conversation has taught him that he generally has no way to predict what Jay will do in any given situation. 

Dick has the feeling that he’s going to need to catch up quickly, or everything might just go to shit.

Chapter Text

The Reach, as Jay has learned this organization is called, has quite the selection of choices for their Weapons to use in the field.

There's all sorts of blades, which the Demon practically drooled over and Jay may or may not have tried to slip one (he thinks he got away with the sleight of hand, but he did put it back afterwards. No need to do something risky yet). Turns out, the Demon really is proficient in many weapons, which he learned when they picked up a meteor hammer and swung it around without a single clipped mistake.

He's kind of impressed, actually. 

Anyways. There's quite the repertoire of guns as well, though the guard wouldn't let him try most of them. Buzzkills. Don't they know that sniper rifles are one of his specialties?

The fun time is over now, though, because the guard blew a whistle and now they're waiting around like good little Weapons for the shift change to take them back to their cells.

After a few minutes, a nondescript guard shows up, and Jay notices that the way they’re led back to their cells is different than the way they got to the weapons room. Interesting. 

Shrike is the first in line after the guard, but halfway back to their cells he almost causes a pileup, stopping dead in the middle of the hall for a full three seconds before Demon hisses an insult and Ghost places a hand on Shrike’s back and nudges him forward. Why the fuck?

When they get to the door, though, the guard grabs Shrike’s arm and pulls him aside, gesturing for the others to go through first. Jay raises an eyebrow, but the guard jerks their head with a pointed, silent order.

Well obviously he's not going to obey that. They're not the fucking Handler.

As soon as he gets through the doorway, he hangs a left and drops. The walls of their ‘living room’ have windows, of course, but they don't cover the whole surface. There's a tiny blind spot right next to the door, if one can manage to get low enough.

Jay isn't small, but he sure as shit is determined and that guard is absolutely not paying attention to anything but Shrike right now.

The guard grabs Shrike’s other arm as well, yanking him closer and staring down at him before hissing something that Jay can’t hear. It must be some sort of threat, though, because Shrike’s eyes go wide and he ducks his head. The guard drops Shrike’s arms with a scoff, and shoves him harshly through the door, then locks it.

Shrike drops to the ground next to Jay, and for a second Jay is deeply confused, but then he clocks Shrike’s expression. 

Shrike isn’t mimicking him. He’s frozen in place.

Jay rises slightly, enough to look through the window. It gives him a decent look at the guard, which reinforces his first impression: not much. One of those dime-a-dozen assholes who think themselves on a high horse just because they can sort of order around a Weapon.

“They're like five foot nothing,” Jay says out loud. “And you're scared of them? Really, Shrike?”

Shrike looks up at him with a smile that somehow leaves his eyes dead.  

“That's fucking creepy,” Jay says, because jeez. “Mask finally broke?” He waves a hand vaguely in front of Shrike’s face.

Smile fixed in place, Shrike uses the door to stand up, scanning the room but not seeming to take anything in until he sees Ghost. 

“Timmy!” he says excitedly, “how- how was school?” He almost wobbles over to Ghost, putting a hand on their shoulder and pulling them into a hug.

Jay kind of expects Ghost to stab Shrike, lack of weapons be damned, but they don't. Is this…normal?

“Did you fucking try to be a person so bad that you got like this?” What the actual fuck. And he thought this guy was actually respectable?

Should've known better than to consider someone who uses words like team.

Shrike nods at Ghost, like they actually said something. “That’s great! Now who-” he turns to look at Jay and the Demon, “who are your friends, Timmy?”

“Are you aware of what is happening, Ghost?” Demon asks, tense as a bowstring and hands flexing like they wish they pocketed the throwing stars they were eyeing.

Ghost doesn't say anything, which Jay more or less expected, but is still incredibly unhelpful.

Jay decides fuck it, which is how he makes a lot of decisions, actually.

“I'm Jay,” he says, then gestures to Demon. “This is…” fuck. “Denny.”

”Denny?!” the Demon hisses.

“Feel free to choose something different,” Jay shoots back, then turns to where Shrike is still watching them with empty eyes. “We, uh,” he's gonna be honest, he doesn't know anything about how school for people is. “Are in the same. Class?”

“That’s nice,” Shrike says, glancing between the two of them before patting Ghost on the shoulder and hurrying over to the table. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting guests, I’ll see if I can find some snacks.”

Jay tries to give Ghost an are you seeing this shit? look, tinged with do something??? but once again the Weapon seems to be in a ‘deal with it yourself’ mood, striding over to the table.

“I’m sure I’ve got something in here,” Shrike says. He’s gone over to one of the lockers, but is fumbling with the latch over and over. “Just- just give me a second-”

“I got it,” Jay finds himself saying, nudging Shrike out of the way and opening it himself. “You don't need to, uh, do anything, we aren't–” fuck, he thought going with this would be funny but it's more sad “–expecting anything, because of the. Suddenness.”

“If you’re sure,” Shrike says, sending him a worried look. “I keep the house stocked, Tim’s a growing boy, after all, and I remember how I was at- at that- at that age…” Shrike trails off, staring into the distance.

Ghost makes a noise that sounds a little like a cough, a little like a sneeze, and completely like a very startled and angry raccoon. Whatever it's supposed to be, it gets everyone's attention real quick. “Hey.”

Shrike’s grin blooms onto his face again, and even though his eyes are still too empty, there’s real emotion in it. “Hey, Timmy! Don’t worry, I wasn’t forgetting about you over there, I’m on my way.” He heads back over to the table, stumbling a little a few times, and tries to sit down at it.

There are no chairs at the table.

Hitting the ground with a startled noise of pain, Shrike blinks around at the room, looking dazed. “Tim? What…”

“You missed the chair,” Jay points out helpfully. “Might be better to stand.”

”Why are you playing along with this, Hood?” Demon snaps. “Whatever it is, it's ridiculous, and Shrike needs to snap out of it, not have others indulge him!”

“You ever been hit so hard you forget where you are?” Jay asks, wondering if he should offer Shrike a hand up. “He's kind of like that right now, I think. Telling him the truth will just confuse him.”

Like a person with a crazy bad concussion after an explosion, refusing to accept how they're nothing but collateral in an active engagement zone. You can yell at them, bargain with them, outright move them, but you can't make them agree with you if it conflicts with what they think is happening.

People like that are kind of a liability, in Jay's opinion, but generally people are allowed a lot of leeway in things that don't apply to him, so what does he know?

“Uh, hey,” he starts again, one hand hovering because he won't help Shrike up but he also won't let him slam his head on the table and make things worse. “Do you know yourself?”

Shrike nods, slowly getting to his feet. Jay does end up having to nudge him away from the table so he doesn’t hit his head. “I’m Tim’s big brother! It’s nice to meet you.”

“A pleasure,” Jay says, even though this is the exact opposite. “Hey, could you do me a favor?”

“Sure,” Shrike says, “anything for one of Timmy’s friends. I’m so glad you came over!” He leans in slightly and whispers, “He needs friends his own age, it can’t be fun to hang out with me all the time!” 

There's a lot of implications in those words that Jay very resolutely does not look into because that is so far out of his pay grade and he doesn't even get paid.

Moving on, “I'm uh, face blind. I can't really make out what people look like, so do you think you could describe everyone here for me? Including yourself.” He takes off his helmet and tosses it to the side, because ‘featureless thing with eyes and an illusionary beak’ probably would not be helpful in his attempt to ground Shrike.

“Oh, sure,” Shrike says, a little confused. Which might be a good sign, if he’s questioning whatever he’s convinced he’s seeing. “Well, Timmy here has dark hair, and brown eyes, and he hasn’t hit his growth spurt quite yet!” Shrike laughs, reaching out to pull Ghost into a side hug, glancing over at him before grinning again. “It’s true, Tim!” 

“I'm sure it'll happen soon,” Jay agrees. “If he's anything like you he'll get some inches, huh?”

Shrike laughs again, and he’s more confident than Jay has seen him before, even holding a weapon or organizing the group to share tactics. “No matter how tall he gets, he’ll always be my Baby Bird.” He turns to Jay again after glancing down at Ghost, and falters slightly. “Oh, and there’s you, and… your friend….”

“And yourself,” Jay adds. “You're here too, in this room with us. Think you can do some more describing? You did a pretty good job.”

“That’s sweet, thank you,” Shrike says, and his smile is a little weird now, like he’s looking at something he lost. “But I’m not real, silly!”

Demon makes a choked noise, which really embodies how Jay feels hearing that. What the fuck did the trainers do to Shrike? What kind of bullshit handlers would fuck up a Weapon this badly?

“I don't know,” Jay says carefully, getting closer to Shrike with his hands clearly visible. “I mean, I'm real, right?” He doesn't wait for an answer, taking one of Shrike’s hands in his own. “And I mean, I can feel you pretty distinctly.” He squeezes, trying to do something to ground the other. “Which means you're as real as I am.”

Shrike’s smile drops slightly, and Jay can feel him gently squeeze back. He blinks for a second, then shudders, shoulders drooping and head falling slightly. After a sharp inhale, he looks back up, newly teary eyes landing on Ghost. “Oh.”

“You back?” Jay asks, wary of further hysteria. He hopes Shrike is back, because right now Jay feels a little bit like plugging his ears and screaming.

Instead of responding, Shrike gives one of Jay’s hands a gentle pat, then walks over to where Ghost is standing and sits on the floor. He leans his head against one of Ghost’s legs and closes his eyes, pressing out another wave of silent tears. 

“Shrike, what on earth–” Jay stops the Demon with a hand on their shoulder, taking the glare they whip around at him without flinching.

“Give him a minute, Demon.”

In the edge of his vision, Jay sees Ghost set a hand on Shrike’s head.

Yeah, he's not touching that with a ten foot pole now that it's over.

Chapter Text

Today started shittily and has gone terminal velocity into fucked.

Look, he didn't ask to be made angry. He didn't ask for anything, honestly, because that would require having the ability to choose. Regardless. The strength? Amazing, he loves being able to fuck people up. Rapid healing? Hell yeah, less consequences of his injuries in the field. Sharper senses and (presumably) intelligence? Kind of annoying, actually, but it's useful, so.

All for the low, low cost of inhuman rage beyond normal measure that makes him unable to recognize individuals and that he had to have a stupid amount of training to learn to control.

His trainers seemed happy with the result, even if he isn't sure the other Weapons they tried later survived the Quenching Of Evil.

There is a point to this. That being, despite his intense conditioning and mental discipline imprinted in his psyche, sometimes he just wakes up angry.

It's a hazard of having him around, and he's pretty sure it's bolded and underlined in his manual that no amount of discipline will be able to change his behavior on days like this. And he can't even fake it because one of the side effects is glowing eyes, isn't that bullshit? He can't make his eyes glow intentionally (he tried), but at least it means he generally doesn't get fucked with on angry days.

Not today. Today he woke up and none of the other Weapons knew what was up with him and he didn't have the patience to explain, so he planned on avoiding his fellows.

Tell that to the organization! For some reason, the guards looked at him, seething with fucking flashlights for irises and said ‘yeah, okay, let's have these guys get teamwork training.’

The less said about that the better.

Now, they're sat in a circle like ants in a death loop, having been handed food and told to eat together.

Jay would rather go through poison resistance training again, honestly, but the words of the wielders are law, so here he is sitting in his designated spot and eating his assigned meal like a good little tool.

Shrike and Ghost are acting normally, in that Ghost is eating silently and Shrike is somehow carrying on a conversation despite the lack of literal anything given in response. 

The Demon, though, stares at their food like they expect it to lunge up and bite them. Maybe food does that in the League, who knows.

“Better eat it before a guard sees,” Jay says with a snarl he can't suppress in his voice, because even his vocal cords weren't spared from the evil rage treatment of doom (and superhuman augmentation).

“Prior to this we ate in isolation,” Demon says, like it’s an excuse instead of a fact.

“Handler says eat, we eat,” Jay snaps back. “Don't fight over something this small, Imp.”

“Weapons do not remove their kits in the League of Assassins,” the Demon tries again, and this really isn't the day where he's feeling like indulging the other.

Slamming his utensils down, Jay glares at the Demon and hisses, “In case you didn't realize, you're not in the League right now. You're here, under this authority, which means you follow their orders. So,” he jabs violently at their plate. “Eat. The damn. Food.”

Finally, Demon turns their back and reaches up to their face. Jay doesn't bother peeking, because he could not care less right now if they have a scar or some shit as long as they follow orders.

“We won’t look if you don’t want us to,” Shrike says, which is really leaning into his whole thing of acting like they're people, but Jay's not gonna say shit.

“I am hardly insecure enough to care about things such as wants,” Demon says, except–

Except they fucking sound like a kid.

Jay takes a deep breath and reminds himself not to crush silverware in his hand. “Demon.”

There's a pause that's just as damning as anything the Demon could say. “...Hood.”

Yep. That's a prepubescent voice.

It's a good thing Jay has never been rented to the League, because if he knew anything about their base right now he would tear it down.

Deep breaths. Hold the rage, he doesn't have a target. “Anyone tell you that you sound like a brat?”

Demon still has their back turned, which is good, since Jay is pointedly not looking at them. “Such comments were unnecessary.”

“Right.” How long has the League had Demon, to make them this good at this young? “I’m going to finish my food, and then we’re going to train and I’m going to destroy something.” Hopefully not himself; that’s a bad habit.

“Sounds good,” Shrike says, but there’s much less anger in his voice (which is a low bar, but still). Like he thinks this is normal. Like he’s okay with it.

Look. Jay knows that sometimes, Weapons are created young. That a lot of the time they start young. Jay himself was still young enough to be in primary school– young when he was being created, but he didn’t start doing missions until his voice cracked. The Demon is younger, and they’ve been active for at least a year, probably more.

He finds that the more conclusions he comes to, the harder it is to think. All he can feel is the tray gripped in his hands. All he can see is the Demon’s young face when they turn around, saying something to Shrike.

It’s in the middle of this maelstrom that Jay registers a clanging noise against the door, and Shrike getting up. The Demon moves, too.

Jay can’t move. He’s tense, frozen, his hands clenched on the tray hard enough that he can feel it bending under his fingers. Movement registers in his peripherals, his eyes refusing to focus. Distantly, someone speaks, the voice faintly familiar.

He can’t move. He knows this, he was trained for this, he has to wait. Wait, and don’t move, not until the handlers give him a target or the rage abates. His handlers know what to do; all he has to do is wait.

There’s something touching his hand, and then both of his hands. And someone is trying to pull his fingers off of the tray, and no.

Handlers don’t touch him. Handlers never touch him, because they know him and they know the way he’s made and they know how to treat Hood when his switch is flipped. Whoever this is, they’ve got their hands on his. They’re not a handler.

They’re a target.

Hooded Jay bursts from his seat in a flurry of motion, yanking his hands away and coming up swinging. The tray in his grip slams into the target, sending them stumbling back. It gives him enough time to properly get to his feet and get into a stance. The world sharpens, bringing the fight into stark clarity. He can see every twitch of their muscles, pinpoint the shuffle of their feet, hear the slightest change in their breathing before an attack.

The target retreats, hands up-open-surrender, mouth moving without words. Probably pleading, begging for Hooded Jay to spare them. He won’t, of course. Targets are given to him to be destroyed, and he is not made to question the orders of his handlers. He lunges forwards, testing with short jabs, trying to find weak points. Just because they’re a target doesn’t mean they’re helpless–a lesson learned early on and quickly.

This one–this one is a challenge. They dodge most of his punches and block the ones they can’t. Hooded Jay only manages to land one of his testing blows. He can feel himself grinning. This looks like it’ll be fun. It’s been so long since someone has measured up to his skill.

Changing tactics suddenly, he goes for a leg sweep. Let’s see if you think on your feet.

The answer to that is yes. Or perhaps not quite, because they spring away, flipping backwards so there’s no feet for him to hit. He doesn’t let them get an inch of rest, leaping forwards fast enough that when they land, he’s already there with an uppercut.

Gone.

Quicker than before, they’re flipping away in a handspring that they somehow manage to fit in the limited space. Hooded Jay laughs. Seems like he’ll have to break a limb to slow them down. Again he pushes forward, herding them into the corner.

And again they flee, using him as a springboard to leap over his head. Coward. Pathetic. He growls, pushing off against the corner to follow. If he can’t land a hit, it just means he has to catch them.

There: the smallest wince, when they go for a roll and their left shoulder hits the ground. A weak point. This time, he’s prepared. His lunge is a feint, and when they go to flip out of the way again, he grabs the left arm and yanks, throwing them to the ground. Without wasting a moment he puts them facedown in a pin, making sure to wrench the weak limb into a hold.

The target cries out, trying to break free. The headbutt they go for almost connects, barely missing his nose. Hooded Jay pauses, just for a moment. Enough to give his handler an opportunity to issue a command.

No command comes, but he’s a bit distracted as the target somehow gets their leg up their back to kick him between the legs. It doesn’t hurt, not really, but it’s enough to make him lose his hold. They take advantage immediately, flipping to their back and kicking him in the chest.

Hooded Jay goes flying back, landing hard on the ground, skull cracking against the stone (where’s his helmet?). Before he has a chance to react they’ve reversed their positions, pinning him.

Fool, Hooded Jay thinks. Gotcha.

Flipping them is trivially easy–he’s much stronger than them. It’s a simple maneuver to twist their positions, grab their arm and snap.

Have fun with two weak arms. Hooded Jay pushes off them and watches them lurch to their feet, broken right arm cradled protectively against their body. No more fancy handsprings. 

Slowly, he circles them, idly pinging the movement of two others on the edge of his vision as they advance. Three against one? Not new to him, but if these additional targets are as skilled as the first he may have a bit of difficulty. Maybe his handlers will give him a weapon?

Flexing his fingers, he bends his knees, taking a step forward–

“Hood! Cease fire!”

Stops. Wait. Wait, the Handler has spoken a command. Listen, listen, the rage asks for action but that order nails down his bones.

“Parade rest.”

Fury gnashes its teeth and lunges at the bars, straining against the length of its chain. Hooded Jay drops to one knee, palms flat on the floor, fingers splayed, head bowed. Wait. Years of training and discipline keep him in check. Few commands are audible, he must obey.

More words are spoken above him, ones that slide across his brain without comprehension, failing to find a hold through the dense hurricane of his mind. Then: “Hood. Stay. Until sundown.”

Until sleep. Stay, and wait, and hold parade rest until he falls asleep where he is, until he loses consciousness and reawakens the next day with a clearer head. Wait. Wait.

The Hooded Jay is a well-forged, well-trained Weapon. He will stay, and he will wait. Until sundown.

Chapter Text

Jay had been pretty sure his presence on this mission was completely unnecessary. 

Looks like he was wrong, though- leave it to Shrike to fuck up a perfectly normal information gathering and elimination. If he hadn't heard the series of events leading up to his necessary presence he'd wonder how the hell Shrike lived this long.

Apparently, Shrike just has the worst luck ever, and the only reason he's still alive is because of his skill.

Not that Jay will admit it under torture, because seriously. Something like this shouldn't go wrong so fast and part of it's got to be Shrike’s fault. Surely.

Anyways, whatever had alerted law enforcement had them taking this seriously, because this many cops was overkill, even for a Weapon. Luckily for him- and Shrike- though, they didn’t have Shrike’s exact location. 

Jay was instructed to cause ‘no serious structural damage’ which means while he wasn't allowed a rocket launcher, he is allowed to grapple down from the roof and crash through a third story window.

So he does.

And ends up face-to-face with some random civilian.

Aw, man. This better not be a collateral damage situation. 

Instead of flinching backwards, the lady in the fancy dress tilts her head, and then Shrike’s voice comes out of her mouth. 

“You happen to have another grapple with you? Lower floors are swarming with cops.”

”Oh what the fuck,” Jay says, because it's one thing to know Shrike is good at disguises and it's another to have uncanny valley on this level. “Since when were you able to change the shape of your face?”

“The many qualities of makeup,” Shrike says. Jay now notices that Shrike has cut a slit up the side of his dress for easier movement- the skirt was already short enough not to get in the way, probably a deliberate choice. Shrike takes a second to shove the already-removed curtain rod between the bedframe and a shelf, effectively creating a temporary lock over the bathroom door. Oh, that must be where he put their target. 

“Okay,” he says, stripping off his gloves and tucking them into his fancy belt, “let’s go.”

Because Jay is incapable of not making fun of someone, he asks, “How girly is your woman voice? Also, I just have the one, but it's strong enough that it can hold us both if I carry you.” The people who assigned them this mission were fucking stingy.

“It’s less about the pitch and more about inflection and tonal changes,” Shrike says in a fancy British accent and a voice that, despite being in the same range as his, sounds very much like a woman’s. He could stand to put less seduction in the tone, actually, ew. 

“You're teaching me later,” Jay decides, because if there's one thing he loves to do to enemies, it's misdirection. Being underestimated is fun because he gets to see the look on their faces. Imagine the reaction he'd get if he, like, sounded like a young teen only to walk into sight looking like he does (that is, ‘built like a brick shithouse’)?

Hilarious.

Later, though. Jay checks to make sure the grapple hook is secure (it is) and turns towards Shrike. “Theoretically, I could carry you with one arm and leave you with two hands to hold guns and cover us.”

Shrike grins. “And here I thought it was because you wanted me to swoon dramatically against you like in a rom-com. Sure, I’ll hold the guns.”

“Swoon on me and I drop you,” Jay drawls, tossing the other the pistols on his belt and sweeping Shrike in a one armed carry. “Express trip to the first floor coming up,” he announces, and proceeds to jump out the window.

Shrike doesn’t shriek in excitement, but Jay can tell by his inhale that it’s more out of professionalism than lack of enjoyment. Nobody seems to be looking at them for the first few seconds, and then Shrike manages to directly hit a guy who was turning around and would have seen them. This leaves everyone on the ground scrambling to see what happened to the guy, and none of them looking up.

“Man, I love idiots,” Jay says, watching them scramble like particularly dimwitted ants. “Free entertainment.” The next drop brings them right above the first story windows, still without being spotted.

“Not true,” Shrike tells him, still grinning, “that bullet probably cost about fifty cents. Close enough, though.” He glances between the window and the ground. “Are we just landing and booking it, or are we headed back into the building?”

Jay hums. “Technically, the extraction point is on the other side of the building. So while we could go around, we could also just have some fun and break things inside while we run through.” One day he'll be allowed explosions, but he'll admit hoping for it on the first mission was ambitious.

“Inside it is,” Shrike decides, and uses his position to kick off the side of the building, sending them swinging away, and then using the momentum of the backswing to let them both crash through the window.

Deeming the grapple gun as having done its part, he triggers it back and turns to Shrike, who is standing amid broken glass in stilettos.

“I'll admit,” he says, gesturing to Shrike’s shoes, “I'm impressed. Hope you're just as fast in them, though.” With a mischievous grin, he starts running, snatching a gun out of Shrike’s hands as he passes.

Behind him, Shrike lets out a wild laugh. His are not the only footsteps converging on Jay’s location- looks like they’re in for some company, and honestly, Jay isn’t complaining. He’s been shut up in a cell for too long.

Shrike can’t beat his speed in the heels, but he does keep pace, and on the opportunities that Jay has to glance back between punching, kicking, shooting, and destroying decorative vases and the like, Shrike is definitely holding his own.

Eventually Shrike runs out of bullets, and Jay is about to turn and throw another weapon to him when he realizes that Shrike is busy stabbing a man with the heel of his stiletto. Admittedly, pretty badass.

There's not many more guards at this point, which is pretty disappointing considering he feels like he just finished warming up. Oh, well. The emergency exit doors are right there and their ride not far beyond. 

They don't get a motorcycle–a damn shame, Jay wishes they did simply for the sheer drama factor of Shrike’s dress–but a ride in a van to a helicopter is good enough. The two of them have matching grins the whole trip back, exchanging silent looks to avoid catching the attention of the handlers. 

Right before they get on the helicopter, Shrike winks at him and pulls a wrapped hotel mint from out of his belt, handing it to Jay surreptitiously as he walks by. 

Yeah, okay, Jay thinks, feeling the wrapper crinkle in his hand. This guy's not bad.

Maybe this place won't be so shitty after all.

Chapter Text

The Ghost is very good at observing.

It's not one of the skills it was trained in, but it is the most useful. Handlers do not often give clear orders, it finds. They will say something vague and expect the Ghost to understand.

It did not originally understand very well. There were a lot of corrections in the past.

Time and practice, its own personal form of training, allowed it to become more skilled. Orders rarely seem obscure when it knows how to read the way the handlers’ eyes narrow, or the set of their shoulders, or how their words sound in the air.

Practice gave it the skill to read handlers, and when it comes to practice, the Ghost has the largest amount regarding Shrike.

Shrike is something to be valued, the Ghost knows. He is the only one to speak to it, the only one to ask it questions.

He is the one that gave it a name. The Ghost can't be Tim very often, because Tim has not been trained, and it's not safe for him to be around handlers. But around Shrike, the Ghost becomes Tim, and Shrike becomes his brother.

There is very little that Shrike can hide from it, no matter how hard he tries–and he doesn’t seem to try very hard. This means that when Shrike returns to the Armory with a new addition to his kit, the Ghost notices immediately.

It seems to be a plain black band, about as thick as a thumb drive, resting at the base of Shrike’s throat. It remains on even when Shrike takes off the rest of his gear, aside from his underlayers.

As far as it can tell, the band doesn't appear to have a purpose. The Ghost doesn't question handlers, but it notices, and it wonders. And Shrike is not a handler.

When it finally caves and comes to stand next to him, Shrike turns his attention to it immediately. 

“Hey, Tim,” he says, and the Ghost can tell he’s more tired than usual despite his smile. “Hope things went well while I was out.”

The Ghost doesn’t care much about how things went; it does what it is ordered, and then it stays with Shrike until it is ordered anew.

What it does care about is the band on Shrike’s neck, because it has been pondering on its purpose for a week and still cannot solve this puzzle.

Making sure it has Shrike’s attention (it always does, the sensation like a warm weight over it), it flicks its eyes between the band and Shrike’s face, tilting its head slightly in question.

Shrike blinks, a little too quickly. “Oh, that? It’s an extra comm unit. Connects to my gear.”

A comm unit was one possibility it considered, but Shrike would not keep it on with his underlayers. The Ghost stares at him, waiting for him to tell it something that isn't a lie.

Searching its face for a second, Shrike sighs. “It’s a tracker,” he says, slightly quieter. “I can’t take it off.”

Perhaps it is, but Shrike knows not to lie to it. He would have told it this first if it was the truth.

And Shrike doesn't leave the building much anymore, now that the Demon and Hooded Jay have been acquired.

The Ghost blinks slowly and deliberately. It is skilled in observation, and everything it is observing right now tells it that its brother is lying.

Shrike sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Tim,” he says, in a tone that means both guilt and regret, “it’ll be better if you don’t know. Okay? I’m sorry, but… I don’t think I should tell you.”

Shrike should have thought of a better explanation, then.

Handlers often say one thing and mean another. Sometimes, Shrike does the same thing.

Telegraphing its motion, the Ghost lifts a hand and pinches the fabric of Shrike’s shirt between its fingers. Holding eye contact, it tugs, deliberately in an inconsistent pattern.

There is not much the Ghost knows about families, or people, or why people act the way they do. Still, there is a small voice–Tim’s voice–that reminds it of its status as Shrike’s little brother.

And little brothers are annoying.

Shrike sighs again, but he’s smiling, and it’s the smile that he reserves for the Ghost. “Yeah? You’re just gonna irritate me until I tell you?”

He will dismiss anything else it does, so yes. The Ghost yanks a little harder. Shrike will concede, eventually. He always does when it's the Ghost who asks.

“Tim, no,” Shrike says, a little more sharply. It’s a tone that the Ghost doesn’t hear often from him. “I’m not going to tell you. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Liar. Shrike is a liar, and he is lying to the Ghost. That sharp tone isn't that of the handlers, but it's enough of an order that it closes off, because Shrike is scared and sometimes his fear scares it.

Fine. If he wants to hide and lie and keep it in the dark, then he can do that. If he wants to act like a handler then the Ghost will.  

“Hey, wait,” Shrike says, but it’s too late. Shrike has already made his decision, and so has it. “Tim, I- I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you, I just…”

Wants to have it be ignorant and obedient. Well, the Ghost is good at that. It was made to be like that. So when he orders it to wait, it does. And it waits again for another order.

“This… knowing this might just hurt you, okay?” Shrike says, and his body language is clearly uncertain, but he still doesn’t tell the Ghost what the band is. “There’s so much I can’t protect you from here, please let me keep this secret.”

There was a time before, when the Ghost was new to Reach. Shrike was there, the perfect example its handlers told it to emulate. So it tried to copy him, to respond quickly and move cleanly and complete tasks correctly. Except the Ghost wasn't the Ghost then, so it wasn't good at being quick or clean or at understanding its handlers. Not like Shrike.

Then Shrike started to change. As the punishments and training for the Ghost became harsher, so too did Shrike act increasingly abrasive to his handlers. He refused orders, questioned superiors, acted as if he was a person instead of a Weapon. The worse he behaved, the more the handlers would focus on reprogramming him and less on it.

For a long time, the Ghost didn't understand the reasoning behind Shrike’s behavior.

By the time it did, Shrike was already a motherboard corroded.

So yes, the Ghost understands Shrike’s motivations, his thoughts, his reasonings. Shrike, more than anything else, wants to protect it.

It is tired of being protected, when the only thing it does is slowly destroy the only person who calls it Tim.

Shrike begs it to allow him this secret. To keep the pain close, so that rust may spread further across his metal lest it grow to touch the Ghost.

The Ghost cannot stop Shrike from holding his tongue. It cannot force him to speak.

But it will not tolerate this anymore. If that means ignoring Shrike, treating him as a handler, obeying his orders and nothing else, then that is what it will do.

Shrike wants it to be able to be a person. And people rebel.

(Maybe in a different situation, Shrike would be proud of it.)

The Ghost stands, and waits, because he has not given it another order. It will stand here until Shrike or another handler does, because it is an obedient Weapon.

Shrike is still watching it nervously, waiting for a change of expression that will not come. After three seconds, he steps back slightly, offering a small smile. “Okay. Thank you.”

Handlers should not thank Weapons for following orders. It seems as though Shrike will leave; the Ghost starts to sink into the background, where time doesn't matter and its body cannot protest.

It distantly registers the upset expression on Shrike’s face. “Hey, Tim, what’s- well, I know what’s wrong, but…” he sighs. “I’m sorry, buddy. It’s not that I don’t trust you, I promise.”

Wrong. If he trusted it, he wouldn't lie. Shrike doesn't trust it to take care of itself, and he doesn't trust it to help him. For years it has accepted this fact. No longer. It must ‘grow up’ at some point, and if he will not let it then it will no longer listen.

Shrike stills in the way he does when preparing for a battle. “...Tim? Timmy, come on, give me a sign here, please?”

Handlers do not say please. This is not an order. The Ghost refuses to comply.

“Shit. Tim?” Shrike has gotten closer, hands hovering near the Ghost’s shoulders. “It’s okay, you’re okay. Can you let me know what’s going on right now?”

He doesn't understand–Shrike isn't as good at observing as the Ghost is. Eventually he will learn. The Ghost is okay, and Shrike is not, and that is the problem.

Shrike takes a breath, but it shakes. “Okay. That’s fine, Tim, you’re okay. Can you hear me?”

Yes, it can. 

They continue on like this for a few minutes, with no understanding of the situation on Shrike’s part, and the Ghost ends up sitting on the mattress in its cell with Shrike crouched beside it, continuing to talk.

Then the guards arrive to secure them in their cells for the night. Hooded Jay and the Demon emerge from the training room, by now each Weapon understanding the routine assigned.

There is no reason for Shrike to be posing a problem right now. He is doing so anyway.

Standard protocol instructs each Weapon to their cell for the night, so that they may shut down without collusion. This is how it has been since the first night in Reach.

Shrike…breaks protocol, sitting in the Ghost’s cell instead of his own. He does not move, much like how the Ghost had refused to heed his pleas earlier. This is different, though. The Ghost would never be so foolish as to disobey handlers, not when disobedience leads to reprogramming and pain upon Shrike.

When the handlers tell Shrike to leave, he acts like he cannot hear them. Which might be true- he has malfunctioned in similar ways in the past- but it is hard to tell.

The handlers gesture more aggressively. Shrike does nothing. The handlers yell. Shrike does not move.

One of the handlers pulls out some sort of small device, and activates it. 

Shrike wasn’t pretending after all, because he does not brace himself or prepare. There is a near-imperceptible click, and Shrike folds in on himself with a high, pained wheezing noise, crumpling over next to the mattress.

Panic and fear attempt to swamp the Ghost, but it ignores them, smothering them under the fog with long practice. This is more important–this has never happened before, never in the past has there been a device (a remote, it deduces) to cause this reaction in Shrike. The band, the Ghost concludes. This is connected to the band somehow. 

Hypothesizing must come later, when it is alone. Now, Shrike must be ejected from its cell. He has not attempted to leave despite incentive, which means he is unwilling or unable. Handlers will continue to punish him until he complies. Compliance could take too long and result in more permanent damage.

The Ghost concludes, in less than two seconds from the press of the device, what the solution is. It grasps Shrike’s arms and begins to drag him from the cell, deliberately not looking towards the handlers.

It cannot obey a command it cannot observe, after all. 

Shrike’s cell is directly next door. The Ghost does not have to drag him far.

Problem: the Ghost is not allowed to enter Shrike’s cell, as commanded silently and enforced upon Shrike himself.

Solution: the Ghost grabs Shrike center mass and throws him into the bounds of his cell.

The barred door of Shrike’s cell snaps closed. Shrike is still shaking slightly, but has propped himself up on his elbows and is aware enough to be looking towards the handlers and the Ghost.

Acceptable, for now. The Ghost pivots and moves obediently into its cell, unflinching at the loud slam of the door. 

When it dares to look at the handlers, they have expressions it does not like. A problem for later. As is, the handlers nod and disconnect the lights, ending the nightly routine.

Shrike’s breathing is louder than usual, and sounds slightly strained. A few seconds after the door closes behind the handlers, he asks, “Tim?” 

The Ghost was rebelling against him, but this seems to be a situation where its actions should be temporarily halted. There will be explanations and if this is what the Ghost suspects, it will be upset.

Emotions do not make it through the fog often, but the Ghost knows that it will be furious.

Later. Now, it knocks on the wall.

“Okay,” Shrike says, the word almost a sigh. “I’m… sorry you had to see that. Thank you for helping me.”

Maybe the Ghost will sic Hooded Jay on Shrike. The Weapon seems specialized in words, especially angry ones. And the Ghost believes it is growing angry.

Sorry it had to see. Not that it happened. Not that this is the same as the day before and before that and before that again.

Shrike did not look surprised, once he was in his cell. Once again, he has taken pain upon himself that was not. Necessary.

Begrudgingly, it knocks again on the wall.

There is a metallic noise, and Shrike’s hand becomes visible. He is sticking it out through the bars of his cell door, angled to be as close to the Ghost’s door as possible. 

“I’m sorry I upset you,” Shrike continues, “but not that I tried to hide this. I didn’t want you to worry. There’s nothing either of us could do to change it, anyway.”

The Ghost reaches out its door and grasps Shrike’s hand in its own. It counts out two seconds, to allow Shrike the comfort.

Then it twists his hand into a lock and squeezes, hard and deliberate.

There’s a partially stifled gasp from Shrike’s cell, but aside from one initial twitch, Shrike’s hand does not move. “Yeah, I figured you weren’t very happy with me about that decision.”

Pointedly, it squeezes again. As Hooded Jay would say, sneered with bared teeth: Oh, you fucking figure, huh?

Shrike hisses quietly. “Yep, there it is. Okay, Tim, that’s fine. Let it out.”

Abruptly, it wants to do nothing but. Doesn't he understand? Doesn't he realize that Tim hates it when he gets hurt for his sake?!

His brother is an idiot, and right now Tim hates him.

He flings his brother’s hand away, standing up and intentionally making heavy footfalls as he moves to the opposite corner of his cell.

“I’m sorry,” Shrike says again, but that changes nothing. He still did it.

Shrike’s hand stays resting outside of the bars, palm up.

Tim kicks the wall, hissing wordlessly under his breath. Sorry means nothing. Sorry is empty words. This is why Tim doesn't talk, because words are lies when actions go against empty promises and useless platitudes. 

“Hey,” Shrike says, tone more measured and alert, “can you be careful for me, whatever you’re doing? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

It seems like he won't have to ask the Jay for assistance, because words bubble up all on their own, quiet and raspy and angry. “Shut up!”

Immediate silence from the cell next door. Shrike’s hand remains in Tim’s sight, knuckles resting on the floor, carefully still.

His throat wants to close up, but he will not let it. Not now. “You keep doing this, Dick! I hate it! I hate it!”

“I’m sorry,” Dick says again, uselessly.

”No!” Tim yells. “You're not! You would stop if you were.” Pain prickles in his throat; he drops his volume. “You keep doing this, and one day you’re going to die and leave me alone and I hate you!”

A second of silence. Two. Dick’s fingers twitch slightly.

“Tim,” he says finally, “I didn’t mean to… lose control, there. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Tears bubble up, quickly overflowing and carving hot tracks down his cheeks. “You're missing the point, again. You're ignoring me, again. You're pretending everything is alright because I'm not the one getting hurt.” He chokes on a sob, trying to muffle it with his hand and failing. “Well, guess what! It does hurt, and it does make me feel terrible, and you're not protecting me from anything!”

“Oh, Timmy,” Dick says, and his hand bends even farther towards Tim’s cell. “I- I thought if you didn’t know, it wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Do you think I'm stupid?” he snaps. “Do you think I wouldn't notice? That I don't pay attention? All I do is pay attention! I've known! I knew for a while! And you never listen to me!” Tears clog his throat and stuff his nose. Tim sniffs, scrubbing his arm over his face. 

“...I was being selfish,” Dick says quietly. “I know I can’t keep things from you. That I can’t protect you. But, fuck, Tim, I wish I could. Just for a second, I wanted to pretend that I could.” His voice is choked as well. Tim already knows what he looks like when he cries, so the wall between them may as well be invisible.

“Maybe you did,” Tim admits. “In the beginning. The very beginning.” His tone turns dark, because he refuses to let his brother think this was okay. “But not for long. You can't protect me. No one can. We're trapped, Dick. Let me fight my own battles.”

Dick’s crying is audible now, even though the choked quality makes it clear that his brother is trying to stifle it. 

Tim walks over to his door and collapses against it, sticking his hand out. It hovers over his brother's, a gap he refuses to close. “Will you let me?”

The hand below his is shaking. “...I don’t know if I can. I- it’s not that I don’t trust you, Baby Bird, it’s just that-” Dick sobs again, gasping for air to continue, “If I stop… it might break me.”

Dick curls his fingers, not pulling away but giving Tim’s hand more space. “I don’t want to leave you, Tim. I know in some ways, I already have. I already do, and I can’t stand it. But I don’t know if I could make it through that.”

“I,” Tim says, enunciating clearly through a choked voice and puffy eyes, “would rather have a broken brother than a dead one.” Knowing what he's about to say will hurt does not stop him, does not make him hesitate. “If you don't stop, you'll die. I can't be Tim without you. You die, and he dies, too.”

There’s another metallic thunk, as Dick’s head gently impacts the bars. ”I know,” he says, “I know. That’s what I’m scared of. But, Tim,” he feeds his other hand through the bars too, still not touching Tim’s, “I believe in you. It’s hard, and it’s horrible, but I believe you can still exist. My brave little brother.”

“Wrong.” Tim clenches his hand into a fist. “I lied. It's not that I can't. It's that I won't.” He knows, fully and deeply, how this is nothing but the painful, awful truth. “I refuse to live in a world without you. I will not do it.”

Dick’s words come out broken, like he can’t get enough air for them. “I- I’m already on my way out, Tim-bird. You know that. Everyone knows it.”

Tim was born in Reach, as a gift given freely and lovingly by the brother who sits in the cell next to him. What Dick doesn't understand is that he doesn’t want to be Tim if Tim is always alone. “I do not care,” he says firmly. “Either we both live, or you die and I follow you.”

“Tim,” Dick says, voice frantic, “please don’t say that. My time is already running out, you are the one good thing I’ve ever had, the one person I’ve been able to help. Don’t make yourself my collateral.”

“I already am,” Tim whispers. “If I'm the one good thing you've ever had, what do you think it's like for me?” He'll say it again and again and again, because his brother does not listen, he does not understand. “There is no purpose in living in a world without sunlight.”

“Oh god,” Dick sobs, “I’m going to kill my little brother.” 

“No, you won't.” Not unless he keeps being an idiot. “Live, Dick. Let me take my own burdens. We'll be okay as long as we do this together.”

Dick is still crying, but it’s quieter now. He seems to be getting more air. 

“I’ll try,” he says, “I’ll try my damnedest. I promise that.” And there’s more strength in his voice than Tim has heard in a while.

“I'll hold you to it,” Tim says firmly, and drops his hand to cradle his brother’s. ”Thank you.”

Dick clutches onto his hand like it’s the only thing saving him from falling off a building. He is always careful, so careful, with Tim, though, so it doesn’t hurt. “Of course, Baby Bird. Anything for you.”

“I love you,” Tim says, meaning it with everything he has. “You're my brother, Dick. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Dick replies, and Tim can hear the smile in his voice despite the tears. “My little brother. You’re incredible, you know that?”

Tim smirks. “I know. I was taught by the best, after all.”

Chapter Text

As soon as Jay pulls him aside, Dick knows what’s going to happen. 

Sure, Jay said he wanted to spar, but he’s been glancing between Dick and Tim all morning, and after last night’s conversation, Jay definitely wants some sort of context or debrief. 

And Dick can admit, he probably deserves one. Both him and the Demon, honestly, but Jay is the most likely to push for one instead of acting uninterested and trying to collect further intel alone. 

The door to the training room closes behind them. Tim, at least, will respect the clear sign- he’s good like that. Dick isn’t sure the Demon even knows that a closed door means no interruptions, at least not when in a Weapons-only context. 

“So,” Jay starts, eyeing him like he expects Dick to collapse, “does this mean I can call you a dick and be accurate?”

Oh, right. Tim had said his name. 

Dick almost feels… disappointed. It's irrational, of course, but he’d been hoping that, after he asked Demon and Jay for their names, someday they’d return the favor. A sign of care, or of respect, or something. 

It doesn’t matter.

“Yes,” Dick says, preparing for the endless jokes. Jay seems like the type to make them, and Dick doesn’t even mean that in a rude way. He’s just tired. 

He likes his name. It’s his. The handlers don’t care enough to make fun of it, because they don’t think it matters. Jay might be different. 

“Hell of a name you chose,” Jay continues, still watching him carefully. Then, “...It fits you. Won’t stop me from making fun of you, though.” 

“My parents named me,” Dick says, and the pang of loss is distant in his voice. It’s distant in his mind, too; he no longer has clear memories of what he’d lost. Just daydreams and snapshots- except for the fall. 

He’s forgetting them. Or he’s already forgotten. It feels like a betrayal.

That makes Jay pause. Dick’s noticed the way the man acts, like he’s accepted his status as a Weapon as part of his personhood, unbothered with how everyone around him sees him as lesser. Tim saved him, Dick knows, from that same fate–just as much as Dick has tried to save his brother in turn.

“Every time you say something depressing it makes it harder to mock you, y’know,” Jay gripes.

“It’s not depressing,” Dick says, feeling weirdly offended for his dead parents. “I’m glad it happened. I like my name. Mock away, if you want.” He manages a decent smile at that, and it feels almost genuine. 

Jay groans. “That’s not the point. I can’t figure you out, Shr–Dick. You’re a living oxymoron.”

“Thank… you?” Dick replies, unsure what an oxymoron is, but suspecting it’s something either bad or confusing.

He receives a dead stare, followed by a pained look. “...and also just a moron, apparently.” Jay shakes his head. “But I digress. What I mean is, one second you’re asking us for our names and treating us like people, and the next you’re acting like you’re an expendable thing to be used and disposed of.”

Dick sighs, and lowers his voice. “I’m just… realistic, sometimes. I try not to be, though. Tim deserves a break. And so do you two,” he adds, and finds that he means it.

The look Jay gives him is piercing enough to pin him to a wall. “But you don’t?”

With a sigh, Dick rubs his eyes. This conversation is going to give him a headache, but it needs to be had. “You’ve seen what I get out of it.”

Jay hisses under his breath something that sounds like ‘Fucking idiot, goddamn hypocrite, why the hell–’ and Dick intentionally ignores it. Jay doesn’t understand. He can’t see how Dick has been falling apart long enough that it doesn’t matter anymore.

“Far be it for me to try and keep morale up,” Dick says, almost a hiss. This is irritating him, and it shouldn’t be. Jay is just trying to understand and help, but Dick doesn’t want to have to spell it out for him. He doesn’t want to talk about it, any of it, but he takes a breath and keeps going anyway. “I try to stay positive. Sometimes I fail. It happens.”

“For fuck’s–” Jay turns away, stalks around the room in a single angry circle, then beelines back. “Look. You want to keep morale up? Fine. You want to act like we’re people when the handlers will beat it out of us the second they catch wind? Whatever. But–”

“The handlers here don’t care,” Dick interrupts, because Jay needs to know Dick isn’t trying to endanger them like that.

“Shut up and let me finish,” Jay snarls, before visibly reeling himself in. He takes a deep breath in through his nose and carefully breathes out. “If you’re going to keep doing this, then you need to stop hurting yourself to get it done. Fuck, Dick! All you’re doing is getting us attached when you plan on leaving!” 

“I don’t plan on it,” Dick retorts, careful to keep his tone level, “and I already got this speech from Tim.” He takes a steadying breath- Jay is trying to help. “I was just trying to minimize potential losses. I’ll be more careful, okay?”

“That’s not–!” Jay stops, holding up one finger before jabbing it to the ground in a very obvious command to stay. Then he pivots, striding to where a sandbag hangs from the ceiling, and throws himself into a kick hard enough to almost have it sweep up and hit the tiles where it’s suspended from. 

Dick leans back against the wall. He’s feeling oddly honored that Jay is bothering to work off his anger and continue the conversation. That this is important to him, keeping Dick safe. On some level, anyway.

After a few more blows, Jay catches the backswing in his palms with a loud thump, leaving the equipment swaying slightly as he marches back over to Dick. “Let me help,” Jay grits out, making eye contact when normally he wouldn’t bother. “The other two are just kids, okay, I get it. But–fuck, man, you’re the one who said we’re a team. That means sharing burdens.”

“Okay,” Dick says, “I’ll let you help.” He even means it. “But- today’s situation was different. It wasn’t something anyone could help with. I’m not trying to backtrack on my promise,” he adds quickly, “I’m just saying, this time it was… personal. It was about mitigating damage for as long as possible.”

“What’s the collar do, Dick?” Jay asks, sounding defeated. There’s a slump in his shoulders that he wouldn’t have dared show months ago. This show of vulnerability is a victory in its own.

“It’s got some sort of circuit in it that shocks me,” Dick says, feeling weirdly embarrassed, like he’s confessing a failure. “Remotely operated, handheld device. Although it’s possible it can be activated from farther away, I just haven’t seen it.”

Jay curses. “And it’s not a fucking dog collar, I doubt they put a limit on the charge–shit, it’s close to your brain.” He shakes his head. “That sucks. Fuck them for doing that to you.”

“Thanks,” Dick says, and his voice is oddly choked. He… hasn’t heard something like that in a while. Tim doesn’t say a word against their handlers and guards, and Dick gets it, he really does, but… 

This is nice. To hear that he’s right, that he doesn’t deserve what’s happening to him. 

Aw shit, there are tears in his eyes. Fuck. Dick tries to will them away, which doesn’t work, so he settles for not blinking and hoping Jay doesn’t notice. He’s looking away, seeming to have deemed eye contact unnecessary now that his point has been made, so maybe Dick will get away with it.

Then Jay clears his throat. “...Thanks. For telling the truth. And letting me help. I–” he cuts himself off once he turns back to Dick, eyes widening. “Shit, did I make you cry? I wasn’t even trying!”

“No,” Dick hurries to reassure him, “no, it’s- it was nice. To hear you say that- that it… wasn’t okay.” He keeps his voice low on the last few words just in case, wrapping his arms around himself a little and squeezing. It helps. 

Jay’s back to eyeing him like Dick is a feral cat. “Do you…need a hug?”

“I don’t need one,” Dick says, gentle but firm. He doesn’t want a hug that’s out of regret or assumed responsibility. He wants Jay to want to give him a hug. “I would like one, if you’d like one too, but you don’t owe me one, if you’re just offering because-”

“Christ, be a little selfish for once, would you?” Jay complains, but he’s stepping forward and the arms that wrap around him are only a little hesitant. “Just because I’m not a fan of touch doesn’t mean I’ll stab you for wanting comfort.”

“But I don’t want you to make yourself uncomfortable,” Dick protests. Jay is warm. Dick feels… safe. Protected. Jay is stronger than him, and he cares, and right now, he’s in between Dick and the world. 

Dick forces himself to cling to the present. He doesn’t want to miss this for something false, because this is nice too. Maybe even better.

“It’s not like you tackled me,” Jay says, a little sharp but somehow it only hits bluntly. “I’m literally the one hugging you right now, stop complaining and let me do this for you.” His arms squeeze Dick firmly, one hand rising to hover over the back of his head.

Dick goes to reply, but he melts under the soft pressure instead. After his bones feel less like jelly, he shifts to hug back, placing his hands gently around Jay’s torso in case he wants to pull away, in case he doesn’t want to be touched. 

“Thank you,” Dick whispers, and Jay can definitely hear that he’s almost crying. 

The line of muscle on Jay’s back stiffens at the touch, then relaxes. “I’ve got you,” Jay murmurs, and then there’s a hand tangled in his hair and tucking his face down, hiding the world from his sight. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. No one will hurt you here.”

Oh, no. Now he is going to cry.

For all that Dick knows Tim, he tends to say what he wants to hear to the kid. What he thinks he would have wanted, needed, in that situation.

And Jason is saying it to him. And he means it, and it’s true.

Dick can’t stop the first sob from coming out. He manages to stifle the second one partially, but he presses his face into Jay’s shoulder and clings tighter to him, and he’s safe. He’s not protecting, he’s being protected.  

He can let go for a moment, and Jay will catch him.

Chapter Text

Dick slowly blinks awake. This isn’t his bedroom. His bedroom is nice, with lots of fluffy blankets, and the walls are sky blue- or, are they a soft red? Or- wallpaper? 

It doesn’t matter.

He must have fallen asleep on the couch! Silly. He needs to make lunch- is it a weekend? Did he pack lunches for the boys already? He can’t remember, but he can find out.

“Timmy?” He asks, getting up from the couch- ooh, it’s lower than he remembered it being, almost on the floor- and walking into the main room. If the boys are home, then it’s the weekend. If they’re at school, then- 

Then-

He’ll be alone in the house. He’ll be alone. He can stare at the blue-tan-white walls, or sit at the table, and wait.

He wants the boys to be home. 

“Tim?” He calls again. Tim doesn’t always like to talk, but he’ll make a noise if Dick is looking for him, and he’s more likely to be inside… for some reason. Dick doesn’t remember why, but it’s not important.

“One sec, Shrike, we’re a bit busy,” comes a slightly strained voice. Dick looks out–and down, the boys are sitting on the floor–to see Tim holding something in his hands, wrapping it around the arm of–

“Jason!” He smiles widely- both of his boys are home! “What happened, buddy?” Hurrying to sit next to them, Dick examines Jason’s arm. It looks like- it looks-

The arm flickers for a second, the walls glitch sideways, and Dick sees red where there shouldn’t be any. And then he blinks, and everything is okay. 

Oh, Jason’s arm is scraped up a bit! That’s okay, though, Timmy is helping. His hands are steadier than Dick’s are, he’s so nice to help his brother out with this. 

Jason looks confused, then worried, before he seems to understand. “Just…took a tumble, Dick,” he answers. “Gh–Tim’s fine, though, so he’s helping me clean up.”

Dick hums sympathetically. “Skateboarding? Oh, or is it Timmy who… skateboards…?”

He can’t remember, so he trails off, and then after a second, he loses the sentence entirely. Oh, well, it probably wasn’t important. 

“I was…being stupid,” Jason admits with a grimace. “Showing off, trying to climb a building. Ended up falling, cut up my arm some.”

Dick gasps. “Jay, you- try to be more careful, okay?” He shoves down his panic- it doesn’t belong here, the house is happy and calm and everything is okay inside it. “And you’re not stupid. You’re brilliant, you just make risky choices sometimes.”

Jason nods. “I know, don’t gotta tell me twice. It was a stupid decision, though, should’a thought it through.” His attention turns to Tim. “A little tighter, G–Tim. Yeah, like that. Good job.”

Dick can’t suppress a beaming smile. His boys are so kind to each other. He’s so proud of them. “I’m sure you’ll be right as rain in no time,” he reassures Jason, patting his shoulder (gently, just in case) and managing to hit it first try. Nice!

The answering grin is sly. “Yeah, real soon,” Jason agrees, patting Dick’s hand before gently pulling it from his shoulder. “Hey, Tim’s all done patching me up. How about we, uh, go wash our hands and see if we can snag something to eat?”

“Sure!” Dick nods, putting a hand on the table before standing up- ooh, headrush- and…

There’s a stain on the tablecloth.

A red stain. It’s dark, and it isn’t spreading fast, and it came from Dick’s hand.

Dick forces a smile, but it wobbles. “Oh, silly me, I… I got- something on the table. Let me just-” he reaches out to wipe it away and misses slightly, but more of the liquid smears onto the table. It’s sticky, and he hates it.

It doesn’t belong in the house. He doesn’t want it in the house!

Dick’s hands are shaking, and he’s staring at the blood on the table. The unlucky dumbass happened to put a hand on Jay’s injured shoulder. Fifty-fifty chance, and the coin flip came up tails.

Jay thinks fast. He doesn’t want to learn what happens when Dick is forced from this weird mindset. “I–there was a paint bucket,” he blurts. “There was construction, it’s why I thought the building would be okay to climb, there was scaffolding–”

Dick blinks for a second, then his smile flickers back into place. “Jason,” he says, in a lightly scolding tone, then shakes his head with an affectionate grin. “You just find trouble everywhere, huh?” He’s not looking at the table anymore, at least.

Thank fuck that worked. “Better me than Tim, yeah? I’m sturdier.” He grabs Dick’s bloody hand and starts tugging him towards the bathroom, making eye contact with Ghost and jerking his chin towards the table. “Here, we’ll wash it off.”

The Demon continues to stare at him like he’s insane, like they have since the moment Jay played along with Dick’s delusion. Jay mouths fuck off to the kid. If Demon wants to judge him for this, whatever; he’s not dealing with an explosion or tears or another breakdown or whatever will happen otherwise.

Dick continues smiling at Jay, and it’s a little less creepy when he knows Dick is actually seeing him. Well, a version of him. “Okay!” He looks around for a second, confused, then starts heading towards the training room door.

Jay tugs him the other way before he can go too far. “Bathroom’s this way, remember?” As horrifying as these situations are, at least Dick is easy to maneuver around, and relatively simple to manage as long as you know how to play into what he’s believing. Jay plants Dick in front of the sink. “See? Now we can wash our hands.”

It feels patronizing, to treat Shrike this way: repeating tasks, leading him around, lying blatantly to his face. Like he’s talking to a civilian child. Jay can’t say he’s fond of it.

Dick washes his hands. They don’t have hand soap, but Jay grabs the bar from the shower and hands it to Dick instead. Dick gives him a grateful smile, then shifts away from the sink so Jay can take his turn.

Old practice has him scrubbing the dry and drying flakes from his skin and under his nails quickly. “There, now we can see about food.” He takes Dick’s hand again, just to make sure he won’t wander, and leads him to the table. Recalling the first incident with this state, he says, “We, uh, still don’t have chairs, remember? So we gotta stand.”

“Okay,” Dick says, seeming to accept Jay’s excuse easily, thank fuck. “Or we could sit on the rug, like a picnic!”

Jay pauses. “...right. We could do that, too.” There’s no fucking rug in their living area, it’s all just smooth stone. “Demon, could you do me a solid and grab my blanket?” Thankfully, the kid does, though with that standard glare they always have. “And, uh–” the rattle of plastic draws his attention to the door, where trays have just slid in. “Dick, could you go grab the food over there? I’ll…get the others settled.”

“Thanks, Jay,” Dick says, still with a huge smile. He heads over to the door, grabbing two of the trays and balancing them decently well- he doesn’t spill anything, anyway. Jay takes the opportunity to grab his blanket when Demon returns with it, spreading it out on the ground. If food spills on it he won’t be pressed; some sauce stains are nothing compared to dried blood.

Once done, he looks to the younger two. “Tim, come sit, would you?” Ghost doesn’t nod, but he does walk over and smoothly drops down on the blanket. “Demon, I don’t care if you eat here or your cell or on the goddamn ceiling, but if you’re gonna hang out here you can’t cause problems.”

Their (presumably) youngest and surliest (Jay is a close second, but that kid definitely takes the lead) scoffs, though they do sit on the blanket, if at one of the furthest corners. They’re probably starved for companionship, considering how the human psyche is, but since the brat hisses any time Jay offers so much as a fist bump, he’s not willing to push.

Maybe Dick will, once he’s…aware. Sober. Under control. Running on all cylinders. Whatever the fuck. The point being, that guy loves bonding and also doesn’t have things like “self-preservation” to stop him when Jay or the Demon bring out knives.

Putting the trays down in front of Ghost and Jay, patting Ghost on the head as he stands again, Dick goes to grab the other two. He’s humming something, but Jay isn’t familiar with it.

“I still fail to understand why we encourage Shrike’s ridiculous bouts of insanity,” Demon complains, though that doesn’t stop them from taking their tray when Dick comes back and hands it to them.

“I could say something about basic decency and respect for others,” Jay says, taking his own tray and spearing some meat on his flimsy plastic spork, “but you wouldn’t care about that, so I’ll repeat: Do you want to deal with this guy on a psychotic breakdown? Because I don’t.”

“What’s happening?” Dick asks, sitting down in between Ghost and Jay and setting his tray on his lap.

Jay points the stupid pronged teeth on his utensil at Demon. “Kid’s being grumpy is all.”

“I am not a child,” Demon hisses, though any weight behind that statement is lost since they took off their mask and once again sound like a high-pitched squeaky toy.

Dick’s smile gets more humorous, and he glances at Jay like they’re sharing a joke. “I believe you.” After a second he adds, “and if there’s anything I can do to help you feel better, let me know, okay?”

Mullish but obviously knowing when a fight is pointless, Demon harrumphs and settles down to eat their food. Smart decision, considering how few grievances Jay has regarding throwing down against a child.

“So, Jason, aside from falling off a building,” Dick asks, “How was your day?”

Something in Jay’s stomach flips. He clenches the hand not holding his spork, because he’s broken them before and it’s always a fucking hassle. Jason, he says, keeps saying, as if it makes sense. Maybe to Dick it does. Like he has a full name, and the Jay he prefers to go by is a nickname instead of an allowance.

Three letters shouldn’t mean anything to him. Like, really, ‘son’? ‘Jason’, as if he’s a person with meaning and an origin, with a fitting name to match. It’s stupid, and pointless, and the product of some freaky unreality coping mechanism. It doesn’t mean anything, doesn’t represent anything.

It still makes his chest tight with something like grief.

“Jason?” Dick asks again, because right, there had been a question somewhere in between the swirl of emotions.

“Productive,” he forces out, hoping Dick won’t pick up the strain in his voice. “Got a lot done.” And they did, really. The mission was a success with manageable casualties, Jay the only one taking damage. His wounds will stop bothering him in about three days and be fully healed within a week or two, depending.

“Lots of homework?” Dick asks, almost conspiratorially, before gasping in realization, “Oh, or is it that book you’re writing? I can’t remember.”

Jay hasn’t written anything other than mission reports since he was twelve. “Kind of, yeah,” he agrees anyway, ignoring the pang that comes with lying and the sense of regret it sparks. “More of a project. Finished it, though.”

“Great!” Dick says, and he sounds so proud it makes Jay’s jaw ache, with how hard he’s clenching his teeth against the tide of emotions. “Can I read it sometime? Now, it’s okay if you don’t want me to,” he reassures, “I know sometimes older brothers can be embarrassing, and I won’t pry.”

Older brothers.

Fuck. Since when has Dick seen him as family? Jay was pretty certain that slot was reserved for Ghost, what with their whole bond and years spent together. “Maybe,” he chokes out, staring down at his food so he doesn’t have to look at how Demon’s head whips towards him or pay attention to the weight of Ghost’s gaze. 

Jay’s never had a family before, and until now he never wanted one. He was happy without it, because in his experience family is nothing but a chain trapping you to obligations you didn’t want. It was a burden.

So why the fuck does the word sound like hope?

Chapter Text

When Hood blinks back to reality, it’s to see Ghost with a knife in his shoulder.

One of Jay’s knives.

Fuck, he thinks, followed by what have I done and quickly overshadowed by a wave of green fury, close to the surface from his previous rampage and eager to try for a repeat.

His hand still grips the handle, holding the blade in the meat of Ghost’s shoulder. Jay forces his hand open and stumbles back, digging his fingers into his thighs. “What the fuck, Ghost?!”

The silent wraith, of course, doesn’t answer, though his eyes seem ever so slightly wider and one hand reaches up to grip at his wound. He doesn’t pull the knife, obviously, because none of them are that idiotic.

“The mission, Hood,” Demon snaps, forcing him back to reality. Right. This is their first mission with all four of them, supervised by a metric fuck ton of guards and the Handler. One misstep and who knows what will happen?

Growling wordlessly, Jay reluctantly shoves all that mess to the side to deal with once they’re not one step from a bullet to the skull. 

They finish the mission, Shrike gets them back to base with some truly awesome driving skills, and they’re sent to their enclosure with medical supplies–because nonlethal wounds aren’t important enough for Reach to get a doctor in. No, the Weapons have to patch themselves up.

It means Jay gets to keep his knife, though.

Still, by the time they’re back at base and Dick is sewing up Ghost’s shoulder, Jay is holding himself together by sheer will and the grounding feeling of the wall against his back.

“What,” he hisses as soon as Dick steps away, staying against the wall lest he do something stupid, “the fuck. Was that?”

And Ghost, the sixteen year old idiot, shrugs.

He shrugs.

With a stabbed shoulder.

“You dumbass!” Jay roars. “I told you! I said you have to stay out of my way, and Dick agreed! Did you not listen? Did you not bother to contemplate Dick’s instructions?!”

“I’m sure he had a reason,” Dick says carefully, and Jay can tell he’s being managed, and he hates it.

“And you!” He whirls on him, stabbing a finger at Dick because it’s not a knife. “You just let him do stupid shit like that?! I could have killed him!”

Dick winces, but doesn’t back down. “I trust his judgment in the field. And he doesn’t take orders from me.”

“He should,” Jay snarls, knowing distantly that he should calm down but unable to muster the willpower underneath the tide of fury, “if he’s going to make decisions that end up with him dead at my hands.”

Glancing over at Ghost, Dick prompts, “You had a reason, right?”

Using a combination of the rudimentary signal language they’ve been working on and his voice, Ghost says, “We needed the hostage alive. Hood would have killed them with the guards. I got them out of the line of fire.”

And maybe the kid is right. Jay knows he doesn’t see differences between targets when he’s like that unless they’re specifically marked right before he falls into the haze. It’s incredibly likely that he would have taken out the hostage, and that Ghost removed them from Jay’s sight. Fuck, the fact that it was Ghost is likely the reason there is someone who lived, because only his teammates are fast enough to not be killed by him. Fast enough to give him a chance to come out of it on his own, because the Handler sure as shit wasn’t willing to yank him out.

Knowing this, understanding logically why Ghost made the decisions he did, doesn’t quell any of the anger buzzing under his skin. “You’re lucky I had only knives,” Jay snaps, “instead of a gun, because then you and the hostage would be dead, because you can’t outrun fucking bullets–”

“Hey, Jay. Take a second.” 

Logically, Dick is probably right. But right now, it just sounds like mistrust, like Dick doesn’t think Jay can handle himself, and has decided that actually, no, he’s giving the orders now.

There’s good reason for that, Jay knows, considering what he’s done to Dick before, but rationality is hanging on with tremulous fingertips and the caution does nothing but grate. “I’m perfectly fine! I don’t fucking need a second!”

“We’re okay,” Dick continues, hands held up in obvious surrender. “We all made it, and we can talk about what to do next time so we don’t end up in this situation again.”

The fact that Dick having his hands up fucking soothes him like he’s a wild animal infuriates him even more. Jay can’t–he can’t do this. With a furious, wordless noise, he pivots and swings.

Concrete crumbles under his fist, the wall buckling under his punch and raining dust down. His knuckles throb, possibly cracked, but he’s got his gloves on so at least they’re not shattered. At least it’s not him beating his head against the wall trying to knock some sense into his skull.

Breathing heavily, he drops his hand, staring at the grey dust on his knuckles. “I,” he says with carefully measured words, “am not having a good time right now.”

“I’m sorry,” Dick says, and it’s calm, but not quite careful. “Can I help? Do you want a shower? To be left alone?”

Fuck Dick for knowing him and fuck him for having good suggestions. “Shower,” Jay grits out, feeling embarrassment creeping in and more of that good ol’ rage following in its wake. 

“Cool. I call second. Want some bandages?” Dick asks, already turning to check on Ghost, tone easy and casual. Turning his back, because he trusts Jay.

Goddammit. Life was much simpler when he didn’t have to do things like care. “Dunno. I’ll see after.” Jay walks along the walls of the room, because Dick may trust him but Jay knows himself, and slips into the bathroom without looking at anyone.

The mirror makes him want to break it (why the hell do they have a mirror? Don’t the guards know glass is a good weapon?) so he ignores it, turns the shower on, and steps in the cold spray in his full suit.

Not much sensation makes it past his gear, but it’s enough to shock his system into acting instead of reacting. Jay takes his suit off and more stands in cold water than actually shower, but he doesn’t give a shit.

He’s not nearly ambitious enough to leave the bathroom without some form of ‘protection’, flimsy as it may be, so he has sweats on and a towel over his head like a hood when he leaves, beelining for the spot he was before and settling down next to the small pile of debris that fell.

Dick has finished bandaging Ghost’s shoulder. Even though he doesn’t directly catch Jay’s glance over, as soon as Jay is settled he moves across the room and leans over, handing him a roll of bandages. “Need anything stitched?”

“Nah.” Jay feels like he gargled rocks, which is normal when he finally breaks out of his hazes. “Just a little split. Gloves took most of it.” With how fond he is of punching people, his handlers figured out quick that he needed reinforcement over his hands. “...Thanks.”

“Yeah, of course.” Dick hesitates, then sits against the wall too, far enough that Jay doesn’t feel crowded, but close enough that if they both reach out they could join hands in the middle. Not that Jay wants to do that right now–he’s shaky with the post-adrenaline crash and his usual discomfort level has skyrocketed, but he gets the sentiment.

Jason feels like he should apologize. It’s a new thing that has been happening recently; just another change these dumbfucks have incited in his brain. He’s not made for apologizing. The Hooded Jay doesn’t give a shit about what others think of him, so it was never necessary. Honestly, the fact that he does here is kind of annoying.

…He’s not suited for this. For any of this. Teamwork, camaraderie, trust, whatever. He was created to be a solo tool, and he’s fine with that. Trying to fit in here is like trying to shove a square block through a round hole: it just doesn’t work, and if you force it something is going to break.

“I’m not gonna apologize,” he eventually says, because he’s not. “What Ghost did was risky, with a high chance of going wrong. One move and I could have crippled him permanently.”

“That’s fair,” Dick says with a nod. “We’re not expecting you to apologize. But…” he’s clearly measuring his words carefully, “it might be a little easier for you if you trust that we can at least delay or distract you. We’ve got the skills for it- you wouldn’t kill us by accident unless something went horribly wrong, and we have the judgment to make those calls too.”

“Still could kill you indirectly,” Jay retorts, with far less bite than he was expecting and a lot more exhaustion. “Reach’ll dispose of you if you can’t work.”

“We’re in a dangerous field,” Dick points out. “A grapple gun malfunction could kill us. Every day, something could kill us, or disable us. You’re not any more dangerous for us to be around than any other Weapon- I’d argue you’re less dangerous to us, actually, since we work together so well.”

Giving in to this allowance feels like he’s painting a target onto his back. It’s the same sensation as when, early on in his training, he’d fuck up and just know how bad he was going to be punished. Weakness. Vulnerability. Having your life and well-being held in someone else’s hands. It’s terrifying.

“I don’t like it,” Jason says softly, for Dick’s ears only. “Shit, man, I don’t want to hurt any of you. I’ve never had to worry about losing control before–” He stops, because baring his heart to anyone makes his hackles raise.

The thing is, he never had to worry because he knew someone could stop him if things went awry. Dick and Ghost and Demon can’t, they don’t know his triggers, and despite everything Jason would rather die than give them that kind of control over him.

“Trust us to be able to hold our own,” Dick says, “and if something happens, we’ll just deal with it, like today. You stopped when you saw it was Ghost.”

There’s no guarantee he’ll do that again in the future, but Jason feels too tired to argue anymore. “I guess so,” he says, tired in a way he’s unfamiliar with. He’ll just have to be better. To learn more control, condition himself further. He can’t let this happen again. He won’t.

Damn everything, but Jason refuses to live in a world where he hurts his friends.

Chapter Text

A dead body falls at Shrike’s feet.

A dead body falls at Shrike’s feet.

A dead body falls at Shrike’s feet, and it isn’t Shrike who sent it there. It’s–Hooded Jay, hidden somewhere on the knoll, with his rifle, his shot is the one that downs the enemy, because Shrike missed both his shots.

Shrike is a skilled marksman, capable of accuracy while both himself and the target are moving, able to shoot in the middle of a flip. He once shot a feather from the air twenty meters away using a handgun, just to show off. He’s not as specialized as the Hooded Jay, but he’s able.

Except he wasn’t. The enemy was charging at him, and what would be a simple takedown failed because both of Shrike’s shots missed.

He could have died without Hooded Jay, because something went wrong and the Ghost wasn’t close enough to protect him. It was distracted, eliminating its own enemies because Shrike should have been fine on his own and he wasn’t.

The Ghost doesn’t realize he’s sprinting towards Shrike until he’s even with the other, gripping onto Shrike’s arms and scanning him. “What?” he barks out, voice rough but surprisingly audible considering his lack of composure.

“I- I’m fine,” Shrike manages, gasping for air. The Ghost doesn’t see any blood, and Shrike isn’t holding any of his limbs oddly. “I just, my hands… started shaking.” He looks down at the Ghost with terror clear on his face, despite his eyes being obscured.

Suspicion creeps in, tentatively sending out feelers to search lines of code for weaknesses. “Hurt before?” Ghost asks, taking Shrike’s hands in his own and inspecting them. Nothing looks wrong, but that means nothing when it comes to Shrike.

“No,” Shrike says, and he sounds as confused as Ghost feels. “I haven’t been hit at all yet.” 

There’s a slight twitch from one of Shrike’s fingers, and then… his hands start shaking. Small, irregular tremors, not continuous but consistent.

Ghost holds Shrike’s hand up to his eyes, trying to see a source. Like Shrike said, there aren’t any injuries visible, which means–he drops their hands, pinning Shrike down with a look. “Reach?!” he demands.

“No!” Shrike still sounds upset, but now he sounds trapped, too. “I don’t know! Why would they do that?” His breathing is too fast, and it looks like he’s losing some awareness of his surroundings. This is not a safe place to break down.

Synapses fire, circuits closing in his mind– that. That’s it. Voltage. Amperage. Current. The band. “The band–you didn’t say!” He lied again, he said he wouldn’t hide anything but he did and Ghost caught him and now Shrike is trying to escape him!

“Say what?” Shrike asks, and he’s overcompensating now, he’s acting more panicked than would be probable for him. “T- Ghost, I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“Shock!” Ghost spits out, tightening his hold on Shrike’s hands to keep him from running. “The band–it shocked! Caused this!” He wants to pin Shrike down and make him apologize, interrogate him for anything else he’s hiding, because if he lied about this there’s bound to be more.

And it looks like he’s right- Shrike tries to pull away, tries to twist his hands out of the Ghost’s hold, but he’s not as coordinated as usual, and the Ghost keeps him in place. He’s fully trembling now, and he’s acting like the Ghost is the danger, like the Ghost is the one who did this, not the handlers!

“You–” Ghost hisses, only to be cut off with a yelp as he’s abruptly lifted. He loses his grip on Shrike, landing with a soft oof when his stomach impacts a shoulder.

“Terrible place to panic,” Hooded Jay’s voice says, as Ghost realizes he’s been slung over the Weapon’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He twists and squirms until he can peer past Hooded Jay’s torso back towards Shrike. “Shrike, can I take your hand?”

Shrike nods. There’s an odd expression on his face- it almost looks like he’s malfunctioning, except he’s still scared, so that can’t be it. 

“Right. Thank you.” The hand not holding Ghost takes one of Shrike’s. “We’re gonna go over here, I saw a building that looks sturdy and abandoned. We can hole up there. You still in there, Shrike?”

“Yeah,” Shrike manages. He’s shaking, but his expression is steady despite the fear. “Let’s go.”

Ghost feels the breath Hooded Jay lets out. “Good, that’s good. Okay.” And then the Weapon is jogging, seemingly trying to disorient Ghost with the movement and the dig of his shoulder into his stomach.

“I can walk!” Ghost protests (and in the back of his mind ponders on how fluidly speech comes to him. That’s bad; it’s not safe, he can’t afford to be Tim here, but Tim is mad and worried about his brother and Ghost can’t do that).

“You sound like Demon,” Hooded Jay says, not putting Ghost down.

Shrike is keeping pace with them, but he won’t meet Ghost’s eyes, and he’s not scanning for threats the way he usually would- his movements are too rapid for that, and not economical at all. He keeps rechecking over areas he just checked.

His behavior is odd, and Ghost wonders if maybe it’s not faked. He dismisses the idea, because what could it be if not acting? “Shrike–”

Hooded Jay jostles him, making Ghost’s words cut off into a strangled wheeze. “Nope, we’re not doing this right now. How about you check our six instead, Ghost?”

It’s blatant redirection, but Ghost knows he can’t overpower Hooded Jay and Shrike is failing to keep a proper watch, so he settles grumpily and keeps an eye out.

It doesn’t end up being too far before they enter the relative safety of the building- they should still be able to hear any gunfire in their previous location, but be out of sight. 

Shrike sinks to the floor almost as soon as he enters, leaning his back against a dirty wall and breathing just a little too fast.

Finally, Hooded Jay sets him down, though he keeps a hand on Ghost’s shoulder like he’s trying to prevent Ghost from running when obviously Shrike is the one who needs to be contained. “Okay,” the Weapon says. “Could you tell me what happened? Not you,” he says quickly, squeezing Ghost’s shoulder to cut him off. “Shrike, if you would?”

Shrike shakes his head, but he does start to speak. “I was just… I was reloading, and my hands started twitching a little, and by the time that guy was coming at me, they were shaking and… I missed. I missed, and you shot him, and then Tim got here and said- said something about the collar, and-”

“Okay,” Hooded Jay repeats. “That sucks, but I’m glad I was there to back you up. You’re okay, right? Bastard didn’t get you?” And he’s missing the point, but suddenly Ghost can’t speak.

“No, I’m fine. I- I probably could’ve taken him out in hand-to-hand, but I was just so startled…” 

“Probably,” comes the agreement, why is he so calm about this when Shrike lied? “Good that he didn’t get you, though. Is there anything you need from me? We’ve got time if we need, we’re ahead of schedule.”

Ghost wants to scream. Neither of them get it! Both of them are ignoring him! But he can’t get his throat to make the sounds he needs, and without it he can’t scream, he can’t yell and get their attention, make them listen.

“Anything I…” Shrike says, then looks at Ghost and trails off, lowering his gaze. “No, I’m fine. Thanks, Jay.”

“Yeah. We’re a team, right?” Hooded Jay says, tugging Ghost away from Shrike. “I’m gonna have a talk with Ghost real quick. We’ll stay in sight.”

“Okay,” Shrike agrees, with no arguing whatsoever, which is very strange.

Hooded Jay drags Ghost out of immediate earshot and turns to him. “Okay, what the fuck was that?”

Ghost glares, raising his hands because when he opens his mouth he still can’t form words. Shrike knows Reach source Shrike no share info with team.

It feels bare, the absolute minimum without any of the anger and betrayal Ghost has. Hooded Jay knows anger, though. He’ll understand.

Except there’s no change in his body language, nothing to imply he understands Ghost’s upset. “Both of us talked with him about this, Ghost. He’s doing better.”

Ghost shakes his head, because there’s no other explanation for why this happened.

“He’s scared, kid,” Hooded Jay pushes. “Your brother looked terrified, and confused, and there’s no way he knew what was going on. This is news to all of us.”

No, it can’t be. It can’t be, because that means–that means Shrike didn’t know, and Ghost didn’t notice. He didn’t notice Shrike deteriorating, didn’t make any connections, didn’t protect his brother. He’s supposed to–he needs to help Shrike, not make him worse, not yell at him and falsely accuse him of betrayal, not say that Shrike broke his trust.

Ghost doesn’t realize he’s swaying until strong hands land on his shoulders. “C’mon, kid. I know. Fuck, I’m scared too. But however scared we are, Shrike is ten times worse. I don’t know what happened before I showed up, but I’m pretty sure Shrike needs some comfort right now.”

And Ghost (Tim) is his little brother, who needs to be strong for Shrike (Dick) when the older stumbles. He nods, steadying himself, and turns around to do just that.

Shrike is still sitting where they left him, back against the wall. His head is tilted against it, almost for support, but he watches them steadily as they come closer. “You two okay?”

“Peachy,” Hooded Jay says, while T–Ghost walks to stand in front of his brother, shifting uncertainly on his feet. Would…would Shrike even want comfort from him, when not ten minutes ago he was yelling in his face? Ghost opens his mouth, finds words still gone, and twists his hands in each other, wringing them without forming signs.

Shrike’s expression softens, even though the fear lingers in his eyes. “Hey, buddy. I’m sorry about that, I- I promise I didn’t think something like this-” He cuts himself off, like he can’t finish the sentence, like his words are as stuck as Ghost’s are.

Ghost shakes his head, managing to untangle his fingers enough to close a fist and sign sorry, sorry, dropping down to Shrike’s level and ducking his head. This is his fault, he’s the one that overreacted, his brother is innocent. 

“That’s okay, Timmy,” Dick (Shrike) says, reaching a (shaking) hand over to gently pat Ghost’s shoulder. “You were- scared.” He takes a quick breath, holding it and letting it out more slowly, staring down at his hands like they’ve betrayed him. Maybe they have.

He can’t stop shaking his head, can’t stop apologizing because it’s not okay. He made Dick’s panic worse, he made them have to stop and recover because he’s the one that sent his brother over the edge.

“I’m not gonna join the self blame party,” Hood cuts in suddenly, sliding down the wall to sit next to Dick with a grunt. Dick immediately leans against him, an ease in the contact that makes his chest ache. “But I’m here, I’ve got the watch. We’re safe right now.”

It looks like Dick is taking deeper breaths, now that he’s half-curled into Hood’s side. He reaches out for Tim again. “I’m not mad, buddy. It’s okay.”

You should be, Tim (Ghost) thinks, sliding into his brother’s arms feeling nothing but guilt. Even now, shaking and so small, Dick’s hold on him feels secure. Protective. Like he won’t let anything get through him to Tim.

Dick pulls Tim close and gently rests his chin on top of Tim’s head. His hands are shaking more, but the rest of him is shaking a little bit, too. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes, voice almost breaking, “we’re okay. It’s okay. We made it.”

They did, despite the numerous mistakes Tim made. Somehow, they’re okay.

Occasionally, Tim feels larger shudders running through Dick’s body. He becomes uncomfortably aware of the fact that the band itself is resting behind his head, around Dick’s neck still. 

After one especially large shiver, Dick asks, “Jay?”

“Mm?” 

“I’m… scared,” Dick admits, and one of his hands comes back up to pet Tim’s short, spiky hair. “Of what happens next.”

Tim wishes he could comfort his brother, tell him everything will be okay because he’ll find a way to make it okay. Except he can’t. He’s powerless.

“It is scary,” Hood agrees. Tim watches as he lifts an arm and gently settles it on Dick’s shoulders. “None of us expected this. But you know we got you,” he says, confident in a way Tim could never be. It hurts. “We’ll figure something out together.”

Dick nods- gently, so Tim moves with him instead of being hit by Dick’s chin. After another few seconds, he adds, “...I think this might have been happening for a while. I just didn’t notice. I thought I was just tired, or I didn’t eat enough, or something. But it’s never been this bad.”

Hearing the uncertainty in his voice scares Tim. Despite knowing better, despite fighting for this specifically, Tim isn’t used to hearing Dick anything but cheerful and assured.

“I don’t blame you.” Somehow Hood sums up volumes into four words, words that are significant based on how much tension Dick loses. “Our lives are complicated, there’s always something wrong, and we’re used to pushing past physical limitations. It’s hard to tell when something’s serious and when it’s temporary.”

“Why?” Dick whispers, and it’s easier to focus on how the tremors in his hands are getting slightly weaker than on his tone. “Why would they do this? They have to know, right?”

“Because they’re cruel,” Hood answers immediately. “They’re cruel, and they see us as lesser, and they don’t care.” Even Tim flinches at that. “To them, we aren’t people. We’re just things, and replaceable. Why would they bother being concerned if one of their tools got damaged?”

“They’ve got more,” Dick says helplessly, and he’s talked about it before, about the time that the Reach would decide Shrike wasn’t worth it anymore, but this feels different. “They don’t even need to wait, they’ve got all of you, and I- I’m not mad, I promise, I am so happy you’re here, I’m just-” he sniffles, “I’m scared.”

Dick is crying. Tim doesn’t know what to do.

Hood does. He makes a quiet sound and tugs Dick into an embrace, which is awkward since Tim is on his lap. It ends up with Dick’s torso pressed against Hood and Tim half on Dick’s lap, half on the ground. Hood doesn’t seem bothered, though, just wraps an arm around Tim’s brother and lifts a hand to pet Dick’s hair like Dick had Tim’s. “We won’t let them,” Hood says softly. “They won’t know. We’ll cover for you, make sure they never find out. I refuse to let them get rid of you.”

And Tim can do nothing but stare, feeling the cold of the ground leach into his limbs while he watches Hood be a better brother than Tim ever could be.

Chapter Text

Tim has…been putting this off. Partially because there simply hasn't been time, with the little gap between missions not enough for him to do this, but mostly because–well.

He…doesn't like this. Doesn't like the realization he's come to, or the conclusions he's drawn from it. It means he's been complacent, it means he's failed in the one thing that matters most:

Being a brother. Being supportive. Being family.

Dick would tell him it was okay, that it isn't his fault, that he understands why Tim is the way he is. 

Tim...Tim can't accept that, not like he did before. He allowed himself to be comforted, for platitudes to land, for Dick to accept his mistakes and never ask him for better. For years, he's been…helpless.

He doesn't want that anymore. He wants to be stronger, be braver, be better, so that he doesn't make Dick break his promise about protecting him. And Dick won't tell him what he needs to do; all he'll do is say that Tim is enough.

That's the problem, though. Tim isn't. And he needs to stop pretending like he is.

With a bracing breath, Tim steels himself and walks into the training room.

In any given moment, so long as they aren't on a mission or sleeping, there's a good chance someone will be in here. Tim, generally, is the least likely to be present, because his skills are focused away from combat. Dick is next–he is a fighter, but one who sticks with quick situations: assassination, distraction, or enough to hold his own so he can get out. He's not bad, and he wins at least half of his spars, but it's always with rapid strikes and a lot of evading.

Demon, though, spends a significant amount of time in there. Mostly to be alone, Tim thinks, because he's too young to build up muscle mass and he's not allowed bladed weapons when there aren't handlers supervising. Occasionally Tim will join him, when the world gets overwhelming and he needs somewhere quiet, because otherwise he'll sink into Ghost and sometimes he just wants to stay Tim. Demon mostly ignores him, letting Tim sit in the corner and watch Demon stretch or go through katas. It's nice, being able to simply exist around someone else without having to be.

The one who trains the most, though, is Jay, and it’s him Tim needs to see.

The Hooded Jay is…honestly, impressive to see. Even before he fights, there's a sort of awareness to him that lingers in his presence. Not grace–that's Dick, with his lightness on his feet and ability to change his body language on a whim. But fluidity, maybe. The absolute knowledge of himself, where he is, what he's capable of.

When he moves, though, that's when Jay's self description of “trained muscle” is clear to see. He's obviously spent a lot of time building up said muscle, and watching him fight feels like Tim’s brain is glitching out, because someone that bulky shouldn't look so smooth.

He is, though. Every punch is calculated, every shift of weight considered, every attack or retreat balanced. Jay isn't just taught to hit hard, he's taught to be efficient. To hoard his energy and use it carefully, measuring out each action.

It means Jay has a lot of stamina, and as such will often be in the training room for hours at a time, sometimes multiple times a day. He'll drag in any of them to spar if they aren't quick enough, too.

Depending on Jay's mood, Tim might have to spar with him before he's allowed to talk. The thought makes him grimace. Jay hits hard, and Tim really wants to allocate his energy into talking instead of fighting for his life.

Thankfully, Jay is stagnant when Tim enters the room, holding himself in a straight plank for obvious muscle conditioning. His dedication to his training is as impressive as it is…well. Tim’s just glad he’s specialized in other areas, because while he would do similar to Jay if ordered, truly he doesn’t want to. It seems like a lot of work for results he doesn’t care about. Give Tim a piece of technology to fiddle with any day.

Blinking hard to bring his wandering thoughts back on task, Tim approaches Jay and settles down cross legged on the mat in front of him. The other Weapon looks up as Tim’s shadow falls over him, a light sheen of sweat over his face. 

“Hey Ghost,” Jay greets, “what’s up?”

Tim hesitates. Normally he has no issue with being referred to as Ghost–it’s just another name for himself, technically. Ghost is more of a mask, though. It’s a name with meaning. It means he’s not thinking, that his mind is far away to protect himself. Yes, he’s wearing the mask more often than not in Reach, but this time he feels like he needs to distinguish himself. To emphasize, more to himself than to Jay, that he’s fully aware and present for this conversation, because this is important.

So, as awkward as it makes him feel, he says, “Tim.”

Jay, at least, accepts the correction in the insouciant manner he tends to whenever one of them acts a little odd. Demon had asked Jay, not long after the first incident where Dick went into his head, how Jay was so comfortable accommodating Dick in his state. It was, after all, a week into them all knowing each other.

Though Tim still doesn’t fully understand the words Jay used (“fuck it, we ball”?), he gathered that Jay simply doesn’t care if any of them deviate from normal behavior so long as he doesn’t see it as a threat.

Considering Jay hardly views handlers as a threat, it means he is remarkably cavalier about all of their…quirks.

“Okay,” Jay says without pause. “Fully here, huh?”

Tim folds his hands into his lap. “Yeah. No handlers around.”

There’s a sense of almost-freedom that sparks as he speaks. They’re scheduled to be left alone until lights out, which is hours away, and most of all–

Most of all, Tim feels safe around Demon and Jay. He doesn’t need to hide from them; they won’t hurt Tim. They’d defend Tim, probably, if push came to shove. Even Demon, despite their youngest’s inimical, intractable nature.

Somehow, someway, the four of them have become a team. Perhaps even friends.

“So.” Tim startles lightly; he had forgotten to speak, hadn’t he? “What’s up?” Jay asks, repeating his previous words.

“I need to talk to you,” Tim says. He can’t run away now, can’t put it off anymore. He’s been thinking about it for days, what he’d do, the words he’d say. For some reason, though, now that he’s here they all slip out of his reach.

Jay raises an eyebrow, an expression that looks a bit ridiculous considering how he’s still holding his plank. “O…kay? Should I be concerned?”

“No,” Tim answers immediately, because the only concerning thing here is Tim’s own inadequacy. “It’s not anything life threatening, just. Dick has–he’s accepted you as a brother.”

Jay blinks, obviously caught off-guard. “Yeah, he has. It’s a bit startling, honestly. I didn’t realize he was one to do that.”

Tim just nods, thinking about how rapidly Dick took Tim under his wing. “He’s always been quick.”

The feel of Jay’s eyes on him is distinct enough that Tim knows he could recognize it even in a crowd. Jay observes almost as much as Tim does, though he seems to be able to look underneath the surface of people in a way Tim hasn’t managed to get. 

Fabric shifts; Tim focuses back onto his surroundings to see Jay pushing himself out of the plank and into a cross-legged sit, scrutinizing Tim. “...Do you want me to not accept the brother thing?” he asks, his fingers tapping at the empty holster at his side.

“No.” Dick would be crushed, and Jay doesn’t seem like he minds being treated in this way, so like hell Tim would tell him to stop. “That’s not what I’m here for. I, um.” He trails off a bit. “I need advice.”

Well, Tim can now say he’s confused Jay enough to make him look flummoxed. “Advice?” Jay asks, in the same tone he’d say ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ but, nicer.

“Yeah,” Tim says, nodding a bit. “On…how to…” his voice grows quieter; he can’t keep the nerves and embarrassment and shame out of it. “Be better.”

Jay blinks again, in that way that somehow highlights the expression as something more than an unconscious motion. He does not look any more understanding of what Tim is asking. “A–better what? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure we specialize in different things, Tim.”

Well, Jay doesn’t specialize in social relationships–that’d be Dick–, but he’s still doing a better job at it than Tim is.

“I mean, you saw–” Tim feels like there’s a band around his neck, warning him to keep silent. Just like Dick, except this collar is a phantom concocted from his own mind. “You were there. When–when Dick had his whole thing, with his hands. And you saw how I freaked out.” So uncontrolled that Jay found it prudent to physically break Tim out of his mindset, remove him from the situation, carry him away.

“Yeah.” Jay shrugs one shoulder. Tim does his best to focus on the here and now instead of wallowing in his numerous mistakes. “I didn’t hear most of it, and I don’t really know the details.”

The next breath Tim takes sticks in his throat. Shame feels like barbed wire coiled around his vocal cords, each word sending a wash of blood over his tongue.

“I,” he says softly, “was accusatory instead of supportive, or helpful, or anything I…was supposed to be.” The bare minimum, and Tim didn’t miss that bar as much as dug under it. “I yelled at him for hiding side effects of the shock collar from me–from us.”

The taste of iron lingers in his mouth. Maybe if he sheds enough blood, it’ll make up for his sins.

Jay shifts, fingers tapping lightly at his thighs. It’s an idle movement of his, one he makes when he’s thinking or bored. Tim is unsure if Jay is aware of it. “That’s pretty shitty, kid.”

“Yes.” It is. It is, and Tim will live with this guilt for the rest of his life. “...I know. But y–” His throat closes; Tim clears it and tries again. “After, when you came by and helped, you seemed to know exactly what to say to help him. And I…I’m supposed to be his brother. I’m supposed to be the first, I was–” special? Different?

“I’m not trying to take your place, Tim,” Jay says evenly with a slight tilt of his head, the one he makes when he says reassurances.

That’s the worst part, though, because. “I know you aren’t trying, um…you kind of are, though?” He’d be jealous if he didn’t know he did this to himself. “Uh, and it’s not your fault, it’s mine. I have not been. Kind. To Dick.” Tim will not cry. “Or considerate, or anything that I should have been. Assistive.” 

Pathetic. That’s what Tim is. Selfish and self-centered and hypocritical and–

“And you’re so… good at it,” Tim finishes weakly.

Maybe he was wrong to confront Dick, to insist on his brother turning to him in times of weakness. It isn’t like Tim is helping.

He’s never been skilled at being a person, at being real, and that’s what Dick needs. Not a shell of a brother that’s barely present on the best of days. Not Ghost.

But Tim is so bad at being Tim.

“I,” Jason says, startling Tim out of his thoughts (he needs to stop losing track of his surroundings, it’s a flaw–), “have no fucking clue what I’m doing, kid. I’m literally just playing it by ear. Trying to treat him…as a person.”

“But you’re doing it better than me.” Tim needs to collect himself, that was on the edge of whining. Like a baby. “And I–so I–I just–” get it together! “want your help.”

Jay’s fingers tap a little quicker. “Okay.”

With a subtle bracing breath, Tim asks, “How do you stay…so in control when things are falling apart?” When Tim is falling apart, or Dick, or anything and everything. Jay always, always steps up, unless it’s his own anger that’s centered in the conflict.

For a moment, exhaustion flickers across the other’s face, deep and consuming and quick enough that Tim wouldn’t have picked it up were he not paying attention. Then it’s gone, leaving behind Jay’s neutral expression. “Here’s the thing, kid. I don’t.”

What? “But you’re always so collected,” Tim blurts out.

“Yeah, that’s called lying,” Jason quips with a smirk before it fades away into something serious. “I pretend like I know what’s going on, and I pretend like I have a solution, and I pretend. Because in a time of crisis, someone has to be calm, and it’s not gonna be Dick.” Tim almost protests–Dick is calm in crisis–before he realizes that Jay is talking about situations involving Dick. Which, Tim should’ve realized that, obviously. “But what he needs the most is for you to be calm, ‘cause he won’t freak out if you’re freaking out. You know him, kid. He’s always gonna try and reassure you.”

Tim knows. It’s been that way for at least three years, since the day they properly met.

Jason sighs lightly. “He won’t focus on himself until he thinks you’re okay first. So if you want him to do that, you have to act like you’re okay. And you’re probably not gonna feel okay, fuck knows I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. I don’t know how to be a person–” (yet he’s far more skilled in it than Tim) “–I just pretend. Fake it ‘til you make it.”

Tim turns those words over in his head, similar to his computer processors. Pretend. He can pretend. He wouldn’t say he’s the best in their group at that, but being Ghost is kind of like pretending. Maybe he can be Brave Tim, too. Sometimes.

“And that’ll make me better?” he asks quietly, lacing his fingers together so he doesn’t pull the joints.

Once more, Jay sighs, though this time he looks…sad? Grieved, maybe, and Tim chides himself. Reading expressions is supposed to be something he’s good at. “I wouldn’t say you’re doing bad, Tim. You’re not a bad brother.”

Tim feels something guilty press as a tight knot in his throat. “But I can’t help him,” he whispers, feeling broken in ways that could never be mended.

That makes Jason laugh, just once and a little bitter. “Well, he never wanted you to help him in the first place. That’s his whole thing.”

Thanks, Jay. That makes Tim feel so much better.

Softer, Jason continues. “In a way you kind of did help him though. Because…Dick clings to normalcy to keep himself sane. He pretends, because there’s nothing else he can do. So him parenting you, brothering you, taking care of you, and you allowing him to? In your own way, you were–are–being a good brother. Because you’re giving him a space to be safe enough to act that way.”

Tim never really thought of it that way. Dick would smile, and call him Timmy, and Tim was too happy to be Dick’s brother to really think about what his own participation would do in return. Still–

“It doesn’t feel like enough.” Ragged like there’s a roughness in his throat and prickles in his eyes, but Tim knows neither of those things exist right now.

A touch on his knee makes him twitch, hands going to grab a knife that isn’t there. Tim looks down, at the scarred, calloused hand on his knee, then up the arm to the shoulder and neck and head and face of Jason staring at him with understanding. “It’s never going to feel like enough,” the Weapon–Dick’s brother, and maybe Tim’s–says.

Tim wants to complain, but Jason barrels onwards. “Nothing will ever feel like it’s enough. You just have to make it so. And it means taking what you can get with both hands, and holding onto it as tight as you can.”

Oh, how desperately he wants to. To grip and hold, to be greedy and hoard and keep his brother safe.

Jason squeezes his knee. “So if you wanna be a better brother, then…” Tim lasers in on the movement of Jay’s lips, the serious weight in his eyes, how his brows are scrunched slightly. “What you should probably do is stop.”

What? No, no, Tim can’t–he doesn’t want to–

“And think. Think before you make an assumption.”

Oh. Shame is a virus tearing him apart at the seams. Tim tries not to let it show.

“Think before you say something. And listen to him. Not just the things he says, but the things he doesn’t say. ‘Cause he’ll hide it.” Jason smirks a bit, this one amused. “But he’s not very good at hiding, is he?”

Despite himself, Tim manages a laugh. “No,” he answers softly. “Not from me.”

Jason nods. “Yeah, you know him best. You know, more than anyone else, what he’s like. You have an idea of what he’ll react to, so use that knowledge and think before you say anything.”

Dick likes to compliment Tim on his intelligence, praise him for how smart he is. Tim used to accept this happily and without question, except here Jason is telling him to stop, to think, because Tim hasn’t been.

The fact that Jason is right makes it hurt, but not as much as Tim’s disappointment in himself.

“Just give him a chance,” Jason continues, quiet and certain, “to learn that you’re gonna be there for him. It’s gonna take time, but you gotta give that to him. Along with hugs and shit, because he never flinches away from you, does he?”

Tim shrugs, wondering if he should feel guilty that Jason can’t always hug Dick or proud that Tim himself is special. 

“That’s good.” Jason gives Tim’s knee another squeeze before patting it and leaning back. “Make sure you keep an eye on him, y’know? There’s no perfect way to be a brother, Tim.” A smile, humorous and a little self-deprecating. “And for fuck’s sake, the fact that you’re asking me is saying something, ‘cause I don’t know what the hell I’m doing ninety percent of the time.”

That is certainly a lie, isn’t it? Or at least partially. Jason might not know what he’s doing, but he always seems to come to the correct answer anyways. Tim has a lot to learn, both from Jason and Dick and, yes, even Demon (despite how far Demon holds himself apart).

He just hopes that he’ll have the time to learn, and improve, and help before–

Before something changes.

A quiet, amused huff comes from across Tim, bringing his attention back to the present. He’d chide himself for his inattention again, but. Jason was watching his back. It’s okay if Tim zones out a bit to think, just this once. “Probably didn’t help you very much with this, did I?” Jason says, wry.

If only you knew, Tim thinks. If only you were aware of how much you’ve changed everything for the better, just by being here.

None of those thoughts make it past his teeth. Instead, Tim shrugs. “Eh. You’ve helped enough.” It’s a gross understatement, but he can’t find anything else to say that would come close to explaining the sheer significance of everything Jason has done. “Thanks.” Tim manages a smile, a real one. It feels a little shaky and unpracticed, but he’s proud of himself for achieving it.

Jason smiles back, genuine and warm and…and loving. Or caring, at least. He’s looking at Tim like Dick looks at him: as if he’s something precious and full of worth merely in his existence. It makes Tim feel. Small. But not in a bad way. More like he could crawl into Jason’s arms and be hidden from the world and all of its dangers.

It’s…nice.

At least until Jason’s smile turns mischievous. “If you really wanna thank me,” he says, and Tim’s already scrambling to his feet, “have a spar. I’m warmed up and with no one to train with.”

Actually, no! Tim would very much prefer to not do that, thank you very much. “Nope. Bye.”

Tim flees the training room to the sound of Jason’s cackle and mind filled with gifted treasure.

Maybe things can get better, despite everything.