Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everything changed so fast. And by ‘everything’ he meant ‘nothing’ and by ‘so fast’ he meant ‘at all’.

Things must have been moving in the background, but Jason was more a shoot to incapacitate, ask questions after kinda guy. A foreground kinda guy. And things were pretty quiet on the front lines. 

Hours passed, then days, then a week. And in a stunning display of naivety–or perhaps hope–Jason allowed the relative silence to lull him into a sense of security. Well, that’s not quite it. Jason never had the stability necessary to warrant security, but the quiet gave way to a sort of calmness that maybe he found a little too comfortable.

It let him forget, as selfish as he felt when he resurfaced, for just a moment, that here was a war on. That he was a soldier again. 

He knew what he was signing up for. A long, tough, battle. Late nights and early mornings. Phone ringer on at all times. But getting a call from Damian, as close to begging as the kid was capable, demanding his presence at the Penthouse, shattered any fragile illusions he inadvertently constructed. 

“I am…unable to handle the situation alone,” Damian revealed. 

Jason wasn’t the most proficient in understanding and interpreting Damian, but he could recognize a thinly veiled call for help. He had his jacket on and keys in hand before he even formed a response. “Fifteen minutes,” he assured, as the deadbolt clicked behind him. 

With no context, his brain supplied a barrage of worst-case scenarios. Crumbling foundations and blood, head injuries and memory loss. Disaster scenarios and anarchy. And it wasn’t lost on Jason that Damian was the one calling. Not Dick. The logical part of his brain, rusty from disuse, whispered among his swirling anxieties, reminding him that, in the event that someone needed immediate medical attention, Jason –hopefully –wouldn’t be Damian’s first call. And Barabra would contact him if the world was ending. Probably…

So, everything was most likely, almost, just about fine. 

Except nothing ever went to plan and everything always, inevitably went wrong. They were trained on contingencies, all of them. They’re plans had plans with plans. And yet they were constantly encountering unknowns, situations they were ill-prepared for. Once, maybe twice, in his albeit limited recollection could Jason pinpoint a specific moment in time where he knew what he was doing, 

A million preparations, billion predictions, serving only to add anxiety to situations that already needed a Xanax, because rarely did they come to pass and scarcely how they thought it.

And thanks to that, Jason could conjure up every grim possibility imaginable. And thanks to that, he knew it could be a hell of a lot worse.

But he would know if there was another apocalypse. There would be signs. Probably…

So, everything was most likely, almost, just about fine. 

He blew through some lights and went over the speed limit anyway. 

Tim greeted him at the door, Jason’s hand still raised to knock. Tim was a bit bedraggled in his usual fashion, with a half-drunk cup of coffee in hand, Cookie Monster pajama pants and Ninja Turtle graphic tee hanging loosely on his frame.  “Oh, thank fuck.” He turned towards the apartment shouting “Jason’s here!” 

A few vaguely joyous responses from deeper in the penthouse caused a wave of surprise to wash over Jason. It wasn’t–he wasn’t–people weren’t often happy to see him. Well, okay, it was one relieved greeting from Barbara and an acknowledging “Todd” from Damian that sounded almost grateful. To others it might have seemed dismissive, but Jason could tell. He understood them, his family.

And sure, part of that excitement was probably because he was here to fix some sort of problem, but something about their tones, something about Tim’s smile made it seem like they really wanted him here. Not a foreign feeling, but rare. 

The juxtaposition made him feel sick, reminded him of his mistakes. Because there was a time when he feared going home. When a monster lurked just beyond the threshold of his front door pretending to be justified, searching for anything to vindicate himself. And the excuse always came, unwashed dishes, clothes on the floor, a door shut just a little too loud, because it wasn’t really necessary and it wasn’t really an excuse. Because what came next would’ve regardless. A one-part tragedy. No beginning, no middle, no end. 

But Jason survived. Just barely, and it killed him in the process. And through a set of unprecedented circumstances, he became the monster prowling behind the door, exploiting the imbalance of power and preying on a child. Using a bullshit excuse to validate his actions. To hide the fact that he did it because he could.

And the results of both still haunt his actions. The way his jaw clenches at sudden movements. The way he hesitates to touch any of his siblings. The way he bites back a grin at their reactions in favor of feigned nonchalance. 

And the others– his family –forgave him. Something he never quite managed to do for his own monster. Broken bones and threats of death, misplaced blame and scathing accusations, intimidation and a duffle bag of severed heads, and they forgave him.

But that didn’t make him innocent. That didn’t absolve him. 

Because he hadn’t forgiven himself. But he was working on it. He was getting there. He was…

He took half a second to gather himself. The voice in his head, the one insisting he was Willis sounded suspiciously like Willis. It always did. 

He wasn’t quite ready to let the idea go, part of him still believed it, part of him had yet to prove it wrong but he could tell it to shut the fuck up. He was working on it. He was getting there. 

“What’s goin’ on?” he asked as Tim was ushering him inside.

“We tried everything. I swear. Cereal, Supernatural marathon–just the good seasons–Damian even pretended to be hurt. Nothing. We’re out of ideas.”

Jason gently, hesitantly put his hands on Tim’s shoulders to slow him down.

It was a wonder they even allowed him near them, let alone touch them. But Tim didn’t jerk away like Jason half expected him to. He didn’t try and make himself smaller like Jason used to and he didn’t tense up in anticipation.

Another breath, another moment to gather himself. Now’s not the time. There’s shit going on. Jason needed to be here, needed to be present . 

 “Ideas for what? What’s going on?” he repeated.

Barbara appeared in the hallway expression exasperated. Her hair, typically pristine, was a bit disheveled, like she’d done it in a rush and her jaw was clenched with hastily disguised tension. “Great question. We have no idea.”

“Okay?” They must be desperate if Barbara was here. Concern was once again taking over. Jason’s laid eyes on two out of seven. Not a great head count. “Why am I here?” he tried instead. “Where’s Dick?”

“That’s why we called you,” Tim revealed.

What?

“You lost Dick?” 

Oh, this was bad. They needed a plan. They’re plan needed a plan. If Barbara couldn’t track him–and she’s here so she couldn’t track him–then they needed to call in backup and start a grid search from his last known location. Contacting Clark should be their first move. He’ll be able to isolate Dick’s heartbeat if he’s somewhere lead-free. They have plenty of things belonging to Dick, so a tracking spell isn't out of the question. Raven would do it for free and so would Zantanna. And if they aren’t available, then Jason’s pretty sure Constantine owes Dick a favor. If he’s being honest, he’s pretty sure everyone in the community owes Dick at least one favor. 

Dick was a lot of things, but he’d never leave the kids. Not on purpose. Not by choice. Especially with everything going on. If they couldn’t reach Dick he was either dead, or someone didn’t want him found. Both options were shit. Fuck–he needed to slow down.

He needed more information. Time, last known, clothing. Where was he going? What was he doing? Why was he there? Do they have a ransom note? Why can’t they track him? Where are–

“Woah, woah, I can see you spiraling.” Tim said, pulling Jason from his thoughts. “We didn’t lose Dick.”

“Then where is he? Actually, where is everyone?”

 Tim looked at Barbara, indecisive. “We sent Duke to school.”

Jason closed his eyes for a second and took a breath. One more person accounted for, at least. Slow enough to emphasize his point, but not so slow as to be patronizing, he said, “In the simplest, most direct terms possible, what’s going on?”

Tim frowned. “Dick’s in his office.”

“Dick has an office?”

“Yeah, and we can’t get him to come out.”

Jason huffed out a laugh. “You guys called me over acting all ominous and shit with some kind of emergency and it’s because Dick’s staying in his office? Really?”

He left out the part where he thought the fucking world was ending. Somehow, it came across anyway.

“He didn’t come out for breakfast,” Tim explained.

“What?”

Tim looked at Jason like he was finally getting it. “He went in there last night after dinner and he hasn’t come out since. Didn’t wake up the others, didn’t make breakfast, didn’t patrol last night. I don’t think he slept. And whenever we ask, he says he’ll be out in a bit.”

Okay, okay, okay, he could handle this. “Okay, Duke’s at school, you’re here, Dick’s in his office, where are Damian, Steph, and Cass?”

Barbara gave him a soft, knowing smile. He ignored the way it made him feel like he’d revealed something, like she could see right through him. “Steph had a 2:00 o’clock class. Cass went with. We figured the less people here the more likely he is to come out. Or at the very least, we’re less likely to overwhelm him.”

“And Damian?”

“Is sitting in his room coming up with wild conspiracy theories and pretending he isn’t scared shitless.” Barbara finished. “Before that he was standing outside the office door. Refused to eat, refused to go to school.”

Yeah, that tracks.

“And I’m here because?”

They were staring at him like it was obvious. Like maybe they thought he was asking because he just wanted to hear them say it. Phishing for compliments, begging for significance, impetrating for attribution. 

Which is something he might have done, if he knew the answer. As much as being needed, being wanted , caused his brain to short circuit and his heart to swell, as much as it made him feel human , he wasn’t sure what this had to do with him. 

Tim’s voice was tinged with suspicion when he said, “It’s plan C.”

“What?”

“It’s plan C,” Tim repeated, slower as if the only reason Jason could possibly be confused was because he didn’t hear him. 

“Ahhhhh, plan C. I get it,” Jason replied sarcastically. 

The creak of hardwood under wheels signaled Barbara’s escape into the kitchen. The open concept layout allowed him to see her taking a scrap of paper out from under a magnet on the fridge, but it was just far enough away that he couldn’t make out what was scribbled on it. 

She handed it to him. “Plan C. In case of emergency,” Barbara recited as Jason read it. “Plan A, analyze the situation and contact Dick. Plan B, breathe. If Dick is unavailable or incapacitated, take a breath. You’re smart and capable. Odds are, you know how to handle the situation if you take a second to think. Plan C, call Jason.”

No notes, no reassurances, just ‘call Jason’. As if that was explanation enough. 

“Is this–when did he write this?” 

Tim, still frowning like he didn’t quite believe him, revealed, “I’m pretty sure it’s been up since we moved in.”

“Okay.”

Okay , no pressure. It sort of put a lot of things into perspective and it tilted his whole world on its axis. It made him think about everything. Things that have happened and things that will never happen. Happiness and apathy. The way things are and the way things should be. The way things were and the way things ought to have been. Importance and obsolescence.

But mostly–but mostly it forced a dizzying moment of introspection. It brought a version of himself to the surface that Jason hadn’t bothered to consult in a long time. The version of himself with depth. The Jason Todd that wanted family and brotherhood and friendship. The Jason Todd that wanted to mean something to someone. Anyone.

That was a train of thought of another time.

“Alright,” confidence was key. He needed to seem in control, like he knew what he’s doing even if he was floundering on the inside. Except that wasn’t true, was it? Sure, they were relying on him. Sure, they expected him to make the right decision, expected him to have a plan, to fix everything. Sure, the pressure was on, but it also wasn’t. 

Because they expected a lot from him but not really. Really, they just wanted him to do his best, needed him to do his best. And that–that was the one thing he could always do. The one thing he could always give no matter how little he had. 

So, he masked the distress in his voice a little less and stopped trying to control the tension in his shoulders. “Babs, take Damian out. Doesn’t matter why. Tell him you’re doin’ somethin’ to help. I don’t care, just get him out of here. You, too, Timmy. Run interference, keep everyone out.”

Jason doubted that anyone would push if he asked them to give him a few hours, but Tim was fidgeting like he needed a task, and Jason didn’t have the wherewithal to deal with a bored Tim. Bored Tim drained the bank accounts of corporate climate change deniers and crooked politicians. Bored Tim took on tyrannical governments and started independent hacktivist groups. Which, to be fair, Jason usually backed one hundred percent. But priorities. 

And it spoke to the severity of the situation that neither of them asked questions. After that, there wasn’t much left for Jason to do, but wait for them to leave. 

He had a plan. Or something resembling a plan. Or something that could resemble a plan if refined a little bit and maybe added on to and perhaps constructed to mimic a plan. Okay, he had an idea. Or something resembling an idea. 

Barbara left with Damian in tow. Whatever she told him must’ve been good because his grim expression transformed into determination, with an assuredness to his step and a serious set to his jaw. She gave Jason a glance of acknowledgement and a short but genuine ‘goodbye’ that really meant ‘good luck’. Tim was close behind them, making Jason promise to text with any major developments or in the unlikely–Tim’s words, not his–event of failure. 

And Jason–Jason watched the door shut and security engage behind them. Walking toward the office door felt like trudging through molasses and gliding through air at the same time. And Jason felt so much. Important and irrelevant. Capable and incompetent. Present and untethered. 

So, Jason did what he did best: went in guns blazing. 

Except sometimes ‘guns’ were words and sometimes ‘blazing’ was gentle and delicate.

So, he knocked on the office door. “Hey, Dickie. It’s Jason,” he announced, pressing his back against the intricately carved and varnished wood and sliding down to sit, legs crossed. “I’m gonna be out here. Whenever you’re ready to talk.”

Nearly a decade of training under some of the greatest in the world and ‘master strategist’ Jason Todd could only think of one approach that had even the slightest chance of success: patience. 

He couldn’t hear anything from the other side of the door, but he didn’t doubt that Dick was there, that he was listening. He could feel it. “Kids called me. They’re worried ‘bout’cha. But you knew that. Just like I know that whatever yer workin’ on in there’s gotta be important. So, I’m not gonna try’n drag you out, but I’m gonna be here when you’re ready to talk. Sent everyone else out. It’s just you’n me, Dick. However long you need.”

That wasn’t necessarily true. They would all find their way back by dinner time at the latest. But it was true enough for the moment. Sorta like when someone promises forever but they only really have right now. Because sometimes forever means the same thing as right now and sometimes “however long you need” is the same as “however long I can give you”. 

It was uncharted territory and a common occurrence. He was comfortable in a way that made him uneasy. Confident in a way that betrayed his inexperience 

So, he said, “I love you, Dickie,” to the empty air in front of him and settled in for a potentially long wait.

And even that statement, so short, so confident, so inherently true, rattled around in his brain like an echo. Because that voice, the one that sounded so much like Willis, that always did, never failed to remind him of inner thought. The ones he buried deep in a box labeled ‘fragile handle with care’ . The one he never opened. 

‘Are you capable of love? Do you know what that is?’ it questioned. ‘Or are you just afraid of being alone?’

It was horseshit. Jason knew that, in the part of his brain that was healing, Jason knew that. He could recognize a cognitive distortion when he thought one–some of the time–and he could go through the list of ‘challenge’ questions.

‘How do I know this thought is accurate?’

‘Am I making assumptions?’

‘Am I overgeneralizing?’

But identifying them was just the first step and he hadn’t quite made it through the others yet. Maybe one day he’d get to the point where he didn’t have these thoughts at all, but probably not.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Then an hour and a half.

Jason leaned his head against the wood, shutting his eyes. Not sleeping, not meditating, existing.

He didn’t allow himself to relax, not entirely. But it was peaceful, in an eye of the storm kind of way. 

Until the door swung open behind him. Jason tilted backward an inch before years of carefully maintained core strength kicked in and he righted himself.

“I figured it out,” Dick blurted. 

Jason shifted to stand, taking in Dick’s appearance as he went. His clothes were rumpled, eyes wide and a little manic. His movements were almost twitchy, but he had a relieved grin on his face. “I figured it out, Jay.”

Jason offered a small smile. “Figured what out?”

Dick was shifting from foot to foot like he was excited about something. Or maybe hyped up on caffeine. Or hadn’t slept in nearly two days. 

Jason would bet the house it was a dangerous concoction of all three. He let himself be dragged into the office by Dick’s hand on his shoulder. Dick, who was nearly half a foot shorter than him, had to reach up to even get his hand on Jason’s shoulder. It made something inside Jason sad. 

No, not sad. Something else. Sentimental, a little melancholic. Despite the fact that Jason’s been taller and bulkier than Dick since his resurrection, it struck Jason as a sign of change. Evidence of the passage of time. 

“Look,” Dick insisted. “I figured it out.”

Papers crumpled under his feet even as he attempted to step over them and others were littered across every available surface.

Dick paid them no mind, all his attention on the bulletin board that took up the majority of the right wall. “See! It’s gonna work. I– oh my God –it’s gonna work.”

Jason soothed his features, unclenching his hands and relaxing his shoulder. Dick didn’t need his concern right now, he needed compassion and understanding. 

The compassion came easily, understanding, however, had yet to arrive. The more Jason examined the room, the harder it became to tamper his concern. Tim and Babs said Dick had been cooped up in there since last night, but the disarray implied many late, sleepless nights and even earlier mornings. 

The board was a collage of printed documents and hastily written notes. Dick was staring at it like it was his baby, his salvation. 

Jason couldn’t make heads or tails of it. 

The mug collection on top of the filing cabinets lining the wall opposite the desk was incomplete if the various others dotting the area, were any indication. An old coffee maker sat next to an even older electric tea kettle on the bookshelf in the corner already brewing a fresh pot. 

A blue binder lay splayed open in the middle of the desk, covering the computer keyboard, but Jason couldn’t make out its contents. 

He must have been quiet for too long because Dick was watching him expectantly. “Don’t you see? I figured it out.”

Jason had just enough foresight to recognize that another incredulous ‘Figured what out?’ wouldn’t go over as well as the first one. Whatever Dick’s big revelation was, Jason was supposed to have gotten with the program by now. 

He was mentally banging his head against the wall. ‘Sorry I missed the last train out to Crazy Town,’ didn’t seem any better. Jason needed a tactical approach. “Alright, walk me through it,” he said.

Dick strode toward the left side of the board gesturing broadly. “Okay, so–wait, hold on a second.”

Jason, barely holding it fucking together, watched helplessly as Dick walked across the room, snatched up on of the mug, filled it with black coffee, and sipped it with a relieved sigh. “Okay so,” he restarted once he was back at the bulletin board. “I’ve got a temporary job lined up with Gotham P.D. That’ll bring in about five thousand a month before taxes. But that's not gonna be enough to cover bills and lawyer fees. Not to mention, Duke and Damian are paid through the end of the academic year at Gotham Academy but after that, I gotta scrounge up the money for that, too. But if I take the night job at Gemma’s five nights a week, I can still–”

Dick cut off mid-sentence, gazing absently at the cluttered wall. One second, two seconds, six,

“–do online classes with Arizona, transition the credits I already have and get a bachelor's in accounting by the end of the year. Then I can get certified as a CPA.”

He didn’t even fucking notice. Which could only mean one thing. “Dick,” Jason interrupted, “Have you been takin’ your meds?”

Dick tilted his head slightly, eyebrows furrowed together. “Yeah, of course. Tuesday: seizure medication, two thousand of vitamin D, and my Zoloft,” he dutifully recited. 

Except– “Dick, it’s Thursday,”

“Yeah, sure. Anyway, the salary for CPAs varies, but with my connections, I should be able to secure some high-profile clients pretty quickly. Alfred agreed to put help with a downpayment on a four-bedroom condo in the city. With a decent mortgage rate, I should be able to swing it. Don’t you see, Jason? I figured it out. I’ve got the budget worked out here.”

Jason winced at the sound of paper being torn from under a pushpin. Dick passed him the incomprehensible jumble of number and dollar signs. It made sense to Dick and Jason had no doubts that it was accurate–Dick’s math was never wrong–but Jason wasn’t a numbers guy. And while this was important, Jason had other priorities. 

“Dick, I’m serious. I lost you there for like ten seconds. You’re having seizures again. If you're worried about money. I’ll cover whatever you can’t,” He was exaggerating a little, but Dick needed some dramatics to consider any concern for his well-being.

“I can’t take your money, Jason.” 

A dozen snide remarks were ready on the tip of his tongue in a fraction of a second. Dick must have read the shift in emotion on Jason’s face or in his body language because he was defending his words before Jason could rattle any of his offenses. 

“It’s not like that,” Dick said. “The court and Bruce’s lawyers are gonna go through my finances with a fine-tooth comb. I can’t have random or shady income streams. Not until this is all over. Even if we cleaned the money, it’s not worth the risk. Not right now.”

Okay, fine. Jason could– begrudgingly –admit that Dick had a point. But Jason had a point, too. And not about the money. Repeating his concerns about Dick’s medication earned him a dramatic huff. 

“Alright, alright,” Dick conceded, halfway across the room before the words were out of his mouth. 

Jason, not quite fast enough to stop him, witnessed in abject horror as Dick opened the top drawer of the varnished wood desk, pulled out a bottle, uncapped it, and took a swing. 

“There, happy?”

Jason took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his mouth. Escalating the situation was the last thing he wanted to do, but holy fucking shit . “I–you–no. No, I’m not fucking happy. What’s wrong with you? I’ve seen crime scene photos of my own fucking dead body and that might’ve been the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

Dick frowned at him. “That’s not funny.”

I am calm. 

I am centered.

I am so fucking mad at him right now.

“No, no,” Jason corrected, not-so-gently guiding Dick to sit in the ergonomic office chair. “What’s not funny is you taking your meds like it’s a fucking shot. What’s not fucking funny is you treating yourself as something expendable. Those kids need you. I need you. I get it. Okay, I get it. We gotta figure out how to make this work, but this, ” he gestured openly to the room around them. “This is not the way.”

Dick’s jaw clenched, his left hand formed a fist before loosening as he exhaled. “Don’t do that,” Dick warned, looking Jason dead in the eyes. “You don’t get to do that.”

Jason’s thrown for second, because Dick was angry. It’s been so long since he’s seen that emotion on Dick’s face, in his body language and in his tone, that Jason almost forgot Dick was capable of it. Suddenly, his previous manic state was replaced with a sharp sort of serious intensity. 

Jason’s own anger evaporated between one breath and the next. He sighed, reaching up and rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes then dragging them down his face. “Dick I–” he started, but he wasn’t sure what to say. An apology? What for? A declaration of concern? He tried that already. Admitting that he was completely and utterly lost? That he had no idea what he’d said to piss Dick off? 

Dick saved him the trouble. “I can’t do this again, Jason.”

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? What is ‘this’?

Or maybe Dick hadn’t saved him the trouble at all. “I don’t understand. I–” he swallowed, inhaling slowly. “This isn’t sustainable, Dick. And I don’t know how to help you. You can’t–”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about, Jason. This ,” Dick emphasized. “It’s the second goddamn time I’ve uprooted and rearrange my whole fucking life to unfuck Bruce’s bullshit and it’s the second goddamn time you’ve come in and told me I’m doing it all fucking wrong.”

‘Dick,” Jason protested, “that’s not what–”

“Not what’s happening?” he interrupted, drawing his knees up to his chest, feet resting on the seat of the chair. “That’s exactly what’s happening. Wha’do they say about lightning striking twice? Well, here I am.” And just like Jason’s, Dick’s anger seemed to evaporate in seconds, like he couldn’t hold on to it, like it slipped through his fingers. 

Dick looked so small with his arms around his calves and an image of the imposing figure Jason represented looming over him flashed through Jason’s mind. He was dragging a chair from the corner and lowering himself into it before his brain finished processing the thought.

But the mania was gone and so was the rage. Meeting Dick’s eyes, his brother was just tired. The kind of tired that comes with tearing yourself down but by bit and rearranging the pieces into a passable impression of identity and personhood. Jason would know. 

“I want to–” Jason tried. The silence, usually comfortable between them, felt suffocating in the presence of all that they hadn’t said and all that they could say. The weight of potential conversation. Because they had to talk about it whether they wanted to or not. 

“It would’ve killed you,” Dick admitted. “Being Batman. It would’ve killed you.”

It wasn’t the shift in topic it appeared to be, because really that’s what they’d been talking about the whole time. Jason was out of his depth. The entire situation was out of his fucking depth. Were there scripts for this kind of thing? Was he supposed to know what to say? Was he supposed to know when to say it?

He opted for his tried-and-true tactic, the one phrase that never failed him, “How can I help?”

But Dick ignored him. Were Jason less versed in interpreting Dick’s language and behavior, he might’ve been offended but Jason knew he needed to listen. 

“I never wanted to be Batman.”

The revelation hit Jason like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath out of him. That didn’t make any sense. Dick fought so hard to be Batman, altered his fighting style and shifted his syntax to fit the role near perfectly. Like he was born to do it, like he’d worked his entire life for that moment. And he didn’t even want it?

But that wasn’t the whole story, was it? It clashed with everything else Jason knew about Dick.

“I’m not–I don’t have the same sentiments as Bruce. I don’t feel some kind of warped obligation to Gotham. I don’t feel anything towards Gotham.”

That was more compatible with the Dick Grayson Jason remembered. The one that distanced himself from Gotham, from Bruce. The Dick Grayson that tried to help the world, not just the city. 

Dick wouldn’t meet his eyes anymore, staring at the wall of pinned papers and graphs. “But if I didn’t do it someone else would’ve. And I might not have been you, you weren’t in the best headspace at the time, but it might’ve been you. And it would’ve killed you,” Dick repeated. “Any progress you’d made. Any friendship you’d formed, Batman destroys those things. It takes everything you have until all that’s left is Batman, all that’s left is the mission.”

Jason huffed out a breath, unable to hide his frustration. “You don’t know that. Okay? You’re right, I was off my rocker, but–”

“I watched it happen to Bruce. It was slow at first, leeching. But the longer he wore that cowl, the more it took from him. ‘Til there was nothing left,” Dick’s eyes had a sort of far away haze as he continued. “He used to smile, ya know. A real smile. And he used to be funny .” His expression was a battle between a fond grin and unbearable grief. “Not on purpose, but that just made it funnier. I remember we used to–”

Dick seemed to come back to the present mid-sentence. The sorrow won. “I don’t even know who he is anymore.” He glanced up at Jason, grave, bereaved. “And it would’ve happened to you. Or Tim. Or Cass. Or some other poor idiot who tried to fill the void he left. What was I supposed to do? Let it happen to someone else? Let it happen to you ?”

Jason was still trying to reconcile the Dick he knows with the Batman Dick was. He’d never put any real thought into it before. Dick was right. Of course, Dick was right, they were talking about Dick, but Jason’s memories of then were almost as hazy as his pre-death ones, tinted by green anger. 

He remembered fighting and shouting, planning and reconnaissance, hiding and crying. He remembered being so so angry. At Bruce. At Tim. At Dick. But mostly at Batman. But he had been making progress. By then, he’d switched to rubber bullets, he stopped attacking the Bats–mostly–and he was going to dinner with Alfred regularly even if wasn’t talking to the others outside of masks. 

Or maybe he wasn’t. Sometimes recollections blended together into a mishmash or flashing scenes and clipped lines of dialogue. Sometimes Jason couldn’t separate what really happened from what his fractured mind made up. 

How was Dick when he was Batman? Was he happy? Cursed with hindsight, Jason saw an underweight, overworked shell of a man, but that couldn’t be right. They would’ve noticed. They would’ve noticed if it was that bad. Dick worked his whole life to someday become Batman. That’s why he was the best. That’s why–

“Fuck, Jason I was so mad at you,” then, quieter, “I was so scared I’ve forgiven you. I promise, I have,” Dick swore.

Jason could tell by the earnestness in his eyes, desperate to be believed, that he meant it, but he already knew that. And Dick knew that Jason knew that. Which meant he was prefacing something, something painful, something he needed Jason to know he had already forgiven him for.

“But,” Dick continued, “that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. And I’m not–I’m not saying this to make you feel bad. I’m bringing it up because it’s important for you to understand that I’ve done this before. I spent over a decade distancing myself from Bruce, from Batman. Creating an identity separate from him, something all my own.”

‘And then you took that from me, and you killed people with it,’ Jason’s brain supplied. 

Dick didn’t say it. He’d never say that, but Jason heard it anyway. 

“And I’ve lost it before. More than once. This, ” Dick glanced around the room as if seeing it for the first time and the thousandth time all at once, “is how I deal. This is how I survive. I have to have a plan, an outlook. There has to be an end goal and a means to get there or this is going to kill me. I get it, okay. I get it. It looks like a mess to you. It looks like desperation, like a manic episode. Because it is. I am desperate. I am manic. But this is my life. My life . Boiled down to papers and numbers and spreadsheets. That’s the only way I make it out of this. Alright? 

“I wanna live. Holy fuck I want to live ! But I don’t get that choice anymore. Don’t you understand that? DIck Grayson doesn’t exist anymore. He finally fucking won. He destroyed me. I destroyed me. I’ve hacked myself into dozens of little bloody chunks and pinned them to a bulletin board. Because I don’t get to live anymore. But it’s fine–”

Because Jason was fine and Dick was fine and everything was fine, and they’d be fine together. Except Dick wasn’t fine and Jason wasn’t fine and Dick knew that and Jason knew that and it was fine. Except it wasn’t fine. And that was fine.

A deep, shuddering breath briefly fractured Dick’s declamation. “It’s fine. Because I figured it out. I know I’m not gonna live through this, okay. I’ve accepted that. I’m gonna sell my soul to some corporate accounting job, toiling away while life force seeps through my fingers and into the documents I’m drawing up to help rich fucks commit legal tax evasion. All so I can make sure Damian and Duke can go to school.  And even after they graduate it never fucking ends. I’ve gotta worry about college funds and weddings and financing our night jobs because I’ll be fucking damned if any of you ever have to ask Bruce for anything ever again. 

“This is my whole life now. This family is my whole life now. I’m okay with that. And I’ve accepted that I don’t make it out of this in one piece. That Dick Grayson isn’t going to live anymore. But this way,” he pointed again at the wall of papers, “maybe I’ll survive. Maybe there’ll be something left of me in these papers to piece back together. And maybe there won’t be. I’ve accepted that. There is no other way. Not with the time we have, with the resources we have.”

Closing his eyes, Jason deliberately unclenched his hands and jaw, systematically relaxing each segment of his body with a heavy exhale. 

This wasn’t–he could just let–

‘That’s no way to live,’ he thought. Then half a second later it dawned on him, ‘ That’s the point,’ 

Memories played like movies in his mind. Memories of the sporadic good times from his pre-teen years. The weeks, sometimes months, when Willis had a job and Catherine was clean. When the three of them, Jason who didn’t know any better and his parents who did, would reinforce each other's delusions, insisting that things were good, that they were normal, that it would last. 

Jason would set the table and help Catherine cook. Willis would come home, a plastic grocery bag with pints of ice cream from the dollar store down the street swinging slowly at his side. And they’d smile and play house and Jason would almost– almost –forget his half-healed bruise and the slight guant of his cheeks.

The next several seconds passed like sticky, oozing molasses. Jason felt stuck in it, every thought struggling against viscous resistance. Finally, like separating Legos, he forced his mouth open and pushed a response out. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Dick asked, questioning gaze wandering from his hands to Jason’s face. 

“Okay,” Jason confirmed. “How can I help?”

From his front row seat, Jason’s had an enviable view of Dick’s collapse. Like a crumbling skyscraper, bit by bit, brick by brick until whoosh , the whole thing comes down in one motion. Except the culmination never came. At the last second, at every last second, every time, through unimaginable will and unrivaled stubbornness, Dick managed to force the fallen pieces back into place until a facade, too perfect, too shiny, formed to mask the deterioration. 

It’s as if a switch was flipped, the clock on the wall ticked once and Dick of a second ago was gone, replaced with something a bit too polished, a bit too okay. Jason’s reminded of that day on the beach. With the sand and the water and the baby that wasn’t real but existed nonetheless. Of the instant shift from absent to present at Tim’s approach. 

It hurt more than he was willing to admit. Jason was on the inside or at the very least he wasn’t outside. Not like the others. He refused to reevaluate this assumption. Dick was a great actor, no, Dick was an impeccable actor, damn near flawless. And Jason wasn’t in, if wasn’t part of the show, then he was just an observer, a captive member of Dick Grayson’s audience. 

But the other implication, the one Jason refused to acknowledge, refused to entertain, kept blaring like an alarm in his mind. If Jason wasn’t in, then no one was. If Jason wasn’t in, then Dick was all alone.

“How long did you say I’ve been in here?” Dick asked, like the past few hours hadn’t happened. “I missed breakfast, didn’t I? That’s why they called you. Did Dami and Duke get to school?”

Isolation kills. Jason knew that, first hand, second hand, third, fourth, fifth hand. If this life taught him anything, if there really were a lesson in death–and Jason would know–it was that isolation kills.

And Dick was dying. In a hundred little lonely pieces on the wall.