Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wayne Manor had always been quiet — not peaceful, not comforting. The kind of quiet that settled in your bones, a silence that told you to keep your head down, your voice low, your mouth shut.

Dick Grayson knew that quiet better than anyone.

He stood in the training room long after the others had cleared out, jaw tight, fists bruised and red from the unforgiving wood of the training dummy. He hadn’t been wearing gloves. Again. Hadn’t even noticed.

Jason had.

He lingered in the hallway for too long before stepping in. Dick didn’t even turn.

“Y’know,” Jason said, voice light, “those things don’t hit back.”

Dick exhaled. It wasn’t quite a laugh. “Wouldn’t be fair if they did.”

Jason’s chest tightened. There was a hollowness to Dick’s voice, like the words were echoing through an empty room.

“Grayson.”

Bruce’s voice echoed from the doorway. Jason tensed. Dick just turned, composed, mask already in place — too practiced, too fast.

“There’s intel from Blüdhaven,” Bruce said. “You’re on it.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, a protest already forming — but Dick cut him off.
“When?”

“Tonight. They’re expecting you.” Bruce was already walking away, conversation over.

Jason stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Expecting you to what? Flash your badge or—” Jason stopped. The way Dick flinched — just barely — said enough.

Jason had half a mind to follow Bruce and demand answers — but one look at Dick’s face told him it wouldn’t help. Not yet.

Jason’s hands curled into fists.

But Dick just offered a faint smile, one Jason hated more than any scream. “I’ve got it.”

Jason didn’t know exactly what Bruce was making him do. But whatever it was — it was killing him.

On their way out of the training room, Damian passed them in the hall, eyes narrowing.

“You’re bleeding,” he said flatly, nodding to Dick’s knuckles.

Dick blinked down like he was only just noticing.

“Wood’s tougher than it looks,” he muttered.

Damian scoffed. “Tt. You should know better.”

Damian’s words barely landed. Dick just kept walking, jaw set, blood drying on his knuckles. He didn’t stop until he was upstairs, away from the eyes, the questions, the guilt.

Dinner was quiet — outwardly, at least. Beneath the surface, it was tense, fraying.

Tim and Damian were locked in some passive-aggressive chess match across the table. Bruce scrolled through a tablet. Jason, for once, wasn’t eating.

And Dick… Dick looked like he was trying to fold himself into the chair and vanish. His food sat untouched, his eyes dull. There was a bruise just under his jaw — small, faint, almost hidden. But Jason noticed. Jason always noticed.

“Did you even sleep?” Jason asked, voice deceptively casual.

Dick didn’t look up. “Didn’t see the point.”

Jason scoffed. “Yeah, okay, cyborg.”

Tim paused mid-bite, glancing between them. “Seriously, you good, Dick?”

“I’m fine.”

That same damn lie.

Damian frowned. “You don’t look fine. You look like you’ve been run over by the Batmobile.”

“He’s focused,” Bruce said without looking up. “That’s what matters.”

Jason’s fork clattered against his plate. “Right. As long as he’s running your errands, his health doesn’t mean shit.”

“Jason—” Tim started.

But Dick was already standing, chair scraping harshly against the floor. “I’ve got patrol.”

He walked out before he said something he couldn’t take back — or someone looked too closely.

Tim frowned. “It’s not even dark yet.”

Jason pushed away from the table a second later, heart pounding with frustration — and something else he didn’t want to name. “He doesn’t see it,” he said, staring directly at Bruce. “Or maybe he does. Maybe that’s the point.”

Bruce didn’t respond. He never did.

Later, in his room, Dick stood in front of the mirror for a long time, staring at the man looking back.

What scared him wasn’t the bruises — it was the emptiness. The way he couldn’t remember what it felt like to be touched without flinching.

There’d been a time, once, when someone’s hand on his shoulder hadn’t made him brace. A time when comfort hadn’t felt like a threat.

He couldn’t remember when.

He used to think loyalty meant standing by the people you loved. Now, it just felt like another word for sacrifice.

He didn’t patrol that night.

He sat on the rooftop of an abandoned building in Blüdhaven, suit half-unzipped, mask discarded beside him...

The mission had taken twenty minutes. It always did. Charm, lie, walk away. It wasn’t hard anymore. He knew the words, the moves, what to let them take — and that scared him more than anything.

He turned off his comms. Let the silence settle.

Behind him, Jason landed a few rooftops away — silent as shadow. He hadn’t meant to follow. He just… couldn’t stay away.

He stayed in the shadows — watching Dick unravel, night after night, and still not knowing what the hell Bruce had done to him to make him this quiet, this… gone .

He saw everything.

And he was going to find out exactly what Bruce had done to break him.

Jason clenched his jaw, heart aching in his chest.

He didn’t know what to call the thing twisting in his chest — grief, fury, guilt, maybe something else. But whatever it was, he wasn’t going to watch Dick disappear without a fight.

Chapter Text

It had been two weeks since Jason first noticed something off about Dick. At first, he’d brushed it off — the way Dick went quiet mid-sentence, flinched at sudden noises, seemed to exist just a second behind the rest of them. But now, as they got ready for the Wayne Gala, it was impossible to ignore.

The room was quiet except for the soft shuffle of fabric and the faint clink of cufflinks being fastened. Jason tugged on his blazer, brushing imaginary lint off the lapel, and glanced across the room.

Dick stood like a statue in front of the mirror.

Tux fitted. Tie half-done. Shoulders locked tight as marble.

Jason watched him fumble with the knot like his fingers didn’t belong to him, movements jerky, eyes unfocused. The expression on his face was all wrong — blank and far away. Like he wasn’t here. Like he was somewhere else entirely.

Jason cleared his throat and said, trying to sound casual, “You know, the tie won’t tie itself.”

Dick didn’t laugh. Didn’t even look over. He just yanked the tie tighter with a sharp jerk that made Jason wince.

“Keep that up and you’re gonna cut off circulation to your brain,” Jason said, softer this time as he stepped closer. “You good?”

A beat. Then a stiff nod.

Not I’m fine . Not yeah, just tired . The kind of nod you give a teacher who won’t let you leave the classroom until you say something.

Jason frowned.

“You’ve been quiet.”

Another shrug. Still not looking at him.

Jason let the silence stretch a bit longer, watching the way Dick’s jaw clenched as he focused on his sleeves like they were the most important thing in the world. His whole posture screamed tension, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Jason offered. “Bruce’ll understand. And if he doesn’t, I’ll make him.”

That finally got Dick to glance over.

Just a glance.

Then: “It’s fine. I’ll go.”

Jason hated that word. Fine . It never meant what it was supposed to mean when Dick said it. He could’ve had a bullet hole in his side and still tell you he was fine .

Jason sighed and moved to stand next to him, their reflections side by side in the mirror. Dick looked like a stranger in his own skin — all sharp edges and tension, like the suit was a cage and the tie a leash.

“Look, if this is too much — if you’re not ready to deal with all the people and the press and the fake-ass rich folk — say the word. I’ll cover for you.”

Dick was silent for a long moment, his eyes on the mirror. Then he said, so softly Jason almost missed it:

“I don’t remember how to do this.”

Jason blinked. “Do what?”

Dick swallowed. “Pretend.”

That hit hard.

Jason didn’t have the right words for it. He never really did. But he reached over anyway and tugged gently at Dick’s tie, loosening it just enough so it didn’t look like a noose. Then he bumped his shoulder against Dick's.

“Then don’t pretend. Just be you. I’ll deal with the rest. If that means ditching halfway through, we’ll ditch. I’ve got a getaway plan.”

Dick didn’t answer right away. But he didn’t pull away either.

And for now, Jason would count that as a win.

The lights were too bright.

They always were. Crystal chandeliers casting gold across polished marble floors, people laughing too loudly over champagne flutes, the clink of silver and glass grating in his ears.

Dick stood near the edge of the ballroom, half a step outside the crowd, a practiced smile ghosting his lips. He didn’t feel it. Couldn’t remember the last time he had.

His fingers twitched at his sides — a nervous tic he hadn’t been able to shake. He kept smoothing his lapel, again and again, like the motion might quiet the unease crawling beneath his skin.

Bruce’s voice from earlier echoed — low, clipped, in the hallway:

> “Don’t make a scene, Dick. The city’s watching tonight. I expect you to act accordingly.”

The words echoed, tight around his throat.

Act accordingly. Right. Smile. Be polite. Shake hands. Laugh at the right time.

Disappear.

Jason had hovered close since they arrived — standing nearby, asking quiet questions, brushing his shoulder like a tether. It helped. A little. But the room was too loud, and Jason got pulled away by someone from the board, and now—

Dick was alone.

He inhaled slowly through his nose, willing his shoulders to relax. They didn’t.

A hand landed on his arm. Firm. Too firm.

Dick flinched.

He hated that he flinched. But he couldn’t stop it.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said, voice smooth and wrong. Older, tall, dressed like every other rich bastard in the room — but his smile was sharp.

Dick tried to step back, but the man’s grip tightened. “Come now, don’t be shy. I was hoping I’d get a moment with you. You're much more handsome in person.”

The voice was too close. His fingers were on Dick’s sleeve, brushing higher. Uninvited. Intentional.

Dick’s stomach turned.

The man leaned in, breath hot against his ear. “Grown up nicely, haven’t you? Bruce must be proud. Bet he’s taught you all kinds of tricks.”

The music warped into a distant thrum — muffled and slow, like it was underwater.

Dick’s breath felt trapped somewhere behind his ribs, shallow and uneven. He couldn’t seem to pull it all the way in. The man’s hand was still on him — heavy, possessive — and the edges of the room began to tilt.

> Don’t make a scene. Don’t embarrass him.

He could barely feel his own body.

And then—

Movement. A shape parting through the crowd. Fast. Familiar.

Jason.

His eyes locked onto Jason’s across the ballroom — sharp, furious, zeroing in like a storm about to hit.

Relief cracked through the numbness like a lightning bolt.

Jason didn’t think.

One moment, he was brushing off some smug Gotham exec. The next, he saw Dick — cornered, stiff, eyes glassy. And some asshole had his hands on him.

Something in Jason’s chest snapped tight.

He was across the floor in seconds.

“Back off,” he snapped, stepping between them and forcing the man’s hand away from Dick’s arm. His tone was low but lethal — sharp enough to draw startled looks from nearby guests.

The man raised his hands with a mock-apologetic smile. “Didn’t realize he was spoken for.”

Jason didn’t dignify that with a response. His only focus was Dick — pale, shaking, eyes not fully tracking.

“C’mon,” Jason said gently, wrapping an arm around him and steering him out of the ballroom. Dick moved like he was on autopilot, too quiet, too pliant.

They slipped through a side hall and ducked into a guest bathroom. As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Dick stumbled to the sink and braced his hands against the porcelain, knuckles white.

The harsh overhead lights flickered off the mirror, too bright. The sink was too cold under his hands — grounding, but not enough. Everything was too much.

Jason hovered a step away, not sure if he should touch him.

“Dick,” he said carefully, “what the hell happened?”

No response.

Dick’s shoulders started to tremble, his breath coming fast and shallow — too fast.

“Hey. Hey—look at me.” Jason’s voice softened. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Dick made a small, broken noise — a sound Jason never wanted to hear again. His legs gave out a moment later, and he sank to the floor in a heap, back to the wall, knees drawn tight. His tie was half undone, sweat clinging to his brow.

Panic attack.

Jason dropped down beside him, not touching but close. Grounding. “Alright. Breathe with me, okay? In through your nose… out through your mouth. That’s it. Just follow me.”

He breathed slowly, exaggeratedly, coaxing the rhythm with his own lungs.

Dick’s fingers curled into his pants leg. He wasn’t speaking, but he was trying — ragged gasps giving way to something closer to breath.

“Good,” Jason murmured. “You’re doing good.”

Time slowed to the rhythm of breath.

Jason looked at him — really looked at him. The slope of his shoulders, the way he pressed himself into the corner like he was trying to disappear, the silent war going on behind his eyes. And something fierce twisted in Jason’s chest.

It didn’t matter that Dick was older. Didn’t matter that he was the golden boy, the one who always kept it together. Right now, he looked so small. So breakable.

And all Jason could feel was the overwhelming need to shield him — from this night, from that man, from whatever ghosts still clung to his skin.

He shifted slightly closer, just enough to let their knees touch.

And as Dick’s chest began to settle, Jason let himself think — just for a second — about the man who had touched him. About the look on Dick’s face.

He was going to find that bastard. He was going to—

No.

Focus on Dick first.

Dick finally slumped back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. Exhausted. Silent.

Jason didn’t push.

Not yet.

Jason stayed still. Just breathing. Matching. Holding the silence like it was something fragile.

But someone had hurt Dick. And Jason was going to make sure it never happened again.

Jason had been quiet on the drive back.

Not angry. Not distant. Just focused — that particular kind of Jason Todd calm that always came right before he did something reckless.

Dick sat on the edge of his bed, tuxedo jacket draped over a chair, bowtie discarded on the floor. He stared down at his hands like he expected blood instead of tremors.

Jason stood across the room, arms crossed, still in full gala wear like he hadn’t had time — or the energy — to change. He hadn’t said much since they got back, just quietly helped Dick out of the car, steered him up to his room, and closed the door behind them.

Now, the silence sat heavy between them.

“…Bruce is gonna be mad,” Dick said at last. His voice was flat. Small.

Jason didn’t blink. “Let me deal with Bruce.”

Dick glanced up, then looked away again just as fast. “You shouldn’t have had to do that,” he mumbled. “At the gala. You shouldn’t’ve had to see—”

“I’m glad I did,” Jason cut in. “I’d rather see it than miss it.”

That shut Dick up again. His shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller, fold inward, disappear.

Jason let the quiet stretch a little longer before crossing the room. He didn’t sit — just crouched in front of him. Close enough to touch. Close enough to shield. Eye level.

“Can I ask you something?”

Dick hesitated, then nodded — a twitch of his head, barely visible.

“…Why did you react like that? When that guy touched you?” Jason’s voice was gentle. Careful.

Jason wasn’t sure if he should — if he even had the right. But seeing Dick like this — small, silent, unraveling — made the silence unbearable.

For a long moment, he thought Dick wouldn’t answer. His jaw tightened. Throat moved. Still nothing.

Then, finally, Dick whispered, “I don’t know.”

Jason stayed silent.

Dick’s voice cracked. “I’m just—so tired, Jay. Of being looked at like I’m not a person. Like I’m something to take. To use. Like I don’t get a say. I used to be able to ignore it. Smile through it. Pretend it didn’t get to me. But it’s getting harder.”

Jason’s heart clenched. He exhaled slowly. The weight of what Dick wasn’t saying pressed in on both of them.

Then — soft, careful:

“Has someone hurt you?”

He already knew the answer. But saying it out loud felt like pulling a pin from a grenade — like once the words were loose, something would break open that couldn’t be put back.

Dick froze.

The air shifted. Like a switch had flipped. His whole body stiffened. Eyes wide, locked on Jason’s like a deer caught in headlights.

“…Don’t push,” Dick said, voice low. “Please. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Jason’s heart sank. He swallowed the urge to argue. To push. To fix it. But this wasn’t something he could punch or threaten away.

And Dick saw it — the flicker of panic, of grief, of something raw flash across Jason’s face.

Immediately, he reached out. His fingers brushed Jason’s wrist, tentative. “Jason, please,” he said, softer now. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

Jason blinked hard. “You’re not upsetting me, Dick. I’m upset because—” His voice caught. He regrouped. “Because I care. Because you shouldn’t have to go through this.”

He paused, then asked, “Does Bruce know?”

Dick didn’t answer right away.

His gaze dropped. Shoulders curved inward. Then — barely above a whisper:

 “...What do you think?”

Jason didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The look on Dick’s face — the shame, the tiredness, the truth — said more than enough.

And it lit a fire in Jason’s chest that wasn’t cooling down. Not tonight. Not ever.

Jason sat on the stairs, elbows on his knees, staring down at the marble like it might offer answers. Upstairs, Dick was finally asleep — curled into himself like he was trying to disappear.

If Alfred had been home, maybe he would’ve known what to say. Maybe he would’ve known how to help. But he was still in England, handling something with the estate. Jason didn’t know the details. Didn’t care.

He just wished someone who actually saw Dick was here.

Jason hadn’t moved since tucking him in. He’d just come back down and waited.

The front doors creaked open.

Bruce entered first, followed by Tim and Damian. All three still wore formal wear from the gala. Bruce, of course, looked untouched by the night. Tim looked vaguely uneasy. Damian just looked bored and tired.

Jason stood before any of them could speak.

Tim opened his mouth, but Jason held up a hand.

“Dick’s asleep,” he said. “He needs rest. Don’t disturb him.”

Tim blinked, picking up on the tone. “Okay. We weren’t going to—”

Jason looked at him. Not angry. Just serious. Tim nodded and backed off immediately.

Damian frowned. “What’s going on?”

Jason didn’t answer right away. He looked at both of them — not cruel, just older, sharper, burdened with something they weren’t ready to carry.

He didn’t want them to see it — the way his hands were still shaking, or how close he’d come to breaking apart when Dick whispered please. But someone had to hold it together.

And right now, it had to be him.

“Go upstairs,” Jason said, voice even. “Now.”

Tim touched Damian’s arm. “Come on.”

Damian scowled. “But—”

“Damian.” Jason’s voice cut clean through the air — not a growl, but not far off.

Damian’s eyes narrowed, but he went. Tim followed, glancing back once.

Jason waited until their footsteps faded.

Then he turned to Bruce.

“Where is he?” Bruce asked.

“In his room,” Jason said.

Bruce moved to go past him.

Jason stepped in his path.

Bruce stopped short, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “Jason. Move.”

“He’s sleeping,” Jason said flatly. “And you and I need to talk.”

Bruce sighed. “It’s late.”

“Then wake up.”

The words cracked like thunder, splitting the quiet hall open.

“You saw it tonight,” Jason said, stepping closer. “You saw what that man was doing to him.”

Bruce said nothing.

Jason’s voice dropped — lower, rougher. “You let it happen. You let him be paraded around like bait. You always have. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Still silence.

Jason’s mouth curled in disgust. “You think it’s worth it, don’t you? The influence. The headlines. The city loves you — so what if it eats him alive?”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Watch your soul, Bruce.” Jason’s voice dropped, rougher now. “Because you’re losing it.”

He took a breath. Slower now. But colder.

“You don’t get to go near him tonight,” Jason said, voice low but solid. “You don’t get to stand in his doorway and tell him you’re disappointed. Not after tonight. Not after all the times you looked the other way.”

He stepped in closer, eyes like steel.

“You broke something in him, Bruce. And I’m not gonna let you keep breaking it.”

Bruce said nothing. But something flickered in his eyes — sharp, defensive, brittle.

Jason didn’t care.

“You want to fix this?” he said. “Start by owning it. And get out of the damn way.”

He turned and walked up the stairs. No glance back. No hesitation.

Bruce stood alone in the entryway, silence pressing in on all sides like a closing door.

Upstairs, a door clicked shut.

He didn’t move.

Chapter Text

Jason knocked once before letting himself into the room, the scent of coffee clinging faintly to his hoodie. “Alright, Sleeping Beauty. Rise and shine.”

Dick groaned from the bed, cocooned in a mountain of blankets. “What time is it?”

“Late enough,” Jason said, crossing the room and yanking back the curtains with dramatic flair. “Come on, get up. You’re coming with me.”

“Please tell me this isn’t a mission,” Dick mumbled into his pillow.

Jason grinned. “Nope. Better. Bowling.”

That got a reaction. Dick cracked one eye open, suspicious. “Bowling?”

“Yup. You, me, Tim, and the gremlin.”

“You mean Damian?”

“I said what I said.”

Dick sighed and rolled over, squinting at the ceiling. “Why?”

There were things he probably should be doing. Things left unsaid. But the thought of facing it — of facing him — made something in his chest coil tight.

Maybe he wasn’t ready. Maybe tonight, he didn’t have to be.

Jason hesitated — just long enough for Dick to notice. “Because we’re overdue for a normal, stupid, completely un-bloody night out. Because you look like you haven’t laughed in a decade. And because I already told Tim and Demon Spawn to be ready in twenty.”

Dick didn’t answer right away. Jason didn’t push.

Dick stared at the ceiling, the quiet creeping in. His mind flashed — unbidden — to the fallout from the gala. The tension in the air. Bruce’s silence.

The look on his face when Jason stepped in — sharp, unreadable, like something locked in his jaw. Like disappointment waiting to land.

He rubbed at his temples, as if the pressure there might let him forget, just for a minute.

After a moment, Dick sat up slowly, rubbing a hand through his messy hair. “Okay.”

Jason gave a half-smile, relief flickering behind it.

He didn’t say it, but seeing Dick like this — drawn in, dulled at the edges — had been eating at him for weeks. This wasn’t just about a night out. It was about reminding him he wasn’t alone.

They were halfway to the front door when Bruce called after them.

“Dick.”

Jason stiffened slightly beside him. Dick froze.

Bruce stood at the foot of the stairs, expression carved in stone — unreadable, as always. “Can we talk?”

“Not today, B,” Jason said, voice still light — but it had an edge to it now, the kind that didn’t ask twice.

Bruce’s eyes flicked to Dick, who looked anywhere but back. “It’s important.”

Jason’s jaw twitched, and he placed a hand on Dick’s back, steering him forward. “So is this.”

There was a flicker of something sharp in Jason’s eyes — the part of him that still hadn’t forgiven Bruce for expecting too much, too often.

As they stepped past Bruce, Jason didn’t look back — but his hand on Dick’s back stayed steady, firm.

They walked out without another word. Dick felt Bruce’s gaze press between his shoulder blades all the way to the car.

“Sorry,” he murmured as they reached the driveway.

Jason shrugged. “Don’t be. Not your job to make him feel better.”

Dick gave a faint smile, equal parts grateful and aching.

The silence lingered between them for a moment — not heavy, exactly, but fragile. Dick stared down the length of the drive, hands in his pockets, trying not to dwell on the conversation that hadn’t happened. On the one he wasn’t sure he was ready to have.

Jason bumped his shoulder lightly. “Come on. Let’s go throw heavy objects at defenseless pins.”

The tension cracked, just a little — enough to breathe again.

By the time they reached the car, it was already fading.

Tim was already in the backseat, earbuds in and scrolling his phone. Damian climbed in right after, immediately kicking Tim’s seat.

“Stop hogging the middle,” Damian snapped.

Their voices tangled together, sharp and familiar. Dick let it wash over him like background noise — the kind that used to fill late nights and safe rooms — bootsteps echoing off cave walls, laughter layered behind mission chatter. The kind that felt like home.

“You’re like two feet tall, you don’t need the legroom,” Tim shot back without looking up.

“Say that again and I’ll—”

Jason slammed his door and turned up the music. “If you two make me regret this, I swear to God I’m leaving you at the bowling alley.”

Dick chuckled under his breath as he buckled in. “Feels like old times.”

Jason looked over at him, a smile tugging at his mouth.

Dick met his gaze, something warm rising behind his ribs.

He wondered when Jason had started seeing through him so easily — and caring enough to do something about it.

The bowling alley was dimly lit, buzzing with neon lights and the clatter of pins. Music thumped gently through the speakers — not loud enough to drown out the excited chatter of families and groups scattered across the lanes.

Jason led the group to their reserved lane, carrying a tray of sodas in one hand and sliding the score screen on with the other. “Alright, Bat-Brats. Settle your bets now.”

“I’m going to destroy all of you,” Damian announced, tugging on his wrist guards like he was suiting up for battle. “Bowling is a precision sport — naturally, I excel at it.”

Tim rolled his eyes as he laced his sneakers. “You’ve never bowled a day in your life.”

“And yet, I shall still prevail.”

“You’re four feet tall, Damian. The ball might roll you instead.”

Jason handed Dick a drink, amusement flickering quietly in his eyes. Dick gave him a faint smile in thanks, then sat on the bench, watching the two younger boys bicker like it was second nature — loud, ridiculous, familiar.

“I wish Cass and Steph were here,” he said softly.

Jason glanced at him, setting the tray down. “Yeah. They would’ve loved this.”

Dick took a sip of his drink, then leaned back and let himself soak it all in — the lights, the sounds, Damian now locked in a battle with the vending machine. It felt far away from everything weighing him down — the tension at the manor, the conversation Bruce hadn’t had yet, the fallout still waiting to crash over him. For the first time in a long while, the weight was just a little lighter.

Jason watched him, quieter now. There’d been too many nights lately where Dick’s smiles didn’t reach his eyes, where he moved like someone bracing for the next blow. But this — this version of him, laughing under cheap neon, casually teasing his siblings — it felt like a glimpse of something real. Something they hadn't seen in far too long.

A few frames in, Dick was up next.

He grabbed a ball — one that didn’t look like it would shatter his wrist — and lined up his shot. With a practiced ease, he sent it down the lane, straight and clean.

Strike.

“Still got it,” he said with a grin.

Tim clapped mockingly. “He was a gymnast, you know.”

“I’m aware,” Damian muttered, arms crossed.

Jason leaned against the scoring stand, arms folded, watching Dick with a quiet smile. His hair was a mess from the alley’s static-prone shoes, and his laughter came easier now — warm, unguarded, real.

Jason hadn’t seen him like this in months — open, light, laughing like it was summer again. Like home. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that sound until now.

It loosened something in his chest he hadn’t known was wound so tight.

He found himself thinking back to the car ride earlier, to Dick’s quiet, “Feels like old times.”

It really did.

He didn’t say anything, just kept smiling as Dick returned and bumped his shoulder gently against Jason’s.

“Thanks for this,” Dick said, soft.

Jason shrugged, casually. “You needed a break.”

“You dragged all of us out here.”

“And you love me for it.”

Dick laughed again, head tilted back, the sound so open it left a dull ache in Jason’s chest.

By the sixth frame, it was Tim vs. Damian: Deathmatch.

“I’m literally two points ahead,” Tim snapped, studying the screen.

“I will surpass you,” Damian growled. “Your form is horrendous. You’re throwing with emotion, not strategy.”

“Dami, we’re bowling, not storming a fortress.”

“Same principle.”

Jason threw his head back, laughing. “You two are the entertainment.”

Dick leaned against the ball return, his expression softening as he watched them. “They drive each other crazy, but they’d tear the world apart for one another.”

Jason didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on Dick — just a second longer than it should have.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “They would.”

Dick turned toward him and caught the look — quiet, unguarded — but didn’t say anything. Just smiled.

And Jason smiled back.

Whatever waited for him back home, whatever came next — he let himself have this moment.

He’d pay for it later. He always did. But for tonight, he let himself believe.

After a few games, they ducked out for food. The burger joint next door was greasy and neon-lit, with cracked booths and ketchup pumps that squeaked. Jason carried over a tray of fries while Tim grabbed napkins and Damian loudly complained about the oil content.

Dick sat down with a ridiculous double-patty mess of a burger and a side of curly fries that Jason immediately stole from.

“You’re a thief,” Dick said, deadpan.

“You love me for it,” Jason repeated, smirking.

Tim slid into the booth across from them and nudged Damian in the ribs to make room.

As Damian grumbled and shifted, Tim leaned toward Jason, nodding subtly at Dick.

“He’s laughing,” he murmured. “It’s working.”

Jason didn’t answer, just glanced over — Dick mid-bite, eyes crinkling as he laughed at something Damian muttered.

Yeah. It really was. And God, Jason had missed that sound more than he’d realized.

As they tossed their wrappers and stepped back into the night, the air had cooled — but the mood hadn’t. Laughter still lingered at the corners of Dick's smile.

“Alright, we bowled. We ate. You know what comes next.”

Jason arched an eyebrow. “Emergency rooftop patrol?”

Dick grinned. “Ice cream. Obviously. You can’t have a night out without hitting our favorite spot.”

“You just inhaled 3,000 calories.”

“Exactly. Dessert balances it out.”

Jason sighed with mock exasperation, but his smile never wavered. “Fine. You pick the flavor.”

“Big mistake,” Dick said. “You know how I get .”

And they were off again — the night unfolding around them, warm and soft with city glow. Just a little lighter than before.

The ice cream shop glowed under the warm hum of its vintage bulbs, nestled between a bookstore and a florist. It was cozy and slightly chaotic, the kind of place with too many topping options and a chalkboard menu with messy handwriting. The boys took up nearly half the small space, their presence loud and familiar in the best way.

Jason leaned against the wall near the entrance, watching Dick mull over the flavor board like it held the answers to life.

“Alright,” Dick said finally, pointing. “I want bubblegum swirl, marshmallow ripple, cookie dough chunks, and gummy bears.”

Damian looked personally affronted. “You’re a grown man.”

Dick grinned. “And yet here I am.”

“You’ll die from sugar poisoning.”

“Worth it.”

Tim smirked behind his sundae. “Don’t knock it, Dami. This is the happiest I’ve seen him all month.”

Dick accepted his ridiculous concoction with an excited “Yes!” and took the first spoonful like he’d just won something — bright-eyed, delighted, unburdened.

Jason couldn’t help it — he just stood there for a second, watching him.

The sheer delight on Dick’s face — the ridiculous swirl of blue and pink, the contented little hum like it was a five-star dessert — made Jason stop in his tracks. He looked... alive. Lighter. Like the weight he always carried had slipped, just for a moment.

Jason let the warmth of it settle somewhere in his chest before stepping up to order something far more reasonable — mint chocolate chip in a waffle cone.

They all wandered outside to a nearby bench under the shop’s awning. Tim and Damian immediately resumed bickering about the ethics of flavor combinations (“Peanut butter and mint is criminal,” Tim muttered), giving Jason and Dick space to fall behind.

Dick leaned against the side of the bench, eating slowly, the tension in his shoulders mostly gone. Jason sat next to him, close enough that their legs brushed.

Dick stared at the swirl of colors in his cup, fingers absently tapping the plastic. For a moment, the heaviness he'd carried for weeks — the guilt, the pressure, the silence from Bruce — didn’t press so tightly against his ribs.

“I forgot how good this is,” Dick murmured.

Jason glanced sideways. “Ice cream?”

“No. This. Us.” His voice softened, edged with something uncertain. “Laughing. Just being out. Feeling like maybe I’m still allowed to have this.”

Jason didn’t speak at first. He just looked at him — really looked — taking in the flush of his cheeks from the cold, the flicker of something brighter in his eyes.

“No one ever took it from you,” Jason said quietly. “You just forgot how to let yourself have it.”

Dick’s hand brushed Jason’s as he set down his spoon. He didn’t pull away.

“I’m trying to remember,” he whispered.

And God, Jason hoped he could help him do that.

Too many nights, Jason had wondered if this version of Dick was already gone — the one who laughed with his whole face, who let his shoulders relax, who believed he could still be okay. Seeing it now felt like something fragile being returned.

Jason didn’t move or speak. He just stayed — steady and present — letting the quiet settle between them like something sacred.

Behind them, Damian scolded Tim for dripping chocolate sauce on his hoodie. The world kept turning.

But here — in this moment — it was just the two of them.

Maybe it wouldn’t last. Maybe tomorrow would bring it all crashing back.

But tonight, under soft light and quiet laughter, Dick let himself believe — in the quiet, in the company, in the chance that maybe, just maybe, it was enough.

The manor was dark when they returned, silence settling over them like a familiar chill. The doors clicked shut — and the quiet rushed in, cold and immediate, like breath stolen in winter. The laughter from earlier dissolved into memory — faint, already slipping through the cracks.

“Thanks,” Dick said, glancing between the three of them. “For all of this. I needed it more than I realized.”

Tim grinned, still riding the high of beating Damian in the last round. “We’ll have to do a rematch next week.”

“You got lucky,” Damian snapped, stalking upstairs without another word.

Jason clapped Dick lightly on the shoulder. “You looked like yourself today.”

Dick gave a small smile, something tender flickering behind it. “I felt like myself. For a little while.”

He lingered in the entryway as Tim and Jason headed off in opposite directions. The house settled into stillness around him.

As he headed upstairs, he wished he could hold onto it — the warmth of the night, the easy laughter, the way his chest hadn’t felt so heavy for once. Just a little longer. Just one more breath before the quiet returned.

But he already felt it slipping. And then—

At the landing, his steps slowed. A thin sliver of light bled out from beneath his bedroom door.

His stomach dropped.

Of course. He already knew. He’d known all along.

He’d hoped — stupidly — that maybe Bruce would let it go. That the night might stay untouched.

But Bruce didn’t let things go.

Dick pushed the door open.

Bruce was sitting in the armchair by the window, legs crossed, back straight — every inch the statue of discipline.

The light from the hallway cut a sharp line across the floor. Bruce’s shadow stretched long behind him, unmoving.

His eyes lifted, calm and unreadable. Dick tensed.

“We need to talk,” Bruce said simply.

You looked like yourself today.

Jason’s words echoed, cruel now in the silence.

I felt like myself. For a little while.

Dick froze in the doorway, fingers tightening on the knob. His chest ached — he’d known this was coming. It had loomed all day like a storm building at the edge of the sky — creeping closer with every laugh, every fleeting moment of peace. The mask he’d worn earlier — the smile, the jokes, the comfort of normalcy — cracked at the edges.

He nodded once. Reluctantly. Then stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a quiet click.

Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched him — silent and still as judgment.

And somehow, in his own room, in his oldest shadows, Dick had never felt so far from home.

Like he’d left something behind at that bowling alley — something light, something fragile. And now, it was gone.

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut behind him.

Dick stood there a long moment, back to the door, eyes fixed on the man sitting in his chair like he owned the space — straight-backed, jaw set in quiet control. The kind of stillness Dick had grown up trying to decode. Tonight, it felt like a verdict. 

Bruce didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The room was already full of what he hadn’t said at the gala.

“I’m fine,” Dick said at last, his voice quieter than he meant it to be. “You don’t have to look at me like that.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” Bruce said — even, unreadable, and somehow still worse.

That was the problem.

Dick crossed the room slowly, like movement might anchor him. “You waiting up to scold me, or is this another character-building moment where I get reminded how I’ve failed you again?”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “You can’t afford to act like a child anymore.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Dick’s shoulders tensed, breath catching as he turned slightly away.

“I expected better,” Bruce added.

There it was. The disappointment. Sharper than anger, colder than silence.

Dick’s jaw flexed. “I had a panic attack,” he said, each word clipped, deliberate. “Not a tantrum. Not a performance. Just my body… shutting down in the middle of a room full of strangers.”

“You removed yourself from the event in a way that drew attention,” Bruce replied. “You know how critical that gala was. That wasn’t just a party — those were our funders. Our partners. Discretion matters.”

Of course. Optics before oxygen.

Dick stared at him. “You’re really going to make this about optics .”

“It’s about what people see. And what they expect from you.”

“What you expect from me. Smile for the cameras. Pretend I’m okay. Stay quiet while it eats me alive.” Dick shot back, bitterness rising.

Bruce’s expression didn’t shift. Instead, he stepped toward the desk, pressing a folder into Dick’s hands.

“There’s a case,” he said.

Of course there was.

Dick stared at the folder. His hands refused to move. He could still feel the phantom press of silk gloves on his skin, the echo of a breath he hadn’t taken in years.

Dick didn’t open it. “Of course.”

“It’s a human trafficking operation. They’re moving people through a club in the East End — high turnover, off-grid entries, mostly underage or undocumented. We’ve lost four in the last month. They vanish without a trace.”

Dick’s stomach twisted.

“I’ve run a profile,” Bruce continued. “You’re the best candidate to go in. You can blend. You understand the social dynamics. You know how to be—”

“Charming,” Dick cut in, bitter. “Flirtatious. Approachable. Disarming.”

Bruce looked at him. “Convincing.”

Dick stared at him, disbelief flickering behind his eyes. “You want me to pose as bait?”

A cold sweat prickled at the back of his neck. The room spun for a second, like the air had dropped ten degrees.

His fingers twitched at his sides. Too much velvet, too many eyes, hands he hadn’t invited—

He swallowed hard, bile rising in the back of his throat.

Bruce’s voice remained calm. “You’ll have backup. Surveillance. We’ve done it before.”

“No,” Dick said sharply. “You’ve done this before. You’ve used me for this before.”

Bruce didn’t deny it. Just stood there, unmoving, like the weight of that truth couldn’t touch him — or maybe it did, and he was too practiced at pretending otherwise.

“I know what you think of me,” Dick said, voice low. “What I’m good for. I smile pretty. I work a room. I keep secrets. I don’t ask questions.”

I know what you expect from me , he thought. A performance. A weapon. A smile you could aim.

“You’re good at what you do.”

“Because I know how to be watched,” Dick whispered. “How to smile at the right time. How to keep people from asking the wrong questions.”

He used to think there was a version of himself Bruce would be proud of. Now he wasn’t sure that version had ever existed. Maybe all Bruce ever wanted was a mask that smiled and obeyed. Not a person. Just a role.

That’s when the door opened — not kicked in, but flung wide enough to hit the wall behind it.

Jason stood in the doorway, dark eyes flashing.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jason said, his voice slicing through the room like a blade. “You’re actually doing this?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“The hell it doesn’t.” Jason strode into the room. “You’re asking him to walk into a trafficking ring like bait. After everything he’s been through? What kind of father sends his kid into something like that?”

Jason’s hands were clenched into fists. Like if he didn’t hold himself back, he might break something — or break down himself.

Bruce didn’t blink. “He’s not a child.”

No , Dick thought, bitterly. Not his, either . Bruce had never adopted him. Not on paper. Not in the ways that mattered. Just enough to claim him — never enough to keep him.

“He’s not a weapon, either!” Jason said, voice cracking with something that sounded dangerously close to grief. “You can’t just keep using him because he doesn’t fight back.”

Dick didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled.

“You’re not,” Jason snapped. He turned to Bruce. “You think this is strategy. That because he’s smiling again, because he had one good night, he’s ready to crawl back into hell for you?”

“I’ve watched him come apart and stitch himself back together a hundred times. You think that makes him strong. I think it makes him exhausted.”

Bruce’s voice was quiet, almost cold. “He makes his own choices.”

Jason looked at Dick. His voice softened. “Then make one that doesn’t break you.”

Dick looked between them — Bruce standing like a verdict, Jason like a shield. And he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

Jason held out a hand. “Come on. You don’t have to stay here.”

Silence.

Then, finally, Dick nodded.

He didn’t speak. Just let the silence answer for him.

He took Jason’s hand.

And just like that, they left the manor — the shadows, the silence, the expectations — behind.

And for the first time in years, Dick let someone walk him out of the dark.

The city lights faded behind them, swallowed by the quiet backstreets and crumbling warehouses of the East End. Jason didn’t speak on the drive, and Dick didn’t ask where they were going. He just sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window with vacant eyes, Bruce’s voice still echoing in his mind.

You’re the best suited.

Convincing.

Just another mask.

The safe house was one of Jason’s lesser-known boltholes — tucked behind an abandoned shipping depot, accessible only through a rusted gate and a coded freight elevator. Inside, it was warmer than it looked — sparse but lived-in: mismatched blankets on the couch, a worn leather jacket draped over a chair, half a pizza box on the counter. Real.

Safe.

Jason locked the door behind them, tossed the keys in a bowl near the sink, and watched as Dick wandered into the small living room, shoulders hunched like the weight hadn’t let up.

“You want anything?” Jason asked. “Water? Tea? I might have whiskey.”

Dick didn’t answer. Just sat down on the edge of the couch and rubbed at his eyes like he could scrub the exhaustion away.

Jason grabbed two glasses anyway — water — and brought one over. He set it down on the table beside Dick, then sat opposite him in the armchair. Silence stretched. Not hostile. Just… heavy.

Finally, Jason spoke, his voice quiet.

“You don’t have to say anything. But I need you to hear this.”

Dick looked up slowly.

“You don’t owe him that — not your body, not your sense of self, not another second of playing the part just to keep the peace.”

Dick opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then:

“He doesn’t see it that way.”

“Yeah, well, I do.”

Jason leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He didn’t push. Just waited.

Dick’s voice cracked on the first syllable. “Are you really going to do this?”

Jason didn’t flinch. “Yeah. I am.”

Dick looked away, jaw clenched. “Why? I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t have to.”

A shaky breath escaped him.

“I’m just tired, Jason. So fucking tired.”

Jason’s voice softened. “I know.”

He stood and crossed the space between them, crouched beside the couch, and placed a hand gently on Dick’s shoulder.

Dick didn’t stop him. Didn’t flinch. His eyes were glassy — waiting, maybe — but the tears still wouldn’t fall.

“Everyone already sees me like that anyway,” he whispered. “A pretty face. A distraction. Something to put on display when it suits them. Something they can send into the fire and still expect to smile through it.”

Jason froze. Then sat fully beside him, the couch shifting under their weight.

“Don’t,” he said, low and fierce. “Don’t say that about yourself.”

Dick looked at him, raw and frayed. “But it’s what he expects of me. To smile. To be wanted. To be used.”

“Is this who I’m supposed to be?” Dick asked, not really to Jason. “Or just who he expects?”

Jason’s hand moved to the back of his neck, grounding. “He doesn’t get to decide what you are.”

Dick didn’t reply. His head dropped, shoulders curling inward like he was trying to disappear into himself. His hands trembled in his lap — not from fear, but from the sudden, overwhelming release of holding too much for too long.

And then the tears came — not loud, but real. Silent sobs that shook his frame, one after another, like his body had finally run out of ways to keep everything inside.

Jason pulled him in and held him.

He held him like he was afraid that if he let go, Dick might disappear — not physically, but into that place behind his eyes he couldn’t reach.

And Dick let himself be held.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t pull away. Didn’t pretend.

He stayed there, curled against the only person who hadn’t asked anything of him.

Jason held him — arms loose, steady — heart pounding like he’d just taken a hit meant for someone else. He hated this. Hated how small Dick felt in his arms. Hated that this was what it took for him to finally let go.

And yet, a part of him — quiet and unexamined — wanted to stay like this. Just for a moment longer. Wanted to memorize the warmth of Dick’s skin through the fabric of his shirt, the way his breath hitched when he tried not to cry. Wanted to be something steady he could lean into.

He didn’t understand why it mattered so much. Only that it did.

Eventually, when the sobs faded and only tremors remained, Jason whispered:

“You don’t have to figure everything out right now. We’ve got time.”

Dick’s voice was hoarse, barely audible.

“What do I do now?”

Jason exhaled, slow and steady.

“We figure it out,” he said. “Even if it takes a while. Even if all we can do tonight is survive it.”

The storm of emotion had passed, but the silence that followed felt even heavier — not suffocating, just worn and fragile. Like glass after impact.

Jason didn’t push. He never did.

After a while, Dick leaned back against the couch, legs pulled up, arms folded loosely across his chest. He looked smaller than usual. Younger.

Jason stood, crossed the room, and rummaged through a drawer near the old TV unit. “I’ve got Netflix,” he muttered. “Or at least I did before the card expired. Let’s see…”

He found a flash drive instead — an old download stash — and plugged it into the port.

The screen flickered to life. A film started playing without much fanfare — something light, with too-saturated colors and a cheesy synth score. Eighties comfort. The kind of thing Jason never admitted he liked. Something he and Roy used to watch on long stakeouts or when sleep wouldn’t come.

He didn’t ask if Dick wanted to watch — just let the noise fill the silence neither of them knew how to break.

Jason moved around the safe house in quiet motion — pulled a blanket off the chair, poured another glass of water, dimmed the lights. He checked in without saying he was checking in.

Dick didn’t say anything. His gaze stayed on the screen — not quite watching, just letting the motion keep him tethered.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.

By the time the film reached its second act, Dick’s head had dipped to one side, resting against the cushion. His breathing had slowed. One arm dangled off the edge of the couch; the other curled protectively across his chest, like he was still trying to hold himself together — even in sleep.

Jason watched him for a moment from the kitchen.

Then, quiet as a shadow, he crossed the room and draped the blanket over Dick’s shoulders. Tucked it gently beneath his chin. Brushed a hand through his hair — once, soft and instinctive.

It reminded him of years ago, when their roles were reversed — when Dick was the one draping blankets and whispering reassurances. Funny how the weight shifted, but the care never did.

Jason lingered for a second too long, eyes tracing the line of Dick’s jaw, the tension still clinging to him even in sleep. He didn’t know what it meant — only that he felt it like a bruise pressed from the inside.

Something about the way Dick leaned toward the light even now, even wrecked, made Jason want to stay beside him until morning.

“Sleep, Nightwing,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

He didn’t turn off the movie. Just settled into the armchair nearby, eyes on the screen but mind elsewhere.

The safe house stayed quiet, filled only with soft dialogue and the occasional swell of music. Outside, the city was still burning. But in here, for just a little while, there was peace — fragile, borrowed, and far too fleeting.

Jason didn’t know how long it would last.

But for tonight, he would guard it with everything he had.

The movie had long since ended, the screen gone dim and silent.

Morning crept in soft and pale through the blinds, casting long slats of light across the floor. Outside, the city had begun to stir — faint sounds of traffic humming beneath the apartment’s stillness.

Dick stirred, brow furrowing as he blinked awake. His body ached — not sharply, but with that deep, bone-heavy weariness that lingered after sleepless nights and heavier truths. He rubbed at his eyes and sat up slowly, the blanket slipping to his waist.

From the kitchen, the soft clatter of a pan and the sizzle of something cooking broke the quiet. The smell of eggs and toasted bread drifted into the room — grounding, familiar.

Jason stood at the stove, barefoot and bleary-eyed, swimming in one of his too-big shirts, focused intently on not burning breakfast.

Dick blinked at the scene — domestic, gentle, surreal in its simplicity.

“You’re cooking?” he croaked, voice rough with sleep.

Jason didn’t look up, just flipped a piece of toast in the pan. “Don’t sound so shocked. I’m capable of being nurturing. Occasionally.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at Dick’s lips as he pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

And for the first time in days — maybe weeks — morning didn’t feel like a punishment.

Jason plated the bacon, toast, and eggs with more care than he’d ever admit, then crossed the room and set the dish in front of Dick with a casual: “Eat. Before I change my mind and eat yours too.”

Dick huffed a soft laugh, the sound rough but real, and picked up a fork. “Looks edible. I’m impressed.”

“Careful,” Jason said, grabbing his own plate and flopping onto the other end of the couch. “Compliments might go to my head.”

They ate in silence for a while. The food was simple but good — warm and steadying, the kind of breakfast that settled low in the chest. The quiet wasn’t awkward, just full — both of them letting it stretch a little longer than usual.

But Jason couldn’t leave it there forever.

He stabbed a piece of toast, chewed once, then glanced over. “You wanna talk about it?” A pause. “I’ll still make you eat if you say no.”

Dick didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed on his plate, fork slowly turning through his eggs.

Jason didn’t press — just waited.

Finally, Dick exhaled, long and low. “You heard most of it.”

“Not all of it.”

Dick set the fork down. His appetite had vanished. One hand curled loosely around the edge of the plate, knuckles pale.

“He wants me undercover,” he said flatly. “At a club linked to the ring. As bait.”

Jason’s jaw clenched. “Of course he does.”

“And he said it like it made perfect sense. Like I was the obvious choice. ‘You blend. You know how to work a room.’”

His voice dipped. “Like I was just another asset. Not a person. Not me.”

Jason leaned forward. “You thinking about doing it?”

Dick didn’t respond right away. His grip on the plate tightened.

Then, quietly:

“I don’t know,” he said. “I want to say no. I really do. But…”

He swallowed hard. “There are kids, Jay. People who don’t get to walk away. Who don’t get choices. If going in means I can stop even one of them from disappearing—”

His voice cracked. “How do I say no to that?”

Jason’s mouth pressed thin. “You don’t have to sacrifice yourself to save them.”

Their eyes met — something raw passing between them. Jason didn’t flinch from it.

“You’re not a tool,” he said. “You’re not some strategy he gets to pull when it’s convenient. You’re you. And you don’t have to prove anything to him.”

Dick looked down again, shoulders folding inward like he wished he could disappear into the blanket.

“I’m tired, Jay.”

Jason didn’t answer with words. He simply reached over and nudged Dick’s plate gently back toward him.

“I know,” he said. “So eat. And we’ll figure it out from there.”

And somehow, that small gesture — not a command. Not a mission. Not a demand. Just someone staying. Someone seeing him — meant more than any order, any expectation, any debt he thought he owed.

Chapter Text

The day stretched slow and uneasy, like the world hadn’t quite decided whether it wanted to move forward. Dick sat on the edge of Jason’s couch, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the floorboards as though answers might be carved into the grain. His body still hummed with exhaustion, but his mind refused to quiet.

He could still feel Bruce’s words in his chest — sharp, deliberate, final.

He could still feel Jason’s hand pulling him out of the manor, steady and certain in a way Dick hadn’t let himself hope for.

Now there was no storm to distract him. Just the silence after.

In the kitchen, Jason moved with steady rhythm — the scrape of cutlery into the sink, the rush of water, the muted clatter of plates stacked to dry. He wasn’t making noise for the sake of it, but the sounds were grounding, normal in a way Dick hadn’t realized he needed.

“Gonna sit there brooding all day?” Jason’s voice carried from the sink — gruff, but lighter than before.

Dick huffed softly, a humorless ghost of a laugh. “Brooding’s your thing, remember?”

Jason leaned against the counter, drying his hands on a dish towel. “Yeah, well. Guess I’m trying to share.”

The banter was thin, fragile at the edges — but it was something.

For a fleeting second, Dick felt like he’d slipped into someone else’s life. A life where dishes clinked in the sink and silence wasn’t a punishment. Where mornings didn’t feel like a test. Where someone stayed.

And God, he wasn’t sure if that made him want to laugh… or break all over again.

Jason tossed the dish towel onto the counter and reached for the coffee pot. “Want some?”

Dick lifted his head, tired eyes flicking toward him. “Is that even a question?”

“Fair point.” Jason poured two mugs, brought one over, and pressed it into Dick’s hands. “Careful. It’s hot. And probably terrible.”

Dick wrapped his fingers around the mug, letting the heat seep into his palms. “You always know how to sell it.”

Jason smirked, dropping onto the armchair across from him with his own mug. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents. Cooking, cleaning, mediocre pep talks…” He gestured at Dick with the mug. “Keeping idiots alive when they forget how.”

Dick huffed a laugh, small but genuine. He took a sip and winced. “Wow. That’s… awful.”

“Yeah, well,” Jason leaned back, kicking his feet up on the coffee table, “it’s character-building.”

“Pretty sure Bruce has that covered,” Dick muttered, but softer this time, less biting.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the city beyond the walls filled the silence, steady and distant.

Then Jason said, quieter, “You look lighter than you did last night. Still wrecked, but… lighter.”

Dick stared down into his coffee, watching the steam curl upward. “Feels like I’m living someone else’s life for a second. A normal one. Where mornings don’t feel like punishment.”

Jason’s chest tightened, but he didn’t show it. He just tipped his mug in Dick’s direction and said, “Then let’s keep it that way for as long as we can.”

Dick took another sip, grimacing again at the taste but holding the mug close anyway. The warmth helped.

Jason watched him for a beat, then said, “You need anything? Besides coffee that doesn’t taste like burnt socks.”

Dick shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “If I knew what I needed, life would be a hell of a lot easier.”

Jason leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Okay. Then what don’t you need?”

That pulled Dick’s gaze up. He blinked, caught off guard, and then let out a quiet laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Pressure. Expectations. Another mission waiting the second I stop bleeding.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed soft. “Good. Then you don’t get any of that here.”

Silence stretched, but it wasn’t heavy. Dick set the mug down, his fingers lingering on the handle like he wasn’t ready to let go. “I don’t know what to do with myself when no one’s telling me who I’m supposed to be.”

Jason tilted his head, eyes steady on him. “Then maybe that’s the point. You get to figure it out. One step at a time.”

Something in Dick’s chest loosened — not fully, not yet, but enough for the air to come easier. He leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes for a moment. “You make it sound simple.”

Jason smirked faintly. “It’s not. But it’s better than letting him write the script for you.”

Dick opened his eyes, studied him for a long moment. He didn’t say thank you — didn’t have to. Jason already knew.

For a moment, he let himself believe this was all there was — coffee, quiet, the low hum of the city. Almost normal. Then the vibration of a phone shattered it.

Jason glanced at the counter where his own phone buzzed against the wood. He didn’t move right away, just muttered, “Ignore it. Whoever it is can wait.”

But Dick’s eyes had already flicked toward it, sharp despite the exhaustion. “It could be important.”

Jason exhaled, dragged himself up, and checked the screen. A message from Tim. Short. Clinical.

Update from Babs — another missing. Same club. Same pattern.

Jason locked the phone without replying. “Not right now.”

But Dick was already watching him, jaw tightening, shoulders pulling in like armor.

“Another one.” The words were more breath than sound, but the weight behind them pressed into the room.

Jason hesitated — then muttered, low, like the number itself was a curse. “Seventeen.”

Dick’s breath hitched. Seventeen names. Seventeen faces swallowed whole. And how many more before it stopped? His hand rose to his sternum, rubbing at the ache there as though he could press the guilt back down.

Jason’s tone snapped, sharp but not at him: “I said not right now.” His grip on the phone was white-knuckled, and for a second Dick thought he might smash it against the counter. Instead, Jason forced himself to set it down hard, arms crossing tight like he needed to hold himself together.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy — it was sharp, dangerous. Dick’s gaze had already gone distant, his breathing shallow, like he was halfway back to the fight whether Jason wanted him there or not.

Jason didn’t call him out. Not yet. He just filed it away — the way Dick’s gaze had gone distant, the way his breathing had turned shallow, like he was already halfway back to the fight.

And Jason knew: this was going to break open sooner than either of them wanted.

Jason tossed his jacket over one shoulder. “Alright, we’re getting out of here.”

Dick frowned from the couch. “Why?”

“Because if I let you sit here all day, you’ll start sulking into my couch cushions. Come on.”

“I don’t sulk,” Dick muttered — his feet stayed rooted for a second longer than he meant, like part of him wanted to stay in the quiet. But then he pushed himself up and followed anyway.

The corner bodega smelled faintly of coffee grounds and old floor polish, its shelves stacked haphazardly with snacks and cans. Jason grabbed a basket and started tossing in staples: bread, coffee, a box of oatmeal.

Dick, meanwhile, reached for the brightest cereal box in sight — neon-colored marshmallows spilling out across the packaging.

Jason groaned. “You’re a grown man, Dick. You can’t keep starting your mornings with diabetes in a bowl.”

Dick dropped it into the basket anyway, smirking. “Says the guy who lives off instant ramen and expired protein bars.”

“At least mine look like food.”

“They taste like cardboard.”

They bickered down the aisles — over candy, chips, whether or not barbecue chips counted as a legitimate dinner. By the time they reached the counter, the mood between them had loosened, laughter spilling out like muscle memory.

Outside, sunlight stretched across the cracked pavement, warm on their faces. Dick tilted his head back, eyes slipping shut for a moment, a small smile tugging at his mouth. He looked younger like this. Lighter.

Jason caught himself staring. Just a beat too long. Something tugged in his chest, sharp and quiet, before he shoved it down and looked away.

“Don’t get used to it,” he muttered. “Weather’ll turn soon.”

Dick laughed — soft, unguarded. And Jason held onto the sound longer than he meant to.

The safe house felt different when they got back. The laughter still echoed faintly in Dick’s chest — but the thick concrete walls swallowed it quickly, leaving only gray. Groceries sat half-unpacked on the counter; the bag of sugary cereal leaned against the sink like proof of their earlier argument.

Dick sank onto the couch, elbows braced on his knees, fingers knotted together so tightly they ached. The sunlight they’d walked in under seemed to fade too quickly, leaving the shadows behind.

Jason dropped into the armchair across from him, stretching out with practiced care. He didn’t press. He never did. But his eyes never left Dick’s face.

After a long moment, Dick spoke — his voice low, flat.

“I don’t even know who I am without him.”

Jason tilted his head. “Without Bruce?”

Dick nodded, gaze fixed on the floor. “Every move I make… it’s his voice in the back of my head. Expectations. Rules. Who I’m supposed to be. And if I’m not that, if I’m not what he made me—” He swallowed hard. “Then what’s left?”

If he wasn’t the person Bruce had shaped, maybe he wasn’t anyone at all. A shadow without the light that cast it.

The silence stretched, sharp around the edges.

Jason leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice steady. “You’re more than what he made you. You’ve always been more. You just don’t let yourself believe it.”

Dick’s jaw clenched, but his eyes flicked up — uncertain, searching.

Jason didn’t flinch. “You’re not some blueprint he drew up. You’re not Robin, or a soldier, or a mask for him to aim. You’re you. The guy who makes people laugh even when he’s breaking. The guy who never stops caring, even when it hurts. The guy who drags all of us out of the dark whether we deserve it or not.”

Something cracked in Dick’s expression — small, but visible. His hands unclenched just slightly, the tension bleeding from his shoulders.

“Jay…” His voice faltered. He didn’t finish the thought.

Jason moved from the chair to the couch, close enough that their knees brushed. He wanted to reach for him — to anchor him outright — but held himself back, afraid that one wrong move would push Dick behind the walls he’d just lowered. So he just sat, steady, present.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The air between them felt fragile, delicate — a thread pulled too tight.

And then, slowly, Dick let his shoulder tip sideways, resting lightly against Jason’s.

Jason didn’t move, didn’t even breathe too loudly. He just stayed still, letting Dick decide how long it lasted.

It wasn’t a collapse. It wasn’t defeat. It was trust — raw, quiet, unspoken.

Jason finally let out a breath, softer than a whisper.

“You don’t disappear without him, Dick. You finally get the chance to be seen.”

Dick’s eyes slipped shut, just for a moment. His body eased the tiniest bit, like maybe — for now — he believed it.

And Jason sat with him in the silence, guarding that fragile peace like something sacred.

The news played low on the TV, volume barely above a murmur. Jason hadn’t meant to leave it on, but Dick’s eyes had caught the scrolling ticker before he could switch it off.

Another missing person. Seventeen. Last seen outside the very club Bruce had flagged.

Dick’s chest tightened. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the screen like he could burn the letters into memory.

“What if I can stop this?” he said softly. Almost to himself.

Jason shut the TV off with a sharp click before the anchor finished the sentence. He turned, jaw tight, voice firm.

“Not like this. Not the way he wants.”

Dick didn’t look at him. His hands flexed restlessly in his lap, guilt and duty warring behind his eyes.

Jason crouched in front of him, gaze steady.

“I’m not saying we walk away. I’m saying we find another way. One that doesn’t break you.”

Dick’s throat worked, but he didn’t answer. The silence stretched, full of the things neither of them knew how to say.

Jason didn’t push further. He stood, grabbed another blanket from the chair, and tossed it over the back of the couch with casual precision.

“Get some actual rest,” he muttered. “You look like hell.”

Dick huffed something that might’ve been a laugh, though it carried no real weight. He pulled the blanket around his shoulders anyway, sinking deeper into the cushions.

Jason lingered by the armchair, watching just long enough to be sure Dick’s eyes were closing before sitting back down, the glow of the muted TV painting them both in quiet shadows.

The weight of the case hung between them — heavy, unspoken, waiting.

Then Dick’s phone buzzed on the table. The sound felt too loud in the quiet room.

Jason reached for it first, half-expecting another headline notification, but the name flashing on the screen made him pause.

“Babs.”

Dick blinked, then reached for the phone — only for Jason to hold it back a second longer.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Dick said softly, and took the call.

Barbara’s voice came through clear, edged with worry and steel.

“Dick. Please tell me you’re not actually considering what Bruce pitched.”

Dick closed his eyes. “He told you.”

“He doesn’t have to tell me. I know how he thinks. And I know what this will do to you.” A pause, and then: “You don’t owe him that.”

Her words cut sharper than she probably intended — because they carried something Bruce’s never did. Care. Fierce, unflinching care. For a second, Dick let himself imagine what it would feel like if Bruce spoke to him that way. If Bruce still saw him as more than an asset. The ache of it almost broke him more than his silence ever had.

“I’ll figure it out,” Dick said eventually, voice thin. “Thanks, Babs.”

Before she could press, he hung up.

Jason watched him, jaw tight. He didn’t call him out — not yet.

The phone buzzed again almost instantly. This time, Jason grabbed it first. The preview text lit up the screen:

Bruce: Report to the Cave. We need an answer.

Jason’s eyes darkened. He tossed the phone back onto the table like it burned.

“Unbelievable. Doesn’t even give you a day. Doesn’t even ask if you’re okay.”

For half a second, Jason’s fingers twitched like he wanted to smash the phone against the wall. To make it stop. To make Bruce stop. But he didn’t. He forced the anger down, forced his hands still — because he knew the last thing Dick needed was another explosion.

Dick didn’t move. Didn’t pick the phone back up. The message lingered in the room like smoke — suffocating, undeniable.

Jason sat down hard on the arm of the couch, hands braced on his knees, every line of him taut with anger.

“You’re not answering him tonight. You hear me? Not tonight.”

Dick didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He just nodded, barely, and tugged the blanket tighter around himself.

Jason stood again, restless, then finally grabbed another blanket and tossed it over the back of the couch, grumbling something about Dick looking like he’d freeze without it.

The gesture landed heavier than the words. Small. Domestic. Fierce in its own way.

The phone stayed on the table, screen dark.

The weight of Bruce’s expectations lingered anyway.

But for tonight, the only thing pressing in was Jason’s quiet promise:

“You’re not doing this alone.”

And Jason knew, as he sank into the armchair again, that the silence wouldn’t last. Bruce would push. The fight was coming.

And when it did, he wasn’t sure Dick would walk away unscathed.

Chapter Text

The safe house was quiet — the kind of quiet that pressed in at the edges. The muted hum of the city barely seeped through concrete walls, leaving only the sound of pacing footsteps across worn floorboards.

Dick moved like a live wire, back and forth, arms folded tight against his chest. His body ached, exhaustion dragging at every bone, but his mind refused to still. Every time he blinked, he saw the headlines again. Another missing. Seventeen.

Not just numbers — faces. A grainy photo of a girl, maybe fifteen, her smile caught mid-laugh. The sound of a reporter’s voice echoing in his head, brittle with pity: last seen outside the East End club. Dick couldn’t scrub it away.

Jason sat slouched in the armchair, boots kicked up on the coffee table, pretending to thumb through a dog-eared magazine he clearly wasn’t reading. His eyes tracked every step Dick took.

“Gonna wear a hole in my floor,” Jason muttered.

Dick didn’t stop. “We can’t just sit here.”

“You call this sitting?” Jason gestured at the couch, at the blanket Dick had abandoned hours ago. “Looks more like pacing yourself into the ground.”

Dick turned sharply, meeting his gaze. “Jason. People are still disappearing.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “We can’t do nothing.”

The magazine hit the table with a thud. Jason leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, eyes hard. “You think I don’t know that? But you—” His jaw tightened, words snagging sharp in his throat. He tried again, lower, rougher. “You’re not in any shape to play bait. You’re running on fumes. You’ll tear yourself apart before they ever get close.”

“I’m not asking if I’m in shape,” Dick shot back. “I’m saying if there’s even a chance to stop it, I have to try.”

Jason cursed under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. For a second, he looked ready to refuse outright — the word no hanging sharp on his tongue. But it caught there, swallowed down. Because he knew the truth: Dick would go, with or without him. And the thought of him going alone was worse than any risk.

The words landed heavy, sharp and unyielding. Jason’s shoulders tensed, every line of him drawn tight. Frustration flickered in his eyes, yes, but beneath it something rawer. Protective. Afraid.

For a beat, Dick let himself notice it — the way Jason’s jaw worked like he was swallowing words too dangerous to speak, the way his fists flexed against his knees, the way his stare held more weight than anger should.

It sat heavy in Dick’s chest, unfamiliar and disarming. He filed it away, tucking it behind the determination tightening his spine.

“Jason,” he said again, quieter now but no less firm. “We can’t just wait. If there’s a chance to stop this — if there’s even a chance — I can’t turn away.”

Jason’s shoulders rose and fell with a sharp breath, eyes dark when they finally lifted to Dick’s. His voice came out low, steady, leaving no room for argument.

“Then if you’re doing this… you’re not doing it alone.”

The finality of it stopped Dick in his tracks. He should have argued, should have pointed out all the reasons Jason didn’t need to throw himself into this with him — but the words died before they formed.

Because he heard it. The edge beneath Jason’s voice. Not strategy. Not practicality. Something closer. Something heavier.

Dick’s chest tightened, but he only nodded, masking the shift with determination. He filed that away too — another weight, another truth waiting for the moment he could name it.

For now, he let the silence stand between them, steadier than any vow.

The Cave felt colder than usual. Shadows stretched long across the stone, monitors casting a blue glow over the team gathered at the table.

Bruce stood at the head of it, cowl off but armor still on, presence sharp as a blade. Tim sat with a tablet in hand, lines of data scrolling fast under his fingers. Damian leaned against the console, arms crossed, expression carved from disdain.

The tension was immediate.

Bruce didn’t waste time. “We don’t have room for hesitation. The longer we wait, the more they move their assets off-grid.” His tone was clipped, the same one he used for mission briefings. Efficient. Detached.

Tim swiped through screens, voice steady but strained. “Surveillance confirms a high volume of foot traffic through the East End club. Mostly young, mostly undocumented. They disappear into side exits, no paper trail, no digital signature.” He glanced at Dick, careful, like the words themselves might cut. “You’d be the best cover going in.”

Bruce’s gaze cut across the room, pinning him. “Roman Sionis is suspected to be running the operation. He’s been tied to three clubs in the East End, each one with a trail of missing persons. No witnesses. No survivors. If we can tie him to this one, we can bring the entire network down.”

His voice was flat, factual. “He preys on people who won’t be missed,” Bruce added, like it was just another detail in the file.

The words landed like glass in Dick’s chest. Won’t be missed. He bristled, because it sounded too close to how Bruce saw him — useful, visible, expendable. Not a son. Never that.

“The quickest way in is through him,” Bruce continued. “He notices people who draw eyes. People who can hold a room. That makes you the most effective cover.”

Damian scoffed, sharp as a blade. “Or the most reckless. He’s compromised, emotionally unstable. Putting him undercover is inviting disaster.” His eyes flicked toward Dick with open challenge. “But then, that’s nothing new.”

The jab sank deeper than it should have. Dick didn’t flare with anger — he felt the hollow sting of recognition instead. Damian wasn’t saying anything Bruce hadn’t already implied in quieter ways. Maybe that’s why it cut.

Jason moved before Dick could react. He shoved off from the shadows and planted himself at Dick’s side, posture coiled tight. His hand slapped down on the table hard enough to echo.

“If he’s going under,” Jason said, voice like gravel, “I’m going with him. No arguments.”

The words cracked through the room like a shot.

Bruce’s jaw tightened, annoyance flashing across his face. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

Jason leaned forward, daring him. “Wasn’t asking.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to hurt. Tim broke it, practical as ever. “Strategically, it makes sense. A pair draws less suspicion. Having Jason there means more eyes, more control inside. Cover’s stronger.”

Damian muttered something under his breath, but Bruce didn’t move. His silence stretched, rigid, before he finally exhaled through his nose.

“Fine,” he said at last. “But you follow orders. Both of you.”

Jason didn’t answer, just shifted his stance slightly closer to Dick.

And that’s when it hit — not the mission, not the danger, but the truth of the moment. Out of everyone in the room, Jason was the only one standing with him. Not weighing risks. Not measuring his worth against an outcome. Just standing there, unflinching, like his place was at Dick’s side.

For the first time since the case began, Dick didn’t feel like he was walking into this alone.

But as he glanced up at the monitors — grainy surveillance stills, blurred faces vanishing into shadow — a chill worked down his spine. Bruce had said Roman preyed on those who “wouldn’t be missed.” The words clung like smoke, heavier now, harder to shake.

And Dick couldn’t help but wonder if Bruce had just named him without meaning to.

The safe house’s bedroom had been turned into a staging ground. Clothes draped over the back of a chair, a small arsenal laid out on the dresser. Sleek fabric and polished edges — nothing about it felt like armor, though Dick knew that’s what it was supposed to be. Tonight, silk would have to pass for steel.

He pulled the fitted shirt over his head, the fabric sliding into place, clinging in ways that made Jason mutter under his breath.

“Bait wrapped in silk,” Jason grumbled from where he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. His glare tracked every line of the outfit like it was an enemy he couldn’t punch.

Dick smoothed the cuffs, catching Jason’s reflection in the mirror. A crooked smile tugged at his mouth.

“You worried someone else might notice?”

Jason’s eyes snapped up, too sharp, too fast. For a heartbeat, his stare burned — then he looked away, jaw tightening.

The silence stretched. Not long, but long enough to sting.

Dick turned, closing the space just enough to feel deliberate, and reached out to straighten Jason’s collar. Jason stiffened instinctively, like the touch burned — but he didn’t pull back. Too close. Too careful.

“Guess you’ll have to play bodyguard tonight,” Dick said, voice low but steady. “Think you can handle that?”

Jason’s jaw clenched, his knuckles flexing against his biceps. “You’re a menace.”

But the words came out rougher than he meant, raw around the edges, and they both heard it.

Dick smirked faintly, like he’d caught the slip in Jason’s armor, before stepping back. “Thought so.”

The moment passed — but it didn’t vanish. It lingered in the charged air, unspoken, heavier than either of them wanted to admit.

He tugged the jacket on, rolling his shoulders like settling into a mask. In the mirror, Jason caught the faint shift in Dick’s expression — the easy smile snapping into place like armor. He hated it, because he knew exactly what it cost.

“Well? Do I pass inspection?” Dick asked, tone practiced lightness.

Jason’s mouth twitched, caught between a scowl and something else he couldn’t quite swallow down. “You’ll do,” he muttered at last, voice gruff.

Dick gave him a small, polished smile, though inside he filed the reaction away — quiet, unexamined, another weight to carry. Not an unwelcome one.

Jason stayed braced in the doorway, shoulders tense. It wasn’t just the mission crawling under his skin. It was the thought of Roman’s eyes on Dick, of someone mistaking silk for weakness, of anyone thinking they could touch.

That was the fight he didn’t know how to win.

The bass hit first — low and relentless, vibrating through the floorboards like a second pulse. Lights strobed overhead, slicing the crowd into flashes of movement: sequins, glass, skin, teeth. Predators and prey tangled together on the dance floor, indistinguishable at a glance.

Dick slipped through the entrance like he belonged, Jason a shadow at his side. They didn’t hold hands, but the space between them was deliberate, charged. Jason’s palm brushed the small of Dick’s back — steadying, grounding. It lingered a fraction too long, more than cover demanded.

Dick didn’t shake him off. He couldn’t decide if it helped or made the air tighter in his chest.

They wove through the press of bodies, weaving between tables, clusters of strangers leaning close. Eyes followed them, but that was the point — attention was a weapon tonight, one Dick wore as easily as silk.

And then the crowd parted.

Roman Sionis stepped into view like the room had been waiting for him. His suit was cut sharp enough to wound, smile carved wider than comfort, his eyes bright and hungry under the fractured light. His presence was magnetic, dangerous, pulling attention without effort.

He saw them almost instantly.

“Sweetheart,” Roman drawled, voice slick with charm and rot tangled together. His gaze dragged over Dick, unhurried, deliberate, a predator mapping every inch. He licked his lips slowly, as though the thought of possession amused him. “Bloody gorgeous. No wonder you caught my eye.”

The words clung like oil, heavy and cloying. Dick’s smile stayed practiced, light — but Jason saw the way his shoulders stiffened, the faint tremor in his inhale before he smoothed it away.

Jason’s growl came low and guttural, barely leashed. His hand pressed firmer at Dick’s back, not possessive but protective, a warning Roman couldn’t miss.

Roman’s grin widened, sharp as broken glass. He leaned closer, lowering his voice until it slithered beneath the bass.

“You’ll have to let me borrow him sometime. Even a star shouldn’t be hidden away forever.”

The implication sank like lead. His eyes raked over Dick again, dark with promise.

Jason’s entire body coiled, shoulders tight, murder flashing in his stare. Dick, smooth on the surface, only smiled — mask flawless — though Jason caught the flicker of unease in his eyes, the way his breath caught at the edges.

And for a heartbeat, Roman wasn’t the danger that mattered. It was the weight of Jason’s hand, solid and certain, a promise unspoken.

That was the steadiness Dick chose to stand on.

The music shifted — bass heavier, lights dimmer, the kind of rhythm that pulled bodies closer.

Jason hadn’t meant to step onto the dance floor, but part of the cover meant blending in. Standing stiff in the shadows wasn’t going to cut it. So when Dick tugged him toward the crowd with that practiced smile, Jason let himself be pulled.

They slipped into the crush of dancers, movement pressed tight, bodies shifting with the beat. Dick’s arms slid around Jason’s neck, smooth as if he’d done it a thousand times. Too natural. Too easy.

Jason’s hands found his waist — steady, grounding, but far too intimate for the battlefield his chest had become. The world narrowed to heat, motion, and the steady press of Dick against him.

Jason’s gaze swept the room. Roman was watching. Of course he was. Leaning against a balcony rail, suit sharp, smile sharper, eyes fixed on Dick like he’d already claimed him.

Then Dick murmured, low enough to cut through the music. “Jason.”

Jason turned back — and realized just how close they were. Breath ghosting between them, sweat-damp skin and heat and the kind of proximity that left no room for pretense.

Dick’s pupils were wide, reflecting the club’s fractured light. He looked at Jason like he was measuring him — not the cover, not the role, but him.

And for a second, Jason’s mask slipped. The look in his eyes was raw, unguarded — a pull he didn’t name, couldn’t. He looked like he wanted to close the distance, like the thought itself scared the hell out of him. His fingers twitched against Dick’s waist, caught between pulling him closer or letting go. Either choice felt like stepping off a ledge.

Dick felt the shift like static on his skin. He didn’t know what it meant. Only that it rattled him in a way no mission ever had.

“Beautiful,” a voice purred.

They broke apart only slightly as Roman stepped into the crowd, parting it like it had been waiting for him. His grin was wide, wolfish, hungry.

Roman’s gaze dragged over Dick from head to toe, unhurried, deliberate. He licked his lips, like the sight alone was something to taste. “Sweetheart, you move like sin wrapped in silk.”

Jason stiffened, his grip on Dick tightening almost imperceptibly — just enough to keep him steady.

Roman chuckled, catching the shift. “Protective, are we? I do love a man who guards his treasure. Makes it all the more tempting to steal.” His eyes lingered on Dick’s throat, his smile curling sharp with promise.

Dick’s laugh slid into the noise of the club, flawless on the surface. But Jason saw the flicker beneath it — the way his shoulders wanted to curl inward, the way his breath stuttered in the space between beats.

Jason’s jaw clenched, a growl caught low in his throat, barely restrained. His body shifted forward without thought, edging into Roman’s line of sight — not a shield, not quite, but close.

Roman leaned closer, voice dripping with malice masquerading as charm. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll see — everyone comes to me eventually.”

The words slid between them like a blade. Dick’s smile didn’t falter, but Jason felt the stiffening in his frame, the subtle tremor that said he’d heard the threat beneath the silk.

The music swallowed the moment, pulling them back into the crowd. Jason’s hand stayed firm at Dick’s waist, his presence steady even as Roman’s grin lingered like smoke in the dark.

Dick’s chest ached with the truth — he’d been marked. Not just noticed, but chosen. And Roman Sionis wasn’t the kind of man who ever let go of what caught his eye.

Jason’s arm tightened at his side, a silent vow etched into the tension of his body. But even vows couldn’t change the fact that the hunt had already begun.

By the time they slipped out of the club, the air outside felt colder, sharper, carrying the tang of rain on concrete.

Dick pulled the jacket tighter around himself, mask of composure still fixed in place, but Jason saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands stayed curled like fists even at his sides.

Behind them, through tinted glass, Roman still stood at the balcony rail — a predator watching his prey vanish into the dark.

Jason stepped closer, a silent barrier between Dick and that gaze, his jaw locked tight.

“Let’s go,” he muttered, low enough that only Dick could hear.

They walked into the night, but the weight followed — Roman’s smile, Roman’s promise, clinging like smoke they couldn’t shake.

And underneath it all, Dick couldn’t ignore the wrongness that clung to the club itself — too polished, too hungry, every corner wired for something he couldn’t see. He only hoped the bug Tim had slipped into his pocket had caught more than static when Roman leaned in so close. Something useful. Something they could hold onto.

Because if not… all Roman had taken from him tonight was notice.

And that was dangerous enough.

Chapter Text

The Cave hummed with quiet tension — the low whir of computers, the faint echo of dripping water, the heartbeat of a city rendered in data across glowing screens.

Tim stood at the main console, eyes fixed on the monitor. “The bug worked,” he said finally, voice tight with focus. “I pulled partial data off Roman’s phone — encrypted texts, some coded transactions, a few audio fragments. It’s not enough to close the case, but…” His fingers flew across the keys, a line of green text scrolling across the screen. “There are references to ‘shipments’ and ‘inventory.’ He’s moving people like product.”

Dick’s stomach knotted. Shipments. Too clean a word for what it meant. Too sterile for screams.

“Most of it’s routed through dummy accounts and shell companies,” Tim went on. “But two of the transfers lead back to an offshore broker tied to Sionis Industries. If we trace that line, we might find the holding site.”

Bruce’s voice cut through — clipped, cold, command. “We can’t move until we know where he’s keeping them. Premature action jeopardizes the operation.”

Jason, leaning against the table, straightened. “Jeopardizes the—” He scoffed, low and sharp. “People are being trafficked, Bruce. You’re talking like this is a stock exchange.”

Bruce’s gaze narrowed. “We’re talking about precision. Acting without intel gets people killed.”

Jason pushed off the table, shoulders squared, voice rising. “They’re already dying.”

The silence that followed rang heavy. Tim’s hands paused mid-keystroke. Damian glanced up, silent. And Dick — he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Because both of them were right.

His fingers curled at his sides. Roman’s breath too close. That smile. That word — sweetheart — dripping like poison. The phantom touch crawled back across his skin. He forced it down, swallowing the tremor.

“Tim,” he said quietly, steadying his voice, “how long to decrypt the rest?”

“A day. Maybe less, if I can brute-force the secondary layer.”

Bruce nodded. “Good. Focus on the trace. We’ll decide our next step when we have full visibility.”

Jason swore under his breath, pacing toward the shadows. Dick’s eyes followed, catching the reflection of cave light across the tension strung between them — strategy against heart, order against instinct.

Bruce had already turned away, attention shifting to another screen. Strategy first. Always.

And somewhere beneath it, the ache pressed sharper than ever.

He’ll never be what I want him to be.

The room thinned out fast. Tim turned back to his screens, already running cross-references; Damian lingered by the railing, silent and watchful. Jason hung back near the lift, posture coiled tight — waiting, but not interfering.

Bruce stayed where he was. Still in armor, cowl off, eyes as unyielding as the stone beneath their feet.

“You’re compromised.” The words landed with the weight of a verdict, not concern. “If you can’t control yourself, you put the mission at risk.”

Not a question. A statement. Like the case had already been made.

Dick froze mid-step. The line was clean, surgical — no accusation in the tone, only judgment.

“I’m fine,” he said. It was automatic, hollow even to his own ears.

Bruce’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re not.”

Silence stretched. The cave hummed softly — the low thrum of engines, the faint crackle of data streams — all of it distant.

Dick swallowed. “This isn’t about control.”

“It’s always about control.” Bruce’s tone sharpened, precise, each word another notch in the armor. “Emotions compromise judgment. Judgment compromises results.”

There it was — the equation. Always an equation. Pain measured against performance. Humanity traded for utility.

Dick exhaled slowly, something loosening and breaking all at once. “Right. Results.” He almost laughed, but it caught in his throat. “Guess that’s all I ever was to you, huh?”

Bruce didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The silence was the answer.

And in that moment, it finally settled — the thing Dick had been avoiding for years. Bruce wasn’t going to see him. Not as a son. Not as someone trying to climb out of the wreckage. Only as another tool that might crack under pressure.

Jason shifted behind them — a subtle step forward, just enough to put himself between Dick and Bruce — ready to step in, to absorb the blow if it came. But Dick didn’t look back. He squared his shoulders, jaw tight.

“I’ll get the job done,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about me breaking your mission.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned, each step measured, each one heavier than the last.

Jason’s eyes tracked him the whole way, jaw tight, something hot and furious burning in his chest — not just at Bruce, but at the way Dick’s voice had gone quiet when it should’ve gone sharp.

And from the shadows, Damian watched too, his mouth drawn into a line that looked uncomfortably close to guilt.

Dick’s boots echoed faintly across the platform, the sound too sharp in the stillness. He didn’t look back — not at Bruce, not at the shadows he’d just walked out of. The conversation still rang in his ears, every word stripped of warmth.

Jason matched his pace a few steps behind, silent, simmering. He wanted to say something — to break the heaviness before it sank too deep — but the air was too brittle. One wrong word and the whole thing might crack.

“Grayson.”

The voice was softer than expected. Not mocking. Not cutting. Just quiet.

Dick turned slightly — not startled, just tired. Damian stood a few feet away, half in shadow, cape draped like armor. His usual sharpness was muted — eyes uncertain, mouth drawn tight.

“What?” Dick asked, not unkindly, just weary.

Damian hesitated — a rare sight. “Father… can be uncompromising.” The words came halting, forced, like each one was a concession. “It doesn’t mean he’s—” He stopped, searching for something that didn’t sound hollow. “He still values you. Even if he fails to show it.”

Dick’s chest tightened. He almost smiled — almost. “That’s the problem, Damian. Value’s not the same as care.”

The boy’s brow furrowed. “You taught me that there’s more to the mission than results.” His voice was quiet, thoughtful. “Perhaps… he still needs to learn it.”

Dick’s expression softened — just a little. “Maybe we all do.”

Damian’s eyes flicked toward Jason, who lingered near the exit. “You’re leaving again.”

Dick nodded. “We’ve got work to do.”

A beat. Then Damian inclined his head — not quite approval, not quite understanding, but something in between. “Then be careful. Both of you.”

Jason’s mouth twitched, almost a smirk. “Didn’t know you cared, kid.”

Damian’s glare snapped back into place. “I don’t want to explain to Father how his mistakes got you both killed.”

Jason snorted. “There it is.”

But Dick caught the faintest flicker of sincerity under Damian’s scowl — and nodded once in return. “We’ll be fine.”

As they turned toward the lift, Damian’s gaze lingered — on Dick, on the space Bruce hadn’t filled.

For all his sharp edges, he understood one thing too well: sometimes, the people who were supposed to protect you were the ones who left you exposed.

The safe house smelled faintly of takeout and cheap coffee — comfort by necessity, not design. The kind that clung like steam and stale air. A carton of lo mein sat open between them on the table, two forks sticking out like truce flags.

Jason leaned back in his chair, socked feet propped on the opposite seat, mouth full. “You know, for a guy who used to eat like a monk, you’ve really embraced the art of grease.”

Dick jabbed a chopstick in his direction. “I’ve been hanging around you too long.”

Jason snorted. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta make sure you eat more than protein bars and guilt.”

Dick rolled his eyes, half a smile tugging at his mouth. “Thanks, mom.”

Jason lifted his fork in mock salute. “Anytime, kiddo.”

The joke landed softer than it should have, something tender tucked between the sarcasm. For a minute, it was easy. The room didn’t feel like a bunker, and the case didn’t feel like a weight pressing into bone. Just two people sharing bad noodles and silence that wasn’t sharp.

Jason shoved the carton toward him. “Eat.”

Dick sighed but didn’t argue. He twirled the noodles absently, gaze drifting toward the window. The reflection there — pale light on glass, eyes shadowed, shoulders slumped — didn’t look like someone who knew which way was forward.

Jason noticed. He always did.

“Hey,” Jason said, quieter now, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “Don’t let him strip you down to nothing.”

Dick blinked, turned. Jason’s eyes were steady, voice low but firm — the kind of tone he used when the banter gave way to truth.

“You’re more than what he sees,” Jason continued. “More than what he made you.”

For a moment, Dick couldn’t meet his eyes. The sincerity there — raw and steady — hit deeper than it should have. He wasn’t sure what to do with the way Jason saw him — like he was something worth holding onto, not fixing. Not like a weapon to be aimed, or a symbol to be salvaged, but like someone worth saving.

The memory of the club flickered — the pulse of the music, Jason’s hands at his waist, the heat between them when the world narrowed to breath and heartbeat. He’d chalked it up to adrenaline then, cover and nothing more. But sitting here now, under the low hum of city light and cheap coffee, he wasn’t so sure.

Something had shifted. Something he didn’t quite have a name for.

He swallowed hard and managed, “Yeah.”

It wasn’t agreement. Not fully. But it wasn’t dismissal, either. Just the sound of someone trying to believe it.

Jason didn’t press. He just nodded once, leaning back in his chair. “Good.”

Then, after a beat, he nudged the carton back toward Dick, fork tapping lightly against the rim — not quite a push, but a reminder. A small, wordless gesture that said I’ve got you.

Silence settled again — fragile, but steady, a truce between storms.

The city hummed beyond the concrete — traffic droning, neon flickering, the pulse of life that never really stopped.

Inside, the silence pressed close. Too still. Too deliberate.

Dick stood near the window, one hand braced against the frame. The glass reflected his own face back at him — tired eyes, jaw tight, the faint ghost of the man he’d been before this case started to eat him alive. Beyond the reflection, the street stretched empty. Or close enough to pass for it.

But there — just for a heartbeat — a flicker.

A glint of metal… or maybe just the suggestion of movement, a shadow sliding where it shouldn’t.

He blinked, and it was gone.

Jason’s voice cut through the quiet. “You’re doing it again.”

Dick turned slightly. “Doing what?”

“Looking like the window’s gonna talk back.”

“I saw something.”

Jason pushed off the couch, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders. “Probably your reflection.”

Dick didn’t answer. His fingers tapped restlessly against the glass — a rhythm meant to ground, not reassure. “It’s not the first time.”

Jason frowned, crossing the room. “You think someone’s tailing us?”

“I don’t know.” Dick’s voice was low, taut. “But ever since the club, I can’t shake it. It’s like—” He hesitated, eyes still scanning the dark. “Like Roman didn’t just see me — he claimed something he thinks he owns.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. “He’s not getting near you again. You hear me?”

Dick forced a small nod, but it didn’t quiet the crawling at the back of his neck. The memory still lingered — breath too close, eyes too sharp, the scent of smoke and cologne clinging like a bruise.

He stepped back from the glass, tugging the curtain shut with a sharp flick. “Maybe I’m imagining it.”

Jason didn’t look convinced. “Or maybe you’re not.”

The air between them thickened — not danger, not yet. Just a warning whisper neither of them could quite name.

Jason broke it first, gesturing toward the couch. “Get some rest. If someone’s out there, I’ll spot ’em before they blink.”

Dick huffed a tired breath, half a laugh. “Thanks, mom.”

Jason didn’t smile this time. “Not a joke, Dick.”

“I know.”

He sank onto the edge of the couch, elbows braced on his knees, eyes lingering on the curtain as though it could hold the dark back.

Sleep would be a lie tonight.

Watching.

Waiting.

Unblinking.

The apartment had gone still. Only the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of settling wood broke the quiet.

Dick sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, the faint glow of his phone screen washing his face pale blue. His thumb hovered over Wally’s name before he finally pressed it.

It rang once. Twice. Then—

“Grayson!” Wally’s voice burst through, bright, easy, full of the kind of life Dick hadn’t felt in weeks. “Man, it’s been forever. You alive over there or what?”

A breath that almost counted as a laugh slipped out. “Something like that.”

“You sound wrecked,” Wally said, tone softening. “You pulling all-nighters again? Or is this one of those classic Gotham situations where I’m better off not asking?”

“Probably the second one.”

There was a pause — not long, but soft. Concern edged into Wally’s voice. “Hey, we should catch up. You sound… off, man. Promise me you’ll check in. Soon.”

Dick’s throat tightened — promises always sounded easier than they felt. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. The cracks in the plaster looked like constellations — fractured, fading. “Yeah,” he said. “Soon.”

“Don’t do that thing where you vanish for a month and pretend it’s been a day.”

A corner of Dick’s mouth lifted. “I’ll try not to.”

“Good. Take care of yourself, Grayson. I mean it.”

“I know. Thanks, Wally.”

The line clicked dead. The silence came rushing back — heavier now, thick as fog.

For a moment, Dick just sat there, phone still in his hand, the ghost of Wally’s warmth lingering in his ear. It should’ve helped. It didn’t.

He stared at the dark screen, Wally’s voice still echoing — light, familiar, a reminder of a world that didn’t weigh this heavy.

The floor creaked softly behind him.

“Who was that?” Jason’s voice came from the doorway, rough with sleep but edged with quiet concern.

“Wally,” Dick said, glancing over his shoulder. “Just checking in.”

Jason nodded, leaning a shoulder against the frame. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Dick lied easily. Then, after a beat, “Just… tired.”

Jason rubbed a hand over his face, studying him — not buying it, not pushing. “You wanna watch something? Get your head off it for a bit?”

The offer hung there, simple and solid. A lifeline disguised as downtime.

Dick hesitated, then gave a small, grateful smile. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”

Jason jerked his chin toward the living room. “Come on, then. My pick.”

“God help me,” Dick muttered, following him out, the faintest trace of warmth easing the weight in his chest.

But even as laughter tried to find its way back in, a quiet unease lingered — the kind that lived beneath the skin, whispering that the night wasn’t done watching.