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Red-green-yellow-black, twisting out of the way of a strike. Leaping off a rooftop to the next one, and turning on the ledge, letting his cape flare out.
Purple-and-black, lunging after him, hands stretched out into claws. Red-green-yellow-black dodged, and Purple tried again, both dancing on the ledge as they stayed out of reach.
Purple managed to snatch the edge of the cape, and jerked Robin to a halt. Her triumphant cry echoed across the rooftops.
Robin sagged, and conceded the fight. Spoiler backed away, and Robin waited for a silent ten-count before lunging after her. Spoiler’s peal of laughter rang through the night, followed by Robin’s frustrated cries.
Jumping from one roof to the next. Playing keep-away with their capes. Twisting on railings and flipping across vents and swinging from water tank ladders. Like the rooftops of the Bowery were their own personal playground.
Like a murderer wasn’t watching them from the shadows.
Jason observed Robin accidentally letting his cape flare out again—more used to flying than fighting—and Spoiler snatched at it in victory. And then Spoiler was off, slower than Robin, slightly more unsteady on the jumps, but her movements were economical and she was good at dodging at the last second. She made use of her environment more than Robin did, and she played tag with an edge Jason remembered from the streets.
You cannot let them catch you.
A clang rose out as Robin awkwardly twisted on the railing, almost slipping—Jason tensed, hand moving to his belt—but he recovered and jumped after Spoiler with a mock growl. Spoiler let out another viciously delighted laugh, and dodged behind a vent, keeping the bulky thing between them as Robin tried to circle it.
This wasn’t patrol. Neither of them were paying attention to the streets. Or their surroundings—Jason had been watching them for ten straight minutes. This was just a couple of kids playing tag in costumes.
No more dead kids, his mind hissed, beating in tune with green-laced fury. They never should’ve been out here. Jason’s death should’ve taught them that much. The moment you put on the cape, you became a soldier. There was no time for inane frivolities like rooftop tag. They needed to learn that the hard way.
And yet every time Jason moved his hand to the gun, intending to clip one of their wings, to bring their game to a screeching, violent halt with blood and pain—to viciously sear the lesson that they were not safe—Robin giggled, or Spoiler laughed, or they mock-attacked each other like kittens, and Jason just—couldn’t.
They were kids. They were kids, and it wasn’t their fault that Jason was mad at Batman, it wasn’t their fault that he’d died, it wasn’t their fault that Batman had refused to kill the Joker even when his dead son begged—
They were kids. They got to have the life Jason never had. And he was what? Planning to destroy it in a fit of petty jealousy?
He should’ve left. Ages ago. Not stayed here, in the shadows, feeling his heart crack and ache as—
Red-green-yellow, but different, and purple-yellow-black chased him with a gleeful growl, and blue-and-black caught his hand and pulled him away, chuckles ringing out, and a cowled shadow watched over them all as they giggled and twisted and played until they were breathless.
He should’ve left.
Jason didn’t flinch at the rustle of the cape, but it was a near thing.
He should’ve known that the old man wouldn’t have let the kids out unsupervised. Especially not near Crime Alley. Jason waited—for the punch, for the growl, for the lecture or the cuffs or the disapproval—he hadn’t stuck around after the warehouse had blown up, had staggered away when Batman left him on an adjacent rooftop, had dressed his wounds and taped up his ribs and sobbed until his eyes were dry and aching.
One hope. Just one. That Jason could make Batman see, could make him understand, could make him just kill the clown, please, Dad, for me—
And Batman looked him in the eyes and walked away.
“You can join them,” came the growl, “They’re eager to meet you.”
Jason turned, slow and incredulous, to face the cowl. Unfortunately, the red helmet put a limit on how much disdain and skepticism he could display. “Excuse me?” he forced out, and was pleased that the mechanized voice crackled with his disbelief.
Batman didn’t rise to the bait. Didn’t try to attack him, or restrain him. Merely nodded back at the two teenagers chasing after each other. “Join them,” he said, “I’m sure it’s been a while since you played rooftop tag.”
Been a while? Yeah, that was one way to put it, it had been a while since an insane clown had beaten him and blown him up and ripped Robin away from him so that the laughing, too-clever kid out there could step into his still-warm boots.
Jason glowered, but the helmet reduced the efficacy of that too, and he turned away with a huff. “Surprised that you haven’t arrested me already,” Jason sneered, “What—you worried that I’ll give you all up if I get to Arkham?”
Batman stiffened, and Jason waited him out. Finally, after a shout from Spoiler as she managed to catch Robin again, he said, quiet, “Why would I send you to Arkham?”
“Isn’t that where you lock up all the other costumed freaks? I have the name, delusions of grandeur—pretty sure the cops haven’t forgotten about that duffel bag of heads,” Jason ticked off on his fingers, “Property damage, running the drug trade, working with Black Mask—stop me if I’m getting close, because I have a list of crimes longer than my arm, and we’ll be here all night if I keep confessing—”
“You stopped,” Batman said, cutting him off.
“I—what?”
“You stopped showing up to the meetings of your lieutenants. You stopped meeting Black Mask. You say you’re running the drug trade, but I see no evidence of it. All I saw was an unnecessarily convoluted plan to get the Joker out of Arkham.”
Jason flushed at ‘unnecessarily convoluted’ and immediately castigated himself—he wasn’t Robin, what did he care what Batman thought of his plans.
“So, that’s it? All’s forgiven? You have no issue with the number of bodies I’ve dropped?” Jason snapped.
“Of course I have an issue,” Batman growled, “I will always have an issue with you killing.”
“But you’re asking me to go play happy family with the kids,” Jason said sardonically, “As what? A consolation prize?”
“Hood—”
“You’re clearly not going to let a murderer back into your house, so what—”
“You wouldn’t be the first one.”
Jason stilled, caught off-guard by Batman’s soft sincerity. He narrowed his eyes, “Alfred doesn’t count, he practically raised you—”
“I wasn’t talking about Alfred.”
Jason stared at him. Looked at the kids—but no, they were too carefree, and Jason knew that Batman would never let a murderer wear the R. Looked back at Batman.
“You’re joking.”
“I’ve seen the way you fight—League training, correct? Then you know what said training consists of.”
No. No. That—that didn’t make any sense. Jason imagined a younger Bruce, learning with the same teachers he’d chosen, learning how to kill—“But you don’t kill.”
“Not since I returned to Gotham, no.” Batman looked back at the playing children, his body tense. “I know how easy it is to kill. What it feels like. What kind of person I become when I cross the line. And I will never do it again.”
Jason stared at him. The soft “not even for me?” slipped past his lips without his permission.
Batman twisted towards him, jerky and sudden. Before Jason could flinch back, heavy hands descended on his shoulders. “Jason,” Batman—no, that was Bruce, it was low but nowhere near Batman’s growl, “I would give you the world if I could. I would die for you. But do not ask me to kill for you.”
Jason—Jason needed to step back, to put some space between them, to draw up the steel walls guarding his heart, but he was rooted to the spot. “He killed me,” he said, quiet instead of accusing.
“I know.” Cracked, hoarse.
“He—he—it hurt, Bruce, it hurt so much—”
“Jay, I’m so, so sorry—”
Jason shook his head, grateful that Batman couldn’t see his tears, and yanked out of the grasp, stumbling back a step. “You—your need to see the best in people—he’s not going to change. He’s a mass murderer, B, and he needs to be put down.”
“That decision is not for me to make.”
“He killed me!” Jason shouted, “He beat me with a crowbar until half my bones were broken, and locked me in a warehouse with a bomb! I remember dying. I remember the fire washing over me. I remember choking on my last breath. I remember coming back, waking up in my coffin and crawling out and you think he doesn’t deserve to die?”
Batman watched him take several ragged breaths. “I never said that,” he said quietly, “But I will not play executioner.”
“He killed me,” Jason said, abruptly exhausted. He sank into a crouch and slipped back, leaning against the brick wall of the stairwell, and unlatched his helmet to get some fresh air on his face. Batman eyed the helmet with visible distaste, clearly remembering the moment when Jason had blown up the bomb wired to it. “Don’t I deserve justice?” he asked softly, “Are you really going to stand in my way and tell me not to kill him?”
Batman stared down at him for a long moment, before he took a seat next to Jason. “Did I?” he asked.
“What?”
“Did I stand in your way and tell you not to kill him?”
What kind of question was that? Batman had—Jason had shouted, Jason had begged, Jason told him he had a choice and tossed the gun at him and Batman had shaken his head and—
And walked away.
And walked away.
Jason could’ve taken the shot. Why hadn’t he taken the shot?
“You attacked me,” Jason protested, trying to regain the thread of the conversation, trying to remember what exactly had happened between desperate hope and crushing despair.
“You tried to shoot me. Was I supposed to stand there and let you?”
“You—you—I still have bandages around my hand!”
“I’m not sure who taught you about gun safety, Jay, but you’re not supposed to fire a gun with something lodged in the barrel.” Batman was eyeing his gloved hands like he wanted to examine the wound himself, and Jason drew them back. “Alfred will be more than happy to give you a refresher lesson.”
“You—you walked away,” Jason said, and without the voice modulator, Batman could hear his voice break as tears welled up again. Watching Batman leave—watching his dad leave him with a monster—“You—I—you left me with the Joker—” he wasn’t making any sense, he knew that, he’d set up the whole confrontation in the first place, he’d had a gun to the clown’s forehead, he’d been in control—
And then he’d been fifteen years old again, and he wanted his dad, and his dad was walking away.
“Oh, Jay-lad,” Bruce said softly, and Jason buried his face in the armor and shook as gloved hands rubbed down his back. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have walked away. I won’t leave you again.”
“Don’t—don’t make promises you c—can’t keep.”
Jason could feel dry lips against his hairline, right on top of that single streak of white in his hair. “I swear, I will never leave you if it is in my power to stay at your side.”
Liar, Jason wanted to accuse, but that meant speaking, and he didn’t want to move from Bruce’s quietly encompassing embrace—he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this hug in all the years he spent away from home. He burrowed tighter against Bruce’s side, and the man let him—the armor kept jabbing him, though, and Bruce laughed softly at Jason’s annoyed grumble.
More flutters. “N’s going to be sorry he missed this,” a young voice piped up, teasing, and a giggle rang out. Jason twisted enough to shoot Robin and Spoiler the middle finger.
Bruce tutted softly and closed a hand around Jason’s. “You know Agent A watches the cowl footage.”
Jason grumbled louder, but finally raised his head, unsubtly scrubbing at his eyes before observing the kids up close. They were both staring at him—Spoiler had her head tilted to one side in a manner eerily reminiscent of a curious Nightwing, outline concealed by her dark purple cape, and Robin was perched on the narrow ledge, almost vibrating in place.
“Are you really Jason?” Robin whisper-asked, leaning forward.
Jason scowled at him. “No, I’m a zombie,” he snapped back, levering upright. The kids had already seen him crying, but one good thing about his height was his newfound ability to loom.
“I’m sorry,” the kid flushed, “I—I didn’t mean it like that—I didn’t—I’m just—”
“Tongue-tied,” Spoiler informed him, “Wonder Boy’s your biggest fan.” Robin flushed darker. “You have no idea how much excited babbling I had to put up with when boss man said you were alive.”
“Spoiler,” Robin hissed as Batman’s lips twitched.
“They say imitation’s the sincerest form of flattery,” Jason drawled—Batman stiffened, he clearly caught the edge of the bite to his tone, but the Replacement didn’t—he wavered on his perch for another moment, before lunging forward.
Before Jason could react, there was a fourteen-year-old clinging to him like a koala. “I’ve wanted to meet you for so long,” the kid breathed out. Spoiler giggled again. Batman made no move to extricate his Robin from the undead murderer, and some reluctant poking also failed to get the kid to dislodge.
“Kid, you didn’t even know I was alive until a week ago.”
“I wanted to meet you when you were Robin too,” the kid said, his words muffled by Jason’s jacket, “I—”
“He has a whole collection of your pictures,” Spoiler said sweetly, “Just waiting for your autograph.”
The kid finally disengaged to hiss a betrayed “Spoiler!”
“I’m sorry,” Jason blinked, “My pictures?”
“He stalks people,” Spoiler waved a hand, “It’s a thing.”
“I do not!”
“You showed up with my entire life history the second time we met!”
“You hit me with a brick!”
“You were trying to pull my mask off!”
“You were being suspicious, and—”
“Children,” Batman growled, and in unison, both kids turned to glare at him. Spoiler stuck out his tongue. Robin crossed his arms and pouted.
Jason fought the urge to laugh. It had been a long time since he’d heard that particular weary why-is-this-my-life tone. It had usually been accompanied by Batgirl’s snickers, or Nightwing’s faux innocent smile, or Alfred’s deadpan expression, and Jason felt a wave of nostalgia so staggering he nearly lost his balance.
“Alfred misses you,” Batman said, so slyly Jason wondered if he’d developed the ability to read minds. Jason turned away from him, snatching at his helmet—he didn’t want to talk to Alfred, the old, grandfatherly man had a way of cutting to the heart of Jason’s problems and Jason didn’t want the comforting weight of denial torn away from him.
But he missed Alfred. Missed the way he always smelled like honey lemon tea and cinnamon. Missed the patient teaching as Jason helped in the kitchen, the no-nonsense advice, the hand on his shoulder, grounding him whenever he felt untethered.
Jason moved to latch his helmet back on—this was enough emotional vulnerability for one day, thank you very much—but Batman snagged his wrist before he could put it on. “No,” the man growled forbiddingly.
“Let me go,” Jason hissed back, tugging his arm back. Batman shifted his grip—he let go of Jason’s wrist, but grabbed the helmet.
“You are not putting this on,” Batman said, low and angry, “Not if there’s another bomb lining the inside.”
Jason glared at the cowled mask, sorely tempted to just blow up the helmet right now, but was distracted. “You have a bomb in your helmet?” Spoiler said, awed.
Batman’s disapproving look changed three degrees, to what Jason usually saw directed to Nightwing, the half-despairing ‘stop corrupting the children’.
“I can give you a demonstration if you’d like,” Jason said, shooting a sharp grin at the younger girl.
Batman’s scowl increased two magnitudes. “Jason,” he growled, and Jason couldn’t help the way his spine straightened at the tone. He crossed his arms and scowled to mitigate the reaction.
“What, old man?” Jason sneered, “You told me to hang out with the kids.” He stepped back, until he was in line with Robin and Spoiler. “I think teaching them about demolitions is a fantastic bonding activity.”
“Yes!” Spoiler cheered, leaning until she was resting half her weight against Jason’s shoulder, “Explosions are very cool.”
“Very cool,” Robin parroted, pressing close to Jason’s other side in shy hesitancy—Jason extended an arm around his shoulders, and gave his best shit-eating grin to Batman, one part Nightwing’s faux innocence to two parts Batgirl’s vicious glee.
Batman sighed and muttered something too low to hear, though Jason caught a snatch that sounded like ‘did this to myself’. “No explosions without supervision,” he said finally, resigned.
“Yes!” Spoiler did a fist pump.
“What exactly counts as supervision?” Robin pressed, “Because Jason’s technically an adult—”
“Technically?” Jason squawked at the same time Batman rumbled, “Teenagers do not count.”
Jason didn’t know who to direct his outrage at first—“Technically?” he repeated, staring down at Robin, “What do you mean, technically?” before glaring at Batman, “Age is a social construct, old man.”
“One I intend to enforce,” Batman said firmly, and Jason switched his glower to the kid.
“Um, technically, you, uh,” Robin was fidgeting, staring at his toes, “Were…not breathing for some of that time, so, you know, if we’re defining age by years, uh, breathing—”
“I was dead, kid, you can say it,” Jason said exasperatedly.
“I didn’t want to be insensitive,” the kid protested. Spoiler snorted loudly from Jason’s other side, and Robin hissed, reaching around Jason to try and poke her. Jason stepped back before he could get caught in the middle of the brewing brawl.
Batman sighed again. Jason almost felt sorry for him.
“Some terror of the night you are,” Jason snickered, passing by him as he headed to the edge of the roof. A hand snagged his elbow before he made it to the ledge.
“Where are you going?” Batman asked, sounded almost…concerned?
“As entertaining as this is,” Jason waved a hand to where Spoiler was chasing Robin, “I’m not standing on this rooftop all night. I’m going—”
“Come home.”
Jason froze. Batman was staring at him, tense, and for all that his tone sounded like an order, Jason couldn’t miss the desperation underneath it.
Jason swallowed. “The Manor’s not home, B,” he said softly, “Not anymore.” Not ever, a part of him wanted to jab, but Batman rocked back like he’d been struck and the words died in his throat.
“Jay,” implored the hoarse voice. Jason took a step back. Robin and Spoiler both popped back up at Batman’s side, pleading expressions aimed at him, and Jason took another step back.
“Just for a night!” Spoiler bargained.
“Alfred made snickerdoodles,” Robin bribed.
“I—I can’t—”
“Jay-lad,” Bruce said, taking off his cowl and fixing Jason with that piercing blue-eyed stare, “Son. Please.”
His next step faltered.
Fuck.
He didn’t—the Cave had too many memories—he wasn’t a part of their sickeningly sweet family, he’d died and Bruce hadn’t even—the clown was still alive—he could smell those cookies already—
He wanted to go home.
He was terrified of going home.
Jason exhaled, and let his shoulders slump. Two children grabbed his arms before he could even think of changing his mind.
Jason was starting to think this was a con.
Spoiler—aka Stephanie Brown, aka call me Steph, only Bruce calls me Stephanie—was hanging over his shoulders, practically shoving her fingernails in his eyes as she expounded on the difference between eggplant and purple. Jason sorely regretted asking.
Robin—the Replacement, the kid, the twerp, Timothy Jackson Drake—was a few feet away, sitting cross-legged on the training mats, glossy photos spread around him as he muttered to himself. Jason’s attempts to look at the photos had been met with hisses—apparently there was an order, and Tim hadn’t finished putting it together.
Bruce had abandoned him, the traitor, and was sitting at the Batcomputer and pretending like Jason wasn’t glaring a hole in his shoulder. Alfred had deposited the cookies—snickerdoodles, yes—and then gone to dab at his eyes with a handkerchief in a dark corner, or whatever British people did when they cried.
He was getting the sense—between Steph’s excited jabbering and Tim’s obsessive focus—that he’d been unwittingly press-ganged into being a babysitter. How did these kids have so much energy at one in the morning after playing rooftop tag?
“Wait,” Jason got momentarily sidetracked by Steph’s explanation, “What’s the different between eggplant and aubergine?”
Steph cut off, mid-sentence, and practically hung over his shoulders to look at him upside-down. “You were actually listening to me,” she said, surprised, her eyes narrowed shrewdly.
“Was I…not supposed to?”
“The only other person that actually listened to the eggplant spiel is Bruce, and he pretended like he was ignoring me the whole time.”
Bruce was staring fixedly at the monitors.
Steph scrutinized his face before grinning. “You’re my new favorite,” she beamed, “Now I understand Wonder Boy’s obsession.” She slithered down until she was sprawled in his lap, still grinning at him. Tim was glaring at her.
“Uh…thanks?” Jason was pretty sure it was a compliment, but not entirely sure what he’d gotten himself into. He didn’t need eggplant-wearing baby heroes following him around. Or traffic light ones for that matter—a seething Tim had snatched up a modest pile of photos and crawled over to them, bracketing Steph and dumping the photos on her stomach as he smiled up at Jason.
Jason resigned himself to his fate—the photos were actually pretty good, beautiful shots of Gotham at night, artistically captured stills of a younger him in motion, colors painfully bright and memories vivid and aching as Jason swallowed. He wanted to throw the photos away, or shred them to pieces and stalk the streets until he covered the raw wound inside of him with blood and fury, but Tim was looking at him with such open admiration that Jason couldn’t bring himself to do it.
There was a prickling down his spine—presumably Bruce, standing over him and also looking down at the pictures, and Jason flipped through them silently, trying to swallow past the rising lump in his throat. He felt worse the longer Bruce’s silence stretched—what did the man think, confronted with the visible reminder of how much better Jason had been before he died, how little of him came back, how desperately he wanted the dead kid back—the heavy weight of the intense gaze was practically boring through his back—
Jason snapped his head to the side, a snarl rising up, and nearly jumped when he was confronted with features too angular to be Bruce’s. “What?” he managed, just barely preventing the squeak, and the girl tilted her head, dark hair fluttering at the corner of dark eyes, and stared back.
“Cass!” Steph chirped, “You’re home!”
“There are more of you?” Jason asked, strangled, “What, did Bruce just raid the city for lost children?” Should Jason be expecting even more? He was not a babysitter, goddammit.
“Cassandra,” the girl said, enunciating carefully, “Cass.” She observed him for another second, before smiling, a shy grin stretching across her face. “Little brother.”
What. “What?” Jason inhaled sharply, “No.”
“Little brother,” Cass said, blinking at him, and that was definitely a smirk and not a smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“Absolutely not, I have enough older siblings, thank you—Bruce! Bruce! I know you can hear me, old man! Little siblings are one thing, but I draw the line at older ones!”
“Big sister,” Cass said proudly. Jason set his jaw. She shifted forward—she was fast, holy shit, and she anticipated and countered his flinch—and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
What. The. Fuck.
“Bruce,” Jason said, low and seething. Cass kept smiling. Bruce kept ignoring him. “Bruce, no. I’m leaving.”
Steph settled her weight more firmly across his lap. Tim caught one of his hands. Cass’s eyes sparkled, a distinct ‘I’d love to see you try’.
“Unbelievable.”
“She’s actually only a couple of days older than you,” Tim said.
“Yes, so technically you guys are Irish twins,” Steph added.
Cass made a considering face. “Twin brother,” she beamed at him. Jason glared at her, but it was weaker.
“Does this mean that Cass doesn’t count as supervision either?” Tim mused. Cass quirked her head towards him. “Jason said he’d teach us how to explode things!” Tim explained.
Jason opened his mouth—he didn’t use those words—but Bruce was strangling a pen now, still glaring at the monitors, so he closed it again.
“Fun,” Cass smiled, eyes alight with a mischievous flair for destruction that Jason was very familiar with.
He found himself echoing that smile. Maybe a twin sister wasn’t so bad after all.
“Okay, fine, I’ll teach you how to make things explode, now get off of me, my feet are falling asleep.” Steph rolled off of him with a grumble, and Tim let go warily, as though still expecting Jason to make a run for it. Jason straightened, shaking his legs out and groaning. “Still need to find that supervision, though,” Jason mused.
“Dick can supervise!” Tim volunteered, which was not a half-bad idea.
“Sure, you can ask Dickhead the next time he’s in town,” Jason shrugged—he didn’t know if Dick was a big fan of explosions, but he was a big fan of tweaking Bruce’s nose, unless that had changed in the last several years.
The kids exchanged looks with each other. Cass shuffled until she was more blatantly between him and the exit. “What?” Jason said, instantly suspicious—they weren’t going to lock him up, he recognized that, there was no way Bruce would’ve let the kids near him if he was planning on dumping Jason in Arkham, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t get rid of all his gear and armor and guns and—
“Nothing,” Steph said—clearly a practiced liar because Jason almost believed her. He narrowed his eyes.
“You’re hiding something from me,” Jason growled, pausing to shift his glare to Bruce.
“Why would we hide something from you?” Tim asked innocently, an expression Jason didn’t believe for a second.
“I don’t know, baby bird,” Jason drawled, “But you guys seem pretty intent on keeping me here.”
“Home,” Cass said firmly, daring him to argue.
“I already said I’d stay the night,” Jason said slowly, his gaze flitting across the three of them.
“Home,” Cass insisted. Like she could make him stay. Jason knew the Manor better than any of these kids, and sneaking out in the morning would be easy—
“Jaybird.”
So it was a con.
Jason turned towards the bottom of the stairs, where Dick Grayson stood, panting heavily, eyes wide, hair tousled. He moved towards them on stuttering steps and Jason pressed back as he neared, nearly bumping into Cass.
Sure, Bruce had asked him to come back, but it was Dick that he’d failed, Dick’s memory of his parents that Jason had tarnished forever with his death because he wasn’t good enough, because he’d failed, because he’d gotten himself killed—
“Little Wing,” Dick said, achingly soft, blue eyes brimming with tears—and he was right in front of Jason now, and Jason shuddered but let the outstretched hand land on his shoulder.
Dick had him wrapped in a hug in less than a second. “Oh, Jaybird,” Dick said, soft and hoarse, “I missed you so much, kiddo.” Jason blinked his eyes furiously as he hugged back—failure, failure, failure kept echoing in his mind but Dick didn’t let go, and Jason felt a piece of the wall around him begin to crumble.
They must’ve called Dick the moment Jason agreed to go to the Cave if he’d gotten here from Bludhaven so quickly. The last time—the last time Jason had called Dick, had needed his big brother because Bruce’s disappointment had lingered around him like a shroud and Jason couldn’t breathe, the Titans had been off-world. And Jason had made the biggest mistake of his too-short life.
Jason had spent sleepless nights wondering what would’ve happened if Dick had been there. A shoulder to cry on. Somewhere to go that wasn’t Ethiopia, wasn’t a mother that didn’t want him, wasn’t a trap.
But Dick was here now, the one person Jason had always looked up to, and he held Jason tightly, like he was afraid of ever letting go again.
“You’re home, Little Wing,” Dick murmured quietly, and Jason’s half-formed plans of sneaking out the next morning dissolved into thin air. “You’re home.”