Chapter 1: rockin' robin
Chapter Text
Jason is both annoyed and weirdly flattered when the replacement turns up to ask him for help. He mentally rearranges his calendar so he can be free Wednesday evening and says, “No, fuck off, I have very important business going on.”
Tim eyes his 72” TV playing Japanese wrestling more judgmentally than it really deserves.
“Important crime things,” Jason emphasizes. “Make Wingdick do it.”
Tim pinches the bridge of his nose like an old man. “He can’t, he’s too well-known, it’ll bring up too many questions. He can’t just pretend to be my really young uncle when half the teachers at school dream of marrying him.”
Jason resolves to find out which half and send them pamphlets for addiction recovery, and also scare them into behaving themselves if they do meet Dick. “Crime. Stuff. I’m a crime lord, and that means I have a real job, unlike you losers.”
"I'll trade you new grips," Tim says crisply.
"I can't be bribed, how dare you," Jason says, "do you know how Big Bird gets his shoes and gloves to do the sticky thing? Can you do that for my gloves?"
Tim frowns. Jason opens his mouth to say it's fine, he'll take the grips, but then Tim nods.
"I don't know, but I'll figure it out."
Jason closes his mouth and pumps his fist instead.
"We have to be there at 6, you can't be late, and please wear something formal, something that doesn't make you look like a criminal." Then, suddenly waking up to the fact that he hadn't asked enough questions, he suspiciously asks, "What do you want the gloves for anyway? You use guns. Not much call to stick to those."
Jason, luckily, knows that the best defense is a great distracting offense. "What do you mean wear something formal, do you mean I can't come in the helmet? Are you discriminating against Hoods?"
The argument goes on for forty five minutes, with a break for grilled cheese sandwiches, before Tim realizes he's been had, and then it's too late. There's too little time before patrol for Tim to interrogate him about his (very righteous and justice-filled, really) reasons for wanting sick new gloves.
He puts an alarm on his private, secure pager for Wednesday, 4pm. Enough time for him to get into a suit and damned tie and pick up Tim, and also convince him that taking one of the Bat's cooler cars was practically required, if they wanted to make a good impression.
He also takes the time to dig out his oldest, loosest t-shirt and a pair of board shorts with holes in them and send pics to Dick with the caption 'this is fine for drakey's thing at school right?'
He cheerfully ignores the following twelve calls and forty seven messages. He replies to the forty eighth message when he's out on patrol and one of the people he punched left behind their bloody flip flops while running away. He takes a picture of it and writes, 'found the perf shoes. rly makes the outfit pop.'
On Wednesday, he's still with his lieutenants when the alarm rings. He frowns at the pager, frowns at the map they're making and then frowns at the only one of them he trusts not to kill their own dying grandmother for the insurance money. "You're in charge. I'm going to be taking care of family business, and I don't want to be disturbed."
She nods and the rest flinch away from him so he figures they got the message. He doesn't change fully, shoving the belt and tie in his pockets and getting on his bike, driving hell for leather so he doesn't get any sad looks or angry looks, or any looks at all from Robin Prime(a donna). He can make Timmers drive for a bit while he fixes himself in whatever car they steal.
He reaches Wayne Manor only five minutes late and gets a malicious pleasure out of Tim's surprised look.
"Can't believe you don't trust me," Jason drawls, already checking which cars are at the back, in the area locked away from him specifically. He could just take the Corvette left unlocked as bait, he acknowledges, but it's not good for Bruce to have things his own way too much. It is practically Jason's duty to make things more difficult for him.
"That one." He points towards the bright beautiful Bugatti. "Unlock it Tim-I-Am."
Tim rolls his eyes and says, "When he gets growly, I'm sending him your way. I'm going to tell him you kidnapped me and made me do it and you two can have a punching match." But he takes out his phone and his other special phone and starts doing something magical anyway.
"The old man couldn't win a punching match with me in his dreams," Jason says, cheerfully. Later on he'll wish he had a time machine so he could go back to this particular moment and kick his own ass for not asking any further questions. At the moment all he thinks is that if they didn't have Tim's school thing they could go down to the next town, which has a beach that isn't rotted by years of the Scarecrow and drug dealers blowing things up, and have a nice evening out.
Jason elbows Tim and tries to sit on him when he doesn't hand over the wheel fast enough, and he thinks that's why Tim is quiet, sulking like the little asshole he is, until they reach the school and he realizes that this meeting is like, a final final warning.
"We understand Timothy has health issues, Mr. Drake," the Dean says, while one of the Board of Trustees who used to know Tim's dad nods behind her. "But his medical documents are not in order and his school performance is simply dismal. It's not only his grades, we could make an exception for that-" with Wayne money easing the way, Jason mentally fills in, "-but he simply hasn't been in school enough. His record is blank. No sports, no extracurriculars and barely enough attendance."
"Please, call me Jason. Mr. Drake is his father." Jason points a thumb at Tim. This doesn't go over as well as he thought it would.
He immediately sets to charming them both as much as possible. Playing up Tim’s dad's health issues before the tragic death, and implying mental distress and also implying a fat check. All in all, it just about works, and it takes every bit of the skills Jason learnt while trying to get Black Mask's minions to defect. B's checkbook can do the rest, he's pretty sure.
They're almost back at the car when Jason risks saying something. He's pissed off at being thrown into that sharkpool without warning, but he's got enough sense not to start yelling while they're still on the grounds. He growls, "Why isn't B here? This isn't good, Timmers, and he should be here. He should know."
"He does," Tim bit out.
Jason is immediately sympathetic. "Got pissy huh?"
From the slant look Tim gives him, it was a little more than pissy. Jason doesn't remember Bruce being that nasty about bad grades, but Jason had gotten more than a couple of lectures on how school was his first and most important job.
"Know what it's like," he says awkwardly. "Hey if he lectures you again, tell him that you've already been CEO, it's fine if you get bad grades."
Tim narrows his eyes, then bites his lip before saying, "It wasn't-." Then he shrugs and just turns around to walk off without finishing.
Jason tucks the folder under his arm and follows him. "Want a burger?"
Tim shrugs again.
Once they reach the car, Jason gives him a sideways glance and says, "Want to take the car for a joyride and then throw darts at my Batman cutout?"
Tim smiles down at his Air Jordans. "I can make us moving targets."
"Let's kick his ass!" Jason cheers and like a goddamn idiot, he doesn't even spare a moment to wonder about how Tim laughs, like it's the funniest thing in the world.
Contrary to popular (Batman’s) opinion, he’s not actually an idiot, and he doesn’t keep his second life by sheer luck either, so he’s set up the security nearly airtight on his permanent place. Three weeks later, when he’s willing to die again, just so he can get some sleep, he gets a text to his phone that lets him know that someone has entered his place through a window, and also that it’s one of the Batkids. He takes about ten seconds to decide that unless someone is dying and needs him and only him to come kiss their brow and forgive their sins right at this moment, this can be tomorrow-Jason’s problem. Unfortunately, like all Bats, the youngest brat has a great sense of the dramatic and absolutely no sense of other people’s convenience. He comes slinking through the shadows to stand by Jason’s door like a creeping creeper.
“If you’re going to murder me, do it quickly, so I can go back to sleep,” he says after about a minute of this nonsense.
“I have left Father’s protection and I am here to pledge myself,” the kid declares, voice ringing with determination.
“Keep it down. I have neighbors,” he hisses, and throws his least favorite pillow at the tiny gremlin.
“I am here,” the kid says, in what he probably thinks is a whisper, “to pledge myself.”
“Great, good news, we love to hear it. Now go the fuck to sleep on the couch.”
The kid goes. The kid comes back five minutes later to take one of the blankets, but it’s the blue one that Dickie gave him as a housewarming present, and it was probably made in hell it’s so goddamn scratchy so Jason just turns the other way, shoves a pillow over his head, and goes back to sleep.
He wakes up to a distinctly edgy clattering from the kitchen, and considers sneaking out of the window until the kid goes away. But it’s his house, and he’ll be damned before he lets a Wayne out-edge him in his house.
“Where is your food?” the kid asks, and really, what is it with these kids and walking into his house and judging his lifestyle choices. “Is this a training programme? Are you training yourself for the remote possibility that you must live on pre-packaged food and mold.”
“That was last year,” he replies, and in the moment that Damian takes to reboot his brain, he picks up the kid and tosses him at the couch. He lands feet first, like a cat, or a jaguar, and Jason throws up a victory sign.
Damian furiously sits down where he landed on the couch, extra prim, shoulders up and back straight as a rod.
“I have come to pledge myself,” he announces, again.
“Yeah, I remember that bit, Damianto,” Jason says, hunting under the cupboard until he found the emergency flour. Kid didn’t eat eggs, as far as he remembered, but he could make a mean eggless crepe.
“You owe Mother, so you’ll train me,” Damian declares, all posh on the ‘mother’ like he’s saying it on the damned BBC Radio.
“Yeah, no, that’s not how we ask for favors,” Jason replies, and raises an eyebrow.
Damian looks past him, then sneaks a look at him, then looks past him again and says, “You owe Mother, so you’ll train me… please.”
“Sure,” Jason says, and then, in a friendly way, “pissed off at your old man, huh? What did he do?”
“Nothing,” Damian says, too quick and too sharp. “I just wished to improve my skills.”
“Running away is a good habit, Dames,” Jason says, willing to encourage any bad habits that will give Bruce a headache. “I used to do it twice a month.”
He wonders whether he’s saved any of Timmy’s moving cutouts. By the end of the evening they’d gotten into Jason’s experimental ammunition and at least half of the cutouts were blown away, but they couldn’t have destroyed the whole obstacle course.
After breakfast, and after Jason’s taken him back to Wayne Manor to sneak out more of his clothes and also Titus and Alfred-the-Cat, and after Jason has taught him how to ignite a fire with nothing except whatever they can find in the average Gotham alley (a popular Crime Alley kid’s game), Damian speaks.
He’s drawing, and doesn’t look at Jason as he says stiffly, “It has been made clear to me that my skills and personality are not suitable for the position I wish to hold. I wish to better myself before I present myself as a competitor again.”
“Got in a fight with Tim?” Jason asks, not that he cares, except maybe he can make fun of Timothers for getting into a fight with a literal baby.
“It was not Drake I had the conversation with,” Damian says.
And right. Jason looks at him and his rash temper, and the elegant brutality of his skills, and thinks that yeah, B wouldn’t like that.
“Whatever,” he says, after a pause. “I’m not taking care of your dumb dog or your stupid cat.”
Damian actually turns around at that, to stare incredulously at where Titus is sitting mostly on Jason’s lap and Alfred is curled around his neck and then after a pointed scoff he turns back to his painting. When he’s fallen asleep, with his drooling dog on top of him, Jason takes the beautiful portrait of a yellow-and-red Robin against a blue-black background. He doesn’t have a magnet but he does have a nail and a drill, so he puts it up on the kitchen wall instead of his fridge. Then he goes back to bed, because he’s spent two fucking weeks burning up shitty mixed drugs and carefully destroying chemical labs, and even more carefully getting jobs for a bunch of people who aren’t good, and who aren’t bad, but who need jobs to feed themselves and their families and who’ll make and deal bad drugs if they can’t do anything else; and he wants to spend at least three days sleeping that off.
The kid will keep until Bruce realizes he has a missing wing and comes running to recover it.
The next evening, he has cut his timeline to 'until Bruce comes running, or I can drug the kid and shove him in a sack and drop him on the Manor's doorstep.'
"No," he said calmly. "Not in a fucking month of Tuesdays."
"I fail to see how I am to learn anything meaningful from you while sitting here." He said, looking awfully judgmentally at the only mildly water-damaged walls.
"Age appropriate lessons only in this household," he announces and then rapidly texts Dick out of Damian's sight to ask him what vigilante outings are appropriate for his age.
"Hey, you're like seven right?" He asks, and adds, 'what amount of caffeine is appropriate? should I give him the rest of the six pack of red bull,' just to keep Dick on his toes.
"I am eleven!" Damian stands and draws himself up to his full shrimpy height.
Jason laughs and laughs and only just manages to dodge Damian's throwing knife, aimed right at his Achilles tendon.
He lunges to the right in a feint and grabs the kid when he takes the bait and dodges left, and gives him a noogie.
"We do not solve problems with physical violence in this household," he lies and uses his trump card: "Dickiebird wouldn't like it."
Then he carries Damian like a suitcase to the couch to watch the greatest musical of all time, Singing in the Rain.
Damian shows up anyway, of course. He runs three people through in two smooth moves that scream Talia and then backflips to higher ground in a showy way that is all Dickie. Jason gives him a high five, a PowerPoint on how he could have gotten that done faster and with less risk to himself, and a grounding.
Two days in, Bruce is still AWOL, it's a Monday and the kid isn't in school.
"Father suggested that Drake could get a GED instead of wasting his time in school. I am also capable of completing my education without having to enter Gotham Academy."
What the fuck, Bruce, Jason thinks and blows a raspberry. "You're going to get into Harvard with that attitude are you?"
"I don't see why I must go to Harvard, or any university, I am the Heir to the Bat," Damian snaps.
"Oh, so you're going to be an uneducated little layabout who lives on Dad's money, is it? Except it'll be Timmy's money then!"
Damian frowns, eyebrows scrunching together in a way that signified an imminent tantrum.
Jason doesn't have time for that. "Kids need an education. I know people who would kill for the chances you're getting, so get your ass out there and onto the bike, and get to class."
"You didn't get an education," Damian said, like it was a trump card instead of a fucking shame.
"You wanna end up like me?" He sneers. "I'm a shitty crime lord running a shitty crime empire."
"There's nothing wrong with you! Other than your imbecilic choice of apartments." Damian snaps with an emphasis that makes Jason feel...
"Goddamn right there isn't, I'm a fucking delight. But you're not me and you're not gonna be me if I have to sedate you and drag you to school every day of the year. You hear me, Dam-a-lam?"
"Whatever, boomer," Damian says in his received pronunciation accent, and Jason regrets telling Steph that teaching Damian memes was hilarious.
He zooms out onto the overpass, already planning on hacking the GCPD database to delete all of the parking tickets he’s getting. He’s nearly forty minutes late, and he doesn’t want to see what Damian can get up to if he’s left bored and unsupervised for forty minutes.
It’s more of a relief than he would ever admit, when he gets to the school and sees a distinctive blue-black car in the lot, the only thing Dick took with him from Wayne Manor other than his own clothes.
He runs up the stairs, two at a time, and walks into the waiting room already saying, “I’m going to report a kidnapping.”
Dick has the nerve to laugh, the asshole. “Yeah, c’mon, phone in to the police and tell them I kidnapped my brother, please.”
Jason looms over him with all his extra four inches and watches Dick strain to be taller with pleasure.
“Mr. Wayne, Mister…” the old receptionist squints at him.
“Drake,” he supplies, because what the hell, he’s already lied to the Dean of the High School about it.
The receptionist looks from him to Dick with a puzzled frown, and Jason realizes, annoyed, that even after all these years, he still looks like some Walmart-brand copy of Dickwing.
Dick smiles, all aw shucks charm and melting eyes. “We won’t be late again, Mrs. Rushing.”
“Yep, all urgent work to be put on hold until we get the brat home and in bed, don’t want him blowing up a building or murdering someone,” he agrees.
Dick ushers him away and says, “That’s your MO, Mr. Drake, not Damian’s.”
“I have committed no murders,” Damian says flatly.
“Neither have I,” Jason protests, offended. It’s been at least a week since he’s done any murdering.
“Congratulations.” Dick ruffles Damian’s hair with a crooked smile and announces, “New tradition. Ice-cream at Gianni’s for everyone on No-Murder Monday.”
“In your dumbass car? We’ll look like the second comeback of NSYNC,” Jason says, desperately wanting to get behind its wheel. Dick never even allowed him to touch its steering before– before.
Dick cheerfully replies, “You can go on your dumbass bike then. Dames and I will come in my car.”
Jason sulks on his very cool bike until Dick stops the car just before they’re going to get into the city proper, and says that he wants a turn on Jason’s bike, and Jason should drive his dumbass car for the rest of the way.
“Sure, if you want, not like I care,” Jason says, nearly vibrating with excitement.
Dick strikes strategically while Damian is making the very important life decision of what combo of toppings he wants and not listening to them. “What’s happening? The school called and said I needed to come, that Damian won’t go with Alfred. And all he would say is that he’s living with you now.”
Jason swipes Dick’s card to pay with. “This isn’t even a Platinum, what are you doing with your life?”
“Gym instructors don’t earn enough for Platinum credit cards, Jason,” he says, more wry than annoyed.
“Well, you know what they say, crime pays,” Jason says and pays with his own card instead.
“I think we have very different ideas of who ‘they’ are,” Dick says, but doesn’t refuse the ice-cream, the hypocrite.
Damian ignores them to carefully rub the ice cream off his almonds so he can coax a squirrel into eating the nuts.
“He just showed up, and wouldn’t leave. I figured he needed a few days to blow off steam.” Jason says, only just resisting the urge to say ‘he started it.’
Dick is being so patient, eating his own disgusting marshmallow and chocolate concoction, that Jason wants to punch him in the face.
“Said Bruce told him he wouldn’t be a good Robin,” he adds awkwardly. More than anyone else, the two of them know how earth shattering that would be.
Dick frowns at this, face twisting into the thunderous scowl Jason still remembers from his own childhood, when every time Bruce and Dick met there would be hours of yelling and days of grim silence.
But when Dick says, “I’ll talk to Bruce,” all Jason feels is relief.
The next evening, he gets a ping on his phone, his actual phone, not one of the burners, and then ping, ping, ping until he grabs it just to turn it off.
There are several (high-quality, scanned professionally maybe) pictures. The last one, the first one he downloads, he remembers surprisingly well. It’s a four square picture, from an amusement park photo booth. His face is grimy with sweat and dust and sauce from their chilli dog competition, and Dick’s is the same. With the shitty photo booth camera, you can’t tell the difference between Dick’s cornflower-blue (Superman-blue) eyes and Jason’s own dark grey-blue. They look like brothers.
First time he ran away from Bruce. If it hadn’t gone so well, maybe he would have stopped doing it.
He vaguely recalls what happened in some of the other pictures, but not all of them. In one, he’s being carried by Kori, and Dick has a sharpie in his hand, mid-twirl.
‘Got them from the old Titans’ archives, your wall’s looking a little saddo, you can put them up,’ Dickhead messages.
‘I see your ugly mug enough, i don’t need reminders,’ he sends back, and ignores the following torrent of messages.
He’s got pictures with Roy and Lian, and Sasha, but nothing with Biz or Artemis. He has to hustle to get to them before they leave the planet or the dimension or whatever.
Chapter 2: singing go bird go
Summary:
Jason solves problems absolutely no one has asked him to solve. Dick solves a problem he was asked to solve. Tim refuses to solve a problem. Damian causes problems on purpose (but he was provoked, your honor).
Chapter Text
Dick doesn’t come back to his place that day, or the next day, but on Thursday, when Damian is at his after-school birding group (the nerd), Jason enters his bedroom to see Nightwing hanging off the side of his building like a fucking lizard or a leech.
He opens the window a crack to demand, “If I throw salt on you, do you melt? Is that how I get rid of you?”
“Open the window to try it and see,” Nightwing calls back.
Jason closes it, locks it, and goes to find something heavy to barricade it with. Predictably, the moment his back is turned, the leech manages to shimmy his way in. It takes him longer than it usually would have, and the moment he’s standing in front of Jason, mask off, it’s clear why.
“Didn’t realize you were fighting brick walls these days,” Jason says, adding judgmentally, “and losing.”
“Should see the brick wall,” Nightwing says lightly, something unpleasant at the edge of his – bleeding, shit – lip.
Jason digs out a bag of frozen peas he doesn’t mind getting blood on, puts in some water to freeze up, and whips out a flashlight to check for a concussion.
“Good news,” he announces, “you’re not going to lose the three brain cells you have.”
“Fabulous.” Nightwing sighs, curling up into the chair like he thinks bones are suggestions, not rules, and shutting his eyes like he’s going to take a nap right there, still wearing his shitty spandex.
“Which rogue were you fighting during the day for fuck’s sake? And who's so tough that you had to run away back to Gotham?” Jason is more pissed off than anything, honestly. He doesn’t have time to peroxide everything Dick’s getting blood on.
“Didn’t run away,” he replies in another sigh. “Had to get hold of Bruce, he’s leaving tonight.”
Jason stiffens up. “Here to take Damian away?”
There's an unpleasant edge to Dick's lip now. “Dames isn’t here, right? He’s supposed to be at school.”
“Yeah, Dickhead, I’m a criminal, not an idiot. I know kids need to go to school,” Jason snaps.
“More than Bruce does,” Dick mutters. Louder, he says, “He’s gonna be putting in money monthly into an account for Damian’s expenses. Dames can hang out with us for a while.”
“What the entire fuck? How did you get him to agree to that?”
Dick doesn’t open his eyes. After a moment he says, “He hadn’t noticed. I told him he needs to fix this, and he shouldn’t be giving Dames the silent treatment just because Damian ran away for a couple of days, and he looked. So. Fucking. Surprised.” His voice has gone from dark to a snarl by the end.
Jason sits down. After a while he takes the melting, blood-covered peas, throws them in the trash, and takes out the freshly made ice to wrap in a towel and shove at Dick. He messages Tim to pick up Damian and bring him over, and Tim, to his credit, agrees with a simple ‘you owe me.’
He also sends a few other messages, his network in Bludhaven isn’t nearly as extensive as in Gotham, but he’ll get enough information. He tends to make an impression on people. And he wants to make an impression on whoever Nightwing was fighting, that left him like this.
Tim shows up in a nice Porsche and declares, “No sticky gloves. Deal’s off.”
“Aww, gloves,” Jason mourns. “Never have brothers, Timmy.”
Tim looks at him and then says, very sincerely, “I would sell you all to Ra’s for a box of Cheerios.”
“You don’t like Cheerios,” Dick says, hanging half out the window, apparently having decided that Jason’s ‘no, you can’t wear any of my clothes, stop touching my stuff,’ meant he should just go shirtless.
Tim squints up at him and then visibly decides not to ask.
“Release me this instant!” Damian shouts, only sort of audible through the reinforced bulletproof glass,
Jason gives Tim a sidelong glance. Tim looks the other way. Jason swipes the keys and pokes around, managing to undo the child locks that have Damian locked into his seatbelt. He then shoves the car keys into his own pockets, grabs hold of both of them by their collars, and marches them both inside.
“You brought me a gift,” Dickie says delightedly, swooping down on them to pinch their cheeks and dodge a kick (Tim) and a batarang (Damian).
“This has been very nice, brilliant, really, best day of my life, but no offense, I don’t want to see any of you again until I’ve had enough drugs to drive this out of my memory,” Tim says.
“Movie night,” Jason announces, because if he is going to suffer through an evening of Big D and Little D, then so is Tim .
Tim tries to sneak away through the bathroom window (locked with titanium bolts when Jason moved in), the bedroom window (locked and barricaded with Oracle’s security system as soon as Dick came in) and off the roof, without a grapple gun, at which point he is dragged back in held under one arm by Jason.
Jason stands guard outside the door until Tim is forcibly settled in and orders pizza, stealing Tim’s Wayne Enterprises card for it, and ordering everyone’s favorite and a veg for the kid to minimize the inevitable fights. When he comes back in, Dick has just stolen Jason’s clothes anyway, and settled in with one arm around Damian and the other holding an ice pack to what is probably a cracked rib.
“I’m the eldest, so I should get to choose.” Dick declares, squinting at the TV screen.
The other three, who have heard this whenever Dick wants anything, ranging from the last Pop Tart, to Batcomputer access, chorus, “No.”
“Being a contemporary of the Sphinx of Giza does not gain you movie privileges,” Damian adds, which is an impressive insult. Jason tries to fistbump him and then has to slink off in shame at his also impressive withering glare.
Finally, they all compromise on watching a movie which all of them unanimously decide they would hate.
About a minute in, Jason decides to steal Dick’s phone and change all the names on his contact list.
Half an hour later, the woman on the TV is still crying, and Damian looks like he might chew through Dick’s arm trying to free himself, like a bear in a trap.
Two hours in, they seem no closer to the ending, and Dick’s smile has become increasingly fixed, reminding Jason vaguely of a Halloween Joker makeup tutorial he had seen once. Tim looks like the one time Jason had had to rescue him from Dr. Freeze, gone past shell shocked to disassociating.
Two hours and forty minutes later, Jason steals Tim’s phone to search whether the movie ends at any point and gets distracted trying to figure out if Steph has taken his loser ass back. He finds out that the clone has been trying out some ridiculous lines on him instead. He messages back ‘Piss off,’ blocks the clone and deletes his number, and then sees the class group chat with the grades list.
Jason only plans for himself and Tim to stay the night. He stirs up from his zombie-like despair in front of his beautiful TV, murmuring an apology to it for everything it’s been subjected to tonight, to make up the couch for Tim.
Dick says, lazily, eyes still closed, “I can take the floor, Tim, you can have the couch. Dames, you can squeeze in with Jay right?”
Jason doesn’t say, I thought you were going to take him and run very fast from me and my everything , but only because Dick is most of the way asleep now. He does say, “Timbo, take the floor, Dickie’s got a couple of ribs that are in more pieces than usual. Damianto, you can have a maximum of two knives and one cat in the bed.”
Damian clearly gears himself up to present a counter-argument either for a third knife or for Titus and Jason heads it off by saying, very firmly, “Cleanup time.”
Tim obediently picks up pizza boxes and then stands around looking like he has no idea what to do with them. Jason thinks back to the times he’s seen Tim’s living areas, during videocalls, and asks, uneasily, “Tim, do you know what a garbage can is?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Tim snaps.
“That doesn’t answer Todd’s query,” Damian says, with a suspicious frown.
Tim splutters, and then drops all the boxes in Damian’s arms. “You figure it out then.”
Jason notes that he still hasn’t answered the question.
When they finally get to crawl into bed, Damian does his best to sneak his giant dog into the bed under the covers, and Jason does his duty as an elder brother by making it as annoying for him as possible. Finally, after Jason has won the fight but has also had to submit to having Alfred-the-cat sleep on him, Damian settles down with much less of a fight than Jason was expecting.
Jason has never in his life been able to resist the urge to scratch at wounds, his or anyone else’s. “Dickie didn’t ask you to go with him?”
A flat: “Yes.”
“You said no? Why?” Jason has no illusions about where he stands in Damian’s estimation, either his fighting skills or anything else.
Damian doesn’t bother dissembling, which is one of the few things about him that Jason likes.
“If I am not suitable for Father, I won’t be suitable for Nightwing either. I must train further to become worthy.”
Jason says, “Wow, thanks.”
Damian says, “You should be honored that you are a satisfactory step on the way.” Then, grudgingly, “And you are the sole person who understands my moral groundings.” Or lack thereof, he probably means.
Jason opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling that he’s slathered with pink paint, about the only color not likely to trigger him when he wakes up screaming. Would lose him his deposit if this wasn’t a shady little dive in the middle of Crime Alley.
It’s not like Jason forgot, exactly, that Dick, as much as Bruce, can hold people in the palm of his hand just by the force of his disappointment.
“Dick isn’t. He isn’t like B.” Jason states, awkwardly. He waits until Damian has settled down from his automatic bristling at the implication that Batman might not be the second coming before continuing. “He’s not going to judge you for… he’s not secretly judging you. He’ll be proud of you, he is proud of you, and he’s not going to chuck you out for making a mistake or – or not living up to him. And honestly, who can live up to the golden boy.”
“If you wish me to leave, you may say so,” Damian says coldly. “I am perfectly capable of making my own way. I can leave immediately.”
“You’re still grounded, shut up,” Jason replies.
Damian falls asleep before Jason does. Since Jason is awake, he plans. For months and months all his plans were how to get the bad guys out of his way, how to get people in his zone the help they need, how to turn his money legitimate. Tonight his plans narrow down to the three people in his apartment.
In the end, it o
nly takes a day before Jason gets the name of Dickie's brick wall from his informants in Bludhaven. Apparently whatever's been going on with Tarantula (ex-inmate, ex-FBI, ex-Nightwing girlfriend?) people have noticed. He flashes a bit of money around, and she's been making enough of a splash, that he gets to know what her usual haunts are. Would have been nice to figure out her safehouses too, but this is what happens when you can't plan properly. He shrugs mentally, he can't go into Bludhaven anyway, Dick would get wind of his plan too soon.
Jason makes a quick and dirty plan. Messages a few people telling them to make sure she finds out there's an exclusive arms sale she'll want to attend. Draw her out of the city proper, and to a spot beyond the airstrip, where there aren’t any cameras, and no one gives a shit anyway.
Flores likes to talk. Jason doesn’t want the details, but he sure gets them. Enough that he considers getting out the gun with actual bullets in them, enough that he considers making it permanent. But he’s not covered his tracks that well, Dick is sure to find out, and Dick will never forgive himself if this slimy piece-of-shit breathes her last.
Instead Jason makes sure that she never walks again. And he makes very sure to tell her that this is the only chance she gets, so she better make it worth it.
Then he goes back to his shitty little apartment and annoys Damian and Titus until they try and throw him out of his own house. They nearly succeed and they do it while keeping Jason’s ‘I have neighbors, so keep it down,’ rule. Jason is so proud.
The next day, Jason puts off his business meetings to the evening and makes his way to Tim's school. Since he isn’t an idiot, and he’s a not-an-idiot who spent months stalking Tim once upon a time, he doesn’t bother telling Tim and giving him time to make counterplans before turning up with the best cinnamon rolls in the city. Two of them go to the receptionist who murmurs that she really shouldn’t take them, and oh, she's not supposed to tell him whe-, but of course she understands how tough it is to parent a teen whose parents have passed away in such tragic circumstances and of course Mr. Mills can see him, right away Miste- oh Jason, is it.
Jason smiles at her, bows with a flourish and walks away to the sound of her giggling.
Mr. Mills is sitting in a private office, of course, because this is the rich brats school, not like the inner city High School where teachers were lucky if they had seats . He’s reading something that he shuts with a bang and hides as soon as he sees Jason. Quick reflexes, Jason approves. He wouldn’t die first if Bane attacks.
Judicious application of four of the remaining rolls along with a heartbreaking and entirely fictitious account of Tim’s learning disability (which, being this stupid should be a disability) how he swore to his brother before his death that he’d take care of Tim (if ‘take care of’ means ‘shoot’, it’s almost true) and also how much Tim loves Mr. Mills’ class specifically gets him a date and a time for a make-up exam.
Jason lopes off towards where Tim is, munching on the second last roll. Reward for a job well-done.
“How did you find me?” Tim demands.
“Who says I was even looking for you?” Jason asks disdainfully. Like he’s going to give away the trackers he put in Tim’s phone and all his shoes just like that.
“I got a call from the receptionist asking me to set you two up.”
Jason grins and flexes his biceps. “It’s the guns, ladies love those. Not that you’d know.”
Tim swipes at the last cinnamon roll and Jason holds it way above his puny height and keeps eating it. “Homemade cinnamon rolls are for successful people, not losers who are failing chemistry and need a make-up exam.”
“How did you know I’m –. Mills won’t give me a make-up exam, and if he does, I’m not going to sit for it. I have way too much to do!”
“Oh, yes you fucking are sitting for it, or else you’re going to fail the year. Babs has agreed to tutor you. You think we pay for you to go to a good school so you can lounge around and flunk your classes?”
Tim stares at him, pinches himself, pinches Jason, (“hey!”) and then says, “I’m not having a nightmare. Is this one of Scarecrow’s new toxins?”
Jason closes his eyes, counts down from ten, and then from a hundred. Having calmed down, he says, very reasonably, “You’re going to pass this exam if it kills us both.”
“You’d probably just come back. Like a cockroach. ”
Jason talks louder, “And if you dare come back home with a F on your report card, don’t you fucking think I’m going to put it up on my wall, because I’m not .”
Tim suddenly looks really weird, eyes wide and shiny.
“Are you coming down with a fever?” Jason asks. “Take cod liver oil, your exam’s in three days, you can’t afford to get sick before that.”
Tim says, “I’m fine,” in a hoarse voice. Jason makes a mental note to sit on him while he has ginger tea and cod liver oil.
Then he strides off again, a man with a plan. He and Babs made a bunch of posters that say “Are You A-Dick-ted? We Can Help” with a picture of Dick from when Ivy gave him hay fever for littering (like an animal, Jesus ), and he’s got limited time to put them up in all the teacher’s recreation rooms.
Timbo will figure out the exam.
Chapter 3: every little bird in the tall oak tree
Summary:
Jason realizes he's not in a heist movie, he's in a tragic family drama. If only it was King Lear.
Or, Dick loses his temper, Tim loses his mind, and Damian saves the day (sort of).
Chapter Text
On the morning of the exam, Tim doesn’t pick up his calls, Tim doesn’t pick up Dickie’s calls, and then Tim doesn’t pick up Babs’ calls, which is going a damn sight too far.
Jason checks his trackers, and is both furious and reassured to see that Tim hasn’t been kidnapped and Robin hasn’t been seen patrolling in a couple of days. No, he’s in Wayne Enterprises’ corporate office, like he’s still acting CEO, and not flunking high school. Jason drops off Damian going at approximately 40 over the speed limit, and cranks up the speed to get to Tim after.
He walks into Wayne Enterprises. He doesn’t have to make a plan because he had already made a plan once, just in case. He gets up onto a nearby rooftop, waits for a few moments, then jumps onto a passing van that is discreetly marked, for those who know to look, and will go into WE. He clings on and lets it take him inside and as soon as the security system identifies a third body he flips on the catfight recording he had on his phone, and throws a couple of tiny fireworks as far as he can without being spotted. One guard goes after the fireworks and another turns off the alarm. Jason walks into Tim’s office, just like that.
“Holy fu–,” someone swears.
Jason smiles sweetly at her and says, “Hey, I’m meeting my nephew here? He said he’d be done by now?
She frowns. “The interns’ bullpen, ah section, is downstairs.”
“He’s not an intern,” Jason leans in and says confessionally. “I don’t really understand what he does, but you know, he’s failing his exams, and we’re trying our best to keep him in school.”
She raises an eyebrow and replies, “I advise you to discuss your familial problems with a therapist, Mr… who did you say you were?”
Unlike the school, he seems to be striking out terribly. This woman he hadn’t planned for.
Then, proving that it really is better to be lucky than smart, the package Jason’s looking for walks in all by himself and then winces visibly, clearly wondering if he can walk back out.
Jason smiles widely at him from behind the woman.
Tim squares his shoulders like he’s bracing himself and says, “Sorry, Tam, I’ll take care of this.”
Tam looks from Tim back to Jason, who gives her a shy little wave. She visibly appears to decide that this has nothing to do with her and walks away, hesitating only once she’s at the door.
Tam throws back over her shoulder, “Let me know if you need some recommendations for people to talk to.”
Jason replies, “Uh, thanks. That… yeah, I definitely will.” He’s surprised, and a little gratified, that the kid has people outside of the lifestyle that give a damn about him.
Jason, because he’s good at this handling kids thing, lets Tim explain. He counts down two minutes while Tim says ‘important meeting blah blah’, ‘time zone blah,’ ‘did my best,’ and then once the two minutes are up he says, “I hear you,” because it’s important for kids to know that you’re paying attention. Then he says, “We have twenty minutes to get you to school so let’s get jumping.”
“I just told you…” Tim starts.
“And I said I heard you,” Jason replies, patiently, “now do you want me to tranq you and carry you, or are you going to come quietly?”
Tim scowls, “Fine, but you’re explaining this to Bruce.”
“Explain what, that I’m not letting his kid be a dropout gas attendant?” Jason snaps, already walking out briskly. They need to have left here, like, yesterday.
“I’m not his kid! And come on, like I’d ever be a gas attendant, do you know how smart I am?” Tim protests, all his metaphorical fur sticking up. “And no, explain that I’m missing this very important meeting for an exam. ”
Jason rolls his eyes. “Listen, kiddo, I’m a zombie with cognitive issues but even I remember Bruce telling us that school is our number one priority.”
“Maybe he told you that.” Tim says, voice raised as he jogs to keep up with Jason. “He was telling me just last week that I should be getting a GED so I can do WE and my night job full-time.”
Jason snorts. Yeah, right. You’re usually a better liar than that, he doesn’t say, because fighting with the kid will be counterproductive to the mission objectives.
Jason lies, “Sure, I’ll take it up with Bruce.”
“Sure you will,” Tim scoffs.
Jason changes his mind, and decides he will take it up with Bruce. “I don’t have the time to keep being your nanny,” he announces and then says, disapprovingly, “you skateboard, why don’t you have knee and elbow pads?”
“I’m Robin,” Tim snaps, like he didn’t put pants on the costume like a little wuss.
“You’re a pain in the ass, is what you are. Wear the goddamn helmet.”
He gets Tim there exactly a minute before time, and confiscates his phone, his laptop, his other phone, his WaynePad and his comm. If Tim is going to ignore Oracle’s calls, he doesn’t deserve a comm unit.
Tim’s phones ring incessantly. Jason ignores them all, but does his best to block the clone on everything, and change all of Tim’s wallpapers and lockscreens to the Paddington Bear.
When Bruce calls on the comm, he’s bored, and in the mood to poke at the old man. He picks up.
“We need your notes,” Bruce says, as soon as the call is connected.
“Go for red in your next suit, the Vampire Diaries called and said they’re going to sue you for stealing their costumes.” Jason advises.
“Hood,” Bruce growls.
“Dunno who that is,” Jason drawls back, grinning. “This is Jason Drake speaking, I’m Timothy Jackson Drake’s uncle.”
“Get Tim on the phone,” Bruce snaps, “this is important.”
Jason rolls his eyes. Old man’s sense of humor was never great, but he’s gotten worse since Jason died. Or maybe since Jason came back.
“He’s giving an exam, he’ll–,” Jason stops abruptly.
Bruce has cut the call. This means war.
When Dick calls and tells him he’s in Gotham and needs to talk to Jason right-the-hell-now, Jason doesn’t bother to wait to listen to whatever’s gotten up his ass now. He cuts the call, messages Dick that he needs to wait at Gotham Academy to pick up Tim when he’s done, and zooms off to have a fight with Bruce.
It’s been a while, he’s looking forward to it.
He doesn’t have to sneak in this time, this is not a stealth mission. He just walks into the foyer of the office and whistles Rockin’ Robin, waiting until the guards come. He’s got a plan, but surprisingly he doesn’t need a plan. The woman from before, Tam, apparently notices he’s come back and buzzes him up to the executive level.
“Just don’t cause any PR messes I’ll have to clean up,” she says, blunt but kind.
Jason doesn’t ask ‘why’ but he remembers to be grateful. There’s few enough people he can count on these days, and even fewer he would trust with his… people.
He walks into Bruce’s office, still whistling. Bruce doesn’t look up from his meeting, of course, but Jason has gotten good at waiting, over the years. He lazily prowls around the office, touching whatever he likes while Bruce has to maintain his poker face. He pokes at a probably priceless vase, starts playing with a baseball signed by Lou Gehrig (freaking out but only internally), and then finds a small picture frame lying on its face. He puts it up: it’s Bruce, and Alfred, and himself, covered in juice from the one summer where strawberries were growing like weeds and he had glutted himself on it. Jason wonders what it means that it’s here and not in a cupboard, or in a trashcan. That it’s here and yet it’s face-down in a corner where Bruce won’t see it even by mistake.
Bruce has finished his call but he’s ignoring Jason. This would be a great tactic if Jason were a sulking teenager instead of a badass twenty year old with assassin training. As it is, he twirls his keys on his fingers, and lets Bruce notice the little Swiss knife of tricks attached to it. Bruce doesn’t look up from his files and his WayneBook, but his peripheral vision is as good as a goddamned hawk’s.
“Tim’s almost failing his classes,” Jason says, going on the attack.
“I fail to see why that’s a matter of concern for me instead of his guardian.”
Jason raises a skeptical eyebrow. Bruce has gone for some low blows recently but this is… “His parents are dead, if you remember. You failed to save them. Same shit, different grave.”
“He has an uncle.” Bruce dismisses.
There’s something wrong about this, something that makes Jason want to flinch away, pretend this never happened, that he never came here. “He doesn’t. Bruce, you gotta know there’s no uncle. He lied about that.”
“Did he?” Bruce sends a flicker of a glance his way.
Jason feels, for one second, that he’s gotten through.
Then: “Smart of him. He must have put things together very quickly. I’ll look through it to make sure he hasn’t left any gaps.”
“Don’t you care? Don’t you… he’s failing. He might never go to college.”
Bruce looks up finally, and pinches the bridge of his nose in a theatrical display. “I am trying to put together a deal, and we needed Tim here for it. Lives depend on this deal. It could bring thousands of jobs to Gotham, to the people of Park Row and East End, whom you purport to protect. And Tim is apparently giving his history exam instead.”
Jason feels very young when he says, “But you always told me school was the most important job I had.”
“And look at how that worked out,” Bruce says, dismissively, eyes flickering over Jason, look at how you worked out.
“Are you saying this is my fault?” Jason says, wanting to be angry instead of just bewildered.
Bruce sounds patient, tired but almost himself. “I am saying that Tim has the skills and the knowledge to be saving thousands of lives. And you’re telling me he should waste that, spending his time in a school that can teach him nothing.”
Jason is floating somewhere, looking at himself looking at Bruce. He sees himself open his mouth. “What about Damian? Should he also be dropping out?”
Bruce’s eyes flicker and Jason knows that Bruce forgot about Damian. Bruce doesn’t have tells but other than Dick and Alfred, Jason’s known him the closest and longest. And besides, Jason remembers now, Dick saying ‘So. Fucking. Surprised.’
Without knowing what he's doing, Jason throws the ball still in his hand at Bruce, who catches it before it can crash into the screen. Then he leaves, because he promised Tam not to make a PR mess, and because he doesn’t know what to say, and because he doesn’t have a plan.
Jason goes down and hears the echoes of Willis telling him, in the same impatient ‘wise up, kid’ tone, that Jason has to earn his keep, that they’re not made of money and Jason can’t keep going to school when he won’t be able to make a damn cent extra because of it.
He wishes Dick were here so much that he thinks he’s hallucinated him when he gets down to his bike and sees Dick standing there beside it with Tim in the beautiful car that Jason’s only driven once, only a few short days ago, delirious with excitement at a childhood dream fulfilled.
Dick is all geared up for a fight, but whatever he sees on Jason’s face makes him back down.
“We’re going to your place and then we’re going to talk,” he snaps.
Jason nods, barely hearing him.
They get to his place. Tim shrugs and mumbles something inaudible when Jason asks him how his exam went, and then makes himself scarce. Damian tags along with him, presumably because he’s realized that if he annoys Tim enough, Tim will take him and Titus and Alfred-the-cat to the dog park, and then forget to pay attention to what Damian’s training them to do.
Jason has to tell Dick. They have to do something. Do they have to do something? Damian is living with him, and will go to Dick soon enough. Tim’s only got a year before he goes to college. Maybe they don’t need to do anything, and it’ll sort itself out.
It’s ages before Jason drags himself to the present and realizes what Dick’s yelling about.
He frowns. “What were you expecting me to do?”
“Expec- , Jason, I’m expecting you to stay out of my business.”
Jason nods and then shakes his head. “You got hurt bad, you’re still beat up. And it’s not like I killed her, I know your dumbass rules.”
Dick says icily, “You sound just like Bruce, so I’m telling you what I told him: if you can’t get out of my business, then we’re done talking.”
Jason says, “Fuck off then. Next time you show up beat up to hell at my place, I’ll just send you off to the local free clinic, shall I?” Which isn’t a ‘yes,’ but also isn’t a ‘no.’
“You fund the Park Row free clinic, why are you being an asshole about it,” Dick points out, which yeah, maybe he’ll send Dick to Gotham General instead. “And I haven’t fought Tarantula in months, we've been talking, like civilized people, so stop making shit up.”
“You showed up with cracked ribs just last week, you stop making shit up first,” he says, still distracted. “And she told me–.” He stops.
“Told you what?” Dick echoes, voice low in a growl that could rival Batman and then says exasperatedly, “Last week! Jason, I didn’t fight her last week. I told you I was speaking with Bruce! You never listen when I’m talking.”
No, Jason thinks. No, no . “You had bruised ribs,” Jason says, explains, wishes. “That wasn’t Bruce. Bruce wouldn’t hit his kids. He wouldn’t hit you.”
It’s fine if it’s Jason, Jason is a criminal, Jason killed people, he’s no one’s kid anyway, but Bruce wouldn’t.
Dick is still frowning but something softens in his face. “Bruce wouldn’t hit his kids,” he agrees. “He and I were partners, Jaybird, I was never his kid. We’re both stubborn so sometimes we butt heads and sometimes shit goes too far. It wasn’t always his fault, I didn’t always handle things right either.”
The ‘Jaybird’ is Dick’s version of a concession. Dick can keep grudges like they’re solid gold but mostly he’s easy-come-easy-go.
Jason asks, “Are you sure Bruce wouldn’t hit his kids?”
Dick snaps, “Of course he wouldn’t.” Then, sharp. “Why do you ask?”
Jason is already calling, he can’t message Tim, can’t warn them because kids lie don’t they? Jason never told a soul in either life that when Catherine Todd couldn’t get her fix sometimes she’d just say over and over in her worn out, gentle voice that she hated him and his father both. Tim would lie, and who knows what Damian would do?
Dick is still saying, "Jason, Jason, why did you ask?"
The phone rings. Damian picks up and snaps out, “We have almost reached your shack. Titus needs a bath. If the two of you require further privacy I suggest a hotel room.”
“Hose him off in the back,” Jason suggests, knowing Dames won’t. The dog has fancier shampoo than Jason does. His fur’s softer too, so maybe Jason should start spending more than a dollar-twenty on shampoo.
He hangs up and tells Dick, “They’re almost here. Stay calm.”
“You stay calm,” Dick retorts, eyes wide and angry and as scared as Jason feels underneath the cold.
Tim and Damian walk in and they speak together:
Dick, threateningly: “Has Bruce ever hit you, either of you?”
Jason, even more threateningly: “I can kill him and make it look like an accident.”
Damian looks witheringly at Jason, “You think you could defeat Batman? Fool.”
Tim says nothing for a moment, which is his usual move when he’s thrown in the deep end of shit’s creek without notice. Then he says, shrugging casually, “Sometimes he’s just in a bad mood, or he needs to blow off steam and he messes up while training me. He’s never hit me on purpose.”
“If Father ever disciplines us, it would be for an appropriate reason,” Damian says, and that’s not an answer.
No, Jason thinks.
“No,” Dick shouts.
Tim straightens up and frowns. “He hasn’t hit you, right, Damian?”
“Father doesn’t even own a whip or a cane.” Damian sniffily pushes past them. “If you will excuse me, Titus is waiting.”
“He doesn’t even need to make his own excuses, the lot of you are all so great at explaining everything for him. Good job team,” Jason says, wanting to punch something or shoot something or do something. “People don’t get to hit kids just because they’re having a bad fucking day.”
“Father doesn’t need to make excuses to the likes of you,” Damian says, voice getting higher with anger.
Tim is quieter and more cutting. “That’s rich, coming from you. You put me on life support, you asshole.”
“Because I’m a bad person,” Jason yells. “I’m the bad guy, I hurt you because I’m evil and a crime lord, and I'm sorry. Bruce isn’t supposed to be evil, he’s not supposed to hit you, dads aren’t supposed to–”
And then Tim snarls and punches Jason, and Jason isn’t going to take this lying down, he’s going to… he’s going to leverage his height and strength to make sure he doesn’t get any bones broken and let Tim punch him because this is the least of what Tim is owed.
Tim shouts something incomprehensible and grabs onto Jason’s shirt with one hand and hits him with the other fist, but each blow is weaker than the one before. When Tim butts his head into Jason’s ribs, Jason just holds him there and sinks down to the ground, letting him cry.
Damian is standing very straight, very stiff and Dick. Dick’s walking out.
“Dick,” Jason says hoarsely.
“I’m going to talk to Bruce,” Dick says, voice colder than Jason’s heard since he himself was the bad guy trying to break the Bats.
“You can’t leave, Dick, I can’t do this without you.” Jason says. “Dick, Nightwing, Robin.”
“Richard,” Damian says, voice still posh in his received pronunciation accent but something uncertain below it.
Dick looks back over his shoulder and then between one blink and the next he visibly tucks in his anger to boil somewhere below his skin like thunder before a storm, or a dormant volcano. He hugs Damian to him with a vice grip and collapses on the floor beside Jason and lets the dog crawl into his lap with Damian even though it's nearly as big as Dick is.
“I’m here,” Dick says and it’s okay, they’ll be okay.
In the evening, Tim calls the clone, and gives them an awkward wave before zooming off to spend time with his Titans. Damian coaxes Titus into a small shirt and tie combo for his Animal Welfare Group meeting, where Titus is apparently competing against a cute Lhasa to be the most popular dog, and when they get to the meeting, Dick tells him they'll be hanging around nearby. Damian narrows his eyes at his nemesis, squares his shoulders, and marches off to win his war.
Dick knocks their shoulders together and says, “We didn’t have No-Murder Monday sundaes yet.”
Jason’s stomach is still rebelling but he gets the sundaes with Dick and they find a mostly clean staircase to perch on.
“You have to go back to college, or I won’t be able to convince the brats to go,” Jason says, and he knows he’s spoiling for a fight but the thing is, Dick will give him one, so why not .
“You’re sounding like Bruce again,” Dick says, voice calmer than Jason expected.
Jason sneers. “I think we’ve deduced that we’re both bad people. Shit, Dickwing, maybe this is the moment he really became my dad.”
Dick reels back like he’s been slapped and says, “Jaybird, what the hell?”
Jason says, again, “I’m a crime lo– i’m a fucking mobster , Dickiebird. If you don’t go back to college, then what are we setting the kids up for? Not a single decent role model amongst the lot of us.”
Dick grabs him by the shirt, which, really? This used to be a nice shirt before everyone started getting their snot and tears and Jason’s blood on it. Then he hauls Jason in for a tight hug, which is completely unnecessary but fine, whatever. Jason can deal for a few minutes.
“I’m going to have to stop being a crime lord, don’t I? And we can’t live in that dive forever, not if Dames is going to be with us full-time. Dunno what we’re going to do about money, Dickie.” Jason speaks in mumbles into Dick’s shirt.
“We’ll figure it out,” Dick says, his voice rumbling comfortingly through Jason. “Bruce’ll pay for the kids anyway, and we’ll figure out anything else later.”
“You can’t be sure Bruce will pay,” Jason objects.
Dick is quiet but firm. “He’ll pay. Either he’ll pay willingly, or I’ll remind him exactly how long we’ve been partners, and how many of his buried skeletons I can dig out.”
It’s comforting, to not have to plan for every contingency, Jason thinks, to have someone else patching up the cracks he hasn’t thought about. He pulls back and picks at his sundae, strawberry and vanilla, with pistachio toppings, while Dick digs into his usual, disgusting, chocolate and marshmallow.
After a moment, Dick says, “I think you should go to college. You wanted to, back then. And you’d be good at it.”
Jason makes an inarticulate sound, protesting it. He’d wanted, sure, but Jason doesn’t get what he wants and it’s way too late to start complaining about it now.
Dick plows on. “If you get some scholarships, and I know you will, you can go to Gotham U. I can carry us for a while. Maybe you’ll have to get a part-time job, but it’s fully doable if I get another job.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m not poor .” Jason protests. He can’t afford two kids in Gotham Academy and their horse-riding lessons, but he can pay the bills for a nice apartment for a few years. Most of the money would even be legitimate.
“Okay, that’s sorted then,” Dick says easily, like he hasn’t just taken on three kids less than twenty-one years old.
“No, I mean, we’re going to figure out the kids. This isn’t about me, I’m fine!” Jason doesn’t deserve this and he never could, not in a hundred years, if he repented for everything he’s done and he isn’t repenting, he knows the people he’s helped and it was worth whatever is left of his rotten soul.
Dick is looking at the horizon, squinting at the sunset, brilliant pinks and golds colored by ghastly pollution, and says, very softly, “Yeah, okay, Jaybird.”
Chapter 4: 'cause we're really gonna rock tonight
Summary:
Damian wants to figure out his new life, Tim isn't too sure about his future life, and Dick's doing his best to give them all a happy life. Jason isn't sure when this became his life. Or, things aren't perfect, but they're rocking it anyway.
Chapter Text
Jason waves at the (for lack of a better word) serial killer wall.
“Don’t you also have one of these?” Dick asks.
“Mine isn’t color-coded, dingdong, it's not a serial killer wall,” Jason hisses.
Dick gives him a pitying look. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
“What do you do during cases then?”
“Forget things, like a cool person.” Dick replies, so promptly that Jason knows he walked into a trap.
“Copaganda,” Jason scoffs.
Dick smiles beatifically and replies, “This ass is copaganda.”
While Jason is still trying to unhear that, Dick frowns down at his phone. “He hasn’t replied yet. When did he even have time to do this?”
Jason tries to think back and then shrugs. Tim has been splitting his time between his own apartment and his team in San Francisco, and only sleeps in his room at their fixer-upper after patrol nights because Barbara convinced him that bleeding to death alone (and unmourned, according to Damian) would be a deeply uncool way to kick it.
“Why were you even here in the first place?” Dick asks, raising his head in a sudden realisation.
Jason shrugs again. “Tim said he had my super-cool grips ready and I should just take them from his room.”
“Wow, you’re a shit liar,” Dick replies, tone between shock and scolding. “We’re going to have to do something about that.”
Tim calls back, luckily before they can break their tentative truce and Jason can smother Dick with Tim’s pillow.
“Are you getting shot at?” Dick asks, which is just like that birdbrain, focusing on the inconsequential shit.
Jason interrupts Dick saying ‘holy- is that a death ray’ and Tim responding ‘yeah, I built it,’ to say, “Cuckoobird, why the hell do you have a serial killer wall?”
“Get out of my room, Helmethead!” Tim snaps back and ducks.
Jason avoids Dick’s judgmental stare while Tim does Tim stuff on the other side.
Tim comes back after a minute and says, “If you’re jealous of my case wall, I’ll help you color-code yours, but that’s not my case-wall, and get out of my room.”
“Oh, thanks,” Jason says, perking up even as Dick drags him out by the collar.
“What is it?” Dick says. “Duck and roll! I think that guy has a bomb.”
“The guy is a bomb,” Tim says, long-sufferingly, after he’s rolled and come up behind a concrete slab that looks suspiciously like the statue on the San Francisco City Bank. “If we can’t talk him down, then Superboy is going to chuck him into space.”
Jason whistles, impressed.
Dick hesitates. “Try your best to save him, Rob.”
Tim and Jason give him equally disgusted looks and then stare in horror at agreeing on anything.
“Die, maybe,” Jason suggests loudly.
With poorly hidden relief Tim replies, “Only if I can take you with me.”
“I didn’t know you were looking at colleges,” Dick says.
“Yeah, we thought we’d have to drag you kicking and screaming.” Jason agrees, and has no idea why Dick frowns at him. They have to be honest with kids, it’s in all the “Dealing with Your Teen” parenting books.
Damian seems awfully happy about all this, which Jason would not have predicted.
“Perhaps you should join your friends in San Francisco for college. You might find it difficult to commute to Gotham, but Gotham will not miss you.”
Ah, yea, that would do it.
Dick frowns at Damian and quietly says, “We’d miss him.”
Tim rolls his eyes. “Maybe we should ship you to boarding school.”
“If we ever have a case with an evil boarding school, we’ll toss you in it,” Jason agrees and they fistbump.
Damian looks torn between offense and the need to assert his own superiority.
“I haven’t chosen a college yet, Steph’s been helping, but I want to do engineering and she only really knows about med schools,” Tim says.
“You're not doing business?” Jason asks.
Tim shrugs. “I figure a business degree is more for the connections and I don’t really need those, do I? And what if…”
Even Damian stops arguing that they should allow him to turn Tim’s room into a guinea pig rescue and turns to Tim at this uncharacteristic hesitation.
“What if I don’t want to take over Wayne Enterprises?” Tim asks, shrugging as if it’s something he’s just thought about and not agonized and strategized over, as if they’ve met him just today.
Jason opens his mouth and then shuts it, wanting to tell him how little it matters, without making it sound like he’s saying how little Tim matters. He looks at Dick, who is looking at Tim with a half-smile.
“Whatever you do, you’re going to be brilliant at it, and I, for one, can’t wait to see how it goes.” Dick says.
Tim stares at him, stares at Jason, then scrubs at his face and says, “I haven’t planned…”
Jason nudges him. “Liar.”
Tim laughs.
Damian, showing more human emotions than he previously had towards Tim, sends him a spreadsheet of the top universities by major in the US and Europe. Jason keeps his silence on the likely source of that, but Tim comments once that he’s not sure he should be taking any al Ghul’s advice and Dick goes around looking like he’s smelling dogshit constantly, so Jason figures that they all know.
And then Bruce-fucking-Wayne is back, only for half a day, and Dick and Jason have to talk to him, and Jason either wants to punch Bruce’s face in or never see him again, he doesn’t want to talk. He’s not going to let Dick do it alone, though, he’s not leaving any of his brothers alone with Bruce-fucking-Wayne again, so that’s that. The clone comes over to keep Tim company, and he and Tim quietly agree not to let Damian know that he’s being babysat.
They take Dick’s car and go directly into the Cave.
Bruce is in the suit and on a call, and Jason can’t help himself, he can’t stop scratching at this. Dick lets him talk. Jason will think it’s strange, later, when he can think. When something isn’t breaking inside of him.
“I’ve decided you’re right about my carelessness. One shitty parent might have been misfortune, three is just being careless.”
Bruce doesn’t even look up. “If you have something to say, be quick about it. There’s a code blue threat and I don’t have time for your theatrics today.”
Jason breathes in, out. “You’ve been hitting Robin III and Dames.”
Bruce scoffs. “Don’t be dramatic.”
Jason wishes, for one long moment, that he’d pressed the button on that bomb. That he’d just killed Bruce, that he had never had to know.
Dick takes over and lays out the terms oddly dispassionately. Jason admires it, knowing the depths of anger hiding under it.
They’d discussed it with Tim and Damian and come up with a few ground rules they were all okay with, more or less: No unsupervised visits. Tim will be Robin if he wants to and it won’t be as Bruce’s partner, because Robin was always Dick’s to give or take away, not Bruce’s. Child support payments.
Bruce waves it away. “Send me a list. I’ll approve it if it’s suitable. And don’t bring Hood next time.”
Dick smiles and shifts to stand in front of Jason. It’s not a pleasant smile. “Don’t call him that. Don’t call my brothers anything. You’re not approving anything, Batman, you’ll do what we ask.”
“Within reason,” Bruce starts saying, growling intimidatingly lower.
“Fuck your reason,” Jason says, too loud, too near breaking.
Dick glances at him and then shrugs. “Yeah, what he said. And B?”
Bruce stands up and turns towards them, as if finally seeing them as a threat.
“Batman’s not going to have any child partners. Not ever again.”
Bruce replies calmly enough. “It’s not like I asked for partners. All of you forced yourselves into the partnership.”
Having had the last word, he goes back to his case, dismissing them entirely.
Jason drives them back. Dick doesn’t kick him out from behind the wheel which is proof enough that Dick is too rattled to drive.
“Stop here,” Dick says suddenly. It’s the middle of nowhere, just fields around them, but then Jason follows Dick over a hump, and is hit by the dazzling blue of the ocean going on, and on, beyond their sight.
Jason says. “I don’t remember. I didn’t remember him ever doing that, and so I didn’t think. I thought he was a good dad.” He takes in a wet breath and says, “I’m so sorry I don’t remember. I should have saved them.”
Dick puts an arm around his neck and pulls him to his side and says nothing for a long while.
“He chose you, you know.” Dick says, still looking out onto the ocean.
“What?”
“He didn’t choose the rest of us. I was sneaking out to do what I needed to, and he had to take me in. Tim and I convinced him to make Tim Robin. And Dames…” Dick sighs, some hurt or loss that Jason wasn’t around for and can’t understand hiding there.
“But you, he chose. You were a good kid and you were so smart and funny. He wanted to be your dad. I was worried, the first time you came to Bludhaven, with your stash.” Dick laughs a little breathlessly.
Jason grins too, thinking almost nostalgically about the little wuss, scared about failing a class, no idea that there was blood and broken bones and broken promises to come. He’d been so scared of having messed up that he’d gone running to Robin number one with a bundle of the clothes he’d worn while coming to Wayne Manor, his only picture of his Mom, and a copy of Moby Dick, which he’d been reading at the time, pilfered from Wayne Manor.
“I was worried,” Dick repeats. “And then I saw that he was trying his best, that he wanted to be a good father to you. I figured he and I just couldn’t get along because we were too similar. So I stopped worrying, and then I forgot to worry when Tim and Damian came into the picture. I didn’t realize when he stopped trying his best.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Dick doesn’t say anything, which is as good as a confession.
“If it isn’t my fault, then it’s not yours either. Stop hogging all the blame, golden boy, this is what comes from being an only child and not being used to sharing,” Jason says, and it’s not funny, he knows it’s not that funny, but they look at each other and start laughing anyway.
“I’ve been going to therapy and I think you should too,” Dick says, while Jason is still trying to pick the lock on the chain connecting his wrists to his neck, both behind his back, because he wasn’t picked up by amateurs. The kids are still going to laugh his ass to Sunday, but at least it wasn’t a goddamned amateur. “If you don’t go, the others won’t either.”
“Were you waiting for me to get kidnapped so you could ambush me with that?” Jason asks.
“You’re the one who keeps saying you aren’t a kid, little wing,” Dick replies, which isn’t a no.
Jason is offended at the implication that he wouldn’t have listened if he wasn’t chained up by the jumped-up wannabe actor of the week. It’s true, but Jason rarely lets things like that stop him from being righteously pissed off.
“You’re doing that wrong,” Dick says, running a critical eye over his apparently sub-standard lockpicking while knocking out two guys with a split kick and jumping on a third.
“So I started meeting my therapist last week. I thought it’d take a while to get someone good, but Black Canary had a list ready to go.”
Jason stops scrabbling at the manacles to give his dislocated thumb a rest and cocks his head to hide the pain. “She’s been waiting to give us therapists…”
“I think Supes was planning an intervention,” Dick admits, and shrugs from where he’s choking out a guy with his thighs.
“That’s….”
“Fair?” Dick asks.
“Annoying,” Jason decides.
“I’m begging you both to please knock me out,” one of the tied-up goons says. “You’re reminding me of Sunday dinners at gramma’s.”
“Not great memories?” Jason asks sympathetically.
“I didn’t run away to Gotham and become a villain’s henchman because I grew up well-adjusted,” the dude replies. He’s fooling himself if he thinks he’s anything as important as a henchman but as for the rest…Jason shrugs. Fair.
Dick knocks him out.
“Did you give that goon your therapist’s card?” Jason asks, when they’re having No Murder Monday Sundaes (even though it’s technically Tuesday now and they’re still in costume).
“No! Obviously.” Dick is clearly rolling his eyes behind his mask.
Jason shrugs defensively.
“I gave him your potential therapist’s card, that’s what I had on hand.”
Jason shoves Dick off the wall, and laughs as he falls on his fat ass. But when he’s finally gone to bed and gotten up, he digs up a list that he got on his fake Jason Drake email id from a ‘Tam Fox’, who signed herself as the Assistant to the Chief Financial Officer of Wayne Enterprises. He forwards it to his actual email and also to Dick’s, titled ‘options.’
Damian wants to meet his dad. Whatever Jason thinks of Talia (and he’s never too sure about that himself), Damian loves her, and takes her conviction that he is the heir to Batman as his own.
Jason understands this, just as he understands that they’ve all fucked up when the kid resorts to faking a kidnapping, except, predictably, when the kidnappers realise he’s Bruce Wayne’s son, they decide to actually kidnap him and get a payday. And also predictably, when the kid found he was only worth ten million in ransom money to his kidnappers, he beat them all up and stalked back to school in a rage to fight with Tim about it. All in a single afternoon. Jason almost admired the efficiency.
Dick is still laughing.
“Is this-,” Jason starts.
“Yeah,” Tim says, muffled, head still in his hands.
“You don’t kno-.”
“You are exactly that annoying when you blow something up and find it funny.” Tim actually raises his head and squints at a still-grinning Dick. “You look pretty much exactly like that actually, if Dick were like eighty percent less good looking and also fifty percent more evil.”
“I’ve been told that some people actually prefer me and my roguish looks,” Jason protests.
Tim looks at him pityingly. “Sure, helmet boy.”
Damian comes back inside from his phone call with Bruce and Dick’s smile drops right off his face. Damian’s rage has turned brittle.
“Dami,” Dick starts saying, standing up.
“I will be sleeping now,” Damian announces and stalks off. He slams his door shut. Plaster falls in a brief shower from the ceiling.
Dick’s fingers clench and unclench and Jason just tosses Tim’s stress balls at him rapid-fire until he snaps at Jason instead of giving in to whatever impulse he was feeling. Jason sympathizes, always, with the desire to punch Bruce-fucking-Wayne in his smug face, but he doesn’t want Dick’s smug face getting punched and anyway.
Anyway, Damian loves his father, in a way that Jason gets and doesn’t like to examine too closely, and he won’t thank any of them for fighting with him.
“You must tell me the truth,” Damian says, looking at Dick. “Who can I trust, if you, too, will treat me like an unschooled fool?”
Dick looks from him to Jason, a rapidfire glance.
“Richard,” Damian snaps insistently, posh accent only a paper-thin shield over a child’s hurt.
Dick holds out his hands. Damian grasps one and Dick covers the tiny hand with his other hand.
“Dami, we agreed he can visit you anytime he likes, except for when you’re at school,” Dick says. “We just said one of us has to be there. He can train with you, but not if we’re not there.”
Damian’s face twists. He understands more than he’s told obviously. He really isn’t anyone’s fool.
“I’ll call him,” Jason suggests clumsily. “We’ll set up something for you two to bond. A birdwatching trip.”
Damian doesn’t turn to look at Jason. After a moment Dick curls over him to hold him in his arms.
Two days later, Damian crashes Red Hood's solo patrol, stabs two of the seven people around Jason and says, “Stop yelling foolishly. Father has called for me to meet him tomorrow and I need you to come with me.”
Jason both wonders how this happened and why he’s Damian’s choice over the golden boy. He stops wondering about the former when he sneaks into Tim’s room for entirely appropriate grip-finding purposes and finds Wayne Enterprises files everywhere and also Tim, even though Tim was supposed to have been on a date with the clone.
He keeps wondering about the latter until they get to Bruce’s office the next day and find that he left the country on an emergency just half an hour prior.
Jason takes Dames to a local, slightly seedy gym and lets him whale on the punching bag and then the other (smirking) customers until the customers are no longer smirking and then gets him a fancy sketchbook when he wins all the fights under a minute each.
“Thank you,” Damian says, just before they go back in to their still shitty fixer-upper. “Richard would have expected father to be there.”
He goes in before Jason can reply, which is great, because Jason doesn’t actually have any response to give.
Jason keeps tagging along with Dames, waiting for the other shoe to drop, saying as little as he can, and getting him so much fancy painting shit that even Dick gives him the side eye. Bruce shows up thrice, leaves early once, fights with Damian once, fights with Jason the other time.
Damian fights back both times.
“You don’t need to fight with your dad for me, Damianto,” Jason says, when they’re sitting and sharing greasy fries in the new (boring, sensible) car.
Damian sniffs. “I don’t need your permission to fight with anyone.”
Jason frowns, “Yeah, you do. I’m the boss of you. It says so in my custody agreement with Dick.”
“You’re not even the boss of yourself," Damian replies cuttingly.
“I own four legitimate businesses,”Jason argues. “You’re eating Batburger fries as a business expense. I am an investor, and a job-maker, and one of those jobs is Dickiebird’s. Technically, I’m his boss too.”
Jason triumphantly swipes the last of the ketchup.
“You only bought the gym so Richard could choose his hours there,” Damian says, rolling his eyes. “Cease your ineffective machinations.”
Jason broods over his fries. Finally, when they’re turning back he says, “Just for that, I’m not taking you along to the Batcave to put itching powder in the Batman suits.”
They all go to the Batcave to put itching powder in the Batman suits, except Tim, who has some other diabolical plan in mind than he does not disclose until they’re actually in the Batcave. In the Batcave, they all scatter, doing whatever they do best.
DIck, holding a wrench, comes out from the bathroom whistling happily to himself. “Cold showers for all eternity,” he announces happily.
“Give us a hand, Dickhead,” Jason snaps.
Dick rolls his eyes and says, “You do know those are automated right? We can have all of the tires out if we turn on the assembly line.”
Jason scowls at the two and a half cars he’s got un-tired. “When the hell did you get so fancy? When I was Robin, we did it by hand, all four tires, in the snow.”
Dick’s already walked away. He yells at Jason to get outta the way over his shoulder.
Jason’s bad mood vanishes as he sees the cars going in and smoothly getting stripped.
“Now we just have to fuck up the assembly line,” Dick says cheerfully, and slightly manically. “Not like he gets much use out of it, now that he’s barely in Gotham.”
They wreck it, it’s cathartic. Damian mostly watches, much less bloodthirsty than Jason would have expected.
It’s while they’re waiting for Tim to be done with whatever it is he’s doing that Dick says abruptly, “I’m not going to thank you for Ca- for Tarantula.”
Jason jerks back. “Yea-.”
“Shut up,” Dick says, calmly. “I’m not going to thank you for that. And you don’t have to thank me for going back to college when Tim does.”
Jason steps back. “I’m not going to college.”
Dick doesn’t look at him. His voice is oddly gentle when he says, “We’ll look at courses together. It doesn’t have to be Gotham Uni. Okay, Robin?”
"Alright, Robin," Jason says, unable to suppress a smile.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” Tim says, not shouting but enough command in his voice that even Dick jumps to it.
“Where’s Dami?” Dick says, “Wasn’t he-.”
Damian shows up from nowhere like the tiny terrifying ninja he is and says, “I may have set off the alarms.”
“No, that was me,” Tim admits as they make a run for it.
In the car, Tim checks, and confirms that they suppressed the alarms before it got to Bruce. The itching powder would be a surprise.
Damian adds. “I added some to Father’s underwear drawer.”
Dick laughs. “That’s where you disappeared to?”
Damian quietens unexpectedly. He and Tim share a look, which Jason can see through the rear view mirror. Jason shares his own look with Dick, not sure how to feel about the younger cohort scheming against them.
“I don’t think younger brothers should be allowed to have a club,” he announces.
Tim rolls his eyes. “Shut up asshole. We just thought we’d.” Then he makes a 'go on' gesture at Damian.
Damian throws something at Jason in the front seat.
Dick brings the (nice, sensible) car to a halt, and says, “Woah, woah, no chucking things while we’re driving.”
Everyone stares at him.
He rolls his eyes, “This is my daytime identity. They can’t exactly haul me to court for traffic violations as Nightwing can they?”
Jason opens the bag to see a copy of Moby Dick and a picture. His eyes blur but he blinks away the tears so they don’t ruin his sight of Mom.
Tim carefully hands something else over. “It’s in a hazard bag because blood. Ew. Sorry.”
He squares his shoulder and says carefully. “It’s yours. I don’t know what you’d want to do with it, but it feels like something that you should have gotten back.”
Jason only peeks inside, not sure whether he could bear to see it full-on, but the glimpse of robin-red and yellow confirms what he thought. He nods, not able to talk, not even able to look up for a moment or two.
“I’m so proud of you two,” Dick says, fervent like a wish or a prayer.
Damian looks outside, but the tilt of his head gives him away.
Tim ducks his head with an open smile.
“I left one of your old suits in its place, for the pressure alarms,” Tim tells Dick.
Jason laughs wetly. “Discowing? You left discowing?”
Damian shares another sly look with Tim and says, “Father is going to hear quite a lot of disco when he comes back to the cave.”
Jason isn’t sure when they’re going to finish fixing the fixer-upper, so he just hangs up a pinboard in the kitchen. Damian’s paintings, pictures of all their friends, Tim's photography, cards from Dick’s students, pamphlets of Damian’s latest event… it fills up with all the minutiae of their new and old lives. And when Tim brings back his report card, with A's against everything else and a B+ against Chemistry, it gets pride of place, beside a space that’s been left blank just for his acceptance letter into whichever college he wants to go to.
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