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“Why do you read?”
Jason blinks from under the hood.
“Fuck does that mean?” He spits without any real heat. “I may have been dirt poor but I did go to first grade.” He didn’t get all that much further than that, but he keeps that part to himself.
“I didn’t mean how you read. I do know you’re not illiterate.” Jason can see Dick rolling his eyes even under the domino. “I’m asking why. What does it… do for you?”
Jason blinks again, and turns back to the alley they’re supposed to be monitoring. They’re at a stakeout, just the two of them. It’s not the first time on a mission with the Bats since he’d come back into the fold, not by a long shot, but this one felt… less strained than some of the others.
Something about reconciling . Something about family .
Talk about discipline, Jason’s subconscious fills in, because he can’t help himself. Talk about good Lord.*
He’s quiet for a while, and Dick lets him be. He hates that Dick knows him well enough to let him, hates that he’s got Jason all figured out, hates that he doesn’t press or whine or needle, doesn’t give Jason a reason to hate him so much. He’s thoughtful, and sensitive. Jason feels his earnestness like a slap to the face, and yeah, that pisses him off.
But more than that, Jason is quiet because he’s been asked a question he doesn’t know the answer to.
Then there’s shouting from below and the crackle of a signal in his earpiece, and Jason isn’t Jason anymore. They drop down almost in unison, a gleam of red helmet and blue electricity dancing around the sticks in Nightwing’s hands. They fight, and the Red Hood aims for shoulders and knees instead of heads and hearts, and a little voice inside him wonders.
The obvious answer is escapism, he thinks, later that night. He’s stitched up his wounds, a few nicks and a graze on his calf, showered and thrown on sweats and a t-shirt about a hundred times too-washed. Usually he enjoys cooking—something about helping Alfred every day when he was younger, and finally having access to food —but it’s nearing 3am and every shift sends jolts of pain up his leg. He opts for simplicity instead, slapping a few tortillas on his comal to puff up and setting Dick the task of grating whatever block of cheese he’s got left in the fridge. Apparently this is something they do now: eat together after patrol. Jason doesn’t understand it, but as long as they’re at his safehouse, far away from the manor and its stifling walls, he can’t really complain.
Dick grumbles a little about being tired and sore and that guy I stopped from shooting you in the face , but he grates the cheese anyway.
Jason flips the quesadillas twice with a deft hand, peeling one open once or twice to check if it’s melted. He slivers avocado into his own, saddles his plate with a poisonous homemade salsa, and drizzles on crema in a thick pour. Dick watches him from across the table with a contemplating expression, hair mussed and damp from his shower, his own plate noticeably missing the salsa.
Jason thinks as he eats.
The obvious answer is escapism.
Maybe he reads because late at night, when he lays on his back and stares at the ceiling, he hates himself. Maybe he reads because while he’s reading, he doesn’t have to be himself.
And it’s true, sometimes, though less and less in recent years, but it’s not the full story.
He loves analysis, too. He loves written word as an art, as a craft. Words strung into sentences strung into stories that wrap around your ankles and your arms and your neck. He loves theme exploration and character motivations. He loves endings, happy or tragic, but all of them laid out and looked upon and then stacked neatly back into the box, clean and compact in a way he knows he’ll never be.
But he hadn’t been thinking about symbols or narrative structure or all the bitter, intricate ways he hates himself when he’d first picked up the habit all those years ago.
Jason puts down his food and hunches his elbows over the table. “Picture this, and stop me if you’ve heard this one,” he starts. Dick’s head snaps up from his plate. He’s got sour cream smeared on the tip of his nose and a stretch of cheese dangling from his chin. He wipes his face hastily and sits up straighter.
“A brown boy in dirty clothes walks into a library.” That’s a joke set up if he’s ever heard one. “He has no card and no form of ID and an accent from the worst part of town. But the library gets heat in the winter and his apartment doesn’t, and the lady working there points him toward the fiction section.”
He takes a bite, ripping his piece with bared front teeth, eyes off somewhere to the left. He drags a hand under his nose and starts talking again before he's even finished chewing.
“When he’s there, he isn’t freezing. He can’t hear his fathers yelling. He can pretend that his mother is really at work like she tells him and not shooting up at her friend’s across the street. He pretends. And then he can’t go to school anymore without a permanent address, and he won’t have one for years, maybe ever. So books are the only way he can learn.”
And then he dies , Jason thinks. And when he comes back, books are the only thing he has left.
Jason realizes he’s grown into a man who often speaks of his childhood in the third-person. As if it will somehow dull the pain.*
Dick is silent for a long moment. Jason finishes his meal, scraping the last of the red and white sauces up with leftover tortilla. “You never told us any of that,” Dick says finally.
“Yeah, well. You never asked.”
“What—” Tim pauses, like he’d spoken the words before he could tell himself to stop. The kid is still antsy around Jason, be it awkwardness or hero worship or a natural reaction to being the target of a murderous rampage. Tim grimaces, but continues. He knows how to commit, Jason will give him that. “What’s your favorite book?”
It comes out stilted and flat, more like a statement than a question, but Jason can’t blame him for his nerves. They’re in the cave a few hours before patrol. Jason is sitting near the training mat, breaking down his guns for cleaning, a process that takes an unenviable amount of time. Tim is sitting at the Batcomputer, a case file pulled up on the screen and overdue homework to his left. When Jason thinks back, this is the first time they’ve been alone together as themselves without a mission or a case or a purpose. The space between them suddenly feels heavier, as does the silence.
He could not answer. He could tell Tim to fuck off. He could leave, go back to his place, finish the job there. “Stupid question,” he says instead, and tries to pretend it comes off colder than it does.
Tim turns in his chair to face him, head tilting a bit in question in a way that's all Dick, all Robin , all a remnant of who Jason used to be.
“No self-respecting reader has a favorite. A favorite mystery, sure. A favorite tragedy, maybe. There’s never just one answer.” He looks back down to the cloth in his hand, smudged with grease from the barrel of his gun, and shrugs. “Me? Depends on who’s asking.”
“What would you say if I asked?”
“You did,” Jason reminds him. “And I’d say, ‘Stupid question,’ and then probably some classic. Jane Austin, P&P , 20,000 Leagues *, maybe. Something pretentious that would make you stop asking about it.”
“You’ve really read all those?”
Jason snorts. “Back when. I was really into classics when I was younger, read all the usual suspects. They’re famous for a reason, you know. The human condition is eternal and all that bullshit.”
It occurs to him that Dick might have said something about their last conversation to the rest of the Bats. Nothing too personal, Dick is too considerate for that kind of transgression, not that Jason really gives a fuck what they think of his streetrat origins. He probably dropped a few hints, good ways to get to know Jason better , or maybe to learn about him all over again.
It made his stomach tighten, a lump threatening to form in his throat, and Jason tells himself it’s in annoyance.
“And the others? What would you tell them?” Jason keeps his eyes down, but he can tell Tim is studying him like a puzzle, trying to get his pieces to click into place. He probably thinks of this as some kind of reconnaissance mission rather than a bonding exercise. How does Jason view me? He imagines Tim thinking. How does he view us ?
It doesn’t bother him as much as he expects.
He shrugs a little, working his way around the trigger mechanism. “I’d probably tell Cass something classy, a little dark. Shirley Jackson, maybe, or Travel Light *. Something timeless, something solid if she ever wants to pick it up.”
Tim frowns. “I’ve never heard of that one.”
“You wouldn’t have. It’s a Scottish classic from the ‘50s. Norse mythology, valkyries, dragons. That kind of thing.”
“I didn’t know you liked that kind of thing.”
“I like a lot of things,” Jason says idly. He thinks for a moment, and exhales quick through his nose. “I’d tell Steph something total trash. YA shit. Think she’d have an aneurysm over it.”
Tim cracks into a smile. “She would never let you live it down if you’ve read Twilight* ,” he says, falling into his chair and pushing it back and forth in little half turns.
Jason keeps his eyes down and says nothing.
“No,” Tim sits up again. “No fucking way.”
“Next question.”
“No way. You are not serious.”
“I said next question.”
“Edward or Jacob? You definitely like Jacob, right?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jason says, affronted and, honestly, a little offended, before he can stop himself. Tim’s eyes light up.
“So what I’m hearing is,” he starts, and Jason has never hated the detective bullshit more. “You’ve not only read Twilight, you have opinions on it.”
He contemplates the gun piece in his hand, how quickly he could reassemble it, whether or not he has any bullets on hand (he does).
In a too loud voice he says, “I’d probably tell Duke something good, too.” He looks up, daring Tim not to take the hint. “ Lies of Locke Lamora*. That one's funny. ‘S about a thief who’s smart and quick and gets his ass kicked all the time because of it. Reminds me of someone I know.” Tim rolls his eyes, but it distracts him enough to drop it.
“What kind of name is Locke Lamora ?”
“You’re no one to talk, two first names.”
Tim gives him a flat stare. “Jason. Todd.”
Jason flips him off with his empty hand, but now he’s grinning, just a little, too “Maybe The House on Mango Street* for Damian. Sandra Cisneros. It’s a good book. I don’t know how much he’d relate, but it meant a lot to me when I was his age.”
“What’s it about?”
Jason snorts. “Mexican shit. Poverty. Getting out, making money, coming back for the people who couldn’t get out.”
Tim tactfully makes no comments on that.
“And Dick?” He asks, when Jason isn’t forthcoming.
Jason takes a second to think, and grins.
“Just to see his face? I’d tell Dick it was Fight Club *.”
Tim huffs a laugh. “The one where guys punch each other in the face because their daddy issues?” He shakes his head. “Yeah, that tracks.”
Jason points a finger in rebuke. “Shut your mouth. It’s a classic with a bad reputation because men took it as instructions rather than a warning.”
“You’ve actually read it?” Tim’s eyes are wide and Jason can see him holding back laughter.
‘It’s a good fuckin’ book,” he says, scrubbing the cloth against the gun barrel for emphasis. “It’s a love story that no one calls a love story. It’s about boys raised without fathers. It’s about capitalism in decay and how the patriarchy kills men. It has a recipe for napalm and instructions on how to build a bomb.”
Tim snorts in derision. “All things you’ve clearly taken to heart.”
Jason scowls.
“‘A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection,’’ he lists. “‘I don’t want to die without a few scars.’ ‘I used to be such a nice person.’” He trails off, frowning down at his hands. Maybe self-improvement isn’t the answer, his mind provides. “It’s a good book.” Maybe self-destruction is the answer.
He glances over, and Tim has his head all tilted like a proper fucking Robin, and a crease between his eyebrows in thought.
“Huh,” is all he says.
“What?”
“Nothing. I mean—It’s just—”
“I’m a giant fuckin’ nerd, I know.” Jason leans his head back a bit onto the wall.
“Well, yeah,” Tim qualifies, and Jason is surprised by his own laugh. “But you’re also, different, I guess. Than I thought you were.” At Jason’s pointed look, he hurries to add, “Than everyone told me you were. Bruce never talked about you, but sometimes Dick would tell me stories, and you’re, different, from what he said.”
“Yeah, well. I’m different from who he knew.” He sets the barrel aside and rests his elbows on his knees. He’s been done with cleaning for a while, but he’d been caught up. Distracted. “I’m also smarter than they gave me credit for. I talked a lot, and I talk like this, ” he says, meaning his accent. “Don’t think they ever noticed how much I think, too.”
He re-assembles his guns, fitting together the pieces he's scrubbed and lined up in neat little rows. Tim’s gone back to thinking, or homework, or his case. All he hears for a long, steady moment is the snap of metal fitting into place and the squeak of bats high above.
He’s holstered his last weapon when Tim speaks up again, still facing the computer and only visible in the corner of Jason’s eye. His voice is quiet, but clear in the silence. It’s stilted again, like he’s had to force himself to say it knowing it’s probably a bad idea.
“What would you tell Bruce?”
Jason stills, and then imagines how he must look, and forces himself to keep moving. He grabs his jacket from the bench and shoulders it on. runs a hand through his hair and pretends he can’t feel the difference between the black and white strands. He lets out a long, suffering sigh.
He could always not answer. He could always tell Tim to fuck off. He could always leave, go back to his place, act like he never heard the question, that this conversation never happened.
“On a good day?” He says instead. “ The Changeling Sea*. ”
He turns his head just enough that he can see Tim looking at him again. “The main girl—Peri—she’s angry. She does a fucked up thing and people get hurt from it. She has to—she has to learn to forgive her mom for caring for something that took everything from her. From both of them.”
It’s about love. It’s about grief.
It’s about falling in love with the sea. Twice. But that’s neither here nor there.
It also reads like a fairytale, and some part of Jason remembers when Bruce used to read those to him, and when he got older and he started reading them to Bruce.
Tim says nothing as he leaves, but Jason can feel his gaze on his back, can practically hear him thinking, trying to put the pieces into place.
“The fuck?”
There’s a package sitting on Jason’s sofa that he’s certain wasn’t there before.
The leeches had come to visit him after patrol that night. They sat on his couch and messed up his things and tried to walk past the entrance in their shoes . Jason had grumbled and snapped and told them to fuck off and then turned on the stove to heat up the stew he’d made earlier that day. Gallina pinta was usually made with oxtail, but Jason had forgone its addition for a reason that was decidedly not four foot even and holding a very sharp sword.
He’d served them with the excuse that he didn’t want their grubby hands all over his kitchen. They’d eaten with fresh bread at a too small table, half the dining chairs substituted with folding ones. Jason had stained own bowl red with sriracha to fend off hands trying to steal his food and only got a few strange looks for taking bites of green pepper in between spoonfuls.
And then, even after they’d eaten, he couldn’t seem to get them to leave. Steph, Duke, Dick, and Cass had crowded onto his couch, Tim and Damian relegated to the floor to elbow each other in peace. Steph tried to kick Duke down, too, but he’d raised his eyebrows and asked her, “February is who’s month*?”
She’d narrowed her eyes, but let him stay.
Jason had gotten the armchair, a beat up recliner the perfect distance away from his lamp and a few feet away from the rest of them. They turned something on the TV and he stayed in the living room to make sure they didn’t burn the place down, pretending not to listen in to their conversation and making progress on the book in his lap. He’d shoved them out the door after so he could sleep, Dick taking a tupperware of leftover soup that Jason knew would be the only homemade food he ate that week, a chorus of ‘Bye’s echoing out into the hallway that shouldn’t have made Jason feel something, but did.
And then the door is closed. His apartment is quiet and empty, and Jason lets out a sigh before he catches sight of the paper-wrapped package sitting on his kitchen table.
He’s wary. Of course he’s wary. He’s only gotten this far by being as tedious and paranoid as humanly possible, and then a little more. Of course he’s wary of strange unmarked packages that appear on his table.
But the Bats had just been here, and he’s fairly certain they don’t want to kill him, at least anymore, and he has the sneaking suspicion that this might be a package from them.
He creeps closer to it, pulls out a chair, and sits looking at it for a second under the yellow kitchen light. He unwraps it slowly, paper shreds peeling away to reveal a blue cover, a gilded woman draped across a rose colored moon.*
His fingers still brushing across her two faces. His eyebrows crease with an emotion he can’t name.
He takes the book to his shelves, slotting it carefully into the ‘M’s. He goes to bed, a warm weight in his chest, and he dreams of easy nights just after all the cold, difficult ones, of the softest blankets he’s ever felt before, and a voice lulling him to sleep.
And maybe the next day, he spots Steph in the cave in civvies, a black T-shirt with a man's face ironed on and the words, “Team Jacob” in neon pink.
And maybe the next time he visits Alfred, he sees a stack of middle grade fantasy strewn on the island countertop, and something orange with a suspicious red house on the cover.
And maybe, after the next stakeout, sore and aching, Dick puts on a movie in Jason’s living room and all of a sudden, Tyler gets me a job as a waiter, after that Tyler’s pushing a gun in my mouth and saying, the first step to eternal life is you have to die.
And maybe, one night, The Bat is there cleaning up after a case with all his little hatchlings, and Tim asks him how he knew the rogues would move today. Maybe he looks down at him with a slight smile and says, “What a dull place the world would be,” and Jason doesn’t need to hear the last part to know how it ends.
If all the mysteries in it were solved, his mind supplies for him. What a dull place, indeed.