Chapter Text
When the guy storms into the bookstore and trains his gun at the only customer currently inside, Jason barely suppresses a sigh. Really, it’s just so Gotham that someone would sooner demand money from the customer instead of the bookstore cashier. And they would be correct, too, to assume a hole-in-the-wall kind-of-secondhand-sell-and-buy barely-keeping-updated-with current-bestsellers bookstore isn't exactly swimming with money. Though, maybe it has something more to do with the fact the customer is, apparently, a Wayne.
Jason doesn't keep up with their city billionaire’s peanut gallery of kids, but he tunes in to the news enough to know that their father isn't stingy with their allowance. The… extravagant gifts that the media caught wind of is probably not half of what Bruce Wayne supplies them in private.
But anyway. The Wayne kid—more a young man, really, Jason estimates a bit older than himself—is raising placating hands at the man. He doesn't look panicked, exactly. You kinda got to stop panicking over threats on your life after the third time it happened in this city if you want to keep some funny semblance of sanity. But Jason should probably help him out.
Jason don’t have a lot to his name, he can freely admit. Not even a last name, least of all a middle one, to introduce himself with. But he does know he has this: the inexplicable thing ingrained in his muscles, which has him calculating the distance from his spot behind the cash register to where the other two are locked in a standoff near the aisles. The reflexive decision that has him planting a palm on the counter, an anchor so he can soundlessly jump over it. And he executes the move nearly without a thought: don’t let your feet touch the ground, slam to the wannabe-mugger’s back, wrestle the gun away, and knock ‘em unconscious.
Jason tilts the guy’s face to the side. Yep, definitely out cold for a while. The Wayne kid probably has a phone, right? He should call the police, if he hasn't. Jason has an old phone that Nerissa gave him as his first salary, but he doesn't really want to waste his bare minimum cell data for a police call. The shop’s landline has been cut for a few months now.
Before he can tell Wayne this, the silence is broken by a whispered, “Jason?”
Jason looks up. Wayne is looking at him, pale and wide-eyed. Huh, maybe he’s more rattled by the situation than he initially looked like. Do rich people usually walk around with bodyguards and never experience Gotham-style broad daylight robbery? But also, rich people usually never read the nametags of service workers to acknowledge them by name, no? Maybe this one is just a weirdo.
“You alright?” Jason asks. He stands up from his position pinning the man to the floor, when their criminal doesn't seem like he's about to suddenly move and do something drastic. “Should probably call the police. Unless you want me to do it?” Jason really rather doesn't.
Wayne just rapidly blinks where he stands. Jason is about to cut his losses and grab his phone from the non-response. But then Wayne seems to snap back to reality. “Uh, I can do it,” he says. He still looks a little dazed, staring at Jason. “I have… contacts. Probably could get someone here quicker.”
Jason nods. “You go do that. I’ll keep an eye on ‘im.” He nudges the guy with the tip of his shoe.
“It’s fine,” Wayne says, as he… crouches down and produces a zip tie from somewhere to keep the robber’s hands bound behind him. Huh. He has his phone out soon enough, rapidly typing something before he pockets it again. He grabs the gun which Jason knocked a little to the side and also pockets it. Jason is starting to think Wayne would've been perfectly capable to handle the situation on his own without Jason’s interference.
Wayne hauls the guy up with ease, which, again, just huh. “I’ll just… bring him outside and wait for him to get picked up.” He looks at Jason with something almost desperate. “I’ll come back inside and buy something after that, promise.”
Jason shrugs. “Sure.” He wouldn't grudge him if he no longer wants to buy anything after this, anyway. “I’ll go back to my spot. Let me know if you need anything.” He highly doubts it.
Wayne nods jerkily. He drags his unconscious cargo out of the shop. Jason goes back behind the counter, the proper way instead of jumping over this time. He’s not sure what type of “contacts” Wayne was talking about, but sure enough, it only takes about ten minutes before a patrol car stops out front. Must be some pretty close connection they have, from the way Wayne only speaks briefly with the officer, passing the weapon and the criminal, before the patrol car leaves again. Or, higher chance is just that the GCPD has so much more crimes to attend to than to linger long on a failed robbery attempt.
True to his promise, Wayne reenters the shop. He shoots Jason a smile before he goes back to browsing the aisles.
Something has changed, though. Wayne is subtle about it, and Jason is stubbornly focusing on his inventory work, but he can feel the glances Wayne keeps sending his way. It gets on Jason’s nerves when a customer clearly wants to ask something but they have to build up the courage to do it. However, he’s long since learned that politely asking “do you need any help?” would, well, be even less helpful.
So, he ignores the glances and focuses on trying to figure out if this one copy of To Kill A Mockingbird was borrowed and hasn't been returned by the last person on the card or if it’s stolen from their shelves. Urgh.
He’s distracted from cussing out a Mr. Humbert for neglecting to mention that one of his “well-loved private collection” books he sold here has a misprinted page when Wayne sets down some books near the register. “A moment,” Jason mumbles just loud enough, as he barely resisted slamming the offending book back to its To Be Organized pile.
“Checking out?” Jason asks automatically.
“Like I said I would,” Wayne says with another smile. “Thanks for the save back there, by the way.”
“Eh, just another day’s work around here.” Nerissa is a crazy fucker who decided she wants one of her incomes to be coming from opening a bookstore way too close to Crime Alley. She’s also the crazy fucker who decided Jason with-nothing-else-to-his-name was a perfectly acceptable one-man employee to handle everything about this little nook of hers, so he can't complain much about her eccentricity. He has a bare-bones room upstairs, enough money for three meals a day, running water and somewhat-consistent heat during the winter. And a job to spend all his free time with and books to read when he got bored. The least he could do is make sure her potential customers don’t lose their money—or their lives—before they can spend it here.
His mood is lifted a little when he sees what Wayne is buying. Funny, those are some of his favorite books. It’s kind of an unspoken rule, to not comment on what the customers are checking out, but it also isn't illegal for Jason to suppress a grin while he inputs them into the system.
“These were some of my younger brother’s favorite books,” Wayne starts the conversation, after all. Jason hums in vague interest, as he tries to work the shop’s old and lagging laptop to calculate and print the receipt. “Figured it’s better late than never for me to start reading them.”
Jason raises a judgmental eyebrow at him before he can stop himself. “One of these is Austen.”
Wayne’s smile twitches. “Nerd books for nerds.”
Jason scoffs, since Wayne hasn't shown himself to be one of them rich folks who would throw a fit over someone below their status acting too casual. In any case, it’s kinda his fault for even visiting Nerry’s Dilapidated Bookstore—the “dilapidated” is not actually in its title, just something Jason added in his head on account of, well, its actual piss poor condition—in the first place, when he can definitely access better shops out there. “Well, clearly your nerd brother has better tastes than you, Wayne.”
This time, Wayne’s budding grin falters. He picks it up again quickly enough. “Wayne is my father,” he replies solemnly, offsetting his playful expression. Jason rolls his eyes. “I’m Dick Grayson. But just Dick is fine.”
“Well, Dick,” Jason triumphantly huffs when the computer manages to display the payment total, finally, with great difficulty, “if you do end up reading these books,” he pauses to look the guy up and down, who, frankly, looks like someone who can't stay still for fifteen minutes at a time, “you’d see that your brother and I are right.”
Something fragile takes place in Dick Grayson’s face at that. Jason is not too stupid to miss the past tense on Dick’s initial statement about his brother. However, if he just inserted himself as someone who also loves these books, surely he can avoid having to brush against that can of worms within a ten foot pole.
All Dick says is, “Do you accept cash?” And instead of putting the cash on the table after Jason’s nod, he holds it out and waits for Jason to accept it.
Their hands brush as the bills pass between them. Dick’s hand is rougher than Jason expected, for a billionaire’s kid. Maybe he has some extreme hobbies.
“Thanks for purchasing at Nerry’s,” Jason drones as he hands the books over. Dick waffles in place after he accepts them. He looks like he’s going to say something, so Jason waits. It’s not like they have a line waiting behind him.
Dick clutches the books against his chest. “Would you mind if—” He starts over. “When I read these books, can I come back here to just, I don’t know, discuss it with you?”
Jason looks at him. He’s not sure if he wants to be a replacement for Dick Grayson’s brother that he clearly has hang-ups about. But Dick looks… he looks utterly miserable, for someone who is essentially asking to form a two-person bookclub. Over the books Jason already knows he loves.
“Sure,” Jason finds himself saying.
Dick exhales, slow and soft. He gives Jason a tentative smile. Jason wonders if Dick really would never come back again, had Jason said no. He can probably buy Nerissa’s whole operation with some small fraction of what he has in his bank account, nevermind his father’s.
“Thank you,” Dick says, way too heartfelt, before he finally leaves.
It’s long after Dick’s motorcycle has disappeared from view, and after Jason has finished drafting a scathing email addressed to Mr. Humbert, that Jason notices that he’s not wearing his work nametag on his shirt today.