Chapter Text
Twenty minutes later, the bat signal is shining with a makeshift, old school Robin R, displayed in the sky. It’s positioned oddly, off to the side in a rush job, but it still dwarfs the bat symbol. It’s unrealistic to say the least.
There'd be less dead kids if Bruce ever put them first.
The team is scattered about. Waiting. Jason scoffs, looking at the sky. Yeah. Secret third part of the plan alright.
Jason finds him somewhere Bruce wouldn’t think to look, because he doesn’t fully register that he avoids it. Jason had no idea he’d be here, but in retrospect, it’s genius for a kid hiding from the Batman.
It’s just too bad his spot is in Crime Alley. Jason’s Crime Alley.
The theater has been shut down for years, out of commission and slowly consumed as Crime Alley spread outward. It grows and recedes every few years, spreading its influence before being beaten back by whoever is running the city. Right now, it’s gaining ground. People are suffering. Such is the way of things in Gotham. Batman’s fault.
Bruce’s third part of the plan is in full display, and man is it bad. Dick’s original robin symbol, shining up in the sky next to batman’s own. It shouldn’t have worked. But Jason looks over the street to find a child leaning against one of the old theater supports, looking up at the sky with an expression so blank it could rival a sheet of paper.
There’s no costume, only a slightly oversized t-shirt and jeans. They’re dusty, crinkled, likely having been shoved in some stash that’s been around for well-over a decade. He looks young, not quite eight, but definitely younger than when Jason had met him.
The kid, already an adept actor, plays casual. Only his stance is wrong, it’s stiff, and his shoulders, despite hanging low— are locked in place. And on top of all of that, he keeps throwing careful glances at the alleys and rooftops. He’s on edge, rightfully so.
There’s no point in stealth, every bird is trained to recognize a bat.
It’s at this point that he should call in, tell O and B that he’s found their bird. He shrugs away the impulse. What they don’t know yet won’t kill them.
Jason flicks off his domino, stashing it in his pocket. Dick has for sure seen him making his way down the street, but it’s too dark to make out his face. The domino will only set the little shit off.
He keeps his hands out of his pockets, movements purposeful, predictable, from outside eyes. He keeps his posture relaxed, he can’t do anything about his towering height, but Dick should be more than used to dealing with guys bigger than him.
Dick doesn’t move from his post as Jason draws nearer, but he can feel the stare tracking him. Searching for a threat.
Enough is enough, and Jason pulls to a slow stop. More than arms reach away from the teen. Dick’s shoulders tense by a fraction, and he drops the unaware act to stare back.
“Hey. Dickhead,” Jason drawls, enunciating the Alley growl. Downplaying it would only set off more alarm bells in the teen’s head. Gothamites don’t come into the Alley if they can’t help it.
The kid tilts his head, pushing black hair out of his face. His eyes flicking up to dissect Jason. It’s odd, to see him like this. Jason has seen pictures, but the real thing puts him off center. Especially when it’s nothing like he’s heard stories of.
People love to say that Dick was always born for the stage. He’s loud, vibrant, taking up as much space as he possibly can. A shining star, a light in the dark. That’s how he’s come to know his ‘brother’. The man is insufferable, frankly.
What’s worse is that it’s an act. Don’t get him wrong, present-day Dick is still very loud and vibrant, but when it comes to space, he plays it up when there’s someone to smile for. But when there’s not, that space shrinks. And golden boy Dick Grayson sinks into the background.
This is supposed to be the time when it wasn’t an act. When he really was as bubbly and smiley as he made himself out to be. Before he ran away from Bruce and made anger his defining personality trait.
It’s not the case. The teen he’s staring at is cold and silent. He looks gaunt, lips barely held back from a proper scowl. He’s small, despite how he draws himself to full height under Jason’s scrutiny. His face is tightly wound, something an experienced actor trying to play casual should have covered up.
His breathing is tight, even, rhythmic. Easy to tell the kid is desperately trying to regulate it.
Jason was never on Bruce’s level of detective work, but he’s still Bruce trained. The kid is poised to throw a punch at a moment’s notice. And based off the way his hand lingers by his pocket, he probably has something to throw at him first.
“You’ve got a few people worried.” Jason very obviously looks to the sky, at the still beaming signals on the clouds.
Dick’s gaze moves up, before snapping back down. He doesn’t look more relaxed. And for a kid world-renown for never being able to shut up, he’s doing a remarkable job of it now.
“I’m not here to fight, but we can if you really want. I just want to talk, boy blunder.”
The blank expression returns in full force, and Dick folds his arms. “We don’t have anything to talk about. Leave me alone.” When he finally speaks, it too rubs him wrong. The teen’s voice mimics the Alley. The words themselves are drawn out and quiet, an edge carved into every syllable, as if someone had run his voice through a sharpener beforehand. And at the end of the sentence, it pitches up into somewhat of a plea. He probably has no idea he’s doing it.
It’s such a harsh contrast to the casual act that it leaves Jason a bit pissed off. Evidently, the fucker wasn’t always a great actor.
“The name Jason Todd ring a bell?”
Zero recognition in the teen’s eyes.
“That makes my job harder,” Jason grunts, pulling out a cigarette. He doesn’t miss the way the kid’s eyes laser focus on the hand movement. “But don’t say I’m not trying. I know your dad, he’s a loser. Got a whole bunch of us out here looking for you.”
“You’ve got the wrong guy.” Dick’s eyes scan the roofline again, lingering on the signals still alight on the clouds. Emotion flickering in his eyes before it’s snuffed out again.
Jason lights the cigarette, taking in a draft. At least the shorter isn’t running yet. “Is that right? You’re not Dick Grayson? The idiot who got hit with a spell earlier this evening? Turned his twenty six year old ass back to a toddler?”
“Get lost,” is all Dick replies with before he pushes off the post, beginning to make his way down the street.
Jason trails after him. “The old man’s taken in a fuck ton of people these past few years, which explains the two idiots hovering when you woke up.”
Dick keeps walking.
Jason’s getting pissed off. “You were nine when Zucco put an end to the Grayson family business. Bruce Wayne picked you up, let you leap off rooftops with him.”
“Fuck off.”
“You fu—” Jason grits his teeth, fine.
“Your mom called you her robin. That’s where you got it from.”
The moment the words leave his mouth, Dick’s footsteps come to a grinding halt. Fingers twitching, he turns on his heel. Blank expression replaced by something rancid. His breathing is short, his eyes wide and wild. “Who told you that?”
Jason doesn’t dare step forward. Getting his attention is one thing, holding it is another. “Bet that stash you found is pretty dusty. Untouched for a decade. City’s changed too, there’s a lot more screens and lights than you’d remember.”
He jerks his chin, eyes finding the electronic billboards that have sprung up on Gotham’s skyline. They’ve always looked disgusting. “Face it, if you want answers, your best shot is standing right here.”
“Who told you,” Dick says again, taking a step forward, and despite the obvious threat in his voice, he still looks small.
Jason forces his brain’s raving thoughts into a slow simmer. People like to call him angry. But they don’t get it. It’s not just anger. It’s like someone tore into his brain and turned everything up to eleven. It’s a constant adrenaline rush, the crash, and the silence afterward. And then it cycles again. And again.
His mind is held together with nothing but pure grit. There’s no fucking way he’s landing himself in another coffin. Not ever.
He reaches up to brush his comm. Maybe it’s time to clue in Barbie. Before the kid bolts. Before Jason says something he can’t take back. “You did.”
Dick looks around again, clearly biting back a flurry of retorts. And assessing his next exit strategy. Jason can’t help but wonder how he’d do it.
“You know I’m right. Can we meet up with daddy bats, or will you try to break my nose too?”
Dick stares at him, looking absolutely furious. There’s a viciousness there that strikes Jason as familiar. Something that warped his brother’s face every time he raised his voice at Bruce. It’s less prevalent in the modern-day edition of Dick Grayson, but Jason knows it’s still there. Waiting.
“I don’t know you.” Dick snaps.
“Obviously—”
“Oh, just give him your comm, Jay.” Barbara interjects, voice short and clipped and full of disapproval. Jason grunts, obliging. He’s sick of this conversation anyway.
He plucks out the comm from his ear and holds it out. He sighs. “But you know Barbara.”
Dick doesn’t move to grab it.
“It’s just a comm. Take it. You don’t even have to put it in your ear, just close enough to hear the speaker.”
The kid eyes it like it’s a bomb. His eyes narrow, sizing up the offer again. “It’s tiny.”
“Future tech does that.”
After another beat, Dick takes it, holding it up to his ear.
Jason hangs back. Only able to see Dick’s end of the conversation. There’s nothing major, he still keeps his eyes moving, assessing threat levels. The kid shifts on his feet one too many times and his breathing is so stagnant Jason half thinks he’ll fall over from Hypoxia. But Dick’s anger does settle, Jason knows that much. The hackles he’s raised flatten, and he even says a few quiet words of his own.
He runs a small hand over his face, the tension easing by the smallest amount. Whatever Babs is doing, she’s succeeding. That’s proven to be something expected from her. At least someone in the Bat’s circle isn’t a total fuckup.
Eventually, Dick takes out the comm, offering it back to him. “Fine.”
Jason snatches it. “Finally, maybe we can get this fixed before you’re stuck younger than me for good. C’mon, I’ll give you a ride to the manor.”
“The manor?”
“Yeah. I hear Zatanna will be on the way soon to get this shit fixed.”
“I’m not going.”
“What.”
“I’m not going back. Bruce has made it plenty clear I’m not wanted.”
“What? Hell, is this how it felt talking to me? Come on. Five minutes won’t kill you. Especially if it gets you back to normal. I don’t care for your drama.”
Dick, Robin, assesses him. Sizing him up. “He kicked me out. Not happening."
“No, you left because of your own teenage bullshit.”
“No. He told me I was done. He didn’t want me back. He didn’t want another partner.”
“Your drama can wait until this gets fixed. But I love the Bruce hating sentiment. Wish you’d have kept that up.”
Dick just glares. Uncompromising. Fine. Jason can play that game too. “Fine. Stay, see how that works out for you.”
For a moment, Dick’s expression twists. A flicker of doubt breaking through his defenses.
Jason pounces on the weakness. “Hope you have fun in a city that outgrew you ten years ago. Your friends are dead, married, or doing better things. But you? No, you decided that their leader and teammate is better off being a twelve-year old again.”
“That’s not fucking fair.”
“Five minutes, Boy Blunder.” Jason restates.
And Dick Grayson actually looks taken aback, blank slate breaking into pained fury again. He balls up his fists, and takes a deep breath. “Five minutes?” It sounds genuine, testing. Like maybe Jason is getting another peek at the kid beneath the layers of Bat-training.
“Need I say it again.”
“Fine.”
The bitter resignation spells pure victory for him.
Jason’s grim smile grows. “Follow me. We’ll take my bike.”
Dick risks another glance at the sky, before settling on Jason with a note of finality. “If you still have a bike.”
“No one here is going to lay a single finger on it.” He replies with a self-satisfied grin. “Not if they still want fingers.”
The joke doesn’t land as a joke. It’s expected, but still disappointing. No one ever gets it’s a joke.
It’s minutes before Dick braves another question. “So, what’s with the get up?”
He’s slipped on the domino again, a sharp contrast to the leather jacket while complimenting the painted red bat on his chest. “I have an edgy anti-hero thing going on.”
“Code name?”
“Hood.”
“Just Hood?”
“Yeah.”
“Dumb name.” It’s once again too sharp for his demeanor. But it’s an obvious attempt at a joke, whether or not he actually thinks it’ll buy him some leniency is to be debated.
Jason entertains it, better to let the brat think he’s in control of something. “More original than your stage name. Oh look, he’s in the air, must be a bird.”
Dick scoffs, “You’re not even wearing a hood, I at least fly.”
“Thus, why mine is more original.”
There’s a snort, and a pointed, “You’re not funny.”
“You laughed. I’m hilarious.”
“You can’t just pull a name from nowhere. It’s part of the job description to make it mean something.”
“I did. Consider it spoilers. Plus– you think there’s meaning behind a name like Batman? What about Hawkman, Kid Flash, Wonder Girl?”
“They’re fine! They get to the point, leagues above Hood.”
“They should’ve called you fuckin’ Batboy.”
Dick sighs, sounding utterly exhausted. “They tried.”
Jason only snorts in reply.
The cave is silent as the two roll in, engines voraciously lapping up the silence before they extinguish, being consumed once more as Jason parks it on the main platform. Jason clicks off his helmet, setting it on his handlebars before looking back at the kid.
Dick is staring at him, as if waiting for permission, before he jerks and removes his own. He quickly looks to the cave, freezing once more.
Jason knows the feeling. The cave’s changed. True to the name, it really was just a cave back in the day. By Jason’s time it had picked up a few upgrades, but not nearly comparable to these standards. For starters, Bruce had finally put some fucking flooring down instead of using the cold, hard stone.
The lights glow blue, sterile and all-encompassing, there aren’t any shadows to hide in anymore. Gear lines every surface available, for Batman, Robin, Signal, there’s stuff everywhere. Alfred used to chide them on the daily for stuff like that. Apparently, he’s given up entirely on that.
Jason can’t blame him. The bats are insufferable. Even his hard-assery couldn’t come out the other side fully intact. The trapeze set-up is gone. Something that had been a leftover from Dick’s time, even when Jason had become Robin. He’s always wondered what convinced Bruce to finally get rid of it.
Dick’s eyes linger there before drifting to the growing line of suits decorating the perimeter. Truth to be told, it’s fucking unnerving. Jason feels like he’s being watched every time he sees them. Judged by every iteration of Bruce’s operation that’s ever existed.
Maybe Dick feels the same, because he quickly looks away.
Up by the batcomputer. A group shifts, backlit by the screen’s intense light. Barbara is sitting beside the computer, rolling to the front of the group beside Alfred. Damian lingers beside the man’s side, arms crossed. He’s sporting a knee brace, and likely an ankle one too. No fracture then, just a few dramatic sprains. Alfred must have blackmailed him into wearing the brace. Tim stands to the side, drying his hair with a towel. Cassandra stands back, assessing, like always. Their voices are too low to hear, if they’re even speaking.
The kid finds them, expression still eerily blank.
The Dick Grayson he knows would at least have the decency to nod. Or to look like anything other than a ghost without a house to haunt.
“Babs, Alf. The gremlins.” Jason gestures with a hand.
No reply.
Sure. Because that was apparently the norm a decade ago.
It takes another breath and half for Dick to open his mouth. “The smallest. I’ve met him.”
“Yeah,” he says, “that’s Damian.”
Dick’s tone is unreadable as he explains. “He called himself Robin.”
There it is. Round and round they go again. Funny how cyclical it all is.
Apparently, the silence is too much for the rigid kid, because he speaks again. “Where’s Zatanna?”
“How should I know?”
Dick’s fingers dig into his folded arms. “Pf, five minutes my ass.”
The taller just shrugs.
Presumably under Barbara’s advice, the group doesn’t step closer. But they’re still watching, lingering. The silence grows, stretching and digging into his joints. It aches, worse than the stupid stab wound.
Dick’s jaw sets, and in another moment he’s planting a foot forward, breathing slowing to that even pace he’d set earlier. He slips into the persona as he walks, shoulders loosening, hands relaxing. Like a fish to water, it seems like the little actor thinks faking will get him out of this.
It’s not enough to watch, Jason finds himself following after, fully intending to watch the fallout.
Tim’s nose is wrapped, he’s doing a lousy job of not looking pissed. Damian is standing ramrod straight, chin held high despite his eyes finding the floor exceptionally interesting. Barbara has a hand resting against her mouth, expression tight and controlled. She’s known Dick for forever. She might be on Cass’s level at reading him in this situation just because of that.
Cass herself comes into the tense situation with nothing but openness. Jason’s not used to seeing her like this. With him, she’s nothing but sharp around the edges and outright scary. She’s less than understanding regarding his methods. But standing in front of the little Boy Wonder, she smiles. Likewise, Alfred is standing with his arms at his sides, sporting a warm demeanor.
Jason doesn’t quite make it up to the platform, opting to hang out a distance away. He doesn’t quite intend on being part of the introduction crew, just an audience member.
The gazes are piercing, riveted on the younger’s head like he’s part of a freak show. “So.” Dick snaps, likely sharper than he had intended. Once again contrasting his demeanor.
Damian jerks his head like he’s waving off a fly.
“I hear you’re the next editions.” His eyes scour them all, Alfred and Barbara receiving much the same treatment. It’s evident Dick is treating this as unfamiliar territory, despite Barbara being the one to finally convince him. She purses her lips, an age old tell that she’s holding back something. A judgement, opinion, pity, it could be anything.
Dick would know that.
The group eyes one another.
“Yes,” Damian answers, short and ill-tempered.
Even Jason feels the weight of Dick’s stare. “Cute.”
The response is a silent sigh from Barbara, a furrowed brow from Damian and a scowl from Tim. To his surprise, Cass steps forward, humming as she begins to sign. A split-second later she pauses, tilting her head to assess Dick.
She must realize he has no idea what she’s saying, because she hums again, fingertips brushing against her lips as if considering something. Then she speaks. “My name is Cassandra. You can call me Cassie.” She says, quiet. Intentionally disarming, but not ingenuine. She splays her hands in a show of peace. “You’re hurt. Let us help.”
Dick tilts his head slightly, “Not in the slightest. Hood over there though? Definitely was shot.”
Cass rolls her eyes. “Old news.”
That stings. Okay. His jaw tightens. Even when she’s not holding a knife, she knows exactly how to place a verbal barb.
“You’re hurt. Angry. Overwhelmed.” She taps her fingers as if recounting a list, and she looks to stare at him again. Her expression morphs, flickering into genuine confusion. “And scared. What are you afraid of?”
She tilts her head, the intensity of her stare only growing. Like Dick is a mildly interesting puzzle. It’s exactly how Tim approaches his collectible card games. Or Barbara when she’s dissecting doctor’s handwriting levels of code.
The teen’s mask flickers, before it takes a new form, a grating glare. “Bold, much? Jesus. Let’s just get something straight, you all may think you know me, but you fucking don’t. None of you do.”
Barbara tries, before being cut off. “Dick, please—”
“—I’m not lying," Cass insists. “You’re scared, big brother. That’s alright. Bruce is scared too.”
“Doesn’t look very scared to me,” Tim mutters, betrayal heavy in his voice. Cass looks over, frowns, and sets a light hand on his shoulder. An unheard conversation must pass between them because Tim swallows, shoulders tightening. “Sorry. I’m Tim.” It’s said with the enjoyment level of holding a slug.
His wrapped nose is already starting to bruise. Practically glowing on his pale skin. Jason blinks away the sight. He remembers more of them, backlighting the blood smeared over his face. The teen is older now, not even a teen anymore. The years don’t wipe away the sight of it from his mind’s eye.
Cass nods in satisfaction. “I didn’t know, then. Now I do.”
“I am Damian Wayne Al Ghul.” The youngest steps forward, having had his fill of shutting up.
Jason watches Dick’s head snap over, shoulders forgetting to act casual as they tense at his sides. Similarly, Damian tenses under his brother’s unfamiliar scrutiny.
“Al Ghul, huh?”
“Talia and Bruce,” Tim supplies.
Dick lets out an ugly snort, “Figures. Guess he wanted family after all, huh?”
Alfred clears his throat, stepping forward with arms outstretched. “Master Dick.. it’s good to see you home, my boy.”
At the phrase, Dick switches to the older man, he opens his mouth, before clamping it shut again. He tries again, this time settling for an off balance, “Alfie.” A beat. “I— yeah.”
He accepts the hug, quick and stiff, before stepping back too fast. He folds his arms again. Defensive. Shifting from foot to foot.
Before anyone can push through the tension, the sound of engines push through it, drawing the group’s gaze.
The Bat-mobile rumbles in, hopelessly sleek and modern. Just like the cave.
Cass hums, and Jason looks over to see her hovering a hand over Dick’s shoulder. Not touching him, but close enough. “Running won’t help, Zatanna will be here soon.”
Jason doesn’t catch Dick’s expression, he’s far too busy watching the door open, and seeing Batman step out. He peels off the cowl in a fluid motion, and unlike Dick, his expression is unwound. He looks older, every wrinkle emphasized by the shock lining his face. His icy blue eyes take in the room, the air, before he steps forward. His cape sweeps out behind him. Looking much more bat than man even without the cowl. Jason knows Dick has always seen the man as larger than life. Now, he must seem even larger. His armor has expanded, layered, and grown to accommodate his hulking frame. His shoulders have broadened, his shadow grows longer by every passing day. Jason remembers when Batman was just a dumbass in spandex. But the mission never stops evolving.
“Son,” Bruce breathes, as if seeing a ghost. His hands clutch tightly at his cowl, gauntlets shifting over the fabric.
Dick’s standing at attention, like a spring about to burst. His hands twitch, and when he speaks, his voice is ragged. “Ward.”
The room pauses. Breathing in the tension like a beast of its own. Jason can feel its breath on the back of his neck. It should be satisfying. It’s not.
“No,” Bruce shakes his head vehemently, taking a step forward. Dick matches him by taking a step back. Bruce presses anyway, “No. I— you shouldn’t have run.”
It’s just like Bruce. The goddamn Batman, to open his mouth.
Dick twitches. Jaw unhinged in half-disbelief. His face flickers off from blank and reveals something jagged.
His chest fills and flattens in rapid succession, shoulders sporting a light tremble. “You’re kidding. Holy fucking shit you’re joking. That’s just like you—“ His voice cracks, “You haven’t changed one fucking bit!”
The pot is already stirring. And by god, is it only going to continue. Dick Grayson has never been one to pass up the spotlight, even when he’s as jagged as he is right now. His cheeks burn red.
“Ten years,” Dick spits, running a hand through his hair. “Ten years! You’ve got a whole new family and you’re exactly the same?”
Bruce blinks, as if rebooting his entire line of thought. The cowl grip tightens even further. “We were worried about you. I, was worried about you.”
“No. You’re pissed because I didn’t fall in line. I didn’t do exactly what you would’ve done.” He gestures sharply. “So what’s it going to be this time, Bruce? You going to fire me? Again?”
“Son—“
“—Kick me out, again? Maybe not talk to me for a year?
Bruce winces, an almost invisible movement.
The teen’s shoulders snap up and down with his breathing. “Don’t you dare call me your son.” The movement gets faster, erratic.
“Dick,” Bruce tries.
A choked exhale, and rising shoulders. “Some fucking father you are.” Accusation breaks his voice. The anger rapidly easing out of him as his posture wilts. It’s not like him to back down. Jason can’t see the action as anything but.
“You left.” His final words come quietly, with an edge of finality. There’s no room for discussion here, it simple is.
The silence falls back down, the curtain on this conversation. Bruce will set set his jaw, sweep his cape back around, and walk away. A dramatic exit. Because that’s what he always did when someone argued. At least, that’s what happened until Ethiopia.
Instead, Bruce sets the cowl on his desk. “Oh, Chum,” he murmurs, “do you want a hug?”
Dick’s breath hitches, and it’s plain he had been expecting to exit stage left. Run back out into Gotham’s sprawl, evade the bats until one could manage to tackle him to the ground. “What?”
“Do you want a hug?” Bruce repeats, taking the opportunity to step forward again. This time, Dick doesn’t step away, he stays frozen. Lips parted in what could be a half-protest.
Cass was right. The hurt hangs over him like a dark cloud. How Jason hadn’t seen it before, he doesn’t know.
A beat.
Two.
And with fists still balled at his sides, Dick gives a single, jerky nod. Bruce closes the distance in record time, throwing his cape around the teen as he pulls in into his chest.
Jason supposes that even stupid, thick-skulled Bruce Wayne can get something right from time to time.