Chapter Text
Wayne Manor was too quiet again. Jason still wasn’t used to silent halls. In Crime Alley, quiet meant trouble. In Wayne Manor, it just meant Dick was sulking somewhere and Bruce was pretending not to notice while polishing a silver cross like it was a family heirloom instead of trauma-management.
There were crosses everywhere. On the walls. On the bookshelves. One under Bruce’s shirt. Jason had found holy water in the guest bathroom. Holy water.
Bruce Wayne being paranoid was one thing. Bruce Wayne being paranoid about vampires was another.
He remembered the first week. Bruce had handed him a wooden stake and said, "This is what kept me alive when I was your age." Jason had turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight of it. "You really think I'm gonna run into vampires?"
"I know you will." Bruce's voice had been flat. Final. "Gotham has more than just muggers and mobsters. There are things that hunt in the dark. Things that killed my parents."
Jason had wanted to ask more. Wanted to know the story, the real story, not the sanitized version in the news. But Bruce's expression had shuttered like a door slamming shut, and Jason learned quickly that you didn't push Bruce Wayne on the subject of vampires.
Jason didn’t get it, not really, but he also wasn’t about to tell a billionaire how to deal with the fact vampires murdered his parents. You didn’t tell adults how to grieve. Even Alfred, the old butler that raised Bruce only ever said “When vampires are involved, master Bruce gets… different.” without clarifying whether he believed in them or was simply humoring a grieving man.
Lately, everything made Bruce “different.” Especially Dick. The tension between them hung over the manor like humidity before a storm. Dick had gotten tired of being told who to be, what to wear, how to fight, when to sleep, what monsters to avoid. So he chose his own name, his own costume, and his own patrol territory. Still in Gotham, but not under Bruce’s wing anymore. Not under Bruce’s rules. Bruce refused to let him leave the city and go away from his protection against dark creatures and Dick wasn't that ready to leave everything behind him yet.
But still, Bruce… had not taken it well and he was hurt enough that he would not interfere and let Dick distance himself without saying anything, making things even worse because Dick only wanted more liberties, not being abandoned.
Bruce called it independence. Dick called it being pushed away.
And Jason, stuck in the middle of a war he never asked to join, called it confusing.
Jason wasn’t blind, he could feel it : He saw the way Bruce lingered in doorways like he expected Dick to walk through. He saw the way Dick flinched whenever Bruce didn’t stop him from leaving. They were both hurting, both stubborn, and neither willing to take the first step toward fixing it. And now Jason was here, trying to squeeze into a space shaped like someone else.
So Jason never said anything to the man who got him out of the streets and accepted to do the "vampire evasion" training because Bruce clearly needed him to. Stakes, UV lamps, warding symbols, holy water drills… half of it felt ridiculous, but he kept his mouth shut. He promised to not get involved in supernatural threats, whatever that meant. Bruce still acted like vampires would materialize the second Jason stepped outside alone.
And Jason went along with it.
Because refusing meant losing his shot.
He endured the protocols, the footwork, the combat forms, the rules. Bruce said he wasn’t ready, that he was too reckless.
Too angry.
Too emotional.
Too vulnerable.
Jason knew what that meant.
Bruce didn’t trust him.
But Jason wanted to help Gotham, so he still trained. Harder than anyone asked him to. Every morning before dawn, every evening until his knuckles bled. UV lamp evasion drills that left spots in his vision. Stake-throwing practice against dummies that never fought back. Bruce standing in the corner with his arms crossed, watching, always watching, waiting for Jason to prove he wasn't a liability. Last week, Jason had disarmed three training dummies in under a minute.
Bruce's only response? "Again. Faster." Jason did it again. And again. Until his shoulders screamed and his hands shook.
Until his shoulders screamed and the stake slipped in his sweaty grip and embedded itself in the Cave floor two inches from where it should have been. Bruce's silence was worse than any criticism. Just that look, the one that said see? Not ready. Not safe. Not enough.
So Jason worked through the burning in his muscles and the voice in his head that whispered he'd never be good enough. Because he’d lived the hurt and the hunger and the cold corners of this city. He knew what the underbelly felt like. He wanted to be in the field to keep kids like him from dying in alleys like the one he’d grown up in. Coming from the very streets of the dark city, knowing the hurt and violence in the heart of the city from experience, he could not help but feel a pull to try and help where he could.
Even more now that Dick had shed his Robin suit to become Nightwing, leaving a hole in Gotham, a bright Robin-shaped space nobody mentioned anymore and a bigger, quieter hole in Bruce. Jason felt it whenever Bruce looked at the shrine of crosses on his desk or lingered in the training room like he was waiting for someone who wasn’t coming home.
Robin was gone.
But the city still needed saving.
And Jason felt like he could do it. He wanted to do it. But Bruce only patrolled at night, and Jason wasn’t allowed out at night, not with vampires lurking. Not with Bruce’s trauma coiled tight around his ribs. Not when Bruce looked at him and saw the possibility of another grave.
So Jason worked as hard and as diligently as possible to be deemed ready to take on the Robin the suit, he did everything Bruce asked of him, even when it meant “bonding” with his new older brother.
Bruce’s version of bonding was…
“Well,” Jason muttered to himself as he wandered the hallway, “it can’t be worse than being shot at.” But maybe it was. Jason didn’t understand any of the rules here. The manor was too big. Too clean. Too bright. Dick was too loud. Bruce too quiet. Jason didn't know where he fit between the two halves of a broken family. He wanted to belong. He hadn’t admitted that out loud yet.
So when Bruce said, “Spend time with your brother,” Jason did.
Even when Dick’s jaw clenched. Even when Dick’s smiles felt too sharp to be real. Even when Dick looked at Jason and saw the empty space he used to fill.
That afternoon, Dick cornered him in the doorway, arms crossed, posture perfect in a way Jason would’ve killed to pull off just once. Jason felt a pit form in his stomach.
Dick’s eyes flicked over him, assessing. “Bruce wants us to spend time together.”
“I know.” Jason said, swallowing.
“You’re not making it easy.” Jason tensed out of instinct. Maybe that was fair. Maybe he had been avoiding him.
“Sorry,” he muttered, kicking at a thread in the carpet.
Dick blinked, caught off guard. His expression tightened into something unreadable—hurt? resentment? fear? Fear of being replaced. Fear of being forgotten. Fear of losing the one person he spent his whole childhood fighting to impress.
He covered it with a too-bright grin. “You know the Drake Manor? The old place next door?”
It was an old building where no one had lived in years, the owners were the odd Drake couple, a pair of archeologist that collected objects from dig sites to sites before taking them home to add to their collection. It had been some time since they were last back, maybe losing interest in their home to the next exiting discovery. As it was, the manor was forgotten, no one came to clean it or even maintain the garden, going wild next the forest bordering the propriety. Sometimes animals would venture in the place and there must have been a part of the house so broken that they could get inside, because some kids swore they saw a shadow moving in it. It soon became a rumor, the Gotham kids whispered about the "Drake Manor ghost" but none were courageous enough to go up to the creepy home themselves.
Jason frowned. “The haunted one? Yeah, every kid in Gotham talks about it. What about it?”
Dick’s eyes glinted in a way that didn’t match the smile at all. “Tonight. Bet you won’t even get past the gate.”
Jason rolled his eyes, but his pulse ticked up. The hallway felt too big, the ceiling too tall. “I grew up in Crime Alley. I survived muggers, cults, and that one guy who ate pigeons behind the bodega. I can handle an old house but what's in it for me?”
“Oh, I don't know, you seem pretty hesitant for someone who thinks he can step into Robin’s shoes,” Dick said lightly, something sharp glinting behind the words. Jason’s breath stuttered.Dick kept going. “Surely you won’t mind checking the ghost rumors. To prove you are courageous enough.”
Jason absolutely minded.
But he minded Dick’s smug face more.
“Fine,” Jason growled. “I’ll go and you better tell Bruce I'm ready to be Robin.”
He left before Dick could see how much the words stung, he was so annoyed by the older boy that he felt the need to scream. Or hit something. He spun on his heels and stormed down to the Cave. By the time he reached the training room, he was practically vibrating. He yanked on a pair of gloves and went at the punching bag like it had personally offended him.
Who the hell did Dick think he was, talking to him like that? Acting like Jason was a coward. Acting like Jason didn’t belong here. Like he was just some dumb kid from Crime Alley playing dress-up in Bruce Wayne’s house. He wanted to punch Dick’s smug, perfect acrobat face. The slimy bastard clearly couldn’t stand him, enough to send him to some decrepit, maybe-dangerous manor in the middle of the night.
And for what ? Jason wasn't stupid, he knew there were no ghost, maybe a raccoon or a homeless guy that tried to seek shelter in an abandoned building, scaring posh kids that should not have been there. Maybe nothing but dust and bad childhood stories.
Just an old house. But that wasn’t the point. It was never about the house.
It was about Dick pushing him away. Testing him. Punishing him for existing in a space Dick used to fill alone. Jason gritted his teeth and punched again, breath stuttering with each hit. He couldn’t shake the ugly truth buried under all the anger:
No matter how hard he trained
No matter how much he wanted to help this city
No matter how much he tried-
Bruce didn’t trust him.
And Dick didn’t want him here.
All he wanted was to help Gotham and maybe help himself, allow him to believe he could have a second chance at having a family. Jason swallowed hard and hit the bag one last time, knuckles screaming.
“Fine,” he muttered to the empty room, breathless and furious. “I’ll go to the stupid manor. I’ll prove it.”
He’d spent long enough raging in the Cave that by the time he climbed back up to the Manor, it was already dinner. Jason headed straight to the dining room and found Bruce already there, sitting at the head of the table, posture perfect, eyes distant. Alfred moved quietly around him, setting out plates with the kind of precision only long practice could carve. Dick’s chair, of course, was empty.
Jason sat down without a word and kept his eyes on his plate. He didn’t want to eat without Dick, not because Dick deserved it, but because families ate together. Or that’s what he’d always imagined, anyway.
Ten long minutes passed. Bruce sighed, tired in a way that made Jason's chest pinch. His eyes drifted to Dick's empty chair, just for a second, but Jason saw it. The way his jaw tightened. The way his hand curled around his water glass like he was holding onto something he'd already lost.
Alfred moved between them with quiet efficiency, but even he seemed heavier tonight. His usual precision felt more like ritual than routine, like if he stopped moving, something would shatter.
Then Dick finally showed up, not even apologizing for his tardiness. He didn't look at Bruce. Just shot Alfred a brief, guilty look and dropped into his seat with the kind of careless grace that made everything look easy. But his shoulders were tight. His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"You waited for me ?" Dick huffed, and there was something raw underneath the sarcasm, "You shouldn't have, you didn't when replacing me." His eyes cut toward Jason like a blade.
Alfred paused mid-step, his expression carefully neutral in the way that meant he was deeply uncomfortable. Bruce's hands tightened where they were folded, knuckles going from white to bloodless. But he said nothing.
The silence stretched like taffy, sticky and suffocating. Jason could hear his own heartbeat. Could hear the tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. Could hear Dick's breathing, quick and angry and hurt.
Jason’s stomach twisted. “I'm not trying to-”
“Maybe.” For a second, Dick’s mask of confidence flickered. “But you don't need to, Bruce trains you at night now. Like he trained me at night.”
Jason froze. Dick wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was at the table, looking at something only he could see.
Jason pushed himself up. “I’m not trying to take your place.”
Dick finally met his eyes, something bright and brittle in his expression. “Sure feels like you are.”
They stood there in the thick, heavy silence that followed, both of them breathing hard. And Bruce, still saying nothing, sat between them at the head of the table, hands folded, looking older than thirty-one. Older than grief. Older than fear.
Like a man who had already lost too much and was afraid of losing anything more by saying the wrong thing, so he didn’t say anything at all. Dinner fell apart fast after that. Jason forced down two bites of food before it turned to ash in his mouth. Dick’s accusation wouldn’t stop echoing in his head. Sure feels like you are.
Jason swallowed hard. He couldn’t breathe in there. So when Dick muttered something about homework, Alfred excused himself to the kitchen, and Bruce “had to make a call,” Jason slipped out of the dining room with quiet, practiced footsteps.
He didn't look back. Couldn't. If he looked back and saw Bruce still sitting there, silent and still and unbearably sad, Jason might actually break something.
Or worse, he might cry.
So he kept walking. Through the foyer with its gleaming marble floors that his sneakers squeaked against no matter how carefully he stepped. Past the study where Dick used to do homework, door now closed. Past the library where Bruce kept his parents' photo on the mantle, positioned between two silver crosses like they were guarding it.
Everything in this house was a reminder of people who weren't here anymore. Dick, pulling away. Bruce's parents, dead. Robin, gone. And Jason, trying to exist in the spaces they'd left behind without becoming a ghost himself.
He walked past the grandfather clock that hid the Cave. Past every cross Bruce had nailed into the walls. The air outside was cold enough to sting. Jason shoved his hands in his pockets and kept walking, away from the warm lights of Wayne Manor, away from the crosses and the silence and Dick's accusations. The path between the properties was overgrown, brambles catching at his jeans.
He could still see the manor behind him, lit up like a beacon. Safe. Warm.
Full of people who didn't want him there.
He turned forward.
The Drake Manor loomed ahead, dark against the darker sky. No lights. No movement. Just stone and shadows and the kind of quiet that made his ears ring. The closer he got, the more the wind picked up, rattling dead branches like bones. Jason's steps slowed. This was stupid. Dick was an asshole. He didn't have to prove anything. But he kept walking anyway. Because turning back meant admitting Dick was right. And Jason would rather face a ghost than give Dick that satisfaction.
If Dick wanted to call him a coward? If Dick wanted him to prove himself? Fine. He’d give him more than a stupid “ghost check.” He’d get inside the damn house and come back with proof that he wasn’t soft, wasn’t scared, wasn’t some replacement that could be pushed around. Jason hit the ground running toward the Drake Manor, adrenaline buzzing hot in his veins.
“See?” Jason muttered to himself as he reached the rusted gate, pushing it open with a screech like something dying. “Not haunted. Just ugly.”
The wind rattled the empty vines clinging to the stone. The windows stared back like dark, sunken eyes. He shivered. The gate slammed shut behind him.
“Okay. Maybe a little haunted.”
He told himself it was the wind. The path to the house was choked with dead weeds, and somewhere in the dark, something rustled. Jason's hand went to his pocket, no stake, no holy water, nothing but his fists and his stupid pride.
He took a breath and walked toward the door.