Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gotham is the same, and maybe that is the final gut punch to really set all of this pain in deep beneath the skin. Jason comes back more than five years after his death, trailing the Lazarus rage with every step he takes while keeping a death grip around his Kris, the other around a handgun with the safety off. 

Maybe this is why he settles for a detour first even if it is a change of scenery for the worse. 

An old whaling town that never boomed, Blüdhaven is a truly awful place to put down any roots at all. 

Dick Grayson still walks through these streets like it’s home. 

Jason is across from the police station and six stories up from the ground. He is here for his plan, or an extension of it. Because Batman is not without his gadgets or his first boy wonder. And if Jason has any intentions of rendering Bruce to his knees and seeing the error in his way, he needs to know Dick will not be there to stand in the way. Lying prone against the roof and out of view, Jason is watching and waiting for something he isn’t so certain he will recognize when it finally turns up.

Officer Grayson is buying coffee from the place down the street just before his night shift, four cups set in one recycle cardboard holder and being handed another. He is all smiles, a thanks in the way his mouth curves kindly, dimples in his cheeks. He is not in uniform but people still recognize him as one of the good ones. 

And Jason has to scoff from behind the safety of his Red Hood helmet.

Because he knows Dick Grayson beyond the smile. Has been there during those rare moments when the man was at his worst, has seen the anger that razes everything to a charred foundation and still wanted him despite it. 

Jason keeps watching. 

Because this here is not his endgame. Dick Grayson is simply a stepping stone he needs to ensure will be out of the way when Jason gets the Joker out from behind the bars of Arkham Asylum, brings the fucking clown between him and Bruce and watch the man make the easy choice. 

It’s one he should’ve made a long, long time ago. But Jason can let bygones be bygones. 

A gun pressed to the temple of the animal that beaten him. Another held in the center of Bruce’s palm. Jason can do all the legwork, he doesn’t mind the hard work. He also isn’t above forcing Bruce’s hand. The man works with absolutes, he needs to be proven wrong, and Jason allows for that. 

Coffee orders all in hand, each one accounted for and then double checked, Dick turns around to leave.

It’s not the glint of his scope or the curve of bright red metal in broad daylight. Jason remains in his blindspot and there is absolutely nothing but conviction to the fact that Dick cannot see him. Except he can see the way Dick scans his eyes across the rooftops, near imperceptible in the way he keeps walking, face turned to the sun.

Jason sucks in a sharp breath, holds it when Dick pauses in full. He is standing on the sidewalk looking towards where Jason makes his nest, and there is a count of nearly five very solid seconds before he keeps going. It is only when Dick steps through the front doors to the precinct that the same rush of air comes out confined in his helmet on a loud deafening exhale.

He thought he was better than this. 

Jason also thought he would be avenged. But he only sees green . A frustration borne out of never matching up to his predecessor from before his death, an anger amplified to a disproportionate length in the depths of the Lazarus Pit upon returning from a death as violent as his own. 

Turns out Jason can’t even get dying right. 

It’s no wonder he’s up here on a rooftop feeling like he’s got the wind knocked out of him. 

Jason is going into this with the expectation that this is going to go, more or less, his way. And that, if he’s ever learned a lesson that stuck, is the first mistake.

Jason doesn't plan his detour to take him so long. Doing some recon about Dick Grayson is merely one item to be knocked off his long list before the main event. But the more he learns about Blüdhaven's underworld, the more he sees the advantage of spreading some of his roots in the city. If nothing else, it’s satisfying to hear the crunch of bones, to witness the terrified cowering when he beats the scums that fancy themselves as somebody in this miserable city's dark underbelly. 

All the better to prepare him for the new role he is planning to take once he returns to Gotham. 

Thus, he sets his schedule accordingly. 

He hasn’t seen a whit of black and blue flying in the night. Nightwing is grounded, and the reason may be as simple as Dick keeping the graveyard shift at the precinct. For a week straight, he sees Dick clocking in long after the city is asleep and clocking out after the sun is up. Jason follows him doing patrol one night and all he does is arrest a couple of drunk assholes for public mischief. 

Something inside Jason recoils at the sight. Dick could have done so much better as Nightwing, could have accomplished so much more. Instead, he’s doing honest work like the best of them. 

Jason wants to go down there. The insidious itch is catching up to him, green tinted and familiar. It’s whispering to him that Dick is as much to blame as Batman. 

Jason’s hands never shake. It’s part of the reason he is so good at what he does. It would be so easy to put Dick in the center of his gun scope. 

Jason leaves as soon as the notion steals into his mind. 

He beats the miserable low life that tries to harass a girl in an alley particularly hard that night.

It’s a few days later that Jason finds a half abandoned apartment complex to set up in. A leftover from the recession that hit the city decades ago. It isn't the best place to hole up, but Jason doesn't need much. A lumpy bed in the corner. Stolen electricity for his equipment and he's good to go. He’s learned to live with less. 

And in a city as big as Blüdhaven, at least he doesn’t have to worry about finding his own food. There's a bodega not far from the building and a sandwich shop that doesn't ever make much profit because the owner doles out free sandwiches to the homeless, and there are too many in this city. He buys something simple and pays more than it's worth. 

Then, sitting on the broken stoop of a long closed motorcycle repair shop, he eats and takes in this decrepit corner of the city. Something too familiar to him, more than the luxury of Wayne Manor and the privilege surrounding it.

When a mangy cat approaches him, Jason fishes out a piece of ham from the bread to feed it. The cat is used to people, but clearly not all of its experience with humans are good. Big eyes watch him warily before it snatches the piece of ham from between Jason's boots and runs. 

A car honks in the distance. Snatches of conversation reach his ears as people walk by. Jason can't say for sure what makes him look up. But as he does, there is Dick Grayson in his line of sight. 

Dick stands across the road, the glass window of the sandwich shop framing him. He's dressed casually in a t-shirt under a navy blue jacket and for a moment he meets Jason's eyes. Then, just like when he encounters the gaze of any other pedestrians, Dick breaks it easily. 

As if Jason is nothing to him. Another stranger he passes by that day. Dick enters the shop with a clang of the door's bell and Jason stays seated on the stoop just long enough for Dick to order before he disappears to the same direction the cat went.

Once is chance. Twice is a coincidence. Thrice is a pattern. 

Jason sees Dick two more times. Once when the moon is high and Jason is locked in a fight with three men carrying knives. Red Hood's reputation hasn't preceded him. Jason looks to change that because subduing these men is child's play. Jason takes care of them in a matter of minutes.

The alley they're in is dark and the guy that these men were beating up had run off. Jason probably wouldn't have noticed anything amiss if not for the faint vibration and a soft curse from around the corner. 

He shoots his grappling gun, lifting himself ten stories up and hoisting his body over a rooftop edge. From this vantage point, he can make out Dick in his police uniform just beyond the alley, the glow of his cell phone screen lighting up his face. 

Jason leaves the scene before Dick can look up. 

The third time is something innocuous. So much so that Jason knows something is up. He's walking down the crowded street under broad daylight, leather jacket giving him a modicum of protection from the brush of strangers.

Jason is too well trained for him to not notice when someone is tailing him. He doesn't look back, but he knows all the same who it is. Who it can only be. It’s the weight of a heavy gaze that settles over him but doesn’t pass over him. Jason lets him trail after him for the three blocks that it takes for Dick to think he’s got him for good.

And then he goes up.

He turns the corner and makes a running jump for the fire escape ladder, the screech of the rusty hinges as it slides down those last few inches for him to swing himself up. It’s a practiced path even without a grappling gun, so deeply ingrained into his bones that even the wash of the Lazarus waters couldn’t wipe him clean.

As he feels the metal rungs beneath the soles of his boots shudder and creak under his weight, there’s a pulse of thrill that shoots through him at the thought of the first Robin chasing after him in his civilian guise. 

After all, it’s always been the exact opposite. 

With adrenaline coursing through his veins like an injection made, it’s a liquid rush of confidence. It reminds him of running up along the edge of the side of the old decrepit building on the south end of Gotham, feeling the support from beneath his feet fall away just as he keeps going even further. The constant motion keeping him light, floating, nearly flying. 

It has always been like this with Dick: Jason the debris to fall while Dick takes off.

Jason is at the top, standing ready to make that final scale to the rooftop. When he glances down to see how far the other man is behind him, it is to the disappointing sight of the top of Dick Grayson’s head. 

The man standing at the mouth of the alleyway, staring down a dead end void of what he’s been looking for. 

Dick Grayson was approved for a promotion into the investigative unit from patrol officer, he gets his own desk and even his own cases.

It's nothing glamorous. In fact, it's plenty grueling, hours of legwork, following leads with little to no return. If it's any sense of fulfillment he's searching for, Jason is pretty fucking sure he isn't about to find it here at the bottom of some coffee stained paperwork.

Somewhere something happened, and Jason intends to find out what. 

Because it means something. It has to. 

Otherwise, Jason’s got no idea how to make sense of why Nightwing’s absent from these streets. 

Jason wonders if this is where he will find his answers, standing in the middle of Dick’s apartment. 

He broke in through the window by the kitchen, and it’s easy even if it shouldn’t be. Jason can see all of the makings of an Oracle-grade security system but it isn’t armed. Dirty dishes left soaking in the sink, empty takeout boxes filling the trash can. Jason can hear the neighbour in the flat above vacuuming, and the cars passing by just below. 

It feels strange to step into Dick’s apartment with it all holding so still. 

Jason has always associated Dick with constant movement.

He follows the trail of unwashed laundry left out, the majority of it covering the bedroom floor. He notices the picture frames first, the way they are all gathered, one on top of the other sitting in a pile on top of the dresser. If Jason looks through it, he might even find the one of them on that ski trip before his death. But he doesn’t and it just looks as though Dick was in the middle of cleaning up but never set them upright again. 

Jason is opening up the drawers of the bedside table when he hears a less than subtle cough from behind him. He whips around, gun unholstered and safety off, he brings his arm up and it is Red Hood to stand at a stalemate with Dick Grayson in his jogging gear.

“I’m pretty sure I locked my door when I left.”

Jason doesn’t answer, doesn’t even move to breathe any deeper than he has to where he stands in Dick’s bedroom. He knows ten different ways Dick could take him down when he was fifteen and not yet dead. He also knows he’s been gone for years, and he might have learned a few deadly things or two from Talia and all of her tutors, but that glaring gap of uncertainty leaves a lot shrouded in mysteries that he cannot begin to extrapolate from. 

The man rubs the back of his neck and Jason just about tenses all over. 

Dick sighs, tries for something of a joke and a sheepish smile as he glances around the room Jason is standing in. “If I knew I’d have company, I would’ve cleaned up a bit more.” 

Once more with the silence, and it’s deafening. 

Dick tries again. “...Did you find what you’re looking for at least?”

Through the modulator of the helmet, this one singular word comes out distorted: “Nightwing.” 

Dick makes a face, a complicated one that Jason has no patience with trying to decipher. And then he starts, “I’m not him. I don’t know how you’ve got this idea in your head that I could be Nightwing but you’re wrong, I’m n—” 

“I know who you are,” Jason cuts him off because he is done with Dick pretending that he doesn’t know, that the rise of Red Hood in his stomping grounds of Blüdhaven is far more personal than he’s allowed himself to be. “You’re Richard John Grayson, you’re Bruce Wayne’s son. You’re also Nightwing, so why don’t we stop with playing this fucking game of denial already?”

Dick swallows thickly, not in confusion but in conviction, looking like he’s convinced he’s onto something here. “But I don’t know who you are.”

Jason isn’t sure why Dick won’t just show him his hand. It’s a lousy game of charade to play even if he is a very good actor. But if this is what Dick is asking for, Jason isn’t afraid of being the one to draw first blood. Jason is willing to make today a day of reckoning. 

He lowers his arm and pulls the safety back on, movement slow as he holsters his handgun once more. He reaches around and undoes the latches of his helmet. It is one long hiss for the mechanism to release, and as he pulls it off, Jason leaves himself bare faced.

“Do you know who I am now, Dickiebird?”

There is not a glimmer of recognition in Dick’s eyes.

Chapter Text

Dick’s favorite coffee shop is quiet. The morning rush has passed and besides the two of them and the guy behind the counter, there’s only a woman sitting in a corner with her nose deep inside a book. They sit at the other far corner, the stranger he’s found in his apartment choosing the seat to have his back facing the solid wall. Dick doesn’t know what to make of him. Masked and under the cover of darkness inside his tiny place, he painted an imposing image.

But daylight reveals more. And he looks… young.

Probably the same age as Dick or maybe even younger. It’s hard to tell with the permanent scowl etched between his brows. 

Dick nurses his warm caramel coffee, and decides to break the tense silence. He can only pretend to watch people going on about their lives outside the window for so long as he tries to give this stranger his space. 

“Jason, right?” Dick doesn’t miss the slight downturn of lips at the mention of the man’s name. “So, what were you looking for at my place?”

The man has a pair of blue green eyes that is currently giving Dick such a disdainful glare, like this is all beneath the both of them, like he would rather be a hundred miles away from here doing something unpleasant than having this conversation with Dick. 

“What of it?” he says. 

“Well…” Dick taps his fingers against his coffee mug. “I’m only asking because someone broke into my home.”

Jason clenches his fist. His body language is textbook defensive, arms crossed and shoulders a little bit hunched. In his short career history as a police officer, Dick has seen his fair share of interrogation tapes. The person in front of him clearly has something he’s reluctant to share. 

“Nothing,” Jason tells him. “I wasn’t looking for anything.”

Dick raises one of his eyebrows. He can point out the flaws in that statement, but his guts say that it will lead him nowhere. “Okay. Let’s try something else. How do you know me?”

That question earns Dick another contemptuous look. “You're pathetic, Dickie. What happened to you?”

“That’s not an answer to my question,” Dick says, ignoring the jab. He lets the sentence hang for few seconds. Then, seeing there's no way forward as it was, wryly, he adds. “What happened to me is that I don’t remember. I don’t know you because I don’t know myself."

Jason narrows his eyes, regarding him for a beat. 

The guy is probably dangerous. Dick saw the gun, the way Jason held himself and filled the space in his apartment as if he was prepared for a fight. He also didn't shoot Dick despite having plenty of chances to do just that. Instead, he followed Dick here, and now he's sitting with him, studying Dick as if he is expecting the other shoe to drop. Dick sips from the rim of his mug. 

"You remember you’re Nightwing," Jason says. Dick's coffee is cooling and yet Jason's remains untouched in front of him.

Dick licks his lip, dithering between telling Jason or not. Between trusting him or not. He has nothing to lose either way. He has nothing to offer Jason and everything to gain if the man can tell him something he doesn't already know. "I don’t remember being Nightwing but I know what I was. I was out one night doing…" Dick gestures with his hand, "what Nightwing did. Then an ancient artifact went out of control. Something hit me. Something magical as unbelievable as that sounds. I woke up in Wayne Manor where a lady with a top hat was telling me about a curse."

"Curse," Jason repeats.

Disbelieve is writ large on his face. Dick thinks he understands. He gives Jason a wry smile.

Jason exhales loudly and pinches the bridge of his nose. Dick waits for him to speak. And Jason does, his face suddenly weary, "Dickie, if you have to come up with an excuse I suggest you do with a better one."

It is a tall tale and lacks details that Dick can't provide because he doesn't remember. He can only give Jason that much. Apparently it’s not enough when Jason gets up. 

“Don’t bother,” he says when Dick makes to follow him. 

And then Dick is alone. 

Red Hood’s territory cuts through to the very worst bits of Blüdhaven that even the gangs don’t associate themselves with, winds through the docks to border the established boundaries of every known crime family. It’s almost strategic how it doesn’t look like much on it’s own. Except it’s deliberate, how if viewed as one whole picture over the map of the city, it’s almost like Red Hood could take all of Blüdhaven tomorrow if he truly wanted. 

On a street corner he’s seen Jason frequents twice, Dick walks up to the woman in the too short skirt and the too tight top with a cropped fur coat on top. At her height, already tall and then in six inches heels too, she looks down at him, fans of her thick dark lashes fluttering as she does, drawing shadows across her cheekbones beneath the streetlights’ glow. 

“How much to point me in Red Hood’s direction?” Dick asks, pulling out a hundred dollar bill from his wallet. 

She smiles at him, and she looks younger than what her makeup will have anyone believe. 

“You’re cute,” she tells him, voice drawing steady, “but Hood’s more my type.”

There is a hard look in her eyes, like he could cut her down the center and she wouldn’t give. And her smile only wavers when he pauses, nods, and holds out the hundred for her to take. 

“You’ve seen his face under the helmet he wears?”

She shakes her head, her bright red lips stretching wide, and just a little crooked. “Don’t care to, haven’t you seen how his body looks even in full gear?”

Dick isn’t sure what kind of expression comes across his face at her answer. There is a flickering halo drawn over the crown of her long blonde hair when she laughs hard enough to have her shoulders shake with it while she pockets the money. 

Dick feels warmth right over his cheeks long after she walks off.

“Hey kid.” 

Dick tries for friendly, his smile bright and near blinding as he comes up to the boy that couldn’t be older than fifteen. He’s seen him around the precinct, in for a few handfuls of mostly harmless things like pickpocketing and vandalism. Once or twice for drug possession.

Dick gets a middle finger for his efforts and then a resoundingly loud: “Fuck off.”

If Dick was someone to be easily deterred, he probably wouldn’t be here to start. He supposes he can go back to Gotham, knock on the door of Wayne Manor and ask Bruce for the answers to questions he can barely formulate. But that hardly feels right. It feels like he’s cheating even if he isn’t quite so sure what game this is to begin with. Instead he is here digging in his heels and hoping for some kind of break from any of these people within Red Hood’s protection if just to talk to Jason once more.  

Dick has a hunch that Jason is important even if he doesn’t know why yet. 

“Come on, Jeffrey. I’d make it worth your while.” Dick tilts his head in the direction of the diner across the street. It’s a blatant invitation as he watches the kid debate between the offering of a free meal in exchange for listening to a cop like him. 

Jeffrey stares at him from beneath messy bangs, his worn beanie sitting askew on his head. He drags his feet long enough that Dick almost thinks that this is it, again.

“You have until I finish everything you pay for to ask your questions,” Jeffrey tells him in a huff, arms crossed over his chest. “And I don’t have to answer anything I don’t want to.”

Dick can work with that. “Deal.” 

They cross the street to the diner and get a booth at the back. And Dick can’t even be too mad about it when the kid doesn’t give up any more information than what the police already knows about Red Hood and only shrugs when Dick asks for a chat with Hood. 

Dick goes back to the sandwich shop, goes around the corner and drops a fifty into the homeless man’s wrinkled coffee cup. 

“Took you a while to get to me, was I last on your list or somethin’?” The older man picks out the bill from among the pennies and dimes at the bottom of the cup and stuffs it inside of his coat. 

The way he looks up at Dick gives him a feeling that he’s being assessed and for all of his good intentions, even Dick feels a pang of nervousness in the heavy steely gaze that is set on him. “I don’t have a list.”

“Hood’s done more for the city in the short months that he’s set up shop here. You might be one of the rare good ones with a gun and a badge but you’re hardly making a difference that actually matters,” the older man says, turning when a cat comes wandering over, rubbing its head over his knees with a familiarity that Dick didn’t think it could possess. It is skinny and dirty like most things in this city. “I don’t know what you want with Red Hood but if I can tell you’re making your rounds and digging for information, then he’s known for a while.”

“I’m not digging for information on him, I just want to talk to him,” Dick offers, and he feels a bit like a fool when he’s banking that the truth will win out. 

“And if he wants to talk to you, Hood’ll find you.” 

“But what if he doesn’t?”

The man chuckles, and it’s genuine amusement. “Then maybe a detective like you should learn to take a hint and figure that you’re not welcome around here.”

Dick blinks, and then he hands over another folded fifty. 

A mostly abandoned apartment complex in a building Dick could see from the sandwich place. 

It’s not a very good place to hole up in. 

Dick wants to laugh because he really should’ve known. But he could also despair over how long it took for him to find this place, and after such a blatant attempt to help a seemingly stupid and harmless do-good cop out too. As Dick steps through into the main space being used as a makeshift weapons cache, crates of stolen merchandise pushed to the far wall, Dick doesn’t get a chance to cough, but he still gets the first word in when Jason comes out of a door frame that was never fitted with a door.

“They really like you.”

Jason doesn’t look surprised. After all, he still has his domino mask on over his face and his helmet within reach of where he stands. He scoffs but doesn’t gesture to pull the helmet over his head. “I guess not enough if one of them still ratted me out.”

“Maybe they just saw something in me.” 

“Doesn’t everyone?” Jason spits out at him, and there is something viciously bitter in the way it comes out, like there is history. “You’re the golden boy, Dickie.”

“I just want to talk.” Dick tries for casual, like he hasn’t spent literally weeks trying to find him again. Not that the first time counted when he found Jason in the middle of his bedroom and about to yank open the drawer in Dick’s nightstand where he keeps the things he rather no one else sees.  

“And if I don’t?” Jason’s scowl only deepens, voice hard and mean.

“Then hear me out.”

“I heard you the first time, is this going to be any different?”

The domino mask and those blank lenses where Jason’s eyes should be give away nothing. His answer isn’t promising but it isn’t outright rejection. Dick holds up the plastic bag containing takeout he picked up at his favourite Chinese place close to the precinct and offers. “I brought chow mein this time.”

When he sets the food down on one upturned crate, Jason’s mouth presses into a thin flat line, and it is the same wall of impenetrable silence but he isn’t telling Dick to get the fuck out of his makeshift safehouse so maybe that’s progress in its own shape and form. There’s no familiar itch or even a sense of déjà vu, the curse has done a very neat job of cleaning him down to a blank slate. He takes out the cartons one by one, holds out a pair of wooden chopsticks towards Jason and waits until the man takes it from him after a brief but thoroughly reluctant standstill.

“Shrimp or pork?”

Jason takes the one with shrimp and sits down on the furthest flat surface from where Dick is standing. Dick can’t help but watch Jason take the first few bites before he settles in himself to start in between his own mouthfuls of noodles and bits of pork.

Dick starts from the beginning of these long couple of months, from waking up in Wayne Manor and being told he’s been cursed. He tells Jason about the woman who introduces herself to him as Zatanna and she smiles at him with something a lot of like pain and pity all mixed into one as she explains how some curses don’t have a way to be reversed, how some curses go away with time, and how she can’t be sure if this is the first or the second or neither one of them when the artifact has been destroyed in the process. 

In her words, memories are a very tricky thing, sometimes they come back all together, sometimes in trickles, and sometimes not at all.

He then tells Jason how Bruce physically sat him down to talk to him about Nightwing. About a vigilante named after a god worshipped on a planet that no longer exists. He skips over all the parts where Bruce is also Batman, and notes the barely perceptible flinch when the man’s name is brought up. 

Dick goes into details he never got into when they were sitting in the cafe, that there is an armored costume in a hidden compartment in his closet that he cannot get to. And maybe that’s for the best when he ultimately decides to resume his life in Blüdhaven, opting to leave the costume where it is. He shares with Jason about how he thinks he can make a difference here, on the street, where people know him by name, where people see his face and trust him to do right by them, where he can drop by the housing complex on the East end every week and play basketball with the kids, convincing them that there is something better for them out there than life with the gangs. 

It’s been a long couple of months. And he’s just stopped thinking about why he doesn’t want to pick up that costume when a new vigilante that goes by Red Hood comes through his city and decides to stay. 

“’m not a vigilante.” Jason tips his head in the direction of an open case of very big guns just a few feet from where Dick sits. 

And Dick can’t help but roll his eyes.

Because he’s seen what Red Hood has done, not just for the people he’s gone to in an attempt to find the man but all the ones he couldn’t even get to open up about the man that hides his face behind a shiny red helmet and brutally beats their pimps and their abusers without a shred of mercy. 

Dick knows how to recognize fear, and it is not fear that keeps them quiet. 

They believe in Red Hood as their protector when no one else has ever helped before. 

By the end of it, when Dick has told him everything he knows and both of their containers are completely empty of even one last noodle, Dick sets down his carton to say: “It’s going to be below zero tonight. And I’m pretty sure you don’t have heat here.”

It’s a statement but also a question, one that sits between them while the room feels like it could close in on them from every side. Dick has wanted to ask the moment he stepped foot inside of this decrepit building and saw Jason standing within it. 

“Is this an attempt to invite me back to your place?”

Dick doesn’t need it to mean anything but it feels like he is doing something detrimentally wrong if he leaves Jason here on his own, surrounded by enough firepower to take a city for himself by force. 

“If you say yes, then yeah,” Dick tells him, “it is.” 

Dick watches as Jason drops the wooden chopsticks into his empty container and sets it aside. His brows are drawn together and he is flexing his hands at his side like he isn’t sure what to do with them. Dick gives him all the time to figure it out, nearly anticipates some particularly nasty choice words from Jason to make sure he doesn’t ever come back.

So when Jason gives a weary laugh, like it’s been a long day and it’s going to be an even longer night, Dick can’t help but hold on to that sound.

“I’m not going anywhere except on patrol.” 

Dick is disappointed but he isn’t surprised. It may still be rejection, but Dick finds this one doesn’t sting as much as all the times before. 

He tracks Jason’s movement as he checks each clip in his handguns before he reholsters them again, follows the familiar sight of the red helmet as he slips it on and turns his head at just the right corner so Dick cannot see any of the security measures as it seals shut. 

“No need to lock the door behind you when you leave, but there better not be a single fucking thing missing when I’m back.” It’s that mechanical drawl as Jason picks up his jacket, pats down all of his pockets before he slips a few more little gadgets in. What he says could very well be a joke when there’s barely even a door to this rundown place, let alone a lock. 

Dick puts up a hand in a brief goodbye as Jason makes to leave, watches the way Jason nearly slams his knees against the window sill as he is climbing out to reach the fire escape when he catches Dick’s little wave.

Dick laughs in the empty hideout Red Hood calls his own. 

Chapter Text

Jason’s burner cell buzzes. 

A pause, and then again. Another pause, this time longer, and then several consecutive buzzes that nearly rattles his phone off of the edge of the crate it is sitting on. When he picks it up and unlocks it, he finds all of his new texts come from one Dick Grayson.

Jason allows himself one last look, and then he shuts this particular burner cell off. He tells himself it is because he hardly needs Dick's insistent text messages to be bugging him all night. He thinks he almost believes it too.

Jason knows Dick means well even in his amnesiac state, and here is a big chunk of the problem he has with all this: Dick has always been Nightwing to him.

Dick isn't just Nightwing to him but there is a good portion of Dick's identity that he associates with the vigilante alone. It is a given when all the times Jason had spent with Dick before his death has always been intricately associated to Nightwing. It is the few handfuls of times that he came over from Blüdhaven to patrol with the new Robin when Bruce was off-world with the League, or the time he took him train surfing atop the Gotham Metro. Even the time Dick was dressed to the nines as Richie Grayson and threw up in a potted plant barely three hours into the annual Wayne Gala, the man left only because a call came in for an armed robbery involving five hostages at the central bank downtown.

Dick is Dick even without his vigilante identity. Jason knows this. But he doesn't feel whole.

If Jason thinks about his past and all the times it intersected with Dick's, Jason is pretty sure there was only one single point of contact where Dick was simply Dick. Jason doesn't really care to think about it if he's honest with himself. 

That ski trip they had.

Good things come far and few in between.

But that isn't why he is here.

Jason already knows Blockbuster was starting to take notice of Red Hood. Has known that fact for a while now, probably since that time he intercepted a shipment of some pretty fancy guns meant for Blockbuster's gang during the second week he made land in Blüdhaven. He just didn't think the crime boss would go as far as to drag the cops into this little voiceless spat between them even if they are up to their throats in dirty money.

Jason scans his temporary quarters, finds nothing that he particularly cares for if they end up in the evidence locker of the BCPD. He collects the AK-47, the twin glocks, and his Kris blade. This all feels second nature, and Jason is near mechanical when he goes through the motion of dragging a duffle bag out and stuffing it with enough ammunition to take down Blockbuster's inner circle twice over.

He doesn't rig the place to blow up just in case this hidey-hole never made it on Blockbuster and BCPD's radar. Or worse yet, Dick finds it in himself to play hero and shows up.

Here is the bottom line, Jason isn't interested in taking Blüdhaven for himself. Jason doesn't want anything in this city.

So, here is the plan: He finds Blockbuster. He shoots Blockbuster. Blockbuster calls off his leashed pigs.

Jason likes simple solutions. But he also has his contingencies. He is not above burning this city down to ashes to rid her of her rotted roots. Yet he wants this to be clear, he doesn't take any pleasure in this. In hunting. 

When he heads out for the Blüdhaven waterfront, this is a mantra on repeat in his head, floating just above murky neon green: All of this is a means to an end. 

And Gotham is his end. 

Whatever that needs to mean.

It is three days later when Jason turns this particular burner cell back on to text the only contact in its history:

Before the day is even out, he notices Dick never texts him back.

Jason doesn't do fear, doesn't like the way it trickles like ice down his spine, trepidation with every step. He doesn't believe in something as coincidental as a do-good cop snitching and then going completely silent when it's all dealt with. He didn’t kill Blockbuster, but Jason can always take a detour to put a bullet through the man's head if needed. 

And he would be doing a favour for the city.

It makes his hairs rise up on ends, his eyes narrowed into slits, especially when Dick has been habitual and near freakishly quick in answering any texts Jason sends him no matter how far and few Jason's own replies come.

Jason calls Dick's number. 

It rings, it rings, and it rings until it goes to his voice mail. The voice mailbox is full.

Dick Grayson is an uncertainty when it comes to many things. But he is precise, at least in the schedule he keeps at work. Jason checks the time and it’s barely four hours into Dick's usual graveyard shifts. He really should still be at the precinct.

He makes up his mind to seek the man out.

He isn't panicking.

For all Jason knows, Dick could be beaten and tied up by Blockbuster’s men with a gun pointed to his face all because of him. The one clean cop with nothing to implicate him except for his communication with Jason, offered up to save their own asses.

A plan is already forming in Jason's head. 

So far it begins and ends with a bullet in Blockbuster's brain instead of just a knee. 

He remembers how Dick was as a civilian when he stalked Jason. Someone clipped Nightwing's wings when they took his memory from him, and Jason hates to think about what he'd do in the face of danger. But Jason needs more information before he goes kicking down anyone's door, no matter how his hands itch to pull the trigger.

When he can’t find Dick’s motorcycle in the usual employee parking space, Jason breaks into the precinct. Doing so is laughably easy. The security system in place doesn’t seem like it’s seen any sort of technological advancement within the last decade and it’s made worse by the few night shift personnels congregating in the break room if not going off entirely to the coffee place a few doors down that stays open until dawn.

Finding Dick’s desk takes a little more work. 

The bullpen is a graveyard of workstations, all looking almost identical. But Jason recognizes Dick’s handwriting and he finds it on a piece of coffee stained evidence submission form left for the world to see on top of the desk. Beside it, Dick has a careening pile of files with colourful post-it notes and page markers sticking out haphazardly. 

He looks around at all the other desks in the vicinity and sees marginally less paperwork on them. Jason keeps his gloves on as he finds the office supplies in Dick’s top drawer. Going for the one below, he finds more paperwork that looks more routine than interesting. Jason is fitting a lockpick into the keyhole of the secured bottom drawer when he hears approaching footsteps coming from down the main precinct hallway.

The nearest door is only a few paces away and Jason goes for that. His own steps across the linoleum floors are silent, and he is careful as he opens the door and leaves it slightly ajar. Jason stays well in the dark, back pressed to the wall to watch. 

Two uniformed cops walk into the bullpen. Their faces from what Jason can make out are familiar. He’s pretty sure he’s seen them with Dick during those initial days of keeping Dick Grayson under surveillance from behind a pair of binoculars or a sniper scope. He listens in on their conversation for a few minutes as they stop at one of the workstations. 

It is hardly riveting. Tasteless jokes and typical lewd shit talk, and then— they are talking about Dick. 

"Pretty boy thinks it's okay to take the shift off," one guy says. "The Captain's going to give him shit over this."

“Christ. He’s always number one on Cap’s shitlist. Wonder what he did?”

A snort. “Nothing that concerns us if you wanna keep your job. He better quit if he knows what's good for him." 

"In this economy?" 

"Guy’s got a working brain between his ears. He'll find something else. He's wasted doing useless crap here anyway."

"Aww. So you do care."

"Shut up. He covered for me when my kid was sick. He's not all bad."

"Want to visit him later? He’s from Gotham, don't think he’s got anyone here. Must suck to be sick and all alone."

A laugh. "You think he’ll wanna see your ugly mug?" 

"Fuck off." 

Huh . Maybe Blockbuster gets to live another day after all. 

The men walk out of the bullpen after finding what they’re looking for. Hearing them talk, Jason feels like he’s getting another piece of the puzzle. A step away from forming a full picture. 

His eyes that have now adjusted to the darkness finally takes in his surroundings, and he finds himself in an office. A neat little table name tag sits on the edge of the desk, and it is telling him the office belongs to one Morgan Reed, Captain. 

Jason approaches it. 

The table is messy, but it seems to have some kind of order in how the files are stacked. Case reports. Booked evidence notes. Family pictures and framed awards. And then, he sees yet another trace of Dick. 

His loopy handwriting requesting for the captain’s permission to review a cold case. The request is denied. The captain having written a simple ‘rejected’ under Dick’s name. Jason digs deeper. 

Below that one document, there’s another of the same, and yet another. All  belonging to Dick. 

Jesus Christ. The point is getting hammered home, and Jason stands corrected. Jason may only know this version of Dick for all of two months but it looks like the man hasn’t done any favor for himself here at all. 

The last time Jason visited Dick’s apartment, he didn’t bother to use the door. But things have changed since then, and Jason thinks Dick would appreciate it if he tried knocking on the front door instead of breaking in for once. 

Problem is, Dick doesn’t answer. 

The light is on from the crack beneath the door and there’s the faint sound of television coming from inside. At this point, Jason can bet real money that he’s home. He stands before Dick’s door for all of five minutes before deciding to take the other route. The preferred route really.

He enters Dick’s apartment from the same window he used to break in the very first time. 

Dick's kitchen is still the same. Perhaps a tad bit messier with evidence of Dick's meal time still on the table. A bowl of half eaten cereal. A carton of milk well on the way to going spoiled from being left outside of the fridge. Takeout cartons from a Thai restaurant down the road sticking out of a completely filled trash can.

It’s a lot but Jason manages to ignore all of it and walks further inside, keeping his footsteps completely silent. 

Dick's television is showing an old cop show. Jason remembers it coming out around some six years ago, when he still lived in the manor. He remembers catching an episode or two with Dick and Jason has to wonder how many people become inspired by procedural cop shows to be a cop themselves. Is Dick one of them? Is this the reason Dick is in this mess? It sure feels like a much easier thing to put his blame on than what’s probably the truth. 

Dick himself is nowhere to be seen. 

But as Jason comes closer to the living room, he notices the end of a blanket poking out from an armrest. He navigates between the laundry strewn on the floor and walks up to the back of the sofa. Leaning over it, he finally finds Dick. The man looks like death warmed over, his eyes closed and body shivering. He sleeps in a fetal position, curling on his side as if he wants to make himself as small as possible under the blanket. 

Seeing him like this makes Jason's chest constrict. 

"What a dumbass," he mutters to himself. 

Jason steps around to the front of the couch and kneels down. He shakes Dick awake. There really is no way around it. Dick shouldn't sleep here when he has a perfectly good bed he can use. Jason only gets a groan in response as Dick shifts to burrow himself deeper into the couch for his effort. 

"Dickie, wake up.” He jostles Dick again. 

This time, Dick's eyes crack open. He lifts his head a tiny bit and looks over his shoulder to Jason, mumbling with furrowed brows. "Jason?" 

"One and only." 

"Why’re you here?" Dick's voice is raspy like he hasn’t had a drop to drink since forever, which is probably the case. He supports himself on an elbow, trying to get up. 

Jason leans forward. “C’mon. Let’s get you to bed.”

“Wha—?” Dick flails but there is no protest when Jason loops an arm under Dick’s armpit and hauls him up. His skin is slick with sweat, gritty too, and Jason tries to get a sure grip by bunching his hand around Dick’s shirt instead, letting one of Dick’s arms drape over his shoulders. Dick can’t seem to balance himself right. He sways once they are standing upright, and groans miserably.

“I got you. Hold on.” Jason angles himself towards Dick. Dick is… a few inches shorter than him. Finding that out right now seems like a revelation. For a long time he always wanted to be as tall as Dick. 

The journey to the bedroom is not a long one, but they do have to navigate between all of Dick’s shit scattered all over the floor. Was Dick this bad back then? Jason switches the light on once they reach the bedroom. Dick hasn’t made his bed but Jason doesn’t expect him to. He deposits Dick on it anyway. Skin pale and clammy as he sprawls on the bed, looking so defenseless and weak. Dick is already halfway back to sleeping. 

For a beat, Jason stands there, his back rigid. Air conditioning hums around them, the TV still on in the living room, and footsteps along with a few indistinct words vibrating from somewhere upstairs. 

Jason tilts his head back and lets out a sigh. Decision made. He can stay. Maybe for a few hours longer. Christ. He isn’t here to clean up all of Dick’s mess but he might as well start tidying up around here. First, starting with Dick himself. 

One hour later, he’s picked up all of Dick’s laundry and wiped down the kitchen counter and the dining table. He’s even changed Dick out of his dirty clothes while trying not to look too long at the scars Dick has accumulated over the years, trying not to think of his own. Ugly and raised over his sternum to his stomach, telling of how he has died and reborn again. 

Jason is bringing a bowl of warm noodle soup and a tablet of ibuprofen he found in Dick’s cabinet to him when Dick wakes up for the second time. He places the soup on Dick’s nightstand and sits on edge of the bed.

“Jason?” Dick asks, squinting as though not sure of what he’s seeing. 

He hasn’t looked any less miserable in the time Jason has left him alone. His hair is all messed up and sticking to his forehead, and his hand reaches for Jason like he’s making sure Jason is real. 

Jason meets Dick’s hand halfway, squeezes it. 

Though instead of answering Dick, he leans in to check Dick’s temperature with a gentle kiss. A touch of his lips against Dick’s forehead. Jason’s only aware of what he’s doing after the fact. Dick’s skin is warm and the feel of it over his mouth is like a forgotten memory. He hasn’t done this since his mom’s still alive. 

Jason retracts to find Dick staring at him wide eyed, and for one breathless beat everything is still. 

Then, Dick lets out a gentle laugh. “Am I dreaming?” 

Jason releases Dick’s hand, answers. “Maybe.”

Dick laughs again. “I must be. You’re not really here.”

Jason doesn’t answer him. 

Instead, Jason leans over and picks up the chicken noodle soup. He doesn’t say anything at all even as Dick murmurs Alfie on the first spoonful of the soup Jason feeds him. Dick eats what he’s given, and the entire time, continues to look fixedly at Jason like he’s an apparition. 

Jason doesn’t leave him until he is fast asleep again. 

It is nearly two hours later, and with one last look around the apartment, looking as clean as it can be without Jason breaking out the vacuum, Jason leaves the same way he came in. At least, Jason thinks, this will be proof for Dick that he's not dreaming at all.

Chapter Text

They establish a routine of sorts. 

Dick would go to Jason after his shift at the precinct with warm food for the both of them. He’s still keeping to his graveyard shift hours and sometimes the sun is only about to rise as he arrives at Jason’s door. They eat together, Jason keeping him within his sight at all times, looking at him like Dick is a puzzle he can’t solve. Except, in Dick’s personal opinion, Jason is the bigger mystery between the two of them. One that Dick has been trying to figure out with limited success.

He knows next to nothing about Jason and any attempt to find out more has Jason clamming up so fast. So Dick bids his time. Since his last outburst when they talked at the cafe, Jason hasn’t shown a shred of anger or doubt. But establishing trust is still very much a work in progress. 

It’s odd, Dick thinks, because Jason is virtually a stranger to him. Yet, he feels like he can put his life wholly in Jason's hand, feels like he’s known Jason his whole life. Dick can’t remember him, but the feelings that Jason inspires in him is a far cry from the ping of danger Dick gets sometimes when he deals with shady characters that turn out to be as bad news. 

Dick trusts his instinct. It hasn’t led him astray yet so far. And if he’s being honest, it is kind of nice. 

There is next to nothing in Jason’s place that can be categorized as creature comforts. The lumpy mattress Dick has spied in one corner is definitely not it. But he enjoys the time he’s spent with Jason. It beats coming back to his hollow carcass of an apartment and watching reruns of old cop shows while wondering if he should have agreed to stay in Gotham after all. Those moments of weakness are less prevalent when he’s with Jason. 

Now… if only he can lure Jason back to his place like the time Dick got sick enough to almost believe Jason was a fragment of his fever induced delusions. Dick is not one for complaining, but even he is starting to wonder how Jason can stand not having a working heater in this weather. 

Dick is beginning to feel the slow seep of chill as he puffs air into his hands. It is getting steadily colder as the sun gets lower. It will probably hit the lower end of the expected temperatures again tonight. And it’s just so great that Dick is out on a stakeout. The house a few buildings down from where he parked is dark and it will probably stay that way throughout the night, but on the small chance that the resident will be returning, he must stick with this. 

He gets back inside of the car after a few minutes of stretching his legs. It’s immediately warmer, but his coffee has long gone cold and there’s nothing he can do about that. He gulps it down and plays with the radio’s dial. The low sound of the hosts’ mindless chatter fills the interior of the car while Dick tries to keep an eye on the house, focus fading on and off.

It may have been five minutes later, or it may have been one hour, Dick can’t tell for sure because time stretches weirdly when he is alone in a car in the middle of the night. He nearly jumps when his passenger side door is yanked open. His hand is already reaching into his holster, palm wrapping around the grip of his gun just as he registers the familiar leather jacket. 

Jason. Oh . 

Of course.

With him, Jason brings in the scent of the world outside into the interior of the car. Cigarette and exhaust, a hint of something savory beyond those, and the smell only gets stronger when Jason shoves a paper bag at him. 

“You brought me food?” Dick asks with a hint of disbelief. He opens the brown paper bag and is doubly surprised when he finds a piping hot coffee and a burrito wrapped in foil.

“Don’t get used to it,” Jason replies gruffly. 

Dick gingerly takes out the coffee and glances sideways at Jason. The way he fills the space in Dick’s unmarked cruiser. A little awkward but trying to hide it. It’s endearing and a little surprising how good he has become at reading Jason’s body language. 

There’s a vertical scratch just above Jason's left eyebrow that Dick was present for when he attempted to pick up a feral cat that he was feeding. It happened a few days ago where they were among the few customers that came by the sandwich place just as they opened their door so they can beat the morning rush crowd, and after they picked up their orders he and Jason walked around as they ate. The cat knew Jason and wasn’t hesitant to approach him. However, picking the feline up was a mistake. 

It still makes him laugh whenever he thinks about it, how the big bad Red Hood was defeated by a kitty cat. 

Dick sips his coffee, savoring the warmth and the sweet comforting taste of caramel. Caramel coffee is one of the few things Dick can’t say no to. He tries to hide a smile at the thought of Jason visiting his favorite coffee shop just to pick this up for him. “Slow night for you too?” 

“Thought I’d check on you. Make sure this shithole of a city hasn’t swallowed you whole.”

“My prince in shining armor.”

“Shut up.”

Dick grins. He can’t help it. “Just admit that you wanted to see me.”

Jason scoffs, and doesn't dignify him with an answer but Dick is hardly discouraged when he just keeps going. “I mean, if you ever get tired of tracking me down in the middle of the night, you do know where I live.”

Jason twists one end of his mouth down, leans back a little with his back to the door, and for a few slow seconds, he studies Dick. Dick doesn’t know what he’s looking for, or if he’s finding anything at all in Dick. Jason looks away abruptly, lifting his hand to change Dick’s radio channel. 

“Eat your food,” Jason says. 

And that is that. 

Dick obliges, eats his food as he looks out the window. Nothing has happened. Nothing is happening. Nothing will happen tonight. This assignment is a load of shit.

Minutes pass. The silence in the car is oppressing. Like it is waiting for one of them to speak, for one of them to break it into two clean halves. 

But maybe that’s only Dick’s imagination because by the time he crumples the greasy foil and empties the last of his coffee, Jason is already asleep, head leaned up against the glass window, both arms crossed over his chest. His lashes fan across his cheeks, brows finally unfurling, and his mouth parted and lax. By no means does he look small in Dick’s car, but Dick thinks he seems unguarded, vulnerable all the same, with his face wiped clean of the traces of hardship. 

A lump forms in Dick’s throat and it is the same startling realization that hits Dick the very first time he was able to coax Jason from his apartment down to his favorite cafe. 

Jason looks so young. 

For the first time in quite some time, Dick’s finally allowing himself the chance to think about what any of this is supposed to mean.

He wants to take Jason home, wants to encase him in warm blankets and fight his battles for him. Give him a place to call home. He doesn’t know Jason. He doesn’t remember Jason. It’s all so strange. Dick hopes he could remember something, anything about Jason, then maybe he can make sense of all this. 

Dick lets out a frustrated sigh. He lowers the volume of the radio and allows Jason to sleep a little longer. 

He cages his thoughts to study for another day, and tells himself even as he drapes his jacket over Jason that he’s only doing that because Jason looks cold. But that doesn’t explain the urge to lean closer, to touch Jason’s forehead with his lips, just like when Jason visited him when he’s sick. Half lucid as he was, he’s pretty sure it was Jason who left the traces of someone’s presence in his apartment. 

Jason stirs as he draws back, eyelashes fluttering. Dick holds his breath and hastily straightens back to his own seat. Then, he watches Jason for an exceptionally pregnant beat. 

Jason doesn’t wake. 

Dick lets out a slow exhale and resumes his watch, looking out the window while his fingers beat a restless rhythm against his thigh. 

He can still feel Jason’s warmth on his lips. 

It’s just starting to snow when Dick pushes open the creaky door and scans the rooftop to find Jason lying on his front with a pair of binoculars positioned in front of his face. His helmet is set aside where the bright shiny red of it wouldn’t give him away. 

“Did you bring me coffee?” Jason calls out to him without even a backwards glance.

“Only if you tell me who you’re stalking tonight.” The snow hasn’t begun to collect, melting upon impact with the ground. 

“No one nice if that’s what you’re worried about,” Jason replies.

When Dick settles down next to Jason, sitting cross-legged just behind a section of the rooftop that blocks the incoming wind, he holds the hot paper cup just far away enough from Jason that he gets the hint. 

Jason looks away from the scope long enough to press his mouth into a thin, flat line as he weighs out the pros and cons of giving up his secrets versus a nice hot coffee. Dick can't see his eyes from behind the domino mask Jason wears but he can read him all the same when he relents.

“Roman Sionis,” Jason gives him.

And it nearly makes Dick's eyes bug out because: “ Black Mask is in Blüdhaven?”

Jason snorts as he steals the cup, asking him, mouth quirking up at one corner into a smirk. “When are you going to believe me that your city is a shithole, Dickie?”

The brush of Jason's worn gloves over Dick's fingertips as he takes the coffee from him is something Dick tries not to dwell on. 

“She’s got her charms, and don’t try to change the topic. Why is Black Mask in my city?”

“Might have something to do with an incoming shipment,” Jason tells him as he downs half the cup in one go, and Dick's eyes deliberate look anywhere else on the rooftop but the flash of pink as Jason swipes his tongue across his bottom lip to catch the wet sheen of coffee over his mouth.

Dick is glad that it is cold enough that he can easily explain that the red to his cheeks is from the brisk Blüdhaven chill. He only hopes that he doesn't sound as distracted as he feels when he asks. "What kind of shipment?"

“Amazo.” 

Dick swears faintly under his breath. Because he has heard of Amazo, an advanced cybernetic android with an ability to absorb the power of superhumans. It's a feat of technology, except it can't be used for anything good when Black Mask is the one awaiting for this particular package. 

It feels like the start of a brewing storm, and Dick finds himself wondering if he's just signed himself up for exactly the kind of things that Nightwing would be precisely knee-deep involved in. He wonders if it even matters at all when he can't seem to tear himself away now that he knows. 

The wind has slowed down but the snow is beginning to fall heavier now. Dick feels like he's got an itch in his brain when his eyes blink at the sight of snowflakes in Jason's hair.

He's seen this before. He is sure of it. A gut feeling that twists inside of him until he remembers to exhale again. His breath coming out in a cloud of condensation even if it felt like a gut punch.

It's déjà-vu.

The notion of reliving a moment from the past. Just familiar enough that it makes the hairs rise on the back of his neck only to slip right through his grasp.

It rattles him down to the bone.

“You’re shivering.” Jason points out and Dick has no idea when Jason has looked away from where he is trying to read Black Mask's lips as he is holding a meeting with a handful of his closest lieutenants to watch him instead.

Dick swallows thickly, not quite able to shake off the feeling that the moment passing by just now was significant in a way that he can't quite place. 

“Well," half-smile over his lips, Dick offers instead. "It’s not exactly warm up here.”

Jason makes Dick hold his binoculars before he is shrugging out of his leather jacket, taut pull of it across his shoulders. “Here.” 

Dick's eyes go big as Jason hands it over, nudges at him too when he doesn't immediately take it and surprise colours over his cheekbones. The first thing Dick notices is how warm and worn the leather feels in his hands. The second thing Dick notices is: “There's blood on it.” 

Dick doesn't even have to see Jason's eyes to know he's deliberately rolling them at him, he reads it in his body language, the way Jason tips his head a little, a little hollow to his cheek as he chews on the inside of them. Dick inspects the blood with a wrinkle of his nose, and up close, his eyes only get bigger because:

“Jason, are you bleeding ?” 

He is incredulous because the glint of red is smearing beneath his fingertips, still fresh.

“I’ve had worse,” Jason tells him, holding carefully still.

“You’re bleeding,” Dick confirms for himself, and he is insistent when he looks to Jason again. He tampers down on that itching need to reach out and shake Jason if he isn't worried he would exacerbate the injuries even if he can't see any of them. He wants to see Jason's eyes, wants to make him see how much he wants, and Dick wonders if he has to finish his sentence to have Jason understand what he is trying to say. “It’s below zero, Jason.”

His domino mask stays.

Dick doesn't see Jason's eyes, not the way they widen beneath the blank lenses when Dick crushes the leather jacket to his chest or the way they almost glint more blue than green as they go wane.

Jason's voice is quiet, falling just as gently between them as the snow coming steadily down.

“Are you asking if I’d come home with you?”

“Yes,” Dick tells him without reserve, no hint of hesitation or mirth or anything other than a desperate need for Jason to say yes . And it is some kind of last ditch effort that he even adds. “I’ve got heat and a first aid kit.”

“Compelling arguments,” Jason remarks, cool and collected. 

Dick imagines the short distance between them could fit mountains, and his fingers go bone white as he holds on to Jason’s leather jacket. “Come and stay with me, Jason. Please.”

It is the first hint of a reluctant smile tugging almost insistently at the corner of Jason’s mouth before all of it comes crumbling down in the face of Jason’s agreement. 

“Just for a little while.”

A few weeks after he invites Jason to come back with him, the man not only does, he also stays.

Dick also wakes up to the smell of coffee and the sound of someone puttering around in his apartment. He pulls on the sweatpants he left on the floor the night before as he gets out of bed and pads out into his small kitchen. 

Jason's wearing last night's clothes still. The very same set that Dick lent to him after he found Jason's black T-shirt worn over his under armour had soaked through in his own blood, again . Dick's beginning to think if he should add 'Red Hood's personal nurse' in the job experience part of his resume with how often he's had to patch Red Hood up since Jason’s allowed him to. 

The thin material of his old t-shirt is stretched over Jason's wide shoulders. His pants become a pair of ill fitting thing on his too long legs, pulling particularly taut around Jason’s thighs. Dick's clothes are too small on Jason. Of course they are. But Dick loves seeing him like that. 

It reminds him that Red Hood can be soft. That Jason is not all hard edges. And it reminds him that Jason's here, finally. That he's at least sleeping somewhere safe and warm with someone who can watch his back for him. Even if Dick's couch is honestly too small for the man, much like Dick's clothes are for him.

Dick leans a hip against the counter, a scant two feet away from where Jason's whipping something up with the burner turned on the highest setting.

"You're too good to me," Dick breathes out with the pan sizzling and letting out one of the most mouthwatering smells to fill the narrow space of this kitchen. 

His words earn a sideways glance from Jason, following a raised eyebrow. "Who said any of this was for you?"

"You're going to eat all that by yourself? You won't be able to get back inside of your own pants." 

"Ha. I burn more calories than you on a daily basis, Dickie. You’re a desk jockey, you're the one who has to stop," Jason makes a disgusted face, "doing that."

"What?" Dick asks innocently. He's plucked a mug from the cupboard and poured fresh coffee in. The sugar he's plunging inside is the fourth cube. 

"Christ. Nevermind." 

Dick doesn't expect Jason to do anything when he comes to stay with him, let alone cook for him but Jason seems to get something from the process—from how Dick catches the way he smiles softly after he dips the end of a spoon into the pan and tastes it. 

Maybe Jason's doing this for himself too, Dick would like to think.

Dick wants that for him. 

As Dick brings his coffee to the tiny dining table, he looks on with interest when Jason sets down two piping hot plates loaded with potatoes, two eggs fried sunny side up, and a handful of greens tossed with shredded bacon and a creamy caesar dressing on top. All the ingredients that Dick is convinced he didn’t have in his fridge when they came back last night must have been magically obtained by Jason, unless he woke up even earlier than Dick assumed and returned from the store .

Dick takes a bite and has to close his eyes. 

This isn’t something as simple as his favorite cereal with a pour of milk overtop. This is something else entirely. It starts with the scent of it as it was still cooking on the stove top and ends with the first taste. Because here’s the thing about Jason’s cooking: It is familiar . 

Like something he’s tasted time and time before.

He knows this, the crispy edge to each wedge of potatoes, the specific mix of spices in it, the caesar dressing over the greens, even the way Jason plates it. If he’s not already convinced that Jason is someone from his past, this would definitely be cluing him in. 

“Mmm. You’re incredible,” Dick tells him as he chews, savouring the taste of it in his mouth and how each bite of the food only solidifies that hunch. “This is so good, Jason.” 

“Of course,” Jason says with a soft snort at him, glancing down at his own plate before he adds, “Learned from the best.”

Dick is careful as he watches Jason’s expression, how he looks almost wistful. Dick swallows, and he thinks this might just confirm it. This tastes exactly like Alfred’s cooking.

After breakfast and a quick shower, Dick comes out to find Jason is nowhere to be seen. But the television’s still on and after a second, the cold draft from the open balcony door gives him a pretty clear idea where Jason may be hiding from view. 

Dick shivers as he steps outside. Jason’s leaning against the railing, smoke curling up and up from the lone cigarette he’s holding. The clouds overhead are the kind of grey and clumpy that promise more snow to come. 

“You don’t have a jacket or even a scarf with you,” Dick points out, and he’s tempted to go back inside just to swipe one of the scarves he’s left by the door to wrap around Jason when his cheeks look bright red from the cold sharp winds. 

And this feels like one more of those itches he can’t quite scratch because he knows Jason is not fragile in any shape or form. Dick’s stitched him up enough times by now to know Jason doesn’t flinch even when he is digging out shrapnel fragments from inside of him while Dick’s supply of painkillers is completely out. 

So what does Dick’s head think the tail end of Gotham’s winters could really do to a man like Red Hood?

Jason holds his cigarette up to Dick’s eye level and looks at him funny, like he too finds it funny that Dick would be concerned about a little Gotham chill. “I’ll come inside once I finish this one off. You don’t have to stay.” 

Dick hums a low sound and settles beside him. 

It’s Friday, one of the few days Dick doesn’t have to go into the precinct and there’s not a whole lot of things for him to do. He rarely has any plans to begin with, other than maybe finishing that television show he started last week and sleeping some more in the afternoon. It’s boring, but it’s his life. 

A little bit of stability and comfort he hasn’t really quite found for himself until now. Jason’s welcome to it, and Dick really hopes Jason understands what he is trying to offer. 

Though if he’s being honest, his first thought is that Jason had taken off when he came out of the shower and didn’t see him in the living room. Because Jason can be like that sometimes.

The first couple of times Jason showed up at his fire escape on his own accord and climbed in through the window to stay the night, he took off long before Dick even woke up. Things appear as though it is improving, a little bit of progress here and there when Jason would stay the night once or twice a week building up to being once every couple of nights. And then just last week when Jason stays for three nights in a row before he goes off on his own.

Dick sleeps better knowing Jason’s in his apartment, whatever that might really mean to him. 

“How’s your wound?” Dick says after some time. 

“It’s not a big deal.” 

“How can it be a big deal, Jason? I was just the one with my fingers all slippery with your blood digging shrapnel from your left side only a week ago.” Dick sighs. Of course Jason would say that even when he was the one to turn up dripping fresh blood all over Dick’s balcony. “You are going to let me check it later.” 

Jason looks at him sideways and finding Dick is completely serious, he lets out a sudden, short lived laugh.

“What?” Dick asks in an incredulous tone. 

“Nothing. You just reminded me of someone.” Jason’s face is still full of mirth. It’s a good look on him, Dick thinks unbidden, and it makes his heart beat faster, or it might be his statement, or it might be both.

Carefully, Dick asks. “Do I remind you of Alfred?”

Because it is not with any kind of coincidence that he falls into that long-suffering edge Dick knows Alfred Pennyworth would when confronted with his charges having sustained any kind of injuries. The Wayne butler has been there for too many of Dick’s short bursts of anger shortly after his incident with that magical artifact for Dick not to commit the disapproval in the older man’s voice as he fused over him and his scraped skin of his torn knuckles when he thought punching a wall in the manor could help with the mounting frustration. It didn’t, like Alfred had told him.

Jason crushes the butt on the railing without finishing his cigarette. 

Any other day, Dick might have protested the way Jason’s treating his balcony, but it’s that heavy, familiar feeling again stealing into Dick’s chest, Jason might as well be half the city away instead of right in front of Dick with the way his shuttered expression. 

Still, Dick asks when Jason doesn’t reply to his first question, “Who are you Jason?”

“No one,” Jason lies. 

Dick wants to call him out on it, so badly. But he’s close, Dick thinks. He has to figure this out on his own. Dick wants to think he can solve all of this with one phone call to Bruce but Dick doesn’t want to do that. It feels like he would be cheating if he did. 

But this doesn’t change the truth that Jason was and is important. Dick can attest to that with the entirety of his bruised heart when Jason lied right then and there to his face. 

He can’t force Jason to tell him. So instead of giving Jason shit for a frankly shitty lie, he stops Jason when he moves to go back inside, wrapping his hand around Jason’s wrist. Dick doesn’t let it end at just this. 

“If you’re no one, then let me make you someone to me,” Dick states, and he’s never been more sure. He lets go of Jason’s wrist, brings both hands up, his feet rise on their tiptoes, and he kisses Jason. It’s a quick one, something that he’s been thinking about for so long, ever since that one stolen kiss in the car where he pressed his mouth to Jason’s forehead. He’s been wanting and wanting, and when they part, Dick still doesn’t know if it’s a mistake.

But it feels right to him. It feels like a challenge, too. 

Jason looks at him like he’s crazy. "What the fuck, Dickie?"

Dick bites his own lips. They’re still so close, and Jason’s breath is warm. His irises are a cornucopia of blue and green. "Err... so it's a no?"

"Christ." Jason is holding himself still, face tilted down to meet Dick’s eyes and Dick can see the storm behind his expression, in the slight wrinkle between his brows, in the way his cheeks have stayed tingling pink but Dick knows it’s got nothing to do with the cold. Dick waits with bated breath. Then, Jason shakes his head, and says, "Verdict's still out, do that again."

Dick dips in again to kiss him. 

It feels like it’s been a long time coming when Jason kisses back. 

Chapter Text

It’s cold. Colder than Gotham ever got. But Jason is warm even if they have been outside for the last four hours going from one ski hill to the next. 

They have just sat down on the ski lift when Dick prods him with an elbow and says with a jovial grin across his face. “We should do this more often.”

Jason shrugs in the seat next to him but it doesn’t work so well when he’s got a sweater and a hoodie and then a thick winter jacket over top of that hindering him. He goes for an actual answer instead, voice steady and almost casual in his response. “Don’t look at me, I’m not the one stopping you.”

“Ouch but fair.”

Jason looks at him expectantly, wonders where he is going with this, and Dick doesn’t hang his head but he does glance down to watch as he taps one of his ski poles lightly against his side of the lift, sending a sprinkle of white to go scattering down along with the soft laugh he lets out. Self-deprecating, like he knows he’s the one at fault here.

They are both detectives here trained by the best. 

It’d be insulting if Dick doesn’t go right down to the meat on the bone. 

“What do you think about coming over to my place in ‘haven for a weekend, little wing?”

Jason scowls at the nickname, tamps down on that initial burst of anticipation and settles for skepticism when he asks in return. “And do what?”

Dick can’t even blame Jason for all the times he fell through on plans he’s made with the kid. It’s unfair but he’s trying, and he knows if there’s one trait Jason holds beyond what both Dick and Bruce are capable of, it’s kindness to a fault.

“Whatever you want, Jay.”

Jason squints at him, forces Dick to say what he really means again. 

“Maybe we can play video games, order takeout for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Or I can teach you that flip I know you’ve been having trouble with or I can even show you my patrol route.”

They are ascending and the branches of the evergreen trees hanging low with snow shrink as they gain height. The snow has been falling down on and off all day and it seems to be starting again, drifting down in clumping flakes as they melt in their hair. 

“Alfie wouldn’t like that.” Jason’s cheeks are flushed, and he will cite that it’s bright red from the cold with his last dying breath and not because that is Dick Grayson’s scarf wrapped around his neck and covering half his face when the man realized Jason forgot his at the Manor. 

Dick bats his lashes at him, exaggerated just as they come up to the midway point of the hill. “Alfie doesn’t have to get mad about what he doesn’t know.”

Jason levels a look at Dick with all the severity he can muster when he’s pink in the cheeks, mumbling under his breath. “Alfred  always finds out.”

“Takeout for just lunch and dinner then,” Dick suggests with a secretive sort of smile, like they are both in on a promise kept between just the two of them. “I’m sure we can have leftover pizza from the night before for breakfast?” 

Swinging his legs with ease, Dick gives him a moment to consider it, like there’s any other answer aside from yes . They are at the top of the hill when they make the short drop from the ski lift to the ground but their conversation never breaks its stride. 

“Promise, Dick?” 

Jason cuts across the curve to the start of the way down, hears Dick answer from just out of the corner of his eyes as he comes to a stop next to him, nodding. 

“Promise.”

There’s a long way to go to get back down to where they started from. It’s a pretty high hill after all. When Dick pulls down his ski goggles, Jason does the same. 

“Race you then, little wing?”

Dick pushes off with a laugh, Jason follows with a shout. The wind is cold, cutting across their cheeks, they take the long winding way down. They get there eventually.