Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For the record, it was all Dick's fault.

If Dick hadn't convinced him to go to this stupid Christmas party, Jason would never have left the (theoretical) safety of his apartment. If Dick hadn't signed him up for the family Secret Santa exchange, Jason wouldn't have left half an hour early to purchase wrapping paper on the drive over. If Jason hadn’t had to stop for that paper, he would never have conveniently roared up the street at the same moment as two runaway bank robbers squealed around the corner, guns a blazing. If Dick hadn't decided to live up to his namesake by pestering Jason until he agreed to stay over for Christmas, Jason wouldn't be bleeding out from multiple lacerations and a freaking bullet hole in his side in a filthy Gotham alley on the other side of nowhere.

Not to mention the multitude of broken ribs and other important parts of his skeleton (his leg, for example) from that little meet-and-greet his motorcycle had had with the wall.

So, yeah. This one was on Golden Boy.

The pain had dulled to a low throb ages ago, along with the rest of the nerves in his body. He supposed the numbness probably meant he was going into shock from the cold and blood loss.

He was long past the point of caring.

Stupid pavement had smashed his phone on impact. Jason knew he should have put the fragile device in his left pocket. (Stupid smartphones and their skinniness; he should’ve invested the extra money for an Otterbox case.)

Now he was left sprawled awkwardly on the pavement, unable to move because in some last ditch effort at life his handlebar had decided to stab him in the side, and without any way to call for help.

Perfect.

Well, no one could fault him for trying. ‘E’ for effort, and all that garbage.

And yet…in his mind’s eye, he could practically see Dick's expression as he waited in Wayne Manor, brilliant blue eyes still alight with hope beside the Christmas tree even as his family exchanged resigned, knowing looks behind his back.

Because Jason wasn't coming. Of course he wasn't. But not for the reasons they probably suspected.

No one was coming for him.

He was alone. He was going to die. Again.

Which…should probably terrify him. And it did, in a detached, “my life is about to end and there’s nothing I can do about it” kind of way.

But you know. Been there, done that, right?

Not to mention it was kind of hard to feel when he could barely recognize the fact he still had a body in the first place.

Ha. Feel, feel? Emotions, body? There’s a double meaning to that. (Shakespeare reference for the win.)

The worst part, Jason decided, was the waiting. Knowing he was a goner, unable to lift a finger to prevent it, and just…lying in a pool of his own blood. Waiting for an end he still wasn’t quite ready for. Just like the first time.

You’d think five years and a second chance would prepare a guy.

...Nope. Still terrified.

So much so, he was almost grateful for the bone chilling cold that kept him numb enough to not really process that emotion in its horrific entirety.

Because Jason was dying. Again.

He wasn’t stupid enough to think it wasn’t going to happen eventually. He had just hoped it would be quietly in his sleep or something, when he was old and fat and bald.

Like that was ever going to happen with the kind of life he led in the first place.

The best part? He wasn’t even in costume.

Jason was so absorbed in his own bubble of misery and self-pity that it took him a moment to realize the alley wasn’t exactly silent anymore.

The sound of a motor roared from the street, coming closer. A…motorcycle? Brakes squealed, a headlight flared across the shadows and grime. The vehicle idled, then shut off.

Footsteps echoed as if from a distance; so quick and so sudden, Jason wasn’t sure he was imagining it. Someone gasped. Then, a breathless, "Jay," and snow crunched by his ear as someone knelt by his side. Jason couldn’t even gather the strength to flinch as feather light touches probed along his abdomen in search of the source of the sticky puddle of blood he felt spreading beneath him.

"Perv," Jason managed, prying his heavy, frozen eyelids open. The blurry figure beside him started in surprise.

"You're awake," the person—Dick, he realized as the man's face swam into focus—breathed. "Thank God. Where?"

Fumbling for the right word, Jason struggled to get his swollen tongue and stiff lips to cooperate—it was freaking cold outside: "Side."

A rustle of fabric, then a harsh tearing sound echoed next to his ear. Fingers prodded around his waist, and he hissed in pain as a sudden hard pressure rekindled the damaged nerves around the wound, sending fiery signals to his brain.

"Sorry, sorry," Dick babbled. Then, “I’m calling Bruce."

Before Jason could mouth out a big, fat, "No," a beep sounded as Dick pressed a button on his phone. The Golden Boy still had the Bat on speed dial. Cute.

There was a short silence. Then, "Bruce!" the eldest yelled, hand shaking against the makeshift bandages on Jason's torso. "Bruce, it's Jason. He's been shot, there's blood everywhere, you gotta come quick, I can’t move him…”

It was all Jason could do not to black out as Dick rattled off an address, barely able to focus on his predecessor's (blurry) panicked expression.

Wait…why was he here again?

Oh yeah. Because Dick was a… You know what? It wasn’t worth the effort to finish that overused sentence.

“Oh no no no,” Dick was suddenly saying, shaking Jason and sending a flutter of agony through his abdomen. “Eyes open, Jaybird. Help’s on the way, you don’t get to go now. You gotta talk to me, okay?”

A pause. A lick of chapped lips. “What happened, anyway?”

“Some trigger happy bank robber,” Jason admitted. Too tired to be annoyed, or even embarrassed at the admission. “Fired a shot off...hit me, then I lost control of the motorcycle and introduced it to the wall. Turns out…he’d been crushing on it for quite a while…judging from how fast it hit. Love at first sight. So eager, they nailed a piece of me between them.”

Dizzily, Jason lifted his head, staring mournfully at the scrap metal all around him. “My poor, stupid bike.”

“I…can’t decide if you’re hallucinating, or if your sarcasm has taken on a whole new level of weird.”

Jason smirked, raising an eyebrow (at least he thought he did; his forehead was too numb to tell). “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

The older man sighed. “Only you would ride a motorcycle in the middle of a snowstorm," Dick chided; almost fond.

“Hypocrite,” Jason snorted.

Grinning faintly, Dick shrugged. "I guess we're both idiots. And car-less."

Jason barked a laugh, cutting off short at the sudden pain flaring through his torso. Gasping in surprise (he hadn’t felt anything that sharp for an hour), he grimaced, arching weakly as tendrils of agony wound through his nerves from the holes in his abdomen.

"Sh," Dick soothed, though Jason could hear the slight tremor in his voice. "It's okay, Li'l Wing. We're going to get you home, okay?"

Something in Jason cracked. Pressure built behind his eyes. Ugh, why did dying make him feel suddenly sentimental? He’d done this before. (Maybe because this time he might actually be able to say goodbye…)

"I meant…to come," Jason managed, swallowing a sob (he would not cry). "I swear...I really did this time."

There was a short pause. Then, "I believe you, Jay," Dick whispered. "And tell you what, when this whole mess is over, we can throw a whole 'nother party. Just for you. How’s that sound?”

“Mm. Rather stay home.”

“Introvert.”

“I prefer to think of it as...‘choosing my company.’”

“Of course.”

Jason managed a smirk. Without really meaning too, flopped back against his predecessor, head curling against his chest. (It was stupid cold out, Dick was warm, and Jason’s neck muscles just gave out, okay?!)

Which didn’t exactly justify the words that spilled out of his frozen mouth: "M'so tired, Dick," he sighed.

Arms squeezed him tighter, a shaky breath ruffling his hair. “I know, Jay,” Dick managed eventually. “Just…just stay awake. I need you to stay awake. Can you do that?"

"Whatever...Dick."

He was rewarded with a faint chuckle from his predecessor.

And it was getting kind of hard to breathe, but Jason elected to ignore it. Unfortunately, hitched breathing was pretty much impossible to hide.

Noticing Jason’s struggle, Dick’s eyebrows furrowed in worry. “You okay?”

“Jus’…fine.”

Crap. He couldn’t even talk right anymore.

Well. Better now than never.

Ignoring a wave of dizziness, Jason nodded weakly in the vague direction of the remains of his bike. "I got...you. For that…Santa thingie. Gift's in there somewhere."

"Aw, Jay," Dick choked, and Jason could hear the tears pressing at the back of Dick's throat.

"S'that...stupid video game...you've been...clamoring about for ages. Do you...realize how expensive that thing was? Not that...it matters. M’dying. Again. N’dead people don't need money. I should know."

"Don't say that," Dick snapped, though the anger was lost as the last syllable cracked with fear. "You're going to be fine, Jaybird. I promise."

"Don't make promises…you can't keep," Jason growled, harsh. "I'm not...stupid, Dickiebird."

Swallowing visibly, Dick hesitated; leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Jason’s forehead.

Which…wasn’t as awful as Jason would have expected. Still, “Ew.” He wrinkled his nose. He had a reputation to uphold, after all. “M’not…Tim, Dick. I’ll still…kill you for that.”

Dick smiled. “Sure you will.”

Fuzz edged in the corners of Jason’s vision.

Yeah, there was no ignoring that.

Dimly, he heard a tearing sound. Cracking his eyes open (when did they close?), Jason squinted up at his predecessor. Just in time for an inferno of pain to rocket through his torso as Dick piled on the pressure on that stupid bullet hole.

All of the energy left in his body went to a single twitch of his left foot in response.

And Jason was well-acquainted with what that meant.

“Hey…tell…Replacement…I don’t actually hate him,” Jason managed. “And…demon’s…not too bad neither. Just…anger issues. Like me.”

“Jay.“

Jason ignored him. “Tell Alf…miss ‘im. Always did. Even…even when I was dead…first time.”

“Jay, stop.“

“And B…isn’t always a jerk…every blue moon.”

“Shut up, Jason—“

“And you…aren’t a half bad…big brother. Y’know…when you put your mind to it.”

“You’re not going to die, Jason.”

And…Jason was too tired to contradict him. Directly, anyway. ”Least...m'not 'lone...this time. Thanks...for that."

"Don't you dare, Jason," Dick threatened, tears leaking into his voice; onto Jason’s face. "Don't even think about it. Bruce and I would never forgive ourselves if you...if we couldn't save you again."

Jason's head lolled against Dick's chest in a vague attempt at a head shake. "You...tried. S'all...that matters."

With a sigh (not a girly one), he closed his eyes and sank into blackness, vaguely aware of the roar of an engine echoing over Dick's frantic cries.

I’m sorry, Bruce.

One would think waking to the sound of a heart monitor wouldn’t be considered comforting, let alone normal. Welcome to the Batfamily, where it was lucky if you ever woke up to that sound at all.

Jason’s first thought: He ached. Everywhere. Which was…a not entirely unfamiliar situation. It was a dull ache, though; hazy and confusing through the cocktails of painkillers he was probably on.

The cold was new, though. Bone deep, unwavering despite the layers of blankets he could feel draped over his body. A cocoon of warmth that only seemed to brush the first few layers of skin, doing almost nothing for the flesh beneath.

Wait. Ache. Feel.

He wasn’t numb anymore.

Then his sluggish, drugged brain finally drew the conclusion the clues were trying to tell him: I’m not dead.

That thought really shouldn’t be as novel an idea as it appeared in his mind.

Blearily, Jason forced his sandpaper eyelids open, squinting against the familiar harsh light of the Batcave’s infirmary. On instinct, he moved an arm to block the glare…only for pain to flare through his ribcage and abdominals before his arm rose three inches.

“Ow,” he grunted.

Just like that, the LEDs were blocked as a raven-haired head poked entirely too close to his own face for comfort, brilliant blue eyes blinking down at him.

Dick Grayson’s expression lit up, stupidly cheerful grin stretching across his features. “You’re up.”

“It would seem so,” Jason managed drily; which wasn’t hard, considering his throat was killing him…

“Whoops, here...” Dick dropped out of his line of vision, returning holding a glass of water with a straw hanging over the lip.

Whatever little dignity Jason had salvaged from the previous night’s (at least, he thought it was last night’s) little heart-to-heart was lost as Dick helped prop him up and raised the straw to his lips so Jason could reach it.

It was totally worth it, though, as the cool liquid was heaven against the parched tissue in his mouth and throat. All too soon, Jason had drained the glass. He frowned. “How long was I…?”

“About 24 hours,” Dick said casually. The twist at the corner of his mouth gave away the worry. “You crashed once. Leslie got you back.”

Jason shivered. Decided to blame that on the cold. Speaking of… “Why’s it so cold in here?”

Dick winced, sympathetic. “Well, you kind of have hypothermia… Probably should have mentioned that. And we couldn’t really move you upstairs until you were stable, so…”

Jason huffed. “Typical.”

“Yeah.” Dick paused. Brightened. “You up for some company?”

“What…?”

“Awesome.” Dick shuffled to the edge of the infirmary, pulling back the curtain and calling: “Hey, guys! He’s awake!”

And Jason must have blacked out or something, because he barely blinked and next thing he knew he was surrounded by people.

More specifically…family.

All of which were holding colorful packages in their arms, under their elbows, balanced on their heads (Dick), and grinning like the cheerful idiots they all became around the holiday season.

For a moment, no one said anything. Just stared at each other. Batgirls and Robins. The Bat himself hovering on the outskirts, unsure.

Then Damian stomped right up to Jason’s bedside, cobalt eyes so like his father’s glinting sharply. “You’re an idiot, Todd,” he announced without preamble.

That seemed to break whatever dam was governing the silence of the rest of the family. The resulting confusing tidal wave of words was enough to make Jason’s head spin.

“Oh my gosh, Jason, we were worried sick—”

“Do you realize how much of a drag it would’ve been if you’d died on Christmas?”

“Thought B was gonna have a heart attack…”

“He almost gave me a heart attack watching him.”

“Does this mean we can open presents now…?”

Through all the chaos, Cass’ lithe form wove to the front of the crowd, perching gracefully on the edge of the med cot. She gave Jason a small smile. “Home,” she stated; simple, sincere.

And maybe it was the spirit of the season, or the crushing (uplifting) realization that he wasn’t dead; but as Jason watched his, dare he say, family clamoring over his head…the comfortable ache of something other than hate swelled in his chest.

“Yeah,” Jason agreed, ignoring the telltale pressure rising behind his eyes. “Home.”

Chapter Text

Steph came first, fast and frazzled, waking him with a peck on the cheek and a whispered, “Way to not be dead again, Jay,” sprinting out the door before Jason could do much more than turn his head.

The drugs he was on must’ve been the good stuff, though, because Jason sank back into unconsciousness the moment his eyes flickered closed in an attempt to blink.

 Hours later (or something, judging from the fact light was actually peeking out under the heavy blinds), Jason opened his eyes to the sight of a shadowy figure perched on the end of his bed.  “Holy—“

“Sh,” Cassandra hushed, pressing a gentle hand to Jason’s chest as he scrambled drunkenly backwards.  “Stitches.”

As if on cue, the formerly dull throb in his torso flared to a sharp sting, climbing to an inferno.  Instinctively, Jason clutched at his wound, feeling the parallel ridges of Alfred’s perfect threading beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.  “No kidding,” he hissed.

Cassandra slid gracefully from the bed, gliding to the IV stand occupying the space where the bedside table had been.  She pressed a button, and something cold wound its way into Jason’s arm.

Within moments, the pain ebbed back to a dull throb, fuzzing at the edges until it was almost numb.

Jason puffed out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, sinking back against his pillow.

“Better?” Cassandra asked.

Jason nodded, eyelids drooping against his will.  “Much.”

Cass hummed.

The bed shifted slightly as Cass reclaimed her spot on the mattress.  Thin, strong fingers pressed against his scalp and combed gently through his hair.

If it had been anyone else, at any other time, Jason would’ve shaken the gesture off.  But as it was, warmer than he’d been in ages (the electric blanket was certainly an improvement), doped up on morphine, and completely, utterly exhausted…Jason decided he could tolerate it.  Just this once.  He had an image to keep up after all.

“Thanks, sis,” Jason slurred, half against his will.

“You are welcome,” Cass replied, smile evident in her voice.

Jason drifted off.

 The next time he woke up, his body felt like he’d accidentally spent the night in a sauna.  Which is to say, he was broiling.  Which didn’t make sense, since he had hypothermia which in theory meant he should be cold.

Or...was he recovered?  Was that how that worked?  How long had he been asleep?

Jason rolled over with a huff, attempting to shift the uncomfortable mountain of blankets off of his body.  A painful pinch made itself known on the inside of his elbow.

“Whoa whoa whoa, Jay,” he heard.  “You’ll pull out your IV line.  Here…”

A shuffle of fabric, and some of the weight pressing down on him disappeared, the pinching sensation fading.  Jason opened his eyes blearily, spotting a familiar figure crouched at the foot of the bed turning a dial attached to one of the blankets.

The heat receded some, but not enough.

With a grunt, Jason moved to sit up, desperate to escape the Dutch oven that was his life right now.

Okay.  No.  Bad idea.  The room spun around him, head too light, limbs too heavy, joints achy and uncooperative.  He teetered sideways, the world swooping out from under him in a rush.  But before he hit the floor (mattress?), he collided with a hard chest, arms wrapping support(protect)ively around him.

“Jay,” a voice rumbled through said chest, too close and loud in Jason’s ear.  “Are you okay?”

“Too hot,” Jason managed, almost a croak.  Throat dry and aching.

A cool hand pressed against his forehead and Jason instinctively leaned into the touch.

“You’re burning up,” the voice (Dick, his addled brain finally realized) murmured, accusing, worry lacing his tone.

“No dip, Sherlock,” Jason grunted, squinting up at his predecessor.  “S’hot.  Like…when that warehouse blew up.  Best tan I’ve ever had.”

Dick smirked, though his eyes still shone concern. "If you're making terrible jokes about your death, then you must be more lucid than I thought."

"Lucid?" Jason challenged. "Who said anything about lucid? I always make death jokes. Just to see your stupid guilty faces."

"Guilty?" Dick said; equal parts amused and hurt.

"Well, that's more Bruce," Jason conceded. "You just look like a kicked puppy."

Dick hummed, reaching somewhere behind him and pulling a glass of water from thin air—that is to say, from somewhere outside of Jason's rather limited perspective. He pushed the straw up to Jason's lips and Jason sucked gratefully.

"Just glad we didn't repeat it," Dick said, soft.

Electing to ignore that emotional bombshell, Jason frowned, a thought that had been lurking in the hot salty soup that was his brain finally surfacing. "How'd you know where to find me, anyway?"

“Hmm?”

“Alleyway,” Jason clarified.  “Christmas Eve.”

“Ah.” Dick smiled sheepishly.  “Well…when you didn’t show up, I kind of made the executive decision to drag your butt back to the Manor myself.  It just so happened that I caught a glimpse of your motorcycle in the alley and came to check it out.”

Jason raised an eyebrow.  “Why do I get the feeling that’s only half true?”

Dick flushed.  “Well…I didn’t exactly see your motorcycle…Bruce has trackers on everything…and everyone.  So…”

“Say no more.  I would like to keep what remains of my illusion of privacy, thanks.”

Dick laughed, short and sharp.  “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Jay.”

“Silence, for one thing.”

“Are you implying something?”

“I don’t know.  Am I?”

The older man sighed, half exasperated, half fond, like the sentimental fool he was.  A hand brushed briefly through his hair.  “Love you, too, Jay.”

Jason...didn’t know what to say to that, so embraced the opportunity his pounding headache provided to pass out cold.

 The door slammed open, doorstop cracking against the siding so hard Jason jumped.

Dazed, he blinked in confusion as Tim Drake stalked through the doorway, lips set and eyes dark.

The teen plopped down on the edge of Jason’s bed without preamble, notepad perched on his knee and pencil already hovering over the surface of the paper.  “Describe the car.”

Jason blinked.  A strange combination of half asleep and fluttery adrenaline induced panic. “Excuse me?”

Tim raised an eyebrow like, ‘uh, duh?’  “Of the car the bank robbers were in.  Make, model, license plate—”

“Serial number,” Jason snorted.

Expression unchanging, Tim nodded.  “That, too.”

Jason stared.  “Seriously?”

“Do you want the guys who shot you caught, or not?”

Eyes rolling, Jason huffed: “Course I do.  Only I wanted to do the catching.”

“Too bad.”  The third Robin poked the eraser end of his pencil non-too-gently into Jason’s leg.  “Now start talking, or I’ll tell Alfred exactly what happened to that vase in the hallway last month.”

“Okay, okay,” Jason snapped.  “Geez.”  Scrunched his eyebrows in thought, considering.  Rattled off the answers to Tim’s questions, adding embellishment when Tim requested as the teen scribbled frantically in his little notepad.

Eyebrows creased, a light frown pulling at the corners of his mouth, Tim tapped the pencil to his lips.  “Did you see their faces?”

“They had ski masks on,” Jason scoffed.  “They’re not that stupid.”

“They were stupid enough to shoot you,” Tim commented.

And…  Jason nodded.  “Point, that.”

“Do you remember their approximate height?  Build?  Gender?  Clothing?  What about accent, did any of them talk?”

After what felt like hours, but according to the clock on the nightstand was only about twenty minutes, Tim closed the notepad, apparently satisfied.  “We should have them pinned by tomorrow night, at the latest,” Tim predicted.

“Perfect,” Jason grumbled, finally acknowledging the steadily growing buzz at his temple that marked a headache.  “Can I go back to bed now?”

Tim nodded.  “That’s all I needed.  Thanks, Jay.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The replacement slid off the bed, moving toward the door.

And then the thought that had been niggling away, unformed at the back of his mind, suddenly made itself known.  “Hey,” Jason called.  “Couldn’t you have gotten all this information from the traffic cameras?”

Tim paused, hand on the door knob; slowly turned back toward Jason.  And then the kid honest-to-goodness smirked at him.  “Some of it.”  Considered.  “Well…most of it.”

Jason stared.  Innocent blue eyes stared back.

“This is payback for that time I ditched you to interrogate that crabby old witness with a knife last week, isn’t it,” Jason said.  Deadpan.

The answering shark-like grin was so not Tim, Jason almost recoiled.  “Maybe.”

Jason shook his head; disbelieving.  “If you ever went evil, Baby Bird, forget the Justice League.  The whole world’s screwed.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You really shouldn’t.”

The teen raised an eyebrow, another smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.  “Watch me.”

The next time the door banged open, Jason was a little more prepared.  For the sound, that is, not necessarily for the entrance of the grumpy little demon that was responsible for it.

Before Jason could do more than raise his eyebrows at the kid, Damian held up one hand.  Jason noticed the other was clutching a thin, neatly wrapped box about the size of a DVD case, only narrower.

"The only reason I'm here, Todd," the demon snapped, "is because I had the misfortune of selecting your name for that ridiculous gift exchange."

Ah, yes.  The gift exchange.  Jason had been so wrapped up (ha) in getting Dick’s to the Manor in one piece, he’d completely forgotten that he was supposed to have received one, too.  Typical.

He was dragged from his thoughts as the child shoved the striped package into Jason's arms before clambering onto the bed.  "Grayson has instructed me to remain present until you've opened it,” Damian announced.  “So if you would haul up your lazy butt and get this over with..."

“Nice to know you care,” Jason snarked, gingerly shifting his upper body up to lean against the headboard.

Damian snorted.  “To the contrary.”

“That was sarcasm, baby D.”

“Tt.  I knew that, Todd.”

“Did you, though?”

The brat huffed, crossing his arms.  “Just open your present already so I can leave.”

Jason shrugged.  ”Hey, think of it this way: You could've gotten Tim.”  At Damian’s harsh “tt,” Jason tore through the paper.

A slim wooden box revealed itself.  Damian gestured impatiently, and Jason pried open the lid to reveal…

“Wooo,” Jason whistled.  Seven inches of jagged metal glittered up at him, a narrow hilt separating the razor-thin blade from a black leather wrapped handle molded into a finger grip.

He hefted it experimentally, turning it in the lamplight.  A beaten edge that didn’t require sharpening.  Excellent balance.  It felt a lot like…  “My knife?” Jason questioned.

Damian inclined his head.  “A similar design,” he admitted.  “But different.”  The demon shifted, almost self-conscious.  “Knives of that caliber are difficult to find, especially around here.  I thought perhaps you would appreciate a backup.”

Jason nodded.  Impressed by the actually well-thought out gift.  Maybe Dick did a better job with the kid than Jason gave him credit for.

“This is pretty sick,” Jason conceded.  “Thanks, demon.”

Damian nodded.  Distracted.  Fingers fumbling with the hem of his hoodie in a gesture so actually childlike Jason almost got vertigo.

Opened his mouth.  Closed it.  Twisted the fabric between his palms.

Just when Jason was going to suggest the kid either spit it out or book it: “Father would never have forgiven himself if you died again," Damian said, quiet.  "Neither would Grayson, or Drake, for that matter.  So...I suppose I should thank you for not giving into your weak impulses that night.”  He fidgeted, eyes fixated on his hands.  “This…family, I suppose Grayson calls it…would have shattered all over again.”

And…Jason really really didn’t know what to say to that.  Maybe Dick’s influence was a bit too strong if the kid was getting that sentimental.

…Or was that just Jason with the heat behind his eyes?

Darn Dick and his apparently contagious sense of familial attachment.

“No prob, kid,” Jason settled on; uncomfortable.  Nudged the boy with his good leg.  “Same goes for you, you know.  Let’s keep the dead-but-actually-not-really Robin count at two, hmm?”

Damian’s eyes widened.  He hesitated, hands fisted at his side.  Finally, looked up, steely blue eyes meeting Jason’s own.  He nodded; solemn.  “I’ll do my best.”

Jason smiled.  “And that’s all we can ask.”  Blinked.  Swore.  “Hera, that sounded like something Golden Boy would say.  Dagnabbit, Dick and his stupid sappy happy everything.”

“Tt.”  Damian wrinkled his nose.  “Perhaps you need to be reexamined for fever.  The last thing we need in this house is another Grayson.”

Jason barked a laugh.  “Amen to that, little brother.”

And okay, maybe the whole big brother thing was worth something after all if only to see that grim little demon smile like that more often.

 The digital clock shoved in the corner flipped to 3:05AM when Jason next opened his eyes to a familiar shadowy presence lurking by his bedside.

“Hey, B.”

The man froze.  Obviously not anticipating being discovered; rather, not anticipating Jason being awake.  Considering Alfred had attempted to dose his tea earlier, Jason could kind of understand how the World’s Greatest Detective would draw that conclusion.

“Jason,” Bruce said finally.  Awkward.  “You’re…awake.”

“What gave it away?” Jason snorted.

The Bat remained silent.

And Jason was so not going to help him start up whatever train of thought Bruce had going.  Jason wasn’t Dick.  It wasn’t his job to get the Bat to share his feelings.  Anymore….

“How do you feel?” Bruce managed eventually.

“Peachy.”

“That’s…good.”

They lapsed back into silence, Bruce’s fingers fidgeting briefly at his side before he caught the tell and stopped.

‘I am Darkness,’ my butt, Jason thought.

The silence dragged on.

3:09AM.

3:10AM.

Then, “I’m…glad you’re okay.”

“You mean ‘not dead,’” Jason corrected.

Bruce inclined his head.  “That, too.”

The next pause lasted longer.  Both staring at the other.  Cobalt eyes on green-tinged blue.

The (only slightly) larger man shifted his weight.  “Jason, I...I know I don’t say it enough, but…I….“

“Don’t hurt yourself, old man,” Jason interrupted.  Gentle.  “And me, too.”

Bruce deflated, whole frame slumping against the bed.  His hand jerked against the covers, finding Jason’s hand and squeezing.  Tight.  (Desperate.)

“Merry Christmas, Jay.”

Jason squeezed back—choosing to ignore the tremors rippling from their single point of contact plus the tell-tale pressure building behind his own eyes.  “Merry Christmas, B.”