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Dick puts the pieces together when he rushes back to the Batcave to find Damian duct-taped to B’s computer chair, Jason sitting on the desk and spinning him in circles with one methodical shove of his boot, all while Damian wails. Not for any of that. Not for the years at this point of watching the two interact. No, he puts it together when, calm as you please, Jason responds to a steady stream of increasingly high-pitched threats with, “shut the fuck up, you’re grounded,” and the whole goddamn world collapse around him.
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If Dick, or Bruce, or Tim or Stephanie or Barbara had been looking –
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That first meeting; the way Jason had raised an eyebrow and tilted his head and Damian had growled at some unsaid challenge; the way Jason had smirked in response and risked losing a hand to ruffle the kid’s hair.
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Jason’s very timely inclination to start another fucking feud with Bruce whenever and only whenever Damian was getting to clawing-at-the-walls levels of panic and anxiety over his father’s behavior, over the uncertainty of his expectations.
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Damian’s absolute unquenching, unceasing hatred for Tim Drake.
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Damian’s instant, unquestioning obedience of all things Alfred Pennyworth.
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That Jason worked better with Damian than any of the other bats, up to and including Bruce.
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That Jason had monthly fucking dinners with Talia –
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“You two knew each other?”
Jason stops torturing Damian so abruptly that the chair tips dangerously close to falling over, so abruptly that Damian’s shrieking cuts off just as suddenly, and both of them stare at Dick coolly, distrustfully, and –
“Go away, Grayson. This doesn’t concern you.”
“Thanks, asshat. Now I owe Alfie a twenty.”
Jason goes back to spinning Damian, who begins spitting and snarling again, and Dick fumbles for the nearest sittable surface before he collapses.