Chapter Text
All he remembers are points of contact. Dick’s arms wrapped around him. Dick’s hand between his shoulders, or rubbing up and down Jason’s arm. Pressing his head to Dick’s back as they rode home; Dick holding onto where Jason wraps himself around Dick’s middle. And now–Dick holding either side of Jason’s face. Talking at him. To him.
Jason brings one of his hands up to hold onto Dick’s wrist. Focuses on Dick’s voice until Jason comes back to him. There’s a ghost of a smile on Dick’s lips when Jason’s attention returns. He looks as messed up as Jason feels and while Jason feels guilty for that, he bites back the apology that wants to rip from his throat.
Instead he croaks a weary and worn: “I’m okay.”
Dick rubs his thumbs along Jason’s cheeks, just above his jaw. Once, twice before Jason’s eyes drift closed–before he forces them back open. He swallows thickly. It’s such a tender thing. So overwhelming that Jason can’t bring himself to meet Dick’s gaze again.
“Yeah,” Dick tells him, lowering his hands and pulling away. The loose hold Jason had on Dick’s wrist falls away, too. “You’re okay.”
Jason can’t remember ever being this fucked up when he was on his own. He had always thought he was pretty well adjusted, but to hell with that huh? Jason was just fooling himself. He must have blacked out all the bad memories because his life is too damn pathetic otherwise.
(A part of him remembers though, vaguely, that this has happened a lot. Back when his parents were alive. When he was on the street–getting into trouble or asking for it himself).
Pull it together, he chides himself. Jason is back at the tower, in his room, in the ensuite. It’s late. He needs to shower. Dick is gone, but before he left he told Jason to–said Jason would feel better once Jason got clean. The shower is already on, fogging up the bathroom until the air is heavy with steam. Before the water runs cold, Jason should shower. Just–fucking move.
His hands shake when he undresses himself, a shudder rushing down his spine because he can still feel it–an arm around his shoulder, a hand on his thigh; another pushing up his sleeve, a prick of a needle in the crook of his elbow. A hand on his chin, tilting him this way and that to inspect him, a hand at his waist, fingers groping low, low. Painful. Scary. Sloppy.
With a trembling sigh, Jason raises his hands to scrub over his face.
It’s fine, he tells himself, a soft mantra in his head. He’s fine. Everything is fine now. Jason didn’t even get hurt. Despite everything, he defended himself. He isn’t that weak little brat from before anymore. It’s fine. He’s fine.
Jason lowers his hands until he can hold his face and neck—same as Dick had just moments ago. A safer point of contact; a nicer touch. Warm. Safe.
(A city can’t love him, but his parents chose not to—)
With a small, jerky shake of his head, Jason forces the thought away. All he needs to think about right now is going through the motions: clean up, feel better. They’re easy, familiar. Thoughtless. He steps into the shower, arms wrapped tight around himself until the spray at his back eases the tension in him enough that he can let go and scrub at his skin. Scrubbing, scrubbing, scratching until his skin stings from soap and the spray of water.
When he finishes, Jason dries off and gets dressed. Or tries to. All he has to change into are sweats and a short sleeve top. It’s—not enough. Its not enough and he stands there dumb and miserable over it although it’s such a small fucking thing.
Life off the streets has made him soft and weak for comfort. Some fucking sweatshirt isn’t going to hide anything, he tells himself. Get over it. Get over yourself.
Jason stands there for long enough that the mirrors start to defog. When he looks up into them, Jason takes himself in, wincing with resentment. He’s more than skin and bone, scrapes and bruises, but is he? All Jason sees are abrasions and contusions. Pale skin and red rimmed eyes. Somehow he looks both older and younger than he is, haunted and scared. Jaded and tired.
Jason presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. Breathes. Distracts himself from how the neckline of his shirt sweeps uncomfortably beneath his collarbone and how the sleeves aren't long. He focuses on scrubbing the taste of bile off his tongue, off his teeth. Only the feeling of the toothbrush in his mouth makes him gag and Jason dry heaves again. Toothbrush clattering to the counter as he scrambled to support himself on the marble as he retches. Stomach empty, but fighting to get something out regardless.
(Something foul in his mouth, hot and salty and bitter. Jaw aching and eyes wet and body trembling as a hand held his mouth shut and pinched his nose so he couldn’t breathe. ‘Swallow it, sweetheart,’ they told him, and when he did he felt sick but they patted his cheek and said, ‘there’s a good boy,’ and–)
When his body decides it’s had enough with being dramatic, Jason spits and just—crumbles. Just a bit. Broken over the counter, his head in his hands as he takes forcibly slow, steady breaths.
Jason pulls at his hair before letting his hands slip back to his neck, trying to squeeze away some of the tension that’s settled through it. With one last steadying breath, he spits again, stands up, cleans his mess and sorts himself out.
Enough, he thinks to himself. Enough.
(A needle in his arm, poison in his veins. Laughter as he was made boneless and dumb. Compliant. Convenient. Scratching weakly to get it out, get it out—voice slurred because ‘no, no, no—‘).
When Jason opens the door to the ensuite, he sees Dick waiting on the edge of Jason’s stripped bed. Broken over himself until he hears the door, then sitting up with a pasted on smile.
“Are you okay?” Jason asks, his voice rough and scratchy and uncomfortable because his throat feels so raw—from being sick, from screaming.
Surprise crosses Dick’s face, followed quickly by fondness. “Yeah,” he says, his voice just as rough. He beckons Jason over and Jason shuffles closer until Dick brings Jason to stand between his legs. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Yeah.” Jason quips, sarcastic even in spite of his exhaustion. “You look it.”
“Just worried.” Dick tells him, reaching out for Jason’s arm so that he can tend to the scratches at the crook of Jason’s elbow. The skin is broken and welted, irritated and angry and red from how Jason gouged it. It’s already scabbed over though. It will heal fine. Better than the rest of him did, at least.
He flinches when Dick holds his arm too similarly to too many others. Dick lets go right away, adjusting until some of the tension eases out of Jason’s arm and face. He’s gentle when he continues and Jason forces himself to hold still. Focuses on just watching Dick’s hands as they clean and bandage and wrap.
(Painful, scary, sloppy. Again and again.)
“Robin.” Dick says.
“Yeah?” Jason answers, shaking himself from his daze at the call. He raises his gaze to look at Dick, but Dick’s attention is focused on Jason’s arm. Slowly wrapping gauze so that Jason can’t compulsively scratch himself again like he had.
“It’s what my parents would call me.” Dick tells him, soft and nostalgic in the quiet between them.
(‘Robin almost sounds like an endearment to you.’ Because Jason let his heart fall into his fucking lap and spat up his dirty, mangled soul and Dick saw it–how precious Robin is to him. Robin is the dearest thing in Jason’s world).
“Bruce never told me that.” Jason admits.
“Never told him. Or anyone.” The weight and intimacy of that feels heavy. Jason takes a deep breath. Wonders why. Maybe Dick wanted to keep that gentle, tender sentiment to himself—didn’t want anyone to touch or wreck or ruin it.
“Why are you telling me?” Jason asks, his voice quiet between them. There’s a strange feeling of stillness in the room. Shadows stretch across the wall from the dim light coming from the lamp at Jason’s bedside. It reminds Jason of when Dick found him in that study at the start–after everything. All gold and shadow and empty space between them because Dick didn’t know how to catch him. But Jason doesn’t need to be caught. He knows how to fall.
Dick considers it for a moment, hands stilling. “A while ago I asked what Robin meant to you.” Dick says, tearing the wrap and tucking the end into the bandaging, securing it. He presses his thumb against it, a soft pressure. “This is what it means to me.”
(‘Robin’s the greatest good I’ve ever known.’)
“I just wanted you to know. Because you’re Robin.” His hold drops from Jason’s arm to his wrist, tracing near a neat line of scars. Dick looks at them, three near identical burns. Jason wants to pull away, too vulnerable and exposed; tries to because Dick looks gutted and Jason doesn’t want to be the cause of that. But Dick holds him steady. Keeps him close while simultaneously backing off, his hand sliding down to loosely hold Jason’s own.
“Robin means so much to me.” Dick says, a rawness in his tone and even in the small, barely there smile that ghosts across his face. Dick’s eyes are blue and grey and dark: stormy seas and foggy skies. He lets go of Jason’s hand, fingertips hooked with Jason’s own until gravity pulls them apart.
Jason doesn’t understand—not entirely. He thinks Dick might be worried that Jason’s grief will taint Robin’s memory, maybe. Jason won’t let it though. Robin means everything to him. Robin gave Jason freedom and opportunity; Robin has made him safe. Dick knows how endeared Jason is to Robin though. Especially now, knowing why it’s so precious to Dick. Jason is Robin now, and Robin will always be one of the most dear things that Dick ever keeps close to his heart.
“I won’t ruin them.” Jason says, almost making a connection but missing by a mile. He’s earnest when he says it though; it’s a promise, he swears it. “I won’t let anything touch them.”
Dick’s shoulders drop and he shakes his head, “You aren’t going to ruin anything.” He tells Jason.
Jason pulls a face, grimacing in disagreement.
“You’re good.” Dick stresses to him, unperturbed by Jason’s open rejection of the notion. It’s not the first time Dick has told Jason something like this, but it still makes Jason exasperated and uncomfortable. It’s just not true. Still, Dick insists, desperate to get it through Jason’s head, “You’re good. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
Jason’s not sure what they’re talking about. Robin or Jason? How Jason will be going forward, or what happened in the past?
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
The discomfort becomes too much. Jason shifts his weight just slightly, the smallest tell that he wants to run. He doesn’t want to talk about it, whatever Dick is trying to get at.
Dick notices and relents again. Pulling back so that Jason can breathe.
“Not doing a great job of taking care of you…” Dick admits, maybe starting to become aware that Jason is more strung out and broken down than he’s let on.
“You don’t have to take care of me.” Jason says.
“I want to.” Is all Dick tells him in reply. And—Jason knows that. Dick told Jason, himself. Back on the perimeter of that isolated house, their backs pressed to an unsteady fence, an endless expanse of brush blowing to and fro before them. Back when Jason thought they were a little star crossed and Dick refused it. Because Jason is Robin. And Robin is Dick’s.
“Well…you’re trying.” Jason tells him, raising one of his shoulders in a small shrug. “That’s all that matters to me, at least.”
Because even just a base amount of effort, even if it’s fucked, is more than Jason has ever had before. It’s more than anyone has ever wanted to give him. It means everything to him.
“Yeah,” Dick says, his standards vastly different though. He sighs, bowing forward again, head in his hands. Tiredly, he says again, “Yeah, I’m trying.”
There’s something unexpectedly sad about that—just the way Dick says it. Disheartened. Defeated.
Jason doesn’t know what’s wrong, but something happened. Jason doesn’t want to believe all of this is just because Dick made some assumptions about him–that those assumptions may be true. They don’t matter; Jason is fine. Dick doesn’t need to have a bleeding heart for him of all people. It doesn’t matter what the world throws at him, Jason will be okay.
Dick cares too much. He cares so damn much that he breaks his own heart.
Tentatively, Jason steps close and wraps himself around Dick. Arms draped over Dick’s shoulders and neck and pulling Dick’s bowed head to rest against Jason’s ribs. Dick wraps his arms around Jason’s hips, in turn. Encircles him and clings tight in a way that makes Jason’s breath catch in his throat. For a second, his hold falters, but it settles as Jason takes a shuddering breath.
“Sorry.” Dick says.
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.” Jason chides, lightly pulling at Dick’s hair. There’s a minute shake of Dick’s head, but Jason holds him still and argues, “You’re trying to take responsibility for things you shouldn’t again. Don’t do that to yourself.”
“Sorry.” Dick says again.
“You didn’t hurt me.” Jason tells him.
Dick breathes deep and holds fast to him and says, “Let me say it anyway.”
Sorry for everything Dick did to hurt him. For how the world is unkind to him. For how people have let him down, left him alone. For how he’s been used and taken advantage of. For how people delighted in it. Sorry, Dick tells him. Again and again, sorry. Because Dick is the sort of man that will shoulder the world’s burdens and take every hurting thing under his wing.
It overwhelms him. Makes Jason’s chest tight and leaves him feeling shaken. Dick wants to take care of Jason, but this is too much. It’s too soft. Jason never anticipated something like this. He’s choked by it, because this is everything he’s never had. This is grief and loss and mourning–empathy and compassion and broken-hearted tenderness.
Sorry, Dick tells him, and he means it.
Sorry, he says, like it breaks him that those sincere feelings can do nothing.
Sorry, he says, and Jason can barely keep it together.
There’s no way Dick can’t feel the shudder and staccato of his breaths. Tears catch on Jason’s eyelashes, heavy, as he bites his lip and fights not to break over Dick and ask for more than he has the right to. His dad always told Jason that he was too greedy, taking more than he was ever worth. With this though, Jason doesn’t want to overstep–doesn’t want to take so much that he’s left with nothing, or has it taken away. Maybe Jason is a bit starved for comfort, but that gnawing ache is familiar; he can get by with just this. It’s already too much.
No one holds Jason like this. No one cares like this.
It’s been a rough go of it lately, constant reminders thrown in his face that Jason’s life is messy and ugly and so is he. Reds and greens and yellows won’t hide that.
Jason knows how to fall, how to crash and burn and pick himself up and walk it off. Jason has been falling all his life, but someone is catching him now. Dick won’t let him fall and Jason is Robin–but he doesn’t know how to fly. Too heavy. Too burdened. Too fucked up.
A breath finally catches in his throat, a hitched sound that has Dick tightening his hold and pulling Jason off balance. Dick pulls Jason down on to him and Jason nearly breaks himself in half to make himself small enough to straddle Dick’s lap, to tuck himself away into the cradle of Dick’s arms and chest. He presses his face to Dick’s shoulder. Wraps his arms tight around Dick’s middle and grasps blindly to Dick’s back for purchase. “I’m okay.” Jason gasps wetly, his voice cracking.
“You’re okay,” Dick breathes, chokes. Voice wet because he can feel it–the warmth of tears through his shirt. The small trembles that start to wrack Jason’s body again. “I’m sorry. You’ll be okay.”
Tomorrow is going to come whether he’s ready for it or not, so Jason will mourn tonight. For tonight, Jason will choke on his grief and all the anguish that has been haunting him for days and weeks and longer still. Tomorrow, he’ll be better. Tomorrow, he’ll be fine. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.