Chapter Text
Nope.
Jason didn't like this one fucking bit.
This was precisely the sort of shit that ended with him taking a permanent swim in Gotham Harbour or at the bottom of a very deep hole.
He had signed up to do street shit—emphasis on the street part here—stealing, dealing, and fighting. Not this 007 bullshit that had him dressed in an overpriced monkey suit, standing in a mansion with bathrooms bigger than his whole apartment, pretending to be some trust fund brat who played water polo or whatever the fuck rich people did on the weekends.
Sionis was either outsourcing his murder or the man had truly and wholly lost his goddamn mind when he decided that Jason, of all people, was the best choice to infiltrate Carmine fucking Falcone's Christmas gala.
So far, Jason had successfully avoided any real conversation. No one paying him much mind besides the occasional polite nod, and waitstaff offering him hors d'oeuvres with unpronounceable names and drinks that were as bubbly as they were overrated.
Falcone, in particular, had so far been too busy flirting with a woman who definitely wasn't his wife to notice him—thank God for small mercies and infidelity—but Jason would be utterly and completely screwed if the crime boss, or anyone else for that matter, decided to engage him in a conversation that required more than a one-word response.
There wasn't a chance in hell he could match these assholes' pretty words and even posher pronunciations. His Gotham accent was thicker than the sludge in its sewers, and any Richie Rich worth their diamonds and pearls would instantly know he didn't belong the second he opened his mouth.
To be honest, he was surprised they hadn't caught on already. He was sure that the moment he walked through the mansion's double oak doors and stepped onto its polished marble floors, their noses would start twitching at the mere proximity of poverty invading their white castle and perfect lives.
He was an imposter, and no matter how expensive the price tag on his clothes, it wouldn't change the fact that he was still a street rat underneath.
Hell, the suit and shoes weren't even his to keep. Sionis had lent them to him for tonight, and tonight only—playing the role of fairy god-bastard but with a BDSM aesthetic and Glock instead of a sparkly wand.
A snort escaped Jason at the mental image the thought conjured, but he was quick to cover it with a cough and an apologetic dip of his head when an elderly lady, wearing at least three endangered animals, raised her penciled-in eyebrow at him.
God, he was so going to fuck this up.
— — —
With the exception of one awkward cheek-pinching and kiss combo from the half-blind Falcone matriarch, Jason had successfully gone unnoticed throughout the entire night, blending in as just another body in the ballroom.
That should've been a win, but the uncharacteristically good luck was making him nervous as shit—because if Gotham had taught him anything in his seventeen years, it was that all good things came with a countdown clock.
Hoping to ride out the last remnants of his luck, Jason slipped away from the party and ascended the grand staircase to the dimly lit second floor. He counted the doors on the left as he moved down the hallway, stopping at the sixth one. If Roman's intel was as good as he claimed, this door would open straight into Falcone's office.
Jason quickly glanced down the hallway before testing the doorknob, the tension in his shoulders easing when it turned easily. He'd brought the lockpicks he and Yuri had spent months practicing with, but he was more than glad he didn't have to test his skills in a mansion full of drunk, trigger-happy gangsters. The less sketchy, time-consuming crap he had to deal with, the better.
With one last look down the hallway, Jason slipped into the darkened office, clicking the door shut behind him.
He half-expected alarms to blare the second he crossed the threshold, but the room stayed silent, illuminated only by the silvery moonlight filtering through the wide-set French doors that led to a terrace overlooking the grounds.
The office screamed old money—all dark wood, plush carpets, and random shit that looked like it should be in a museum—the kind of wealth Jason had only ever experienced through a TV screen.
As he made his way to Falcone's massive desk, his fingertips trailed along the spines of the countless books lining the built-in shelves, most likely first editions if he had to guess.
His eyes scanned each title hungrily, but his fingers stalled only when they reached Treasure Island. Lightly tracing the gold-embossed lettering, his heart clenched painfully as the memory of Bruce's deep, timber voice reading the story aloud came crashing down on him.
Jason couldn't even begin to count the number of nights he and Dick had spent curled up against Bruce's sides as he had read and re-read the tale of treasure hunting and pirate fighting to them. It was the one story he and Dick always agreed on, eventually becoming a staple of their bedtime routine—a tradition they extended to Tim once their younger brother joined the family.
Tim had always listened with rapt attention from his spot nestled on Bruce's chest, barely moving. But looking back, Jason wasn't sure if Tim had been captivated by the story itself or by the steady cadence of Bruce's voice that had always seemed to enthrall their younger brother.
Jason's fingers itched to pull the book free, to chase the echoes of the life stolen from him in its pages. But then he remembered where he was—and, more importantly, what he was supposed to be doing—and quickly snatched his hand back.
God, if only Bruce could see him now—his son, who had once wanted to become a cop just like him, now turned into one of the very criminals he'd spent his life trying to save Gotham from.
Sometimes, Jason struggled to reconcile who he was back then with who he had become, questioning if the kid who once dreamed of fighting crime alongside his dad had ever truly existed or was just the remnants of some bizarre fever dream meant to torment him.
The self-pity didn't last long—it never did—and was quickly overshadowed by a surge of familiar anger.
The whole reason he was in this situation in the first place was because of his dear old dad.
If Bruce hadn't insisted on playing Gotham's savior and gotten himself killed, Dick would never have been forced to sell his body for years, and Jason wouldn't currently be living out some twisted version of The Godfather.
Bruce was a born-and-raised Gothamite; he should have damn well known there was no redemption for a place as godforsaken as Gotham. But no, he'd chosen a half-baked, doomed-to-fail dream of saving a city that had only ever spit in his face and caused him endless heartache—over his own sons. And look where that had gotten them all.
As much as he loved his dad, he hated him just as much.
Roughly scrubbing his hand across his stinging eyes, Jason turned his back to the bookshelf and headed over to Falcone's desk, forcing himself to shut down any and all thoughts involving Bruce.
He didn't have time to cry over his dead daddy. He was a big boy now and had a fucking job to do.
Shoving the rolling chair out of the way with more force than necessary, Jason situated himself behind the desk. Flicking on the lamp, he scanned the desk's surface, but there was no black book in sight.
Figures it couldn't be that easy.
Deciding he may as well get comfortable, Jason shrugged off the maroon suit jacket and tossed it over the back of the chair.
With his range of motion fully restored, he began opening drawer after drawer—the sheen of sweat on the back of his neck growing with each passing second as he failed to find the crime boss's personal itinerary.
At this point, he wasn't sure what would be worse—getting caught rifling through Falcone's desk or returning to Roman empty-handed. Either way, he didn't want to find out.
When he tried the drawer second from the top on the right side, he met his first bit of resistance. Bingo.
Reaching for his suit jacket, Jason fumbled with it until he found the hidden inner pocket where he'd stashed his lockpicks. Pulling the tools free, he crouched down and got to work on the lock.
The lock wasn't anything fancy, and it was only a matter of seconds before he felt the mechanisms give way with a satisfying click.
Jason shoved the lockpicks back into his pocket and tossed his jacket aside before reaching for the newly unlocked drawer, praying the itinerary would be there. But before he could open it, the familiar clack of dress shoes echoed in the hallway—footsteps that were definitely getting closer.
Peeking over the desk, Jason watched in horror as a shadow settled outside the door, breaking up the thin line of light shining through the bottom crack. He silently willed the person to move on, only for the doorknob to begin to turn.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity. Fuck.
Jason ducked behind the desk, pressing his back against the drawers until the knobs dug painfully into his spine, eyes frantically searching for an exit.
The French doors.
Not a half-bad idea, considering they led directly outside. He could survive the two-story drop, but outrunning a mansion full of mobsters while possibly injured? Probably not.
His best bet was to take out whoever was about to enter the office, something he was fairly confident he could do thanks to the hand-to-hand combat training Yuri had put him through. The real question was whether he could knock the intruder out before they alerted the whole party downstairs that a fox was in the henhouse.
The click of the door shutting snapped Jason back to the present, his ears straining to get an idea of where his unexpected guest was and what they were doing.
He tensed, expecting any second to hear the telltale sound of a gun being drawn and its safety being clicked off.
What he was decidedly not expecting was a whispered, "Jay?"
Which, what the actual fuck? He knew that voice, and the owner of that voice should currently be in their apartment asleep with their two younger brothers, not in Carmine fucking Falcone's office.
Jason sprang up from behind the desk, and sure enough, Dick was standing by the now-closed door. He was dressed in what looked like a very expensive suit, his hair combed into a semblance of order that Jason was sure it had never experienced before, and grinning at him like it was perfectly normal for them to be running into each other at a mob bosses party.
Once again, what the actual fuck.
"What are you doing here?!" Jason hissed, his eyes wide and incredulous as he watched his brother stroll further into the room, seemingly unbothered by the situation, eyes taking in their surroundings with interest.
Dick's gaze only returned to Jason when he reached the other side of Falcone's desk.
"Hi," the older of the two whispered, a warm, genuine smile spreading across his face.
Jason goddamn near spluttered at the inane response and was seriously starting to consider that he might be having some bizarre food-related hallucination from whatever fancy shit he'd eaten tonight—fucking rich people could never just be happy with food, always having to do some bullshit fuckery to it.
But even tripping on hallucinogens, Jason doubted his brain could conjure up something so left field that it wasn't even on the baseball field anymore.
"Hi, Dick," Jason replied, words biting, "Now tell me why the fuck you're taking a midnight stroll through a mob boss's mansion when the last I checked, you were curled up on the couch in our apartment watching reruns."
Dick's smile fell at his harsh tone, and Jason would have felt guilty if he wasn't on the verge of having a full-blown panic attack at the fact that his brother was, as previously stated, in a FUCKING MOB BOSS'S personal residence. New plan: Fuck the itinerary, he had to get Dick out of here.
"I told you I didn't want you going to the gala alone."
"Yeah, but you completely omitted that you were going to follow me here!"
"Because you would've said no."
"Damn straight, I would've said no!" Jason cringed at the volume of his own voice, he and Dick both shooting nervous glances at the door. When no footsteps followed, Jason leaned in, lowering his voice to a furious whisper, "How the hell did you even get into the party? And whose suit are you even wearing?" He reached out, plucking at the silky black lapel of the otherwise midnight-blue velvet suit.
Fucking Christ, Dick was wearing a custom suit. Jason couldn't even begin to imagine where his brother had gotten it from.
"Don't you have something you should be doing right now?" Dick swatted Jason's hand away, gesturing toward the desk in a painfully obvious attempt to change the subject.
Jason stared at his brother for several beats, stuck between simmering anger and utter disbelief. "You know what? Fuck this. We're leaving, and we'll finish this conversation at home."
He moved around the desk to grab Dick's arm, but his brother stepped back, dodging his grasp.
"Wait, no," Dick said, raising his hands in a placating manner as if Jason were overreacting. And oh boy, did that just piss him off even more. "I didn't come here to interrupt whatever you're doing—"
"Well, you did," he interrupted, his tone clipped. "So let's go." He flexed his outstretched hand, signaling for Dick to grab hold so he could hopefully haul their asses out of here with their lives still intact.
But instead, the stubborn bastard crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to budge.
Jason sometimes found it cute when Dick acted like a spoiled brat—this was decidedly not one of those times.
"I will throw you over my goddamn shoulder and march your ass out of here if you don't start moving in the next three seconds," Jason growled.
Dick's eyes narrowed. "That'll only draw attention, and we both know you don't want that."
"Oh yeah? And how do you know that?"
"Because I watched you spend the entire party hiding behind a planter, avoiding anything that breathed."
Jason let out a string of curses, turning on his heel as he ran a hand through his hair, ruining the neatly styled look. He paced the short distance between Dick and the bookshelf, trying—and failing—to figure out what to do next.
Sure, he could make good on his threat, but as much as he hated to admit it, Dick was right—he couldn't risk causing a scene that would draw every eye in the mansion.
"Look, Dick, this isn't a game. This is serious shit—"
"And that's exactly why I'm here!" Dick shot back, his voice still hushed but now reflecting the same frustration Jason felt. "Did you really think I was just going to sit on the couch watching Golden Girls while you came here to face God knows what without anyone having your back?"
And fuck, if that didn't make Jason feel a dozen different conflicting emotions.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, struggling to find the right words. There was no easy way to respond to that, so he settled on the one thing he knew to be unequivocally true: "You shouldn't be here." The words came out as a strained whisper, torn between fear and gratitude that Dick was here.
His big brother had come for him, consequences be damned.
Dick's expression softened as he stepped closer, taking Jason's hands in his own. "I'm exactly where I should be, Little Wing. It's you and me. It always has been, and it always will be. Okay?"
Jason swallowed hard as emotion suddenly welled up in his throat, the weight of Dick's words leaving him momentarily unsteady.
Every instinct in him still screamed at him to grab Dick and run, but he also knew that leaving now and returning to Sionis empty-handed would bring its own set of problems, especially if the crime boss caught wind of him leaving the party with another man—particularly one as ridiculously gorgeous as Dick.
Jason had already stepped in deep shit last month when he let it slip that his interest in girls was less than he'd previously let on (read: nonexistent). The last thing he needed was to give the crime boss another reason to get curious and start digging into his personal life, especially if that led to Sionis discovering who Dick was and what he meant to Jason.
So, as much as he hated to admit it, their best—and truly only—option was for Jason to finish the job.
"Fine. You can stay. But we're still talking about this when we get home."
"Deal!" Dick grinned, his smile ridiculously wide.
Jason rolled his eyes half-heartedly, a familiar blend of fondness and exasperation washing over him. Only his brother could look so stupidly happy about being allowed to remain in a mansion full of gun-toting, anger-issue-riddled gangsters.
Still, as much as Jason appreciated Dick's ill-advised show of solidarity, his brother showing up at his jobs couldn't become a regular thing. It was a major distraction, sure, but more than that, it put both of their lives at risk—something they couldn't afford with two kids counting on them coming home.
Ground rules could wait till later, though. Right now, the priority was finishing the job, and the quicker Jason got what he needed, the sooner they could get the fuck out of Dodge and back to Damian and Tim.
Decision made, Jason squeezed Dick's hands once in gratitude before releasing them and making his way back to the other side of the desk. Just as he had opened the newly unlocked drawer—revealing a small black book sitting on top of a neat pile of manilla folders—the desk lamp clicked off.
"I saw the light peeking through the crack in the door; that's how I knew which room you were in," Dick explained, meeting Jason's questioning look. Which meant anyone walking by could have noticed the light…. Fuck.
Jason internally cursed himself for being so sloppy. Any rookie thief knew rule number one of breaking and entering was don't turn the fucking lights on.
"Good catch, Dickie."
Dick beamed at the simple praise, putting his imperfectly perfect white teeth and left dimple on full display.
God he looked good—the midnight blue suit making his eyes look electric, and the tailored pants hugging his—
Nope. He needed to stop that train of thought right there. Jason didn't have time to be ogling his brother. He needed to focus.
Turning his attention back to the itinerary, Jason opened it, laying it flat on the desk.
He didn't bother to try to read Falcone's cursive scrawl because, well, Jason didn't really give a shit what it said. He was here for one purpose and one purpose only, and it sure as hell wasn't to sate his own curiosity.
Fishing his keychain and Black Mask-provided flip phone from his pockets, Jason placed the phone on the table before unclipping the mini flashlight, turning it on, and biting the cold metal cylinder between his teeth. Flipping to the latest entry in Falcone's itinerary, he began taking pictures of each page, working his way backward. But he had only managed three pictures when the flashlight was gently tugged from his mouth.
"Here, I'll hold the light for you. I doubt your Black Mask and Co. dental plan covers chipped teeth."
"Are you saying I wouldn't be pretty toothless?" Jason quipped back, snapping photos even faster now that he didn't have to aim the pocket flashlight with his mouth.
"Aw, c'mon, Jay. Teeth or no teeth, you know you'll always be the prettiest boy in my book."
Damn it. Jason knew they were joking—hell, he'd started it—but apparently, his face didn't get the memo. A flush colored his cheeks like he was some damn schoolgirl getting called pretty for the first time by her crush. Which, now that he thought about it, wasn't that far from the truth—minus the schoolgirl part—but for fuck's sake, he should be well past blushing like a virgin when it came to his brother teasing him.
"Shut up," Jason muttered, hoping he sounded more exasperated than embarrassed. "We both know you think the boy in your mirror is the prettiest."
That got a delighted laugh out of his brother, and Jason couldn't help but preen on the inside at eliciting such a response. There were few things he loved more than hearing Dick laugh, especially when he was the one causing it.
As the warm sound naturally petered out, a comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the soft rustle of his brother's suit as he shifted to sit on the edge of the desk.
But in true Dick 'I-can't-sit-still-for-more-than-30-seconds' Grayson-Wayne fashion, his brother soon began to fidget, shifting the light with him and blurring the photos.
"Dick," Jason said, pointedly looking at the flashlight.
Steadying his hand, his brother whispered an absent 'sorry.'
Grunting in response, Jason went back to snapping photos of the never-ending itinerary. With how much Falcone wrote, you'd think the man was writing a goddamn biography.
"You know I don't really think that, right?" Dick asked, abruptly pulling Jason out of his Falcone-centric thoughts. Jason glanced up, his brow furrowing at the seemingly random comment before realizing Dick was referring to the 'mirror' joke.
"What? No, I was just joking."
"Good." Dick smiled in relief before a mischievous glint lit his eyes. "Because I really do think you're the prettiest."
If Jason had been blushing before, he was full-on impersonating a tomato now. Sure, he knew he was relatively good-looking. He'd been called handsome plenty of times by Mrs. Torres and other well-meaning old ladies, but he'd never been seriously called 'pretty,' and especially not by his brother.
But now that Dick had said it, Jason couldn't help but want to hear him say it again. That thought alone was enough to make his face burn.
Ducking his head, he hoped the new angle and dim lighting would hide his rapidly reddening cheeks as he forced himself to focus on snapping more pictures, resolutely ignoring the shit-eating grin spreading across Dick's face.
"I didn't embarrass you, did I?"
"I will push you off the desk," Jason growled, but the threat fell flat when he couldn't even meet his brother's eyes.
"But then who would hold the light for you?" came the insufferable sing-song reply.
"I hate you."
"You love me."
Which was true, but Jason wasn't about to give his brother the satisfaction of outright admitting it—especially not with the barely repressed laughter he could hear bubbling up in Dick's voice.
"Stop distracting me. I need to concentrate," Jason grumbled with a sideways glance at his brother. He knew his lack of denial was as good as confirming Dick's words, and from the way Dick's grin widened, it was clear his brother knew it too.
Thankfully—aside from the self-satisfaction radiating off of him—Dick let the topic drop, allowing Jason to get back to work. The rhythmic turning of pages and the click of his phone's camera soon became the only sound filling the office.
But the distraction-free reprieve was only short-lived.
In what was likely a bout of boredom-fueled curiosity, Dick scooted closer, leaning into Jason's personal space for a better view of the itinerary.
Usually, this wouldn't have been a problem—except now Jason could smell Dick's cologne, and it was quickly becoming its own kind of distraction. One that had Jason fighting the urge to lean in, drawn to the addictive, floral yet masculine scent.
His brother always smelled good, but Jason couldn't remember him ever smelling like this. He hadn't even known Dick owned cologne—let alone one that made Jason want to bury his face in his neck and breathe it in until it was all he could smell.
Forcing himself to breathe through his mouth, Jason willed his lizard brain to focus on the task. He was nearly two-thirds of the way through the itinerary and that much closer to being able to put some much-needed space between him and Dick before he did something stupid like sniff his brother like some weirdo.
"So… why are you taking pictures of some old man's diary?" Dick asked, interrupting Jason's mental chant of Sionis, Falcone, gangsters, guns, death, focus—and proving, once again, that the former was physically incapable of staying quiet for more than a minute.
"It's not a—" Jason began, then stopped, unsure why he was about to defend the ancient crime boss. If Dick wanted to think it was a diary, who was he to correct him? "Roman said something about using the info in it to fuck with Carmine's incoming shipments."
Dick hummed in response. "Corporate espionage. Very James Bond of you."
Jason gave an amused huff, flipping to the next page. "Yeah, don't remind me."
"So if you're James Bond, who does that make me?"
"Whoever you want to be, Dickie” Jason replied absently, distracted by the repeated mentions of Sionis' name in the itinerary. However, he didn't even try to decipher Falcone's cursive; instead, he focused on snapping pictures as quickly as possible. They'd already been in the office longer than advisable, and his anxiety was only growing with each passing minute.
"You know," Dick said thoughtfully, "I've always felt a certain kind of kinship with Pussy Galore."
That startled an in-advisably loud snort out of Jason.
"Jesus Christ," he said, shaking his head in fond amusement. Glancing up, he saw his brother grinning down at him shamelessly. "I shouldn't even be surprised that's who you'd choose."
"Well, who else would I—" Dick began before abruptly cutting himself off, his eyes widening as he let out a hushed, "Uh, oh."
"Uh oh?" Jason questioned sharply. "What's 'uh oh?'"
"I think someone's coming," Dick whispered, his attention now fixed on the door separating them from the hallway.
Jason didn't hesitate. He grabbed the flashlight from Dick's now lax hand and shoved it, along with the flip phone, into his pocket. Closing the itinerary, he carefully placed it back in the drawer, aligning it perfectly with the manila folders beneath—all the while whispering a panicked loop of shit, shit, shit under his breath.
He had just gotten the drawer closed when his ears picked up on what Dick must have initially heard—approaching voices.
Letting out another stream of curses, Jason bent over to pick up his jacket, but in his haste to get the article of clothing on, his elbow hit the desk lamp, sending it crashing to the floor.
Feeling color drain from his face, he stood frozen, staring in horror at the now shattered lamp, his jacket half-on, hanging limply from one shoulder. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet his brother's own gaze, who looked just as pale, staring at the wreckage.
The sudden silence of the voices was deafening. But when they resumed, this time with quickened footsteps, Jason knew without a doubt that any chance of whoever was in the hallway passing the office had dramatically dropped to zero.
Dick’s head whipped back toward the door as the footsteps drew nearer. Yet all Jason could focus on was his brother—the one whose death warrant he had just signed.
His breath caught as the fear-induced regret slammed into him.
Dick was going to die. They both were, and Tim and Damian would be left orphaned, never knowing why Jason and Dick never came back home to them—left to wonder if the two people in the world who were supposed to love the most had willingly abandoned them.
Jason couldn’t do that to them, couldn’t let Dick pay for his mistakes, and knew he needed to do something to stop the inevitable.
Yet, he was paralyzed by panic, unable to think, let alone act when it mattered the most.
He was about to lose his entire family—and it was all his fault.
He must have made some kind of noise because one moment Dick’s entire focus was on the door, and the next, he felt the full intensity of his brother’s attention turn to him.
“Dickie,” he whispered as their gazes locked, his brother’s name no more than a broken exhale of breath. And for the first time in years, he felt like a kid again, helpless to do anything but call out for his big brother.
He half-expected to see his own fear mirrored in his brother’s eyes, but instead, there was a steely determination that only deepened as Dick slid off the desk and closed the distance between them.
Jason hadn’t even realized he was crying until his brother’s hands came up to frame his face—Dick’s thumbs gently swiping at the corners of his eyes, accompanied by soft shushing sounds.
God, he was pathetic. He’d begged Dick to let him provide for the family and to do it his way—reassuring his brother that he knew what he was doing—and yet here he was, cracking under the pressure.
If anyone had the right to be crying, it was Dick. He was the one who had been dragged into this mess the moment Jason made the decision to start working for a crime boss.
“Dick, I—” Jason choked out, wanting to say I love you, I’m sorry, goodbye and a million other things, only to be cut off by the sob lodged in his throat.
“Hey, shhh, it’s going to be okay,” Dick soothed, moving one hand to rest on Jason’s shoulder while the other tangled in the back of the latter's hair, gently guiding Jason’s head down to rest against the crook of his neck.
With his face buried in Dick’s neck, Jason finally let the sob escape, muffling it against his brother’s skin. In response, Dick’s grip tightened, pulling him closer. Whether it was to offer comfort or quiet the sound, Jason didn’t know nor did he care—he just clung to his brother even tighter.
“Jay, listen to me,” Dick murmured, his mouth now pressed against the shell of Jason’s ear as he ran his hand through the latter’s gel-stiff hair. His voice remained steady and calm, but there was now an undercurrent of urgency. “I promise it’s going to be okay, but I need you to calm down, m’kay?”
A part of Jason wanted to scream, to demand how his brother could possibly believe any of this would be okay. But an even bigger part—the part that would always be Dick’s little brother—trusted him without question. And it was that unshakable faith that gave Jason the strength to disentangle himself from the embrace and start pulling himself together.
Roughly scrubbing at his tear-stained face with the sleeve of his dress shirt, Jason gave a jerky nod, sucking in a shuddering breath through his nose. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”
“Good boy,” Dick whispered, his eyes and smile soft with quiet appraisal as he tucked a stray curl behind Jason’s ear, using the edge of his thumb to catch the tear stubbornly clinging to the younger’s lower lashes.
Jason's heart ached at the gentle touch, the moment taking him back to his first day of fifth grade—his first school year after Bruce had died. Dick had fussed over him in the exact same way, wiping away eleven-year-old Jason’s tears as he promised he was just a phone call and bus ride away.
His brother had probably been called by the school a dozen times that year, and without fail, Dick had always picked up the phone and come to get him.
And just like then, Jason knew his brother wasn’t going to break his promise that everything was going to be okay—even if he had no fucking clue how.
Once satisfied with his fussing, Dick’s hands slid down to Jason’s shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze before stepping back. “I’m going to—” he began, only to stop mid-sentence when their attention snapped to the door as the handle rattled violently.
Dick must have locked it when he came in, a move that just bought them a few precious seconds—seconds that might end up saving their lives.
“Do you trust me?” Dick whispered hurriedly, lighting pushing him backward.
“What?” Jason asked, easily stepping back despite being momentarily thrown by the question. Did his brother really think there was a chance he didn’t trust him? Dick could tell him to shine the flashlight across the terrace and walk along the beam to the nearest tree branch, and he’d do it without hesitation.
“Do you trust me?” Dick repeated, this time with an edge of panic in his voice, his eyes wide and pleading.
“Always.”
“Sit in the chair.”
Jason did a double take between his brother and Falcone’s desk chair, realizing that’s where Dick had been guiding him. He had no idea how making himself comfortable in the crime boss’s chair would help them get out of this mess, but he only hesitated for a second before he moved to shrug the other half of his jacket on so he could sit down.
But his brother apparently had other plans, catching Jason’s arm and preventing him from righting the article of clothing. He shot Dick a questioning look only to get shoved into the chair right as they heard the office door’s lock click open.
Before he even had time to process that his brother had followed him into the chair and was straddling his lap, Dick was crashing their lips together in a kiss that was all heat and urgency.
Jason stiffened at the sudden contact, his own lips unmoving as his brain went temporarily offline.
For a split second, he wondered if they’d been shot on sight, and he’d somehow ended up in a version of heaven where incestuous desires ran free. But then Dick was nipping at his lower lip, reminding him that this was all too real.
Oh. Oh.
This—the kissing—was Dick’s plan. And it was crazy enough that it might just work.
Caught up on why his greatest fantasy was suddenly being fulfilled, Jason found it all too easy to relax into the kiss, his lips softening as he tentatively kissed his brother back.
His mouth felt clumsy and uncoordinated compared to Dick’s, whose lips moved with a practiced sensuality Jason could never hope to match.
But even though he knew the kiss was all for show—a desperate last-ditch effort to convince their newfound audience that they were something they weren’t—Jason couldn’t help but want to be good for his brother.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Jason focused on mirroring the ebb and flow of Dick’s kiss. And although he remained distantly aware of their ‘guests,’ everything else began to fade as the rhythmic press of their lips and the smell of his brother’s cologne consumed his senses—the world narrowing down to sandalwood, white lily, sage, and a maddening wet warmth.
As the kiss continued, Dick’s hands—which had been fisted in the fabric of Jason's suit jacket and dress shirt—slowly relaxed. Fully releasing the black and maroon-colored materials, his arms came up to wrap around Jason’s shoulders, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. Jason melted into the new embrace, his own hands—having instinctively grabbed his brother’s hips when they fell into the chair together—now gently squeezing the soft muscle they framed in an attempt to anchor himself when he felt so dangerously close to floating away.
Kissing Dick was like free-falling and learning what it felt like to fly, all at once.
It was both the best and worst thing he had ever experienced—a taste of Nirvana destined to become his ruin—because, in the end, it was all just a desperate ploy for survival... at least for his brother.
For Jason, though, every touch, every bitten-off whimper, and every pounding beat of his heart against his chest was all too condemningly real.
Thoughts spiraling, Jason almost missed the feather-light lick at the seam of his lips. He thought he had imagined it for a moment—until it came again, this time more persistent, a swipe of tongue asking for permission to enter.
Jason hesitantly parted his lips, all too aware that he could be making a fool of himself by misreading the gesture. However, his tentative temerity was rewarded as Dick hummed in approval before sliding his tongue into his mouth and tracing the valleys and peaks of his teeth with the unrushed reverence of a worshiper who was allowed access to their god's temple for the very first time.
And fuck, did he feel worshiped.
A rush of heady euphoria flooded him, but whether it was from the sensation of his brother filling him with the warm, sure strokes of his tongue or a lack of oxygen, he couldn’t tell. And truly, he didn’t give a shit. The only thing that mattered was that he never wanted this feeling to end.
Don’t let go. Hold me closer. Please don’t stop.
Don’t let go. Hold me closer. Please don’t stop.
Don’t let go. Hold me closer. Please don’t stop.
But like every high, the crash came just as fast as reality once again made itself known when a pointed cough from the doorway cut through the air.
Dick began to pull away, but in what could only be called a fit of panicked insanity, Jason chased after his mouth, catching his brother’s lower lip between his teeth and dragging him into another heated kiss—desperate to hold onto the stolen closeness, knowing he would never get this chance again.
Dick's eyes widened for a split second, a sharp inhale marking his surprise. However, the flicker of shock-driven hesitance only lasted for a heartbeat before he fell back into the kiss. His dark lashes fluttered close as his lips parted slightly, almost questioningly, allowing Jason to lick his way into his mouth.
Jason had never kissed anyone like this.
Hell, he had never kissed anyone, period—unless he counted his awkward, disaster of a kiss with Isabel Ardila during Freshman year, which he absolutely did not.
His tongue was just as clumsy, and his lips were just as unsure as they were back then, but the desperation to map out the wet heat of Dicks mouth made the two kisses incomparable.
Trying his best to mimic the way Dick had kissed him, Jason took his time as he memorized every inch of his brother’s mouth with gentle caresses of his tongue, tracing the blunt edges of his teeth and lingering on the sharp points of his canines. The overwhelming need to know and explore overrode both the embarrassment of his inexperience and the guilt of prolonging the kiss.
Those were things he could let himself feel later. For now, all that mattered was his brother’s mouth.
Dick tasted like the caramel candies that lived at the bottom of Mrs. Torres' oversized purse. Their elderly neighbor had made a habit of offering them one whenever they ran into each other in the hallway. Jason didn’t care for the candies but always took one to be polite.
Dick, on the other hand, genuinely loved them—a fact Jason relentlessly teased him about, claiming he had the taste buds of a senior citizen. Dick would pretend to be offended until Jason inevitably offered him his own caramel candy—the price for ‘forgiveness.’
After tonight, though, Jason would be eating every single caramel candy Mrs. Torres offered him—the sweets being the closest he would ever get to tasting his brother again.
Jason continued the feather-light licks and swipes of his tongue as he chased the buttery warmth of the caramel, only stopping to periodically suck on Dick’s lower lip. However, the agonizingly slow pace soon became too much and not enough all at once, and with the impulsive need to fill his brother with as much of himself as possible, he abruptly shoved the length of his tongue into the wet heat of Dick’s mouth.
His brother jolted slightly at the sudden fullness, causing the kiss to falter and Jason to immediately regret his bout of impulsivity.
God, he was such a freak.
What the fuck was he thinking pulling a move like that? Not only was that probably the most uncomfortably awkward thing he could have done, but he had also crossed a line, taking advantage of an already dubious situation and making it worse.
Just because his brother kissed him back didn’t mean he wanted this.
The reminder that the whole damn kiss was born of necessity rather than desire caused something sour to settle in Jason’s stomach.
Fuck
At this point, he was no better than the dirtbag Johns Dick had forced himself to sleep with.
Disgusted with himself, he started to pull back, only to be stopped as Dick's arms tightened around his shoulders, holding him in place as he began to suck on Jason’s tongue in earnest, taking him impossibly deeper into his mouth.
Jason had never been more turned on by anything else in his life, and this was made embarrassingly apparent when an unbidden, needy whine ripped itself from his chest, falling into Dick’s waiting mouth.
Jason could feel himself begin to harden in his dress pants, but before he could worry about whether his brother would notice, another cough sounded, followed by a sharp ‘Sirs.’
This time when Dick pulled away—pressing one last chaste kiss to the corner of Jason’s mouth—Jason let him.
Despite their mouths separating, neither one of them was willing to fully break their embrace—Dick’s arms remained wrapped around his shoulders while Jason kept his death grip on his brother’s hips.
The sound of their ragged breaths thundered in his ears, and with their mouths only inches apart, Dick’s harsh exhales fed each of Jason’s greedy inhales, creating an endless loop of shared air.
He knew he should probably turn his attention to the two men who held their lives in their hands, gauging their reactions to his and Dick’s 'act.' But he couldn’t tear his focus away from his brother’s wide-eyed stare—their gazes locked solely on each other.
The room could've erupted in gunfire at that moment, and Jason still wouldn’t have been able to look away from Dick—too enthralled by the rapid rise and fall of his brother’s chest, the way the black of his pupils devoured the cobalt blue, the tendrils of raven hair that had escaped their gelled prison, and most of all, by Dick’s spit-slick, kiss-swollen lips.
His brother looked like a ravaged, modern-day Adonis, and all Jason could think was he had done that.
And maybe the kiss wasn’t real, but the end result sure as hell was, and for a selfish, stupid moment, Jason would let himself pretend that his brother felt everything he did, that the kiss had been more than just an act—that Dick wanted him just as badly as he wanted him.
However, his fantasy was cut short when movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention—the two men had stepped further into the room. Their weapons remained holstered, but that didn’t stop the surge of defensive protectiveness that had Jason yanking Dick further into his lap with a bruising grip.
His brother let out a startled hiss of pain at the sudden jerk, burying his face in the crook of Jason’s neck. Jason winced in sympathy, not having intended to hurt him, and pressed a chaste kiss against his brother’s cheek in apology as he softened his grip. He never took his eyes off of the two men, though, too aware of the threat they represented.
Sure, his brother’s plan had worked great so far, given that neither Falcone goon had even thought to draw their weapon on them, but that could all change in the blink of an eye.
"Yes?” Jason questioned, scowling at the men, hoping his expression conveyed the entitled annoyance of a Falcone heir.
“We apologize for interrupting, gentlemen, but, uh—” Goon #1 faltered, his eyes darting between Jason and Dick, who was now peppering a trail of kitten licks and soft kisses along the expanse of Jason’s neck and jaw.
He knew his brother’s actions were all part of the show they were putting on, but no matter how many times he told himself that, he couldn’t help but think that each press of his brother’s lips felt like it was oscillating between an apology, a reassurance, and a promise—constantly shifting before he could pin it down.
It left him off balance, dizzy even, which wasn’t ideal considering the situation.
However, the goon’s focus on Dick was enough to snap him out of the daze he was slowly slipping into. The man looked a little too interested in Dick, and Jason didn’t like that one fucking bit. They shouldn’t be seeing his brother like this, they didn’t deserve to.
Angling his body to hide as much as Dick as he could, Jason pointedly cleared his throat, drawing the goon’s attention back to him.
The man looked a little dazed himself, prompting his companion to deliver a sharp elbow to his ribs, urging him to finish the sentence. Goon #1 shot him a dirty look but conceded to the prompting.
“Again, apologies for the interruption,” the man began again, keeping his eyes firmly planted on Jason’s face, “but this room is off-limits to Don Falcone’s guests. Though we’d be more than happy to show you your room.”
“Our room?” Jason questioned with a raise of an eyebrow, trying to pull off rich and curious rather than poor and freaking out.
Roman hadn’t said anything about the gala being a fucking sleepover. In fact, Jason was pretty sure a sleepover gala wasn’t even a thing, and judging by the way Dick suddenly tensed against him, his brother was thinking the same thing.
“Don Falcone has generously offered his remaining guests a place to stay for the night due to the road conditions.”
Jason glanced out the French door windows to see that it was, in fact, steadily snowing outside. The outdoor lights revealed the estate’s grounds already covered in a rapidly building layer of glistening white.
Snow or no snow, though, Jason sure as hell wasn’t spending the night at the crime boss’s home.
Doing his best to mimic the posh accents he'd heard throughout the night, Jason softened his vowels and pronounced each word carefully as he politely declined the guard’s invitation.
“While we appreciate my uncle’s offer, I think we—”
“Your uncle insists,” Goon #2 interrupted, making it clear this was less of an offer and more of a demand.
Knowing that refusing anymore would look suspicious, Jason let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes dramatically as he played the role of the spoiled nephew, begrudgingly accustomed to his uncle’s overbearing demands.
He patted Dick’s side, signaling to his “distracted lover” that it was time to move. After helping Dick to his feet, Jason stood and shrugged the other half of his jacket on before subtly adjusting the crotch of his pants.
Sneaking a glance at his brother, Dick was pulling off a convincing look of boredom and mild annoyance, though Jason knew he was likely freaking out just as much on the inside.
“Well, how could I refuse when you put it that way?” Jason said, flashing a thousand-watt smile, praying that he wasn’t unknowingly inviting the two men to lead him and Dick to their death.
With a curt nod, the guards turned to lead the way.
Sharing one last glance, Jason entwined his hand with Dick’s, and together, they followed.