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Jason must have been born under an omen or something because man does his luck fucking suck. He sighs up at the ceiling and slowly counts backwards from ten. Right as he hits three, the officer on the other side of the desk clears her throat.
"Those are your options, kid," she says. "Serve time or go to work."
As if that's a real choice. Kids like him don't amount to much after juvie, instead getting placed on the fast track to actual prison. Recidivism is a bitch. And with him close to aging out, it isn't a safe bet he'd even stay in juvie his whole sentence. Besides, he isn't exactly popular with any of the currently incarcerated gang members, given his record for standing up to bullies back in Park Row.
He swallows a sigh and reaches out to take the folder. Officer Reyes smiles and leans back. "Good choice."
For the next year and a half, Jason trains, first in the police academy, then in Guide camp. It all sucks.
If Jason slacks off: "Pick up the place, rookie! I know you ran faster than that when we picked you up off the streets."
If Jason excels: "What, you think you're better than us just because Reyes hand selected you?"
If Jason is average: "See? Told you he was just a punk."
He can't win. He doesn't want to. The only thing going for him is that the sooner his assessment comes back with an acceptable score, the sooner he can get his assignment. And the sooner he can move on with his life. So Jason locks in.
He has a small advantage, having been raised in the slums. He wouldn't have survived being an empath surrounded by desperation and grief without knowing how to shield. He had aced that section of their training in week one. Next was mastering projection.
Focus on an emotion and a target, the textbook said. Lose yourself in that feeling. Seeing and touching the target improves accuracy.
Jason lets go of his classmate the moment he bursts into tears. "Pass," the proctor grunts, and he can't help the grin that spreads across his face.
The final section of his training is absorption. Jason clenches his teeth while he stares at the woman on the other side of the glass. She has her head in her hands and her shoulders are slumped forward like it's a struggle to stay upright. The lights are too bright, comes the errant thought.
Absorption flies in the face of everything he's learned. The idea of letting someone else's pain seep into him makes his stomach knot.
"Ready?" the proctor asks. He takes a steadying breath and nods. "Enter the room."
The woman doesn't move when he approaches. Not when he pulls the chair opposite her back from the table and it scrapes across the floor. Not when he clears his throat and puts his hands on the table.
"They told me you could help," she mumbles to the table. "Make the hurt stop for a little while."
Jason's throat starts to close and he has to clear it again to speak. "Y-yeah," he manages. "I mean, I can try." He reaches out a hand. "Can I touch you?"
The woman doesn't move at first, but slowly she lays one of her hands atop his. He gently curls his fingers around hers and closes his eyes. Like breathing a scent, he recalls from the book.
His body jerks as a wall of sad hits him. Flashes of a small, lifeless body play across his mind, and his chest constricts and his heart crawls up his throat looking for an escape. He focuses on the feeling of a hand in his, forces his hand to stay loose, and eventually, slowly, the waves ease and he can breathe again.
"Pass," comes the proctor's voice on the intercom.
Jason pulls his hand back, and finally the woman looks up at him, her eyes bright and clear. "Thank you," she mouths.
So Jason graduates. He's issued a badge and a nonlethal weapon and brought to an empty office to await his assignment. Finally.
There is no indication of how much time passes when the door opens again. In walks a man in crisply creased slacks and a pressed white button down. His hands are in his pockets, projecting a practiced casual demeanor, but his blue eyes are sharp and settle on Jason immediately. He leans against the desk a few inches from Jason's knees.
"Jason Todd? I'm Detective Dick Grayson," the man says. "I'm a Sentinel."
No shit, who else is he supposed to be partnered with? Jason resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Nice to meet you," he says. "Reyes give you the rundown?"
The officer who scouted him had been responsible for coordinating everything. She had said that Jason would be required to live with his assigned Sentinel for "easy access," and for his services he'd receive a monthly stipend for personal use. Otherwise, his partner would be in charge of their living arrangements.
Grayson nods. "I'm pretty easy to live with since I usually work. I figured I'd take you to see the apartment, get a feel for the place, before we establish ground rules. Are you all packed?"
Jason blinks a few times. He is finally leaving this place with exactly all of the stuff he came with: next to nothing. "Yeah, I'm ready."
"Good, let's go."
The apartment is nice, modern with an open floor plan and two bedrooms on opposite sides of the living room.
"That one's yours," Dick says, pointing to the door on the right. "It's already furnished, and you have your own bathroom."
Wow, the bureau treats their officers well. And doesn't that just sting, especially given that Jason's one of them now.
He swallows and sidesteps that train of thought. "You said ground rules?"
They settle on boundaries fairly easily. General good hygiene and maintenance. Jason's allowed to cook if he also buys the groceries, and Dick is on trash and dishwashing duty in perpetuity. They both need to clear visitors with each other at least a day in advance, and no overnight stays. They'll stay out of each other's room unless absolutely vital. And that's pretty much it.
Jason shifts in his seat on the couch as they wrap up the rules. "And, uh, what about sessions?" Lesson one in Guide training – establish clear expectations for absorption sessions.
Dick glances at him, then looks at the coffee table. "I'll come to you when I need to. I'd prefer if you shielded as much as possible."
That works for Jason, far less work than he'd anticipated, though...that couldn't be healthy for Dick. But hell, the detective must know himself better than Jason does, and if he wants an irregular schedule, then that's what he gets.
"Sounds good."
Dick works an ungodly number of hours, which affords Jason the entire day and most of the night time to do whatever he wants. Which is new. He realizes by day four that he doesn't have many hobbies. He wanders the neighborhood and finds a local bookstore and spends the first half of his stipend there. By day six, he starts leaving notes for Dick by way of communicating what's for dinner, asking for snack preferences, letting him know to replace the hallway lightbulb.
He senses the moment Dick arrives at their front door. Even when Jason can swear he's focused on whatever task at hand, his senses pick up immediately on the heavy taste of stress permeating the air that shifts to prickly relief the moment the door opens. Still, Dick never comes to him for a session, just greets him, stands in the kitchen to eat whatever Jason has made for dinner on autopilot, and excuses himself to bed.
By day twelve, Jason is worried. His training textbooks recommended at least once a week for seasons, and it's been nearly two. He taps his fingers on the kitchen table as he waits for Dick to come home. His hand stills when that familiar pressure pushes through the air.
"Welcome home," he greets as Dick opens the door.
"Hey, Jason," Dick returns. His voice is hoarse like he'd been shouting all day. The home-relief feeling barely penetrates.
"We're doing a session tonight," Jason declares.
Dick blinks at him. "What? No, Jason, I don't need –"
"Bullshit. It's been almost two weeks, you must be feeling your senses dull by now." A shot in the dark, honestly.
But Dick stays quiet. He eyes Jason for a long moment before sighing and rolling his eyes. "Fine, if it'll make you feel better."
He goes to sit on the couch and gestures to the cushion next to him. Jason sits on it sideways so he's facing Dick. He holds out a hand. "You ready?"
Dick spares him another long-suffering look, then places his hand in Jason's. "When you are."
It takes a few seconds for Jason to switch from shielding to absorbing, but the second his channels open, that heavy pressure slams into him. His chest constricts and his vision blurs, and only the feeling of a hand in his keeps him anchored among the flood of emotion. Images flash by – a row of gruesome crime scene photos, a ruddy face yelling, a stern judge banging a gavel.
After a while, Jason finds his footing. He surfaces from the emotions, and suddenly he can breathe again. He takes a moment to steady his heart rate, then gently squeezes Dick's hand. His vision refocuses, and the first thing he sees is a shocked sapphire gaze locked onto his face.
"Jason," he exhales. "You're – are you okay?"
He takes inventory of the stock of emotions he just absorbed, and they are already drifting out of him back into the atmosphere. He shrugs. "Yeah, I'm good. Are you okay?" That stress was a lot. Much more than general workaholic tendencies. Something must have happened, maybe a case.
Dick blinks again, clears his throat, looks away. "I'm fine, it's just...usually I'm a lot to handle, especially for the first time."
Huh. Maybe that's why Dick had been unpartnered despite his years in the bureau. "Yeah, well, it'd help if you didn't bottle everything up." He squeezes Dick's hand again. "You can talk to me, you know."
And that starts a routine. Dick actually sits with Jason for dinner, no matter how late he gets back, and Jason's always up to greet him. Jason lets him start the conversation, listens patiently as Dick shares case details and prosecution procedurals and bureaucratic nonsense, noting how Dick's feelings lighten as he vents. After a while, Dick even asks for his input, verifies his own hunches by testing them against Jason's, gets insight into the victims.
Jason enjoys this, appreciates being needed even when he's not using his abilities, is glad that Dick is starting to open up to him. Trust him, even.
And then Dick comes to him. There's nothing unusual about the heaviness cloaking him aside from the fact that it persists even after Dick crosses the threshold into their apartment. He joins Jason in the kitchen, standing closer than would be polite if it were anyone else.
"Welcome home," Jason greets. Dick hums and leans against him. The pressure is slight but he doesn't move away like it's an accident.
"Are you busy?" he asks softly, and a trickle of something raw and needy floats between them, has Jason holding out a hand before thoughts can solidify into words.
This time, Jason is dragged down into something thick and sticky. It clings to his skin, clogs his pores. The images that come are also sluggish: a car being dragged out of the river, a row of covered bodies in the morgue, three names on a headstone. Jason sinks deeper into the sap, keeping his tether to reality in Dick's hand. Finally, he touches the bottom of it, and grief shudders through him. He floats back to the surface and sucks in a breath when he emerges.
Dick is leaning his forehead against Jason's shoulder when Jason returns to himself. He squeezes Dick's hand, letting him know that he's back.
"Murder-suicide," Dick says softly. "The son was twelve years old."
Jason's lips press together into a firm line. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No." Dick takes a deep breath and looks up at him. "I'm already feeling better, promise." And he takes his hand back. "Now let's eat."
"What's it like?"
Dick slowly looks over at him. "Hm?"
Jason fidgets on the couch. "What's it like? Your senses?"
Dick looks up at the ceiling. "Hard to say. It's like describing vision, I don't know anything else." Another silent moment passes. "It's like...knowing. The world makes sense, you can feel how everything is connected. There's no more noise."
No noise? Jason can't imagine it. Even when he's shielding, impressions still make their way to him. He's learned to tune it out, just like he tunes out the hum of the refrigerator, but it's never not there.
So when Dick eyes him curiously and says, "You wanna feel for yourself?" Jason is nodding before he's fully processed the ask.
Dick holds out his hand, and Jason takes it. At first, it's just like their other sessions, although milder. Jason gets swept up in the constant tide that is Dick's emotional well, like always. And then it shifts. The waves subside and suddenly Jason is just floating. Everything is still, silent, he barely remembers he has a body except for the hand in his. His eyes catch their wall clock, and he can feel every second ticking, can hear the gears winding, can taste the dying charge of its batteries. Dick's attention slides smoothly somewhere else, and Jason follows and relishes in the narrowed focus.
He does this with a few more objects before settling on Jason himself. He's hyper aware of every point that their hands are touching, of exactly how much force he's exerting to curl around Dick's fingers. His heart rate spikes but he doesn't know why, and his tongue goes dry and he doesn't know why, and his skin heats up and he doesn't know why, and –
Jason yanks his hand back, severing the connection. He's slammed back into his own consciousness, and gravity resumes. He doubles over and clutches his churning stomach. He screws his eyes shut against the onslaught of light and debates covering his ears to block out the sudden buzzing around him. Inside, stray emotions slosh against his guts, pouring in through the gaps in his still-down shields, and fuck how does he pull them up again?
A hand brushes his shoulder, and he flinches. "Hey," Dick's voice comes, softer than Jason has ever heard it and still too loud. "Jay, breathe for me."
I can't, I don't remember how, Jason opens his mouth to say, but he inhales instead.
"Good, just keep breathing, there you go."
With each breath, his body remembers what to do, how to function without being told. He loosens his grip on himself and sits up, leaning back against the couch so he can stare up at the ceiling. A cool sensation sweeps across him as his shields settle back into place.
"I'm sorry," Dick says, a bit louder now. "That wasn't exactly how I wanted you to find out."
Imprints flutter through Jason's stomach, and he can't tell if that's a memory or a projection, and he shudders. If the sentiment weren't so sweet, Jason would resent him for it.
"Kind of ironic," Dick continues, "you being an empath and all."
"You asked me to shield," Jason croaks.
Dick smiles at him. "I did." He watches Jason's face, casually this time, not with the Sentinel intensity that Jason now knows firsthand. Is he –? He's waiting for something.
"Do you trust me?" Jason asks, holding out his hand again.
"Obviously." Dick takes it.
Once again, Jason lets his shields down, but rather than letting himself get swept up in the familiar waves, he reverses the flow. This time, he pushes outward, projects the warmth and comfort he associates with their home, with Dick. He feels it when Dick shivers, and he pulls back again, returns his shields.
Dick doesn't release his hand, just squeezes back, the warmth between them all their own.