Dick flopped onto the couch next to Jason, sagging bonelessly into the cushions, and insinuating one leg annoyingly between Jason's thighs and his book.
His presence was something of a surprise. Jason was in a little used side room on the third floor. It may at one point have been a storage room, with only a single high window on the north wall and shelves built into the other two. It was mostly empty now, populated with nothing but an old, sagging couch Jason could not believe Alfred hadn't thrown out, an upright reading lamp, and a truly alarming stack of books that Jason was slowly making his way through. It was an eclectic mix, everything from old pulp mysteries, to forensics books, to classics and plays. The wistful expression on Alfred's face the first time he brought Jason a tray in this room made him wonder who that stack of books belonged to. This room had been abandoned to collect so much dust that it had taken Jason three days and a good deal of swearing and sneezing to get it habitable. Who had these books belonged to, that they were still here instead of bring disposed of, or integrated into the Manor library. Who had created this cozy space, who's were the sparse knickknacks on the shelves that Jason had been strangely reluctant to touch.
He knew, no matter how much he didn't want to think about it, that the answer was himself. That this room belonged to one of the holes in his memory he found every so often. More and more now that he was back in the manor, and one of the others would reference something and Jason would just stare blankly, no memory left, lost to the swing of a crowbar and the trauma of that day, lost to the screaming glowing green. That had almost sent him running from this little sanctuary when he realized, angry, so angry and hurt and tired. Tired of fighting, tired of this lie of a life. Even when his life was his, when he told himself he was his own man, he wasn't really. Parts of him still belonged to the past, to Batman, and to the Joker, and if he killed him would he get them back?
Dick sighed deeply, like he couldn't believe Jason was ignoring him, and sank deeper into the couch. Jason tried not to tense up.
The relaxation in Dick's body was a lie.
Despite what Tim and Damian seemed to think, Dick could lie, body and words and actions, when pushed to it. He preferred honesty. Misdirection when necessary, rather than blatant falsehoods. But you didn't get raised by Batman and not learn how to lie. Or how to detect lies. The boneless sprawl of Dick's body was just a hair too posed, one foot remaining firm on the ground to give himself the leverage he needs to move quickly if it becomes necessary. His vital areas are all out of reach of Jason's hands, and the leg on Jason's lap could quickly become either an attack or a pin.
Jason wondered which one of them he was lying to, with this false, shallow show of trust; Jason or himself? He tried not to let it hurt. Tried not to let it make him mad. Fails, again, but the aching tiredness that had finally swamped the rage didn't let him do more than sigh in return and half close the book, one hand saving his place.
He turned his head slightly to meet blue eyes, a weary frown on his face.
"Can I help you, Dick?" He tried to make the words sarcastic, biting and mocking in the way he'd learned was guaranteed to make both the Replacement and the BabyBat stomp off in nearly identical huffs. They were really far too much alike. It would be funny if it wasn't so typical. His words just came out flat, instead, all the emotion worn from them. He doesn't want to deal with this right now. He was hiding, he knew it, admitted it. Hiding from Bruce, from what being here meant, from the consequences of this decision. Hiding from himself, who he had become, who he was. Hiding from the interminable feeling of waiting tension, like they were all perched on the edge of a building and waiting for the right moment to leap, but they hadn't cast their lines yet, and didn't know where they would land. Hiding from Dick, who looked at him with such indecipherable expressions and kept trying to draw him out of his isolation.
It may not be a great hiding place, since it was the same every day, but everyone beside Alfred had respected his wish for solitude up until now. It's not like he needed monitoring in this room. Even he wasn't desperate or crazy enough (yet) to try squeezing out of a window that small, just to get away from the manor. And if he kept reminding himself that ultimately this was his choice, he might just stave that off entirely. He would look ridiculous trying to get his shoulders through that window anyway. Having to get rescued from his own desperate escape attempt would only make everything worse, and Jason had never reacted well to humiliation.
For once, Dick didn't say anything, face neutral. Just looked at him, and Jason looked back, just...empty. A storm rumbled in the distance and the damp in the air made his bones ache, made the wounds, Joker afflicted and otherwise, throb in time with his heart. That never helped. It had been a bad night, full of fire and death, his and others. It was cold, which he hated, but he didn't want to go find a blanket and risk running into anyone in this mood. He thought he'd be safe to hole up here and wait until everyone but his nightly babysitter was out on patrol, and then go curl up in bed and write this whole day off.
Apparently even that bit of peace won't be allowed, he thought despairingly, locked in Dick's gaze.
Or maybe it would. Something in Dick's expression shifted, eased. He reached out slowly, body flowing smoothly from his sprawl up until he could reach Jason's face with his hands. Every movement was like silk and Jason took it all in, stomach clenching in sympathy, envy, something. Jason held very still while Dick placed a palm against his cheek, right to left, fingers sliding through his hair for a second, another. And then he was gone, slipping out of the room as silently as he had arrived.
What?
Jason stared after him for a long moment, but eventually just shrugged and went back to his book, relief warring with something else. Maybe it was loneliness. Trust him to be so contrary as to want to be alone and not at the same time, even if that not alone came in the form of a Dick Grayson acting entirely outside the norm. One stiff and tense in his presence, but trying to pretend he wasn't. Probably still wary, expecting an attack. That it seemed he'd been the one to finally beat the lesson into Dick that even allies were not to be trusted shouldn't hurt so much. Or did Dick not even believe that much of his agreement with Bruce? Did he really think Jason was hiding in this tiny musty room by himself, concocting some evil plan, or just waiting for them to let their guard down for him to take them out? That almost made him snort, torn between struggling amusement and budding insult. Wow, Dick must think he was a truly hopeless villain if this was the best plan he could come up with.
He'd been rather good at it, thank you. Red Hood; scourge of the underworld.
He quickly swiped his hand against his jeans before he opened his book again. There wasn't any blood to stain the pages, but... it couldn't hurt.
He'd never understood Dick before, he didn't think. Unless that understanding too was a victim of the Joker. When he was acting like some weird amalgam of himself and Bruce and the Replacement, Jason didn't have a hope in hell of figuring him out. And he didn't particularly care to try, today. Maybe tomorrow he'd get mad at the silent mistrust, at the hovering and close watch they had on him, probably waiting for whatever his 'real plan' was. Then he would destroy a couple more training dummies, and any flesh and blood dummies that got in his way. And maybe he and Dick would tear into each other when he inevitably lost it. In the mean time, Dick would think whatever he wanted to, and there was nothing Jason could do about it. Maybe tomorrow.
Or maybe *today*, if people kept interrupting him. He'd just gotten back into the book when the door creaked again. The irritation pricked strongly enough to needle through the apathy today and been cased in. He twisted with a glare. What *now?*
Jason blinked, frustration derailed. A mass of fluffy yellow oozed through the doorway and got tossed to the floor by the side of the couch. Jason just blinked at it, then at Dick, who followed it in to the room, a mug in each hand. The Dick Grayson who walked back through his door was not the same one who had come in earlier. That one had been embodying the smooth grace of a predator, easy grin fixed on his face and eyes guarded. Now he was all liquid Grayson grace, a small warm smile and a crinkle in the lines just beginning to form around his eyes.
Jason didn't know what had caused this change. It made him wary, but he didn't get the chance to ask as Dick - acting like the whirlwind of annoying cheer Jason remembered once calling him when he was still small enough for the older man to pick up with a grunt of effort, spin, and sling at Bruce in retaliation for the laughter Jason's remark had caused - set two mugs of something hot and steaming on the floor, and bundled himself and the incredibly fuzzy blanket back onto the couch.
Jason looked at the head now resting trustingly in his lap with blank incomprehension. Glanced along the body, supine along the rest of the couch, half under the surprisingly big blanket that was also shrouding Jason's legs, even as Dick's own warmth started seeping into his side and stomach. Dick's frame was entirely lax, and curved loosely into an 'S', legs tucked up slightly, belly facing him and in easy reach of a gut-slice with the knives Dick had to know Jason was still carrying. The neck resting practically under his hands would be the work of a moment to snap.
Something indefinable in him eased, even as his frustration with this imbecile nearly boiled over. Why did he have to be so confusing? Jason couldn't fathom what in their silent exchange earlier could possibly have prompted this change in behavior, but damn if Dickie didn't just live to confuse him. He contemplated momentarily shoving the spine of his rather heavy book into that perfect face in annoyed retaliation of Dick's sheer existence.
Dick must have seen the temptation growing too great, because he pulled his trump card out of his own sweatshirt pocked, a bright blue wrapped bar of chocolate.
"Got your favorite," He said sweetly. Anger flared. Those were dangerous words, these days, and Dick damn well knew it. How dare he? Jason started to snap that it couldn't possibly be, he didn't remember ever seeing that particular kind before, except...
As the blue caught the light, suddenly, he did remember. He remembered Dick still half in his Nightwing suit, the blue nearly the same, laughing half in honest disgust and half in playful mockery as he held the bar of white chocolate out of Jason's reach, a rare, coveted post-patrol indulgence, asking if he was *sure* he didn't want some *real* chocolate. Remembered going down in a heap of laughter and limbs when a frustrated Jason took out Dick's legs with a roar and a flip Bruce had been trying to get him to perfect for months. Remembered sitting on Dick's chest, pinning his arms to the sides with his legs, laughing at the man as he pouted below him, knowing Dick had let him win, but not feeling the same bitterness over it he might have even a month ago. Remembered eating his treat in triumph while staring challengingly at the other, before giving into the pleading pouting and breaking off a piece to feed him, laughing more when Dick made exaggerated faces of disgust over the fact that 'there isn't even any actual chocolate in that, Little Wing!' but ate as much of it as Jason was willing to share anyway.
He remembered.
He *remembered*, and that memory hadn't been there a second ago. His eyes misted and he brought the book up defensively so Dick wouldn't see it. Maybe, maybe, if he let them, some of the memories could come back, could be coaxed back.
Plastic crinkled and Jason looked down to see that gentle smile still on Dick's face, a broken-off square of the chocolate held up to him, and eyes so warm. Without thinking, Jason dipped his head to take the square in his mouth, mirroring his memory. His lips brushed Dick's fingers softly, callous catching and dragging against Jason's lower lip just slightly. They both froze for a startled instant, before heat practically exploded in Dick's eyes, pupils dilating as he stared up at him. Jason's breath stuttered even as the chocolate melted on his tongue. He swallowed reflexively, not taking his eyes off Dick. The older man held his gaze as he broke off another piece and held it up to him, slightly farther away than the last one, Jason's choice to take it with his own hand, or -
He bent farther over Dick, curving over his head and shoulders where they rested in his lap, taking the piece held out to him into his mouth, brushing a soft kiss against Dick's fingers. Dick fed him the entire bar, piece by piece, wordless, cocooned in this little room, in the blanket, the bulk of Jason's body, and the near tangible connection between them.
When the last piece was gone, Dick reached up and cupped a hand behind Jason's neck, pulling him down slowly. Jason's eyes slipped closed and Dick's lips brushed feather soft over each cheek, and slid tenderly across his lips, a bare touch, before he tucked his own cheek against Jason's for a long moment, just breathing against him, with him. It felt like a benediction, but Jason didn't know what he had done to deserve it. Slowly, just before the curve of his spine started to twinge, Dick pulled away. Jason stared at him while he settled himself more firmly, curling up against Jason, pressing more of his warmth into his side, while Jason tried to gather words. What had that been, what did it mean, how could Dick be here like this with him when less than an hour ago he had been stiff with distrust? It had been distrust, hadn't it? It had to have been.
Dick laid a finger over his lips, smiling a smile bright with promise, but no pressure.
"We can talk later. Read to me?" He asked whimsically, and Jason didn't think he would ever be able to refuse a question asked by those bright blue eyes ever again. He cleared his throat, and turned back to the beginning of his book. When he started, his voice was rough and a bit unsure, but smoothed out when Dick only hummed and went, if possible, even more boneless across Jason's lap.
"Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world..."