Dick drew a shaky breath and buried his face into Bruce's shoulder, his sharp chin jutting and his nose stabbing, and his shivering not subsiding in the least. Bruce pulled an arm back long enough to retrieve his wand and flick a series of silent privacy wards around them, his face stoic and his mind carefully occlumens-blank.

It was muffled, and gasping, and broken, but Bruce listened, and his son told him about Hogwarts.

000

Dick didn't notice Jason right away, which said more about his state than anything else Bruce could have tried to put into words.

Bruce saw Jason quickly enough—hovering just out of the doorframe, cautious and curious, but trying to be respectful. He hung far enough back that the privacy wards hadn't expelled him.

The spells Bruce cast were the sort of privacy wards used in restaurant booths; they muzzled sound and blurred meaning, but they weren't look-away charms. They weren't intended for invisibility, and it was difficult to not figure some meaning into a man curled in on himself, shoulders hitching and one hand snarled into another's cloak.

Jason shrank, eyes averted, as Dick wore himself down. Bruce conjured up a washcloth and wetted it. He levitated it at the end of his wand, offering it to his eldest ward by saying, "For your face."

Dick took the cloth, wiping his now red and puffy eyes, cleaning and composing himself within minutes. His back straightened, his hair was unmussed and his robes, rightened. Eyes blinked back to brightness. He quirked a smile. I'm fine. Unflinching eye contact. Only then did Bruce lower the privacy wards and call attention to the figure at the edge of their vision.

"I told you there was someone staying with us," was what he said as he moved away from the armrest he'd been using as a seat. Moving away from the conversation. Moving away from the last half hour that they were all already pretending never happened.

"Yeah," said Dick, cracks in his voice gone. He turned, his bangs flicking out with the movement. He needed a trim. He flicked his hair once more, intentionally, removing it from his eyes. "You mentioned. So, this is them?"

Jason's back straightened. He gave up any pretense of hiding and glanced at Bruce once before entering the room. Entering even before Bruce actually told him, "Come in."

Jason circled wide around Dick, coming to stand next to Bruce, not quite sizing Dick up but not exactly succeeding at looking casually, either. Bruce put a hand on his shoulder once he was close, steadying him. Maybe holding him back. But Dick was smiling, warm and open, and sometimes that was enough to set people on edge if they weren't expecting it.

"Dick, this is Jason, I met him around Halloween. He's a muggle. Jason, this is Dick."

"He's a muggle?"

It came out before there was even a chance for a 'how do you do,' or 'nice to meet you.' Almost before Bruce had even finished talking.

It could have gone better.

Jason's whole body tensed. He crossed his arms, lost his posture, and began favoring one leg, eyebrow raised, and pretense of being smaller or trying to be respectful out the window. "Yeah. That's not gonna be a problem, is it?"

It could have gone better, because Dick didn't usually bar his teeth. Didn't usually rise to obvious bait. I taught you better than that. But thank Merlin, at least he didn't direct that look towards Jason for more than a moment.

Dick rounded on Bruce without a thought, his shoulders snapping into place and his back ramrod straight, hand by his wand. "You brought a muggleinto this?"

"Snatchers were after him," Bruce said, unmoving, and trying to find the voice that worked relatively well that night, weeks ago, when Jason had been soothed. He hadn't used any similar voice on Dick in such a long time, it nearly escaped him. Dick hadn't always approved of his choices before, but he always understood, almost instinctively. "He had nowhere to go. I'll give you the details in private, but Dick, trust me—"

"—In private?" Dick snapped, voice rising. "Bruce, this is too far—"

The chandelier exploded.

Jason was the only one who shouted. Bruce was clear of the debris with two steps back, shoving Jason behind him. Dick was up and skidding out of the chair a moment later, arm raised to cover his head.

It was over quickly.

The ringing of glass and crystal hitting the floor. The echo of the initial crack. Both faded after a few moments, leaving only a heavy silence and the sound of unstable breathing. One fallen shard cut deeply into the transmuted armchair Dick had occupied, its feather stuffing bubbling out of the gash.

Wordless, Bruce slid his wand out of its holder and flicked. The debris fell upwards much more slowly than it descended. This time, the motion reminded him of a slow, confused rain. Not of pearls. One sweeping turn later, the chair's rip stitched itself together, the fabric and stuffing transfiguring itself back into wood.

Jason, hunched up behind Bruce, said nothing. Not of any of it. Dick looked on with a different sort of silence, his hands on his knees and his cloak rumpled again. He opened his mouth once, as if to say something, but couldn't quite seem to get it out.

Bruce would not be the first to speak. Not out of spite. But Merlin, he just didn't know what to say.

"Sorry," Dick said, finally. Mechanically. "I think I need to go lay down a while. I'll be better in the morning."

There were too many things Bruce could say, now. Most of them began with, 'no.' Too much risk in 'no.' He chose a happy medium. "Your dinner—"

"—can I have it in my room, Bruce?" Dick said, raising a hand to his forehead and giving a weak, toothy smile. "I'm really not feeling so well. You should make a note that we may want to look into the long-term effects of frequent bezoar ingestion. It's probably just a cold, though. I'll just have a pepperup and rest a bit and be fine tomorrow. Sorry for bothering you."

There were lots of things Bruce should have said to that. None of them would've stopped Dick from turning on his heel and walking up the grand stair in the front hall up to the second floor where his room was. A room that had been his since he was just a boy. A room untouched since September.

Bruce must have blinked, because one moment Dick was there, and the next, he was gone, and Bruce was left alone with Jason in the dining room.

Jason took a few hesitant steps forward until he stood beside Bruce once more.

His words said, "Did I say something?" with a twitch of amusement, but his hunched shoulders and steady tone said, guilt, guilt, guilt—

"No," Bruce said, because there was an answer which would soothe Dick and an answer which would soothe Jason, and either answer would upset the opposite party. Proximity made the choice for him. "You did nothing wrong. He's had a rough few months. He'll be better in the morning."

Jason didn't look so certain, twisting the toe of his shoe into the dining room's floor and glancing up at the chandelier. Bruce sighed and found that while he couldn't will his shoulders down, he could roll them back and relieve at least a little of the tension now living in his jaw. "Come on, now. We'll ask Alfred to serve Dick in his room, but that doesn't mean we have to wait."

With that, he gestured for Jason to follow him, and waited just long enough to make sure the boy would (even shuffling, edging in a wide circle around the dining table, and by extension the chandelier, as he did so) before leading the way to the kitchens and sitting down at the much smaller, much more personal table that lived there, Jason across from him, and Alfred quietly pulling a sheet of cinnamon buns out of the oven.

000

Dick was, admittedly, much more sociable in the morning. He slunk downstairs when the sun rose, swaddled in a blanket, hair uncombed, and eyes caked with sleep.

Bruce found him on his third bowl of cereal, quietly chewing through a newly opened box—Jason had eaten through at least one of the older boxes of cereal since coming to the mansion in October. If Dick noticed, he didn't mention it.

The silence between them as Bruce sat down was personable. Tension was present, but negligible, in the face of his son being home, and whole, and alive. It was enough to quiet any lingering concern over the last night's accidental magic and breakdown. Not silence the concern. But quiet.

He left Dick to his third serving of breakfast after a smaller one of his own, but heard later from Alfred that several minutes after his departure, Jason had emerged from his room.

"Sorry," Dick had said, looking up from under dark bangs, eyes still only partly opened. "About last night. I wasn't really adjusting well."

Jason sat on the seat across from him. Pulled the box of cereal over. Dick pushed the milk towards him a moment later, a small, frail smile passing between them. "Yeah, whatever, it's no big deal. But seriously? Adjusting? That's your exuse?"

"Spent the semester watching my classmates tortured over muggles," Dick said with the same shrug and 'what can you do?' tone that permeated his letters home. He looked right and left, then above, towards the lighting fixtures. It was not the same chandelier that had shattered the night before, but it served the gesture all the same. Jason followed his gaze. "It's weird, being home."

"Why don't you leave?" Jason said, pouring milk into his bowl. "I mean. Why would you stay at school if things are as bad as all that?"

"Well, they'd follow me home and ask what's got me so offended." Dick smiled and spoke like he was joking. "But, also, I can do some good there. That's most of it, really. Bruce would find an excuse to cover my ass if I did want to leave, but—I can't just leave those kids there. I only came back this break because Bruce wanted to show me something. And because of you."

Jason blinked owlishly. "Me?"

And Dick nodded, not looking at him. He took another bite of cereal, finishing his third bowl. "You."

000

Bruce showed Dick the cave that afternoon. The safehouse.

"How long do you think this war's going to last, Bruce?" Dick asked, eyes not leaving the door apparently concealed by a clock.

"What do you think?" Bruce asked.

"I think you've made a bunker," said Dick, eyes forward, face unchanged. "And I'm not really sure if I like what that implies."

But he didn't object, and helped Alfred organize and plan for dozens more treats and holiday candies to be made over the course of the break, laced with healing draughts and painkilling solution, to be smuggled back into Hogwarts as gifts, come January.

Then, when they'd finished comparing notes and deciding on the most useful and most urgent contraband, Dick stayed in the kitchen with Alfred and helped brew and can potions for long-term storage, while Bruce hovered finished potions in groups and levitated them into the Cave, where Jason spent the day sat cross-legged on the dirt with a book, abandoned, beside him.

000

"Are you okay?"

Bruce wasn't sure what to do about the tension between them. Even setting aside a mutual affection for physical sports, words, and magical animals, combined with Dick's usually jovial personality and Jason's curiosity and easy-come excitement, he'd expected them to bond quickly, and yet—

And yet, Jason's half-snide question in the library, hip cocked against one of the bookcases and arms across his chest, was possibly the first relatively concerned word between them.

It was fortunate that Dick's temper—'explosive,' Alfred had called it, without a hint of irony—had apparently been worn down, to the point where all he seemed willing to do at the question was heave out a sigh, slid the book he'd opened back on the shelf, and say, "I'm fine. I'm just tired."

"I'll say," Jason said, eyes averted. "You look terrible."

Dick's face fell flat. Exasperated. Maybe irritated. Cold enough that he fell back on the punctilious grammar that he'd erred towards since returning from Hogwarts. "You'll have to excuse me. I haven't been sleeping well."

But Jason didn't know the difference. Didn't know the Dick who used to splice words for fun. Whose preferred syntax was as easy and natural as any supposed pureblood's could be. That was the thing about Jason. He'd grown up far from the magical world. He knew he didn't know, and at some point, he didn't seem to care.

So Jason raised his eyebrows, flared a bit, and said, "What, are you telling me sleeping potions are bullshit, too?"

Dick closed his eyes, grit his teeth, and let out a long breath of air. He relaxed his shoulders down, apparently pretending he didn't see Jason warily glance up to be sure he wasn't beneath anything that may fall. "Sleeping potions take time to make. You have to gather and prepare the ingredients, not to mention heating the cauldron and cleanup. Even if my dorm is under the lake, I promise you, the professors do not like us starting fires in our rooms, much less having to explain why I constantly need sleeping potions. I'm not going to get dependant on them, not even here. "

Jason's eyebrows furrowed back down, though his arms remained crossed and the confused frown was still on his face. "What, you can't have Alfred deliver them to you all wrapped up in chocolate?"

And maybe what was in his voice was bitterness. It could have been spite. I liked it here; I heard what you said about me; everything went to shit when you came home. But if they kept arguing technicalities, nothing would ever come of it. Not even blows. And that was a good enough reason to stick to the technical. A good enough reason for Dick to take another deep breath and try to stop gritting his teeth.

"They expire quickly. An expired sleeping draught can be deadly. We haven't been able to make them take to baked goods effectively, so I'd have to smuggle them in vials, which are pretty easy to search for, and have to explain why I wanted them in the first place. And even if I did smuggle some in with me when I go back to school, there are a lot of other people who'd need them more than I do."

And Jason, whose concept of magic had never been diluted with rules, snorted and said, "What, you can't smuggle them in tea bags?" just as Alfred stepped through the door of the library and said, "Ah, excuse me, Master Dick. I was searching for your father. There are some guests at the door requesting to speak with him."

Dick rubbed his face and smiled, sliding into form as Jason raced for the hidden door and slipped into the bunker without another word. "Thanks, Alfred. You keep looking for him, I'll keep them entertained in the meantime."

000

It was the first snow day of the year when Snatchers came to the manor, trailing in slush and mud in their wake. The first time Dick had been there to greet them. He knew the spiel, knew the words to say and the condolences to give, and the wonderful smile to dazzle them with.

They came in pairs, Snatchers did. They came in pairs, or in hoards, but rarely single or in trios. It was still uncommon to bring a whole hoard within the manor walls, despite the space being more than adequate—simply, most snatchers preferred to be sitting in a bar, drinking and pouring over wanted posters, rather than making the long trek out to Wayne Manor to talk with the empty-headed pureblood family who couldn't even bother to get their hands dirty. This group of Snatchers? Came in threes.

Dick could appreciate the their particular sense of fashion, even if everything else about Snatchers in general made his stomach turn. His stomach hadn't been very sturdy lately, anyway. Or maybe extremely sturdy, and there was just a lot around him to make it upset.

They were wrapped in scarves and long coats, all bright colors. One had a vibrant, royal purple fleece with lime green lining. It had an oddly muggle look too it—straight lines, rather than organic curves, and the sort of turn along the collar which was uncommon among wizarding robes. Another Snatcher favored crimson, and stood towards the center of the group, looking a little self-conscious and a little excited. The third matched the second, favoring a more somber black for his robes with thin marks along the sleeves, but the bright red of his scarf tied him into being a matched set, even though the crimson woman clearly favored Purple Coat in her body language, in her sideways glances.

Purple coat wasn't paying much attention to anyone, though. He walked around the hall so wide-eyed and distractedly that he didn't even stop when Dick comes down the entryway staircase, smiling and welcoming them, apologizing for Bruce's tardiness.

"It's a rather large house and he tends to wander if he's not kept entertained," Dick said, spreading his hands as he reached the entryway floor. "It takes a while to find him sometimes."

"House elves can't find him?" the man in black said. Very blandly. It was so bland it almost looped back into amusement.

"No house elves," Dick said, cocking his head. "Not anymore. Too… simple. We much prefer the company of our fellow witches and wizards. Much more reliable."

It took a special kind of pureblood to claim to be above hiring house-elves. And Dick was, in that moment, and for the last three years, exactly that sort of pureblood. Bruce would be proud.

(Damnit, Bruce.)

The woman in red looked aghast, pouting some, her blond hair whipping around. "Ah! No house elves? I was hoping to see one. I've heard they're so cute."

Dick cocked his head to the other side, carefully considering that. "We still have the head-mounts of our former elves, if you would be interested in seeing those, Ms...?"

"Quinn," she said, sticking out her hand to shake. Dick shook, smiling. "Harley Quinn."

"It's wonderful to meet you, Ms. Quinn," he pulled away. "Can I offer you anything while you're here? There's a sitting room just down the hall we can all settle in while we talk."

Quinn was already geared up to follow when the man in black cleared his throat and said, "We aren't here to talk to children."

And the man in purple said, without turning towards them, "Oh, put a sock in it, Vicky."

The man in black—Vicky?—shot the purple man a horrible look, but turned back to Dick with the tightest, most thinly controlled smile he'd ever seen in his life. "We just came by to ask a few questions about the muggle-lover."

Dick smiled back, just a touch sharp, just a touch amused. "No worries. We're very pleased you're so dedicated. You've had an—" heavy footsteps behind him on the stairs; Alfred had found Bruce, "—unfortunate meeting with them, I assume?"

"Oh, no no no no no," the man in the purple coat said, turning for the first time, his gaze missing Dick entirely and landing solidly on Bruce as he approached. It was the first good look Dick had at the man's face. Bright red lips, chapped from the cold. A matching pair of long, thin scars on his cheeks, pulling his face tight. Cheekbones like knives. Eyes bright like stars. "We just wanted to learn a bit more about him before game night."

"You plan to seek him out, then?" Bruce said, placing a hand on Dick's shoulder, entering the conversation smoothly. Vicky twitched, apparently not having noticed his descent on the stairs. The woman in crimson was harder to read; she just turned towards the purple man, smiled, and spoke to him as if he hadn't been present for anything before he'd initially spoken.

"Mr. J, they said we could sit in the parlor while we talked; Mr. J, let's do that, yeah? It's so cold outside and I wanna see the elves," she said, all pep and fire

Behind him, hand still on his shoulder, Dick heard Bruce tell Alfred to arrange for tea. Dick just smiled blandly at their guests, feeling moderately offended for birds as Mr. Jay watched back. Maybe he hadn't been really present until shortly before Bruce's arrival. Maybe he'd been heavily zoned out.

Dick really didn't like the implications of a Snatcher who was that comfortable zoning out in the house of an avowed Dark Lord-aligned household, but perhaps he was misreading that. It could mean Mr. Jay was simply starting in on the fire whiskey a little early in the day, or hadn't slept well the night before (a theory the deep-set of his eyes would support), or perhaps, he was simply a careless Snatcher and would be easy for Gotham Field's nighttime defender to ensnare.

"I'll take care of this, Dickie," Bruce said, smiling and waving him off as Dick made to follow the group towards the nearest parlor. "It'll be boring to you, anyway. Go finish your homework; I'll send Alfred to fetch you if I need you for anything, alrighty, kiddo?"

Dick smiled, demure, and did one more tilt of his head. "Of course, Father." To the Snatchers, "Excuse me, then. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

He did a half-bow towards Bruce before exiting the room.

Alfred was in the kitchens, steeping tea and setting a tray of nutty scones and almond cake on a platter. Four tiny plates, a stack of napkins, a jug of cream, sugar tongs, and a bowl of broken bits of sugarloaf. Alfred looked up at Dick when he entered the room and continued his arrangements, not even having to look down as he shifted everything the extra inch or so necessary to make it all fit.

"How are things?" Alfred asked.

"Fine so far," Dick said, keeping his tones hushed despite the considerable distance between the kitchen and parlor. "Keep an eye on this group. They came preemptively. They haven't even started hunting in Gotham, yet. The one in black seems fairly average. Ms. Quinn's really interested in the house elves' heads, and I'm not sure what's going on with the purple one, but keep an eye on him, anyway."

Alfred responded with a curt nod and finished arranging the platter by adding a few springs of mint. Where he got it in the dead of winter, Dick wasn't entirely sure, but he was willing to bet good galleons that there was a greenhouse hidden in the manor somewhere.

"I'm going to check on Jason. If Bruce asks for me, that's where I'll be," Dick clasped Alfred's shoulder briefly. The butler nodded and made to depart before Dick's voice called him back again. "And I—Jason mentioned teabags. Would there be a way to dry the ingredients of a sleeping draught and transport them in teabags? Using the hot water of the cup as a potion base? So we'd brew the sleeping draught in single-person doses, rather than all at once and risking most of it spoiling?"

Alfred seemed to consider this before nodding sharply, something bright in his eyes. "I will certainly look into it, Master Dick."

"Thanks, Alfie," Dick said, and cast him a grin. "I'll see you in a bit, then. Stay safe."

"Only if you do the same, Sir."

Dick left a moment after him, and headed directly for one of the more distant Cave entrances. With the fidelius charm, it was a simple matter to conceal multiple entrances, though the library's was generally the most easily accessible and most frequently used.

From the angle he came in at, at first it appeared as if the Cave were fully abandoned. Not a soul in sight. For a strange, irrational moment, Dick feared for the young, lost muggle who'd come into their house. Then, he swallowed it back down and walked further into the cavern, checking the nooks and crannies for anywhere a sufficiently small and determined muggle to hide in.

He found Jason some minutes later, safely curled in one of the cellars filled with potions and home-canned goods. It was a small square of a room framed by wood and dug into the cave wall, set on all sides with shelves covered in glass jars and vials of all shapes, sizes, and colors. An ever-burning flame illuminated it, and the young body hidden within with his knees to his chin, arms free and eyes down, writing something on a—muggle paper notebook?—on the floor with a muggle pencil. Working on something, apparently, despite being huddled in the bunker, a few tens of meters below people who would kill him if given half a chance.

"What's that?" Dick dared to ask, and Jason did not jump. Dick's approach had not been particularly quiet.

"Nothing," Jason said, before amending, "None of your business."

Dick accepted that and remained standing tall where he was on the outside of the cellar, considering his options with a mindset that hadn't quite receded from dealing with the Snatchers. Now was not the time to start. But there would never be a time to start, really, would there? And at least he could tell himself he had tried his best during a time when it was unlikely they'd be interrupted. "I should apologize again."

"Why?" Jason said, glancing up briefly, his lower lip stuck out in disdain. It reminded Dick hideously of another dark-haired boy filled with anger, but perhaps that helped soothe his nerves.

"Things have been tense between us," Dick laid his hands out flat at his sides, open. "I haven't really helped with that."

Jason snorted and looked back down. "Whatever. If you've go a problem with me, why don't you just go run to your father about it. Don't bother pretending you give a fuck."

There were lots of different things Dick could have responded to in that. In fact, his first gut instinct was to take the paper from beneath Jason's hand and write him a full multi-page essay about everything wrong with that sentence, but they were verbal right now. Dick had very little control over his mouth when it came to verbal problems, so the first thing his mouth blurted out was, "Bruce isn't my father."

Which. Well. At least that hadn't been his instant reaction to accusations while at school. He would've hated for the last three years worth of constantly lying to his classmates to have been a waste.

(Maybe he was less angry at Jason and more angry at Bruce. But that was a Gryffinor thought, and he could kick that one out and laugh at it later.)

His blurting did, at least, have the effect of finally pulling Jason's eyes up to meet him once again, along with a wonderful expression full of the kind of shock that Dick hadn't been able to inspire for a long time. Dick grinned a little too widely in the face of it. Felt weirdly giddy. It all just made Jason's shock morph further into disbelief.

"I'm not," Dick said again, smiling wider. "You thought I was actually his son?"

"He always—" Jason started, sputtering. He jabbed an accusing finger out. "You look alike!"

"Yeah, well," Dick said, shrugging. "You and I could be brothers, so. Moot point."

It was really nice to just speak a casual sentence for once, even if it was directed towards someone who was halfway steamed.

After a few seconds worth of silence, though, Jason still hadn't managed to form a scathing response, and the only major movement from him was the slow lowering of his jaw.

"You're really taking this kinda weirdly, though," Dick said, his smiling fading somewhat as concern resurfaced. He scratched the side of his nose. "It wasn't… that big a shock, was it? I mean. It's important for the masquerade, but this really shouldn't be such a …big… deal for you, oh."

Jason's jaw clicked shut.

"Oh." The last dredges of the grin and giddiness of the reveal slipped away from him. "Oh. Dads are a big deal to you, aren't they."

Jason didn't actually confirm or deny that, but the pencil thrown at Dick's head—that was a hint. That was hint enough.

Despite the pencil, despite the hint, Dick took a step forward towards the cellar door, hesitant. "Can I? Join you?"

"What, am I gonna be able to stop you or something?" Jason's jaw clenched tight, a hint of white teeth showing through the low light. Dick entered the cellar and sat down beside him. He left a good half meter of distance between them, but sitting put him on roughly the right height level with the kid.

"Sorry," Dick said again, his mind finally settled and still, even in the face of his anger. Because there was still that. That quiet, angry burning that flared up in him when he least expected it, when he thought about a muggle stranger Bruce brought home one day while Dick was comforting traumatized first years, shielding his classmates the best he could, losing sleep, hurting when he woke—but this was different; not a muggle trapped in the wizarding world at war, but another hurt kid.

Another orphan, envious for family.

Dick could handle that. Dick had—he knew that feeling. He knew it just as well as Bruce did. As well as anyone could.

"I'm guessing there's a lot that Bruce's left out, so I—I can explain some, if you're okay with that, Jason."

000

It was two hours before either of them left the storage cellar.

A two hour long talk about orphanages, and parents, and a world that threw away its children the moment there wasn't an adult there to vouch for their worth. A two hour long talk that drew closer to its end every moment they edged nearer to the fatal question of, "how?"

"An accident," said Dick, staring at the cellar wall. "Muggle doctors tried to save them. They failed. A healer might've succeeded, but my father was a muggle, and all the legal proceedings they would've had to go through—well. By the time any healer knew there was a witch to help and got permission to see her, it was too late."

Jason pursed his lips. "…they knew there was a witch to help. But your dad, was—"

"Still alive, at the time," Dick said. Smiling, again. He had to smile when he talked about their deaths aloud. It put people at ease. He had to shrug, and smile, and keep his tone light, because otherwise, people wouldn't know what to do with him, and they'd all trip over themselves trying to figure out how to respond.

Jason was nowhere near smiling. Jason had no questions of how to respond. "They would've let them die because he was a muggle. That's what you're telling me. They'd rather we die."

Dick's smile twitched. Not wavering. But trying hard not to change, even in the face of Jason's slow-bubbling anger, his clenched fists and deeper breathing. A bellows.

"You know," Dick said, Smiling. "Sometimes, I think about that fucking treaty. And I wonder how many kids would still have their parents if we were just allowed to talk. Just talk. Openly. About it all."

The bellows that was Jason deflated, his fists unclenching and his glare losing its intensity as he brought his legs back up to his chest and twisted his fingers in the fabric of his pants legs.

"Do you think," he said, in a start. "Would a healer have been able to do anything about addiction?"

And Dick said, so slowly that he sounded in pain, "There's always a chance."

Jason clenched his jaw tight again.

"Dick," he said.

"Yeah, Jason?"

"Do me a favor," Jason said, "and burn that treaty down."

000

"breaking it up into more chapters won't mean I write more" I said, lying blatantly to my reflection in the mirror as tears slowly built up in my reflection's eyes. "in fact, I bet this will be one of my shortest fics ever!" I continued, openly weeping.

While writing this chapter, I realized, "you know. Whenever I see an adjective in front of a noun, I assume there are other versions of that noun with variations or alternatives to that adjective. But I've never heard of a 'jay' that wasn't a blue jay." So I googled it. It turns out there are a ton of jays. I like the green jay. I have no need to worry if Dick would have the jay = bird connection, because while the blue jay is North American, there are many other jays in Europe. I am going to refrain commenting on how "Mr. J," is horribly similar to Jason's "Jay" nickname, because, haha, nothing is sacred.

Next time, we're back to Bruce's POV to have Yule with the al Ghuls. I have no idea how people like them would celebrate holidays. Suggestions welcome! Murder highly discouraged.