The Boys in Blue

Story 9: Jason Todd's New Best Friend

It was one of those chilly Jersey nights in late November. Snow was drifting down from the thick cloud cover overhead, reflecting murky yellow streetlights against a backdrop of black. The moon might have been bright behind the haze but there was no way of telling. Nightwing drew his knees up to his chest to trap as must heat in as he could. Ironically, he was perched on the edge of a broken air conditioning unit atop the derelict Hamilton apartment building in lower Bludhaven.

Sometimes, he thought ruefully, it would be nice to have Bruce's money. If he did have that kind of cash, it'd be going into a new suit; one with winter insulation. As it was, he was getting by with wearing a pair of baggy black sweatpants over his suit; hems bunched up into his boots a bit above the ankle with the waistband riding low across his hips. Over that, he wore his old Bludhaven Community College zip-up with the pockets full of batterangs, candy wrappers, and hair-ties. Red Hood of course thought he looked like a Spiderman knock-off—saying he was about the right size for it—but Nightwing couldn't care less about fashion when he was freezing. Even if Hood did have a point. Beating up bad guys in his pajama pants was admittedly hilarious.

Standing beside him on the rooftop with his chin tucked to his chest and arms folded tightly against each other, even Red Hood stamped his feet to keep warm. And Red Hood had a leather jacket, cargo pants, and combat boots over his armor. Nightwing really didn't understand why Hood was cold but refrained from saying so. Usually, Red Hood was too self-controlled to show any kind of weakness like being cold, but at 4 in the morning, he was apparently too tired to care.

"I don't think your guy's going to show," Hood said peering over the ledge of the roof for what must have been the tenth time tonight.

Nightwing hated to admit it, but he had to agree. Terry Cartwright had once worked for Black Mask. But one thing went wrong and then another, and Terry ended up walking out on a rather lengthy prison sentence on a technicality. Since then, he'd dropped off the grid…almost. Nightwing might have lost him or given up on such a minor player if said minor player hadn't almost gotten Robin blown to kingdom-come.

"The only person who came out of that restaurant was that woman with the platinum wig. And even that was 43 minutes ago," Hood pointed out.

"I don't understand. I know my intel was good. I made sure of it." Nightwing tucked his freezing fingers into his lap, looking rather like a cat curled in on itself.

There was no telling whether or not Hood was rolling his eyes under that helmet, but Nightwing would put good money on it that he was. "Why doesn't fill me with overwhelming confidence?"

"I got the intel from Oracle," Nighwing said. He hadn't. But Barbra was supposed to be infallible.

Hood just shrugged. "Even Oracle's gotta goof sometimes." He pulled out a grappling line a fired the cable at the top of a nearby office complex. "Anyways, it's almost 4 in the morning, and I've got an 8 AM shift today."

"Sleep is for the weak," said Nightwing.

"I'll remember that next time you pass out during the Patriot's game." Red Hood kicked off into the night.

"Hey!" Nightwing took a running start and jumped off the roof after Hood. He fired his grappling line into the next building over. "I do not pass out during the game. I just like to rest my eyes."

"Like a weak person?" said Hood swinging past.

"Fuck you, it was a joke."

As brothers do, they bickered almost all the way back to the apartment. At some point they lost track of the conversation and started spewing insults back and forth. Red Hood, nerd that he was, pulled most of his from Shakespeare, which essentially meant that he got to sound smart while saying inane things. Nightwing on the other hand, tended to pull insults out of his ass. And they were usually as stupid as one might expect.

They were just passing over North Amity street, a few blocks from their apartment, when Wing chanced to look down. He gasped mid-insult and pulled his trajectory up short from where he'd been swinging between two buildings. Landing almost clunkily on a shaking fire-escape outside a dark office, he narrowed his eyes on a bit of movement between a couple overflowing trash bags.

Red Hood landed on the rooftop above him, scanning the ally below. "The fuck you doin' Dickwing? There's nothing down there," Hood's voice crackled over the com device in his ear. He sounded both irritated and confused. Which again, was totally fair. Nightwing would be the first to admit he had the attention span of a concussed squirl. He was the person who lost their train of thought over shiny things on the sidewalk, but nobody could argue that he wasn't observant as fuck.

"I thought I saw…" Nightwing trailed off, peeling his eyes in the darkness for a small bit of fur he'd seen from above.

"Well, I'm going home. Don't wake me up when you get back."

"There!"

Nightwing pulled a double somersault down to street level and pounced on the trash bags across the street.

"What the actual fuck! Get back here you dumpster diver, you're giving flashback to crime…what is that?"

Nightwing held up a mangy ball of black and white fur that thrashed around in his grip. If he hadn't been fully kitted out in his uniform, he'd have been bitten and scratched something awful. The tiny creature—a kitten, though it hardly looked like one at the moment—protested it's capture something vicious.

"I got it…ouch! What the hell you mangy…ouch…stop biting me! Look Hood, it's your Mini-Me, a smol feral child," said Nightwing holding the kitten up for his partner's inspection.

Red Hood finally leaped down to street level. His landing looked, to an outsider, entirely menacing, surefooted, and heavy in a way that one might almost expect the pavement to break underneath him. "You really do lack basic survival instincts don't you, Goldie."

Nightwing ignored the comment. "Oh come-on, that was a good one."

"Raise your comedic standards," said Hood stalking forward, "the hell's this creature? A Tasmanian devil?"

"It's a cat," said Wing, practically shoving the ball of matted wet fur into Hood's mask, up close and personal.

Red Hood didn't even blink. "Get that thing out of my face, you dick."

"Aww…but he's co cute." Nightwing might have tried cuddling the animal to underscore his point, but contrary to popular belief, he was not an idiot.

"Wing, you think all feral creatures are cute," Hood, pointed out deadpan. He pulled out his grappling gun again and made ready to take off into the night. "I can't believe you stopped just to check out a cat."

"Not just any cat," said Nightwing, "remember two weeks ago when I crashed the Chevy?"

Red Hood paused with the grappling gun aimed midair but unfired. "Yeah…" his voice dripped with suspicion.

"This is the kitten that made me do it!"

Red Hood blinked back at the fur-ball in Nightwing's hands with new interest judging by his body language. Nightwing couldn't see Jason's face under the helmet but he could hear the disgust in his voice when he spoke. "You're shitting me, right? This…this…guttersnipe…is what you crashed the Bieber-mobile for? It's not even cute!"

"How dare…" Wing started to protest, but Hood cut him off.

"Ya know what? I don't fucking care. Say goodbye to your new BFF and don't go splat on your way home." He fired the grappling gun at the top of the building they'd been perched on only minutes ago, and propelled himself into the air.

Not that Nightwing was paying attention. "I'm going to keep him," he said, "I think I'll name him Justin Bieber after the Bieber-mobile. JB for short."

There was a loud clanging overhead as a thoroughly flabbergasted Red Hood almost missed his footing on the fire-escape. "You're gonna fucking what?" he screamed.

Monday

Jason did not like JB. That was pretty clear. Dick hadn't brought him home for 24 hours before his brother—his 6-foot, 200 pound, grizzled, little brother—declared war on a fucking 1.6 pound kitten. It was the most ridiculous thing Dick had ever even heard of. Well, maybe not the most ridiculous thing, but pretty darn close.

It all started the morning Dick first brought JB home. Dick had been content to give the malnourished kitten a bowl of water a can of spam to lick at, and left him to get comfortable on his own. Dick had gone straight to bed after that. He didn't know what the heck transpired after he clocked out for the night—he didn't actually pay attention to Jason's rants 90 percent of the time—but whatever happened, left his brother with a gridwork of bright-red scratches all over his wrists and hands. Not that Dick was inclined to take it that seriously. He just bandaged Jason up with enough anti-biotics to kill an army of bacteria and left it alone. He assumed Jason would come around eventually.

Eventually was not two days later.

When Dick walked into the living room Monday morning, he found Jason standing on the coffee table with a rolled-up newspaper. He was still barefoot and shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of ratty purple sweatpants with a fading Gotham Knights logo on the leg. He was slightly hunched over, peering at something under the game console. Said something twitched between a couple of white Styrofoam takeout boxes they'd left on the floor Sunday night…or was it Saturday?

"Morning Jayb…"

"That thing is a menace!" snapped Jason. His head nearly brushed the ceiling when he straightened up all the way. "It's worse than the hell-hounds, and I'm pretty sure I'm an authority on that."

Dick rolled his eyes. "There's no such thing as hell-hounds."

"Excuses me," snapped Jason, "have you ever been dead?"

"You're such a Drama Queen." Dick walked between the coffee table and the game console and reached under the take-out boxes for JB.

Jason unrolled the newspaper and held it up in front of himself like a shield. "Careful! It's gonna turn into a devil; that thing's a fucking werecat."

"We don't have time for this," said Dick, "did you get breakfast?"

"How could I?" Jason exploded, "your gutter-gremlin here was guarding the kitchen!"

"Seriously?" Dick was far to amused for his own good. "Aren't you the fearsome Red Hood?"

"Ya know what, Dickiebird? You're damn right." Jason suddenly whipped a gun out of somewhere—Dick could never keep track of all the weapons Jason had on him at any given time—and pointed it right at the kitten's furry head. "I can just send with sonuva-bitch back to hell from whence it came."

Mildly surprised but unconcerned, Dick shoved the barrel of the Glock off to one side. "I'll lock JB in my room while you get ready. We've got that meeting with the chief so we can get back in the field."

Grumbling something incoherent, Jason hopped off the coffee table and shoved the barrel of his gun down between his back and the waistband of his sweats. He trudged off towards the kitchen and put the kettle on the stovetop. Dick shook his head and locked JB in his bedroom before climbing up on a barstool and digging into a box of cheerios he'd left on the island countertop. Honestly, if a two-bedroom apartment wasn't big enough for them to keep a little kitten, then Dick was going to have to throw in the towel.

Tuesday

Jason jet himself in through the living room window. The window stuck and creaked as he pulled it shut. The apartment was completely dark and lonely, and Jason wasn't above comparing it to the empty claustrophobic deathtrap of a grave he'd once crawled out of. Dick wasn't back from patrol yet—he was still trying to catch up with Terry-something-or-other—which meant Jason had to deal with his feelings by himself. Annoyingly.

He'd gotten used to his brother's constant chatter and not being able to think straight for more than a few minutes before something stupid happened. It was a crutch, and he knew it. But fuck if he couldn't do with some dumbass puns right about now.

He unclipped his helmet and tossed it aside on the couch. The damn thing just rolled right off with a muffled clatter on the carpet. Jason kicked his feet up on the armrest and tucked a few pillows and balled-up blanket behind his head. He pulled out his phone in the dark, intent on finishing Chapter 4 of Tom Sawyer before bed. Not that it was quite as distracting as he'd hoped. Fifteen minutes in, and Jason figured he would just have to wait for Nightwing to slip back in.

How he had let a gang of F List drug dealers—F for fuck—literally weld him into a non-descript sedan and then leave that sedan in a car compactor, was beyond him. It's was like one of those crazy deathtraps James Bond might find himself in, and not it a good way. Logically, he knew it was stupid of him to get so worked up about the whole ordeal; he'd gotten himself out with plenty of time to spare and managed to nab more than half the gang before blowing up the rest of them with a single well-placed grenade. He assumed he called 911 in time to save them. If not, well then…oops.

He knew that logically, he was fine.

Illogically, he was very not fine. Maybe if he hadn't had to save himself, again, things might have been different. But he had. He had to beat his way out of that god-dammed car with nothing but his feet and his fists. The same way he'd once beaten himself out of a fucking coffin.

It wasn't fair to be mad at Dick. After all, Jason was the one who decided to split up for the night. But that didn't stop him from resenting his brother for not being there. It was utterly ridiculous. Jason knew that. And he was self-aware enough to know that he'd have had scathing words for Dick if he ever even suggested that Jason needed help. But then again, logic and feelings were almost mutually exclusive.

It was almost two hours later, 4:54, when Nightwing slipped though the window. He was soaking wet and there was a pretty little bruise blooming on his temple. Sans mask, he looked down at Jason with wide eyes.

"I thought you'd be in bed," he said.

"And I thought you'd be home sooner," Jason countered. He was not pouting.

"Sorry dear," said Dick lightly, "traffic was terrible."

Jason decided to play along. "Are you cheating on me with other drug dealers?"

"I would never," Dick gasped, placing a hand over his heart.

"You are, aren't you! You colossal fuck," said Jason.

Dick laughed. "You left me for your drug dealers first."

Ouch. "Why are you dripping filthy water all over my carpet?"

"Feel into the marina after some lady hit me in the head with a crowbar." Dick winced at the memory. "Had a fucking good arm on her too."

Jason burst out laughing. "How did that happen?"

"I honestly have no idea," said Dick, "but there was something…off…about her. Something…I don't know…I can't put my finger on. But she was in both places I was supposed to find Terry Cartwright, which is just suspect."

Jason hummed at that. "Anyone who wears a platinum wig is suspect."

"If that's so, you'll find a lot of suspects in Hollywood." Dick unzipped the top half of his Nightwing suit and let it hang forwards off his waist before walking off towards his bedroom with a lazy sway in his hips. "Night Jay. Don't stay up too late."

"Yes mom."

Dick flipped him off over his shoulder and closed his bedroom door behind him. A few seconds later, Jason heard the shower turn on. He was alone again. Almost.

Dick's fucking cat crawled out of its little bed in the corner beside the heating vent, and leapt up onto the couch by Jason's feet. It stared at him with its shining green eyes, tilting its head like Dick always did when he was trying to make sense of something. It slunk carefully towards him along the narrow space of the cushions that wasn't occupied by Jason's body. It never took its eyes off him. It was still assessing him as a threat, which was entirely fair, but ouch…even the fucking cat didn't trust him.

"What are you looking at?" Jason demanded.

Seeming to come to a decision, JB set himself down on the couch and waited patiently to be petted. Jason briefly entertained the idea of shoving the cat off his couch. It would be a simple matter of moving his right arm. But he decided against it. He shifted onto his side and reached across himself to pet JB with his opposite arm.

"So you're gonna keep me company tonight are you? Devil only knows I'm not going to sleep 'cuz I'm being a ridiculous fool and I can't deal with my own shit, but don't think I'm going to thank you." He glared down at the cat who was looking far too innocent. "And don't think this means I like you. Cuz that's just bullshit. We're still at war you feral creature."

Wednesday

When Dick Grayson woke up, the first thing he registered was an awful lot of clanging, pounding feet, random cat-noises, and a lot of swearing. At first, he tried covering his head with the pillow, but that didn't work. Then he tried putting in headphones and playing Nancy Drew on audible, but then his alarm went off. He hit snooze. But then someone knocked on the door. Jason never answered the door, and of-fucking-course he wasn't about to start now, so the knocking continued. So finally, finally, Dick had to get up.

When he opened the door, he found Jason casing JB around the house in his boxer shorts, a pair of rain-boots that went up almost to his knees, and the dollar-store oven-mitts. "Get back here ya little shit!" he shouted, "I swear by all that's unholy, I will…"

"The hell are you doing?" Dick shouted over the ruckus in the living room.

Jason pointed accusingly at the entertainment center under which JB was hiding. "That thing bit me! Either you lock him up or I make cat-casserole!"

"He's a kitt…"

"Richard Grayson!" screamed a voice on the other side of the door. Shit. That was Mrs. Sourbee from next-door. "Jason Todd! Open this door right now or I swear I'll call the police." A pause. "The real police."

"Fuck," said Jason.

Dick gave him a withering look. "Coming!" he called.

Thursday

Jason walked over to the AC Moore over by the Walmart in lover Bludhaven, and came back with a knitting book, needles, and a shoddy plastic spinning-wheel that was made to convince young children they wanted to buy pre-made yarn instead. Whatever. Jason had other plans.

He waltzed into the apartment with his loot just as Dick was getting ready to head out as Nightwing. His brother gave him a quizzical look, one eyebrow quirked upward, lips pulled into a not-quite-frown, head cocked slightly to one side.

"New hobby?" asked Dick.

"Maybe," said Jason.

The picture of nonchalance, he sat down on the couch and unloaded the knitting supplies on the coffee table. For dramatic effect, he started to whistle tunelessly as he set up the spinning-wheel and opened the knitting book to a page with hat patterns. Dick was starting to look mildly concerned, which was just precious. Fucking gold.

"Uhh Jason…you forgot the yarn," he pointed out.

"No I didn't," said Jason emotionlessly. It was all he could do not to break out into a full-on grin.

"But don't you need yarn to knit?"

"I do."

"Then what are you going to do?"

In lieu of answer, Jason pulled a knife out of his boot pocket and started to sharpen it with the whetstone he kept in his pocket. He kept his eyes focused solely on the task in hand, pointedly ignoring Dick in his peripheral. "Do you know anyone with a head small enough for this hat? JB isn't very big."

Dick blanched. "Jason!"

"Well, do you?" he pressed.

"What the fuck? No! You can't turn cat-hair into…"

"If you don't wanna watch, then go on patrol," said Jason with a voice the promised death.

"No way in hell am I going to go out on patrol, and leave you home alone with my…"

Jason walked over to the window and roughly shoved Nightwing out into the cold evening air. "Have a nice patrol!" he shouted.

Jason walked back over to the couch and sat down again. He pulled out a package of beef-jerky that he'd gotten at checkout, tore it open, leaned back, and started snacking. He was completely satisfied with himself. He watched lazily as JB jumped up on the coffee table and started poking the spinning wheel with his nose. Jason reached over and gave the cat a piece of jerky to inspect instead, and without thinking about it, started petting him.

"We got the Dickster pretty good there," he laughed, "he totally thought I was gonna murder you. Course, don't get comfortable. I still fucking hate your guts. You're terrible. I'd sell you to the Joker for half a pack of gum and not look back." Jason gave JB another piece of jerky. "The only thing you've got going for you is that you're the only one up with me after patrol."

Jason mulled through the myriad thoughts clouding his head, in-as-much as he ever allowed himself to mull over anything. "Guess that's why I came here in the first place. I don't actually like being alone." He looked down at JB again. "It's been a little less lonely here this week, ya know. We've got something in common there, you and me, we're both just a couple of strays that Dick took in. Guess the idiot couldn't just leave us out there on the street."

Friday

Jason was trying to kill the cat. But not really trying to kill the cat. Because if he was trying to kill the cat, then JB would be long dead. That said, Dick Grayson came home to a cat-specific booby-trap in his kitchen Friday evening.

"Jason!" he screamed.

"Yes?" Jason walked out of the bathroom nothing, but a pair of Green Lantern patterned boxer shorts, but that's not what had Dick's attention.

"Why is the litterbox full of water and plugged into the battery from the Chevy?"

Jason shrugged. "The Chevy is toast because of that guttersnipe. It's what we in literature nerds call 'poetic justice'."

Saturday

Tim Drake let himself into his 'brothers' Bludhaven apartment with the spare key Dick had insisted on giving him. As always, the place was a shambles and two steps away from being declared unfit for human occupation. He made a face when he smelled the acrid smoke for a cigarette but knew better than to say anything. At least someone was home.

"Dick?" he called, almost shyly form the doorway, "…Jason…?"

"Dick, the Replacement's here," shouted Jason from the bedroom on the right.

"Don't call him that!" Dick shouted from the bathroom. "Be right there Timmy! Help yourself to a soda or something."

"But not my Dr. Pepper you fucking identity thief," called Jason.

"Jason, language!"

"Hypocrite."

Tim poured himself a cup of coffee instead and sat himself down on the couch. What were Dick and Jason doing with a spinning wheel, a knitting book, and needles but no yarn? New hobby? Not likely. Those two were already swamped between the police department, patrol, the bars, and driving Batman insane. They didn't have time for hobbies. Which could only mean that the knitting supplies were the latest torture instruments of another sick prank.

'It's a wonder I can feel even a little bit safe here.' But it was better than being at school. Or the Batcave. Or home. 'I wonder what it would've been like to have real brothers.'

A moment later, Dick and Jason made an appearance in the living room. They were both still in their pajamas at 2pm, but he supposed normal people could do that on a Saturday. They weren't like his dad's high society friends. Case in point, they didn't even bother to greet him. Not that Tim minded of course; in fact, he wished everywhere he went could be so relaxed.

"Hey Timmy, what's got you out here on a weekend? I thought your dad had you doing piano lessons or shi…something?" Dick cracked open a can of beer and tossed himself carelessly on the couch. It was one of the things Tim liked about Dick; he was always comfortable with himself and so comfortable to be around.

"It's B," said Tim sullenly, starring into his coffee, "how did you guys handle him?"

"We didn't," said Dick ruefully, "why else do you think we're hiding out in Bludhaven?"

"With our guns," Jason added.

"Yes, with our…Jason!"

Tim frowned. "I was hoping you guys might actually have some pointers."

"Shoot him," Jason suggested.

Dick rolled his eyes but said nothing. Tim figured he shouldn't be surprised. "No," he said flatly.

"Sorry Timmy," said Dick, "but I'm not sure Jay and I are exactly good role models for dealing with B." He brightened suddenly, and slung an arm over Tim's shoulders, pulling him in for a side-hug. "But if you wann just rant and feel better, we're both good at that. Right Jay?"

Tim had his doubts on the front, but Jason didn't miss a beat. "Damn straight," he said confidently, "here, have a cat."

And the next thing Tim knew, Jason dropped a little black and white kitten into his lap. What the actual heck?

Sunday

"I've got rabies!" wailed Jason, "rabies! Your fucking cat gave me rabies!"

Dick rolled his eyes. "You do not have rabies."

True. Well, probably. But Jason was a dramatic sonofabitch when it suited him. And whenever Dick was around, it suited him just fine. "That guttersnipe tried to murder me!"

"You love him," said Dick, "I saw you cuddling on the couch last night. You're not fooling anyone anymore. You love him."

"I do not," screeched Jason indignantly. "As far as I'm concerned, we can put him in the blender and make cat-butter sandwiches."

"That's disgusting," said Dick. He looked genuinely repulsed.

"I could let him die of hypothermia in the freezer and be compelled to let him out once," said Jason, trying and failing to sound like he meant it.

Dick shook his head in exasperation, but he was smiling. "You love him."

"I do not."

"You love him, you love him, you love him."

"Shut the fuck up before I put you in the blender."

Monday

When Dick got home from patrol, the apartment was empty. Red Hood was still out mopping up some looters at the 7 Eleven, that was OK, but JB saw nowhere to be found, which was not OK. Dick tore the apartment apart, but JB just wasn't there. He was starting to panic.

'Think Dick, think,' he scolded himself, 'if he's not here, then he must have gotten out. You can track down the Batman if you want to, you can find a fucking cat.'

Dick let himself out onto the fire escape, looking both ways, which is when he realized Jason's bedroom window was cracked open. It wasn't unusual for Jason to crack his window, he was ironically more warm-blooded than Dick, but it might explain how JB got out. Shit.

"JB!" called Dick, "JB! Here kitty!"

Dick looked down, and his heart almost leapt out of his throat. JB was lying on the street below, unmoving.

"No, no, no, no! Please god, no!"

He threw himself off the fire escape, forgoing any of his habitual flourishes, and landed in a couch beside JB's broken body. When he stroked the limp ball of fur, he felt the broken bones beneath. The cat had slipped and fallen. 'Just like mom and dad,' the unhelpful part of Dick's brain supplied, but he ignored it.

"Hey Wingnut," called a synthesized voice from above, "what are you doing down there?"

"It's JB," said Dick, "I think he climbed out the window and slipped." He didn't say whose window. It wasn't fair to blame the accident on Jason.

"Shit," said Red Hood almost to himself, and suddenly Jason was standing beside him looming over the body. "Is he…"

"Dead," Dick confirmed. His voice held steady. Good. He didn't need Jason teasing him for getting worked up over a cat.

But Jason just stood there in shock for a moment, eyes trailing up the apartment complex to the open windows, and to his own cracked window in particular. His helmet masked his face pretty well, and the voice modulator kept him from sounding anything but completely sinister, but Dick could read his body language by now. The forced set of his shoulders, the way he crossed his arms over his chest as if to hug himself, the he cracked the big toe on his right foot repeatedly.

"Hood…" Dick started.

"Guess I don't have to make that casserole after all," said Jason.

"Hood, are you…"

"Though it'd be a pity to waste a perfectly good body. Let's pack him up and ship him to Bruce."

"Jay…"

Jason picked JB up off the street without care and grappled his way back up to the fire-escape. Dick wasn't oblivious. He knew Jason loved JB. And he knew Jason knew it. They hadn't had their stray for very long, but JB had worked his way into both their hearts in his own way. He was there to cuddle Dick when he was craving a little physical contact and he was there to stay up with Jason when he couldn't sleep after a bad night of patrol. JB meant a lot to Dick, but maybe he meant even more to Jason.

Worried, Dick followed his brother back up to the apartment, only to be greeted with absolute silence. Jason's bedroom door was closed. Very closed. As in locked.

"Jason, can I come in?" Dick rapped on the door with the backs of his knuckles.

"Go away Dick-head," said Jason, "I'm writing a note to Bruce to go with his dead cat."

Dick broke the doorknob off with a hook and lever from his utility belt and stepped through the threshold. Jason was sitting on his bed with JB curled up at the foot of it looking almost alive. It was one of the more disturbing things Dick had walked in on, and considering his occupational and extracurricular activities, that was saying something.

"Hey, you OK bro?" he asked.

"Duh," said Jason, "it's just a fucking cat. We didn't even like each other."

"I saw you seeking him treats when you thought I wasn't looking," said Dick, "are you really going to try to tell me you're not upset."

"I not upset, dick," snapped Jason, "I see so many worse things on a nightly basis. People getting stabbed, people get raped, people getting blown up…hell I've been blown up! Why would I be upset about a little…about a fucking cat!"

"Jay…" Dick moved over to the bed and sat down as Jason kept going.

"I don't care! JB was a menace. He was a feral guttersnipe that made me like Replacement in comparison. Honestly, he saved my the trouble of killing him by trying to skydive out my window, so really this all works out in my favor. In fact, in a way I still have the pleasure of killing him myself since I left my window open wide enough for him to get out."

"You didn't kill him Jay," said Dick firmly, "it was an accident."

"Accident my ass," scoffed Jason, "that's what…that's what happens too…"

"You're allowed to be upset Jason," said Dick, "I won't think you're any less badass."

"Sut up you fucker," snapped Jason, "stop trying to make me cry over a fucking…over a…a little kitten."

And that was it. Jason broke. The first tear slipped past his defense and after that, his whole body started to shake. Dick couldn't take it anymore. He pulled his little-not-so-little brother into a crushing hug, wrapping one solid arm around his back and threading the other hand through his cropped hair. Jason tried to pull away twice, but it was half hearted in a way that told Dick he was supposed to hold on tighter.

"I'm still here man," said Dick, "I'm still here. You're not alone."

"Let me go you moron," Jason spat.

But Dick was almost fluent in Jason these days—or as fluent as anyone was ever going to get—so he understood what his brother really meant: 'hold me tighter you idiot, and never mention this again on pain of death.'

So Dick held him tighter and pretended he didn't feel the tears soaking the side of his neck.

Epilog

Group chat: TwoDeadRobins_aButler_andTheArkhanReaper

Tim: I heard about JB. I'm sorry guys

Jason: he served his purpose. Made Dick smash the Chevy so now I think we're fucking even

Tim: Cuz that's not extreme at all

Dick: new subject: puns

Jason: no

Dick: did you realize that if you work on a farm and tend the chickens, you are a chicken tender?

Tim: …

Tim: why did I ever think you were cool?

Dick: :'(

Jason: Dear God, I would like to bargain for JB's soul. Take Dick's instead. I got a raw deal. Again.