Chapter Five: Checking Up

Dick is the first to notice something's different about Jason.

Which is fair, because even though Bruce is the first person to see Jason after he wakes up on Saturday, a full 27 hours after being rescued from Sabini (ten of which he'd spent sleeping peacefully in his own bed instead of the Cave's infirmary) – and even though Alfred is the first person to talk to him after he comes downstairs for breakfast – the bulk of what is actually noticeably different about Jason is aimed directly at Dick.

Literally.

Because Jason is starting.

At Dick.

From across his plate of scrambled eggs and sausage and toast piled high with strawberry preserves instead of the peach marmalade Dick likes and has on his own plate, Jason is staring. At Dick. Directly.

He's not even glaring at him, he's just... watching.

Which actually makes Dick more self-conscious than if Jason had been glaring, makes him think he's done something wrong. Something especially wrong.

Dick had never asked for a little brother, and to be perfectly honest he could admit that he hadn't exactly been very nice to the one he'd acquired unexpectedly. While he had concrete and valid reasons to be pissed at Bruce for how he'd handled things, Dick wasn't quite self-centered enough to miss how he hadn't done right by Jason either.

He'd screwed up their relationship in the beginning and now he spent most of his time trying to avoid making it worse. Which meant most simply that he spent most of his time straight up avoiding it...

The longest span of time Dick had spent alone in a room with Jason since storming off to California a few weeks before his sixteenth birthday – to go be Robin with people who appreciated him and his skill and his right to wear the R, because it was his and always would be – was about the length of a Star Wars movie. The longest they'd spent together without such a specific and effective distraction was about twenty minutes.

In which Alfred usually checked in on them halfway through.

Because Jason does deserve the R.

And he's always resented that the older brother he'd never asked for thought he didn't.

Which isn't exactly true, but Dick has never been able to explain that before Jason – brilliantly observant, woefully astute, and brutally willing to cut to the quick as he was – said something that made Dick get defensive. Which is when the yelling always started.

And the quiet moments in between the yelling had always been punctuated by glaring.

But now Jason is staring – and distinctly not glaring – and Dick doesn't know what he did, or what he should do now. So, he sits in silence and plays with his eggs and worries.

Because something is different about Jason this morning, and he doesn't know why – or what it has to do with him. Or what Jason thinks it has to do with him.

Because if Jason's pissed with him for not getting to him quicker last night, for not jumping in earlier – early enough to stop Sabini from breaking his leg perhaps – then Jason would already be yelling. But he's not. He's staring.

And Dick doesn't know what to do.

"Do you have a driver's license?"

Dick is so startled by the question he nearly drops his fork.

Actually, he does drop it. He just manages to catch it before it skitters off the counter.

"B won't let me in the Cave with my leg and Alf won't let me have the keys to any cars topside until I'm legal," Jason explains – without explaining anything.

"Yeah, I've got my license."

Dicks voice doesn't squeak or waver. He's moderately certain that some sort of magic or robotic voice replacement tech is behind the phenomenon. Or maybe his Robin conditioning is finally proving useful outside of the dark allies where his calm could comfort victims.

Jason nods. He's still staring.

But now he's squinting, evaluative. Not quite a glare, but closer.

"Cool. Can you drive me somewhere after breakfast?"

Dick nods. He decides not to ask to ask why Jason isn't asking Alfred to drive him.

He also decides not to ask where Jason wants to go until they're already in the car.

They don't speak again until after Dick pulls into the circle at the end of the Drake Estate's mile-long driveway, and even then, it's just a gruff C'mon to hurry Dick along while Jason hauls himself out of the car on his own.

Dick is slightly distracted as he cuts the engine. He nods to Jason – who's paying him zero attention – as he marvels openly at the fact that they do, apparently, have neighbors.

The Drake mansion isn't quite a massive or effortlessly grand as Wayne Manor, but it's a decently imposing imitation. There's wealth here, excess. And no hint of the soft touch that Alfred has to bring a human element into the aching chill of life with money.

Dick wants to ask what they're doing here, of all places, but Jason is focused.

It's a feat for Jason to wrestle his crutches out of the car and limp his way up the wide steps of the ostentation front stair, but he manages. He does it without even making Dick feel terrible about not offering to help – though he knows if he did offer, Jason's only response would be to curse and try to whack him with the pointy end of his crutches.

Dick follows silently up the stairs after him and waits as Jason rings the doorbell impatiently, pressing it again after only a few seconds of silence.

He's not quite scowling at the Drakes' front door, but he's not smiling either. Whatever he's thinking about is serious enough to warrant asking Dick for help instead of Alfred. Dick is definitely concerned by that, but there a hopeful anxiousness twisting in him too.

Because Jason needed help, and he asked Dick to provide it.

It's not much, but it's something.

Jason's leaning on the doorbell again when Dick hears a shuffling inside that indicates someone coming to check the matter. Dick hopes it's not an elderly butler – Alfred moves around pretty well for his age, but it's a big house and it takes even him a minute to get to the door on the bizarre occasion Wayne Manor has unexpected security-approved visitors.

The Drakes' equivalent can't possibly be as light-footed or quick and Dick wants to tell Jason that it's not whoever's fault that it takes a while getting from one end of a mansion to the other on a Saturday morning for an unanticipated guest.

There's the sound of the lock being turned, but the door doesn't open immediately.

Jason is about to lean on the bell again – and Dick is seriously considering how counter-productive it will be to stop him from being overly rude – when the knob finally spins and the massive solid-wood structure sweeps inward.

Dick plasters a smile on his face and –

It's the kid from Thursday night.

Dick's whole being freezes.

It's the kid that took a beating because Sabini thought he knew something about Batman.

Dick is stuck in a sudden mental rut of wondering why this kid – and Dick know he's a tough one, he's seen it, but he's a head shorter than Jason and probably weighs as much as Dick's leg and he's just survived a torturous kidnapping and should be on bedrest with soup and blankets and stuffed animals – why this kid is answering his own door.

Especially in a house like this. His family is clearly rich beyond reason and could have a flurry of staff to care for the household's daily needs and to fawn sweetly over the poor injured young master. So why is he answering the door?

When his door costs as much as the entire Trailer the Flying Graysons called home in Haly's Circus. When there are still bruises on his face where Sabini's fingers gripped him that haven't quite gone ugly and greenish from healing. When the butterfly bandage on his cheek is still the only thing holding the skin together beneath the antiseptic goo.

Jason's brain is clearly doing the same acrobatics as Dicks, asking questions it's not really keen on getting answered because the answers can't be good, but Jason recovers faster.

Which is good because the Drake boy – Timmy, Dick remembers, except no, that's just what Jason called him, he introduced himself as Tim in his brief moment of lucidity on Friday morning – is looking between the pair on his doorstep like one of the rescue dogs Dick remembers Haly bringing into the circus fold on their first days of being treated well.

They were cautious and skittish and quick to shy away, but also a little bit awed by the care and attention being paid to them – slightly overwhelmed to say the least. And Tim Drake is clearly in a similar state of mind.

Dick is frozen on the doorstep.

Tim is frozen in the doorway.

Jason falters too, but only for a moment. Then he's using his crutches to nudge Tim out of the way, so he can swing himself through the door and into the Drakes' imposing foyer.

Dick follows.

Tim remembers to close the door – and lock it too, with a sturdy deadbolt that Dick knows will provide actual security – and then shuffles after Dick and Jason.

Silent on his feet – impressive, given the floppy sneakers he's wearing – Tim allows Jason to lead the way through the mansion's sprawl to its kitchen. Tim is watching Jason's back as he swings forward on his crutches, which gives Dick time to look around the mansion as they walk. He knows Jason's scoping the place out too, and he's glad Jason can manage it with that subtle street-wise skill he's got ingrained. Dick could probably be subtle – he was trained by Batman – but he's finding it hard to rein in the reaction he's having to the place.

It's absolutely sterile here.

More like a museum than like a house.

Nothing looks soft, or like it's meant for people to sit on, and the few chairs and cushions Dick has clocked as they move through the sprawl don't look like anyone has ever used them. There's not a speck of dust, but honestly that just makes it worse. There are people that come through here, in order to clean it at least, but nobody lives here.

"What're you saying about your face," Jason asks bluntly when he stumbles upon the masterwork that is the Drake kitchen. Dick can tell that finding the kitchen has help Jason relax a little, that being in a place that's meant to be sterile has helped at least as much as the prospect of diving into the soothing rhythm of cooking, but Tim doesn't pick up on Jason's new degree of ease and relax himself. If anything, he tenses more.

"I'm going to say that I tried to launch a rocket in the back yard and it blew up in my face," Tim explains. He watches as Jason moves to investigate his fridge.

He notes when Jason stiffens, flinches as he realizes what he just said to prompt it, and he whips his head around when Dick is the one to speak up about it. "You're 'going to say'?"

Dick knows the way he blurted it in aching disbelief is rude. Not calm. Not helpful.

But he's lost sensation in his limbs and his stomach is still sinking towards the center of the earth at supersonic speeds.

They had dropped Tim back into his bed at 2pm on Friday afternoon, once Bruce had convinced Alfred that he was stable and well on his way to healing. That was almost 20 hours ago. Dick's stomach churns as he realizes that no one's been to check on him in almost a full day.

Tim survived a brutal beating, and he's been dealing with the mental fallout of his kidnapping – not to mention the physical aspects of his recovery – entirely alone.

Dick is staring at Tim, wide-eyed and worried, and he knows it isn't helping as Tim looks down and toes at the marble floor.

"Mrs. Simz doesn't work on Fridays," he mumbles. "She thinks I spend Friday nights with my school's chess club."

Jason snorts. "Of course, she does. That sounds perfectly reasonable."

He pauses. Anyone but Dick probably wouldn't be able to catch the way he steels himself and forces down a mix of rage and worry before he asks lightly, "Hey, kid, you got any flour hiding in this joint? Baking soda?"

"Why?"

"I'm gonna make pancakes, obviously," Jason replies, shouldering open the fridge and pulling out milk and eggs. He spreads his haul on the island and shoots Dick a look that he hopes means that he should start investigating the Drake cabinets for mixing bowls and a griddle and such. Because that's what Dick starts doing.

"Pancakes?"

"Yeah, they're kinda like pizza – you eat them," Jason replies, a gruff amusement in his voice that tells Dick there's some sort of inside joke involved.

Dick wants to think that there's no part of the joke where he should be legitimately concerned that Tim doesn't eat, but he also remembers how easy it was to pick the kid up when they rescued him. Sure, he's only twelve, but Dick is fairly certain that he weighed at least twice what Tim does when he was twelve. Comparing him to Jason – even the emaciated twelve year old Jason that had first been brought to the Manor – would be too tragic to let him keep the smile on his face, so Dick consciously fights the urge.

Tim jumps in to help direct Dick and Jason around his kitchen, Tim acting as Jason's legs while Jason barks orders. Dick didn't know Jason could cook, but he's not as surprised as he thought he'd be – even when Jason whips out the fancy tricks like cracking the eggs one-handed and twirling his spatula as he times the flips perfectly.

Butter and syrup appear on the island as Dick tries to help put the finishing touches on their meal. It's been over an hour since breakfast, so Dick can definitely eat – and he knows Jason is probably already starving. Tim is looking at the looming stack of pancakes warily, however, and Dick is pleased with himself for not shooting Jason a worried look.

It gets even harder to resist when they actually settle down to eat and Tim expends a painstaking amount of effort on arranging the careful stack of pancakes on his plate instead of making any move to dig in.

"So, Timmy," Jason says around a mouthful of pancakes, "Find any cool new toys since you've been home playin' with your rocket?"

Both confused, Dick and Tim look blankly at Jason – who rolls his eyes. Then he taps his ear and makes a wide gesture about the kitchen. He's asking if Tim's found any Bat bugs.

Dick knows Batman must've left some – Tim was suspected of knowing his secrets for a reason, after all, and Bruce would certainly want to keep tabs on any future developments that might potentially occur. What Dick does not know is why Jason's asking Tim if he found any listening devices hidden in his home – why he's referencing the plausible option so casually, so openly. Unless... unless Tim knows.

Scandalized, Tim looks between Jason and Dick – redness creeping up his neck until his ears are bright ruby – and then stares down at his pancakes. He nods.

Like he's pulling teeth, Jason waits a beat to make sure Tim is still alive and then asks with the same casual air, "Find any in here?"

This time, Tim shakes his head, still staring resolutely at his pancakes – and still making no move to actually eat them.

Jason nods, satisfied.

Tim waits, but Jason doesn't say anything else.

Eventually, peeks up. Looks at Jason. Waits.

Then he slowly, sheepishly turns his head to look at Dick. He's waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the accusations and yelling to start. Tim does know their secret, and he expects to be in serious trouble for it.

Jason levels his own look at Dick, daring him to break the tenuous trust they've developed in the last few hours by voicing any sort chastisement.

When they'd first brought Jason and Tim back to the Cave, Batman had been on Jason about getting to the truth of the rumors around Tim – to the point of absurdity, considering that there were two traumatized and injured kids to care for, considering that Jason himself was being questioned before Batman would give his broken leg the medical attention it needed...

Dick had spoken up in defense of Jason – asserting his own opinion that Tim was ignorant of the secret that got him wrapped up in this mess – mostly because he was pissed at Bruce for being so callous. Dick knew that Bruce cared, that he cared so much he buried all of his feelings deep beneath an impenetrable layer of cold practicality so he could deal with the pragmatic details of resolving the situation.

But it was really hard to remember that he cared when it felt more like he wanted answers in his own interrogation rather than to help the adopted son he'd just rescued from a drug-lord who'd been asking the same questions.

But Dick had defended Jason's stand against Bruce.

At the time, he hadn't realized Jason was lying – that Bruce honestly did have a valid reason to worry about Tim's ability to threaten Batman's secrets. He knew Jason wasn't being entirely honest, but he'd brushed it off as embarrassment at getting caught and needing rescue.

Knowing what he does now, that Tim is aware of much more than he should be, Dick isn't certain he would've made the same call. On the one hand, he wants to trust his brother's judgement – to stay focused on Tim as a victim rather than a threat – but he also feels the urge to trust his mentor's trend of caution, because if Tim threatens Bruce's secrets he's also threatening Dick's. And Jason's. And possibly Barbara, and the Titans, and any other mask they've ever worked with... Tim could be very dangerous if Jason's wrong about trusting him.

But Tim is waiting to be yelled at – waiting to face the good guys' wrath for simply being clever. And Dick had seen the R on Tim's sweater. He's a fan, and he's been clever, and he'd taken one hell of a beating for a twelve year old kid to be expected to handle.

And he hadn't talked.

It was more than Dick would've expected from most grown-ups. It was as much or even more than he'd expect from adults trained to withstand interrogation.

If Dick needed proof that Tim wasn't a threat, that was it.

Tim was still staring at him – waiting for his anger. Waiting to be punished.

Jason was staring too – waiting for a reason to get angry himself.

Resolved to let Tim continue to fly under Batman's radar, Dick doesn't say anything. He just takes another bite of his pancakes. The bite goes down easier than he expects, validation that his gut trusts Tim on a level beyond instinctual. Something more like kinship.

Tim keeps staring – like he doesn't quite recognize what it means that Dick is just going on with eating like a major secret affecting both of their lives hasn't just been exposed – but Jason relaxes. He even flashes Dick what could pass for a smile.

It makes Dick feel like he's made the right decision all over again.

He's got very little good history with Jason, but he's working on his own issues and he thinks that, just maybe, he and Jason can work with this – can use Tim's hush-hush existence as a bit of common ground to try standing by each other instead of against each other.

Tim is still staring, though.

Still waiting, still worried, still convinced that he's in trouble.

"Pancakes not to your liking, Tim?" Dick asks, flashing him a grin. It's not the dazzling, thousand-watt smile that's always made him shine as a media darling, but it's still bright and teasing enough to startle Tim. And genuine.

Jason growls before Tim recovers, retorting, "Hey, my pancakes are fantastic, asshole."

Dick gives a shrug, his smiling building as he feels out Jason's grumble and realizes that there's almost no real malice in it – none of the gritty defensiveness he's used to from Jason.

"They're, um, great," Tim replies in a squeak.

With another snort, Jason says, "You haven't even tried them yet."

He reaches across the island and swoops a smear of butter onto Tim's topmost pancake, giving the terrified youngster a mild heart attack. He pushes the syrup across the table with his fork – it's good stuff, real maple in a ceramic jug – until it clicks pointedly against Tim's plate.

"Eat."

Tim picks up his fork, obedient but still anxious and pushes a few bites around before he finally picks one up and forces it into his mouth and down his throat.

Watching as Tim swallows and waiting until it looks like he might take another bite of his own volition, Jason says, "You gotta relax, Timmers. We're the frickin good guys."

Dick gives a supportive smile as Tim forces himself to nod.

His eyes jump guiltily to Dick for a moment but then he settles and takes another bite of his pancakes. This time he looks much less like he wants to throw the food back up immediately.

"How's, um, how's your leg," Tim asks. Guilty, which makes Dick's lungs tighten, but at least he's speaking up – which means he might be able to be convinced he's not at fault.

"It's good," Jason replies with a shrug. "I've gotta stay off it completely for the next week, and I'm benched for the next three, at least, but it doesn't hurt anymore."

Dick snorts. "You're supposed to stay off it for three weeks," Dick counters automatically. He lets himself fall into older-brother over-dive to add, "And B wants to keep you benched for the next two months. Alf might actually put you in a coma if he sees you trying to go down to the Cave before the cast comes off."

With a shrug, Jason says, "So like two weeks and we call it even."

Dick tries to claw back the sigh that's threatening to cut off all his air.

"It was a pretty bad break," Tim pipes up. He looks slightly guilt-ridden, but he forges on to add, "But it was direct contact to the bone, instead of to a joint, and I'm guessing it was a stable, simple tibia fracture – no skin penetration or muscle tears – and it was either transverse or very slightly oblique, so it should heal cleanly."

"Not if he bungs it up by trying to do cartwheels on it too quickly," Dick counters.

"I'm gonna leave the cartwheeling to you, Dickiebird," Jason replies with a chuckle that's warm and teasing and so much nicer than the conversations he's used to having with Jason.

It almost sounds like they're just talking about your average sports injury, and Tim even joins in a few more times as the discussion shifts to Dick and his penchant for cartwheeling down the long halls of Wayne Manor. Tim's a fan of the Flying Graysons, and after a little figuring, Dick actually remembers meeting him before – before the show for a picture and a hug and a somersault promise, before Zucco, before his parents fell... before life got so complicated.

Dick and Jason and Tim stay gathered around the island in the Drakes' kitchen until Tim has completely finished his plate of pancakes without needing to have Jason force him through each bite. And they stay an hour after they've cleaned up, and an hour after that too.

They stay until Alfred sends Dick a text to warn him that Bruce is getting antsy with their absence, antsy enough to start wondering where they've gone.

Tim looks sad as they start gearing up to head back to the Manor, but Jason assures him that they'll be back tomorrow – and after school on Monday, assuming Tim actually goes to school on Monday. Neither vigilante would blame him if he wanted to take a day off.

"Why?"

"Because you got beat up by a drug-lord," Jason told him with a gruff, but affectionate exasperation Dick can hardly believe he's hearing from the ill-tempered teenager, "That totally warrants a fucking vacation day or two."

Tim shakes his head. "No, I mean why are you gonna come here? Why're you here at all, if I'm not in trouble for... you know." He mumbles through most of the words, falling back into the timid little thing he was when he first saw Dick and Jason standing at his door.

It's only now that Dick realizes how much he'd managed to come out of that shell.

"We're checking up on you, baby bird," Jason huffs, "Duh."

"But why?"

Tim stands there like the question is perfectly innocent, like it's not one of the most heartbreaking thing Dick has ever been asked.

If Jason didn't have a broken leg and crutches to wrestle with, Dick is sure that Tim would be trapped under Jason's arm getting his hair mussed beyond all possible repair. As it stands, Jason looks halfway to smacking Tim with one of his crutches.

Or smacking whoever made him feel like his current state of being is somehow one that is in any way an acceptable situation for a child.

But Dick smiles and slings an arm around Jason's shoulders.

"Because we're Robins," he says, promising, "And that's what we do."

There's a pause.

And then Tim nods, smiling back in a way that makes Dick's limbs feel gooey as he goes all warm and fuzzy. He can feel Jason lean into his side, can see that he's smiling too – not as broadly as Dick is, but the expression is just as genuine. A bit surprised, perhaps, but happy.

The door closes behind them and Jason clambers into his side of the car without beating Dick with his crutches for helping. The drive back to the Manor is just as quick as the one away from it this morning, but not as quiet.

The Robins get themselves on a united platform about having gone to visit Drake as civilians – he'd recognized Jason as a Wayne and they'd gone to commiserate with Jason as a fellow victim of random, rumor fueled violence. They explain again to Bruce that Tim doesn't know anything about Batman and latch onto Alfred's concern that the boy's parents are still out of the country. The Robins volunteer to go over and check on him tomorrow.

At Alfred's insistence, they agree to spend most of the day there, and several days next week – and bring over some of Alfred's amazing, high-nutrition cooking.

With all three of them set against Bruce in this, he relents to giving full approval to their plan – assuming that Nightwing patrols with Batman for the next three weeks while Robin remains obediently on bedrest.

The butler sides with Bruce on that one, but he gives the boys a wink behind Bruce's back and it makes Dick get that warm and fuzzy glow again.

He's halfway giddy all through that night's patrol.

Batman notices.

But Dick doesn't explain when he's asked about it.

He just says that he and Jason are finally seeing eye to eye about what it means to hero in Gotham, to be Robin... to be a good Robin.

He smiles into the sunrise after a long night of beating up petty thugs on Gotham's street corners – of looking into and utterly quashing any remaining rumors that Timothy Drake has any information on Batman. And maybe the throws a few extra flips into the maneuvers that carry him from rooftop to rooftop of Gotham's city skyline.

It's a beautiful day and Dick resolves to make the most of the chances he's been given – however unfortunate the circumstances around them. The world is already a slightly better place, and Dick is determined to make it more so, bit by bit.

Because we're Robins. And that's what we do.