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Chapter 4

The Incarcerated

Tim hummed a little as he entered Jason's room late the next morning, book in hand. The previous day's offenses hadn't been forgotten, but it was so good to have Dick back, to have everyone together for once, that he couldn't hold any displeasure. He even smiled brightly at Jason across the room—that same infectious smile he'd been using more and more often lately—refusing to let the other boy's stubborn dismissal of their attentions dampen his attitude toward him.

"Another family therapy session?" Jason let his head fall back against the headboard with a dull thud when he saw who was at his door.

"You're one of us, Jason. We're brothers."

"You can save the bonding trip and pretty speeches."

"But I so enjoy our time together." Tim let his biting undertone and the suddenly too-tight corners of his smile needle Jason over the abrupt and hurtful end to their last encounter—let him see the sharp shards shifting under the surface. Jason saw more than anyone the mess inside—the cracked glass poorly glued together only he could recognize—and it was cruel even by Jason's standards to batter that with the crowbar he'd used last time. The man looked away uncomfortably.

"Just get it over with."

"Jason." Tim let the smile slip away—it wasn't working anyway—reaching out to brush the man's knee with his fingers. "I'm not giving up on you. If you would just… accept us. Everything would be better." Tim hadn't lied earlier, not really. He did enjoy spending time with the man. Or he would, if a large percentage of their interaction hadn't been spent in one-sided cajoling, outright arguing, or physical abuse.

But Jason still wasn't looking at him. Resigning himself to another one-sided visiting session, Tim settled himself on the bed, back pressed to the far wall, book resting on his raised knees. His bare toes curled in the sheets, wedged under the slight lift in Jason's side where spine met hips. He flipped open the cover—warm brown leather under his fingers—and let the words spill out: family and support and sticking together to see through to the end.

"All children, except one, become adults." Whatever Jason claimed, neither Tim nor Bruce had ever read him Cinderella—that fairytale with its poisonous ideas on stepfamilies. The notion that they'd subject him to such lies was ridiculous. "They soon learn that they must become adults…" Not like the book in his hands. It was heavy, a well-loved copy Bruce's father had once given him. Tim could almost feel the adoration that permeated the pages, warming his fingers, infusing his voice as he reverently read aloud the words. "…and the way Windy knew was–"

He didn't get further than the third line before Jason's leg swung around, clipping him in the head as he tried to duck, knocking him sideways. Tim twisted even as the larger boy slammed him down, responding even as he hit the bed. There wasn't a lot of slack on that cuff, but with Tim pinned flat, Jason's legs locked around him, it was enough. There was a flash of silver. Tim just managed to raise his arm in time for the tines of a fork to stab deep into his bicep instead of scraping his neck.

Jason growled, jerking the fork free, and this time Tim got the book shoved into the man's jugular millimeters before the tines of the fork could connect with his own throat. It stopped a hair short, Jason's blue eyes narrowed furiously.

"Let me out of here, Baby Bird."

"Ah. That's where you were keeping the silverware." Tim stared back up at the man above him with infuriating calm. "Trying different tactics?"

"Appealing to your better nature wasn't working," Jason replied. Tim could almost feel the man searching for those cracks under his skin—looking for weaknesses to press down on where he dug in with knees and toes and fingers. If anyone could tear him apart, if anyone could find anything left in him to save, it was Jason. "Let me out."

"Why? Everything's better this way." He pressed the spine of the book he held further into Jason's jugular. "Fork."

"Why, Tim? Dang it, why?"

"Fork," Tim repeated patiently. There were some things Jason didn't need to know, secrets that could only hurt them, sharp as razor wire. He had to be careful. It would be all too easy to lose the family he had now, especially Bruce, and he refused to lose anyone else.

"You know, I was actually getting used to you as Robin. Sure, you're a half-pint runt, and a little stalker freak, but you're smart, even clever. Clever enough that I was starting to respect you. Too clever to roll over for a man like Bats."

"I'm just a constant source of disappointment."

"He's hurt you too. And don't try to tell me it wasn't bad. You wouldn't have come to me if it wasn't." That struck a little too close to the truth. Tim frowned.

"He's not perfect. I've forgiven him. I've moved on."

"Have you really? Call me hopeful, but personally I think you're just… repressing!" Jason growled, pulling the fork away. Seconds before he could jam it back down, Tim whipped the book around, the heavy leather-bound volume nailing Jason's hand where it held the gleaming silver utensil, knocking the fork out of his grip and sending it skittering across the floor. Simultaneously, it deadened the older boy's hand. It was just enough of an opening for Tim to jerk Jason's shoulder down and use the leverage to overturn him.

"I'm doing what's necessary to keep this family together."

"You knew," Jason accused, staring up at him, and then incredulously. "You knew what I was planning, and you brought a book to defend yourself?"

"Don't underestimate me." He slid off the bed, long strides carrying him across the floor, pausing only to pick up the fork.

The sound of the door clicking closed was oddly final.

"Robin, what happened?"

Tim blinked to find Bruce right there, blue eyes concerned as they narrowed perceptively on the bloody smear adorning Tim's upper arm, just below the sleeve of his t-shirt. The man reached out, fingers wrapping like manacles around his arm, gently restraining as he assessed the damage.

"Misunderstanding with a fork." Tim shrugged as best he could in the man's grip.

"Come." The grip loosened further as Bruce used it to usher him to a sofa, the man's warm hands a gentle guide—always gentle with him despite their size, despite the power they possessed. Tim wasn't easy to intimidate, he was hardly powerless himself, but a part of him felt weak next to this man. "Let's get that attended to." The warmth faded as Bruce pulled away, but he was only gone for a minute, returning with a wet cloth and a roll of gauze.

Bruce pressed the wet cloth to the wound, washing away the blood with caressing circles of his thumb, blue eyes kind. Tim watched him, gazing up at him fondly, memorizing the concerned set of the man's mouth.

He leaned his head against the man's shoulder tiredly, eyes sliding closed at the gentle brush of fingers smoothing layers of gauze around the wound. He knew he would keep it on longer than necessary because Bruce had done it. Every time he moved his arm, he'd feel the reminder of the man's care wrapped tightly there. Any doubt Jason had instilled, words wedged in the cracks of his soul, dulled and dissolved, washing away. Jason just didn't understand.

Then the man was done, fingers leaving off their work of ministration to wrap around Tim's shoulders, pulling him closer against the man's warm side with just enough force to feel safe, protected. He was wanted here.

"Always such a good boy," Bruce murmured approvingly, fingers stroking Tim's shoulder, like he was something whole and beautiful, not shattered. The man didn't see the cracks Jason saw, or maybe he found their sharp edges just another fascinating feature of the boy he'd bought with Jack's murder. Whatever the case, beside Bruce he didn't feel broken; he felt like part of something again, a piece of a whole. Under the gentle stroking of those strong fingers he could feel the cracks melding back together, becoming smooth. Surely, if Jason would just let Bruce in, Bruce could fix him, and Jason would want to stay too, here, where he was wanted like this.

It would have been perfect if not for the agitated expression the man wore.

"What is it?" Tim asked, gazing up into those stormy blue eyes beseechingly. Bruce had given him a home, love, family, and Tim would do anything to make it up to him. "Is it Jason?"

"He's been troubled for awhile."

"He's not happy here," Tim agreed. He reached up to rub the frown lines near Bruce's mouth and the man blinked down at him, not startled, but… as though just then registering the melancholy tilt of Tim's own blue eyes. He smiled under Tim's fingers, just the tiniest bit, perhaps to lighten Tim's worries or perhaps warmed by Tim's attempt to lighten his.

"Jason is family." Bruce's fingers found the tine marks through the gauze, stroking there meaningfully.

"We don't give up on family," Tim replied, shivering at the touch.

"Yes," Bruce agreed, blue eyes narrowing seriously, "but he may require more forceful convincing." And his thumb stilled, pressing down on the wound, just the right amount of pressure to be… forceful. Tim's tongue painted his lips, gaze glued to the mesmerizing press of that thumb, a wonderfully numbing burn just this side shy of painful. Even knowing it was only a fraction of the force the man was capable of applying, he could only find the gesture comforting.

"Of course. We just need to help him see." Tim smiled rapturously, letting the man's fingers against the gauze lull him with the thought of finally having Jason. His brother. "Maybe a nudge in the right direction?"

"Exactly." And now Bruce was smiling down at him, sharing this secret only Tim had been entrusted with, sharing this moment of perfect understanding. "Exactly."

"No," Damian repeated, arms folded crossly.

"Come on, Little D." Grayson waved the box in front of his face. "There's no better way to get to know each other than through a game of Monopoly." The man's perspective was obviously flawed. Damian didn't want to get to know them so much as he wanted to kill them and be done with it. He glowered obstinately.

"I refuse to participate in such stupidity."

"He doesn't know how to play." Of course Drake would rat him out. The older boy had propped himself up on a couple cushions on the sofa, listening in absently. He hadn't looked away from the laptop sitting on his crossed legs. Judging by the output on the screen, he was messing again with the nanotech project he and Father were so interested in.

"It's a children's game!" Damian huffed. "It serves no purpose!"

"You don't know how to play?" Grayson asked, blinking. "Maybe a different game?"

"He doesn't know how to play any games," Drake repeated absently, typing something on the laptop. Damian ground his teeth. He didn't like looking inept. He liked it even less when Drake pointed it out. And he definitely didn't like the sad, puppy eyes Grayson was now giving him.

"I do too know how to play games," he replied, defensive and fuming. "I know how to play tag." With knives. Somehow this only seemed to make Grayson more determined.

"Don't worry, we'll teach you," the man said. "You'll be fine."

"We?" Drake asked warily, finally looking up.

"We," Grayson replied firmly, brandishing the lid of the game box at him. "You too, Timmy!"

"I have to finish my notes…"

"You're not getting out of this. Family time. Come on." Grayson was a force to be reckoned with when it came to spending time with his siblings. Damian tried to edge away into the shadows while the man was distracted with Drake, but Grayson deftly snagged a fistful of his shirt between his shoulders blades, hauling him bodily back.

"You realize some of us have been trained as corporate tycoons, right?" Drake asked exasperatedly, even as he closed the laptop's cover.

"Yes, but you realize our littlest brother likes to use the katana when he doesn't get his way, right?" Grayson grinned wickedly, already setting out pieces of the game. "I think we're even." Damian watched, guarded and wary and intrigued now despite himself. Clearly he was only beginning to grasp the depths of Grayson's deviousness.

He shrugged off the man's grip and straightened his shoulders regally, standing over the coffee table like a little lord.

"Explain to me the purpose of this game. If I deem it worthy of my attention, I shall honor you with my participation."

"It illustrates the danger of monopolies in bankrupting the–" Luckily, Grayson waved Drake off before he could recite some dictionary entry by rote.

"It teaches responsibility in business."

Damian looked back and forth between them consideringly, trying to parse their meaning.

"This will help me run Father's company? Very well." Head held high, he picked a spot a little out of Grayson's reach, settling into place there. If he had to endure this childishness, at least it held some purpose, and at least Drake was stuck in it with him. It was a comforting thought.

And it wasn't like they were watching Bambi.

When Drake and Grayson only looked at each other uncertainly, a little wary over this newfound interest, Damian frowned. "Can you not hurry up? I wish to learn this game quickly, the better to understand ruling my future industry empire with an iron fist!"

"Oh, you asked for it," Drake replied, settling across from him.

"Well, at least you're both interested now." Grayson sat too, smiling as he rifled multi-colored money and doled out pieces, apparently just happy that everyone was getting along.

Of course, it didn't take more than a dozen turns before Damian figured out how to attack the system, and it would have been perfect if the other two participants weren't determined to hassle him.

"You can't bribe the banker to get your way," Drake was saying, "that's not how it works."

"Death threats are a no-no also," Grayson added, arms crossed sternly.

"You are both so naive and commonplace it's pathetic!" Damian replied, flustered and frustrated. "Don't act like Father is a saint! I know he's done some shrewd, underhanded business deals in the past! You can't pass go and expect to gain some margin of profit by straightforward tactics! You end up in debt and dead that way!"

"If you continue to use threats to try to get ahead, I'll be forced to send you to jail!" Grayson warned sternly, the picture of resolute justice and upholding the system, pointing to the little jail square.

Damian ignored him, drawing his katana and pointing it at the steely-eyed boy watching placidly across from him—the one with fifteen multicolored cards arrayed before him.

"Relinquish Pacific Avenue, Drake, or this is war between us!"

Drake's eyes flashed challengingly, both of them ignoring Grayson's yelp of protest.

"Come and get it."

Damian lunged, Drake flipped the table, and the entire idea of Monopoly scattered in multicolored bits and pieces across the floor.

Jason was on his feet, push-ups forgotten, straining against the handcuff tying him to the bed the moment he registered the black shadow in his doorway out of the corner of his eye. He was in no mood to deal with the sentimental sap of the rest of the family so soon after his failure, particularly Bruce, who represented the source of the whole problem.

"Get out," he snarled, wishing fiercely for something to hurl.

But those cold blue eyes were all for the flecking red specs around Jason's wrist.

"You've hurt yourself again." The tilt to those blue eyes then actually looked sad, the picture of a tired father finding his son had injured himself.

The very first week of his internment, Jason had worked his wrist bloody in the cuff, but nothing short of crippling his hand would get it off, and he hadn't been quite that desperate. Bruce had been upset by the damage he'd inflicted anyway, and he'd spent a week heavily sedated into near unconsciousness until it had healed.

That caring hurt worse than anything though.

"Let me see." The man took a determined step forward, gaze fixed on the visible injury to his son, already reaching out, but Jason wasn't having any of it. He knew what those hands could do. He twisted at the hip, leg snapping around in a vicious kick. Bruce blocked it effortlessly, grunting in dissatisfaction. Blue eyes turned steel hard, and that was the only warning.

"Don't!" Jason got out before he was slammed into the bed, Bruce's weight settling over him, large thighs crushing either side of his waist. He tried to fight it, struggling for lost leverage, but Bruce's hand was already slipping around behind his neck, digging into nerves. Jason stiffened, but it was too late, every muscle in his body went limp simultaneously, and no matter how he tried he couldn't get them to respond.

He couldn't move, couldn't twitch his fingers, his body no more than fine clay under this man's hands.

Not easing the sharp pressure of his fingers, Bruce reached up and pressed his free thumb to the release on the metal cuff, waiting for the little beep that signaled the contraption recognized its owner and the pop of the lock releasing. For the first time in weeks he had what he wanted—it was off, he was free—and he couldn't move.

Jason wanted to heave against the weight pressing him down, wanted to howl, something feral and deep, something to unleash his frustration on the world, at the injustice of it. But he couldn't. He couldn't do any of it. He had to close his eyes, teeth gritted, as Bruce quickly clipped his other wrist into the cuff instead.

Gentle fingers encircled his damaged wrist then, lifting it for inspection, turning it over.

"It's not as bad as before," Bruce finally deemed, setting the wrist down carefully. "It'll heal." And then that gentleness melted away, the man's large hand sliding down to his jaw, gripping either side firmly, crushingly tight.

"If you hurt Robin again, there will be consequences." It was said like an afterthought, but the whole visit had the air of a warning.

Enraged, Jason settled for glaring accusingly up at the man above him, his judge, jury, and warden. It wasn't like there was much Bruce could do to make the situation worse than it already was.

The man's large hand brushed gently through his hair as he departed—a corrosive caress Jason couldn't even flinch away from. He regained use of his muscles seconds too late to shatter the man's knee, left instead to spit profanities after Bruce's retreating shadow.

Author Notes: Changing out words and names again in the reading material. Do you recognize that book?

I was initially trying to go with originality on this game thing, but my beta didn't recognize the game I'd chosen, so I gave up and went mainstream. XD I considered taking that scene out, since it still feels sort of stuck in there to me, but I needed to show more Dick attempting to bond with Damian.

Next chapter (Nov. 6?) everything goes wrong. Certain character's entire life views are about to be shattered...

Oh! I finally posted Persona! And if there's anyone here who has been waiting for that, I'm sorry it took so long.