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Gotham got way into April Fools’ Day.
Granted, Gotham got way into every major holiday, you would think that a Rogue attack would sour people off of them, but no, there was always a big fuss over any holiday, even though it was 84% likely to end in some random evil plan to burn down City Hall or something. It was the reason that Bruce was home today—easier access to the Cave in the event of an attack, though most of the major players were in Arkham, and Ivy and Harley hadn’t shown any hints of planning anything when they’d crossed paths last night.
Jason had to admit, some of that excitement had bled over to him—his mom had had a tradition of keeping him home from school on April 1st, ‘as a trick’ she always smiled, and they would spend the day, just the two of them.
Jason hadn’t told Bruce the specifics, just mumbled something about traditions and not going to school, and Bruce had let him stay home and not asked any questions. Jason had repaid this generosity by ambushing Bruce first thing in the morning.
The memory of Bruce, right outside his bedroom door, blinking in confusion as bubbles wobbled and popped around him, was enough to make him snicker from his sniper position on the first floor landing.
He’d gotten Bruce, but hadn’t managed to get Alfred—Jason had taken one step past the kitchen threshold and the butler had responded, voice dry, “I do hope you’re not planning to contaminate lunch with dirty soap water.”
Jason had executed a tactical retreat, and was staking out the kitchen entrance, bubble gun in hand.
The doorbell rang, and Jason grinned. Any second now—
“Master Jason, if you could get the door please,” Alfred’s voice floated out from the kitchen. Jason groaned and grumbled all the way down the stairs and to the front door.
He kept the bubble gun hidden behind the door as he pulled it open, and blinked when he was met with tousled black hair and a wan smile.
“Dickhead,” Jason greeted.
“Jaybird,” Dick said, ruffling his hair as he stepped inside, “Playing hooky from school today?” His voice lacked his usual cheer, and his movements were strangely hesitant as he slipped off his shoes.
Jason closed the door and eyed him suspiciously. He couldn’t see any evidence of a prank, but Dick was definitely good at concealing things.
Ah well, at least Jason could say that he got Dick before Dick got him.
“Mm-hmm,” Jason said as Dick stepped further into the foyer, slowly drawing the gun up. Dick turned towards him, and that was when Jason attacked.
“April Fools!” he grinned as bubbles surrounded Dick, popping in little bursts.
He’d expected Dick to laugh. Or smile. Or playfully vow revenge. Or do something instead of blink silently as the bubbles burst, blue eyes wide and body too still.
Jason hesitantly lowered the bubble gun. Was this a trick? Brittle smile covering a sly smirk, eyes round in feigned surprise, body tense and prepared to attack—
Dick’s expression fractured.
It felt like a mask ripped away, leaving nothing but a raw, open, festering wound—this wasn’t a trick, nothing that agonized could be a trick—and a loud, choking sob echoed through the air.
“Dick?” Jason said softly, rooted to the spot, unsure whether he wanted to back away or move forward—and the decision was made for him because Dick crumpled, landing hard on his knees with another strangled gasp, blue eyes glistening as tears began to slip down his cheeks.
“Dick!” Jason shouted, his stomach dropping as he let go of the gun and crouched in front of the older boy. Dick had curled up, arms wrapped tightly around himself as he shook. “Dick, what happened?” Was it the bubbles? Was it—was he allergic to them, did Jason accidentally scare him, what happened?
Dick was still sobbing, not responding, not even when Jason put a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Bruce!” Jason almost screamed, because he didn’t know what happened and Dick was crying and Jason couldn’t—Jason didn’t know what to do.
He patted Dick’s shoulder gingerly, his stomach twisting—Dick kept crying and Jason didn’t—why—what was wrong—
He heard racing footsteps and lifted his gaze, shivering at the look on Bruce’s face as he took the stairs at a run. “What happened?” Bruce demanded, not pausing in his stride until he was crouching at Dick’s side.
“I—I don’t know,” Jason swallowed, feeling his fingers tremble as he curled them. “I d—didn’t—it was just bubbles—I’m sorry—”
But Bruce was no longer paying attention to him. “Dick?” Bruce asked gently, drawing Dick’s face up until the tear tracks glimmered in the light. “Chum, what’s wrong?”
Dick shuddered, uncurling enough to clutch at Bruce’s shirt. He was shaking, tears dripping off his face as he gasped, and the halting, stuttering words coming out of his mouth weren’t English, or any language Jason recognized.
Bruce’s face grew more solemn as Dick continued, and Jason watched, silent, as the words trailed off and Dick buried his face against Bruce’s shirt, shaking apart in his arms. “Oh, sweetheart,” Bruce murmured, pressing a kiss to Dick’s hair, and Dick made a sound like a strangled wail.
“Dad,” Dick choked out, the first word Jason understood, and Bruce’s expression cracked, a hint of deep sadness before it smoothed back to neutral. Bruce adjusted his grip to tug Dick fully into his arms, and straightened from his crouch, lifting Dick like he was eight instead of eighteen, before heading back up the stairs.
Leaving Jason rooted to the spot, bubble gun forgotten on the floor, sick and shaky.
What—what did he do?
Dick Grayson always smiled, was always cheerful, and even in the midst of his screaming matches with Bruce he was full of life, not—never like this, crying so hard he couldn’t even get off the floor.
Jason’s stomach was roiling, a sick, churning mess of ‘your fault your fault your fault’ running through his head because he didn’t know what he’d done, but he did something and Dick was upset and Bruce would be angry and—
“Master Jason,” came the soft voice, accompanied by a hand on his shoulder. Jason blinked, and his vision went blurry.
“I—I didn’t mean to—” to what? He didn’t even know what happened. “‘M s—sorry—”
“Oh lad, it’s not your fault,” Alfred said gently, and Jason allowed himself to be pulled into a hug, “You did nothing wrong.”
“B—but D—Dick—”
Alfred took a deep breath. “Today is—” he paused, his voice getting quieter, “Today is the anniversary of the day Master Dick’s parents died.”
Oh. Oh no. Oh no no no no— “I—I didn’t know!” Jason said frantically, scrubbing at his eyes. He’d just—oh god, Dick must’ve thought that he was—
“No one is blaming you, Master Jason,” Alfred said softly, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I—I—the bubbles—”
“Master Dick loves practical jokes,” Alfred said firmly, “The reason he is upset has nothing to do with you. It is simply a matter of unfortunate timing.” Jason swallowed past the lump in his throat, and Alfred gently scrubbed his face clean with a handkerchief. “Would you like to help me in making lunch? I will need to prepare an extra plate.”
Jason took a deep breath and looked up at the stairs, where Bruce and Dick had disappeared. “Okay,” Jason responded shakily, and followed Alfred to the kitchen.
Dick and Bruce didn’t come down for lunch, and Alfred went up to give them a tray. Jason had put the bubble gun away, not even trying to get Alfred. He’d said—he’d said that it wasn’t Jason’s fault, but it still felt like it was, a heavy knot of guilt and shame sitting in his stomach.
He’d seen the pallor of Dick’s skin.
The strange lack of emotion in Dick’s tone.
He—he should’ve noticed, he should’ve known, he was supposed to be a detective—
Bruce’s bedroom door remained firmly shut every time Jason passed it. He pressed his ear against the wood, but he could hear nothing from the other side. No sign whether Dick was okay. Whether—whether he was going to be alright, or if Jason had—
Jason retreated to his room, upset and miserable.
This day was supposed to be fun. It was supposed to make people laugh. It was supposed to—if he closed his eyes, he could remember his mother’s smile, the way she twirled him in the park, giggling as she watched him climbing trees—
And he’d ruined it for everyone.
Jason tugged his knees up, curling up on top of his bed. It felt like someone had reached into his chest and scooped some of it out, he felt hollow and sick and exhausted. He—he felt so cold and he needed something to make him warm.
Jason uncurled slightly and cast a glance at his room, where had he put—there. Jason scrambled up to grab the carefully, lovingly tended blue-and-gray elephant on the dresser, warm and soft and fluffy and—
Dick had given it to him, one of the first times he’d visited. The elephant was named Zitka, after the elephant at Dick’s old circus, and all of Jason’s words about stuffed animals being for babies had dried up in his throat when Dick smiled softly and patted the elephant’s head. And it had really truly helped, especially at the beginning, when he’d been too skittish to get close to Bruce or Alfred.
As far as Jason knew, there was only one Zitka.
He took a deep breath, blinked furiously to get rid of the prickling in his eyes, and grabbed the stuffed animal. Maybe it would help, maybe it wouldn’t—but it couldn’t make things worse.
Right?
Jason swallowed thickly and knocked on Bruce’s door. At the faint ‘come in’, he stuck his head inside.
Bruce was sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard, legs stretched out. Dick was curled up beside him, head in Bruce’s lap as Bruce slowly stroked through his hair. Dick’s eyes were closed, and Jason shuffled a step closer at Bruce’s expectant look.
“I—I, um—” Jason gave up on words and held out Zitka.
Bruce’s face softened, and he beckoned Jason closer. Jason slowly reached the side of the bed—he hesitated, but Bruce nodded, and Jason gingerly eased on top of it.
“Chum,” Bruce said softly, sweeping a lock of hair away from Dick’s face, and the older boy stirred.
“What?” Dick croaked out, his voice hoarse and cracked, and he lifted his head enough to see Jason hovering on Bruce’s other side. His expression immediately went blank.
Jason thrust out Zitka. “I’m—I’m sorry—” his throat was closing up again— “I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry—I didn’t know—”
Dick took Zitka from him with gentle, trembling fingers, and Jason snapped his mouth closed. Dick slowly, carefully curled the small stuffed elephant close, squeezing his eyes shut as he let out a ragged sob, and Jason saw fresh tears slip down his cheeks.
Jason immediately scooted back—his vision went blurry after he blinked, and the lump in his throat kept rising—he just wanted to fix it, and now Dick was crying again, and—
“Jay,” Dick choked out, and Jason froze—he could see Dick’s outstretched hand amidst the tears and—and Jason couldn’t—Dick was crying and he was reaching out and Jason couldn’t entirely strangle the sob as he leaned forward to grab Dick’s hand.
Dick pulled him forward, and Jason practically tripped over Bruce’s legs as he fell against the older boy. He was quickly tugged all the way into Dick’s embrace, the stuffed elephant squished beneath them as Dick clutched him close, still trembling.
“I’m s—sorry,” Jason forced out, burying his face against Dick’s collarbone, “I—I didn’t know—”
“Shh, Little Wing,” Dick hummed, his voice cracking. Jason could feel him press a kiss to Jason’s hair before resting his cheek against it, one hand rubbing idle circles against Jason’s shoulder. “I’m not mad. You didn’t do anything.”
“I didn’t—if I knew, I w—wouldn’t—”
“Shh, Jaybird,” Dick whispered, curling around Jason so completely that he felt like he was the stuffed animal. A rough, callused hand brushed against his cheek, wiping off the tears, and he felt it card softly through his hair.
The older boy’s breathing was still shaky, hitched and breaking and wet, but Jason pressed his cheek against the steady heartbeat and held Dick as tightly as he was holding him. “I’m sorry,” Jason mumbled again, curling fingers into Dick’s shirt.
“Oh, Little Wing,” Dick exhaled into his hair, “Thank you for helping.”
Jason was—was helping? He pressed closer to Dick—if this helped, he would stay as long as it took for Dick to feel better.
The fingers kept combing through his hair, steady and even, and Dick’s sniffles whistled softly against his hair, slowly dying to ragged breaths as the trembling eased. It lulled him down—not quite sleep, not quite awake, just enough awareness to hear but not enough to act.
“Sweetheart?” a quiet voice asked.
“Hmm?”
“You up to having dinner downstairs?”
“Hnnnn.”
“Chum.”
A quiet exhale. “Fine,” came the soft groan, arms shifting around him. “But I’m keeping Jaybird.”
A soft chuckle. “You can’t keep him, he’s my son.”
“My little brother,” was the answering huff. “All mine.”
“Both of you are mine, though.”
“Ugh. Go ‘way, Bruce.”
Another soft chuckle, and the warmth behind Jason shifted, easing down before curling close. Another arm wrapped around Jason, pressing him against Dick, and there was a soft pressure against his cheek before it lifted.
“My children,” came the soft murmur, and there was another shaky exhale before warmth curled more firmly around Jason, cocooning him in family.
Alfred stared at them, eyes narrowed, pruning shears in one hand, gloves in another. His expression was severe. His countenance grim.
Around him, soap bubbles wobbled and popped in tiny little bursts. One burst upon landing on his head.
Jason was pretty sure he’d broken something in his effort not to laugh.
“A—April F—Fools,” Dick choked out, clearly having the same problem.
“Today is April second. If neither of you have learned how to use a calendar properly, I’m sure Master Bruce will be happy to teach you.”
“Actually, it’s still April first in, uh…some time zone?” Dick tried. Alfred’s expression was not encouraging.
“Then you may go to that time zone to play your jokes,” Alfred said, still frowning. The last bubble popped, and Jason couldn’t resist—he pumped the gun again.
A cloud of bubbles obscured Alfred.
Dick grabbed his arm and tugged him back a step, his expression straining against the grin splitting his face.
“Run?”
“Run.”