Chapter Text
There were things Dick could have done after Jay left.
He had never had trouble keeping himself busy, even since he'd allowed himself to fall back on the money he'd inherited from Alfred—since he'd let vigilantism become more or less his full-time job. He trained and worked out regularly so he could maintain the bodily condition and various skill sets he needed for Nightwing's work. He kept up a part-time teaching position at a gymnastics center not far from his place, to give Dick Grayson a better alibi for his obvious physical strength. He used Nightwing's off-hours to do the kind of detective work that worked better when it was accompanied by Dick Grayson's charm—and his independent wealth. He maintained and serviced his own gear, and experimented with new prototypes. He regularly let the Titans rely on Nightwing's leadership skills and Dick Grayson's friendship, not to mention his shared responsibility for some of the necessary logistical work that allowed the Titans to be a smoothly functioning team. He had dozens of friends and family members who often vied for his attention. Hell, Dick even did his own chores—and, once in a very, very blue moon, he even made his own meals.
But he wasn't scheduled to teach today, his detective work would be a lot tougher without the information he'd been expecting to get from Jason, his gear was up to date, he didn't have any projects in the works, the Titans didn't have any urgent team problems to solve, and as for his friends and family—
Dick ran through his usual morning workout, the relatively shorter one he did on days when he didn't go to the gymnastics center. Then he changed the sheets on his bed. He righted the bottles he and Jay had knocked over in the shower. He checked the couch for any stray stains from the previous night. (There were none, or at least none that Dick could see.)
When he was finished… there was no evidence that Jason had been in his apartment last night. There was—he suddenly realized, standing in his living room and staring at the deceptively normal-looking couch where Jay had pulled something out of him which he hadn't even suspected was there—absolutely no sign that the Jay side of Jason had ever existed at all.
He wanted—he wanted to call Jay. Just to check. He wanted to call his brother's number and hear her voice, to know that something in Jason had been changed, too—that she'd had something pulled out of her, or pushed into her, or—or—whatever it was that she'd done to him.
Maybe Jay wasn't feeling as—as whatever it was Dick was feeling. Maybe the only thing she'd had pushed into her was her brother's cock. But even that would've been enough, Dick thought. As long as it had really happened. That would be enough.
And then a new thought hit him with all the force of an eighteen-wheeler barreling down an icy mountain highway. If Jay really was just Jason, only magicked into a different form—if she was a character Jason was performing, or a slightly different kind of mask than the one he wore as the Red Hood, or even just a sex doll he could enjoy vicariously through his older brother's body—if that was all Jay meant to Jason, then sooner or later, she would be gone.
It was an obvious thought, something Dick had assumed without thinking about it. But it was still novel to him, still surprising to have it cross through his conscious mind. Last night, it had felt like he'd been running on dream logic: like he'd been immersed in a fantasy version of his life, where his younger brother was a gorgeous girl with bright eyes and soft breasts and a brand new pussy, warm and tight and wet and just for him. The last thing Dick had been thinking about was the consequences of his actions. But now, in the harsh light of his empty apartment, it was like he was resurfacing from the dream—and remembering that no matter how good Jason's fantasy girl was, she could absolutely still fuck up Dick's reality.
Dick sank to the couch, his mind whirring. It would be easier in the long run, he thought, if he didn't let Jason sink too far into the fantasy. It would be easier if he reminded Jason that Dick was his older brother within both their families—both the vigilante Bats and Bruce's adopted brood. It would be much, much easier if Dick persuaded Jason to pull back from him before they changed the status quo more than they already had. It would be easier if Jason stayed in Gotham, and Dick was busy whenever he called.
It would be easier if Dick never saw Jay ever again.
Dick thought about that for a very long time. He thought about it slumped on his couch, and then he got up and thought about it as he gathered up the dirty sheets and shoved them into the washing machine. He thought about it for the better part of the next hour: while he walked to the cafe down the block for a late lunch; while he stopped by the convenience store for that one type of soda all his siblings except Damian liked and the one type of candy bar Damian loved; and while he took the long way home, walking along the waterfront to look at all the derelict ships the Blüdhaven Port Authority was allowing to rot into the river.
But eventually, Dick was back where he'd started. He stood in the front hallway of his apartment, and thought about the woman he'd met in this very spot less than twenty-four hours ago; he thought about the boy he'd met on the roof of a warehouse almost ten years ago now. He thought about the man that boy had become.
Then he took off his shoes, changed his laundry over to the dryer, and sat down at his kitchen table to call Bruce.
After their usual brief pleasantries, Dick said, "I talked to Jason yesterday."
"Hn," Bruce said, meaning And…?
"I needed info on the Demagog Gang. We didn't manage to chat about it yet, but—"
"I suspected you might see them in Blüdhaven soon," Bruce said. "I assume you found my files on the ringleaders in the server cloud. They're in the Gamma subsection of the Batdirectory because of their association with the Leviathan Group, but the metadata should have pointed you there if your search terms included—"
"Yes, Bruce, I read your files," Dick said patiently. He scratched at the edge of a small splotch on the table where he'd failed to clean up some unknown liquid and it had hardened into a fine film. "Thanks. But I was looking for Jason's firsthand account. And maybe some help on the ground, if the situation goes down the way I think it could."
Bruce was silent on the other end of the line for long enough that Dick started to fear he'd overplayed his hand.
"You were looking for Jason's help. But you didn't get what you were looking for," Bruce said finally.
Dick could hear the unspoken question that hovered between them: was that because Jason wouldn't give Dick what he wanted, or because Dick had realized he should be looking for something else?
Fortunately, Dick thought, Bruce didn't seem to know about the secret third option: that Jay had made Dick realize there were other things he could want—and then she'd given them to him herself.
Dick's jaw clenched. God willing, Bruce would never find that out. At least, not about the truly obscene parts… which, to Bruce, would be pretty much all of it.
"Jay wasn't the obstacle," Dick said, carefully cheerful.
"Hn," Bruce said, in the tone that could have meant either casual acceptance of a fact or mild skepticism of Dick's assessment.
"He's pretty great with teamwork, especially if you take the time to find the right angle," Dick said. "Just gotta get him in the right mood—" Shut up, idiot, he thought. "You know how he is," he finished weakly.
"Hn," Bruce said, utterly inscrutable.
"I was thinking I could benefit from seeing more of him," Dick said. "You know. In Blüdhaven."
Bruce sighed. "Dick, if you're asking me to intervene in a personal matter between you and Jason—"
"What? No," Dick said, his heart pounding. "Nothing personal here—"
"I am not the right mediator for your conflicts," Bruce continued. "Quite frankly, I am astonished you've even considered asking me. Usually your judgment is far more sound—"
"No," Dick said, deeply relieved. "No, it is. I wouldn't ask you to—get involved. In fact, please never try to resolve a conflict between me and Jason, cause you'll probably get a faceful of lead."
"Jason doesn't use guns anymore," Bruce said.
"Yeah, well, he'd probably make an exception for you if you started trying to—what, smooth over his hurt feelings?" Dick laughed. "B, you know I love you, but if you ever try to hold an intervention for me and Jay, I might reach for the shotgun myself."
Bruce chuckled—thankfully. Jokes about guns were always a risky proposition with him; most of the time they shut him down, but when Dick got the balance just right, they seemed to slip under B's armor and provide a way in toward his soft, vulnerable underbelly.
"Then I take it you are not asking me to convince him to help you with the gang situation in Blüdhaven," Bruce said, in a much less frigid tone. "Because it would likely be far easier for you to apologize for whatever it is you've done to upset him."
Dick clenched his jaw, forcing down his anger at the audacity of Bruce's hypocrisy. Then he relaxed his shoulders and his jaw, because Bruce would hear it in his voice if he was tense.
"Thanks for the advice," he said, aiming for wry. It would be easier in the long run if Bruce did think he and Jason were at odds. "But I'll cut to the chase, B. I'm wondering if it might be worth it to have a little help here in Blüd for a while. Things might get… messy over here, and I could make good use of someone like Jay—" Shut up, Dick told his stupid libido.
"Why are you telling me this?" Bruce asked bluntly.
So much for B's soft underbelly, Dick thought.
"I don't control Jason's movements," Bruce continued. "I don't monitor his work particularly closely at this point in time. And, while he may lend his talents in situations where a city-wide response is necessary, neither he nor I interfere with each other's work unless it's absolutely essential. We don't even give each other full access to our case files, unlike the arrangements I have with you and many of my other Gotham-based allies. Why are you informing me of your intention to ask Jason—likely futilely, I might add—to temporarily shift his attention to your city?"
Because you're Batman, Dick thought, and if I don't give you an explanation for a change in my behavior you'll try to find one yourself. Because you'll find it wildly out of character for Jason to spend as much time with me as I want him to. Because you don't want to know what I'm doing, but you won't believe me if I tell you you'll be happier if you back the fuck off.
"Because you're my dad, B," Dick said playfully. "Jason's, too. What, you don't want to know what your kids are up to when you're not around?"
Bruce huffed—in the way that meant he was amused, not the way that indicated frustration. "I should never have drawn up those adoption papers," he said wryly.
Dick smiled, because Bruce wasn't trying to hurt him. "Too bad. You're stuck with me now."
"I was referring to Jason," Bruce said lightly.
"Ha," Dick said, smiling painfully. "Do me a favor, B? Please never make that joke in front of him."
"Dick, please," Bruce chuckled. "Give me some credit."
"Oh, I do," Dick said.
"Hn," Bruce said, amused. "Well, all right then. I'm glad to hear you two are at least trying to get along. He's certainly much less troublesome when he's under the watchful eye of his older brother."
Dick put his hand over his face. If only Bruce knew—but thank god he didn't. "I don't know if Jason thinks of me as a brother. Brother-in-arms, maybe."
"You might be surprised," Bruce said. "I suspect his affection for you is significantly deeper than he allows you to see."
"That's an interesting hypothesis," Dick said.
Bruce chuckled. "All right, chum, I'll leave the psychoanalysis to the professionals. Though—I am wondering what it is that's made you consider inviting an ally into your territory. Particularly the Red Hood. You've always been fiercely independent."
Dick was ready for this question. He laughed. "You mean I was fiercely independent from you, back when I hit my delayed teenage rebellion phase? I've grown up a lot since then. I've approved of other capes spending time in Blüd, including Tim and Cass, and the Titans, of course. I'm not twenty anymore, Bruce. I don't need to prove to you—or to myself—that I can make it work on my own. I've done that. Haven't I?"
Bruce was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Yes. You have."
Dick smiled down at his kitchen table. He'd been sure of Bruce's answer, because Bruce had said as much before, but it was still a relief to hear it out loud. And he'd had to hear it, because he'd needed to ask it to make this next part work.
"Thanks, Dad," he said warmly. "Here's the thing, though. Jason hasn't gotten that same chance to prove himself. Not to you, you two have been going back and forth on your alliance—probably more times than either of you've even told me—and I'd bet half Alfred's fortune that Jason's still trying to make this life work for himself, too. I mean… he's only twenty-three, and he's already walked a long and rough path through life."
"He's not unique in that respect," Bruce said.
"No, he's not," Dick said, forcibly keeping his tone even. "But he lost his family. Twice. He lost—we lost him, and when he woke up without us, he thought he'd lost us too."
Bruce sighed.
Dick forged ahead. "He's spent a lot of time since then without allies, or forming alliances that haven't held up in the long term—and not necessarily because he's done anything wrong. He has things in his past he regrets, sure, but—so do a lot of us. So do a lot of our allies outside of Gotham and Blüd, for that matter—"
"I can't force my allies in the Justice League to adhere to my standards," Bruce said. "As much as I'd like to."
"Of course not," Dick said soothingly. "But—Jason does, right? He adheres to our standards, even though he doesn't have to. He could put down his crowbars, or whatever kinds of blades or escrima sticks he's using this week, pick up his guns, and leave town for good. He could go deliver his own brand of bullet justice somewhere else, and you'd probably never even bother to track him down for it, right? But he doesn't do that. Sure, he does his adventuring like the rest of us. But he usually stays in Gotham and keeps the guns locked up. He only rattles the cage door when somebody decides to grab a stick and poke at him."
"And I suppose I'm the stick-holder in your metaphor," Bruce said dryly.
"We've all held the stick," Dick said. "There've been a few times when we've all teamed up and grabbed our own sticks. Sometimes that's been based on a call you made, sure, but—not always. Not every time."
"Releasing a caged animal always seems like the right thing to do," Bruce said, "but when you let it out, it's still an animal. You should not be surprised when it acts according to its nature—"
"Forget about the metaphor," Dick snapped, suddenly furious. "He's not an animal—he's a person, and he's my brother, and I love him. I want him to be free to be himself—I want him to be happy. He deserves it. He's a—"
Good girl, Dick thought—and flinched with his whole body.
And suddenly the reality of what he was doing—the lies he was telling Bruce by omission, and the lies he would likely have to tell Jason to get him to go along with Dick's machinations—rolled over him like a towering wave.
"Bruce," he said heavily, "I don't know how to say this—I can't even begin to—"
"All right," Bruce said. "All right, Dick, I hear you. You want to do something with your brother which you think I won't like—and which you likely think I won't fully understand."
"No… I…"
Bruce sighed. "You could've just told me that, chum. I know I haven't…" He sighed again. "You've proven yourself to me, Dick. And… I'm not the same man now as I was when you were twenty."
Dick put his head down on his kitchen table. He didn't answer.
"I am," Bruce said, then stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. "I am sorry, Dick."
"B," Dick said helplessly.
"Do what you want with your brother," Bruce said, "as long as he's willing and able. I would trust your judgment over my own in almost every situation I encounter, whether in work or in life. It would be very foolish of me not to trust you with Jason."
There had been very few times in Dick's life when he'd hated himself more.
"Thanks, Bruce," he said. "I can't even begin to tell you what it means to hear that from you."