#multichapter fic

It starts, like many wonderful things, with a risk taken.

You’d moved to New York on fourteen years worth of birthday money and a dream. You’d scrambled at first, sure, but wasn’t that part of the glamour? Most new New Yorkers (say that ten times fast…) have to deliver pizza or bus tables or play guitar on the streets while they chase their dreams. Whether it be Broadway or Wall Street, few folks get off easy their first year or two in the job market.

Which is why it feels miraculous when you get an interview with Stark Industries. It’s entry-level, but they pay fantastic, even for New York, and you’d rather bring coffee to billionaires and scientists all day than wait tables in a loud restaurant where no one cares if you’re having a bad day. At least Stark Industries offers health insurance.

“It’s a great stepping stone in the industry,” the hiring manager tells you as he’s shaking your hand. The welcome packet tucked under your arm is thicker than some of your textbooks had been. “Plenty of opportunities for professional development. HR will be in touch within the week to set up your employee benefits package.”

Most of it flies over your head, like a lot of information seems to do lately. The position pays enough to comfortably cover your rent, and the 10am start time doesn’t hurt. Plus, you can’t help but be a little excited at the prospect of working under some of the greatest heroes the universe has to offer.

The first few weeks are uneventful. You keep your head down, follow the training seminars as close as you can, try not to leave your water bottle behind in the conference room. It’s a pretty typical admin job, though undoubtedly the most interesting you’ve ever had. It’s hard not to think about the fact that you could run into one of the Avengers in the hallway one of these days. Hopefully you won’t do anything too embarrassing. You’re one of the younger people in the office, after all, and you can hear your mom’s voice in the back of your head reminding you to keep it together, don’t let them think you’re weak.

A few of your own rules join the mix: don’t let anyone get too close. don’t seem too eager, too friendly, too weird. don’t try to fit in because there’s no point.

At night, you walk home to your (thankfully close by) apartment. You’d been able to find a studio at a decent price, though the neighborhood doesn’t feel the friendliest. You speed-walk down the street most evenings, but the sun is usually sinking by the time you’re crossing your doorstep. Then there are the upstairs neighbors who think 2am is the right time to rearrange the living room. Not to mention your own lack of furniture, partially because it’s expensive, but also because bringing real furniture to the third floor is difficult even with an elevator. Besides, you have what you need, even if it’s mostly the bare minimum. Stark Industries has a rampant internal promotion system, according to your welcome packet.

Your box of comfort items stays tucked at the back of your closet, but you can’t help but mentally inventory it from your bed some nights: soft blanket, softer plushie, a few coloring books and crayons, and a couple pieces of gear that bring warmth to your cheeks if you think about it too hard. All items that tempt a corner of your mind that you’ve been too afraid to explore since moving here alone. You’re a professional now, after all. You keep the box put away and try to let your imagination be enough.

It’s been about a month when the inevitable happens. When thinking about your first Avengers encounter, you’d imagined being seated at some quarterly meeting or teambuilding session while Tony Stark or Bruce Banner delivers a speech behind a podium.

You certainly don’t expect to run into Captain America.

You especially don’t expect to literally run into him.

“Woah, ‘scuse me—“ comes the voice over your head as you round the corner, but it’s too late. Your feet are carrying you as quick as they can, because it’s the last ten minutes of your lunch break and you’d gotten so lost in the book you’d been reading that you’d forgotten to actually eat. Your only thought is your lunch box in the staff fridge, not whoever could be rounding the corner.

It’s unfortunate for you that it’s Steve Rogers, and it’s unfortunate for both of you that he’s carrying an open thermos of (thankfully lukewarm) coffee. That fact doesn’t help your feelings much as your book clatters to the floor and the coffee splashes all over your front. It’s thanks to a steadying hand on your elbow that you don’t fall from the impact.

“I’m so sorry,” you sputter before he can say anything else, daring a glance up at his face. You’re expecting annoyance, maybe even amusement at your clumsiness, but the first thing you notice is his brow creased in concern. “I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t see you, I know I should’ve been paying better attention —“

“Hey, easy, it’s alright,” he assures, seemingly expecting the flurry of repeated apologies about to leap off your tongue. He leans down and grabs your book off the floor, dusting it off before handing it to you. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I should’ve had a lid on this mug. Is your shirt…?”

You tug the offending fabric away from your skin, wincing at the dampness soaking through. He shares your frown, though he almost looks like he feels guiltier. “It’s okay,” you say quickly, scrambling to tug your shirt down despite the awful stickiness against your chest and belly. “I can, um, grab my coat from my locker, it’s no big deal.”

“No, hey, wait a second,” he cuts in, a hand hovering over your shoulder like he wants to keep you from bolting. “I have some old Young Avengers Initiative sweatshirts in my office, just gathering dust from the last storage clean out. Let me get you something dry to wear.”

“I-I don’t—“ you start, shaking your head, but the way he beckons you with one hand makes your feet follow him anyways.

“I’m Steve, by the way,” he says as you walk, like he’s your next-door neighbor and not a national hero working in the same building. “What’s your name?”

You mumble it quiet enough that you’re not sure he’ll catch it, but he smiles and nods like he has no trouble hearing. “Which department do you work for?”

The question makes your eyes widen as you remember what you’d been doing in the first place, and your head twists around to look for a clock. “Wait, my break is almost over,” you say, almost panicked as you scramble for your phone to check the time. “I’ll get written up.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve says immediately, and even though you’d usually huff at that advice, something in his tone soothes the anxiety rising in your chest. “I’ll walk with you and let your supervisor know what happened. Let me get you a dry shirt, though, yeah? Good thing I hadn’t refilled my cup since this morning, or else I’d be walking you down to the medbay for burns.”

You crack a smile despite yourself, your nerves fizzling down to something manageable. You follow Steve to his office, which you hadn’t even realized was on this floor, nodding and humming in response to his questions. Despite the obvious warmth in his whole demeanor, shyness still keeps you from finding much to say, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Here, try this one.” He hands you a red and blue sweatshirt with Stark Industries Youth Outreach printed on the front, thick enough to protect against your chilly walk home later in the evening. He ushers you into a small adjacent bathroom to change, ignoring your protests that you can just dig something out of your locker (you don’t actually have anything, but that’s beside the point). You emerge with your old shirt in a plastic bag he’d given you, feeling very much like an elementary school kid after falling in a puddle on the playground. At least this donated sweatshirt is new and only one size too big.

“Comfy?” he smiles when you walk out, looking genuinely pleased when you nod. “C’mon, I’ll walk you back.”

True to his word, he walks right up to your supervisor (who looks ready to start scolding until he sees who’s behind you) and explains what happened, leaving out the part where you’d been rushing around a corner like an overexcited kid. Your cheeks are still warm, but the smile Steve gives you is genuine.

“I’ll see you,” he says kindly, and it sounds like a promise in a way that makes your chest feel full. The sweatshirt sleeves hang over your fingertips, and as your supervisor strolls by your desk, you almost expect to get a dress code reminder anyways. But he just nods as he passes, seemingly softened by Steve Rogers’ lingering energy.

When it’s time to pack up for the night, you can’t help but wonder if he’d felt as much like a strong adult figure as you’d felt like a silly little kid in that moment. If he had, it hadn’t seemed to bother him, or even inconvenienced his certainly packed schedule. You rub the fabric of the sweatshirt sleeve between your fingers as you take the elevator downstairs, mind already starting to wander towards the stress of figuring out what to have for dinner.

And between you and yourself, you hope it isn’t long at all before you see Steve again.

—————

Jay continued to struggle with his nightmares and attended his weekly therapy sessions. He periodically brought home new instructions Dinah wanted us to try out to manage the symptoms, and we recorded any changes we noticed. Meanwhile I took my classes, patched up the occasional minor injury, and went to weekly training sessions with the Bats.

I was dropping the kids off at the manor one day when Alfred asked me to come in and speak with Bruce. I followed him to the office, not entirely sure what to expect. Bruce shook my hand a bit stiffly as I entered the room, leading me to the armchairs by the fireplace.

"… I know about Jason's appointments with Dinah." Bruce spoke in a calm, measured tone.

"… Ok?" I frowned a bit, not sure why he was telling me this. "Did … did she tell you?"

"No, no of course not. But when one of my sons is spending a few hours every week in a facility I fund, I notice." I nodded; if Tim had noticed, it made sense Bruce would too. "… I want to ask him about it, but … I suspect he wouldn't be receptive to that."

"You're probably right. So … what are you asking me for here, Bruce?"

Bruce picked up a sealed envelope, slowly turning it around in his hands. "I was thinking I could write to him. Maybe it would be easier for us to talk if we weren't face to face … would you give him the letter? Tell him I don't expect him to respond, but … I'm open, if he wants to."

I blinked a bit, grinning. "Of course! I … I think that's a great idea, Bruce. It can be easier to say what we mean when we have time to look at the words and think about them before sending them off. I think it'll help you both a lot."

Bruce's face softened ever so slightly as he hesitantly held out the envelope. I slid it into my bag, making sure it wouldn't get bent or crumpled. "… I don't expect you to tell me anything, but … whatever they're doing up there, it's going well?"

I considered him for a moment. "… Yeah, Dinah is great. She's been a big help."

"Good." He sighed softly, relief spreading across his face. "You'll tell me if he needs anything?"

"… No. But I'll encourage him to." I smiled softly, standing to go. "See ya next week, B."

Jason read the letter a dozen times before responding. Their first letters were awkward, stilted conversations, with no real substance; just overly formal small talk. But slowly, they found their way to real conversations. In one letter Jason mentioned a book he'd read recently, and by the time Bruce sent his next letter he had read it as well. They spent a month sending letters back and forth arguing about whether it was a romance or a psychological horror. Jason seemed quietly excited every time he sat down to read one of Bruce's letters, and he wrote lengthy responses. But no matter how often we saw the family, those conversations never left the page, and their in person interactions stayed about the same as always: awkwardly familiar, and a bit uncomfortable, though perhaps a bit less aggressive.

Dick and Tim decided summer was the perfect time to start up a monthly movie night at the manor. Jason took less coaxing than usual to agree to go; he said it was easier, being around them all, when the activity of the day was sitting silently and ignoring each other. Plus the manor's theater room was incredible; like a real move theater, but with recliners and couches instead of those uncomfortable little chairs. There were plenty of cozy blankets, and everyone's favorite movie snacks were always plentiful.

Life slowly developed a routine again. Summer greens gave way to autumnal reds and oranges, and the fall semester started for me, Damian, and Jason. More nights than not, the three of us would do homework at the dining table together. Jason took to his math and science lessons like a duck to water; he really did just need that little reminder before taking the GED test. We would look over each other's work and do flashcards for each other to prepare for tests. Damian was surprisingly well-versed in many of the topics I was studying, and made an excellent study partner.

When the letter asking for volunteers came around, I rejoined the PTA at the high school, despite Mrs. Webster's scowling. Some of the parents seemed glad to see me at least, and I enjoyed helping with club activities and events. Damian joined the after school program at the Arabic Cultural Center, finding tremendous comfort in the community there. He started to make friends in the teen program, and I continued to practice my Arabic with the grandmothers and parents. Many of them were eager to share their recipes with us, and my repertoire of Arabic meals and treats grew tenfold. Damian was always quietly pleased to see the familiar dishes, but ma'amoul remained his favorite.

Jason aced his finals, and took the GED test right before the winter break. The three of us stood in the kitchen together when the results came in. His trembling fingers ripped at the thick envelope, anxiety radiating off of him. He almost dropped the paper as he unfolded it, eyes filling with tears as he read off his results. Passed, with flying colors, as we knew he would. Damian and I hugged him tight as he collapsed into us, just whispering over and over; "I did it. I graduated …"

Walking into the manor for training that week had me buzzing with excitement. Jason cleared his throat as we entered the room, and the others all turned to face us as he pulled out the letter.

"So, … I got my GED. Th-" he didn't get a chance to finish; Dick, Tim, and Steph all started screaming and swarming us to hug him. Duke clapped him on the back, grinning, and Cass ruffled his hair affectionately. Finally, Bruce approached. He delicately took the letter from Jason's hands, reading it quickly. Tears filled his eyes as he looked at Jason.

He pulled him into a hug and I heard him whisper; "I'm so proud of you, Jaylad."

Jason cleared his throat, hiding his face against Bruce's shoulder; "th- thanks dad … there's a graduation ceremony in May, if-"

"We'll be there!" Dick grinned.

Tim nodded. "Yes, of course we will! What's this 'if'?"

"I know it can be hard to get everyone's schedules to line up, you don't all have to come…" Jay mumbled.

Bruce held him by the shoulders; "we will make it. No matter what, ok?"

Jason sniffled softly. "… Ok."

Autumn's crisp breezes blew the last of the leaves to the ground, and winter's fluttering snowflakes began to make their appearance. Jason's therapy was going well, and Dinah was finally able to confidently put a name to the disorder; complex post traumatic stress. Surprising no one, the burden of childhood poverty is not wiped from one's mind when they're adopted into wealth. Jason had been prepared for it to be C-PTSD, Dinah had been gently leading him toward the conclusion for months, but he was hesitant to accept that it had started so early.

Death was traumatic, his especially, he knew that would be part of it. And he could even accept that Bruce training him to fight crime as a teen, and the things he'd seen as Robin, had probably not helped him in this matter. But as hard as his early childhood was, he wasn't an unhappy kid. He remembered his mom cooking with him, before the drugs, and playing catch with his dad in the alley behind their apartment. He remembered kind smiles, and gentle hands, and warm hearts. They tried, he insisted, tried so hard to keep him safe and warm and fed. They were good, they didn't hit him or hate him, or let other people hurt him. They weren't all good, of course, they were still human, and there were plenty of bad days, especially near the end. But he insisted they weren't that bad, they were his parents. They loved him. Other kids had it much, much worse. So he couldn't fathom how Dinah could suggest that the C-PTSD had started so early.

It broke my heart, watching him come to terms with the fact that trauma had made a home of his mind, not after his family was ripped apart by poverty and crime, but from the very beginning. Dinah was almost painfully gentle as she explained how going to bed hungry and cold changes your brain chemistry. How the mind is affected by watching one parent fall victim to drugs while the other is bringing home the stress of working for a mob boss.

It took almost a month for Jason to accept it. In that time, he pulled further away from his family. His responses to Bruce's letters slowed, and he even skipped patrol without a word some nights. On those nights I had to text the Bats on the Oracle app to avoid a panic. Tim took to visiting on Wednesdays, using the excuse of dropping Damian off after school, to check in on his big brother. Jason still wasn't ready to tell him about his Tuesday appointments with Canary, but seeing the younger man every week did seem to help his mood. The three of them sat in the living room, mostly talking about their weekend patrol plans and playing video games.

Slowly, Jason started inviting the others around as well. I came home from class one day to see him and Dick sitting in the living room with a pizza. Another time he was playing uno with Duke. And once, he was sitting in comfortable silence with Cass on the other side of the room, each reading their own books. Everyone seemed to realize something bigger was going on, but nobody brought it up. I suspected Tim had made some recommendations to the others, given how they all seemed to intentionally keep the conversation on light topics. I did my part by making sure there were always fresh, home made treats in the kitchen, just in case someone showed up.

Winter started to melt away, and one day I found a composition notebook on the dining table. The cover had a sticky note with my name in Damian's angular handwriting, so I picked it up. I assumed it was homework of some kind; something he wanted help with, or a study guide for me maybe. I sat at the table, cracking it open.

Ukhti,

Father and Todd's relationship seems less strained as of late, presumably due to their letters. I also have things I wish to say, but struggle to express in person. If you are amenable, I propose we also attempt this form of communication.

I quickly drafted a response and took the sticky note off, leaving the notebook on his bedside table.

Yours,

Damian

Of course we can, Sweetheart! If you think it will help, I'm happy to try! First can I ask, have I done or said something to upset you?

♥️

Ukhti,

You have done nothing wrong. I apologize, I should not have left room for you to doubt yourself like that. I am simply struggling to find the words for these emotions. Written word seems easier. More private.

This will stay between us?

Damian

Of course! How would you like this to go? Would you like me here as a sounding board, to help you put a name to the feelings, or something else?

Yes to all. I would like to use this notebook to ask for advice, and to name the feelings, and I suppose to have somewhere to put them. Does that make sense?

It does! So, what would you like to start with?

I am struggling more than I anticipated, in cutting off Mother. I of course knew it would be hard, and the family has endeavored to make it bearable. And it has become more bearable, as Todd said it would. I suppose I'm experiencing one of those "bad knee flare ups" he spoke of. I do not miss the way things were with her, but I want … something? Something I cannot name.

When do you notice the "bad knee" most? Is there a situation or a person that it's happening around? Or maybe a feeling or sensation that you do recognize that comes with it?

It seems to occur randomly. The first one I recognized was at school. A classmate's mother brought in their diorama for them. And a moment later, I was furious at nothing. It took me days of reflection to realize that I was angry because Mother would never have done that for me. It's a simple task, to bring the project for the last class period. But the request would not have been taken well, perhaps even seen as weakness. I would have been expected to make my own solution, and would most likely end up carrying the item around, or have to find a safe place to store it until the appropriate class.

Other students have such simple relationships with their parents. It feels unfair. But then I remember just how much family I have, and how much you all have been willing to do for me, and I feel quite selfish for that. Most people in this country only have a mother and father, maybe a sibling or two, to assist them. I have so much more than them, but I still feel so empty sometimes.

Other people's family structures have no bearing on ours - you are entitled to your feelings about your family, the good and the bad, no matter how much you seem to have. One secure relationship is worth more than a dozen unstable ones, and as much as the Wayne family loves each other, there's a lot of pain and trauma on all sides. It's very difficult to love someone without also hurting them when you're running from monsters only you see, you know?

The parent/child relationship is particularly difficult to break, so when it does break it leaves a noticeable wound. It makes perfect sense that you would be hit, seemingly out of the blue at times, with revelations like the one you had about that class period. Anger at the situation makes perfect sense; you have had an incredibly unfair childhood. And most importantly, you are allowed to feel your emotions, even the hard, ugly ones. If you don't take the time to feel them, you won't ever know how to handle them.

Thank you for saying so, Ukhti. The part that is confusing me right now is that Mother does love me, I know she does. And she has done things for me none of my classmates' mothers would be capable of. She has killed for me, she has taken tremendous steps to ensure my well-being, she has even sent me away for my own safety, something most of my classmates mothers would not have the mental fortitude to do, and she allowed me to stay with Father when I initially requested to do so, even though it saddened her. So why should such a little thing, a hypothetical at that, stick in my heart as it has?

Life is built on the little things, Damian. You can't feasibly do a big gesture every day, or even every week. They're supposed to be rare events, to mark special occasions, or to promise that a mistake made won't happen again. A relationship is not built on big gestures, it's built on the little daily things. I think when little things matter more than they seemingly should, it's because they're being neglected, and through that neglect the relationship as a whole is hurting.

I don't like that there's nothing I can do about this. It hurts, and I cannot change it. The only person who might be able to is Mother. Though I do doubt that she could, and I'm uncertain at this time if she would even try.

All there is to do is to experience it, habibi. It sucks, but you can't run from these feelings. If you do, they will build until they completely overwhelm you. It hurts, and that is a fact. But you do not have to face it alone, and that is also a fact.

We wrote back and forth for months. Damian divulged more and more stories from his childhood, mostly processing events that he had thought were normal but that were decidedly not. Until one day, I opened the notebook to see a shakily written message;

Sometimes I regret how I responded to Todd's jokes calling you 'mommy'.

It still feels wrong, and I'm happy with our relationship as it is. But every once in a while my friends will talk about their parents and I get this feeling in my chest, like … that's you. You, and Todd, and Grayson.

In the League, Todd's behavior towards me existed in a limbo state between a big brother, a father, and a pet. He needed me, and I needed him. And since coming to Gotham, he has continued to be somewhere between a big brother and a dad.

When Father was gone, Grayson took care of me. And by the time he returned, Grayson was firmly placed in that category as well; not quite a dad, not quite a brother. And now I have you. Not quite a sister, not quite a mother. But somehow, maybe both…

And all of that is so much more complicated than what the rest of my friends have. I don't want to chime in with "my sister" or "my brother's paramour", I want to be able to say "my mama", like they do. But I never do, and I don't know if it's because I'm afraid of how mother would react if she ever heard I had replaced her in that role, or if it's something else.

I'm not even entirely sure why I'm telling you this. I suppose I just needed you to know.

I'm glad you told me, sweetheart. I don't know if there's anything I can do or say to help you through this, but I want you to know that it wouldn't bother me if you wanted to change how you refer to me. Whatever title feels right to you, whether it's fluid from one situation to another or remains the same all the time, we will always be family, and I will always love you.

And as for how your mother might react, we can address that situation if and when it comes up. I once had to assure Bruce that I wasn't trying to steal you and Jay from him; if you two reconnect some day I can do the same with Talia. Until then, it's not her business how we address one another.

♥️

The notebook remained with Damian for quite a while after that. One night around midnight my phone started flashing green; Oracle was calling. I opened the app and was immediately directed to my messages;

Oracle: Robin enroute to the Nest. Suspected sprained wrist. ETA: 5 minutes.

Me: Copy 5. Any other injured birds forthcoming?

Oracle: Negative. Batman and Red Robin have subdued Hatter, just waiting for the officers to take custody.

Oracle: B wants a report when Robin enters the Nest.

Me: 👍

I made my way down to the clinic. The first time I would be using it for someone other than Jay had me a bit anxious. Jason brought me bullet wounds, cuts and scrapes, that sort of thing. A sprained wrist was very different. I double checked my supplies and prepared a splint before pulling out some pain killers. As I was filling a glass of water, the door to the garage opened. Robin stormed inside, muttering quietly. I texted Oracle that he'd arrived before setting my phone aside.

"Hey kiddo…" Robin sat in a chair next to the counter, grabbing the water and taking a big gulp.

"Father is making out like my arm was ripped off. I am fine." He grumbled.

"Good. Then this will be nice and easy." I smiled softly, holding out a hand for his arm. He rolled his eyes, but held his arm out to me. I carefully removed his glove and gently rolled his sleeve up. The wrist was swollen, and I delicately tested his range of motion, feeling for grinding or any obvious breaks. He barely responded at all, just staring me down.

I looked up at his face; "any pain?"

"I've experienced far worse."

I sighed softly. "Habibi…"

He released a breath slowly. "… It is … tender. There was a brief, sharp pain when Hatter pinned my hand behind my back. Probably a torn ligament."

I nodded, offering him the pain killers. He hesitantly took them, and I fitted the splint on his wrist. "Well, a week or two and you should be good as new. Be gentle with it for now, and take the painkillers as needed."

He nodded once, mumbling into his chest; "thank you … mum …"

I blinked a bit and smiled softly. "Wh- what was that?"

He slowly looked up at me, entirely expressionless behind the whites of his mask; "… Robin is not the son of Talia Al Ghul. So … she cannot object to Robin calling someone else mom … right?"

I smiled softly, gently wrapping an arm around his shoulders and kissing the top of his head. "Makes sense to me, baby bird."

He leaned against me a bit, sighing softly. "… Can I stay tonight?"

"Of course you can. I insist."

He buried his head into my shoulder, mumbling; "… Thank you, … mama …"

May rolled around, bringing Jason's graduation with it. The whole family was there, filling out the first row of the guests section. Oracle had informed the GCPD that the Bats would be 'busy with Justice League matters' for the day, and reported that they were scheduling extra officers. And Dick called in a favor, getting Kid Flash to cover Signal's patrol for the day. An unusual allowance from Bruce, but not unwelcome; the whole family wanted to be there for Jason. Roy and Lian ran in shortly before the ceremony started, dropping into their seats with the rest of us.

The music started and Dick and I got our phones out, his set to film and mine set to take pictures. A moment later, the graduates began walking down the aisle. I had been expecting maybe a dozen people, but GED prep courses were apparently a booming industry in Gotham; Jason's graduating class was bigger than mine had been! I briefly wondered if that was the fault of the Gotham rogues, or the flourishing drug trade, before deciding it was probably some unholy combination of the two. I recognized a couple people in the crowd; young adults who had been meant to graduate with me, but had become hospitalized or dropped out during our high school tenure. It felt like a full circle moment, that they would graduate with Jason -with the Red Hood- instead.

I watched the graduates file past us to their seats. Jason stood a good head taller than most of them, making him easy to find. He locked eyes on our group after briefly scanning the crowd. The tips of his ears started turning pink and a little grin spread across his face as he saw all of us. He glanced down at the ground as he walked past, pointedly ignoring the hooting and hollering of his siblings.

The university president got up and spoke about tenacity and how proud they should all be of themselves before finally announcing the graduates. Bruce and Alfred were blinking away tears as Jason walked across the stage to receive his GED certificate. He waved to us, beaming with pride. I snapped a few more photos before he returned to his seat for the rest of the ceremony.

Everyone joined us for dinner to celebrate. The house was decidedly not designed for such a large group; we had people in the living room, the kitchen, and throughout the backyard. Duke, Tim, and Dick had picked up food from three local restaurants, all Jason's favorites, and Steph and Cass picked up a cake. The house was full of music and laughter, and Jason was right in the middle of it all. He was trying to contain himself, but the big dumb grin on his face told us all exactly how much this meant to him.

I got a couple extra pictures throughout the party, excited to fill out a photo collage frame I'd gotten for the occasion. I wanted it to be a reminder for him - that he was smart, and capable, and loved. I snapped a photo of him and Bruce, finally talking in person about the sequel to the book they'd been writing about. Bruce had picked up two copies so they could read it immediately, and they had nearly identical smiles and excitement in their eyes. As I glanced at the photo, Tim slipped the camera out of my hands. I looked over to him, and he gestured for me to go sit with them.

"You've been behind the camera all day. Time to get in the shot."

I chuckled softly; "thanks Tim."

He was far more particular than I was, getting the three of us lined up just right for the photo. But when he finally returned the camera to me, I couldn't deny his results; it was the perfect picture. Bruce looked every bit the proud father, I was leaning against Jason in a way that looked cool and intentional, and Jason's eyes sparkled with joy.

Divider by: @/saradika-graphics 

Fanart in the header by: @/crowkip

Taglist (always open):

Pale blue light heralded the approaching dawn, casting your sleeping face in ethereal softness. Grisham almost held his breath, unable to take his eyes from you. 

You stayed. 

He almost thought he was still dreaming when he’d woken up to the unfamiliar but comfortable weight of you next to him. To your warmth, to your scent, and to the steady lowness of your breath. He wasn’t alone, Zorua was likely curled against his back, and Grisham could spy Sylvie at the foot of the bed even without his glasses on. 

This was new. 

He’d never woken up next to a lover. 

Lover. 

The word bloomed in his chest. Is that what you were to him? Was that the right word to use for you? It didn’t feel… wrong. So to speak. It felt nice. A little too early, and certainly unmoored by not knowing if you would have accepted the title. But nice. 

He smiled, carefully brushing the hair from your face and kissing your forehead. Behind him, Zorua stirred, pressing more of his weight against Grisham’s back. You didn’t stir, you stayed asleep. And Grisham marveled at the sight of you. 

You stayed. 

And he hoped you would continue to stay. 

Eventually, he carefully slipped out of bed and made way towards the bathroom, clothes in hand. 

You awoke to the sound of the shower running, lingering warmth, and a dull ache between your legs. The memory of last night soon greeted you. You were in Grisham’s bed, where you had fallen asleep in his arms. 

In the light of the morning you could see Grisham’s room. There wasn’t much to it, but it was kept clean and tidy. There were photos next to the closet, colorful depictions of Cafe Nouveau at various stages of its development. A book of poetry was on the bedside table, you’d seen him annotating it once or twice in the time you’d been living with him. 

It felt safe. Mostly impersonal. Temporary. 

But the bed smelled like him, and there were hair ties on the bedside table, his clothes in the hamper. It was his room. That eased the slight discomfort as you stood and dressed yourself. It seemed that Grisham had brought in a change of clothes for you, a comfortable outfit he’d seen you in plenty of times. You were thankful to not have to risk going into the living room in the nude to retrieve your clothes, otherwise you weren’t sure how Grisham would’ve felt about you wearing one of his shirts. If it was too soon to even do so, or if it was something he would have welcomed. Maybe even expected. 

You made his bed before you went out into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, heart hammering in your chest when you heard the shower shut off. 

You slept with him. You were going to have to talk about that and that talk was rapidly approaching. Was it a mistake? A one-off slip up? Or was it the start of something more, something akin to a friends-with-benefits? But you had said you loved him. And he had said it first. 

The bathroom door opened, and Grisham paused, taking you in at the table. Hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, another one waiting for him, and a question on your face. 

“Let’s talk.” Grisham nodded, sitting across from you. His hair was still wet, dripping into the towel around his shoulders. Even as casually dressed as he was, he still carried himself with an air of measured grace, softened as it had become in the last few weeks. 

For a moment, you tried to find where to start, but Grisham was the first to move. 

“I don’t regret last night.”

“Even when you said you loved me?”

He didn’t respond right away, mulling the question over while his hands wrapped around his cup of coffee. 

“Especially that.” 

Your heart skipped. Your cheeks burned. 

“Maybe it was a little soon.” He eased, “I’m sorry if I-”

“I said it back.” 

Grisham sat still, but you had heard the short intake of breath. 

“You did.” 

You swallowed hard, willing your heart to steady itself. 

“And I meant it.”

The smile that bloomed across his face was a small one, hesitant, but genuine. Hopeful. 

“I meant it too. I love you.” He said it with gentle conviction, nothing at all like the broken desperation you’d heard him say it before. That reverence was still there, clear as the daylight that now spilled into the apartment. 

It made your heart flutter, a warm lightness spreading over your body. But, confirming it wasn’t enough, and your next question grounded you.

“What does this make us?”

“Lovers would be the easiest description.” Grisham shrugged, “But we never really… it feels temporary to call you my lover, like you could leave—which, you can if you want, I don’t want you to feel trapped here but I do—”

“Grisham.” Your hand flew to his, halting his spiral before it could take him over the edge, “What do you want us to be?”

He took a deep breath and exhaled.

“I want this to be serious.” 

“And?”

“I want this to work. I want us to work.” 

“I’d like that.” You reassured, your hand hadn’t left his, “I’m willing to put the work in.”

He nodded, his hand leaving his coffee mug to hold yours. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. 

“I’m terrified I’m moving too fast into this.” His voice was barely above a whisper, “Am I moving too fast?”

“Maybe. But if I feel the same then… why not? Let’s give this a shot.”

Grisham nodded, gently squeezing your hand. You squeezed his hand back. 

“Lovers then.” 

“Lovers.” You nodded. 

He held your hand in his, anchoring himself to you. An amused note chimed from him as his smile turned from content to amused. 

“I just remembered we’ll have to tell Griselle about this.” Probably for the best. Definitely for the best.

“Should we tell her when she’s home?”

“Depending on her mood.” 

“Right.” She should be in a good mood, given that her own date went exceedingly well. But it was never easy telling someone you lived with you were dating the only family they’d ever known… were you dating? Being lovers was one thing, simply dating was another. This was starting a life together.  

“We should figure out what this looks like though.” Grisham took a sip of his coffee, as if reading your mind, “Sleeping arrangements, you moving in—if you want to that is.” 

It might have been moving too fast, but you had to be honest with yourself, you’d been sleeping on their couch for a couple of weeks. Sleeping in a proper bed again was a delight and not just because of the man you shared it with. Sharing a room with Grisham though was a big change from having your things in a suitcase in their living room. It meant rearranging things, making space, and adjusting to one another in a closer capacity than before. 

But he had already done that hadn’t he? Letting you live with him, work for him. Involving you in plans for the future. He had already made space for you, you just had to take it, and stay. 

“I wouldn’t mind sharing a bed with you more.” You began, “As for fully moving in… let’s take our time on that. This is still new and I don’t want to hurt you by rushing in head first.” 

Grisham blinked, a spark of surprise twinged across his features before quickly returning to the gentle smile he’d been regarding you with the entire time. 

“You won’t hurt me.” Grisham lied, hoping it gave you comfort, disappointed to find you shaking your head in patient disapproval. 

“I’m still human after all, arguments are bound to happen.” 

“Sure.” Grisham agreed, “But we’ll work through it.”

You nodded. Hopeful. 

A comfortable moment enveloped you, your hand in Grisham’s, the taste of coffee on your tongue and the warmth of a new relationship burning in your chest. This was nice. 

---

Griselle had noticed it the moment she had walked through the apartment door. The air had shifted. You and Grisham cooked together, nothing unusual there, you sometimes worked together with either of them. 

But the smiles, the glances, the way Grisham hummed a pleased note when he lightly brushed his shoulder against yours. Her eyes narrowed. Even Sylvie seemed more energetic than usual, watching you and Grisham with her tail practically wagging and her ribbons bouncing with each step she took.  

Dinner was served. Crammed around the kitchen table, your knee knocking against Grisham’s, those same glances exchanged. The almost giddy atmosphere between the two of you… the lingering gaze Grisham held, and the way his gaze flicked to your lips and back to your eyes. 

You hadn’t said anything yet, but you didn’t need to. Griselle leaned forward, resting her head in the palm of her hand. There was a lull in the conversation, then…

“Did you two finally fuck while I was gone?” 

Grisham’s fork clattered to the plate, a wild red blush spread across his face and burned the tips of his ears. You knew exactly how red your face had gotten. 

“I—we—How did you—?” He was stumbling over his words, trying to find solid ground while the smile on Griselle’s face grew.

“Finally!” She threw herself back in her chair, “I’ve been watching the two of you dance around each other for weeks now! Honestly, I thought I’d walk in and find the two of you at each other at some point. Kinda glad I didn’t, but in the future maybe you could give me a heads up if you’re going to—” 

“Griselle, please.” Grisham begged, burying his face in his hands. He knew she would do this. 

“No no! No. You don’t get to take this from me, Grish, let me have this.” She sat back upright, “So. Are you two together now?”

There was an angle to her question, a careful prodding without outright saying what she wanted. Almost like a child checking to see if it was safe to come out of hiding.

“As of today, yes. We are.” You confirmed, “Is that alright?”

Griselle’s shoulders settled, her expression softened, almost as if something in her had been comforted by that.

“Of course it is.” Her voice was uncharacteristically soft, the smile that grew across her face was genuine and brighter than any you’d seen from her before. Gone was the mischievous ‘told you so’ air she’d carried before, “Of course I’m alright with that. More than alright, actually. I’m happy the two of you are finally together.”

You were waiting for her to make a joke, to brush aside the weight of whatever feelings she was having as she always did. But this time it wasn’t so, this time, she meant every word of what she said. And you knew it. 

“Be good to her, alright Grisham?” 

Grisham had reached over and taken your hand in his, giving you a reassuring squeeze.

“I intend to.” 

---

Grisham laid across from you, his hand wrapped around yours. Part of him hadn’t expected you to stay in his bed again that night, this time without the sex. It was uncharted territory sharing a bed with someone who didn’t want him for his body, that loved him romantically. Something in him was healing, an emptiness he hadn’t thought to fill, finally finding fulfilment in your presence. 

He was glad Griselle approved, though he realized he had nothing to worry about. Griselle liked you, and honestly, she probably would have been fine with anyone as long as they made him happy. But it was better that it was you. 

For the first time in his life everything felt normal. And it was as terrifying as it was exhilarating. He whispered your name, checking to make sure that he still wasn’t dreaming. You made a small noise, something affirmative and on the edge of sleep. 

He smiled, pulling your hand to his lips and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your fingers. You were his lover, by choice. 

The green expanse opens wide, vivid and radiant beneath the scorching midday sun of summer. The fields stretch endlessly, shimmering under the golden light that pours down from above. Children dart across the open plain, chasing one another, laughing, and playfully jabbing their friends as their joyous voices ripple through the warm air. The echoes of their laughter fill the space. Makes it even brighter and livelier.

Among them sits a boy apart from the commotion, a sickly, fragile child whose frail body contrasts sharply with the energy around him. Draped in a silk kosode and wearing a polished wooden sandal, he sits quietly on the grass, arms wrapped tightly around his knees as if to hold himself together. His posture is reserved, knees drawn close to his chest, the elegance of his garments contrasting the rough play of the common children before him. His gaze follows the other children, eyes wide with silent wait. He blinks, watching them run and tumble and shout, hoping that they might turn toward him, call his name, and welcome him into their games. But the laughter continues without him, and no one seems to notice the small, still figure sitting in the middle of the boundless green.

“U-um… please, I want to play with you all too!” the boy finally says, his voice trembling with a mix of hesitation and irritation. His thick eyebrows draw together in frustration, and his dark eyes glare at the children running across the field.

“No! You’re too slow! You always trip and fall,” one of the kids shouts back, not even pausing in his play.

“Higuruma, you’re such a bother!” another yells, laughing loudly as the others join in.

Hiromi’s small frame stiffens. He rises to his feet, fists clenched tight at his sides, jaw tightening until his teeth grind together. “Then why do you all always ask me to bring tonjiki and eat them, huh?” he snaps, voice breaking with anger.

“Because you’re rich!” one of them calls out, grinning. “Whatever you’ve got, we’d like to eat it!”

The laughter rings in Hiromi’s ears, sharper than the summer sun above. His hands curl into fists before he even realizes it. His jaw tightens, lips pressed into a trembling line.

“What’s so funny?” he snaps, his voice slicing through their laughter. “Say it again.”

The kids pause, startled for a second, then one of them grins. “Oh, the rich boy’s mad now?” another teases.

That’s the last straw. Hiromi storms forward, his silk kosode flaring around his legs. His geta dig into the dirt as he closes the distance in three quick steps and shoves the loudest boy hard in the chest. The boy stumbles back, losing his footing.

“You call me slow again!” Hiromi yells, his voice cracking but fierce. “Say it one more time!”

The taller kid stares at him with shock, “You think you can fight, rich boy?” he barks and swings a hand out, pushing Hiromi’s shoulder. But Hiromi doesn’t back down. He pushes back harder, shoving him again and again until the other kids rush in.

Hands grab at sleeves, someone yells, and the air fills with dust and scuffling feet. Hiromi ducks under a wild swing and hits the boy square in the side, his small fist landing with more will than strength. Another kid tugs his hair, and Hiromi twists, elbowing him away. It’s messy, desperate  and full of childish fury.

“Stop it, stop it!” one of them shouts, but Hiromi doesn’t stop. He lunges at the boy who mocked him, tackling him to the ground. They roll in the grass, dirt smearing across Hiromi’s fine sleeves, the expensive silk creasing and tearing at the edge.

“Take it back!” he yells, breathing hard, his voice hoarse and trembling. “Take it back!”

The boy beneath him squirms, face red, finally gasping, “Fine! Just get off me!”

Hiromi slowly stands, brushing the dirt from his knees, his breath still unsteady. “If you hate me,” he mutters, voice low but firm, “then stop eating what I bring.”

“Get him!” one of them yells.

A kick lands against his ribs, another hand yanks his hair. Hiromi lashes out, hitting, scratching, doing anything to fight back. Tears sting his eyes, not from pain but from humiliation.

“Think you’re better than us, huh?” one boy sneers, panting. “In your fancy clothes?”

Hiromi’s breathing turns ragged. “I didn’t…” he tries to speak, but another shove sends him sprawling again.

Then, from the edge of the group, a thin boy with a sly grin says, “Let’s take him to the Oni’s house.”

The words fall like a chill wind. The others go quiet for a moment, their laughter faltering.

Hiromi looks up, confusion flashing across his red face. “What… what are you talking about?”

The sly boy grins wider. “The abandoned house by the woods. They say an Oni lives there. Maybe he’ll like eating spoiled rich kids.”

The others exchange glances, half scared, half thrilled. The idea catches like wildfire among them. “Yeah,” someone snickers, “let’s see if the Oni wants him!”

“No! Let me go!” Hiromi shouts, struggling violently as two of the boys seize him by the arms. He kicks and thrashes, wooden sandals scraping harshly against the dirt, but they are stronger, their grip does not loosen at all. The others laugh, cruel, as if they have never seen anything this entertaining in their entire life, closing in around him.

Before he can regain any footing, two more boys grab his legs. Hiromi’s small body is hoisted into the air like a cut-down tree log, limbs dangling helplessly as the group starts moving toward the forest at the edge of the fields.

As they march through the forest, hoisting Hiromi like a heavy log, the boys begin to chant in a teasing, sing-song rhythm, their voices louder with each step they take closer to the forest:

“Rich boy, weak boy, what a surprise, Off to the forest where the curse lies! Oni waits with eyes so wide, Step inside, get eaten, no way to hide!”

The sun blazes above as they drag him toward the tree line, where the green turns darker and the air cooler. Hiromi struggles, breathless and furious, the once-bright field shrinking behind him.

“Let me go!” he screams, voice cracking. “You’ll regret this!”

The Oni’s house looms ahead, a dark silhouette against the blazing green of the fields. Every villager has whispered about it in hushed, fearful tones, that this is a cursed place, they say, where anyone who steps inside is doomed to bear the curse forever. Its walls are warped and cracked, the roof sagging like it might collapse under its own weight. Even the bravest of men avoid it, crossing to the far side of the street or running past with quickened steps. The air around it feels heavier, as if sunlight itself hesitates to touch its shadow.

Hiromi struggles against the grip of the older boys, but they drag him closer with cruel insistence. “The Oni will get you!” one of them hisses, half-laughing, half-shivering at their own story. “You’ll be cursed forever!”

His small heart pounds, fear and anger mingling. He’s always been frail, always been careful, yet now he’s being forced toward the house no one dares approach. He glances at the crooked doorway, the broken shutters, and for a moment, the whispered warnings of the village crawl into his mind.

The children throw Hiromi toward the dilapidated hut and then scatter, their laughter fading into the distance. The wooden walls rise unevenly around him, warped and jagged, enclosing him in a tight, oppressive space. A narrow, rotting veranda runs along the front, its planks cracked and splintered, some hanging loose like broken teeth. The faint creak of the boards under Hiromi’s feet echoes through the empty space as he steps onto it, sunlight filtering through gaps in the weathered roof and casting jagged patterns across the dirt floor inside. Shadows pool in every corner, crawling along the walls like dark fingers.

He moves cautiously, eyes scanning the ruined interior, when a low hiss cuts through the silence. On a pile of broken planks near the far wall, a snake coils, tongue flicking, fangs bared toward his ankle. Hiromi freezes, a shiver running through him, small hands shaking in fear.

“A-Ah!” Hiromi screams.

Then, a sudden movement. A boy with messy pink hair, taller and broader than Hiromi, lunges at the snake. His hands clamp around the slick body, twisting and tearing with feral strength, blood spraying across the dirt and the splintered veranda planks. The snake writhes and hisses, but he holds firm, finally tossing its lifeless body aside.

He straightens, chest heaving, and grins at Hiromi. Two teeth are missing from his jagged smile. “Don’t worry,” he says with a shrug, blood smearing his sleeves. “I’ve got this.”

Hiromi swallows hard, the terror of the snake still thrumming in his veins, and glances at the rotting veranda, the splintered boards and warped railings surrounding him.

“T-thank you?” Hiromi stammers, his voice barely above a whisper. He keeps his eyes fixed on the boy before him, studying him with a mix of awe and unease. The boy is larger than Hiromi expected, a bit stout, and somehow carries the restless energy of a wild animal, like a tiger cub pacing in a cage. One side of his face is peculiar, the flesh twisted resembling that of a burnt mark, and also two extra holes as if he has an extra pair of eyes, and his messy pink hair falls in uneven strands over his forehead.

He wears a small, torn-down kimono, clearly tailored from an old woman’s garment. The fabric is patched and frayed, tied hastily around his torso with loose knots, as if he had dressed himself in a rush. The boy sits back on his heels, rubbing his belly absently, eyes lingering on the snake he threw aside, blood still streaking on its body.

Hiromi’s gaze drops and freezes. One of the boy’s feet is bound by a long, heavy chain, the metal link rattling faintly as he shifts. His breath catches. The boy notices Hiromi staring and tilts his head, a small, almost sad smile curling across his jagged grin.

“My mother… she kept me shackled,” he says simply, voice soft yet edged with something like pride. “So I don’t curse other people.”

Hiromi blinks, confusion knotting in his chest. “C-curse…?” he murmurs. He is a just a kid like him, how can he even curse others?

Before Hiromi can even gather his thoughts, the boy’s stomach growls loudly, the sound startling the quiet of the hut. He presses both hands to his belly, eyes squeezing shut, as if trying to quiet the twists inside of his stomach. When he opens his eyes, they land on Hiromi, and that’s when he notices his eye color.

Red orbs look like gemstones, his father often bought from foreign merchants.

“Can I… eat the snake?” he asks softly, voice tinged with hesitation.

“Ehhh!” Hiromi almost yells, stepping back instinctively. “Never! No!” He straightens, fists clenching at his sides, heart hammering with disbelief.

The boy glances down at his belly again, poking it lightly with one small index finger, lips curling into a pitiful little pout. “B-but I’m hungry… I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday,” he mutters, his words soft, almost childlike.

Hiromi swallows hard, and for a moment, his mind flickers to the image of a small, pouty tiger cub from a picture book he once saw, a tiny, round face, pink fur, and wide eyes.

“Hold on a minute!” Hiromi jumps from the veranda. “I will get you something to eat!” Hiromi starts to run towards the greenery but pauses midway and turns his back.

“What’s your name?” He asks.

“Sukuna. Ryomen Sukuna.” The pink haired boy says. “And you?” he whispers.

“Hiromi. Hiromi Higuruma. Nice to meet you, Sukuna.” Hiromi waves at Sukuna. “I will come right back with lots of delicious food!”

Hiromi runs away, keeping Sukuna seated on the veranda. Sukuna cannot but think to himself if he has scared the child away, or if eating the snake would be a good choice.

At least he can fill his belly till his mother comes in the evening.

He tries to reach it, but fails, because his feet do not allow him to move that far. He has thrown the snake quiet far away from the house.

Sighing, he presses his belly once again.

He is so hungry, it hurts, his belly hurts.

One night, during a post-sex cuddle, he whispered; "is it weird that this might actually be my favorite part? … I just … I feel so … connected to you, when we do this…"

I kissed his forehead and whispered back; "it's not weird. I like the connection too."

He dozed in my arms, falling into a deep sleep. Several hours later, he whimpered softly in his sleep. I stroked his hair, carefully moving his head to rest on my chest, and he quickly settled back down. The nightmares didn't end that night, but they didn't wake him either.

Damian was the first member of the family to notice the change. He spent about half his nights with us, so it made perfect sense that he noticed Jason's increasingly specific bedtime routine. One night, while Jason was on patrol, Damian leaned against me on the couch.

"… So, Todd is finally dealing with the nightmares?"

I glanced down at him, smiling a little. "You knew?"

"He's had them for as long as I've known him. … Before, in the league, I used to pretend to have nightmares sometimes, so he'd let me sleep in his room with him. … It seemed to help."

I smiled softly, running my fingers through his hair. "That's such a you thing to do, my sweet boy. I'm sure it did help…"

He flushed a bit, clearing his throat. "Well, … Akhi protected me from the threats outside our walls. I was glad to be able to protect him from the ones in his mind."

I nodded, humming softly. "I'm glad you were there for each other. I might not have gotten to meet you both otherwise."

Damian nodded. "As am I. And I am glad he's finally taking care of himself. It's going well?"

I nodded. "There are good days and bad days, but overall yes. He's been working so hard…"

Damian hummed softly, nodding. "Well enough that he would not object if I ask him about it?"

"Hmm … do it when it's just the two of you, or the three of us. He's still deciding who he wants to include in this process."

He nodded. "Understood."

Damian waited until a day when Jason was in a particularly good mood before asking about it. I was working on homework while they cooked together, but from what I saw the conversation seemed to go well. Damian even allowed Jason to ruffle his hair for a moment.

Tim showed up on our doorstep one Tuesday in the early afternoon. I invited him in, curious about the little frown on his face. He looked around, almost seeming anxious.

"Jay around?"

"No, but he should be home soon. What's up?" I lead him back to the kitchen. "You sticking around for lunch? I'm making mac'n'cheese."

Tim shrugged, "yeah, if you're offering, thanks. … When will Jason be back?"

"Maybe 10 minutes? What's going on?" I frowned, pouring two boxes of elbow macaroni into the pot.

"So you know where he is then?" He pressed, leaning against the counter casually.

"… Tim, why don't you tell me what you want?" I stared him down.

He observed me for a moment; "… Why's Jason going to the Watchtower so much?"

"… How do you even know about that?" I frowned.

"He hasn't been on Tuesday patrol in months, even though he appears on the maps, meaning he has suited up." Tim began ranting animatedly; "Every week his comm signal disappears in the same place at the same time; he's taking a zeta tube. I checked the logs, and he's been going to the Watchtower. He hates the Watchtower. Bruce has to bribe him to go up when we're called for an all-hands-on-deck situation. So what's he doing up there every week?"

"… Have you talked to Jason about it?"

"Well, no, bu-"

"So you're trying to spy on him through me?" I clicked my tongue disapprovingly, stirring the pasta.

"He won't talk to me if I ask!"

"How do you know? You haven't tried."

Tim scoffed. "Jason doesn't talk to me, no matter what I do! I'm just trying to be a brother, and he takes it like a threat!"

I sighed softly. "Tim … you can't treat a tortoise like a turtle."

Tim blinked at me. "… I beg your pardon?"

"Tortoises look like turtles. But they're not turtles; turtles need space to swim and space on land. Most tortoises are land creatures exclusively. If you throw a tortoise in the water, it will die. The way you care for them needs to reflect what they are, not what you think they look like. You see?"

"… I've tried everything I can think of with him." Tim sighed, deflating a bit. "… I know he was really upset about me when he first came back to Gotham, but … I had hoped we'd have some kind of relationship by now. Some days things seem good and we'll get some playful, brotherly banter going. Hell, one day I thought we were actually getting really close, like brothers are supposed to be, but … when it's over, it's like a wall goes up between us. He still barely tolerates me most of the time."

I frowned, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. "… Does he know you want to be closer?"

"I don't see how he wouldn't…"

"I dunno, for such smart people you Waynes can also be incredibly dumb sometimes. Especially about family."

He chuckled weakly, slowly looking up at me. "You're right, … but you're really good at this stuff. So … help me?"

"… Yeah, I-" We both glanced toward the door at the sound of a key in the lock. I looked back to him; "… Trust me?"

Tim nodded, and the door opened. Jason frowned a bit at the sight of us in the kitchen. I smiled brightly. "Hey sweetie! Tim just stopped by, so I invited him to stay for lunch."

"… Ok … what's up?" Jason leaned against the doorframe.

Tim glanced at me before clearing his throat. "… You've been going to the Watchtower a lot lately. I wanted to ask-"

"Are you seriously fucking stalking me again?" Jason grumbled.

"What, so I'm supposed to not notice when you're on our radar for all of ten minutes every Tuesday? It was suspicious, so I checked into it!"

"If I wanted you to know about it, I would have told you about it!"

"You don't tell us anything!"

I took the pasta off the heat and stepped between them, clearing my throat. Jason took a deep breath, focusing on me. Tim huffed, crossing his arms. "It seems to me, you boys need a translator. If I may?"

Jason gave me an incredulous look, but gestured for me to proceed. I turned to Tim, who shrugged his consent. I smiled softly and stood behind Tim, placing my hands on his shoulders.

"… What are you doing?"

"Sh! You're a puppet now." I turned him to face Jason and put on my best Tim impression; "Hey, Jason! I noticed you've been disappearing on Tuesdays, where do you go?"

Jay scoffed. "Sweetheart, what are you doing?"

"I'm translating. Just answer like I'm Tim." I cleared my throat; "Jay? Where do you keep going on Tuesdays?"

Jason crossed his arms, rolling his eyes. "… None of your business, 'Tim'."

"You're ok though? I ask because you're my brother and I worry about you sometimes. I know it upsets you when I dig into your business, but I only do it because I admire you so much, and I wish we were closer. I don't know how to get closer, but I do know how to find information, so I do that. You're very important to me, and it makes me sad that you don't seem to want to include me in your life."

Tim flushed bright red, groaning my name. I leaned to the side to look at his face. "Am I wrong?"

'… I … I mean, no, but-"

"Then hush. Puppets don't talk."

Jason snorted at that. He took a deep breath, considering; "… Well 'Tim', I'm fine. Not in any danger or anything. Just … not ready to talk about it."

I grinned, doing the voice again; "ok Jay, I can respect that. But I hope you know that if you ever are ready to talk, I'll be here."

Jason nodded. "Yeah, … let me think about it for a while, ok?"

Tim's jaw dropped, stepping toward Jason. "Wha- … really?"

Jay nodded. "… Yeah. I need time, but … I'll let you know when I'm ready."

Tim looked between us and I nodded, gesturing for him to take over as I went back to making our lunch. He grinned. "That's … that's great! I'll be here when you are."

Jason smiled a bit. "Thanks … It's … it's not that I don't want you around, Tim … I just … don't know how to be around you."

Tim frowned a bit. "How to be?"

"… You shouldn't be so willing to forgive me, after what I did to you." Jason cleared his throat. "But you did forgive me, and … now I don't know how to interact with you. Not one-on-one at least…"

Tim blinked repeatedly. "… At the Tower? Jason, … it's not like I was defenseless or something."

"… You were just a kid …" Jay whispered. "And I pinned a lot of my anger with Bruce onto you…"

"You're saying that like you weren't a kid!" Tim chuckled awkwardly. "And I seem to recall getting a few good hits in that night too. Besides, it's not like you were trying to kill me."

"… I was though…" Jason frowned.

"If you wanted me dead, you could have shot me." Tim shrugged. "You didn't. Instead you had a melodramatic speech prepared about how Bruce was manipulating me and all the dangers I would face as Robin. … I remember what you said, and I've had more than enough time to think about that night. … You were angry, and yeah, you were taking it out on me. But I think you were mostly trying to scare me off."

Jason blinked a bit, stepping back. Tim leaned back against the counter, watching him. "You've always protected kids, Jason. Even when you were a little kid. Even when you had nothing else, you had a flock of alley kids who would turn to you to keep them safe and warm and fed. … When you came back to Gotham, and saw another kid in the cape, … you weren't angry at me. I think you were afraid for me. So you beat the shit out of me, because you knew you would hold back. You weren't going to kill me, like someone else might."

"… I wasn't holding back, Tim." Jason whispered, tears shining in his eyes.

Tim looked up at him calmly; "yes you were. You've killed a dozen men in as many hours before. Maybe you weren't planning to hold back, but if you had actually wanted me dead, I'd be dead. I think, subconsciously, you were trying to save me from facing the same fate you did. You were brutal, … but it was calculated. It was a fair enough fight, and we both survived. You weren't sadistic, and you certainly weren't cruel."

A strangled sound escaped Jason's throat, and I looked over. Tim blinked, a shocked look on his face as he looked between me and Jay, unsure what to do. A shaking hand covered Jason's mouth as he tried desperately not to cry. I moved the pasta off the heat, passing Tim the spoon. "Keep stirring that for me, Tim?"

He nodded, slowly taking my place at the stove, and I stood in front of Jason. I held my hands out for him and he immediately gripped them tight, letting his forehead land against my shoulder. I gently squeezed his hands.

"Shhh~ it's ok sweetheart. You're ok. Deep breaths with me, yeah?" I guided him to take slow, deep breaths. Eventually he looked up at me.

"… I don't deserve this …" he whispered. "I don't deserve to be forgiven."

I gently rubbed the back of his neck. "… Tim thinks you do. And it's his forgiveness to give, yeah?"

Jason sniffled, wrapping his arms around me waist. "… I hurt him so much..."

"… You're hurting his heart right now. Is that what you want?"

"No …" he whined softly.

"Then why don't we try to fix it? We just have to get through lunch together. And if that goes well, we'll get through the next one. And we'll do it over and over until it comes naturally. What do you think?"

He slowly nodded and I cupped his cheeks, pulling him down to receive a forehead kiss. I guided him to take a seat on the couch, and rejoined Tim in the kitchen to dish up our mac'n'cheese.

"… Did I go to far?" Tim whispered.

"No, you're ok … Jason is still struggling with this, but he needed to hear it. … Just be gentle, ok? Take it slow." I passed him a fork. "And don't stalk him anymore; let him decide what to share with you. Tell him when you're worried about him, and accept when he says everything's fine. He can't trust you if you don't give him a chance to trust you."

He nodded, taking his bowl, and we joined Jason in the living room. Jay pulled me down next to him, taking his bowl. "Thanks …"

I nodded, smiling gently. "Of course, love."

Tim curled up in a plush armchair across the room from us, awkwardly staring into his bowl. Jason ate a couple bites, chewing slowly. "… I … have a standing appointment, on Tuesdays."

Tim blinked a bit and looked over at Jason. "… On the Watchtower?"

Jason nodded. "I don't want to talk about it right now, but … that's why I'm up there so much."

Tim nodded. "… These appointments, … they're a good thing? They're going well?"

Jason nodded slowly. "Yeah, it's good, and they're going well."

Tim smiled a bit. "Good. I'm glad. … Thank you, for trusting me."

Jason nodded slowly, glancing up at him. "… If anyone else in the family starts asking me about this, I'll never trust you again."

"I know." Tim nodded quickly. "I won't tell them, promise. Not unless you ask me to."

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Divider by: @/saradika-graphics  Fanart in the header by: @/crowkip