Peter was not running away.
He wanted that on record… somewhere. He wasn't running away; he was just leaving. Angrily. Stinging with half-baked feelings of betrayal and rejection and only one of those emotions did he think was fully merited. He could have stayed. Could have stuck around and yelled at Jason some more, but things were ugly enough inside his head that he didn't want it getting ugly outside his head, too.
Hence the leaving.
There was no way Peter would allow himself to stay in the safehouse while in the throes of his temper. To Peter, Jason was as breakable as that bullet-proof window Jason still liked to complain about having to fix. It was safer just to leave, rather than risk his hard-won discipline slip away again.
And frankly? Peter didn't care what Jason had to say. Words were just words — actions spoke far louder, as Jason well knew. Jason could say that he'd intended to tell Peter about the stolen blood all he wanted. Didn't change that he chose not to, once their cards were on the table.
Carelessness. Reasonably, Peter could predict that was the cause. But Jason wasn't a careless person! He was thoughtful, arguably, to the point of slyness. That was exactly what got him Peter's blood in the first place. That handkerchief… in the moment, Peter thought it an act of kindness… now he suspected otherwise.
What else had Jason kept from him? What else had Peter interpreted as kindness — generosity — that was actually just another way to monitor him?
Streets blurred. Wary of being seen as easy pickings, Peter kept himself entrenched in the Web. But the few that saw him either didn't care or swiftly re-evaluated, the moment they caught a glimpse of his face. Apparently, the way for Peter to master the Gotham Don't-Fuck-With-Me Face was just to be blood-boilingly angry. Who knew?
He didn't know where he was going. Didn't know what he was going to do. About Jason, primarily. What did this change about the two of them? What would Peter allow this to change about the two of them? Though he may not know everything about Jason (and Jason certainly didn't know everything there was to know about Peter), he knew Jason's character.
Each solid planted footstep was a faint drumbeat of reason, drilling slowly through Peter's anger. It wasn't malice that kept Jason's mouth closed. Peter was certain of that. Jason was petty, sure. but so was Peter. Like knew like and all that. Despite that, Jason was good. He cared. That, Peter didn't doubt, either. Jason wasn't playing the long game with Peter's blood. He had no intent to use Peter; if anything, he didn't want Peter on the streets and Peter suspected that was more a paternalistic protectionism than territoriality.
So, no. It wasn't malice. But it was mistrust. And that too, Peter understood — to an extent. Paranoia was a thick and winding river that ran through all the Waynes (and adjacent), tempered only by a curiosity that flowed just as strong. Jason was very much included in that classification. If it was anything, it was that paranoia that made Jason collect Peter's blood so soon after Peter demonstrated his enhanced strength. It was probably paranoia and curiosity too that had Jason sequencing Peter's blood. Hell, Peterwas curious to know what was up with his DNA these days.
It made sense, too, that Jason would keep quiet about it all before Halloween Eve Eve. Peter wasn't in, in the way he was now (even now Peter was only in on the peripherals, neither of them willing to explicitly confirm that Peter knew who the Bats were). But that was a month ago. At any point, Jason could have said something, and Peter wouldn't be so angry and hurt as he was now.
It meant something, was the thing. It meant something to be told it from Jason's mouth, not Batman's. To have been told it, rather than put two-and-two together himself from a comment Jason's estranged father made. And that he had to? It made Peter feel like shit. Like he actually meant nothing to Jason.
Peter's phone vibrated in his coat pocket; he was bundled up so thickly a lesser man might not have even noticed.
39°22'40.9"N 74°25'37.4"W
It was Tim. The coordinates were swiftly followed by another message:
stay the night ur probs close.
Peter frowned as he crossed the road to avoid someone he sensed rounding a corner.
Did Jason put u up to this
Yes, came Tim's immediately reply.
Though he didn't say y
He did say 'Thomas's is too small' tho, whoch is veeeeery funny to me
The phone case squeaked dangerously in Peter's grip. See? It was crap like this that had Peter in such a mess! Why would Jason choose to contact Tim and ask him to take Peter in, but on the other hand keep information like having Peter's DNA on file a secret? He either cared or he didn't! Pick a goddamn struggle!
Peter paused on the street corner as he contemplated the invite. It was better to spend the night inside rather than trying to strike it out rough. Winter was practically here already, and Peter wasn't about to go and rent himself a hotel room for the night: he wasn't made of money, even if the deal he had with Jason let him pay minimal rent. Most of Peter's pay check that month went into the rebuilds for his suit.
Bundled up in an under-shirt, sweater and his puffer-jacket, Peter wasn't about to freeze any time soon — and in fact his anger still had him running warm — but that didn't mean he wanted to hole himself up somewhere grungy for the night and live in fear of some wily Gothamite who'd try and harvest his organs or something equally unsavoury.
U want a pick up?
Peter's sigh escaped in a great plume of white. The coordinates when he clicked were for a familiar place. The mist billowed from his mouth as he laughed, awful mood temporarily put on pause.
Just out of curiousity, did you lose a pair of flip flops? About seven weeks ago
...
How did u kno
These goddamn Bats.
— + —
These goddamn Bats.
Timothy Drake-Wayne. Scion of the Drake fortune, adoptive son on the Wayne fortune, who for a time served as CEO for Wayne Fucking Industries (Duke's words), lived in a houseboat in the jankier of Gotham's four marinas (Peter knew these sorts of things now).
Scuttled together like hibernating beetles, the boats bobbed gently in the water, knocking soft against their concrete pontoons. Even in the dark, Peter knew that most of the boats anchored up (was that even the right word to use? Peter didn't know) were in varying states of decay, aged and weathered. Even so, it wasn't as if the residents didn't take pride in their homes. Plants still stubbornly clung to life in pots; heavily patterned and only slightly faded curtains were drawn on darkened insides; an eclectic array of boat names were surrounded by carefully painted designs. Mary Celeste 2, Midnight Sunshine, Kudjika… Fishizzle. It all spoke of a community of bohemians and mavericks.
This late at night, all was still. Only a few boats were lit. The rest were asleep, curtains shut tight. But below, the Web teemed with aquatic life.
Numbness lay with superficial peace over Peter. He waited for Tim by the steep ramp that wound down to the pontoons and tried to avoid looking at the other side of the marina, where he'd first met Skittles Robin. To Peter's surprise, Tim had picked Peter up not with his motorcycle, but in a battered Honda Civic, a make entirely unremarkable in Gotham, right down to its uninspiring silver finish with pockmarks of rust around the wheel rims.
The car, Tim insisted when Peter turned his look of mild judgement upon him, belonged to his boyfriend.
"C'mon," Tim said, clapping a scarred hand on Peter's shoulder as he joined him. "Let's get inside. Quietly, though. Bernard's asleep."
Tim's boat was unremarkable. In fact, Peter would go out on a limb and say that despite being one of the larger boats, from the outside it had about as much personality as Bernard's Honda Civic. Deliberately unmemorable. Inconspicuous. Sure, there were signs of life — a half-shut box of rope and nets, a pair of folded deckchairs and a rickety table sat discarded on the deck — but there were no clues to suggest that the houseboat could have been owned by someone like Timothy Drake.
Peter regarded it all with a forcibly neutral expression. Knowing exactly who Tim was… the whole thing bordered on the absurd. Peter liked the guy — he really did — but it rubbed him the wrong way. A rich guy cosplaying poverty, Peter would have said if feeling uncharitable. The kind of thing that would have garnered more than a few snide comments from MJ.
Peter, wisely, kept his thoughts to himself.
Perhaps not so successfully. Tim smiled at Peter ruefully as they stepped onto the deck, an automatic light sparking on and casting his face a sickly yellow.
"I never meant for this to become a permanent thing," he said quietly. "But I… I just found the people here really cool. A healthy batch of crazy, but… it felt right. To live with the people I…" Tim paused, as though realising he was about to incriminate himself. As if either of them didn't know who the other was. But Peter wasn't about to rain on his parade.
"Work for?" Peter offered.
Tim's eyes narrowed, not with suspicion but vindication. "… You do the same, right?"
An unspoken understanding fell between them as Peter smiled placidly.
"Sure."
That and Peter didn't have a family dynasty to fall back on. But he could understand the sentiment. He'd found, the more he thought about what and who he wanted Spider-Man to represent, that living in the community he fought to protect was important to him. Jason sometimes sneered at the Batman, 'living in his ivory tower — what does he know of the people he says he fights for?' and a secret part of Peter agreed.
With some hindsight, Peter knew he'd done a poor job at belonging back on Earth I, too wrapped up in his grief and fear to reach out to anyone — not even his neighbours. Perhaps if he had…
But it was no use thinking of that now.
"I get it," Peter said, hackles lowered at Tim's half-embarrassed confession. And who was Peter to talk, anyway, when his traitorous housemate was apparently Park Row's biggest landlord?
Tim turned away, stepping under the balcony made where the deck split upwards into two levels. When he concentrated, Peter sensed the electricity hidden through the structure and quickly spotted the cameras, well concealed to all but the most discerning of eyes, watching over the deck. Tim placed a hand over what could have just been a patch of fibreglass panelling by the door, but as he drew closer to the man, Peter knew there was more at play — he'd bet his meagre savings on it being a palm reader.
There was no acknowledgement that Tim's biometrics had been read (and Peter couldn't shake the bitter feelings that sprung up to even think the word). A silent alarm maybe? One that would go off if someone entered without accessing the palm reader first? Possibly some facial recognition software in the camera, too.
Peter followed through cautiously. The entry was dominated by a shoe rack piled with sneakers, boat shoes, boots and a single pair of shiny dress shoes. A mirror reflected Peter's wan expression back at him as he slid the door shut. He looked away quickly. A ladder led up to a manhole — probably how Tim got to the boat's top floor on Gotham's more inhospitable days — and a steep set of wooden stairs led downwards, view blocked by gauzy curtains.
Tim kicked off his shoes and Peter followed suit. The stairs creaked underfoot, and their movement had the boat lazily swaying in the water, lapping softly at the hull.
"Bathroom," Tim pointed to a doorway at the bottom of the stairs, just before the curtains. On the other side was storage. "I'll set you up in the lounge upstairs — there's only the one bed, sorry. But I've been informed by Steph that the lounge is 'good enough'."
Peter's mouth twitched at the wry tone. Steph may still be a few steps shy of a stranger to him, but he would bet that she'd been far less diplomatic in her assessment. But a bed was a bed — there'd be no complaints coming from Peter's direction.
"I'll get you something to sleep in. Blankets and sheets are upstairs already. You want a drink or anything?"
Fortunately for Peter's dignity, his stomach didn't decide to announce itself at the query, but Peter was reminded of his hunger all the same. He'd been too angry to eat anything at the safehouse.
He coughed sheepishly. "Do you, uh, have anything to eat? I'm a… late night snacker."
Tim's grin was knowing. "There's leftover takeout in the fridge. Most of it should be edible."
That was… not comforting, though it was familiar. Alone while Tim disappeared deeper into the boat, Peter inspected the fridge. Inside was the spread of a man who didn't cook much: several takeout containers of varying vintages (Peter knew from experience not to dig deeper than the first layer unless interested in testing his immune system); the standard array of sauces — ketchup, ranch, hot sauce, along with a few bougier artefacts like black garlic aioli and truffle mayo; an entire shelf dedicated to Zesti (apparently there was a Zesti Tropicana? Wonders abounded) and half of another to blue Gatorade; a crisper three-quarters empty of decidedly un-crisp vegetables…. If Peter had the money, it would have been the exact state of his own fridge back in Queens. Unfortunately, he hadn't had the money, so he'd mostly subsisted off instant ramen and spam.
The container of lo mein right up the front seemed the safest choice. Peter helped himself, shoving it in the microwave sat on top of the fridge and hunted for a fork while the nostalgic sounds of whirring fans and radiation worked their magic.
As he waited, he took in the rest of the space. The kitchen took up much of the left side of the cabin and curled around into an L-shape. Directly in front was a booth table and a narrow thoroughfare to the rooms further down: two doors, the one right at the end being the one Tim slipped out of, carrying a stack of clothes which he set down on the table. It squeaked a little as he leaned his hip against it, arms crossed.
"So… you want to talk about it?"
The twist dial on the microwave slowly inched back to zero. Peter watched its journey, hawk-like, fingers outstretched to punch it open before the thing could shriek its completion.
"Peter?"
"I…" To tell or not to tell… Peter wasn't much interested in dragging all his laundry out into the open and certainly not to another Bat. He was here because it was convenient, not because he trusted Tim. Not now. Once a Bat, always a bat. Or a Robin or whatever.
"Did Jason do something?"
Peter shot Tim a look. Sure, he might be right, and sure Peter was a mess of anger and hurt about Jason underneath the veneer of calm, but he resented this constant doubt from Jason's so-called siblings. They all seemed to expect Jason to just… blow up. And sure, Jason could have a short fuse, but every instance Peter could recall of him getting angry — bar one — was in response to something stupid or reckless on Peter's part. An anger generated from concern shouldn't merit that kind of reaction from his siblings.
What must Jason have been like? Or was he always just — seen this way? The volatile one. The dangerous one.
The indignation must have shown on his face. Tim sighed and scrubbed at his mouth. "You don't have to say… Just… he called, you know? Sounded freaked out, which — that's saying something. About Jason."
"What?" Peter scoffed, fingers flexing out his emotions. "And he didn't spill all?"
"He refused to tell me."
It was harder than it should have been to maintain the anger. He nearly missed the end of the microwave. The container was an approximate simulation of the sun and Peter allowed the pain in his fingers to get the words out, clipped and stiff but better than nothing.
"He crossed a boundary. Should've said something. Didn't."
Tim's concern was immediate and overblown, straightening out of his slouch. "He pushed you to do something you didn't want to do?"
"No!" Peter scowled at Tim. "Jace isn't like that."
"Sure, sure." Up went the placating hands. Peter's squeezed the container and he had to forcibly relax his fingers. No one wanted unevenly heated lo meinexploding all over themselves at almost one in the morning, least of all Peter.
Warily, as though Peter were the volatile one (and maybe that diagnosis wasn't that far off tonight), Tim nudged Peter out of the way and grabbed a Gatorade from the fridge.
"You want one?"
"… Just water, please."
Immediate regret when the water pump rumbled to life the moment Tim turned on the tap. It ticked over loudly, but Tim was unconcerned. "Bernard's a heavy sleeper," he reassured Peter. "And the pump's down this end, anyway."
The glass was cool and a little damp where Tim had let the water overflow.
"Thanks."
"You know…" Tim cracked open his Gatorade. "Jason's more like Bruce than he cares to admit…" Abruptly, Tim laughed softly, but he was frowning at his bottle like it had called his mama fat. "We all are. Slow to trust. To open up. It's the — the job, you know? Too much at risk."
"Tim," said Peter, who did know — far too well — but was uninterested in listening to reason at thirty-seven minutes after midnight. "I say this with the greatest respect, but shut the fuck up about Jason."
The scrunch of Tim's face would have been amusing any other night. "I just wanted to—"
"I know what you want to do. And I don't want to talk about it."
Tim was quiet for a bit. Then: "Okay. You wanna play Cheese Viking?"
Peter, who had zero idea what the hell Cheese Viking was, didn't even have to think twice. "Of course I wanna play Cheese Viking."
— + —
"How did he get a hold of it?"
A pause on the other end of the call. Then, grumpily: "Oh, now you decide to acknowledge me. I've been trying to get a hold of you for an hour!"
"Cut the shit, Babs." Jason's hands were shaking. Maybe his voice was too. Everything was shaking — fuck. The safe house was a mess. Broken plates, a hole in the drywall and — yep. That was courtesy of Jason's fist. Maybe that was why they were shaking. It was definitely that and not the inexplicable, gaping crevasse in his chest that Jason's guts had spilled out of. He spun around, phone pinned to his ear, but the only blood visible was the crust of red-black on his knuckles. "Bruce knew. How did he know?"
To her credit, she didn't play dumb. "I put it on a secure server, Jason."
A secure server. Right. Peter's words rang in his ears, drilling right through his wisdom teeth and into his jaw. Unlocking it was a struggle. "Bruce?"
Babs was silent.
His eyes slid shut. Pain shot up like embers when he clenched his fist. The phone creaked right against his ear.
"I'm sorry," she said eventually. "I— I thought you'd figured Bruce would get a hold of it eventually. If I'd thought you cared about it, I would have made it impossible for him to get to."
Breathing hurt. Why the fuck did breathing hurt? It was his fist he'd used, not his ribs. Jason swallowed back the cruel words brewing on his tongue. They weren't for anyone's ears but his own.
"It's done," he grit out. We're done.
Jason didn't think he'd said the last part out loud, but maybe he was wrong, because after a protracted silence, Barbara spoke again.
"Peter got to Tim's okay," she said gently, as if Jason didn't already know. As if Tim hadn't already sent him a confirmation when they got back to that stupid marina. As if Jason hadn't imagined the kinds of judgemental comments Peter would have made the moment he learnt where Tim Drake lived.
"—Should go home," Barbara was saying when Jason tuned back in. "Get some sleep. There's nothing to do right now. Thing will look better in the morning, Jason."
That was unlikely. Peter was right: the time to have said something about the DNA was back at Halloween. Instead, Jason kept that secret to himself, all the while knowing full well that Peter wasn't going to be happy about it.
Not as unhappy as he was when he had to learn it from Batman.
And now Peter was gone. Walking away from Jason and the worst fucking part of it was, Jason couldn't even be angry at him for that. The only person worthy of his anger tonight was Jason him-fucking-self.
Fucking Christ. Jason wished his brain would shut the fuck up. A little peace and quiet. Was that too much to ask for?
There was a 24-hour convenience store around the corner from their the apartment…
"I'm gonna go," Jason said, cutting straight through whatever platitudes Babs was making.
"Oh… Okay… Do you need a ride? I can get—"
"No." What Jason needed was for that AtoZ have the exact brand he was after, and then to be left alone while he searched for something to close the awful abyss in his chest. Even bitter laughter did nothing to soothe the burn. "Sorry we couldn't schedule that meal sooner — looks like there'll be no point now."
"Jay, he'll come ba—"
Jason hung up before Barbara could finish her empty promise.
— + —
For the third time, Jason attempt to take a drag from his cigarette and for the third time he failed.
Fucking loser. Couldn't even bring himself to smoke, despite the desperate tremble in his aching hands and the desert burn in his throat. Every time the filter drew close to his mouth, Jason pictured Her, the tip of her cig a glowing portal into Hell, and he was holding back choking coughs of a fat load of nothing and every bone in his face and his ribs were screaming and his mouth was full of blood, not fucking nicotine smoke and—
Jason banged his head against the brickwork and tossed the cigarette away in disgust. It was swallowed by the dark, falling through the metal grates, maybe ending up on the ground six floors below, maybe landing in the plant pots that woman on third refused to move despite warnings. Jason hoped it was the latter. Maybe it'd burn a hole through her half-dead zinnias and get her to finally put the poor things to rest.
Fourth time's the charm…
Rinse and repeat. Jason plucked out a new stick and lit up, only to find himself back with Sheila and flinging the cigarette off the fire escape with dismay. Or let the thing extinguish itself as the end smouldered and the smoke had his hands shaking for entirely new reasons. Then Jason would light up and start the whole process again.
He could have stopped. Should have stopped. Thrown the useless fucking pack away. Someone would've found them. Hell, it might even have been an act of charity for some poor bozo. But Jason didn't want charity. He wanted punishment. Immolation, figurative or otherwise.
When the fuck did they choose to make self-extinguishing cigarettes? What a fucking waste of a good aesthetic…
Jason lit up again, succeeding only in seeing a woman's burning cigarette and hearing a man's high-pitched laughter and tasting burning warehouse, no merciful nicotine to be found.
It was fine. That was what he wanted. Better than thinking of Peter. The raw fury and hurt on his expressive face was a prickly memory to erase but Jason was lucky — he knew just the trick.
Dick found him eight cigarette attempts in. Showing more sense than Jason thought him usually capable of, he came in plain clothes, climbing up the fire escape with his usual grace. The rattling metal telegraphed his approach and Jason contemplated disappearing into his apartment and locking the doors and windows but couldn't find the energy to do so.
He remained seated instead, grating cutting agonisingly into his ass, when Dick finally reached him. The tip of his cigarette went out just as Dick's head surfaced and though it was dark, Jason still saw his brother's face fall.
"Piss off, Dickhead."
"Good morning to you too, Jay." Dick hesitated a few feet away, before deciding to settle with a groan beside Jason, devastatingly unaffected by Jason's fierce glare.
"Babs said you and Peter had a fight."
A fight… that was one way to call it… Didn't feel like much of a fight to Jason, though. Not when he had nothing to defend his actions against. Everything Peter said was right. Jason knew better. Jason knew he should have said something but didn't. Didn't matter that Peter was wrong assuming Jason didn't trust him enough to tell all. That was how Peter interpreted Jason's silence and as far as Jason was concerned, he may as well have been valid. Death of the author and all that. Didn't much matter Jason's intentions: it wasn't him that was wronged.
In defeat, he set the half-used pack down and flicked the half-burned cig over the fire escape to join the rest. Dick watched with mute disapproval, which was lucky, because if he'd said anything at all Jason would have thrown him over the fire escape too.
"She tell you what it was about?"
Dick bit his lip and glanced away. So that was a yes, then. Thanks for that, Babs. "I… may have some of the picture, yes."
Jason squeezed his eyes shut. Banged his dully throbbing head against the brickwork again. "He thought I don't trust him."
"And do you?"
Jason buried his hands in his hair. "I — fuck. Of course I do."
"You didn't tell him though. It's not an unreasonable assumption for him to make."
"I fucking know!"
"So? Why didn't you tell him? You could have, right?"
He dug his hands into his hair, still greasy with black hair wax, and pulled. The pain barely soothed. "Of course I fucking could but I was too — fucking — chicken shit to say anything!"
Dick sighed, long and slow. He clapped a hand on Jason's shoulder and Jason was wound up so tight he nearly punched his brother in the face.
Then, inexplicably, Dick laughed. "God, I forgot how much of a miserable fuck you are when you're sulking."
Jason shot up at that and did swing for Dick, but he was off his game, still shaking. Dick caught his fist with ease and redirected his momentum, hauling Jason into an unwilling hug. Jason struggled and the escape rattled in protest but both brother and platform held their ground.
"Are you fucking—!"
"Shut up!" hissed Dick, his arms wrapped around Jason like iron. "It's almost three in the morning, you'll wake the neighbours!"
"I was sulking—" Jason laced the word with as much quiet derision as was possible with his idiot brother wrapped around his torso like a monkey, "in peaceuntil you came and interrupted me."
"Shh, shhh," Dick crooned, somehow both mocking and sincere at once and Jason fucking hated him. "Just take my brotherly love like a man."
"You are such a dick!"
"Hehe—"
"Oh my God."
"You said it!"
"Oh my God!"
"I know." Somehow, Dick held on even tighter, and suddenly the strings in Jason were all cut. He collapsed like oobleck onto Dick and a single sob escaped, straight from the gut, before Jason dragged himself back under control.
"It's okay," Dick said uselessly. Jason contemplating biting but all energy had left him. His eyes burned hot and now he was fucking grateful for the shitty hug because it hid his tears from view.
A goddamn loser. Why the fuck was he even so upset? He liked Peter, even if he could be a petty little asshole and so goddamn messy and he knew how to cut to the quick with his words. I won't be weapon, he'd snarled, as if that was even remotely close to what Jason wanted anyone to become!
Despite all that, they were friends — good friends, even if it didn't stretch to the extent of Jason's friendship with Roy (and fuck, Roy, fuck fuck! He missed Roy). Was Jason upset because he'd hurt Peter? Or upset because he was terrified this was the end of the line for them? Both? Jason didn't have many friends. Roy was dead, Kori popped on and off Earth as it pleased her, Bizarro was in literal Hell and Artemis… well. Who knew were Artemis was. He'd heard nothing from her since they'd parted ways and still Jason didn't understand why she thought him not needing someone meant she didn't need to be a part of his life anymore.
Why did he have to need someone for them to stay? Why couldn't Jason just… wanting to be with them, be enough?
Dick and Jason hugged on the fire escape for who knew how long. Every time Jason mustered up the strength to move, Dick tightened his grip again, until it was less a hug and more a losing battle with one of those roided Burmese pythons, Everglades edition. On another night, Jason would have complained, but with his flayed emotions and guilt still simmering under the surface, he couldn't find it in himself to escape.
"He'll come back, Jay," Dick said eventually. "You just need to apologise. Grovel a bit. Or a lot, probably."
Apologise…. No shit. But… "I don't know if he'll want to listen."
"Then you wait until he will." Finally, Dick released his hold and Jason hauled himself away, grateful for the space even when his body dropped ten degrees just from the loss of closeness. "But do you really think this is something he'd end things over?"
Jason didn't know. Hope clung to the temporary implications in Peter's words, but realism made him hesitant to trust it. Jason's general experience with do-overs was that he fucked things up even worse than before… Peter was probably better off without Jason around.
Dick pulled a face at his silence. "Would you quit it with the self-flagellation?"
"Who says I'm self-flagellating?"
"Your stupid face does."
"Fuck you."
"Yeah, yeah. I give you tonight to mope, Jason. Then you're going to talk to Peter like the big boy I know you can be."
Jason's throat closed up on nothing. His eyes shot over to the discarded pack of cigarettes and Dick snatched them away immediately. Prick.
"Jay…"
Jason looked back at his brother. Dick was turning the cigarettes over in his hands, chewing on his words. When he did speak though, Jason half-regretted giving him the opportunity.
"I know I'm more of an outsider on all this than I'd like, but I see — I've seen how much Peter cares for you. And I know you care for him. So, it makes me wonder… Jay… keeping this to yourself, when you knew it'd hurt him… was it self-sabotage?"
Jason opened his mouth to reject the accusation outright, but the words stuck in his throat.
Dick carried on, eyes lighting up the way Bats always did when they'd latched onto an unearthed truth. "Jay, you're a basket case like the rest of us. And I know things have been — hard. But you know you're allowed something good, right?"
Anger sparked. "Like you're one to fucking talk—"
"But that's just it, Jay. I am one to talk," Dick spoke over him forcefully, though still hushed to match the quiet hour of the night. "You think I haven't pulled the same shit? You think any of us haven't? I mean — fuck, Jason, just look at any of Bruce's relationships—"
"I don't appreciate the comparison—"
"And I don't give a shit! Would you just — listen to me? I'm telling you, Jason, that Peter? He's something good. For you. We've all seen it, okay? And you're good for him, too. We both know that. And if you sabotage this thing you've got between you, you're doing yourself and Peter a disservice. Both of you deserve better."
The words hit far too close to home. So of course, Jason did as any Bat or otherwise would do: he deflected. "What, you got money riding on us, Dickie? Planned out how long 'til one of us popped the question? Anyone bet on an elopement?"
"I'm going to strangle you!" Dick hissed, but there was definitely a defensive edge to his tone. Jason laughed even as his idiot brother shook him by the shoulders. "Peter is a win for you! So just take the fucking win, Jay!"
The laughter abruptly died. "He left, Dick."
"And you'll fight to get him back, idiot! The Jason I know doesn't just roll over, belly up at the first hurdle. He fights like a — a goddamn honey badger!"
Despite himself, Jason raised a brow. "A honey badger?"
"I am not explaining my analogies to you." Dick let go of Jason's shoulders, only to stand and forcibly wrench Jason up too. He shoved Jason over to the window. "The pep talk is over. You're going to bed. And if it's to sleep or cry or whatever, this is no longer my problem."
"You're even worse at this than I remember, Dickie."
And yet despite what he said, Jason still somehow found himself on the other side of the window, Dick crawling in behind him, shooting a smug look as if he read exactly what was on Jason's mind.
Dog, who'd been sleeping on his bed, hopped off to say hello and Jason crouched down to wrap his arms around her muscular neck. She snuffed at his face and licked at his ears, but the companionship was a welcome balm.
The window slid shut and Jason looked up, frowning. "You're staying the night?"
"You think I drove all the way here from Blüdhaven, just to go from here to the manor?" Dick scoffed, staring at Jason judgementally. "Hell no. Now, do you have a spare bed?"
"… Just the couch."
"What? What about the spare room?"
Jason's brain drew a blank. The spare room. Right. The spare room that was actually Peter's. The spare room that apparently Dick didn't know wasn't a spare room at all. That one.
He contemplated spilling all, but on the odd chance Peter really did forgive him, he'd be pissed if Jason told Dick. A white lie it was, then. "Peter works a lot in there. And no," he cut in before Dick could ask a follow up question. "You can't have a snoop. I don't need to be getting into deeper shit with him, so keep the hell out of there."
Dick threw up his hands. "Geez, fine! You think I can't respect a guy's boundaries?"
Jason glared pointedly over Dog's head. "I think you've got about as much respect for boundaries as the rest of us. Or do I need to remind you how you met Peter?"
"Ugh," Dick groaned, theatrical right down to the slump of his shoulders. "You break into your brother's apartment one time."
"And that was enough. I'll get you some blankets."
Dick slouched out of Jason's bedroom and peered over the couch, dubious. "Is it even comfortable?"
"Sure." Jason slipped into Peter's bedroom, keeping the door closed enough to conceal the incriminating bed and typical Peter mess. He yanked the comforter off the bed, then returned to the living space, firmly shutting the door behind himself. The comforter he threw at Dick, who'd already sat and was unlacing his boots.
"Thanks," Dick said dryly, having been almost thrown off the couch with the force of the comforter.
"Don't mention it." Jason paused by his doorway, glancing back at the dark shape of his brother. He felt… lighter. The hole in his chest hadn't shrunk, but the ragged edges had softened. Maybe he'd get some sleep after all. "Thanks, Dick."
"Anytime, Jay." Dick barely paid him attention as he got settled on the couch. Then he glanced up, grinning winningly. "And for the record, I do have money riding on this. So, if you could do me a solid and save the proposals for like, eighteen months? It'd be much appreciated."
Jason contemplated tearing off his boot and throwing it at Dick but settled for the next best thing. "The only cereal we've got is shredded wheat, by the way."
Dick made less dramatic sounds when he got shot, and Jason would know. "You monsters!"
Laughing, Jason retreated to his bedroom. Dog had resettled on the bed and had to be gently shuffled to the side to make enough space for Jason once he'd changed. Only as he fell into his freshly won mattress space did Jason remember the goddamn trackers.
Fuuuuck.