Work Text:
The last time they tried to do a gift exchange, it culminated in the doling out of IOUs and get-outta-batjail-free cards. Given the chaos those cashed-in promises caused, it came as no surprise when Bruce made the unilateral decision to ban them. A shame, considering Dick still had outstanding favors owed to him by everyone – Bruce included. Though Dick supposes it doesn’t really matter. He’s not sure he would have used any of them. That besides, he’s not above getting his way even without them, when needed.
Still, it was fun to see everyone band together and petition Bruce with their arguments for reinstating all preexisting vouchers. Bargaining with the guarantee of pre-approved upon terms and conditions; expiration dates, eligible services, non-transference clauses, and the like. An over-the-top appeal for an arguably silly cause.
In the end, Bruce doesn’t budge on his decision. No one expected any different, of course, but that doesn’t stop them from complaining for months after the fact. Hardly a week goes by without someone bemoaning how nice it would be to have a no-questions-asked, no-favors-owed assist. Even Bruce gets caught wanting on occasion. It was never easier to pass off undesirable tasks or get access to Crime Alley than when the coupons were in effect. Without them, they’re all back to their usual routines–the good, the bad, and the ugly.
The usual routine which now includes: no cop-out, last-minute gifts of convenience for their holiday gift exchange. An effort made easy by taking away the expectation of buying for everyone in their expansive pseudo-family and making everyone responsible for one gift for one person only. An anonymous gift exchange, a Secret Santa.
A good idea that no one is enthused about until everyone starts picking names from one of the priceless vases in the manor, holding the slips of paper close to their chests and lighting up because of the promise of sleuthing out who picked who and the joy in misleading about their own mark. It’s the perfect holiday game for a family of detectives.
It’s fun enough watching everyone already trying to suss out the surprise of their gift-giver’s identity that Dick almost forgets that he’s supposed to be participating, too. It isn’t until Alfred approaches with the vase and prompts Dick with a subtle cough to get his attention that Dick pulls his attention away from all the ruckus. Smile content when he meets Alfred’s gaze before it becomes something more boyish because Dick can see past the man’s professional neutrality with ease–Alfred is pleased and there’s nothing better than that.
“Looks like it’ll be another lively Christmas, huh?” Dick says, reaching into the vase and pulling out one of the last two slips. He doesn’t look at it yet, more than content to watch the small smile that pulls at Alfred’s lips and the warmth the man can’t keep from his expression.
“It would seem so, Master Richard.” Alfred replies, pulling the last remaining name. He takes a discreet peek at it, shifting away when he catches Dick none-too-subtly leaning over to steal a glance at who it might be. The man is quick to tuck the slip into the interior pocket of his tailcoat, looking at Dick with a raised brow that tells more of his good-humor than any judgment in Dick’s half-hearted snooping.
“Who’d you get?” Dick asks, nodding towards the hidden name. Truth be told, Dick already has an inkling. Fond of everyone as Alfred is, there are few people the man loves so much that would inspire a lingering affection to overwhelm him and break his usual air of professionalism.
“A most fortunate individual.” Because Alfred is a great gift giver, unlike the vast majority of them. It’s a humble brag that makes Dick laugh soft under his breath.
“Lucky duck.” Dick hums, lounging languidly into the couch, head tilted over the backrest to meet Alfred’s eye. Pointed. Cheeky. The older man shoots him a bland look, incredulous at having been caught out on who he’ll be gifting for already. He doesn’t quite roll his eyes, but Dick feels the begrudging fondness and resigned amusement over Dick’s witty read of him.
“No more lucky than yours, I’m sure.” A generous compliment that Dick smiles at. Genuine a sentiment as it might be, Dick recognizes it for the discreet vie for information that it is, especially with how the older man eyes the slip of paper caught between Dick’s fingers. Of course even retired, international spies would find joy in the mystery of this game.
“Gathering intel, Alfred?” Dick asks him, playful and amused.
“Making conversation.” Alfred deflects, but the mirth in his eyes gives him away. He’s as incorrigible as the rest of them.
“Of course.” Dick says with a soft laugh. Undoubtedly this will become a competition by the end of the month–a game of who can correctly guess the connection between giftor and giftee. No one has brought it up yet, but it’s a matter of time. Alfred must know it, too. He knows this make-shift family better than anyone. Given that, of course the man would be proactive in collecting information. He’s in it to win it, which makes the prospect of this imminent game between them all the more thrilling. It’s not often Alfred lets loose and joins in on the shenanigans and tomfoolery.
The slip of paper stays pinched between Dick’s fingers as he looks across the room to where everyone else interrogates and observes one another. He smiles again, toothy and biting for how happy he feels over how everything has played out. It’s loud; it’s lively. It reminds him of home.
“This was a good idea.” He says, keeping his praise light because he knows Alfred won’t accept anything more than that.
“It’s turning out quite well.” Alfred agrees. “Thank you for your assistance in selling it.”
By no means was it hard to do. The only challenge was in making Bruce believe this non-denominational holiday gift exchange was Bruce’s idea from the start, since he’s always more partial to his own machinations. A not-so-arduous task, given Bruce was already stewing over contingency plans for the inevitable influx of craftily reworked IOU vouchers come year end and desperate for a solution. Alfred’s idea for a gift exchange was just that.
“Anytime,” Dick assures him. Pointed, because Alfred doesn’t lean on any of them nearly enough for all they rely on him. Pleased, because Alfred trusted him; asked him. It’s a nice feeling.
Alfred smiles, however subtle. He rests his hand on the back of Dick’s head, impossibly affectionate before he pulls away, returning to gingerly supporting the vase. The fondness lingers in his expression when he looks at Dick though, gaze flitting over him in that way it does with all those Alfred has watched grow up.
It’s only after Alfred excuses himself that Dick looks down at the paper in his hand. The energy in the room feels vibrant and high-spirited. It’s contagious. Dick feels helpless to the smiles that keep pulling at his lips; so persistent they make his cheeks hurt. He unfolds the slip, flips it over so it’s right side up, and feels his smile drop.
Dick, the paper reads. Because against all odds, Dick somehow picked himself.
Slowly, he raises his attention from the slip of paper to look over the room. Duke and Damian talk about what constitutes an appropriate gift with Bruce interjecting as needed. Less because Damian is set on gifts rooted in grandeur and more because Duke keeps tripping over his own words when he tries to answer Damian – anxious because Cass stares after the three of them with single-minded focus. Intense because the topic of conversation is useful, or more likely because she must have picked someone she doesn’t know well enough to know with any immediacy what to give them.
It’s a stark contrast to Steph, who cackled so loud when she pulled her giftee that everyone knows it can only be one of two people, her favorites to torment: Tim and Jason. Who gripe and nag at her over her promises of torment and embarrassment. It’s teasing at its finest, well received despite all the threats thrown around. Fun because Tim plays into having picked Jason, himself. Which makes Jason narrow his eyes in suspicion, shifting between Tim and Steph who snicker and scheme just to rile Jason up.
Everyone seems happy enough with what they have. Dick looks back down at his name on the paper, head tilting to the side as he considers it.
It’s fine like this, he reasons. Content with the decision because it’s such a small thing.
It’s not like Dick can’t give himself a gift, after all.
There’s a betting pool going before the week is out. Whoever can guess all the giftor-giftee pairs most accurately get to pick from a prize pool that everyone contributes to. The top reward that everyone has their eyes on is from Jason, of course. A pass to enter into Crime Alley to resolve one case in its entirety is a hot commodity. With how the vouchers were taken away, no one has so much as stepped foot past those boundary lines in months. With such high stakes, the misdirection, manipulations, and outright subterfuge surrounding the gift exchange is ramped up to comical levels.
With how Dick still needs to get himself a gift, that pass to work freely in Jason’s territory sounds good to him, though as it turns out—the greatest gift might be the work Dick puts in to get his way.
Seeing everyone’s devious guile is entertaining, but nothing is funnier than watching them try to puzzle through Dick’s cunning. No one seems to be able to tell the difference between his clever fabrications and saccharine candor, the way he’ll twist the half-truths of others or play along with attempts to mislead him – playing dumb because it puts him in an advantageous position, acting nice because it makes everyone else susceptible to Dick’s wiles.
Puzzling out what's real when everyone is trying their damndest to mislead is fun. Determining what can be manipulated to influence opinion though is thrilling.
Truth be told, Dick might have too much fun with it. The challenge of keeping facts straight and trying to outsmart a group of skeptics and cynics with crafty ruses, tactical gambits and psychological tricks is one thing, but that being a means to bond with his family? It’s nice.
More often than not Dick is too busy to mess around like this. Being able to have fun with the others, even if the conversations are generally quick and in passing, makes Dick happy.
Already he’s been able to lead Duke through one of Tim’s convoluted schemes while helping him to conclusions of Dick’s own making. Same as he’s been able to play dumb with Steph as she fed him crafty lies and see her light up at her perceived success in fooling him. Dick can’t help but smile at the memory of Cass watching them – how her attention lingered on Dick because while she could probably tell Steph was trying to pull a fast one on him, Dick closed himself off to being read. No tells, no hints. ‘Scary,’ she’d told him afterwards and Dick had laughed, genuinely apologetic and honest in a familiar enough way to soothe Cass’s perturbed feelings.
Even Damian plays along. He’s dangerous because he knows to play to Dick’s emotions. The spiel the kid gives with finding comfort in Dick’s reliable candor and how it’s reassuring, given how Damian’s mother and father are so laden with secrets and how they keep Damian in the dark, almost makes Dick cave. It’s Damian’s natural cynicism that gives him away. Because even when Dick tries to be honest with him, Damian can’t be certain Dick isn’t outplaying him. The kid clicks his tongue, expression dropping from vulnerable to petulant.
Tim and he had to be forcibly separated out of fear of a tactical alliance. It’s a standing warning once Bruce considers the high risk of betrayal and inevitable retaliation. Considering Dick couldn’t promise not to cross Tim and Tim was suspiciously quiet about swearing not to seek revenge – it’s a good call.
Deception is his game and Dick is a double-dealing menace. In the span of a few days, Dick wrecks anyone's hopes of having any confidence in their guesses. Even the few that know better than to prod him for information get the backlash of the ones Dick does manage to influence. He almost feels bad about it, but not enough to relent. All’s fair in love and war, after all. Dick wants that pass into Crime Alley as much as anyone.
“Just because you’re toeing the line doesn’t mean you aren’t overstepping, big bird.”
Dick grins, raising his head to meet Jason’s gaze from across the narrow alley separating them. It’s technically the boundary between Jason’s territory and the rest of Gotham – which is arguably also Jason’s territory, though he tolerates everyone's presence in it infinitely better. That Dick is this close to the Alley is a provocation, but in his defense Jason didn’t give him much of a choice.
“Wouldn’t have to overstep if you stopped turning tail every time you see me, little wing.”
Jason scowls, caught out, and it makes Dick snicker. It’s tempting to tease him about it, but Dick brushes the matter off with a cheeky smile.
Since the pool was introduced, Jason has been doing his utmost to avoid Dick. Smart boy, but still easy to play since Jason has a weak spot the size of approximately fifty city blocks and then some. Regardless, trying to steer clear of Dick was a good effort. Under different circumstances, Dick might have been curious how far Jason could take it – a game of keep-away until Dick could catch him.
Another time, maybe. For now, duty calls.
There’s no case yet, but instinct tells him it’s only a matter of time before rumors become something more substantial. Better to get ahead of it if they can; mitigate damages or circumvent them entirely. Jason listens intently the entire time, clarifying details and prodding for more insight.
Antagonistic as Jason can be with him (though admittedly Dick provokes it some of the time – finds charm in Jason’s prickliness and endearment whenever Jason bristles and puffs himself up like some indignant cat), he’s easy to work with.
It’s the same as when Jason was Robin, Dick realizes.
Because Jason is still keenly observant and unerringly sharp. Still bright, brilliant in the way he processes information, makes connections, and draws conclusions. His resourcefulness is the same: still scrappy, gritty, and merciless in a way Dick finds kinship in because he’s just the same – cruel in his passions though maybe it’s more that Jason is tender in his brutalities. It’s why Jason has no qualms using Dick and why Dick is fine to let himself be used. For information, for a different perspective, to help strategize next steps and anticipate how Jason can act; what’s fastest, safest, or out of the question.
There’s an intensity to Jason’s focus that’s different from before, but beneath that is the same care, the same dedication. Jason’s more a tactician now; a one-man army. He’s more grounded in his work, more secure with where he stands. He was always independent, self-reliant, but watching him work like this makes Dick feel pride in what’s changed and what hasn’t.
So Jason is easy to work with. He keeps up. He challenges. He contributes a compassion and intuition so instinctual that Dick may always be in awe of him.
What’s more — he’s fun.
There’s a levity Jason shares with him that Dick is enthralled by. There’s something to Jason’s sharp tongue and biting wit, his quips and wordplay and wicked sense of humor that Dick may well adore. It’s fun. Jason is fun. With all his orneriness and cheek, his banter; engaging Dick, giving as good as he gets. He always has Dick biting back smiles, stifling laughs. He loves it.
Jason might, too, Dick thinks, for how often Jason instigates.
Which is why it comes as no surprise to Dick when Jason does just that once their case-talk comes to a natural end point; plans made, boundaries still unfortunately in place despite Dick’s offer to help. There’s no need for them to shoot the shit now that their work is done, but Jason stays seated across the alley from him, watching him with a haughty tilt of his head, judgy and familiar because Dick is certain Damian has given him the same look countless times. They’re close enough that if they kicked their legs out, their boots would likely touch. A zoning hazard, probably, though Dick doesn’t necessarily mind at that moment.
A beat of silence passes between them where Jason narrows his eyes at Dick in suspicion. Waiting. One moment stretching into another until Jason breaks.
“Not gonna try bamboozling me?” Jason asks, accusatory even though Dick has yet to be found guilty on any count.
“No need. You’ll bamboozle yourself.” Dick says, purposefully flippant to provoke a reaction. Something annoyed and distinctly antagonized because Jason’s irritation always comes across more ruffled than intimidating; because, whether he realizes it or not, he sulks. It’s sweet.
Jason scowls at him and Dick offers him a winning smile, in turn. Charming in a way that fools no one because Jason knows a menace when he sees one; like recognizes like, after all. With a scoff, Jason stretches his leg out to kick at the air between them. Dick meets him halfway, kicking the bottom of Jason’s boot and prompting Jason to shoot him another dirty look as their legs fall back in place.
“You’re diabolical.” Jason tells him.
In a sense. It’s not inaccurate, in any case. Rather than respond to the provocation, Dick smiles to himself and changes the subject; asking after Jason, checking in. It’s not only Dick that Jason has been avoiding. For the sake of the betting pool, Jason’s gone so far as to cut communication with everyone. Adamant in his refusal to be hoodwinked and determined to avoid any and all influence. Dick has a feeling it’s so that Jason can win the Alley-pass himself; he probably doesn’t even realize that people worry for and miss him.
They don’t talk about the gift exchange. Although it’s by far the funniest part of their days lately, Dick shares the mundane things instead, censored to maintain some privacy although this section of the Alley is a dead zone. Things like Alfred teaching Cass and Duke cribbage or how Damian’s art project went at school; that Bruce is driving Tim up a wall with all the year's end nonsense at work and how Steph and some others are cooking dinner in a few days if Jason wants to join.
Which Jason won’t because he’s stubborn, but that’s alright. He’s busy volunteering anyway, doing what he can; helping distribute donations that come in this time of year and making in-person deliveries to those who can’t make the trek to the outreach center on the fringes of Park Row.
It’s with some measure of reluctance that Jason grumbles a muffled ‘thank you,’ to him. For getting the GCPD to donate; for being a central hub for people in Gotham to drop off winter supplies and general necessities along with toys for the kids so they can have a gift to open on the holiday. Jason knows the force well enough; knows that Dick took responsibility for the drive and strong-armed his colleagues to participate while charming all the civilians walking through their doors.
It was a worthwhile effort with results that weren’t insubstantial. Dick’s glad to have been able to help.
“Let me know if there’s anything else.” Dick says. That he means it makes Jason sweetly bashful, timid and pleased. Jason nods once, heels bouncing on the building facade, fine dust and small debris falling with every touch because this part of the Alley has decayed so badly. Dick thinks Jason looks his age like this; softer, happier. It suits him.
“What would you want?” The question pulls Dick from his musings. He blinks the world back into focus, processes the words he hears, and grins.
“You’re my guy?” He asks, feigning surprise.
“What about it?” Jason huffs, slouching as he leans forward, fingers curled over the edge of the building.
That Jason plays into a game he’s been purposefully keeping away from with the person he’s been most actively avoiding is a pleasant and unexpected surprise. The effort is sweet, but it’s just Jason’s luck to have picked the worst person to bluff.
For a moment, Dick considers him, assessing how he wants to play this. A hard task with how distracting Jason is. It’s not something Dick ever noticed before, but watching him now—Jason doesn’t have a poker face. It’s endearing although it’s not the most conducive to their line of work. It’s no wonder Jason covers up so much as the Red Hood. Between his open expressions and the youth that clings to his face, round cheeks and a dusting of freckles, he’d be more boyish than intimidating; more likely to have his authority challenged. A matter that Jason would put to rest in a heartbeat, metaphorically or otherwise.
When Dick’s stare continues to linger, unwavering, Jason shifts. It’s slight, but it catches Dick’s attention. Gaze darting down before trailing back up to catch Jason’s eye.
It’s a strange feeling to know that Jason has stared down the worst of the world and endured its cruelest hurts with grit teeth, yet it’s Dick who makes him nervous. It’s a humbling thing to be aware of; unpleasant, even, because while he doesn’t mean to put Jason on edge—Jason’s instinct will always be keener than any front Dick can put up.
Dick wonders which it is: if Jason is put off by the act Dick plays to keep himself palatable or if it’s that Jason knows at Dick’s core there’s nothing golden.
When Dick softens his gaze, the heavy atmosphere around them seems to ease along with it. He pushes himself forward to mirror Jason’s posture, smiling bright and cheeky to distract and disarm.
“A pass to the Alley.”
As expected, that earlier nervousness shifts near instantaneously into an unimpressed grimace.
“It’s the only way I can spend time with you since you’re avoiding me,” Dick teases, pleading his case in earnest and prompting an even bigger grimace that makes Dick snicker under his breath. He kicks his foot out only for Jason to match him, pushing Dick’s foot back past an imaginary boundary line.
“Turnabout’s fair play.” It’s a brutal quip, savage, even, and it steals a genuine laugh from him.
“Yeah,” he agrees, a little melancholic and with a fondness that feels overwhelming. It’s not like Jason and him ever had a bad relationship; it was fine, Dick was just—absent. For most of it. For all of anything that mattered. He was aware of it then and hasn’t forgotten since, so with a smile that feels impossibly heavy, he admits, “I missed out.”
It’s an honesty Jason doesn’t know what to do with; it catches him entirely off guard. For a long moment he searches Dick’s expression, his eyes, puzzling if Dick is being sincere or not.
“What would you want?” Dick asks.
Jason’s fingers flex along the building’s edge and the pressure he puts on Dick’s foot to keep him away lessens. Dick can see his thoughts racing, some words caught just behind his teeth and in the clench of his jaw. With a scoff, Jason kicks away from him, shoving Dick’s leg back one last time before Jason draws himself up to standing.
It’s easier to see in the watery light of dawn how the tips of Jason’s ears burn with a blush. From the cold or from some perceived embarrassing thing he’ll probably never share.
“A no-questions-asked favor.”
Cheeky and brazen as ever, asking for a banned thing.
“Anytime,” Dick tells him, pulling himself up to stand across from him. The distance between them is small, but it’ll always be too much, so Dick closes it as best he can, “You’d know if you ever asked, little wing.”
Jason doesn’t know what to make of that. Dick might not, either.
The gift exchange-betting pool falls apart after only a few days. Everything gets so convoluted that nearly half of them drop out of the running, choosing to focus on the holiday as opposed to the competition. The holidays are stressful enough, they say. It should be about connecting with loved ones. It should be about generosity, gratitude, compassion, they say. It’d be inspiring–admirable, even–if Dick wasn’t certain they weren’t all in on a secret alliance, conspiring together to best the menaces that took a friendly, fun game and twisted it into something akin to psychological warfare.
Some of them may be more guilty than others for escalating things to such extremes, but it’s all in good fun. They all have their vices and Dick and Tim’s happen to involve overcomplicated, mildly distressing, low stakes mind games; causing them, solving them. It’s a good mental exercise that doesn’t carry the same stress they typically manage otherwise.
The others make a fair point about the holidays though. Nice as Alley rights would be, it’s not more valuable than connecting with everyone and reflecting, making active efforts to be gracious and kind. Hence the new initiative involving a neutral territory by way of holiday-themed activities where there’s no gift talk, no subterfuge, just good, wholesome, family-friendly bonding.
It’s for the better like this, Dick thinks to himself as he glances at the other end of the table. They’re all building gingerbread houses–a tradition Dick isn’t familiar with but is happy Damian gets to experience. For as much fun as he has with the gift exchange-betting pool, Dick doesn’t think anything could be better than Damian being able to experience simple, meaningful things like this. Making memories, starting traditions–it’s important.
Which is why it’s probably for the best that Damian is working with Steph, Cass, and Duke instead of the rest of them. While the other end of the table shares holiday stories and family traditions, Bruce, Tim and he immediately go and break the first rule by talking about the gifts.
Dick wonders if everyone knew they’d crack and that’s why they got put so far away. Trust is earned and all that, or so it goes. While some of the others aren’t clinging tooth and nail to those Alley rights, Bruce, Damian, Tim and him most certainly are. Jason, too, if only because Dick knows it was always the cheeky punk’s plan to steal that offer back.
It’s a point of conversation on their end of the table. While they were supposed to be reviewing a present case on their docket, they only manage to get so far before getting sidetracked, one train of thought making an irrational leap to another before they’re on another tangent entirely. It’s par for course with Bruce and Tim; they flow between conversations like this often enough–wrapping multiple conversations into one and having confidence there will be no misunderstandings.
While they talk, Dick listens with half an ear though most of his focus stays on Duke and the boy’s recount of the Christmases he spent with his family. The modest celebrations aren't anything like how Dick’s celebrated the holidays with his parents and troupe back when, but it has the same warmth to it. That familiarity in it makes him smile; it makes him homesick.
He turns his attention back to the gingerbread house he single-handedly contributes to despite how Dick pointedly hands off frostings and cookie walls to both his partners to hold. As is their wont in life, they stay oblivious–capable of multitasking but choosing to do so selectively. They’re fixated on Jason and the prize of Alley rights. Understandably, but in this instance it’s exasperating. Gingerbread houses don’t build themselves.
Frosting on his hands be damned, Dick takes out his phone to send a picture of the going-ons to Jason. A picture of Bruce and Tim engaged in a heated debate, expressions severe–frosting in hand and gumdrops pinched between fingers. The gingerbread house in front of them is barely standing, looking ready to crumble.
“He must have it figured out.” Bruce murmurs, brow furrowed as he considers the possibility and how to circumvent it. The last thing he needs to be doing is causing an upset with Jason again, a point Dick plans to make if the man becomes a threat; a foolsafe safety measure.
“Why do you think that?” Tim asks, propping his hip against the table to lean against it. “He could be bluffing.”
The thought is funny enough to make Dick laugh, a soft exhale through his nose that goes unnoticed while he finishes sending off the text with an accompanying sarcastic smiley face. There’s no chance that Jason could bluff with such a bad poker face.
Unwittingly backing Dick’s thought, Bruce grumbles, “He doesn’t have a poker face.”
It’s disheartening, though it doesn’t come as much of a surprise. Still, Bruce and Tim look contemplative, then disappointed, then irritated with themselves for falling for the obvious trap. With a put upon sigh, Tim sulks, “In hindsight, he’d never wager something like this otherwise. It was always his plan to tick everyone off.”
“A gift to himself.” Bruce agrees with a sigh of his own. Put out as he is, there’s still a tinge of fondness when he adds, “Cheeky boy.”
A reply from Jason chimes on his phone. Lacking in tone as texts are, Jason’s sass doesn’t escape him. Cheeky boy, indeed. Dick smirks as he types up a reply, sitting back in his seat and casually chiming in with a humored, “It’s going to burn him when he loses.”
“You’re confident.” Tim notes, brow raised in curiosity.
“You’re not?” Dick asks, peeking up at Tim before turning his attention back to his phone.
For a long moment, Tim considers him. Eyes narrowed as he tries to parse if Dick is bluffing or not. It makes an ornery smile start to quirk the corners of Dick’s lips, bright with a promise of mischief until Bruce awkwardly shuffles between them, bodily blocking either of them from instigating something with a chiding, “We’re supposed to be building a gingerbread home, boys. Behave.”
The man is baffling, truly, considering Dick is positive it was Bruce that prompted the entire conversation. Rather than argue, Dick reminds himself that the holidays are for connecting with loved ones and that Bruce is indeed one of those loved ones. Somehow. So Dick plays it easy, falling in line. Their group still doesn’t get much done because they end up debating the functionality of candy decor, but Dick doesn’t mind it. It’s fun, in its own way. Dick wouldn’t mind doing this all again with Jason around. Spirited as they all can be, Jason brings out a better energy in people. It’d be a riot, for sure.
Until Jason wants to come around again though, Dick will send him pictures of what he’s missing out on. The kids working together to build a gingerbread house and the tragic side-by-side comparison that starts a myriad of expectations versus reality, this versus that memes in a group chat, courtesy of Jason’s unprompted: ‘Robin year one, Robin year two.’
When Dick follows up shortly after with a picture of their deconstructed house, reduced to shambles so that Steph, Cass, Duke and Damian can build theirs out further from the pieces, to his personal chat with Jason, Dick watches the three dots at the bottom repeatedly show up before disappearing and reappearing again. ‘I’ll give it to you, dick. That’s funny.’
It’s a small victory that lasts only as long as it takes Jason to send their private conversation to the group chat, followed by a caption: ‘Dick, Dick after B sees this :p’.
Cheeky boy, Dick reminds himself, smiling and making a less than subtle break for the door before Bruce has a chance to check his messages. It’s all he hears about on comms later that night though. A reprimanding lecture intermixed with Jason’s poorly stifled cackles.
The text comes in shortly after patrol ends for the night, the white light from his screen illuminating his room and casting its shadows darker. Dick doesn’t check it right away–too busy, too tired. He pulls his gloves gingerly from his hands, taking stock of the bruises and swelling of jammed fingers. Pain limits the range of motion he has. He needs to tape them, but doesn’t get much further than getting a fraction of his costume off before he flops backwards onto his bed, exhausted, aching.
Three minutes, he tells himself, then he’ll finish dressing down. Dick will shower, he’ll tape his fingers, and he’ll catch a few hours of sleep before his shift at the precinct. Three minutes, then he’ll pick back up.
The light from his phone screen dims before shutting off, only to light up again with the reminder of the unread message a couple minutes later. It’s enough to stir him from the light doze he drifted into and Dick sighs, scrubbing the heels of his hands to his eyes. His phone dims itself again, but before it can shut off, Dick sits up and reaches back for it with his good hand. Dragging it over to where he can look at it, elbows braced on his knees as he breaks over himself.
It’s a message to the holiday group chat–another meme from Steph, though this one comes modified with the crumbled gingerbread house first and the work of art the others did next. Beneath that, captions: ‘Jason when he’s complaining about Dick not liking him vs. Jason when Dick gets his uniquely twisted sense of humor.’
It makes Dick smile, a tired quirk of his lips. Before he can reply with a perfunctory reaction, another message comes through. Followed by however many more, all from Jason: ‘Not true.’ ‘Slander.’ ‘Delete this.’ ‘You suck.’ ‘I don’t complain about anything.’
Another text comes through from Steph promptly after, a correction to her previous work that crosses out ‘complaining’ and replaces it with ‘crying.’ A number of reactions come through after, a mixture of skulls and teacups and one upside down smiley face that’s clearly from Jason.
He laughs, the sound of it little more than a breath exhaled. He sets his phone down, pulling himself from off the bed and to his bathroom to finish getting cleaned up. It’s been more than three minutes–it’s time to get moving again.
Behind him, his phone lights his room in white light. Bright then dim with a message from him that reads: ‘I like you plenty, little wing.’
Even with the limited time their schedules afford them, Dick and Tim make a point of checking in. All of them are prone to overwork, but when Dick came down on Tim for it, Tim turned it around on Dick and now they’re caught in a game of accountability chicken. It’s not so bad though—it’s made them make time for each other even if it’s only for short spans; courtesy calls and texts, surprise coffee drops and sneaky smoke breaks.
It’s not uncommon for Dick to treat Tim or any of the others to quick meals, but when Tim does the same–showing up to the GCPD with takeaway in hand for them, Dick is endeared; he appreciates the gesture.
So they sit together on a half wall outside overlooking a side street, Dick worn in his blues and Tim looking smart in his pea coat and suit. The shawarma he brought along is still warm, a comfort that combats the cold.
The quiet between them is comfortable enough that neither of them are hard-pressed to break it. It’s a break away from the pressing needs and urgent demands of others, a moment of calm to decompress and breathe. Dick thinks Tim needs the rest–deserves it. Tim’s too young for all the work he does and the stress he carries.
Dick will always be amazed by Tim; proud. Even still, Dick hates to see the burdens pile on to him. Regardless of how well Tim can bear it, Dick isn’t keen for the world they live in to get too greedy with the boy and wear him to nothing.
So Dick stays quiet. An easy ask despite what anyone else would assume from him. Dick eats, idly observes their surroundings, and contemplates with quiet disgruntlement how depressing it still feels to spend the holidays in a concrete jungle. He’s spent more years celebrating in Gotham than he ever did with his troupe, but Dick is nostalgic for those simpler times all the same.
“Caught Damian looking up gifts for Alfred.” Tim says, drawing Dick away from his musings. A brief glance at him shows clear, honest perturbment that Dick has to force himself not to smile at. “It had to have been a misdirect. He was definitely waiting for me to walk by and see.”
A pigeon swoops down and lands not far from them. Although he shouldn’t, Dick still pinches off a small bit of pita bread and tosses it nearby for the bird to eat. It shuffles over immediately, pecking at it before taking the bread in its beak and flying away.
“If he was trying for some reverse psychology bs, he wouldn’t use whoever he’s actually getting a gift for.” Tim muses. “It’s a misdirect all around.”
If only because Tim brought him lunch, Dick will help him out. Though maybe Dick helping will cause an even bigger headache, given the level of skepticism Tim has for him at present. Regardless, Dick chuckles, humored because Damian really was doing the most to torment Tim, “Definitely a misdirect.”
“How do you know?” Tim asks, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Jon.” Dick says, simple. The way the kid paled then flustered after accidentally outing Damian might always be amusing; it was the most his age that Jon’s looked in a long while—the most himself. By no means is Jon scared of Damian, but he recognizes a fuck up when it happens. And Dick wouldn’t put it past Damian to stage the whole thing, but he feels more confident that Damian wouldn’t lie to Jon. That besides, Kon confirmed easily enough that Damian had painstakingly asked for advice on what to get Cass, given their history.
Tim, in true Damian fashion, clicks his tongue. Miffed at the development.
“Don’t hate the player, Tim.” He snickers.
“The odds are stacked.” Tim says, a halfhearted complaint. “You’ve got too many resources.”
Arguably, they have the same resources. Whether Tim realizes it or not, there’s no one in the hero community that wouldn’t help him if he asked. Dick thinks that even his friends would side with any of the Robins over him with something like this if only to mess with Dick and join in on the fun.
“We’ve got the same resources.” Dick reminds him.
It’s a sentiment Tim sits with for a few seconds before it seems to click, only rather than see that he has an entire community behind him, he looks intently forward with a determined glint in his eye, “Dick—“
Resource though he is, it’s not what Dick meant. It’s not like he’s going to tell Tim to fuck off though; the kid bought him lunch.
“Tim.” Dick replies, matching Tim’s tone.
“Any thoughts on Jason?” He asks. That his question isn’t related to Damian doesn’t throw him as much as Tim might like. Rather, it makes a ghost of a smile pull at his lips.
Dick has plenty of thoughts on Jason, but he answers cheekily and with a shrug of his shoulder, “Not as rough around the edges as he likes to think.”
“Not what I meant,” and they both know it. The way Tim’s expression falls from eager to unamused leaves Dick smiling in earnest.
Rather than be a menace, Dick answers honestly, “Allegedly, he’s my guy.”
“Believe him?” Comes the quick, expected follow up.
And there’s no steeling himself against the soft, fond laugh it inspires. It’s such an unfamiliar, sincere expression that Dick turns away, covering for himself how he can as he quickly composes himself and schools his face back into something more familiar and controlled. The affection shines through though; he’s helpless to it.
“Not a chance,” Dick tells Tim honestly, a tender softness lingering in his smile, “He’s sweet.”
“Is he?” Tim makes a face in disagreement.
“Sweeter than you.” Dick snickers.
“You say that after I buy you lunch and hand deliver it?” Tim retorts, redirecting his look of judgment on Dick with nothing more than a raised brow.
“Salty,” Dick corrects himself, reaching out to give Tim’s head an appreciative pat. While Tim rolls his eyes, he’s obviously content; pleased by the banter, the unspoken approval.
When Dick pulls his hand back and continues eating to prompt Tim to do the same, he waits until Tim’s mouth is full to ask, “You know what you’re getting him yet?”
The scowl Tim levels him with is that much funnier with his cheeks puffed out from taking too big a bite. From the start, Dick has been badgering Tim about Jason. Undoubtedly he’s sore from being found out before the game even started, but he stubbornly sticks to his denials.
“I’ve already told you he’s not my guy.” Tim says.
“Hypothetically.” Dick adds, brazen.
“Hypothetically,” Tim throws back with emphasis, sulking until inspiration seems to strike and a smugness along with it. He shrugs, irreverent when he grabs for his coffee and casually says, “I’d consider paying an outrageous fee for Mr. Wilson to do him a favor.”
Dick’s grimace is an immediate thing and Tim laughs because the atmosphere around Dick shifts from pleasant to stormy so fast. Even the temperature seems to drop at the mention of his adversary. Regardless of Dick’s feelings on Slade though, it’s actually a good idea.
“Not a bad gift, but…Mr. Wilson?” Dick frowns. While he understands the need to be obscure, the respectful formality makes him cringe.
“Guess I could ask you.” Tim says around a sip of coffee. He peeks up at Dick, offhand and with cheek when he adds, “Hypothetically.”
“Funny.” Dick says, flat.
“Still too soon?” Tim snickers. It’s a fair, genuine question. And the truth is—Dick is still pissed about it. He thinks he always will be.
Rather than admit that it might always be too soon, Dick waves the matter off, intentionally flippant and perhaps too obvious when he shifts the conversation, “Don’t we have a price limit?”
And because it’s Tim, he follows Dick’s lead. Respectful even if he’s curious. He laughs a bit, bemused, “You think people are sticking to it?”
“I don’t think they’re going over by literal millions.” Dick quips.
“It’s for Jason, so I think I’ll get a discount.” Tim says, and while he’s not wrong Dick still scowls at the thought of Slade being brought in on their holiday in any capacity. He doesn’t doubt the man would give Tim a discount simply for the opportunity to antagonize Dick. Hell, he’d do it pro bono.
“What would you get him?” Tim asks, subtly fishing for actual, actionable ideas.
“He told me he wants ‘a no questions asked favor’.” Dick says, repeating the request verbatim.
Tim scoffs, his cup clacking against the cement when he puts it down on the half wall. There’s something like exasperation in Tim’s voice when he grumbles, “He just needs to ask.”
Dick smiles, appreciative of the answer, “That’s what I said.”
The pigeon comes back with friends, pecking the pavement and scuttling across the ground. He throws more pita their way and Tim does the same with a long suffering sigh, “For such a smart guy, he’s kind of dense.”
Pot, kettle, but Dick keeps the thought to himself. Instead, he looks Tim’s way, smirking mischievously, “I’ll be sure to tell him you said that.”
“Funny.” Tim says so similarly to Dick that it makes him laugh under his breath.
“Headed to the outreach center after this.” Dick tells him, segueing their conversation and pivoting the focus, “I’m sure he’ll make an appearance with me being so close to home.”
It's not a secret to anyone that Jason is volunteering on his off time. There’s only so much he can do for the community as the Red Hood. Even if there’s a certain amount of anonymity in being a seasonal volunteer, Jason gets to make deeper connections that he wouldn’t otherwise. There’s more to hear and share; more to teach and learn. Keeping people safe is only part of the struggle; Jason wants to help make sure they’re provided for, too. With resources to keep themselves cared for and tools to keep them on their feet.
‘He’s sweet,’ Dick said earlier with a playful edge in his voice, but he means it. He knows it with certainty—this boy is so kind and tenderhearted that it steals Dick’s breath some days.
“You think he’s got a volunteer sweater or something?” Tim jokes, the imagined visual making him chortle to himself, delighted.
Dick laughs, too. “God, I hope so.”
They talk for a while longer after that, but eventually Tim glimpses the time and he groans in defeat. He drags himself off the wall, slumped as he begs off for the rest of the day. While Tim wouldn’t mind playing hooky from work, he’d rather resign himself to the corporate politics waiting for him now than deal with Bruce’s conniption later.
On cue, Tim’s phone chimes. Another chime follows a second later and Dick chuckles. He walks with Tim to the towncar that pulls up and once the chauffeur lets Tim in and returns to the driver’s seat, Dick stays standing at the open window.
“My treat next time.” He promises.
“Sounds good.” Tim says, already messaging Bruce back with a block text of information. He glances up at Dick quickly, “Let me know if we can do anything else for the drive?”
“Will do.” Dick says, tapping the hood of the car lightly before taking a step back, “Thanks, Tim.”
They part with little more fanfare than that, Dick watching the car pull away with a bemused smile. A contemplative contentment makes him feel sentimental, though it might just be because it’s the time of year for that sort of thing. Whatever the case, Dick acknowledges all the pride he feels for Tim and all the boy’s accomplished and gets moving, himself.
Silly as it is, Dick is eager to see Jason in his natural habitat. Abrasive as he is, Dick knows that Jason is good with people. Even at his most honest and volatile, he’s approachable—because he inspires a feeling of safety, because he carries a sense of levity with him that circumstance hasn’t been able to take from him.
It gives Dick a second wind, a stirring warmth in his chest.
While the hoodie is an unobtrusive, seasonal green, the brightly colored vest over top emblazoned with ‘volunteer’ across the back is delightfully garish. It’s possibly the best thing Dick’s seen all week and he makes a point to memorialize it with pictures; photos that range from Jason being entirely unaware to him taking notice and flustering, eyes wide and cheeks flushed red–blurred snapshots of Jason roughhousing with Dick in an attempt to dispose of the evidence, followed by more images of him sulking when Dick proves too slippery.
Only a few get sent to the group chat. It’s all the others need to start another round of memeing–a variety of combinations from the snapshots shared. Jason and he sit on the curb outside the outreach center as they all come in and while Jason gripes and shoves Dick in retaliation to the relentless teasing coming his way, Dick laughs warm and wild.
‘When you’re doing good deeds and it ruins your bad boy aesthetic.’
‘Expectations: Tough guy. Reality: Fair maiden.’
‘How we see Todd; how Grayson sees Todd.’
‘Jason Todd, a Memoir.’
“They’re so dumb.” Jason scoffs, but there’s no heat behind it. He leans into Dick, crowding his space to peer down at Dick’s phone. When he grabs for Dick’s phone this time, Dick lets him have it. He stays on the group chat, crafting a response to Steph’s read of Jason and his four distinct personality traits (she’s not wrong, Dick realizes–neutral, ruffled, irritated and sulky really seems to be Jason’s de facto way of being).
‘Steph when she hasn’t washed her hair in a week.’
Given the message comes through from Dick’s phone, the scandalized reactions aren’t surprising. Still, Dick isn’t particularly bothered. It’s sweet to see Jason be mischievous in such a harmless way. It’s why he’s indulgent when Jason shoots off a few more messages, all of them off the cuff and cheeky.
It doesn’t take long for everyone to suss out that it’s Jason, at which point more memes to tease him comes in: ‘Jason swearing Dick doesn’t like him, Jason singularly getting special treatment,’ followed by, ‘Jason insisting he’s not the favorite, Jason being the favorite.’
“Idiots.” Jason complains. Although he ducks his head to try and hide, Dick can still see that the tips of his ears are pink.
And it’s willful of him, but when Jason starts typing out a message about golden boys not playing favorites, Dick leans in close and murmurs, “That’s not true.”
Whether it’s the statement or Dick’s tone or simply the way they’ve ended up pressed so close together, Jason startles, head turning to look at him and getting that much closer. It startles Dick, too, though he stays put—taking in the ruddy flush across Jason’s freckled cheeks, the pale scars that cut his skin and leaves both his hair and lashes a stark contrast of dark and white. Starker still is the blush that starts to dust the high points of Jason’s face. For a brief moment Jason looks flustered, almost timid before he scowls, sulks.
A ghost of a smile pulls at Dick’s lips and he makes a point to hold Jason’s gaze when he says, just for them and whichever volunteers might overhear, “I’ve always had a favorite.”
Dick pats the back of Jason’s head before he stands and returns to help the volunteers, falling in line easily with whatever instructions he’s given–doing his part and some of Jason’s too as Jason continues sitting on the curb, hood pulled over his head and face hidden in his knees, curled small to keep anyone from seeing the softness of his blush, the sharp bite of his smile.
At some point their group chat becomes inundated with wishlists to show preferences and general interests to help out anyone struggling for ideas. It’s a thoughtful gesture started by Damian, though Bruce comes back shortly after with a revised list that crosses out all the weapons and animals, making it so kid friendly that Dick can hear Damian clicking his tongue from across the whole of Gotham.
Steph follows up shortly after, followed by another list she helps Cass make and just for fun, one curated specifically for Tim consisting of inside jokes Dick thinks the rest of them are better off not understanding. The others contribute over the following days too, prompting questions, call outs and affectionate public shamings.
By far, the funniest is written by Jason. Which doesn’t come as much of a surprise, but it still steals a quiet laugh from him. Of note, the kid puts Bruce, Tim and him on blast with sarcasm, sass, and Jason’s unique brand of playful orneriness. The list goes:
Bruce, an apology.
Tim, your bank card (active, funded account only).
Dick, quit the pigpen.
There aren’t enough hours in a day to enjoy exchanges like this–to be part of them.
Maybe that’s why Dick goes to WE after working a double shift instead of going home. Because Dick can lounge in Tim’s office just as well as he could sleep at home, only here there are people that matter to him; there’s noise. Like this, Dick’s motivated enough to stay awake to catch up reading all the messages he’s missed, though the steady sound of Tim typing at his computer makes Dick’s eyelids that much more heavy.
Only Bruce has replied to Jason’s messages so far–a sad face followed by earnest concern on if Jason really needs to be financed because Bruce is happy to make arrangements. While most of the others respond to the reply with crying and money bag emojis, Jason singularly sends a scowl and resolute, ‘absolutely not.’
“You gonna do it?” Dick asks, glancing over at Tim. The kid’s office is big enough to accommodate a couch that Dick happily slouches in, feet kicked up on a modern looking coffee table, heels landing somewhere past where there’s a clear scuff from Tim having done the same so often.
“Do what?” Tim asks, not looking away from his computer and continuing to type.
“Step up as Jason’s sugar daddy, apparently.” Dick teases lightly, snickering. “Bet he’d get embarrassed if you did.”
While Tim stays focused on his task, he still laughs under his breath, smirking to himself at the thought, “He talks a big game, but he’s got such a maiden heart.”
“See?” Dick says, impish, “Told you he’s sweet.”
There’s so much judgment in Tim’s expression that Dick can hear the ‘weirdo’ without the kid saying a word. When Dick pulls his gaze from his phone to catch Tim’s gaze, Tim’s lips press thin and he swallows down whatever quippy banter he was about to give him, thinking better of it–picking his battles because in a standoff of stubborn opinion, Dick will always beat him out. So rather than argue with him about Jason’s core characteristics, Tim prioritizes, “You really need to get some sleep.” The ‘because you’re delusional,’ goes unspoken, but Dick appreciates the dry sass of it even if he sets the suggestion aside.
‘Surprised you’d want money given to you.’ Dick messages, followed up with a banterful, ‘Where’s the fun in that?’
Within a minute, Jason sends a perfunctory, performative emoji flipping him off followed up by a photo sent to their individual chat that shows Jason looking smug with two black cards caught between his fingers, one with Tim’s name and another that can only be Bruce’s.
‘Menace,’ Dick replies, endeared by the mischief. It’s harmless fun; he’ll keep Jason’s secret.
Back in the group chat, Dick sends another message, ‘I’ll quit my job if you give me standing Alley rights.’
Jason’s reply of, ‘Con artist,’ comes immediately.
Dick snickers and texts back, ‘I’d be giving up my livelihood.’
‘You have a trust fund,’ Jason snarks.
Idly, Tim looks at where he has his phone propped up, reading the messages as they come through and laughing at Jason’s read of him, “He got you there.”
Dick ignores him, choosing instead to write, ‘Allocating it to charity.’
‘Since when?’ Jason asks, calling his bluff.
At the same time, Bruce chimes in, ‘You won’t try to legally disclaim it?’
‘Since you offered to help find reputable foundations with me,’ Dick texts back, content with the harmless manipulation. It’s what he’ll do with the trust anyway if it ever transfers to him. Better people who need it than have it go back to the estate, but Bruce doesn’t need to know that so Dick sends an upside down smiley to him and waits for the man to inevitably wander through the building to ask what Dick means by it because it seems oddly passive aggressive.
‘Absolutely a con artist,’ Jason replies, which Dick doesn’t even have a chance to react to before a plethora of check marks and too many hundreds come in. The accusation might have some merit; Dick has made a menace of himself this holiday season.
Dick watches the group chat fondly, eyes drifting closed when he struggles to stay awake. Another message comes through that simply reads, ‘I’d help,’ before it’s quickly covered by an edited message that says, ‘Standing Alley rights if anyone offs Joker for me <3’
“Huh, I wonder how strict he is on semantics.” Tim says, brows raised in surprise as he turns to look at Dick, “Want me to ask?”
Dick scoffs, low and quiet, “No, that’s alright.”
“It’s weird he doesn’t know.” Tim says, keystrokes coming to a slow stop that leaves the boy’s office suddenly too quiet. All Dick can hear is the rumble of central heating, the muffled voices of the other employees past the windowed wall, their shuffled footsteps.
“The only weird thing is that Jason still has to ask for this at all.” It’s something that Dick thinks about a lot; it’s something that fills him with so much shame that Dick is sick with it. He should’ve hit the bastard harder. He should’ve kept trying, Bruce’s tight leash on him be damned.
What’s wrong with him?
“You didn’t make him ask.” Tim points out, but Dick doesn’t appreciate how liberal the kid is being with him. Just because Dick tried doesn’t mean it’s good enough or that it matters. He couldn’t–didn’t follow through. “Maybe he wouldn’t if he knew someone already cared enough to try.”
When Dick doesn’t answer, Tim returns to his work. The keystrokes start back up again and Dick sighs, laying his phone on his stomach and turning to look out the window at the city beyond them. Not much has changed in the years that he was brought into this life. If Jason has taught Dick one thing, it’s that they save some and fail others; they give second chances to clowns and miss the funerals of those that second, third, nth chance got killed.
It’s not that Dick believes Jason’s way of going about things is better. Whether it’s a strict no-kill policy or they dictate crime and punishment by playing judge-jury-executioner, there are always victims.
Because they don’t do enough.
Because they do too much.
Because they’re there–because they’re not.
In his head Dick can hear laughter, a cruel and malicious cackle. Wet with blood; cold and cruel and mocking, ‘What was his name? Jason?’ Something violent and volatile still crawls beneath Dick’s skin at the memory of it; he can feel the phantom pain of bruised knuckles, the sting of splitting skin and the burn of something wicked and wrathful rushing through his veins, spattering across his hands, his face.
How could that failed effort be enough for Jason? It’s not for Dick.
Dick isn’t sure it’d be enough even if he had been able to follow through and kill the bastard.
The buzzing of his phone draws Dick away from his ruminations. He looks down at the screen, the ghost of an endeared smile playing at his lips. It’s a text from Jason, a message with a list of charities and foundations for various causes and a disclaimer they’ll have to look at it all again later, what with Gotham’s propensity to fuck up any good thing that comes to it.
‘That your excuse to spend more time with me?’ Dick messages.
The text indicator starts and stops a comical number of times as Jason undoubtedly bristles at the lighthearted teasing. Eventually though, Jason banters: ‘It’s your opportunity to spend some time with me, birdbrain.’
An opportunity, indeed. Dick likes the message, an obnoxious heart for Jason to grimace at when he sees it later. He should really sleep–the ringing in his ears is only getting worse the longer he puts it off–but instead he opens the link to the first charity Jason sent him and starts reading their mission statement, the ways they’re helping the community, how and why.
It’s an interesting insight into Jason–what matters to him, what’s important. None of it is necessarily surprising or groundbreaking, but Dick finds contentment in it all nonetheless.
He donates as he goes through them, generous because they’ve been vetted and Dick knows it’ll go to good causes. And when he clicks the last link, it’s one that’s clearly there for him; because it’s something Dick would care for.
Still a sweet boy after everything. It makes Dick’s heart ache.
When he leaves Tim’s office, it’s with a fond pat to the top of Tim’s head and reminder to look at the small assortment of plants everyone contributed to for Tim’s birthday earlier in the year every so often or better yet, go on a walk and stretch his legs. Pointedly, Tim reaches back to pull one of the plants to be beside his monitor and Dick snickers, ruffling Tim’s hair while calling him a smartass.
Once Dick leaves, making his way out of the building and back into the cold of Gotham, he looks at his phone one last time, at Jason’s bargain before tapping the screen and putting it away to look up at overcast skies and falling snow.
With a heart to like Jason’s message, Dick wonders if it’s too greedy of him to want it all: the Alley, a clown’s head, a boy’s peace of mind. Because he can take it. Dick can make it happen, see it through.