Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Despite the manor's thick, old, plaster walls, the sounds of shouting still echo up the stairs and slither under the crack under the door to Jason's room.

He's lived here, with his real dad and the brothers he didn't know he had, for a couple of years now and he knows that Bruce is a good man and a great dad and loves him, that Bruce will never raise a hand to him the way Jason's dad—the way Willis did, before. But Jason still feels waves of anxiety wash through him every time Bruce gets into heated arguments with someone.

Especially someone he's been dating. The worry that Bruce would one day strike Dick had been ever-present in the early days after Jason moved in. They had fought all the time back in those days. It was only when Talia calmly dragged them both into Bruce's study and scolded them in that quiet, disappointed way that never fails to instill guilt, that they realized the screaming matches made Jason find a small space to cower in. After that, Bruce and Dick still fought a lot, but they either kept their voices down or made sure that Jason was out of earshot. And Dick always made sure to find Jason after and play a game or watch a movie or even just grab a snack, any excuse to spend a few minutes with Jason to show the younger boy that he wasn't harmed. Eventually, Jason stopped worrying that their dad would hurt his older brother, eventually, both older men stopped fighting so much, and eventually, Jason even got comfortable enough to start testing his own boundaries, secure in the knowledge that this dad was a good dad and wouldn't hurt him.

But there's still something about hearing two grown partners screaming at each other that pulls something small and scared deep inside him back to the surface. Only now it's less out of concern for himself, and more out of concern for his dad.

Bruce and Talia — his real parents — had never yelled at each other like this. The end of their relationship was full of tense disagreements and chilly interactions but the way they fought was always in a kind of quiet, sadness.

Uncle Jack is a lot of things but quiet has never, ever been one of them. He laughs loud and talks loud and gets mad loud.

Jason has never really liked the man. It's not just that he's loud, Dick is loud. Damian was teething when Jason showed up and was so, so loud. It's the kind of loudness. There's something in it that feels precarious like it's teetering on the edge of something sharp. It's in Uncle Jack's eyes too. The intense way those eerie vibrant green eyes are always watching, the way his too-wide grin shows too many teeth and pointed corners of his mouth make those eyes gleam manic.

Maybe it's just Jason's bias, his inability to trust that good things can be uncomplicated and without agenda (something his parents had explained is a natural response to the things he experienced before they brought him home), but Uncle Jack has always felt a breath away from snapping.

That glint in his eye is the same sadistic glee Jason saw in the eyes of Ma Gunn's thugs, the ones who beat Jason so badly when he was just ten years old that he'd needed a blood transfusion. That's how they'd found out Bruce was his real father, the match in Dr. Thompkins' system while Jason had been in surgery. It's a look that is often mistaken for an intense happiness by people who've never experienced the darker side of the world. It maybe makes them a little uncomfortable, but most brush it off.

Jason tries to brush it off. Especially after the divorce, when Dad started dating Uncle Jack. Jason has tried to like the man, for Dad's sake, but he can't help the way his skin crawls when those creepy acid green eyes rake over him and stick, or when Uncle Jack tucks a stray curl back into place, knuckles brushing over Jason's cheek and mentions how much he looks like his dad.

That has happened less in the last few months since Dad and Jack started seeing each other.

And now they're screaming at each other downstairs.

Well, Jack's screaming. Dad's voice is raised, loud enough to bounce around the cavernous rooms and make their way up to the family wing. But he's nowhere near as hysterical as Jack sounds.

"I'm not ending things," Dad's voice says, sounding tired and hurt. "I just need to slow down for a little while. Maybe a few months. Things are hard right now with Talia moving away. You know how attached Jason and Damian are to their mother, Jack. I just need to be around for them more. Just until they get settled with the new—"

"Fuck the kids!" Uncle Jack screams and even though Jason never really liked him, hearing that Uncle Jack was faking liking them to get to their dad spoken so plainly makes Jason flinch involuntarily anyway. "I waited for you for years and the minute you finally start to realize how good this would be, you "need time"? I'm so tired of waiting for you to come to your senses! You know that we're meant to be together! And you're willing to sacrifice that because those spoiled little brats can't wipe their noses without you fluttering nervously at their sides? They'll get over it, Brucie. They don't need their daddy to hold their hands through every little thing that goes wrong in their lives! How old is Jason anyway? Old enough to figure shit out on his own. You'd think he'd be used to it anyway with all—"

Jason flinches again despite himself and hugs his knees closer. He hates when the adults talk about him when they think he can't hear them, the pity in their voices always makes him feel small. It hasn't been as bad as it was when he first got here, but... but there's no pity in Uncle Jack's voice. The bitter resentment in his tone is exponentially worse.

A gentle knock at his door cuts through the sound of fighting and Jason misses Bruce's much quieter response when Dick cracks the door open and peeks his head in.

"Hey, Jay. Can I come in?"

Jason nods from his position against the headboard, book abandoned by his hip.

The door clicks closed as his older brother makes his way across the tidy room, tossing a bag of contraband junk food at the foot of Jason's nightstand.

"How're you doing, kiddo? You ok?"

Usually, Jason would scoff at him and tell him to mind his own business, maybe make a snide joke to draw out one of his brother's indulgent smirks and a ruffle of his hair. But he's a little shaken from the screaming in general, and then hearing Jack talk about him like that...

He shrugs, a quick aborted jerk of his shoulders, and picks at a bit of nothing on his pajama pants.

Dick picks up his book and nudges him with it gently to get him to scootch over and make room. In the time he's been here, Jason has learned that his older brother is a lot more tactile than Jason is generally comfortable with. But it didn't take long for Jason to get used to it, even feel comforted by the warm line of Dick pressed against his side, the weight of the older boy's hand on his shoulder.

Jason leans into it and that hand slides to the other side so that Dick's arm can wrap around him tug him closer.

"He doesn't mean it," Dick says, giving Jason a squeeze. "He's been in love with Dad for a long time and he's scared he's going to lose him now that he finally has him. They'll work it out."

For a long moment, Jason doesn't respond, just rests his head on his brother's shoulder, breathes in the clean soapy scent of him, and relaxes under the steady comb of fingers through his hair.

"I hope they don't," he mutters.

Dick's hand pauses the comforting pets. "They don't fight that much, Jay. Dad's happy with Jack."

"They fight enough," Jason argues. "And Dad was happier with Mom."

He doesn't add that Dad's fights with Jack are different. It's hard to explain the way some arguments are just fights and some are fights. Especially to someone like Dick who has never really seen the latter.

Dick is quiet for a minute while he thinks over his words. Jason waits for him to find the right way to say whatever it is he wants to say. He's gotten used to that too. Sometimes it bothers him that they all feel like they have to be so delicate with him. But most of the time he's grateful that they care enough to worry about his feelings. He'd never really had that before. Not since his mom got sick anyway, and that had been since he was really little.

"That might be true about the beginning," Dick says, resuming his soothing strokes through Jason's curls. "But just because they didn't shout at each other doesn't mean they weren't having a hard time, Jay. You know that they would have never split if they didn't think it was the best thing for everyone."

Jason leans even more of his weight against his brother's side. Dick doesn't comment on it, just hugs him closer.

"I know," Jason mutters into the older boy's Gotham Academy Gymnastics Team t-shirt. Jason is wearing an older version of the same shirt, a hand-me-down of Dick's. It's way too big on him, but it's still one of his favorite possessions that doesn't come with page numbers. It's how they bonded when Jason first showed up, Dick teaching him how do proper handsprings and aerial cartwheels. Dick is such a good coach that Jason made the team for his own age group after just a year of lessons. Dick thinks he'll make the team at GA just as easily once he gets there. It makes something warm swell in Jason's chest every time Dick says that. Talia had always smiled so sincerely and agreed. She had always supported anything they'd wanted to do.

Jason misses her so much.

"She's not gone for good, you know." Dick adds. "She will always be there for you, just a call away. I know that's not the same, but Mom and Dad are both rich. We'll visit all the time."

Dick is grinning down at him and Jason can't help but mirror his smile. Those things are always contagious.

"And I'll remind Dad that if he and Uncle Jack are having a fight, they need to take it into the study, ok?"

Jason nods, cheek rubbing against the scratchy outline of the Gotham Academy Robins logo. He always thought it was kind of a lame sports mascot, a robin. They're not particularly vicious or intimidating, but Jason supposes that anything graceful that flies makes a kind of sense for a gymnastics team at least, and that's the only team he cares about at the school.

Probably why the gymnastics team regularly wins championships and the football team can barely scratch a win. The thought makes Jason smirk. He knows they're different schools (technically; most of the kids at Brentwood end up at GA for high school) but the football players at his school are jerks.

"Thanks, Dickie."

"Of course, Jay. I'll always be here for you too."

Dick squeezes him tighter and Jason gives in, wrapping an arm around his brother's waist to hug him back.

There's another light knock at the door and when Jason says come in, their dad pokes his head into the room.

"I'm sorry," he says without any preamble.

"It's ok," Jason mumbles. He knows their dad is talking to him. Dick doesn't freak out the way Jason has about loud yelling matches.

"It's not," Dad insists. "I'll try harder to make sure we're not in the hall next time, ok?"

Jason scowls. He can't help it. He doesn't want to give his dad anything else to stress about, but the nonchalance about an inevitable 'next time' makes Jason bristle. Why does there have to be a next time at all? Uncle Jack was saying such awful things, why is Dad staying with him?

"Ok," he says instead of any of that.

Their dad gives them a soft, fond smile. "I have to go into the city and pick up Damian from Talia. Then I have to swing by the office for a bit. Don't stay up too late and don't eat too much garbage."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever old man," Dick grumbles, but both of them are smiling and Dick makes a show of fishing out a bag of marshmallows from the overflowing backpack he'd brought with him.

Shaking his head, Dad says, "Good night, boys," and closes the door behind him.

They're quiet for a moment, with just the sound of Dick smacking on marshmallows while he waits for Jason to wrangle his thoughts.

"He looked ok," Jason says finally.

"Yeah, he did."

"Sometimes I think that Uncle Jack might..." he trails off, unable to finish the thought out loud.

"I know," Dick says, offering the bag to Jason. He takes one and nibbles on it. "Uncle Jack can be kind of intense. But I really don't think he'd hurt dad, Jay. And like, if they ever got into a real fight, Dad would totally kick his ass."

A tentative smile twitches at the edge of Jason's mouth. "Yeah. You're right."

"Now," Dick says, tone shifting into one of faux seriousness as he nods to the flatscreen hanging on the wall across from Jason's bed that he honestly forgets is there. "Are we watching a movie? Or" — he holds up Jason's book — "are you reading me a story?"

Jason grins and snatches the book out of his big brother's hand. Turning back to where he'd left off, he makes a note of the page number before turning to the next section. Good thing he'd chosen Jhumpa Lahiri's short story collection tonight instead of The Idiot or Dick would have been coming in on the middle of the plot.

Though, he is a little disappointed he's missing an opportunity to make jokes about Dick being an idiot. They're probably not the kind of stories Dick expects, not exactly what one would usually spring for in a bedtime story, but the man could do with a little culture and Jason does make that joke when Dick gives him the opportunity a few minutes into Jason's reading.

In the end it doesn't matter. Dick dozes off halfway through the first story and Jason, tucked against Dick's side with a strong arm around his shoulders, does what he usually does and follows his older brother's lead, falling asleep a few minutes later feeling warm and safe.

Chapter Text

Something yanks Dick out of a cozy, peaceful sleep with a dull, tingling sense of dread prickling his skin. It's dark in Jason's room, he must have hit the lights before going to bed.

His little brother is curled against his side, one arm slung over Dick's waist, face buried in Dick's ribs, there's a cool wet spot where Jason has drooled on his shirt a little. Dick smiles despite the uneasy feeling twisting in his gut. He's always worried about Jason when Bruce gets into it with someone. The younger boy is so sensitive to domestic disputes. Not for the first time, the knowledge of why makes his heartbreak for his baby brother and also makes Dick miss his mom and stepdad. Not for the first time, he also wishes they'd been the parents Jason had known before finding out Bruce was his dad.

Features softened by sleep, Jason looks so much smaller and younger. And he's already smaller than he should be for his already young age. It had taken some getting used to, Jason joining the family. Dick had just gotten used to having a brother with Damian and had comforted himself with the fact that he had loads of time to learn how to be a big brother while the infant grew up. Then Jason shows up, decidedly not a toddler and Dick had to figure it out a lot faster than he'd been prepared for. They'd stumbled a little. Jason had been surly and uncooperative, shy but also not afraid to snap and snarl at someone when he felt threatened, which was often. There was a lot that Dad and Talia wouldn't tell him but he was sixteen and smart enough to figure enough of it out. It didn't take long for Dick to go from annoyed and resentful to protective and doting. It took Jason longer to stop acting like a feral cat getting a bath every time someone showed him affection.

Jason stiffens in his sleep before his eyes slowly drag open. Then he jolts himself upright the same way Dick had.

"What's wrong?" the younger boy whispers, a slight tremble in his voice.

So he senses it too, something on the edges of perception, some inexplicable feeling of wrongness.

"I don't know," Dick says just as quietly.

He swallows hard, scanning the room, looking for anything out of place. Jason does the same thing, his wide eyes lingering on every shadow, checking it's shape, squinting into it's depths for anything that doesn't belong. Dick's heart clenches watching Jason resort to the survival instincts he'd learned on the street.

A little hand twists tighter in the fabric of Dick's shirt.

It's almost inaudible "Dick..." chills Dick's blood.

Ok. They need to get downstairs, into the bright lights of the kitchen, have some coco with Alfred. Dick feels as freaked out as Jason, even if he's hiding it better. He glances at the digital clock on Jason's dresser, hoping it's late enough that Dad will be home.

2 AM. Maybe. Slightly more likely since he has Damian with him, though that kid can sleep anywhere, including the really uncomfortable fancy couch in Dad's office.

"Alright," Dick says quietly, scooping Jason out of bed and setting him on his feet. "We're gonna go find Alfred, ok? We'll get him to make the good hot chocolate and break out the leftover snickerdoodles. Then we'll sneak extras. Sound good?"

Dick takes Jason's hand and instead of swatting him away like he usually would, Jason clings to him, grip nearly tight enough to cut off circulation.

"Can we see if Dad is back first?" He sounds so, so small.

"Of course."

They're both still whispering and moving as quietly as possible across the wooden floors. The feeling of anticipation stretching taut in the atmosphere. Something had set them off like this. Something had their nerves frayed before they even opened their eyes. Something happened to make them both so skittish. Dick wracks his mind, trying to remember what it was that snapped him out of his sleep.

Jason reaches for the door. His little hand grips the knob and starts to turn.

It comes to Dick then, what woke him full of anxiety. A thudding sound down the hall.

"Wait..."

He reaches for Jason's wrist but it's too late, the younger boy has already opened the door.

The sight of a tall, masked man immediately on the other side is so startling that neither Dick or Jason have the wherewithal to react for a long moment while what they're seeing sinks in. Several other masked figures lurk in the darkened hallway behind him.

The mask twitches like the man behind it smiles. There is something dark and wicked in the gleam of his eyes, and Dick's heart slams to a suffocating halt as he realizes the masked man is staring down at his little brother.

All at once, the tension snaps and everyone jolts to action. Everything happens so quickly, Dick barely has time to register it all.

Instinctively, he pulls on Jason's wrist, trying to drag the boy behind him to put his body between the intruders and his little brother. But before he can manage it, the tall man's hand snaps out, snagging Jason's other arm and yanks him back. Jason lets out a startled yelp. Dick, refusing to let go, stumbles forward. The tall man claps a hand over Jason's mouth which prompts Dick to open his own to call for help. Despite Dad's protestations, Dick knows Alfred keeps a shotgun in a locked case under his bed.

The words never make it past his throat. The other men in the hall have slipped past the Tall Man. They flank Dick, grasping his arms in bruising grips. A wad of fabric is shoved into his mouth and another strip pulled tight between his teeth to keep him from spitting it out. Strands of his hair are ripped from his head as the length is knotted too tightly. The men holding him wrangle him further into the room as he thrashes.

Through it all, Dick doesn't take his eyes off his little brother. The Tall Man keeps his hand pressed tightly to Jason's mouth so he can't scream, and the other still clinging to Jason's wrist, stretched across the smaller body tightly enough to pin Jason's free limb to his side. It doesn't stop the kid from thrashing around like a skittish colt. Jason lifts both legs off the ground and swings them down, trying to break free. He manages to loosen the arm around him enough to twist and throw a knee into the Tall Man's groin.

The Tall Man hisses a curse and backhands Jason so hard he goes flying. The sight of it makes Dick sick to his stomach, Jason is still so small for his age, he slides across the floor like he weighs nothing. Dick tries to call to him, but it comes out a muffled, garble of sounds. He writhes in his captors' hold, bucking even more wildly when the Tall Man — flanked by two more intruders — stalks toward Jason looking murderous, trying desperately to free himself so that he can protect his little brother.

One of the men holding him slugs Dick in the gut. All the air in his lungs leaves in a painful heave and it feels like some of his stomach has lodged itself in his throat. Tears spring to his eyes as he tries to take huge gulps of oxygen, too little slipping past the thick wad of fabric in his mouth.

Looming over the small, trembling body on the floor, the Tall Man swings his foot into Jason's ribs, then leans down to wrap long, thin fingers around Jason's skinny neck and lifts him up until his socked toes barely brush against the wood floor. Little hands claw the massive one cutting off his limited air supply. The men holding Dick wrestle him to his knees like his frantic railing against their superior strength is little more than the irritating buzz of a mosquito.

Time slows to a crawl, sticking around the edges in an extending, eternal liminal space. Jason kicks out weakly as the Tall Man squeezes but he can't reach far enough to actually connect even if he had the strength for a meaningful attempt. Dick sees his own terror reflected in Jason's wide eyes, his own impotence and lack of understanding. What's happening? How is it happening? Why is it happening? What is going to happen? Is Dick about to watch his little brother be murdered? Is Jason about to watch Dick die? Is their father going to come home to find their lifeless bodies? Is Alfred going to come up to wake them when they're late for breakfast in the morning only to find them lying in puddles of their own blood?

He tries to shake those thoughts out of his head. He can't quite shake the idea that it's the most likely outcome.

A horrible, high-pitched voice snaps everything back into the immediacy of the moment, the stark relief of the present.

"That's enough, children," the Tall Man says. It's shrill, with an affected quality that feels purposeful, like he's exaggerating the tone. There's something vaguely — very vaguely — familiar about it. "You're going to calm down and play nice or tonight is going to end very, very badly for you."

Unceremoniously, he drops Jason onto the edge of the bed and watches dispassionately as the younger boy convulses into a coughing fit as he reflexively chokes down huge lungfuls of air. Then he reaches out to brush his knuckles against Jason's cheek.

The tenderness of the touch, the intimacy, freezes Dick's blood in his veins. A different kind of horror starts to simmer in his gut.

Jason stiffens briefly before trying to jerk away, but the Tall Man's other hand delves into the thick, black curls at the back of Jason's head and yanks him back into place.

"You don't want anything to happen to your brother, do you?"

Clearly the question is addressed to both of them, even if the Tall Man doesn't doesn't do anything more than tilt his head in Dick's direction without taking his eyes off Jason.

Jason's gaze flicks to Dick. They're eyes meet and Dick knows that his little brother can see the fear and uncertainty in his own expression the same way Dick can see it written plainly on Jason. Dick will do anything to protect his little brother and he tries to communicate with Jason that the younger boy needs to let Dick protect him. Because he knows Jason will do anything to help him too and that is not an option, as far as Dick is concerned.

The man repeats, "Do you?" much deeper and more menacingly than before.

Both Dick and Jason shake their heads and Dick is struck again by just how small Jason looks, skinny legs dangling over the edge of the bed, looking up at the Tall Man towering over him.

"Good!" The higher pitch is back. The Tall Man sounds deliriously cheerful. "Then you'll both be nice and quiet and do exactly as you're told, won't you?"

They hesitate, locking eyes again. The Tall Man sighs, reaches into his back pocket with the hand not twisted tightly in Jason's hair, and pulls out a switchblade, flicking open in the same movement. For one, heart-stopping moment, Dick thinks he's about to watch his little brother die.

"Won't you?"

They both nod vigorously.

"Excellent! And that's the last time you make me ask something a second time, right?"

They both nod again. Dick can see Jason trembling from where he's kneeling; knows he isn't doing much better himself, trying to control the building, overwhelming anxiety of not knowing where this is going and what's about to happen but knowing it's going to be awful whatever it is...

"Good boys," the Tall Man coos. "Fantastic. Then we can get started. Just to recap the rules for you. Be nice. Be quiet. Do as you're told the first time you're told. Follow the rules and you'll both be fine. Scout's honor."

As far as reassurances go, Dick isn't particularly convinced. But it's not like he has any other options.

That meager resolve crumbles to dust when the Tall Man sets his knife on the bedside table so that he doesn't have to let go of Jason in order to pull down his zipper.

Before he can think better of it, Dick lurches forward, determined to stop that — he can't even put it into words in his own mind — or die trying. Probably the latter, the rational part of his brain supplies unhelpfully. Even if Dick could get away from the two men holding him, he'd still have to get past two more and the Tall Man in order to get to Jason.

But he can't even get far enough to have to worry about that. The men at his side seem to expect his outburst and tighten their grips before he can even twitch.

The Tall Man deigns to glance at Dick, tutting at him, before snatching up his knife again with a sinister chuckle.

"You just cost your little brother a punishment. Shame." He taps the flat of his blade against Jason's cheek, the point just below one terrified teal eye. Jason trembles violently in fear, eyes squeezing shut and tears spilling out the seams. "Such a pretty boy."

The bulk of the Tall Man is suddenly blocking Dick's view of his little brother. One of the other men rushes to the Tall Man's aide. There's some thrashing and struggling, some whimpering and finally, muffled screaming. Dick tries to yell at them to wait, tries to beg for forgiveness, and plead for mercy.

When they step back, Jason is curled up in a little ball on the bed, body shaking with quiet sobs.

"You should follow your brother's example," the Tall Man says, wiping the blood — Jason's blood — off the knife onto the fabric of his slacks. "Practically bit his own tongue off to stay quiet through that, just to protect you. Going forward, you should remember that."

He turns to the bed and yanks Jason back upright. "Stay."

When the Tall Man lets go of him, Jason sways like he's going to tip over. Somehow he manages not to, but his gaze is unfocused, eyes staring at nothing, breath coming out in little hitched hiccups.

Which is the only reason Dick gets a look at what the intruder did to his little brother. The wind is knocked out of him at the sight of the dripping marks carved into Jason's cheek. He can't really make out what it's meant to be through the mess of blood and the distance and the darkness but it almost looks like a "J".

He's so distracted by the mutilation he doesn't realize the Tall Man has resumed his previous plan until Jason flinches, blinking back to the present, when a long, thick cock is shoved in his face.

Dick only barely manages to restrain himself from trying, once again, to fling himself at his little brother. Only the sight of the bleeding wound on Jason's face stops him.

Tears stream down his own face. "Please," he sobs, desperately trying to form intelligible words past his gag. "Please don't. I'll do it. Let me do it. Please don't touch him anymore. Take me instead. He's just a kid, please let me."

Nothing sounds like actual language, but something must still come across in his frantic desperation. One of the men securing him pets his fingers through Dick's hair and down his neck in a way that makes Dick feel dead inside but also hopeful that they'll agree. Jason is just a kid. He looks like a kid. He's so small he looks at least two years younger than he actually is. They've been helping him gain weight since they found out about him and brought him home but it's been a couple years and Dick knows it's a slow process to do it in a healthy way but Jason will probably never grow very tall and he's still so skinny. Dick doesn't know how anyone can look at that little boy and get hard.

But Dick? Ever since he hit puberty and his lanky frame filled out into lean, athletic muscle, Dick's attractiveness has garnered a great deal of appreciation in everything from magazines aimed at teenage girls to the most eligible bachelor spread he did for GQ when he turned nineteen (the proceeds of which he donated to charity). He's used to being told he's good looking. He's used to people looking at him with different intensities of desire.

There are five men in this room. Rape may be a horribly common urge but raping kids is comparatively not. Even if the Tall Man is only interested in Jason, surely the others aren't? Surely statistically the majority of them would rather kill a pedophile than assist one?

The horrible hope that they'd shift their focus away from Jason dies when they laugh at him, when the Tall Man snorts and slaps his cock against Jason's face. It makes a disgusting wet smacking sound as it hits against the tears and blood. Dick's stomach revolts and it's all he can do to swallow down the sudden urge to vomit so that he doesn't choke on his own dinner.

"All right, sweetheart," the Tall Man hums, gently swiping at the tears on Jason's unmarred cheekbone with one hand as he guides his cock to Jason's mouth with the other. "You're going to be a good boy for daddy, aren't you? You're going to be nice, you're going to be quiet, and you're going to follow daddy's orders, isn't that right?"

Still shaking like a leaf, Jason gives a weak nod.

"If you're naughty, daddy is going to have to punish you by hurting your big brother the same way daddy had to hurt you when your brother was naughty. You don't want to hurt your brother, do you?"

"N-no," Jason whispers, voice cracked and hoarse.

"No, daddy."

Jason gulps, eyes flicking Dick's direction so fast Dick almost misses it.

"N-no... daddy." His voice is so flat, face a blank mask. Dick doesn't even know what to make of it. Jason doesn't seem distant, doesn't seem detached from what's happening, but he seems... resigned.

And that's so much worse.

"Oh yes, I like that. Such a respectful young man." The Tall Man digs his fingers into the hinges of Jason's jaw, prying his mouth open and god his mouth is so small and Tall Man's— so big and it's not gonna fit, it's not gonna fit, oh god. Dick feels so sick.

Jason squeezes his eyes shut again, tears and blood streaming down his face, as the Tall Man forces his way past his lips. Miraculously, the Tall Man's thick shaft does manage to fit into Jason's tiny mouth — and Dick is sticking with miraculously because he has the awful feeling that it wouldn't have mattered to the man assaulting his little brother whether or not he could fit, he would have made it — stretched obscenely wide.

He keeps pushing, deeper and deeper into Jason's throat, moaning every time Jason makes a pained little choking sound. Dick watches in horror when Jason's throat bulges out as the Tall Man bottoms out, violently shoving in his entire length.

Then, instead of thrusting, he just sits there. Dick can see Jason's throat working frantically trying to swallow and breathe. Tall Man just hums happily at every flex of Jason's esophagus, rolling his hips like he's trying to get even deeper.

It feels like forever they just sit there, Dick weeping behind his gag as he watches his little brother drool and choke over some sick fuck's dick.

"Look at me, sweet thing," Tall Man hums, shifting his stance over Jason so the younger boy's wet gaze can flicker up to him. "That's it. Keep those pretty little eyes on me, hm?"

His fingers comb through Jason's curls, gently teasing out the tangles, like Jason isn't turning purple and shoving weakly at Tall Man's hips, urgently trying to push him back.

"My, my, you do look like your daddy, don't you?"

Dick cringes. He's not sure whether Jason heard that or not considering how preoccupied he is trying to get his attacker to back away long enough to breathe. And it's said quietly, almost wistfully, a touch of something familiar in the voice now that it's lowered in lust and not put on. It makes Dick feel terribly naïve for his earlier thoughts. Obviously this is about more than just a sick desire for Jason.

But Dick doesn't get the chance to dwell on it for very long.

Finally, the Tall Man releases Jason. Dick twitches forward in a reflexive urge to get to this little brother as Jason collapses into a tiny heaving, hacking lump. Fortunately, Dick stops himself before he can cause Jason even more pain than he already has. Not that the Tall Man or his friends notice. Even the ones with their iron grips on Dick seem to be more interested in what's happening on the bed.

They watch as Jason tries to catch his breath again, between deep, heartbreaking, sobs that wrack through his whole body. The Tall Man's eyes never leave Jason the entire time. He just stands there, looking down at the abused boy, stroking his spit-slick cock.

"You did such a good job, baby," Tall Man praises, voice once again pitched higher. "Got me nice and wet. It's gonna make this next part so much easier for you."

Dick watches helplessly as the man takes Jason by the hips, simultaneously hiking them up and shoving the kid forward across the sheets, then following onto the bed to slot into place against Jason's backside.

With cracked, miserable whines, Jason allows himself to be manhandled. He shudders and buries his face in the covers as Tall Man humps his bare cock between Jason's still-clothed asscheeks, only the thin layers of Jason's briefs and pajama bottoms between them.

"Well shoot," Tall Man says casually, conversationally, like they're catching up with old friends and not abusing a child. He pulls back just far enough to yank Jason's pants down to his knees. "That undid all your hard work, didn't it? I'm so sorry. I just couldn't resist, you know? You're just begging for it with this cute little butt."

He smacks Jason's ass hard enough to make him jolt and cry out, then kneads the rounds of flesh, pushing them together to roll his hips into the friction and spreading them apart to thumb at the little hole hidden between.

"The last thing I wanna do is hurt you, baby boy. Let me make it up to you, hm?"

Dick flinches again when Tall Man leans forward and spits on Jason's hole before tossing a nod at the men not keeping Dick on his knees. Their body language is excited as they step forward. For a moment, Dick doesn't know what they're going to do. He feels murderous when they add their saliva to Tall Man's, and can't stop himself from fighting against his captors and calling out for his little brother when Tall Man lines up his cock and starts to push in.

Up to this point, Jason has taken everything they've done to him with a kind of passive acceptance that chilled Dick to the bone. In retrospect, he preferred that. It was clear his little brother was hurt and being hurt but it wasn't something so agonizing that Jason couldn't control his responses.

Because now? Now Jason shrieks.

The sound of his little brother's tortured screams will haunt Dick for the rest of his life. They'll live in his nightmares, reminding him of how badly he failed; how impotently he sat there and watched, petrified and unable to look away, as his baby brother was brutally raped while begging for his attacker to stop.

Tall Man reaches forward, twisting his fingers in Jason's hair and shoving his face into the mattress to muffle his anguished cries, never once breaking the pace with which he impales the young boy on his dick. With a final vicious jab, he seats himself fully in Jason's small body. Dick is horrified that he somehow managed to make it fit. It seemed so monstrous against Jason's skinny frame.

Like when he used Jason's mouth, Tall Man starts rolling his hips in small, gentle movements. Like he's actually waiting for Jason to adjust to the intrusion. Something that seems impossible from Dick's perspective.

When Jason's screaming subsides to more sobbing, Tall Man gives the man closest to him another nod. Dick can do nothing but strain against the arms around him as the man clearly grins under his mask and unzips his trousers before crawling on the bed too.

Tall Man jerks Jason up by his hair. Jason gasps for air — in the back of his mind, Dick is starting to worry about how little Jason has been allowed to breathe throughout this ordeal — face blotchy from crying and oxygen deprivation, streaked with tears and blood, nose running. He looks awful.

"This is Gaggy," Tall Man hums, pressing Jason's back against his front. "He's one of daddy's best buddies. A great help. Now, I wasn't gonna do this, really, you're daddy's special boy and daddy doesn't really want to share you. But you broke rule number two and your brother broke one and three again. I wish you didn't make me punish you, sweetheart, but 'spare the rod, spoil the child' and all that. So I can't let you off the hook entirely. However, I know you, and even your brother, are trying very hard to be good, so I'll make you a deal. Uncle Gaggy thinks you have the prettiest little mouth. He saw how much you enjoyed sucking on daddy's lollipop and he wants to share his with you too. All you have to do is suck Uncle Gaggy's lollipop until you feel that warm, juicy center burst over your tongue. And follow the three rules, of course. Isn't that so lenient of daddy to do? It's not even really a punishment. More of a treat for being such a good boy up until now. Be a shame to have to punish you and your brother if you refuse daddy's gift, wouldn't it?"

Jason's eyes flicker over to Dick. Dick tries to shake his head, mumbles unintelligibly into the wad of fabric that Jason needs to refuse. Dick can take whatever they'll do to him. He'll happily die if they'll just leave his little brother alone already.

But the look in Jason's eyes makes Dick feel like the floor just fell out from under him; makes him feel like he's falling and there's no net to catch him.

Jason looks so... broken.

Those wet, bloodshot teal eyes turn away and when Jason hangs his head, Tall Man takes it for the tacit acquiescence it is.

"Gaggy" is much shorter than the Tall Man, but also much thicker. Where Tall Man has a long, lean build, Gaggy is stout and flabby. His shirt rolls up his round belly when he lowers his boxers to free his cock and thick, wiry hair clearly expands from the chest all the way down to where that cock stands erect. He's shorter but thicker than the Tall Man there too. It's not much of a comfort for Dick. It's still far too big for Jason.

When Gaggy takes Jason's face in both hands, fingertips purposely digging into the still bleeding cuts gouged into a cheek still plump with the remnants baby fat, that's the moment Dick feels his grasp on his own consciousness slip beyond his reach. He's still seeing every awful thrust the men stab into his brother, still hearing every wet slap of skin against skin, every foul thing they say to Jason about how sweet and precious and well-behaved he is, about how he's too good with his mouth and how it must be from experience; every comment from the men watching about how nice and tight the 'little bitch' must be, if their father is a little bitch like his sons. Dick can still hear every tortured sob, every gargling choke, every hopeless sound forced from Jason's abused throat.

But it all feels very far away, swirling just out of reach beyond a fog of disbelief. This can't possibly be happening, right? This is just the most vivid, most blood-curdling nightmare he's ever had. He'll wake up to find his little brother tucked safely against his side where the younger boy fell asleep reading to him. He'll wake up to a world where he's never seen his little brother forced to his hands and knees, being pushed and pulled between the depravity of two grown men.

He'll wake up to world where his little brother wasn't raped right in front of him while he just sat there and watched.

After what feels like forever, it ends. The Tall Man finishes first, yanking Jason's hair so hard strands break free and snapping his hips against Jason's ass so violently it's a wonder Jason doesn't have a broken tailbone. For a while, Tall Man doesn't pull out. He just sits there, squeezing and smacking Jason's ass until it's red and bruised, while the force of Gaggy's thrusts rock Jason back against his softening cock.

Finally he slides his cock from Jason's body, right about the same time Gaggy hauls Jason off him and frantically jerks himself to completion all over Jason's face and panting mouth.

"Aw," Tall Man says, motioning to the final thug and Dick pleads with the universe, no, please let it be over. Please. But all he does is take something from the goon. "Thought you were gonna give our boy his treat?"

Even with a mask covering his face, Gaggy manages to exude pure evil when he pats Jason's wounded cheek and says, "No worries. I still plan to give it to him."

A buzzing sound splits through the relative silence of the room, cutting off Tall Man's response.

Reaching into the pocket of his trousers, Tall Man takes out a phone. He taps at it for a few moments before slipping it back into his pocket.

"Time to go," he says.

Gaggy curses. "Fuck, ok. Just a second."

Roughly, he grabs Jason again, shoving his soft cock back into the boy's mouth. Dick doesn't understand what's happening until Jason suddenly starts bucking and writhing in a desperate attempt to get away, not quite drowning out the hiss of liquid.

"What's the matter, sweet thing? Uncle Gaggy promised you a warm, wet treat and I would have felt so bad if I hadn't delivered."

The stench of urine fills the room as Gaggy rolls himself off the bed and fixes his clothes while Jason hacks and spits, big heavy wails ripping their way out of his ragged throat.

Dick turns away, only just managing to avoid getting sick in his own lap.

The men holding him let go as he heaves on all fours. Vaguely he's aware that they head for the door.

A piercing scream jolts Dick's attention back to the bed.

Tall Man is standing over Jason, petting his hand down the boy's spine and hushing him like he's offering comfort. He's tied Jason's hands behind his back with his sleep shirt and his free hand is...

Dick tries to scramble to his feet but his legs wobble like jelly. He stumbles forward and is apparently enough of a threat now that he's upright that the Tall Man stops playing with the long metal rod he's shoved up Jason's ass to grasp Dick by both shoulders and pat his cheek hard enough to be a smack.

"Had a blast playing with you kids. Don't forget to pick up your mess and hey" — he slugs Dick in the stomach — "take care of your little brother. You're so good at it."

Without the support of Tall Man's arms, Dick drops to the floor when he's released. He's aware of the sounds of them all shuffling out the door.

"'Night boys! Sweet dreams!"

Dick doesn't know how long he lays there, all he knows is that every second he can't make himself get up buries him in exponentially increasing guilt. It's a second longer his little brother is lying there, alone, bound, with what Dick is pretty sure is a crowbar wedged inside him, covered in piss and cum and blood.

If this is a nightmare, Dick would very much like to wake up now.

It can't be more than a minute or two — it feels like an eternity when he can hear Jason sobbing and moaning in pain — but finally, Dick manages to lever himself off the floor.

The sight of Jason almost makes Dick sick again. It was bad enough from the other side of the bedroom but it's so much worse up close.

"P-please..." Jason's voice cracks, and it's so thick and wet Dick can barely make out the word. He's surprised Jason can speak at all with the ugly smears of dark purple ringing his neck. "H-help... p-pl—"

"Oh god," Dick mutters. "Just a sec, Jay."

As gently as he can manage, Dick unties Jason's arms. His hands hover over the crowbar, doubt and uncertainty falling over him like a bag of bricks. It can't stay there, obviously. But removing it feels too invasive.

God, he wishes—

"Boys?"

Relief washes through Dick so fast and fiercely he gets light headed.

Dad is home. Oh, thank fuck. Thank fuck.

"Dad!" he calls, not at all surprised about the thick layer of fear and panic carried in that single word.

Jason keens, a loud, pleading, broken cry that makes Dick start weeping again.

The door slams open. Dick and Jason both flinch.

But it's just their dad, big and sturdy and safe taking up the whole doorway, silhouetted against the glaringly bright light of the hallway.

Dick watches him take in the scene. Sees the exact moment understanding barrels into him. Watches his father's face crumple and big fat tears spring to his eyes.

But he's there now. He'll know what to do.

Dad will know what to do.

Dick can't quite bring himself to think that things will be ok.

Chapter Text

Rumors spread through Gotham like a virus. Even though Jason is a minor and his identity should be protected, Gotham's famously corrupt public services, rotten-to-the-core police force, and morally bankrupt tabloids don't let little things like the law stop them from leaking information and publishing juicy stories; especially about the city's royal family. It's not long before even Jason's medical records have gone viral. He'd begged them not to take him to the hospital but... Bruce, with tears in his eyes and apologies pouring from his lips, explained as best he could under the circumstances, that Jason's injuries were far too severe to risk not getting medical attention.

They've tried to protect him from the worst of it. Wayne Enterprises' IT department was happy to block all news and social media sites and blacklist every variation of their names they could think of from access in the penthouse and the Manor. But it's impossible to cut Jason off from the world entirely, no matter how hard they all try. Especially since moving to the penthouse after Jason had a severe panic attack at the mere sight of his bedroom door in the Manor.

Not that Jason leaves the penthouse very often. Sending him back to school proved a non-option before they even had the chance to discuss when would be appropriate, so Jason is currently homeschooled with a truly grueling schedule that he pretty much designed himself. The therapist says that keeping his mind busy is how Jason is coping and while they should keep an eye on it lest it become obsessive, they shouldn’t worry just yet.

It should have been easier than it turns out to be though, at least for a little while. The penthouse might be in the middle of Gotham but it has private access, via a private garage, guarded by ex-special forces personnel. It’s as much of a fortress as a residential space in the middle of a major city can be.

But nothing can account for the cruelty of some people.

Despite being bright and charming and funny, Jason has never made friends easily, a fact that Bruce tries not to let bother him. He knows his son is happiest sitting alone in the library, a book propped open while he eats his lunch. He just worries about Jason, even before this new horror, Bruce worried about him. He’s never had the easy way with people that Bruce himself and Dick enjoy. Jason is more like his mother in that way, quiet and shy until they get comfortable with someone, and Bruce just doesn’t know how to help a kid like that out of his shell.

That said, it’s not as though Jason’s peers have given him the chance to get to know them. While Jason has a couple of close friends, between being the smallest kid in his class (and the for next two grades down), teacher's pet, and growing up in Crime Alley before the discovery of his Wayne parentage, Jason had accumulated a dedicated pack of bullies well before his tragic past became public knowledge. So it's a simple thing to call Tim’s parents and Numbers' guardian to request the kids limit their interactions with Jason to a handful of banal texts a week just to remind Jason that his friends care about him. However, it proves far more difficult than Bruce could have imagined to protect his kids from the viciousness in the world.

Bruce finds himself spending hours on the phone with parents of children old enough to know better, raging at their blasé, “they’re just kids” attitude and threatening legal action if they don’t stop their little psychos from calling Bruce’s traumatized, twelve-year-old son to call him a “lying whore” and ask — through fits of laughter — how much for just a basic fuck because “you may like having steal tools shoved up your ass, but it doesn’t do anything for me.”

Eventually, Bruce’s attorneys did end up sending out — far too many, extremely threatening, though ultimately toothless — letters. They have to resort to getting Jason a new phone and changing his number so that the only people who can contact him aside from Bruce himself are Dick, Alfred, and Jack (and after a cool-down period, Numbers and Tim).

Dick’s friend group is larger, more outgoing, and more likely to seek each other out for support in trying times. But Dick is also a very visible, much more public figure than Jason, beloved and envied in equal measure. So while Bruce fends off children who make him rethink his position on corporal punishment, parents who make him rethink his position on whether some people should be allowed to have children, and tabloid scum with the nerve to call his preteen son who make him rethink his position on a free press, Dick is dodging slightly more tactful but no less invasive calls by actual reporters when they don’t have any luck getting Bruce. And even Dick has been forced to sparingly hand out new contact information after a series of calls from sick assholes asking Dick horrible, disgusting things. Bruce will never forget the way his twenty-year-old son’s face went white to ashen to green the first time someone on the other side of the line asked him if the monsters who broke in, beat him, and forced him to watch as his little brother was viciously raped, “let him have a turn with the whore”.

Because it’s not just Jason’s most recent medical records that have been leaked. Every extremely personal, dark moment of Jason’s life that the poor boy has tried to bury and move on from has been indiscriminately dug up and spewed… everywhere. Every hospitalization from the first time Willis Todd broke his arm to the last pedophile who decided not to pay, is starkly painted in black and white pixels; his sealed juvenile record listing every arrest for larceny, auto burglary, and prostitution is splashed in high definition across the screen of every news station above banners saying things like, “Wayne heir paid for performing sex acts” as though it was a choice his child made.

Or, somehow reaching depths so repugnant Bruce never would have believed possible without the proof in front of his eyes, certain alternative personalities with podcasts and youtube channels skipping right past implication with titles like, “How Jason Wayne Whored His Way to the Top” and “Rich Boy Cries Rape, But Is It Really?: The depraved truth behind Jason Todd’s seduction of the unwitting men of Gotham.”

It keeps Bruce up at night, thinking about all the gross, subtle and not-so-subtle, manipulative tactics used to frame his child as anything other than a victim of Gotham’s worst; when they choose to call Jason “Wayne” versus when they choose to call him “Todd” depending on if they want to elicit thoughts of Gotham’s first family or distance from it.

Then the videos surface.

Nearly two months after the incident and it had just started to feel like they were on the downward slope. Then there were the security feeds, the body cam footage, even interrogation room interviews… Bruce doesn’t even know how they’re finding these things. Some of them are obviously not even Jason. But it doesn’t matter that it’s debunked immediately, once it’s seen and associated with Jason Wayne, there’s no going back. It makes Bruce violently ill to see blurry screenshots of his tiny son bent over a dumpster in an alley or pressed up against a wall or clips of the top of his head bobbing back and forth as a cop groans off-screen, being reported, shared, going viral. Even when they’re proven to not be his son, it provides little solace. A particular instance may not be Jason, but it’s still some child who deserved to be helped, not taken advantage of.

There are laws against showing that kind of stuff, aren’t there? Bruce’s lawyers have hired another firm to help. They can’t keep up with the sheer volume of filings, the grotesque onslaught of slander, dissemination of child sexual exploitation material, threats of death and rape that come to all of them. None of them have ever seen anything like this before.

Sometimes it feels like Bruce is going mad. Intellectually, he knows that there are more decent people than evil. For every one perverse, opportunistic, creep, there are twenty, fifty, a hundred, others offering support. The Wayne Foundation and other organizations focused on helping Gotham’s lost and forgotten children see record-breaking donations and a wave of volunteers, neither of which have even tapered off in the months since the news first hit. But the filth is too visible, too accessible, too easy to drown in and it taints the whole world in the foul scent of rot. For a while, Bruce succumbs to the gravity of it, sinking deeper and deeper into the sewage until it’s the only thing he can see. It takes a gentle but stern conversation with Alfred regarding the old man’s concerns for not just Bruce’s health but his children’s as well, for Bruce to stop checking what’s being said about them.

It takes him a few days to recenter — and he’s immeasurably grateful that Talia was able to take Damian for a while (though in his darkest moments, Bruce regrets holding her back from showing how al Ghuls handle these kinds of things). He needs to refocus on their actual lives instead of what everyone else has to say about them. He doesn’t know how much the boys know about the worst of it. Hopefully not much. They’ve been far more diligent about avoiding everything ever since they had to change their numbers. All Bruce knows is that they need him more now than they ever have before. The police still don’t have a lead and the longer they go without finding anything, the more melancholy his children seem to get.

But refocusing on their actual lives just throws into stark relief all the ways they’re cracking under the strain of carrying such an impossible burden.

Bruce looks up from his breakfast to toss a glance across the table. Meals are still, even four months after the incident, quiet and glum. Everything is still quiet and glum. A dark shadow has fallen over their once happy home, creeping into every crevice and nook, soaking into every pore of wood and vein of marble, so saturated that even the brilliant light from the penthouse’s massive windows can’t pierce through. It's hard for Bruce to imagine a future where this doesn't haunt their every step, their every breath, their every thought.

However, despite the obvious atmosphere of sorrow, Jack has been determined to single-handedly lift them all out of their depression and existential impotence ever since he returned. As well-intentioned as it might be, in practice, all it has seemingly done is make Jason feel even more uncomfortable. Even Dick physically cringes when Jack cracks a joke in the otherwise silent halls of the penthouse.

And, if Bruce is being honest with himself, he's not entirely convinced that Jack is well-intentioned anymore.

Nothing really stands out as obviously mean-spirited or indicative of ulterior motives. There isn't any action or comment that flings up a red flag. There isn't anything Bruce can pinpoint other than this crawling itch that something is off.

It makes him feel like an ungrateful jerk, thinking these thoughts after everything Jack has done for them since they returned from the hospital.

In a move very unlike him, Jack hadn't pressed Bruce to let him come to the hospital or pushed his way into their lives while they were trying to figure this whole mess out and come to terms with it all. Bruce had texted Jack to let him know that something indescribably awful had happened and that they'd had to take Jason to the hospital. Jack had been so understanding, offering help if Bruce or the boys needed it and letting Bruce know that aside from checking in once in a while, he would wait for Bruce to let him know when he could come around.

Frankly, Bruce had not been optimistic. He’d been hopeful that Jack would do as he said but... realistic about the fact that he probably wouldn't. Jack has always been on the... clingy side. Bruce would almost say the other man is insecure in their relationship but Jack is one of the most confident people Bruce has ever met. Jack is more than a little possessive, so maybe that is what's coming through. Either way, since the moment they met, Jack has never really been far from Bruce's side. When they started seeing each other, Bruce had known it would mean things would get very serious, very quickly. He thought he'd been ready for what that meant. After all, he'd known Jack for over a decade and loved him in one way or another for just as long.

But the night of the incident wasn't the first time that Bruce had been forced to remind Jack that the kids come first.

Truthfully, Bruce had seriously considered letting that be the end of their relationship. Looking at his sweet, innocent baby boy as he went through a series of horribly invasive examinations and interrogations, seeing his small body so battered and bloody and covered in the bodily fluids of grown men, and remembering how, just hours earlier, Jack had been talking about how much of a burden Jason was, filled Bruce with simmering anger.

As the night wore on though, and the adrenaline that had Bruce straddling a heart attack from the second he'd opened the bedroom door to a horror scene finally subsided, the anger at Jack had turned into something else. Sitting in the waiting area while one of his sons was patched up and the other was in surgery, Bruce had stared at his hands, musing darkly on whether more useless appendages had ever existed. What are a father's hands for if not to protect his children?

Bruce realized then that he needed someone to hold him together.

So, two days after they had settled in the penthouse, while Jason slept and Dick was glued to his new post by Jason's door, Bruce let Jack come home and fell apart in his arms.

He needed it. He's so ashamed to admit just how much he needed Jack to keep him from being consumed by either the void of despair or the roaring fires of rage.

Tragedy has a way of putting things in perspective. As Bruce stood in his foyer, sobbing into Jack's aubergine shirt, none of the petty arguments of the past mattered anymore. The love between them was suddenly starkly apparent in a way that it always should have been. The relief Bruce felt at having someone he could lean on — someone he trusted not just with his own life but the lives of his children — to support them through this whole disgusting ordeal was as though Atlas was finally able to rest from holding up the world. Facing his two hurt, broken children alone had felt beyond him at the time. How could he look at his two babies, see all their pain and suffering etched so clearly in their blank expressions, and live with the knowledge that with all the wealth and power at his disposal, he was still unable to protect them, he was still powerless to help them?

With everything Jason especially had been through before… Bruce’s house was supposed to be different. It was supposed to be safe.

Bruce feels so… impotent.

He has no idea how he would have managed alone. Jack saved his life then. “Or at least my sanity,” he jokes weakly with the therapist every time she asks about their relationship with a carefully neutral expression.

But that was then.

Now, after four months, the tension is creeping up again.

It's almost like Jack thinks that it's time for things to be back to the way they were before. Sometimes, Bruce thinks he catches him glaring at Jason like he thinks all their problems are the twelve-year-old's fault. Then Bruce blinks and Jack is smiling at him or making a joke or telling a story or trying to pull a prank and Bruce writes it off as his overprotectiveness and increasing paranoia.

That's why it took so long to notice. The feeling of wrongness has built over time, as coincidences evolved into patterns. The way Bruce would catch that look and moments later a joke just on the inappropriate side would follow.

Bruce feels more than a little guilty, having all these ungenerous thoughts when Jack is just trying to help. Especially taking into consideration the way that Jack has clearly been bending over backward to try to make things up to Jason.

One of the first things Jack did after comforting Bruce, was visit Jason. He gently knocked on Jason's door, only entering when Jason's quiet voice told him to come in. He moved slowly, clearly out of consideration for any discomfort Jason would obviously still have, sat on the edge of the bed — politely ignoring the way Jason had instinctively flinched away from him — and apologized for the unkind things Jason had overheard Jack say that night. He explained that he was mad at Bruce and in anger aimed low; that he didn't really think those things and it wasn't an excuse, but he hoped Jason would forgive him.

And Jason... Jason had stared at his fingers twisting the sheets of his new bed in his new room, miles away from his room at the manor — a room that should have been one of the safest places in the world for the young boy — during the whole thing before managing to glance up at Jack and giving him a small nod of acceptance with only the softest sniffle. After another flinch when Jack leaned toward him, Jason had allowed the man to hug him.

It had been brief, only lasting a couple of seconds before Bruce watched his son — his poor, sweet boy who had endured more than any person, let alone a child, should ever have to endure — go stiff as a corpse and just as pale.

The following minutes had been just like when they first brought Jason home and reached his bedroom door.

Bruce could see Dick out of the corner of his eye, tears streaming down his face as he watched helplessly while Bruce pressed one of Jason's hands to each of their hearts. As he softly counted, grounding Jason and coaxing him to take more steady breaths, Bruce devotes a piece of his mind to remembering that just because Jason's experience had been so uniquely horrific, doesn't mean that his eldest is ok.

Fuck, what a mess this all is.

Despite upgrading the security system and hiring more guards, Bruce hasn't slept through the night ever since. In his dreams, he relives those first moments. From Dick's broken call of "Dad!" when he came down the hall, to the slow crawl of understanding when his brain finally caught up to the scene before his eyes. There's a moment of limbo there, between seeing and registering the reality of something so violent and perverse. A stretching maw of time where the only thing that makes sense to the brain is the snap of sanity, the knowing that what is being captured by the eye can only be a hallucination.

Then everything else jolts into place. The sounds of heaving sobs and muffled cries, the smell of blood and cum, the acrid taste of piss on the air...

Just last night, over four months later, Bruce woke with that scent in his nose, that filth on his tongue, the echoes of his children's tears ringing in his ears as he lost his dinner into the wastebin he now keeps at the edge of his bed.

Jack used to rub his back and whisper sweet words of comfort into his ears before wrapping Bruce in his long, deceptively strong arms, and holding him through the night.

Bruce chances another glance at his partner over the remains of the breakfast dirtying the fine bone china of their plates. He's not sure if the new attitude is better or worse than the old.

Over the last week or so, Jack has gotten a bit sullen and short-tempered. He's not cracking jokes at Jason anymore but there is something cold and accusatory in the glint of Jack's green eyes when he looks at Jason and it’s not fleeting enough to make Bruce think he’s imagining it anymore. Last night, when the nightmares yanked Bruce out of his much-needed rest, instead of a supportive hand on his back, Jack had muttered, "Jesus fucking Christ", jerked the sheets to his side of the bed, and rolled over, quickly falling back to sleep.

On the one hand, Bruce understands. It has to be so frustrating, dealing with all this, especially when Jack has always been more physically affectionate than Bruce. Bruce feels guilty about the fact that he hasn't been able to show Jack the… intimacy he craves. But it still hurts to watch the man he loves literally turn his back on him while he sobs into a bucket at the memories of his children's brutal abuse.

He finds himself venting about it to the therapist. And he finds her questions increasingly difficult to answer without explanations that are starting to sound like excuses, even to Bruce.

More and more frequently, Bruce catches himself thinking of Talia; wondering how she would have handled things.

He's going to have to suck it up one of these days. Sooner rather than later if for no other reason than to head off one of Jack's mood swings. The last thing he needs is to have Jack start shouting at him about how much of a burden the kids are while Jason and even Dick are still trying to figure out how to get through a day.

Maybe tonight, after the gala...

Just the thought makes him feel exhausted and a little ill. Bruce can't think of anything he'd rather do less lately than have sex. Jack has never been one for subtlety or seen any reason to try to be quiet and the thought of Jason overhearing them makes Bruce violently protective.

Perhaps... perhaps, Bruce can make it seem more spontaneous and desired if he pushes Jack into one of the sitting rooms or the billiards room during the gala. Lord knows the man has a bit of an exhibitionist streak and likes to make sure everyone knows that Bruce is his. If they're missed it'll just go an extra step in reassuring Jack that Bruce's feelings for him haven't changed just because he hasn't been able to stomach the thought of touching someone or being touched.

Yeah. That's a good plan. If Bruce can just pull it together long enough to suck Jack off in the bathroom and maybe have the favor returned, that should buy him some time to pull himself together for more and hold off any frustrated outbursts from his partner.

With a bolstering sigh, Bruce sets his fork down and looks up at his boys, schooling his expression against the wave of concern he knows is coming at the inevitable sight of the barely touched plate of food in front of his middle child. Jason has always been small for his age, always been the smallest kid in any of his classes, and for the same reason he's so tiny, he's never left a crumb of food on his plate ever since he moved into the Manor where he belongs. But now... it feels like they just got him up to a decent weight and now he's starting to lose it again.

And although Dick returned to school last month, he has moved home — as home as the penthouse can be — and takes all but two classes online, choosing to stay close. Even if his appetite is normal again and the physical wounds have healed, he still hasn't healed enough on an emotional level to be back to himself. The quiet from his usually outgoing, chatterbox of a son breaks Bruce's heart all over again.

They're all in therapy, of course, but healing from something so violating and evil is a long, slow — probably lifelong — process.

Bruce's greatest sorrow for as long as he lives will be that his sons will never again be who they were before. They’ll never be who they would have been if this thing hadn't been done to them.

Clearing his throat breaks the thick, oppressive silence.

"Are you sure about tonight?" He asks for what is probably the eightieth time. "I don't want you to rush yourselves into anything for which you're not ready or feel obligated for any reason...."

Dick glances at Jason who doesn't look up from where he's pushing cold eggs around on his plate before meeting Bruce's gaze.

Bruce gives him a little, encouraging smile. Dick is trying to let Jason answer first so he can build his response around whatever the younger boy says. Dick has been just as protective of Jason as Bruce, potentially more so, since that night. They’re both trying to find the right balance between giving Jason his space and making sure he knows they’re there for him but…

This is a big deal. Jason hasn’t been back to the Manor in months and he hasn’t been around a crowd since they barreled through the ocean of press and onlookers to hunker down in the penthouse. Yet he’s been insistent that he’ll attend the gala to the point that the only reason any of them are going at all is because Jason has stubbornly refused to be swayed. Bruce and Dick had assumed they’d all sit it out this year until Jason asked which suits they were all wearing.

Bruce worries that Jason is jumping into the deep end off of a high dive, instead of slowly wading into the water from the shallow safety of the steps. He doesn’t want Jason to push himself too hard, too quickly. At the same time, he doesn’t want to force Jason into anything. The therapist agrees that Jason needs to start feeling some control over his life again, regaining a sense of agency, and that disallowing his first attempt to leave the penthouse will likely make him feel like a prisoner locked away in a tower. Especially when the place he’s trying to go is home.

At least she did manage to coax Jason into agreeing to stay close to a family member and promising to speak up if he gets overwhelmed.

Still, Bruce hasn’t been able to stop himself from checking in with Jason to make sure this is really what he wants.

Finally, after a long moment, Jason takes a small bite of his cold hash browns and says to his breakfast, "I'm sure, ok? Stop being weird about it."

Balling his hand into a fist and squeezing against his lap out of sight to stop from reaching for his son, Bruce frowns. "I just want you to remember that you have the option. You don't have to attend. You both can stay here with Alfred and the security detail if it's too much. And—"

"I said I'm sure," Jason snaps. Bruce feels his throat go tight. Although Jason has always been more introverted than Dick, he's never been silent the way he is now. And when he does speak he vacillates between timid and irritable.

Before Bruce can respond, Jack drops his fork and points a slim finger at Jason from across the table. "Don't bark at your father like a rabid bitch. He's twisted himself into knots trying to tiptoe around your new behavioral issues, the least you can do is politely answer his questions. You’ve done nothing but mope for months and he’s worried about you. Fuck’s sake, it’s not like someone died."

Everyone but Jack freezes. Jason's bright eyes go wide and watery, his mouth hanging open in a little 'o' as his cheeks and the tips of his ears color with humiliation. Dick's face also flushes red, but by the deep furrow of his brow, the thin line of his lips, and the way his grip tightens on his knife, it's not from embarrassment.

Jack goes back to his breakfast with a muttered, "Ungrateful brat," like he didn't just say something so unbelievably cruel that it defies comprehension.

Bruce gawks at him for a handful of seconds as his brain processes what the man he loves just said to his recently raped, preteen son.

A quivering inhale from Jason's direction is what finally drives things home.

"That is not helpful," he hisses. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

But Bruce already knows what it is. He's been neglecting his relationship with Jack to focus on the kids and took the other man’s presence and understanding for granted. It's unreasonable for Bruce to expect Jack to live with a shell of a relationship for an indeterminate amount of time. Bruce knows that. But Jack needs to be mature enough to hash it out with Bruce, not take it out on his deeply traumatized children. There’s no excuse for what Jack just said.

"No," Jason all but whispers, staring down at his lap. The sight of his once fiery boy curled in on himself, chest heaving with the effort of breathing through an oncoming panic attack, makes Bruce shatter. "H-he's right. Sorry, Dad. I-I'm sorry."

Jason positively flees.

Dick, looking on the brink of murder, follows after him with a very pointed glance between Bruce and Jack.

Bruce glares at the other man.

"That might be the most horrible thing you’ve ever said. No, it’s definitely the most horrible thing you’ve ever said. Why would you do something like that?”

Jack drops his utensils and squares up. "It's the truth. And the kid needed to hear it. You have been walking on eggshells around them and putting your entire life on hold."

Bruce feels heat percolating under his skin, his heart pounding faster and faster in his chest.

"My children were brutalized. My adolescent son was savagely raped while my barely adult son was beaten and forced to watch. Did you expect them to just shrug something like that off in a couple of months? Did you expect me to tell them to suck it up, it's time to move on? Do you expect us to act like their lives aren't irreparably altered? What do you expect, Jack?"

By the end, Bruce's voice is loud enough to carry. He can only hope that Dick had the foresight to take Jason somewhere far enough away that there are enough expensively soundproof walls between them to block out any further fighting. Although that’s harder to accomplish in the penthouse than it is in the Manor.

Bruce deflates, all the energy leaving him with the thought of Jason hearing their argument and being transported back to that night. He tips forward, dropping his head into his hands, and tugging at the roots.

"I'm sorry," he says softer. Because he is. This whole ordeal is something impossible to navigate and Jack has been his rock. They’re all struggling to adapt to the new reality of their lives, even Jack. "I know I haven't... been there much for you. And I do recognize and appreciate all your support and understanding over the months. I don't know how I would have gotten through this without you at my side. I don't think I would have."

Long fingers curl around Bruce's forearm and apply just enough pressure to coax Bruce's hands back to the table. Jack's face has softened some. He still looks frustrated, but he also looks contrite.

"You deserve more from me," Bruce adds, one more acknowledgment of his own failures where Jack is concerned before getting to the more important part. "I know that. But Jack... you can't take this out on the kids. You can't blame Jason for any of this. None of this is his fault. He's just a kid and he—" Bruce’s vision goes wavy as tears pool in his eyes and he has to pause to swallow the giant lump of anguish, "—he's trying to figure out how to live through a day without falling apart. It's going to take time and patience and if he yells at me or rebels or is less than the picture of upper-class civility, I need to be able to trust that you can step away when you feel yourself getting annoyed. I don't blame you for feeling the way you do, but you need to be able to control it around the boys. Ok?"

Vivid green eyes seem to pin Bruce to the chair like a bug on a board. Jack's expression is unreadable, like he's assessing. Calculating.

Finally, after a small eternity that has Bruce starting to question whether he's being reasonable, Jack shoots Bruce the Cheshire grin that earned him the nickname 'Joker' in college and says, "You're right. Of course, you're right. I'll be more considerate of the boys' feelings. And I'll make sure Little Jay knows exactly how much I care about him. He'll never doubt it again."

There's a flicker, the tiniest tick in the corner of that smile, that for the briefest of heartbeats gives him pause. But Bruce blinks and Jack's expression is full of sincerity before the idea that he might mean something else has a chance to take root.

Chapter Text

Dick finds him huddled in the corner of the study. Dad is the only one who spends much time in this room and every inch of it screams Bruce Wayne so entirely that Jason can't help but feel safe, enveloped by the warm wood paneling and shelves of books.

It even smells like Dad, lingering traces of his musky cologne where it's seeped into the fabrics and fibers mingles with the slightest hint of scotch. It settles the roiling, churning, hot sensation creeping from Jason's angry stomach up his esophagus.

Without a word, Dick sits on the floor next to him and opens his arms easily when Jason leans into his space and plasters himself to his older brother's side.

For several long minutes, they just sit there. Dick holds Jason tight and rubs his arm as he tries to catch his breath.

Finally, Jason sniffles. He swipes at his eyes, cringing at the feel of his knuckles across the small patch of desensitized skin on his cheekbone. Fortunately, he's too tired to fixate on it the way he usually would when he's forced to remember it's there.

His head drops against Dick's shoulder in exhaustion.

"Sorry," he mutters, half trying to keep it quiet enough his brother doesn't hear. Compulsion prevents him from biting his tongue when he feels like he's being a burden even though they tell him every time—

"You don't need to be sorry, Jay," Dick says with a sad sounding sigh. Then, as though he can read Jason's mind, "Caring about you isn't a burden. No matter what some people might imply."

Jason can't help the instinctive snort that escapes. "Imply is a little generous."

His brother's smile is weak. "Yeah."

They lapse into a companionable silence, both lost in their own thoughts and memories.

Jason remembers when he first showed up on their doorstep — not too long ago really, in the grand scheme of things — when Dick didn't want anything to do with him. It hadn't been like that for a long time (since Dad and Talia split) but it still had never been like it is now. Now, his older brother is practically glued to his side.

He doesn't hate it.

Even if he does hate how it happened.

Jason violently forces that train of thought back into the furthest recesses of his mind. He's been doing a lot better job of stopping every stray thought from leading him right back to... well.

Dick's warm, calming voice helps. "If Dad doesn't leave him after that, I'm going to have to take him on a nice long walk so I can yell at him."

His face is stormy when Jason looks up at him, his usually bright, happy eyes are dark. The haunted look in his brother's expression is one he's used to now. Dick had always seemed eternally young to Jason before, and larger than life. Now he seems older than his meager two decades and more reserved.

Anger had always been a rare thing for Dick to show but when it did? Jason used to think of angry Dick as a different person. The kind of anger Jason is used to seeing from him is explosive and scorching, it's kinetic because Dick has never been able to sit still and when he's mad he's extra animated, flinging his arms, pointing his fingers, stomping all over the place, shouting at the top of his lungs. Angry Dick is mean. The fact that he's usually so easy-going makes it so easy to trust him with the most intimate parts of yourself. And when he's pissed, Dick has a talent for throwing those parts back in peoples' faces, sharpened and cutting.

Fortunately, Angry Dick had always been pretty rare, especially in the last year or so. But this new kind of anger almost kind of scares Jason more. It's quiet and simmering and always there. Jason still hasn't gotten used to seeing this kind of anger on his brother's face. He doesn't know how this kind of anger will manifest if Dick and Dad are alone together and he doesn't want to be the reason they start fighting again. Especially when they're both still so... hurt about what happened to him.

"You don't have to do that," Jason says, again having to force the edges of a bed and the echoes of a chilling laugh back down before they drown out everything. And before Dick can tell him it's no problem he adds, "I'd rather you didn't, honestly."

Jason picks at the soft, loose cotton of his pants. He hasn't worn jeans or anything more fitted than sweats ever since... He's not really looking forward to wearing his tux slacks tonight, but that’s not enough to stop him from going.

"I don't want you guys to fight. And... we both know that Jack has been the only thing keeping Dad from totally losing his shit. Dad will handle it."

Dick hugs him tighter. Jason... has gotten used to it. He's never been as touchy as Dick and after everything he's even less interested in other people putting their hands on him. Initially, he suffered Dick's clinginess because he felt guilty that his brother had to... had to... watch, and it was clear that Dick needed the reassurance that Jason was there and close and safe. Now? Now, being trapped in his brother's strong, protective arms is one of the places Jason feels safest.

"Besides. I was serious in there. He's right. I've been an ass to Dad. And to you. There's no excuse. You guys... you're suffering too."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jason sees Dick close his eyes and shake his head, like something Jason said pains him.

"Jason. You don't need to worry about that, ok? Jack doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about. You haven't been an ass, you've been handling what happened to you better than anyone could reasonably expect. Honestly, if I didn't know any better, I'd say Jack was purposely being a prick to you for the last couple months."

Jason shrugs. "He's just awkward, like you said. He means well."

Even as he says it, he can't help but wonder if it's true. Ever since Jack came back, even before he started making shitty jokes and saying kinda messed up shit that makes you wonder if he meant it how it sounded, Jason has felt more uncomfortable than ever around him.

When Jack had hugged him that first night he was back, Jason thought the following panic attack made it pretty clear that touching was a trigger. Yet, it almost feels like Jack is going out of his way to touch him. And... it took awhile to notice because the touches are so innocuous, just a hand on the shoulder or a pat on the back or a ruffle of his hair (the last of which always sending Jason to the deepest corner of the closet in Dick's room to try and hide as he fights off another panic attack), but Jack only ever does it when they're alone or no one is looking or in such mild way that Jason feels like they'll think he's being ridiculous for letting it bother him.

Dick's mouth twists into a scowl. "If that were true, he'd at least pretend to care when he makes you uncomfortable. I swear sometimes I see him smirk when he walks away."

"Really?" Jason asks, affection for his brother filling the hole in his chest, at least momentarily. "I thought I was just being cra... um, really unfair."

The look Dick gives him makes it clear that the slip was noticed even if Dick's not going to comment on it. The gentle pressure of his brother's strong arm increases slightly as Dick pulls him impossibly closer. Jason goes easily, snuggling into the older boy's side and inhales the familiar, comforting scent of the earthy, citrusy cologne Dick has worn ever since Jason first met him.

"I'll talk to dad tomorrow," Dick says. Then, before Jason can object, adds, "I'll be nice," he promises. "After what just happened, he'll have to believe us."

Jason shivers. "Please don't," he says so quietly he almost doesn't recognize his own voice. He sounds so... meek lately. He hates it. He's such a baby now. When can he just go back to the normal, braver kid he was before? "Jack makes him happy and he's been so sad lately. I don't... I don't want to be the reason Dad breaks up with another partner he loves."

Dick sighs. He sounds heartbroken when he says, "Jay. It won't be your fault. It's Jack's. Just like it wasn't your fault Talia left. She and Dad... they're just too similar, you know? They're the two most stubborn people on the planet. They'll always love each other but they were never going to make it stick. Honestly, they would have split sooner if you hadn't come along. Talia loves you just as much as Damian." He nudges Jason gently in the ribs and smirks. "And more than me."

Jason scowls. "Don't say that, Dick. Talia—"

"I didn't mean anything by it, kiddo. I was fifteen when Talia showed up. I was firmly in my rebellious, nobody-understands-me teenage years and didn't understand that the fact she took the time to reproach me at all is how she showed she cared. I know you think everything is always your fault and if you need anything more than the bare minimum you're being a nuisance but that's simply not the case. Dad's divorce is not your fault and neither is his inevitable break up with Jack."

It sounds nice; it even sounds reasonable. But Jason still isn't sure he quite believes it. Dick would say anything to make him feel better.

He picks at an imaginary bit of fluff on Dick's sweats.

"It's not your fault either," he blurts. He's wanted to tell Dick that ever since he found out his brother hadn't left his side the whole time he was in the hospital, he just never knew how to bring it up without hurting him.

"I'm not the one blaming myself," Dick smiles down at him.

"No... I mean for... not about Talia or Jack—" heat floods Jason's face at a record speed. He tries, pointedly and determinedly not to think about that night. It's always in the back of his head but he's gotten good at ignoring the ever present discomfort because if he thinks about it directly, the memories pour into his conscious thoughts. The sharp, acrid taste of piss on his tongue, the scorching heat of it as it slides down his throat; the tearing agony of his body being ripped open and violated; the look of horror and helplessness on his brother's face as he tried to save Jason and got beaten for it.

"Jay—" Dick says, concern coloring his tone as he sits up and angles towards Jason with the sudden uptick in Jason's breathing.

Jason takes a couple deep breaths — in through the nose, out through the mouth — and focuses on the library in the Manor; focuses on the heat from the fire, the low, dulcet tone of Bruce's voice as he reads aloud, ostensibly to Damian as Dick and Jason are curled up under a cashmere blanket pretending to read their own books while dozing off to their baby brother's bedtime story.

"I mean," he tries again, voice much steadier, "that you're not weak or whatever you think. That night... it wasn't your fault, that night."

Frozen, Dick just stares at him, barely breathing for a long moment. Then he gulps and his eyes get glassy.

"Please don't cry!" Jason pleads, snaking his arms around Dick's chest and all but crawling into his lap. "I didn't want to make you cry. I just... I haven't been able to find a good time to mention it but... I know you blame yourself, but you did everything you could. You protected me." Jason shudders. "Sometimes I think about what they might have done if you hadn't been there. I know... I know it's selfish but... I'm glad I wasn't all alone."

He's suddenly fully in his brother's lap, Dick's arms squeezing tight. He buries his face in Dick's shoulder and tries to follow his own request and not cry.

"Oh, Jase," Dick breathes into his hair, voice thick and wet. "I just wish... I just wish I could have done more; that I could have stopped them."

It's too much. Jason chokes on his tears and distantly wonders if he's going to leave bruises from how tightly he's clinging to his big brother. "Me too," he manages to sob.

They stay like that for a long time. They've been practically inseparable since that night but this is the first time they've talked about it at all.

Finally, after they've cried themselves out, Dick says, "We'll get through this, Jay. We will."

He sounds so sure Jason almost believes him. Almost. But sometimes he feels like he's in a tunnel that's slowly closing in on him and the end is just far enough away he knows he won't make it before the earth crushes him under its weight.

Obviously, he can't share that with Dick, so he doesn’t say anything at all. Just leans on his brother and pretends not to notice the way his brother leans on him too.

About an hour after hiding away in Dad's study, they hear the penthouse door open and close. A few moments later, Dad leans against the frame of the door and gives them a small, sad smile.

Jason tucks his knees even tighter to his chest and looks at his toes. That smile is the only kind Dad does anymore and it makes Jason feel guilty every time he sees it.

"Jack says he's sorry for being an ass," he says. He moves into the room and sits on the arm of the sofa directly in front of them. "He'll tell you himself later. He thought you'd probably still want your space after what he said."

"How magnanimous of him," Dick snaps before Jason can say anything. Jason can feel his brother's anger bubbling back up to the surface. "How gracious of him to offer breathing room to a kid who's been raped."

Intellectually, Jason knows that's what happened. He's not stupid. He even knows that's what happened back before he found out he was a Wayne when he was selling the only thing of any value he had so that he and his mom didn't lose the shitty roof over their heads or starve to death or not be able to get mom her... her medicine. He also knows it's just a word; a description; a verb — in this case — like jumped or dreamed or hugged. And it's not even the first time he's heard it used in direct reference to what was done to him. The word doesn't change any of the experiences, doesn't make them better or worse, it just describes them.

None of that makes it any easier to hear. None of that changes the instinct to run from the word. None of it changes the need to put as much distance between his conscious mind and that word as possible. Jason still can't even allow himself to think that word in his own mind. Hearing it spoken aloud is just... too much.

Jason shoves himself away from Dick hard enough to put a good few inches between them, enough space to not feel caged in and trapped.

"Don't say that," he gasps, trying to get his breathing under control before he shakes apart in a panic attack. "I can't... I don't—"

Before he can get too lost in his own head, trapped by fear and memory, his dad's huge arms wrap around him and pull him close.

Bruce Wayne is a big man. Jason used to think Willis was big. Until he met Bruce Wayne in person. And even though Jason saw Willis get his ass beat enough times to know that brute strength isn't everything, he still can't help the way being held so tightly in his Dad's thick arms, pressed against his massive chest, makes him feel protected. Shielded.

Dad wedges his great bulk between Jason and Dick and pulls them both onto his lap and into the safety of his embrace. He hooks his chin over the crown of Jason's head and gently presses Jason's ear against the hollow of his throat.

When he hums, the vibration settles the tempest battering against the cage of Jason's chest.

"Shh," Dad soothes. Next to him, Jason can feel the motions of Dad combing his fingers through Dick's hair.

Minutes pass as they just breathe together to the rhythm of Dad's low, rumbling hums.

"I know things have been tense with Jack," he says softly after they've all settled. "I've told him his actions are unacceptable and he needs to be an adult and work out his issues with me, not take them out on the two of you. If he can't, we'll need to reevaluate our relationship."

Jason opens his mouth to argue that he doesn't need to do that but Dad beats him to it like he can read Jason's mind.

"Hush, sweetheart. None of this is your fault. None of it is on you. You didn't do one single thing wrong, ok? This is about me and Jack. The two of you and your brother will always be my highest priority. That's the way it should be and that's the way it always will be. Jack has always needed to be the center of attention. When he isn't, he feels neglected. But I can't be with someone who doesn't care about my kids or can't accept the fact they come first. Jack has always cared about you, but since we've started seeing each other, he's gotten too absorbed in the relationship and forgotten that it's not just the two of us. That I'm a packaged deal."

Dick's head is resting on Dad's opposite shoulder. Jason glances up at him in time to catch the quiet snort and roll of his eyes.

"You said all that to him?" Dick scoffs.

"I did."

Dick isn't moved. "Yeah, and how did he take that? He scream at you about how much of a tease you are? How pathetic you are? I swear, Dad, that guy is—"

"He didn't do any of that, Dick," Dad responds. He tilts his head up and presses a kiss to Dick's forehead. "I understand your concern and I appreciate that you two are worried about me when Jack and I fight. But this time was different. He listened to me. He agreed that he's been hard on you guys since we started seeing each other. He said he misses the relationship he had with you when he was just Uncle Jack and that he'll make sure you know how he feels about you going forward."

The frown on Dick's face doesn't leave but it does soften a little. Jason knows how he feels. Things did used to be better with Jack. Fun, even. Jason has always felt a little uncomfortable around him but that wasn't unusual when he was around adult men. Hell, it took a long time (and, frankly, Talia's presence) to even trust Dad. But like Dick, Jason remembers the good times. The stupid jokes so cheesy they still laughed, the trips to the Amusement Mile carnival.

Things have gotten so complicated and out of control. Jason wishes so badly that things could be the way they were before.

Leaning his weight even more against his dad's solid chest, Jason takes Dick's hand and gives him a squeeze.

Deep, navy blue eyes, stormy with a tumultuous mix of anger, pain, and sadness, meet Jason's.

It takes a moment, but eventually, the storm clears leaving only love and his big brother gives him a small but sincere smile.

"Ok," Dick mutters, slumping against their father, giving into the warm protection offered by the older man's bulk. "It would be nice to go back to some semblance of normal."

Jason wants nothing more than that in the entire world. That was the whole point of forcing himself to go to the gala, back to the manor.

Maybe tonight can be the reset they all so desperately need.

The rest of the day is a bit of a black hole. Time seems to move both glacially and at the speed of light. All day Jason doesn't know what to do with himself and ends up playing mindless video games with Dick all afternoon.

The next thing he knows, they're all in the back of the car while Alfred drives them home.

If Jason is perfectly honest with himself, he never really did expect this to go well.

He's just so tired of people walking on eggshells around him, treating him like he's fragile and broken. Or worse.

Even if he does feel like shattered pieces of fine china haphazardly glued back together by a coked out toddler, being treated like he's a whisper away from crumbling makes the idea of ever feeling whole again seem so vastly out of reach his mind recoils from the thought.

He just wants things to go back to normal; to start feeling normal again.

The gala was supposed to be a way to dip his toes back into the water in a controlled environment.

Not that Jason thinks the people who come to these things are a better class of people or anything. Pretty much the opposite really. But he is confident in the fact the kind of old-timey, pseudo-aristocratic types that populate Wayne Manor's ballroom during fundraising functions are not the type to be outwardly cruel to his face in such a public setting.

Oh, they'll whisper about him as soon as he walks away; tell their kids to keep their distance. If they're generous, they'll pity him. If they're not, they'll be disgusted. But either way, they won't say anything to him. Not with so many witnesses destroying any kind of plausible deniability. Appearances are everything to this crowd.

Jason is pretty sure he can handle that.

And he does. He was right about the Gala attendees. They're polite, even kind to him. There are a few pitying looks, a handful of sad smiles, even a couple leers that Jason ignores despite the way they make his skin crawl, but it's not so different from the kind of reactions he's always gotten at these things. Bruce Wayne's street rat bastard, poor kid grew up with nothing and was plucked out of oblivion by one of the richest and definitely most beloved men in the world. It's a modern day fairy tale. Even if their kindness is insincere, it's all so much like it was Before that it definitely helps Jason feel more normal. More... human.

Being back at the Manor is actually better than he thought it would be too. He feels comfortable and safe, like if he gets overwhelmed he can sneak away for a little quiet time and no one will even notice.

So far though, he hasn't even really thought about doing that.

Like he promised Dr. Thompkins, Jason stays close to his family. Well, he stays close to Dick. If he's honest, he's still a little rattled after Jack's outburst at breakfast and secretly he wonders if Dick is right about Jack's intentions being purposely mean-spirited. Either way, he's not stupid and he can tell that things between Dad and Jack are a little rocky right now. As much as Jack has always given Jason bad vibes, he's determined not to be the reason that things deteriorate between them more than he already has been, and something tells him that tonight is a tipping point for them. Even Jason can tell that Dad is trying really hard to prioritize Jack tonight — despite the way Dad's eyes flicker over the crowd every few minutes until they find him or Dick.

So, Jason sticks with Dick who starts the night stiffer and more visibly uncomfortable than Jason has ever seen him in a crowd. A couple months after first arriving at the Manor, Jason, annoyed by Dick's constant presence, and his constant chattering, and his constant entourage of groupies being around all the time, had started Googling. It was not, as he had worried, a deadly medical condition. Instead, he'd discovered that Dick was probably an extrovert, someone who feels energized by the presence of others and most comfortable in social situations with lots of people. Meanwhile, Jason was diametrically opposed to Dick; an introvert who prefers a smaller, close-knit group of trusted people who know him well, in short doses. It's not that Jason isn't interested in hanging out with lots of people, or that he doesn't like parties, it's just that it usually leaves him feeling drained and tired.

Which is why, as the night wears on, Dick seems to come alive. He relaxes more and more as he doesn't just get into the flow of people and conversation, but starts to lead it. Dick was always like that, effortlessly charismatic. People gravitate to him like moths to a flame. For the first time in months, the real Dick Grayson-Wayne starts to emerge from under the pile of shit that was dumped on him.

Jason finds a seat in a quiet corner, still sticking close but giving Dick space to let that annoying internal light of his shine. Despite the way Jason still feels like he's trying to hold the jagged pieces of himself together, for now, it's enough to bask in the glow of Dick's happiness. It feels so good to see his brother acting more like himself after so long that Jason actually gets a little choked up watching it happen. And it's contagious. A small spark of warmth flickers in Jason's chest and he feels... he feels more like a person than he has for a long time just being in close proximity to Dick and his cheesy flirting that somehow always works.

The skin on the back of Jason's neck prickles a moment before long, slim fingers curl around his nape.

Ice fills his veins and his throat closes around an inhale. Physical inability is the only thing that stops Jason from screaming. Memory grips his mind so tightly he can't move.

Long, thin fingers wrapped around the column of his throat, squeezing; exaggerated high-pitched voice laughing, mocking, "Good boy!"

The cold kiss of sharp steel against his cheek. The hot drip of blood smeared across his skin.

The searing agony of being ripped apart, body, mind, soul.

"It's nice to see our little social butterfly finally stretching his wings again, isn't it?"

Jack gives Jason's neck a firm, borderline too-hard, squeeze before taking the seat next to him and scooching it closer with a loud, obnoxious scrape that sets Jason's suddenly frayed nerves even further on edge.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jason can see Jack's mouth stretch into a big, wide grin as he watches Jason try to rein in a panic attack with quick, staccato breaths. His head spins. It's not enough air.

Jason screws his eyes shut and starts to count. He means to put his fingers against his pulse to help slow the rabbiting of his heart but they brush against the little patch of desensitized skin on his cheek instead and it does nothing to help calm him down. Very much the opposite, in fact. He feels like he's going to have a stroke or a heart-attack or something.

At his side, Jack hums. "It's healed up pretty nice, hasn't it? I mean, it's impossible to get rid of the scar entirely so it'll always be there, you'll see it every time you catch your reflection. A tragedy, of course. But at least it's not that nasty little 'J'."

Bile starts to rise up Jason's esophagus. Jack used to call him that in the beginning, before he started dating Dad, Little Jay. It's been a while since he's used the nickname. To hear it now, in that context... Jason kind of figured Jack didn't particularly like him much anymore, but this feels blatantly cruel in a way Jason has been dismissive of with Jack's other comments. It's clearly, purposely, targeted to hurt.

Before the hot prickling behind his eyes can turn into full on crying in the middle of the gala, Jason shrugs Jack's hand off and flees the ballroom as quickly and quietly as he can without drawing attention to himself.

He rushes past the first set of bathrooms, pushing through the roped off section and into the family wing. Only then does he turn into the first bathroom he comes to and crumbles against the door the moment it's closed behind him.

He lays there, wondering if he's being crazy, if he's reading too much into the things Jack says to him. Why would Jack be so mean to him? Jack hasn't really liked any of them ever since he started dating Dad, and Jason had gotten the impression that since Dick was gone so much and Damian was just a baby, that Jack resented Jason most of all. Jason doesn't know what he did to make Jack hate him so much.

But Jason thought... Jason thought that they were going to try to start over. He thought that they were going to try to go back to the relationships they had back when Jack was just their weird uncle.

Wasn't Jack planning on being nice to him tonight? Didn't he tell Dad he was going to apologize to Jason at the gala?

No... he said... Jack said he'd make sure Jason knew how he felt.

Jason doesn't know how long he spends curled up on the floor, sobbing as silently as possible and trying to get control of himself. It's probably not more than a minute or two even if it feels like an eternity, but eventually Jason swallows the lump in his throat.

Well, mission successful. If there was ever any doubt about Jack's intentions, they're firmly stamped out now.

Shakily, Jason pulls himself up from where he'd been huddled on the floor using the marble counter for leverage. His knees knock together, threatening to give out from how badly he's trembling, but he leans his weight against the cool stone and forces himself to inhale deeply, hold for a count of four, then exhale slowly. He does it a few more times, until he feels a little more solid, a little more grounded.

A knock vibrates through the door and down Jason's spine.

"Occupied," he calls, cringing at the obvious warble in his voice.

Then he looks into the mirror.

The scar on his cheekbone isn't even remotely as noticeable as the jagged, crimson 'J' that had sat stark and mocking on his face for weeks before he was cleared for the cosmetic surgery needed to "remove" it. He's lucky the cut hadn't been any deeper or there would be no way to avoid some kind of vibrant brand, even if they did change the shape. But Jack's right, just because Jason can't really see it anymore doesn't mean he's forgotten it's there, hidden by the altered shape, but still noticeable by the lighter discoloration of the skin when he looks at it. He can always see it, shining back at him from windows, the glass of picture frames, even his water cup at dinner every night.

But no one else seems to notice it the way he does. Even Dad and Dick and the lawyers and doctors who saw it before, never stare just below his eye the way they did before it healed. It was one of the things that made him think he could go out in public again, maybe even live a semi-normal life again one day.

Looking back now though... knowing Jack hates him... Jack hasn't looked him in the eye since that night. What Jason had once dismissed as pity, not being able to meet his gaze, he now realizes is a near obsession with the scar; Jack's eyes always settling just below Jason's left eye.

Another knock, more insistent. Whoever it is shouldn't even be in this part of the house.

"Someone's in here!" He shouts, relieved his voice comes out a little firmer. Hopefully they'll get the picture and go back.

Resolve settles like a rock in Jason's gut. As much as he doesn't want to ruin Dad's happiness or be the reason they break up, Jason doesn't think he can live with Jack anymore.

He splashes some water on his face and scrubs it away vigorously with the towel, hoping that if his whole face is red, it won't be too obvious that he was crying.

He needs to talk to Dick. Dick is his big brother and they've been through a lot together now. He knows Dick will support him. If they present a united front, Dad will probably take it better. And even if Dad... even if Dad decides he wants to stay with Jack, with Dick's help, they can probably convince Dad to let Jason go live with Talia for a couple years.

Plan settled, Jason squares up, straightens his tux, and goes to find his brother.

Only, when he opens the bathroom door, Jack's tall, lean figure blocks the only way out.

The sight of a tall, masked man immediately on the other side of the thick wooden door is so startling that Jason doesn't immediately react, staring for a long moment while what he's seeing sinks in. Next to him, Dick also pauses, but only for a moment before he's trying to yank Jason back away from the intruders.

It's too little, too late. The mask twitches like the man behind it smiles. He's staring at Jason, something dark and wicked gleaming in his violent green eyes.

His familiar eyes.

For the second time that night, panic seizes Jason's oxygen. Threads connecting memories to the present snap taut in his mind as he stumbles back, trying to force air into his lungs as he attempts to put distance between...

No... Jack's an ass but he... he wouldn't do...

Jason has to lean against the counter again, now breathing too fast as chest seizes and his vision swims.

The door clicks closed, the bolt of the lock thuds into its slot.

A menacing presence looms at his side. Laughs, high and cruel and familiar. Moves behind him. Pushes him up the counter until the bend of his waist is draped over the edge and his toes dangle just above the floor. Slots his pelvis against Jason's ass.

Jason can feel the hard length tucked inside the expensive fabric.

Those strong, slender fingers twist into Jason's hair and yank him up, pulling his spine into a painful arch.

"N-no..." Jason wheezes, hands scrambling against his assailant's wrist and arm. He can barely breath, barely see, vision blurring in at the edges.

"Shut up," Jack snarls, voice pitched higher than usual. Ice pours down Jason's spine. It's him. He's the one who attacked them. Jack is the one who... who...

He must see it coming. Suddenly, Jason is yanked to the side so that his face is in the bowl of the sink when the appetizers he'd eaten at the gala come back up the same way they went down.

A hand snakes around Jason and fumbles with his belt.

"I'm so sick of your spoiled, needy, whiny ass." His suit trousers are shoved to his ankles. "You and the runt were supposed to leave with that bitch. It was supposed to just be me and Bruce. I waited for him. For years! And I finally get him to think with his heart instead of his dick for once and then you're there, all ruined and pathetic."

Air chills the suddenly bare skin of his hip, his thigh, his...

Jack's hand connects with Jason's bare backside so hard the sound reverberates off the marble and Jason cries out. It's still stinging when the second and third strikes land.

Plastering his much larger body over Jason's, Jack bites his ear, hard, before snarling, "He was supposed to send you away after the last time. That's why it had to be here, in the manor. You were supposed to run away to Talia. You weren't supposed to even be able to consider coming back here for a long, long time."

Jason's dress shoes scrape against the vanity as he tries to get any kind of leverage for anything. But there's no grip and he can't reach the floor.

The hot, thick length of Jack's unclothed cock suddenly slaps against the crack of his ass.

"No!" Jason sobs, raking his blunt nails over the hand in his hair. "P-please, don't! Please, Uncle Jack!"

It's something he learned when he was on his own. Trying to make them remember he's a person; attempting to humanize himself in their eyes. In this case, trying to remind Jack that they are some kind of family.

It rarely worked completely. But it did sometimes, and others it worked enough to at least make them go easier on him.

But Jack is unmoved.

He steps back and before Jason can feel even a hint of relief, Jack flips him over and backhands him so hard he crumples to the floor.

The world goes fuzzy. There's a ringing in his ears. He's vaguely aware of being yanked by his ankle, of his body being tugged and twisted and tossed around.

Someone is speaking. Inky, oily words are spilled into his ear by cold, thin lips and the callous nip of teeth.

Very distantly, as if it's a thought he's overhearing someone have from across the city, Jason is aware the words are foul and filthy and vicious, but he can't make them coalesce into something he understands. Like his brain has switched off language recognition in a last ditch effort to protect him.

Between the memories, the proprietary touch of those hands, the weight of him — the monster in his nightmares — pressed against him again... Jason lets go, lets his mind wander free.

He's laying on the floor in the den playing Sorry! with Dad, Talia, and Dick while baby Damian naps at their side and Alfred pretends to read by the fire.

Nothing can hurt him here.

No one can touch him here.

Chapter Text

Dick doesn't know when he lost his little brother. All he knows is that whether it's been two minutes or twenty, it's unacceptable.

Ever since... ever since That Night, Dick has sworn — to himself, if not aloud to Dad or Jason — that he would never be in a position like that again. He'll never be impotent again. He'll never be forced to watch someone he loves be hurt again. He'll never be helpless again.

Dad isn't aware that Dick has used a chunk of his trust fund to hire an ex-Special Forces self-defense instructor to teach him how to make sure nothing like that ever happens to someone he loves again. They're only a few weeks in and Dick has already resolved to get Jason to join them. Later. When his little brother is a bit more healed, a bit more himself. When the haze of helplessness and smallness lift just enough for anger to set in. Dick is constantly bruised and sore, but every time he wakes up with his pillow soaked in tears or sees Jason go still and silent, the aches remind him what he's fighting for. The anger flushes the fear from his veins, filling him with resolve, turning discomfort to satisfaction.

Unlike the fear that rips through him when he realizes Jason is no longer sitting at the table next to where Dick has been standing, chatting, joking, laughing. Unlike the sharp, hot slice of terror — the icy shard of guilt — that flays his nerves when he looks all around the room and can't find his little brother anywhere.

It's stupid. He's stupid for taking his eyes off Jason for even a moment. For getting caught up in the weightlessness of feeling normal and undamaged and... and more like himself again for the first time in ages.

He just... god, it felt good to not feel like everyone pitied him or to catch everyone whispering about him with furtive glances every time he looked up. Hell, he didn't even see anyone leering or sneering at Jason. He thought things were going well, all things considered. Even Jason seemed to relax a little as the evening progressed.

Dick pauses in the hall and forces himself to take a couple deliberate, deep breaths.

Jason probably just ran to the bathroom. Or snuck away to the library to recharge a little in peace and quiet. Dick doesn't really understand that urge. Quiet isn't really his thing. Even when he's at school, Dick has his own apartment a few blocks away from the university, but he's never alone in it. There's always someone there, hanging out, playing video games, studying, or partying. There's always someone crashing on his couch or bringing over take-out and beer. If there is no one over, Dick ends up on the phone for hours with a buddy he hasn't talked to in a minute. Hell, he even does his coursework in informal study groups he always somehow organizes without noticing. Jason, on the other hand, will spend a few hours playing video games with Numbers or laser tag with Tim and spend the rest of the evening curled up in the oversized armchair in his room reading or putting together elaborate Lego sets or practicing his cello and the next day in the Manor's library, ignoring the world.

It's normal for him to disappear for a bit during galas.

There are three bathrooms in the immediate vicinity of the ballroom and access to the rest of the house is roped off, a security officer stationed at each to prevent curious partygoers from snooping (or drunk people from finding one of their bedrooms to fuck in ever since Bruce caught Charles Sionis in his bed with a woman who was definitely not his wife).

Two of the bathrooms are empty. Dick waits at the third for about three minutes before a young woman comes out.

She starts when she sees him but quickly recovers with a blinding smile. She's pretty, dark, auburn hair and forest green eyes, a smattering of little freckles across her nose and cheekbones. There's a hint of mischief in the quirk of her full, pouty lips. Dick feels his heart thud against his chest in interest, something that hasn't happened in months — and probably still won't with men for a good while longer.

But he doesn't have time to explore anything like that right now. He smiles back, nods, and tells her to enjoy the party, making a mental note to find her after he's checked on his little brother and returns to the ballroom.

He doesn't bother with the front of the house. The guests can come in and out along the route from the entry to the ballroom and if Dick knows his little brother at all, Jason wouldn't have headed that way if he was looking for some peace and quiet. Besides, most of the rooms that direction aren't the ones they live in most.

It's stupid, but Dick feels a flutter of relief when he approaches the access point to the hallway that leads to the actual sections of the Manor that they consider home to find a single familiar, gigantic man standing guard.

Dad had given him a funny look when — after finding out Jason was dead-set on attending — Dick had insisted on being involved in the hiring of the security for the gala.

Truthfully, Dick hadn't expected Dad to actually agree. Even at the best of times, Bruce Wayne is a control freak.

And it's hardly been the best of times.

Dick doesn't like to think about why his father gave into his demand. If he does, he feels a foul, filthy sensation churn his stomach and creep up into his throat.

Having someone he knows is capable of handling any situation within shouting distance is the only thing that stopped Dick from locking himself and Jason in the panic room at the penthouse until the gala was over and whatever Jason was trying to prove had passed.

"I tried texting you," Wilson grunts by way of greeting. His single eye taking in every single angle in the hall.

Dick pats at his tux as he closes the last few feet to the crimson velvet rope and the ex-Black Ops mercenary he's been paying to beat him up for the last half-dozen weeks in the name of self-defense. "I must've left it on the table."

That hint of relief he felt flickers. "Why?"

Wilson jerks his head towards the family wing. "The kid ran off that way about twelve minutes ago. Looked upset."

Dick's heart thuds against his chest again, for a different reason. This is what he was afraid of. Someone probably said something gross or cruel. Hell, it's possible no one said anything to him; it's possible that he caught the glint of the lights on the edge of a knife and started spiraling.

Fuck!

He knew it was too soon. He should have tried harder to convince Jason he didn't need to do this.

"Your dad's cree—uh, boyfriend went after him."

There's something in Wilson's stoic expression that tells Dick the unease he's felt around Jack the last couple of months hasn't been overreaction or too-close-to-the-issue or ungenerous; that his increasing discomfort with the man is valid and not just in his head.

Because you don't get as good as Wilson is at the kind of work Wilson did by not being able to read people.

Which is why Dick can feel Wilson's eye on him, watching him, gauging his reaction.

Coming to some conclusion, he adds, "He seemed almost... giddy."

A lump suddenly lodges in Dick's throat. "Thanks," he says, swallowing past it and stepping around the rope. "I'll go check on them."

There's a gentle but firm grip on his elbow, stopping him in his tracks. Wilson's single blue eye takes a second to examine Dick's face.

"Sorry if this is out of line but..." he scowls, seems to rethink whatever he wants to say, then decides to forge on anyway. "I've seen all kinds of people in my line of work. There are the kind that are decent and get in over their heads. There are the kind driven by greed or power or jealousy. Then there're the others. The ones who enjoy it. Some are good actors, pretending to be the other kind, the normal kind, in order to get what they really want."

He stops. Dick's breath catches in his throat. He suddenly has the terrible feeling that they're wasting precious moments.

"And what's that?" he manages, voice cracking.

The look Wilson fixes him with would look like pity on anyone else. But Dick recognizes it as resolve.

"Pain."

"And you think that's Jack?"

"Worse. He's the kind who has realized it isn't the pain that does it for him. It's the suffering."

The man lets go of Dick's arm. "Shout if you need anything."

With those ominous words ringing in his ears, Dick practically sprints down the hall. He almost asks Wilson to just come with him. But a not insignificant part of Dick, the well-mannered voice of reason, the bit that checks the sense that everyone is out to get you against the fact that such instances are outliers, not the norm, tells him that his trauma is just making him paranoid.

He doesn't know what he expects to find. Dick is inclined to trust Wilson's assessment, especially with the accumulation of all the snide little comments and pushing of boundaries Jack has been toying with lately. Dick has a tendency to be too trusting, too willing to see the best in people. But he suspects that Wilson is the opposite, that he's a cynic. Dick doesn't want to let what happened change who he is at his core or make him cut out the good, gentle parts of himself to become hard and unflappable.

Jack is an asshole, obviously, but they've known him all their lives. Dad has known him even longer. He's always been impatient and a little bitchy when he doesn't get what he wants when he wants it. But is Jack the kind of sadist Wilson thinks he is? It seems like a leap from the generic douche-bag Jack's been since he realized Dick, Jason, and Damian are a packaged deal with their Dad to the kind of nightmare Wilson described.

But even with everything Jack has done and said over the last few months, even with the way he's looked at them lately, like they're beat up, ruined luggage that he wants to chuck out, even as he muses over the possibility that Wilson could be right, Dick doesn't expect to hear that voice on the other side of the bathroom door and to know instantly that it's Jack Napier.

Even then, his rational mind rebels against the thought. There's no way. Jack is absolutely, undoubtedly, a colossal bastard, and might even be the sadist Wilson sees simmering under a façade of bad jokes and overwrought joviality. But that's just... still such a wide chasm away from the inhumanity of the monster that attacked them.

Every drop of blood in Dick's veins freezes at the sound of that voice, his muscles seize in terror, his breathing goes shallow and quick. His mind spins like a top, grasping for better explanations that make more sense.

He can't be here. The Tall Man can't be in their house again; can't have Jason trapped with him again; can't make Dick sit helplessly off to the side and watch as he hurts his little brother again.

Everything has stopped. Dick can't feel his heart beating, can't catch his breath, can't feel his own body, can't control it as though it's grown roots deep into the caves beneath the Manor and turned to stone.

He wants to throw himself against the door, break it down and save his brother from those sick words and the sicker things they suggest those long, slim fingers are doing. He wants to feel those delicate bones shatter against his knuckles, feel hot blood splash across his hands.

But he's too weak. Jason was wrong. Dick is weak. If he was strong he'd already be in there. If Dick were strong, Jason would already be free of the monster and Dick wouldn't be frozen in fear listening to the monster growl filthy, horrible, disgusting things on the other side of a couple inches of wood.

Jason was wrong. This is Dick's fault.

His mouth is already open for the quick, staccato breaths forcing themselves into his lungs. He tries to work words past dry, cracked lips, tries to shout for Wilson just down the hall and around the corner. But his throat is closed for it, his tongue stuck, glued to the bottom of his mouth, tasting the salt from the tears streaming down Dick's cheeks the only thing it's good for now.

Maybe Jason isn't in there. Maybe this is all Jack, fantasizing, planning. Dick can't hear anything other than Jack's unnaturally pitched voice speaking and the quiet, wet schlick of skin sliding through skin. There's no sign that any one is in there being... being... hurt. There is no sobbing or crying; no pleading, no begging. There aren't any whimpers or harsh, ragged breathing. Jack could be... he could be reliving things or planning more horrors to subject them to or dreaming about what he would have done differently last time. Maybe he's on the other side of that bathroom door, masturbating to the memory of how he hurt them or his fantasy of how he will hurt them further. Maybe Dick has caught him before he could do any more damage, discovered his filthy secret before he could sink his claws any further into their father.

He prays that's the case because just the sound of that voice has melted Dick's once icy resolve back into nothing but simmering terror, and all he can do is stand there, petrified, and weep.

You don't want anything to happen to your brother, do you? No? Then you'll both be nice and quiet and do exactly as you're told, won't you.

Good boy.

Stay.

"Here's how things are going to go down," Jack croons, voice muffled a little by the thick, solid wood doors of the ancient house. "You're going to convince Daddy that you tried to do too much too fast, that this gala has sent you over the edge. That everyone was mean to you, his poor little baby. Shouldn't be too hard since you'll go back in there looking like a wreck..." a shrill cackle explodes like a gunshot and still no sign that anyone else is in there; not a peep, not a breath. Still only Jack's voice and that slow, steady, stroke of flesh.

Throughout the entire assault, Jason hadn't been silent. He'd been obedient, trying to keep quiet, but he'd still cried. He'd still whined and moaned in pain. The whole time, there were signs that he was still there, still aware, even when Dick wished he hadn't been.

But no matter how hard he tries, Dick can't convince himself. With how quiet and reserved and timid Jason has been since that night — how un-Jason-like he's been — Dick knows in his heart it's just more wishful thinking, even as his mind continues to rationalize away.

"Your shadow will either go with you or finally go back to his own life once you're not around to leech all of his time. I'm betting on the latter. I can't even imagine how much of a pain in the ass he thinks you are now, considering how he felt about you before."

More piercing chortling, and Dick realizes that Jack is talking about him.

No. Jason can't believe that. Not after everything. Even back in the beginning, it was never Jason Dick had been mad at, never Jason he'd had a problem with, it was always Dad. And maybe Dick could have been more careful where he flung his anger and resentment but he'd been young and hurt and mad. Jason knows that Dick would do anything for him. Doesn't he?

Anything but move, a nasty, nasally, high-pitched voice crows in his mind.

Take care of your little brother. You're so good at it.

He has to do something. Why can't he do something?

The skin-on-skin sound picks up, the rhythm increasing to something more smacking.

Dick squeezes his eyes together. The horrible image of Jack just a couple feet away, getting off to Jason's small, terrified body, snaps something inside him. That rage claws back territory, ripping out chunks of fear and using it to fuel the fire consuming him.

He gasps, sucking in a real breath for the first time in the small eternity he's been stuck. It can't have been more than a minute or two but Dick feels aged by decades.

His hand is trembling violently as he raises it to the door. But he's finally moving.

He needs to do more than move. The door is locked and sturdy in the way only solid wood doors in the ancestral homes of old money can be. He'll need to break it down, throw all of his weight behind it, use the powerful muscles he built from years of acrobatics and weeks of fighting to kick it in.

He needs to move more.

"Dick?"

The same relief he felt that awful night, staring down at his brother's tiny, brutalized body, at the sound of that voice washes over him again now.

The concern on his father's face when he steps around Dick, into his line of sight, gives Dick the distinct impression that it's not the first time his dad has called his name.

"Son? Is everything alright?"

A big, warm hand cups his face, thumb gently swiping the tears there.

He doesn't deserve it, but he leans into it anyway. He manages one, minute shake of his head, latches his gaze on the door where his hand still rests on the handle, and manages to squeak out two broken, shattered syllables.

"Jason..."

Dad doesn't understand right away, it takes a moment for all the disjointed pieces to fall into place.

It takes Jack's stupid voice, strained and a little breathless above the rising slap of skin, saying, "You must be the luckiest little bitch in the whole city, you know that? The usual genius stationed at the rope would have slipped away the moment the party was in full swing to steal some of the hors d'oeuvres. If that hulking caveman at the end of the hall hadn't seen me come after you, tonight would have gone very differently."

Dick watches the color drain from his father's face; watches something in his crystal blue eyes die.

Then watches something he's never seen before flame to life and burn.