Work Text:
The first time it happened, Tim laughed. It was a tight, uncomfortable sound, the kind made when someone tells an inappropriate joke and in the heat of the moment one laughs to be polite.
Because that's what it was. He thought Jason was making a tasteless joke.
But the confused quirk of lips and creased brows Jason gives him for it tells Tim instantly he's misjudged the situation.
Tim doesn't mention it because Jason's confusion confuses him and he doesn't think twice about the fact Jason doesn't either.
Now, Tim knows it's because Jason was serious.
And that just opens a whole new can of worms.
The thing is, it keeps happening, and not just with Tim.
Has it always been this way? Or is Tim just noticing now, like the hand of some callous god just randomly decided to reach into reality and warp it for the worse for some reason?
Jason makes a similar comment as the last while they're on a stake out and Dick snorts through the coms. "Yeah, an accident," he repeats Jason's words with an incredulous inflection. "Sure, Red. More like he was hoping one of us would get the boot."
Tim freezes. He can see Jason shift his weight on the other side of the roof. Dick's mad-on-your-behalf tone makes it crystal clear to Tim that "one of us" is too-nice-to-say-it-out-loud code for "Jason".
"What are you talking about?" Jason's own tone is a mix of confusion and irritation. "You're not seriously going to try to make us believe that he wanted you gone, are you? Like I wasn't there on the rare occasions you came home to fawning and all your favorite meals every single day you were there? I know you're human and Red here knows you're human, but we all know he thinks the sun shines out of your ass."
They can't see Dick — he's on the other side of the building they're watching — but the silence from the com is deafening.
"Jay," Dick says, breaking protocol to utter Jason's name so gently Tim is certain there's no way to misconstrue the meaning. "I'm not talking about—"
Before he can blow a hole in whatever walls Jason has built to shield himself from the reality of this situation, the silent alarm in the Mayor's office is tripped and they all get back to work.
Like everything else in their lives, it all comes to a head at the worst time.
It's been a particularly rough week. A big Arkham breakout, the attempted assassination of Commissioner Gordon, Mad Hatter using a podcast to try to brainwash the whole city. Not to mention all of the normal grand theft and organized crime that happens in Gotham City on the daily. To top it off, Bruce was gone on a Justice League mission.
They handled it all, of course. Each of them individually are more than capable of dealing with this crap and much more willing to work together to share the load than their mentor.
As such, they're all sprawled out over the living room floor of Jason's safehouse — because after Barbara's it's the best one in Gotham — if for no other reason than the fact that Jason actually meal preps and freezes things and always has food — and unlike Dick's place or Tim's, they're less likely to be bothered by someone dropping by (Jason has way fewer friends who all know to give him a heads up before visiting). They're nursing various minor injuries and burning through an ice cold bottle of vodka with various mixers. Barbara is sitting on the floor, leaning up against Dick's shins as they pass a massive jug of Long Island Ice Tea between them. Damian is leaning against Dick's side, tucked under his free arm, trying to pretend he's not dozing off every few seconds. Tim is upside down in the armchair, his head dangling over the seat, kicking his feet in the air over the headrest, sipping his too-fruity Sex-On-The-Beach through a straw. Jason is laying on the floor, one arm pillowing his head, the other securing his own extra-fruity cocktail against the floor. He's slotted several straws together to reach his mouth without having to lift his drink, but after he almost knocked it over right after making it, he realized he couldn't leave it free-standing.
They're all about five or six drinks in and — having forgone all the readily available food — all the little bits they have bandaged don't feel like anything at all anymore.
It's probably because they're all relaxed and a little drunk. They all let their guard down. They're all chatting like they don't keep secrets from each other.
Tim doesn't remember who starts the game of Truth-or-Dare, but it's about thirty minutes into it when the dares get sillier and more ridiculous.
And the truths get more intimate.
"Why didn't you tell me about Alfred's funeral?"
It's only the second time Barbara has chosen Truth. She blinks, like she's surprised Jason would waste such a rare and precious opportunity on such an obvious question.
Dick's hand pauses in her hair. Tim stops kicking his feet.
"What?" She asks, buying for time as she works through why he would ask a question to which they all know the answer; why he would want her to say the hurtful words aloud.
Tim can see the wheels turning behind her eyes, still sharp despite the alcohol, as she works through any other motivations Jason might have for asking. Maybe he's hurt that they didn't trust him enough to set his own feelings aside and be supportive of them?
But Tim knows. It's not his best detective work. In fact, it's probably some of his worst considering he wasn't fully convinced until Jason's story about Alfred after the funeral.
"I know all the family photos and portraits and stuff are Bruce's call and I get that, but Alfred died. Trying to stop me from saying goodbye, denying me closure when someone we love is gone forever just feels... I don't know, kinda mean. Dick wasn't really himself, Tim was busy with his team, and Damian..." Jason glances at the sleeping teen who'd witnessed Bane snap Alfred's neck, "Damian wasn't in a good place. But you could have told me, Barbie..."
He doesn't sound mad. He doesn't even sound all that hurt. He just sounds... curious. Like he's not exactly surprised by what happened but sees an opportunity to better understand the situation.
It kind of horrifies Tim in a detached, drunken sort of way that will definitely feel even worse when he sobers up. Jason thinks they purposely exclude him from important moments. In a way, Tim feels a little insulted that Jason believes they're that selfish and cruel. But rationally he knows that Jason doesn't have any reason to think otherwise. He thinks it's all been Bruce, and Bruce certainly hasn't helped the situation any, but... none of them had ever had a reason to think Jason hadn't known the truth at all.
Tim sees the moment it clicks. The moment Barbara realizes that Jason is the only one who doesn't know. That Jason hasn't been making self-deprecating jokes when he talks about how much he loves Alfred. That Jason has been completely serious when he talks about how grateful he is for Alfred, how much he thinks Alfred did for him... How close he thought they were.
He sees the moment she realizes that Jason is the only one who doesn't know how much Alfred disliked him.
He watches as that beautiful mind of hers quickly reevaluates every single relevant interaction.
Her face crumbles into something devastatingly gentle.
Tim swings his legs around so that he's sitting upright in his chair.
"Jason..." she all but whispers. "I... we didn't think you'd want to go. Considering..."
She trails off. Tim doesn't blame her. How do you tell someone that a person they thought loved them... didn't?
With a quiet pop, Jason disentangles himself from his straw monstrosity and sits up. He sways a little and chuckles and they all giggle drunkenly for a blissful moment before Jason says, "Considering what?"
Babs looks desperately to Tim for help. Tim looks to Dick. Dick is already looking at him. None of them know how to follow that up.
Tim thinks about the family portrait, a fancy oil painting that Damian eventually finished when the original sitting was interrupted. How Alfred had told Bruce that Jason refused to come to the manor; the way he implied that he had begrudgingly spoken to Jason about it. And how later, Jason had made a crack about his invitation getting lost in the mail. At the time, Tim had thought the joke was "Oh yeah, Alfred hates me. Everyone likes you guys better."
Now he knows it was a genuine complaint about being excluded.
And he knows that Jason thinks Bruce is the one who didn't want him there, which is why he's never actually questioned it before.
They all sit there, stupidly, silently, looking between each other, praying someone else will figure out what to say next. Preferably to change the subject and steer it into safer, less depressing territory, but barring that, coming up with a magic solution to telling someone that a person they admired and loved didn't return the affection.
Eventually, they're quiet so long Jason sits up straighter and blinks. "Wait... considering what? What am I missing?"
"Jay..." Dick says softly, leaning forward. "Maybe now isn't the right time to—"
The shift in his position makes Damian jerk awake. He scowls at them before slumping back against Dick.
"Richard," he scolds. "That was rude."
Before they can be amused, Jason's eyes snap to the current Robin.
"Dami, why wasn't I invited to Alfred's funeral? Bruce said he thought I'd cause trouble but you guys know I wouldn't..."
He trails off like he just realized how true what he just said is; they do know that he would never start anything at Alfred's funeral.
"That's just how we convinced father to go along with it," Damian yawns, starting to drift back to Dick's side. "These three thought you wouldn't want to go anyway but didn't want to explain to Father why. I told them that you are just as clueless as Father is, but no one ever listens to me."
All three of them hold their breath. Dick is looking in his lap as he idly combs his fingers through Damian's hair. Babs is laser-focused on Jason, watching his face to catch any and every emotion that might flicker there.
Tim has never been more grateful for Damian's blunt, no-bullshit honesty.
He doesn't think he's ever actually been grateful for it before, to be honest, but there's a first time for everything.
"Dami!" Jason snaps, sharply, but not cruelly; just enough oomph to make Damian wake up and sit up. Dick's hand moves from the kid's hair to his shoulder.
Jason's brow furrows a little. "What am I clueless about?"
The way even Damian's expression softens has Jason rocking back on his butt, almost knocking over his half-full drink and only saving his carpet with quick reflexes barely dulled by the alcohol. They all know that the youngest Robin cares deeply for them, loves them, but he still struggles with letting those feelings show so clearly. That he is purposely doing so now is enough to make Jason brace himself to hear something hurtful.
Tim hates this. He hates that it's Damian, barely a teenager, who has to say it. Hates that even though Dick and Jason are in a better place now, there's still something broken between them from before Tim ever showed up that will prevent Dick from ever being the one to break Jason's heart the way it's about to be. Hates that ever since the thing with Steph's dad and Lincoln March, an awkward wrench appears to have been wedged into Jason's relationship with Barbara.
Tim hates that of everyone in this room — including Damian — he has the best relationship with Jason and he still can't — won't — be the one to shatter the progress they've made. Tim's been the one to do most of the heavy-lifting, bringing Jason back into the family. He's the one who forgave first, the one who listened first, the one who understood first. The first one to treat Jason like the miracle he was instead of a new problem. Tim is not the only reason Jason finally — finally — started to believe that they care about him and worry about him, but Tim is probably the biggest one. How can he tell Jason the truth of this after all of that? Alfred was the one relationship Jason had since crawling out of his grave, that he trusted in; the one person whose love he never questioned. Jason's assurance of Alfred's love is the only connection he's ever had that has never wavered.
And they're about to decimate all of that.
If Tim was the praying type, he'd be begging any deity willing to listen that what they've managed to build over the last few years that allowed them all to have this night of easy comradery is enough to overcome that other god's shitty shift of reality.
"Akhi..." Damian's voice is unbearably gentle when he speaks, using the endearment he only ever uses with Jason and even then, very rarely. "Pennyworth would not have wanted you there."
Jason blinks again and frowns. "I... What? I don't get it. What do you—"
"I wanted to invite you anyway," Damian continues. He looks Jason in the eye the whole time, full of resolve and... respect. "I believed your feelings were more important than his wishes in this matter. But in the end, I was convinced that he did not deserve your presence there, regardless. I loved him dearly. But he did not deserve you."
This does not seem to clarify anything for Jason.
"I'm sorry if I'm being stupid right now, but..." Jason hesitates, glancing between all of them and frowning harder at the way none of them will meet his gaze. "I don't have any idea what you're talking about?"
Careful not to step on Barbara's fingers, Damian slides off the sofa and comes to stand in front of Jason where he now sits cross-legged on the floor. He puts a bandaged hand on Jason's shoulder.
"Pennyworth did not like you, brother. He advocated against your interests at every opportunity. It was Pennyworth who never sent you Father's invitation for the portrait sitting. It was Pennyworth who chose to exclude you from debriefs in the cave after missions and took family photos when you weren’t there—"
"Alfred apologized for putting you up in my room," Dick adds, voice gentle. "Said Bruce was trying to find you another home and he'd thought, with the way B and I had been at each other's throats, that you'd be gone by the time I came home for Christmas."
"But... I'd been there almost a year by then..."
"I overheard him a few months before... before you died, telling Bruce that you were too reckless and rebellious; that maybe Bruce couldn't give you what you really needed and it would be best to try to... to... find you a home, for lack of a better phrase."
To find him a new home. Like Jason was a stray dog Bruce had brought home and couldn't train not to bite.
Except that Tim knows how hard Alfred worked, how much effort he put into training Ace when Bruce brought home the actual dog he rescued from a fighting ring. Tim remembers them both telling him how Alfred spent months intensively and stubbornly training Ace out of the violence he'd known his whole life.
"He said that a few times," Tim adds quietly. "The reckless bit. He used to tell me you were disobedient; that you thought you knew better than Bruce. He said you thought Robin was a game and you got yourself killed because you were too angry and hotheaded and didn't take it seriously."
Jason just sits there, looking between them all, mouth hanging open in a disbelieving little 'o'.
Dick licks his lips and swallows. "That story you told us at Alfred's funeral? How he brought you a care package after you hadn't been around the Manor for a while? You said he made a comment about how you use guns and that they'd fail you? How he busted in and saved you a few days later when you were in a jam?"
"Yeah..." Jason's soft response cracks like his throat is dry.
Dick's mouth works, opening and closing, as he tries to work out how to drop the ax. His eyes are wide and watery.
"Pennyworth was a spy, Todd," Damian says for him. "He has—had, guns stashed all over the Manor. He never had a principled issue with you using them. He brought you the care package because Drake was out of town when he went by his safe house to drop it off and Richard was too far away to travel with the dairy products. Father and I were fighting Bane when you were in trouble. Father froze when he heard and almost got himself killed. Pennyworth went for you so Father wouldn't be distracted."
When Damian doesn't continue, Barbara sucks it up and hammers in the final nail. "You said he told you that you left of your own volition, that your exile was self-imposed. We all know that's nonsense, Jason. All of us have made mistakes since you came back, it wasn't just you and Bruce. None of us exactly welcomed you home. It feels crazy to think about, now that death seems to be a temporary state for so many heroes, but when you came back... when you came back it wasn't like that. Clark hadn't really been dead, Barry hadn't really been dead... there hadn't been anything like it before. We mistrusted it and you and allowed that fear and anger about your death and the flaunting of Bruce's code to control us. We know that. Alfred knew that. He knew that Bruce wasn't letting you back in, that the rest of us were keeping you at arms length."
"He..." Jason croaks, swallows, and tries again. His voice is still dry and cracking as he says, "He told me I could count on family..."
"When I arrived at the bar after the funeral that night, I was surprised to see you there..." Dick pauses and visibly steels himself, "At the time I wasn't really, you know, myself. You all had tried to reach me, popping up, hoping to remind me who I was. Alfred came, and he was easier to talk to than any of you, with him being older and, you know, not a vigilante, and, well, before he left he gave me a photo. Said, 'This is our family. These people love you and will always be there for you.' I gave it to Bruce that night but... It was Alfred, Bruce, and the four of us—" Dick waves his hands to indicate Barbara, Tim, and Damian, "—and he'd written 'My Family' on the back."
Jason isn't looking at them anymore. He's picking at loose thread in the knit of his sweats. "That doesn't mean anything," he mutters, almost more to himself than anyone else. "I'm not in a lot of family pictures. Or portraits. Or whatever."
"Jason," Babs' heart sounds as broken as Tim's feels.
"He meant Bruce," Tim says, gentling his voice even more and not reminding Jason that Damian had already said the portraits and pictures were Alfred as well. "When he told you you could count on family. Alfred would have slit his own throat for Bruce. And Bruce cares about you, even if he's shitty at showing it most of the time. Alfred saved you to save Bruce. He meant his family."
Silence unspools in the small family room. It's not a comfortable one. It falls heavy and suffocating in the warmth of a room full of Jason's family that must be feeling suddenly empty.
A soft, thick noise comes out of the back of Jason's throat. "And I'm... not part of it?"
Tim can't help but think he sounds like a young child who just found out Santa wasn't real or that he was the only one in the class not invited to the other kids' birthday parties. Tim wants to crawl back to his place and pretend this night never happened.
"You are to us," Dick hurries to assure him. He comes off the sofa, Babs shifting to let him pass, and squats in front of Jason, taking his hand. "You're our brother. And Bruce's son. Alfred wasn't the only person in this family and he was the only person who felt this way. We all loved him and we know he loved us but Alfred's priority was always Bruce. As a kid, you weren't motivated by the same things Bruce and I were, you had a different life growing up, different traumas, things Bruce didn't understand and didn't know how to help with, then you died, then you came back the way you did... Alfred only ever saw the way you made Bruce's life harder, so he never noticed all the ways you made it happier."
Shaking his head, Jason pulls his hands away from Dick's. "That doesn't make sense, Dick. You and Bruce were at each other's throats all the time—"
Dick just reaches down and grabs Jason's hands again, holding tight when Jason tries to yank them back again. "It wasn't always that way. Bruce and I both became vigilantes for vengeance after our parents were murdered. I was angry in the same way he had been and as much as I hate to admit it, I'm a lot like Bruce in ways I wish I wasn't. Alfred saw me as something between the little brother Bruce never had and his son. Tim only ever made Bruce's life easier, Alfred saw him as the one who saved Bruce from himself after your murder—"
"And I am his son," Damian finishes without the haughtiness one might expect from him when making such a comment. "What Richard is still too polite to say is that Pennyworth had his flaws, not the least of which was enabling Father's every whim and worst impulses. He was also a terrible snob. There's a reason he liked you and Brown least and it wasn't only because you raised Father's blood pressure."
"We're all very good at that," Tim snarks.
Jason's eyes flick to him and search his face. Tim gives him a small smile and shrugs in silent agreement with Damian's assessment.
"I am sorry you had to find out this way," Damian says, again putting his hand on Jason's shoulder. "Or at all. I was content to let you keep one of the few things that seemed to bring you joy, but I also think it's good you know the truth. My own affection for Pennyworth doesn't change the fact that he did not deserve yours."
Tim joins Dick and Barbara in nodding their agreement to that as well.
They're all quiet again for a minute, watching Jason get lost deeper and deeper in his own thoughts and memories.
Right as his eyes start to get a little glassy like tears are building up with whatever he finds there, Dick stands and hauls Jason up with him. The motion is so sudden that they're all startled out of their reverie.
"Come on," Dick says brightly. "Truth-or-Dare is not a game for vigilantes. Dumb idea. Whose was it anyway?"
Damian's expression is deeply unimpressed. "Yours."
"Well there you go. You should all know better than to let me pick. Come on, Jay," he flings his arm around Jason's shoulders, showing a truly impressive amount of restraint from wrapping Jason in the hug Tim knows Dick is itching to give, and starts directing their steps toward the hall closet where Jason keeps his board games. "Let's pick a real game."
Tim shares a look with Damian and Babs as the sound of thuds and indistinct grumbling filter into the living room.
It is good that Jason knows now. They don't have to try to figure out how to navigate this particular minefield anymore and it feels like that relief after sucking it up and just ripping off the Band-Aid when the tension and stress have dissipated because the hard part is over and you're on the other side of it. Jason always had the right to know, but how do you tell someone something like that?
And now it's done, and they can make sure they're there for him as he figures out how to move on, be there for him to remind him when needed that it's not his fault, it was Alfred's failing.
A delighted shout sounds from down the hall.
"Hey, you have Twister! Perfect!"
"Fuck no, Dickhead. You said it yourself, you're not allowed to pick anymore."
"Why would you have it if you didn't want to play it, Jay?"
"Who says I don't ever want to play it? I just don't want to play it with you."
"Smart and a spoilsport."
"If that's the way it's gonna be, how 'bout Trivial Pursuit?"
Tim smiles. He can almost hear Dick's scowl.
"No. That always comes down to the rest of us watching you and Damian duke it out."
"Smart and a spoilsport."
Barbara smiles as Damian stoically starts cleaning off the coffee table for whatever board game they end up choosing. But he's not fooling any of them.
"Wait, wait, wait," Jason says. "I know the perfect game."
More thuds and shuffling sounds as boxes are pushed aside. Then Dick makes an oohing sound.
"Oh, yes. Good choice."
Tim sighs and shares an eyeroll with Barbara.
There's only one game those two drama queens would agree on like that.
No one is surprised when they turn the corner with Balderdash, arguing about which of them is going to win this time.
Dick is by far the best bluffer, but Jason has the biggest vocabulary and knows too much etymology to get tricked very often.
Honestly, the only games that are fair for all of them to play together are things like Risk (which takes forever — especially when they play it — and gets vicious).
But Tim is happy to lose a few games if there's a chance the grin on Jason's face will reach his sad eyes by the end of the night.