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Games night at Wayne Manor was a rare event; impossible to plan. But games nights, like movie nights, like Sunday brunches, had a way of working themselves out and bringing the family together. Most of the family, at least.
Tonight it started with Tim, who was more focused on his phone than on the conversation Dick was trying to drag out of him.
He snatched away the phone and immediately rolled his eyes. “Words With Friends?”
“Yes.” Tim grabbed the phone back. “I’m kicking Steph’s ass.”
He peered over Tim’s shoulder at the scoreboard on the main page, and raised his brows in surprise. “You got Kon on that thing?”
A small smile and one-shoulder shrug. “I let him win sometimes.”
He rolled on the balls of his feet, mussed a hand through his brother’s hair. “How about a real game?”
That got his attention. He met him with a grin as Tim looked up, a strange thrill at the thought of something so normal, and he led the way out to the hallway closet that housed an inconceivable number of games, board and otherwise, left behind by Martha and expanded upon by their favourite Pennyworth. He heard the phone buzz, but Tim was reaching for the Scrabble box, face filled with mirth, a look too rare in this house.
The box was still crisp and fresh, if a little dusty, almost never used. Nothing in this closet had found much use, abandoned through more than one childhood spent here, and Dick as stared at it, neatly stacked, mostly untouched, he fought off the familiar sting of resentment. He’d moved past all that a long time ago, at least he was supposed to have moved past it. Bitterness never suited him.
He turned, took the box from Tim, nodded to his phone, and started off towards the den. “Get them over here, I’ll call Babs.”
“Right, because it’s not like they have lives or anything,” Tim called after him.
“You got it,” he called back.
He whipped his own phone from his pocket.
Let the games begin.
Tim left to pick up Connor and they got back just as Steph showed up, Cassandra in tow, and Barbara rolled up as they were settling into the den.
A loud chime from the grandfather clock, the heavy shift of it being moved, and then Damian pulled up short, towel slung over his shoulder, on his way back from the cave. He levelled them all with a scowl.
“Do none of you have somewhere else to be?”
Dick grinned up at him, all teeth. “Not right now. You in?”
Arms crossed, he took a few seconds to consider. A curt nod, and he strolled into the room, stood resolutely in front of Steph and glared until she scoffed and slid out of his favourite chair, onto the floor beside Cass.
“Someone’s gotta take Drake down a peg,” he said, an explanation no one asked for.
Tim shoved at him. “Bring it.”
Dick snorted, shook his head to himself, and sent a distracted glance to the entryway. He shifted, draped himself over his chair, limbs everywhere, angled for the best vantage point, one ear out for anyone else.
He checked his phone; no new messages. He snuck a glance at Babs, ordering her tiles in her lap. She hadn’t answered his call but she responded to his text; Jason hadn’t, that invitation was out there in the ether and he refused to feel foolish. He wasn’t on their team anymore, but he wasn’t trying to kill them, either, and while Dick didn’t like his methods, he respected his reasons for doing what he did. They were back on speaking terms - well, grunting in alleyways and trading information, but that counts - and he just figured… He didn’t know what he figured. Jason had his own crew now, he didn’t need the social interaction.
So maybe the invitation wasn’t selfless.
It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to show up.
He sighed, slid the phone back into his back pocket and stretched his leg out, toes teasing at Tim’s elbow. Tim shoved his foot away and placed his first word down. Fusion.
Alfred strolled through the room, graceful as ever, a tray of snacks and beverages steady in those old hands.
“Hey, you want to play?” Tim asked, bright.
“Yeah, come on, I need some real competition,” Babs smiled, and adjusted the corner of her glasses.
“Oh,” Steph groaned, clutching her shirt in fake pain. Cass swatted her playfully.
Dick swung his head to look at Alfred, already knowing his answer.
“I’m afraid I must decline,” he said gallantly, humour creasing his eyes.
“We’ll reel you in one of these days,” Dick promised.
“If you say so, Master Richard.”
Their eyes met, old and young, haunted by the same unplaceable thing, the thing that had long settled into most of the people in this room, and they exchanged a small smile and gentle head nod.
He left the room, and the game wore on, the drinks divided around the circle, one glass left untouched, and Dick made a point not to stare at it when Alfred returned for the empty tray. Without a word or a glance, he moved the cup off the tray, left it on the table, and Dick let his gaze linger on it until it was his turn and six pairs of eyes turned on him.
He threw up his hands in defeat. Three tiles left and no place to put them. Man, he hated Scrabble. “Pass.”
“You’re making it too easy on him,” Connor complained.
“Hey, I tried,” he offered, already pulling his phone out again as attention drifted over to Babs, and he expected an empty screen, but seeing it brought a hit of disappointment nonetheless.
“Waiting for your girlfriend to call?” Damian’s mocking tone was a sharp reminder that no moment was private in this house.
“Who said it was my girlfriend?” he countered, but no one was buying it.
“Seriously, you’ve been checking it all night,” Tim said.
“At least we got you off yours,” Connor shrugged, arm slung around his shoulders, and added in a voice so low Dick almost missed it, “I usually have to get more creative.”
Tim raised his index finger and turned into Connor, pink flushed high on his cheeks. “That was not the point to this.” His eyes, bright white and blue, lit up with the spark that came with every idea, momentous and completely insignificant. This was more on the insignificant side. “But I know what’ll keep him away from it.”
Dick observed their casual intimacy with interest as Tim slapped Connor’s leg, squeezed his knee, and turned back to face him, wry smile aimed at him. “Twister.”
“Really,” Babs deadpanned.
“Cass had to sit through Scrabble,” Steph pointed out, jumping to her feet, pulling Cass up with her.
With an exaggerated eye roll, she conceded. “I’ll spin the wheel then, shall I?”
She shot a glance at Dick like an inside joke, and he smiled, a familiar sense of adoration sweeping through him as he held eye contact. Everything felt like an inside joke between them; it was the one thing he’d been most afraid of losing when they broke up, but breaking up had only made them stronger, made them both better, and he loved her all the more for it.
He couldn’t tease reluctance for long, not when Connor was up moving the table and Cass was spreading out the sheet and he was flexing, stretching. This was his game. He patted himself down, left his phone with his jacket on the chair.
Connor swung his arm heavy around Tim’s neck, pulled him against his chest, an overbearing embrace that Tim sank into. Babs tapped Steph’s arm, nodded in their direction, and the happiness in their faces as they watched the two boys drowned out everything else. Damian faked a loud yawn; Cass appeared silent by Dick’s side. He acknowledged her with a slow smile, and gazed around at the rest of them with a chest full of fondness and warmth.
This is what was important. This, right here. Superheroes in civvies, playing board games like the family they had stumbled into becoming. And yeah, there was something missing, but there was always something missing.
He indulged the compulsion and checked his phone one last time. No reasonable part of him actually thought Jason would show up. Christ, it would take something seriously universe-threatening to get him anywhere near this place, not a game of Scrabble or - he shot off another text, just in case - Twister. It wasn’t worth any more of his energy.
But still. It itched at him. That missing thing? It kept creeping up on Dick, offering to eat him alive.
As hollowness stretched through his chest, he scratched a hand through his hair, pulled on a jovial smile, and took the first spin. He placed his right foot on a blue circle, and the first round kept it simple.
Second and third spins and things started to get complicated, but it was six athletes used to hopping buildings and holding twice their own weight on a daily basis. Okay, five, excepting Connor, but his advantages of strength and invulnerability were offset by his lack of flexibility. Dick was a damn acrobat.
Several spins later, Dick was on all fours, blood rushing to his head, ass raised in the air, and he shook what his mother gave him for the suppressed giggles it awarded him. That, of course, was when he heard the door open and Alfred’s surprised, “Hello, Master Jason,” caused his hold to waver.
It didn’t escape Steph’s notice. “Getting tired, sport?”
“I could do this all day,” he crooned in response, and let his head hang limp, upside down, to look out through his legs and shoot Jason a salacious wink.
“What are you doing here?” Damian demanded, the effect of his contempt dampened somewhat by the fact he was crossed over himself on a plastic mat, looking more like a disgruntled pretzel than a trained assassin.
“Aw, demon spawn, you’re gonna hurt my feelings.”
Jason leaned against a chair in Dick’s small window of vision and shrugged out of his brown leather jacket, slipped off his kevlar vest and kicked off his boots. Dick couldn’t see above his chest as he paused, huffed a breath, and walked out of view.
Tim nudged Dick’s knee with his elbow, and Dick twisted his neck to see his face.
“You invited him?” he asked, frowning.
A spike of defensive anger clutched his gut. He pushed it away; Tim was fine, he didn’t mean anything.
“He’s family.”
“Hardly,” Damian drawled.
“The brat’s got the idea,” Jason said conversationally.
“What are you doing here?” Babs asked, exasperated.
“Just here for the festivities. You know, bonding, bending, whatever is going on here.”
He saw the tail end of a lazy gesture, and heard the spinner clack angrily against its cardboard base. “Right foot red.”
A bare foot appeared on the red circle directly behind and between Dick’s legs, spread out on blue. “Honestly, Roy bet I couldn’t beat boy wonder at this, and, you know,” he leaned forward, casually resting his weight against Dick, “couldn’t resist a sure thing like that.”
Steph whistled. “You must love getting your ass kicked.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, voice low and rough, going straight through Dick in ways that made him wish he were in a more modest position, and he sucked in a breath as Jason clapped his hip roughly. “I think I can take him.”
He had to wonder if that sounded the same to him as it did to everyone else, but Damian scoffed and asked, “And the rest of us?”
“Cake,” Jason said, too much animosity in such an innocent word.
Dick peered down and up through his legs, but he couldn’t see higher than the legs that bracketed his own. He huffed and strained his neck up to see Damian’s sneer, and still couldn’t see Jason’s face, but the weight against him disappeared in one smooth motion and he realised he’d been using it to steady himself when he was left to his own devices again.
Steph collapsed and rolled off the mat. “I’m out, I gotta go soon.”
Cass unfolded herself as well.
“Well, we’re off!” Steph chirped. “Making it an early patrol. Bye, hun.” The sound of mouth smacked against cheek, and a chorus of goodbyes followed them out the door.
“Left hand yellow, Conner,” Babs ordered.
Conner complied, and fumbled just enough to lose balance and fall on his ass. Tim laughed, a light-hearted, soft sound, while Damian grunted and moved into his new position. Tim followed, and then it was Jason again, and he wasn’t getting away with not catching up.
“Three spins, Babs,” he asserted.
“You’re the only one who needs a handicap here, Dick,” Jason drawled, accent on his name as an insult. Yeah, he was a dick, he’d never heard that one before.
“Right hand yellow, and… Left hand green.”
Dick could practically hear the eyebrow raise. He’d put money on how much regret Jay must be feeling right about now, his own strained arms and legs blocking the easiest routes.
“And my other foot?”
Another spin. “Yellow. Good luck with that.”
He crouched down, finally in view, and Dick watched him stretch out right there under him until he ended up in some deformed version of a runner’s starting position, Dick bent above him absurdly. He shifted one hand in an effort to open up the space, but only grazed his chest against Jason’s back, arms working hard to not press against his sides.
“This is ridiculous,” Dick declared.
“Give up any time,” Damian huffed.
“Don’t quit on me now,” Jason countered, sounding for all the world like he was enjoying this.
“Remind me why we’re doing this?” he asked, teeth gritted, knowing it would take an earthquake to move him from this mat. If Jason had come here on a bet, it wasn’t one he was going to win.
“So you’d stop checking your phone like a girl,” Damian sneered.
“Just a reminder that your fate is in the hands of a girl,” Babs called.
“Hey,” Tim’s head snapped up. “You’d better not be cheating over there.”
“What do you take me for?”
“Booty call, Grayson?” Jason prodded, an edge to his voice. “Another redhead in the roster?”
“Say, how is Roy these days?” he asked, voice lilted, slow smirk spreading across his face.
Jason’s fist clenched. “He’s great. Kory too.”
A split moment of guilt wiped the smirk off his face.
Babs cleared her throat loudly. “Right foot red, Dick.”
He took the opportunity to swing his leg over Jason, placed it right behind his other foot. He was still stretched uncomfortably over Jason from the waist up, but beggars, meet choosers.
It took a few more spins, but Tim gave up in favour of folding himself across Connor’s lap on the couch, and even Damian was growing weary with the repetition.
Dick was backwards now, stretched out in an unnatural bridge, but at least he could see everything, like Jason’s crab crouch and the severely unimpressed expression that came with it.
“Ready to cave?” he laughed.
That heavy gaze focused in on him. “Not even close.”
Damian spat out a string of what sounded like Arabic curse words, and stormed off the mat. He settled in a chair across the room, arms crossed.
“It is getting late,” Babs tried, but Dick stared her down resolutely.
“What’s my next move?”
She sighed. “Right foot yellow.”
Easy.
“Left hand blue,” she intoned for Jason.
He moved his hand and rocked his whole body forward, out of the crab stance, into a predatory position aimed right at Dick. Strong arms stretched out, muscles working to steady his entire body; Dick’s eyes flicked up to his and those eyes, the green that bled through a blue not unlike his own, made his heart seize. Jason was staring at him with such intense focus, unparalleled in his obstinance, and he felt a tug at his nerves, knowing he was the subject of that attention.
“I wasn’t kidding when I said I could do this all day,” he grunted.
One eyebrow raised. “I meant it when I said I could take you.”
There was that streak of Robin, remnants of the fifteen year old who jumped at every chance to prove himself, especially against Dick. But too much had changed for that to matter. Very real antagonism existed between him and everyone in this room, and the white streak of hair that marked his hair was a visceral physical reminder that this wasn’t Robin 2.0 all grown up: this was Jason Todd back from the dead, damaged and ruthless.
Dick felt a sudden, breathless rush of gratitude that Bruce was on patrol all night.
The cardboard wheel landed between them on the mat. He stared down at it, then looked up at Babs sliding her jacket on.
She shrugged under his gaze. “You boys can sort it out.”
Connor stood up as she pushed herself to the door. “You need a ride?”
She considered, and accepted.
“Mind if I tag along?” Tim asked, at Connor’s heels.
The side door clicked shut behind them, and Dick looked around, realised Damian had crept off at some point. It was just the two of them.
“It doesn’t make sense for us to go all night,” he reasoned.
Jason’s deadpan twisted into a smirk. “That’s not what they usually say.”
“And what do they usually say?”
“Something about ‘please’ and ‘God’ and ‘harder’.” He rolled his neck, nonchalant.
Dick’s stomach clenched. He looked away, stared at the ceiling.
“Alright,” Jason sighed. “I’m sure we can come up with a tiebreaker.”
Given enough time and one bad spin, Jason would fold like the others had, but he was determined, and Dick knew well the pointlessness of fighting that.
“I’m all ears.”
He considered. “Chicken on bikes?”
Dick chewed absently at his bottom lip. “I don’t have mine here.”
Jason’s mouth opened, but before he could say it, Dick added, “And this is not worth being killed by Bruce.”
His mouth closed slowly, smug. “Guess I win, then.”
Dick’s eyes narrowed. “Unless…”
“Unless?”
He tipped his chin up, invoking the real challenge. “There’s another way to play that, you know.”
Jason was not nearly as easy to read as Dick was, but shutters of disbelief were plain as he processed the idea. He closed up again quickly, disguising whatever else was there before Dick could catch it.
“But Dickiebird, we’re family,” he echoed Dick’s earlier sentiment, full of faux scandal.
“That’s not what you said before,” he said seriously. He sighed, shrugged, turned away in feigned indifference. “But if you’re too chicken…”
He looked back just in time to see those eyes darken over. “Fine.”
“Up on three?” he suggested cheerfully.
They both twisted to their feet with relative ease. Dick stretched his arms over his head, dug his toes into the carpet. It felt good to be back on his feet, in an actual human position. Human positions were overrated. His gaze caught on Jason’s neck as he stretched it out against each shoulder, eyes closed, brow furrowed. Trails of scars marked his neck and travelled down under his shirt, some new, still healing, others painfully old.
When his eyes opened, they were sharp. “How do you want to do this? Buy me dinner first?”
Dick pushed at his shoulder as he passed by him. “On the couch.”
A sharp intake of breath, and a forced, “Yessir!”
“Okay.” A deep breath in, shaky breath out. He settled on the red suede couch, legs crossed.
Jason mirrored his position but left one leg hanging off the couch. This was not a good time to notice the cut on Jason’s bottom lip.
There had to be a psych-out element to this.
He leaned in, cocked an eyebrow, said in a low, breathy voice, “You ready, Little Wing?”
Jason’s jaw clicked; his pupils widened. Dick allowed a short moment of surprise and held fast, ignored his heart as it picked up pace, more insistent with each inch Jason closed.
“You know,” a tiny smirk; he licked his lips, “I’m the bad guy. I don’t have to regret this tomorrow.”
Dick’s head tilted, swept up in confusion. “You aren’t the bad guy.”
Jason’s face went blank; he took the opportunity to slide his hands up Jason’s knees; Jason flinched, and he reminded himself that was a victory. Get Jason to move away first, and he would win. That’s what victory meant in this situation.
He felt his brows pulling together; victory was synonymous with rejection tonight.
Calloused hands wrapped around his thin wrists, and he was certain this was it, Jason would take his hands off his thighs and that would be it. He steeled himself, forced eye contact, but there was no discomfort or awkwardness in the face now inches from his own. He felt his own expression relax, eyes widen, lips part. Those fingers that circled his wrists slid up his arms and back down, back to his hands, and moved across to his lap. His grip tightened on solid thighs as Jason’s hands roamed up his own.
He swallowed. Jason’s gaze followed him, heavy with expectation. He moved forward, pressed their mouths together with confidence that came from the knowledge he was about to win this game, and his heart sank, and he pushed harder against Jason’s mouth, dug fingers into his jeans, and Jason’s hands slid off his legs and this was it, this was the moment to withdraw, but those hands were in his hair now, and Jason’s mouth opened, an invitation, and he took a second to breathe before Jason surged at him, toppled him onto his back and his legs, crushed together beneath him, untangled and curled around his hips.
“Jay,” he breathed, hands clutched in his hair.
Jason drew up and Dick stared, consumed by the smell of cloves and cigarette smoke that surrounded him these days.
“Who wins?” he breathed.
Dick laughed, big and surprised. “Does it matter?”
“I’m telling Roy I did.”
“Well, you are making out with me,” Dick pointed out. “I’d say you scored.”
“Oh, fu-” Jason dove down, cut himself off with another kiss. He broke away to add, “You’re an idiot.”
Dick grinned and dragged him back down. “Shut up,” he muttered, and his head fell back against the couch, Jason’s mouth pressed against his, open and eager.
His hips rolled up; Jason rocked against them; Dick unwrapped his ankles, shifted for better leverage, and pushed his heel against the couch, pushed against Jason, whose mouth moved to his jaw, down to his neck, and Dick turned his head for better access, one hand still loose in this hair that was meant to look like his own - he clutched it hard, clutched at Jason harder - but Jason owned it now, and that god forsaken white streak just proved he had been all his own for a long time now.
He turned his head, interrupted the trail Jason was headed down, cupped his jaw and brought him back, brought their mouths together, bit down, and the taste of copper filled his mouth. He pulled away, eyes falling immediately on the cut he’d opened.
“Sorry,” he murmured, staring at it.
Jason’s hands tightened at his waist, swiped his tongue over the prickles of blood and grinned, all teeth, no humour, pressed back down into Dick.
The air left his lungs; he spared half a thought to hate himself for the rush of want as he bit down on that lip again, but Jason moaned into it and that was the only thing that mattered.