Work Text:
Jason’s reflection stared back at him through the steam, all wrong angles and bulk. Water traced paths down skin that had forgotten how to be soft, droplets catching in the valleys between muscles that had no business existing on an omega’s frame. He’d scrubbed himself raw in the shower—punishment or purification, he couldn’t say—but the mirror didn’t lie, and neither did the body taking up too much space in it.
He pressed his palm flat against his stomach. Solid. Unyielding. The kind of abs that belonged on action figures and gym advertisements, not on someone whose designation said he should curve gently inward, delicate and inviting. His shoulders were too broad, traps too developed. When he flexed—and he hated that he did, that some masochistic part of him needed to confirm every failure—his biceps swelled obscenely large.
The white streak in his hair had already started to dry, curling slightly. He pushed it back, fingers catching in the damp tangles. Even his hands were wrong. Scarred knuckles, callused palms, fingers thick enough to palm a basketball. No elegant taper to them, no slender wrists that alphas could encircle completely. Just utilitarian meat hooks designed for violence.
His mind dragged him back to three weeks ago. The restaurant had been Dick’s choice, upscale but not ostentatious, the kind of place where Gotham’s elite pretended to be casual. Jason had worn a button-down that strained slightly across his chest, dark jeans that couldn’t quite hide the muscle in his thighs. He‘d felt like a kid playing dress-up in his father’s clothes, all wrong proportions and borrowed confidence.
Dick had looked perfect. Because of course he did. Alphas always did, but Dick especially, that lean, athletic build that managed to be both powerful and graceful. He’d smiled when Jason arrived, that megawatt grin that usually made Jason’s stomach do complicated things, and Jason had thought maybe this could work.
Then they‘d walked to their table.
“Is that an omega?” The woman’s voice had carried, shocked and delighted in equal measure. “God, look at the size of him.”
Her companion had laughed. “Bet he’s a handful in bed.”
Dick’s jaw had tightened, but he hadn’t said anything. Just placed his hand on the small of Jason’s back—a claiming gesture, protective—and guided him forward. Jason had felt each stare like pressure on his soul, heads turning to track their progress through the dining room.
At the table next to theirs, an elderly alpha had done a double-take, then leaned over to his mate. “In my day, you could tell an omega from across the room. Standards have certainly changed.”
The omega beside him—petite, probably a size two, with wrists so thin they looked breakable—had tittered behind her hand. Her eyes had raked over Jason with something between pity and disdain.
Jason had made it through dinner. He’d even managed conversation, though he couldn’t remember a single word of it now. Dick had tried—Christ, he’d tried—to keep things light, to pretend the stares and whispers didn’t exist. But Jason had felt them all, each look another confirmation of what he already knew. He didn’t belong here. Didn’t belong anywhere, really, except maybe in a back alley with a gun in his hand.
Before Ethiopia, he’d been different. Jason’s fingers traced the ridge of scar tissue along his ribs, a reminder of crowbar and explosion and death. At fifteen, almost sixteen but never quite, he’d been exactly what an omega should be, lean and compact, still growing into his height but not his breadth. Bruce had made sure he ate well, and training had kept him fit without making him bulky. He’d had that willowy quality, the one that made alphas look twice and then look away quickly, respectful of Robin’s status.
He could have been on magazine covers. Could have worn the designer clothes that omega models draped themselves in, all slim cuts and strategic draping. Could have been brought to galas on an alpha‘s arm without causing a stir, without being the subject of speculation and crude commentary.
Talia had brought him back wrong.
The Lazarus Pit had done more than restore his mind. It had rebuilt him into something else entirely, packed muscle onto his frame like armour, turned him into a weapon first and an omega second. Or maybe not an omega at all, by any standard that mattered. Just a freak show, a curiosity, the kind of thing people talked about in scandalised whispers.
“Did you see that omega with Wayne? Absolutely huge. Like a bodybuilder.”
“Probably takes suppressants. Has to, looking like that.”
“Bet he’s one of those dirty ones. You know the type.”
Jason gripped the edge of the sink hard enough that his knuckles went white. The porcelain was cold under his palms, grounding. He knew exactly what type they meant. The type that showed up in porn, in the magazines that alphas bought in seedy shops and hid from their respectable mates. The “omega fantasy”, all muscle and aggression wrapped up in slick and submission, designed to satisfy some fucked-up desire for corruption.
He wasn’t marriageable. Wasn’t the kind of omega you brought home to meet the family or introduced at charity functions. He was the kind you fucked in dark rooms and didn’t talk about after, the dirty secret that made alphas feel powerful and transgressive.
And wasn‘t that just perfect? He was either too disgusting to want or only valuable as a fetish object. Either way, he lost.
The self-hatred came in waves. First the bitter acknowledgement that no alpha would want him for real, for keeps. That Dick would eventually realise what everyone else already knew, that Jason was fundamentally unmarriageable, too big and too scarred and too violent to be anyone’s mate. Then the secondary wave, the one that made him want to claw his own skin off: the understanding that to some alphas, he was desirable. Just not in any way that mattered. Not as a person. Just as a fantasy, a piece of hot ass to jack off to.
He didn’t know which was worse. Being unwanted or being wanted for all the wrong reasons.
His phone sat on the counter, screen dark. Dick had stopped texting some days ago. Before that, it had been constant; messages asking if Jason was okay, if they could talk, if he’d done something wrong. Jason had ignored them all, watched them pile up like accusations.
Hey, you busy tonight? Want to grab coffee?
Jason, please talk to me. Whatever happened, we can fix it.
I miss you.
That last one had come three days ago. Since then, nothing.
Dick had given up. Finally realised that Jason wasn‘t worth the effort, that whatever he’d thought they could be was just another bad idea in a lifetime of them. Jason told himself he’d expected this, that he’d known from the start it would end this way. Told himself he didn‘t care.
The reflection in the mirror called him a liar.
Jason grabbed his towel and dried off roughly, then left the bathroom before he could do something stupid like put his fist through the glass. His bedroom was dark, curtains drawn against the Gotham night. He pulled on soft sweatpants and padded across the room.
A cigarette. He needed a cigarette and the cold air and maybe the sight of Crime Alley spread out below him, familiar and broken and his in a way nothing else ever would be.
Jason pushed aside the curtain, fingers already reaching for the window latch.
A body crouched on his fire escape, silhouetted against the ambient city light.
“Fuck!” Jason jerked back, heart hammering, before his brain caught up with his instincts. Black and blue suit. Escrima sticks crossed on the back. That particular way of holding absolutely still that Dick had, like a predator deciding whether to pounce.
Nightwing smiled at him through the glass. It wasn’t a nice smile.
“Let me in, Jay.” Dick’s voice came muffled through the glass, pleasant and easy like he was asking to borrow a cup of sugar instead of demanding entry to Jason’s apartment at—Jason glanced at the clock—nearly midnight on a Friday.
“Uh, no way. That’s what a vampire would say.” Jason kept his hand on the curtain, ready to yank it closed. His heart was still trying to restart itself after the scare. “I’ve read Dracula. I know how this works.”
“Jason.” Dick’s smile didn’t waver, but something in it went sharp. “Open the window.”
“I’m actually about to go to bed. You know, sleep. That thing normal people do.”
“In sweatpants. At midnight. When you usually don‘t sleep until four a.m. at the earliest.” Dick tilted his head, and the motion was unsettling. “Try again.”
Jason’s fingers tightened on the curtain. “I’m sick. Contagious. You don’t want whatever I have.”
“You’re not sick.”
“How would you know?”
“Because you were out as Hood three hours ago. I checked the GCPD scanner.” Dick shifted slightly, still in that crouch, and Jason was abruptly reminded that his apartment was four stories up and Dick was perched on a metal grating like it was a park bench. “I can do this all night. Can you?”
“Jesus, are you seriously camping out on my fire escape?”
“If that’s what it takes.” Dick’s voice stayed pleasant, but his eyes were cold. “We can have this conversation through the glass, if you prefer. I’m sure your neighbours would love the show.”
Jason glanced toward the wall he shared with the family next door. They had a kid, maybe six, who liked to press her ear against the wall and listen to what Jason assumed were very boring sounds of him reading or cleaning his guns. The last thing he needed was her overhearing—what? What was this conversation even going to be?
“You’re being ridiculous,” Jason said.
“Open. The window.” Dick’s smile had gone brittle and thin. “Please.”
The please sounded like a threat.
“And if I don’t?”
Dick reached behind him and pulled out one of his escrima sticks. He examined it thoughtfully, turning it over in his hand like he was considering its weight. Then his eyes met Jason’s through the glass. “Then I break the window. And you know I’m good for it.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” There was no humour in Dick’s voice now, just flat certainty. “You’ve got until three to decide. One.”
“This is breaking and entering. I could shoot you.”
“Two.”
Jason weighed his options. Dick would absolutely break the window. He’d done more for less, and right now he had that look, the one that said he’d made a decision and God himself couldn’t change his mind. And if Dick broke the window, Jason would have to explain to his landlord why Nightwing had destroyed his property, which would lead to questions Jason didn’t want to answer.
Also, it was cold out. Jason liked this apartment.
“Fine. Christ.” Jason flipped the latch and shoved the window up. Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of metal and city rain. “Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.” Dick flowed through the window with that stupid effortless grace he had, like gravity was a suggestion rather than a law. He landed lightly on Jason’s floor, then straightened to his full height. Which was still shorter than Jason, but somehow Dick managed to take up more space. “Thanks for the invitation.”
“Thanks for threatening to break my shit.”
“You’re welcome.” Dick smiled, and it was terrifying, all teeth and no warmth. He reached up and started working the domino mask off, fingers steady as he applied solvent to the edges.
Jason watched, transfixed despite himself. There was something intimate about watching someone remove their mask, something vulnerable in the act. But Dick wasn’t being vulnerable. He was being deliberate, taking his time, casual as anything while he peeled away Nightwing to reveal Dick Grayson underneath.
The mask came away, and Dick’s blue eyes fixed on Jason with uncomfortable intensity.
Jason fidgeted. Crossed his arms over his chest, then uncrossed them because that looked defensive. Shoved his hands in his pockets instead. His apartment suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing in. He was acutely aware that he was shirtless, that Dick’s gaze had tracked briefly over his chest before returning to his face, that he was standing in his own bedroom in sweatpants with his hair still damp from the shower while his ex—while Dick—while Nightwing stared him down like a suspect under interrogation.
“So,” Dick said, still in that falsely pleasant tone. He tucked the mask into his belt and started humming—something tuneless and aggravating that crawled under Jason’s skin. “Want to tell me why you’ve been avoiding me?”
“I haven’t.” The lie came automatically, smooth as anything.
Dick‘s humming stopped. “Try again.”
“I’ve been busy. Crime Alley doesn’t run itself.”
“Uh-huh.” Dick took a step closer. Jason held his ground. “And the dozen texts I sent? The calls? The messages I left with Roy?”
“I’ve been dealing with my people. There was a situation with—“
“Jason.” Dick’s voice cut through the excuse like a knife. His smile strained at the edges, something dangerous leaking through the charm. “I’m going to give you a second chance here. A do-over. Ready?” He paused, and the silence stretched thin. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
Jason’s jaw worked. He wanted to lie again, to deflect, to tell Dick to get the fuck out of his apartment and leave him alone. But Dick was looking at him like he could see straight through to bone, like he’d peel Jason apart layer by layer until he found the truth, and Jason was suddenly, horribly tired.
The fight went out of him all at once.
Jason sat on the bed. Didn’t decide to, didn’t mean to, just found himself there with his shoulders slumped and his hands loose between his knees. The weight of Dick’s stare pressed down on him like a physical thing.
“I’m waiting,” Dick said. Still pleasant and patient. But there was steel underneath, the kind of implacable determination that made Dick Grayson the leader of teams and the man who kept Batman himself in check when necessary.
“It’s nothing,” Jason tried.
“Jason.”
“It’s stupid.”
“Then it should be easy to say.” Dick moved closer, and Jason tracked him with his eyes. Prey watching a predator approach. “Come on. We’ve known each other how long? Since you were twelve? You can tell me.”
“That’s—“ Jason swallowed. “That’s not fair.”
“I know.” Dick’s voice softened, just slightly, and somehow that was worse than the interrogation tone. “But I’ve been losing my mind for weeks trying to figure out what I did wrong. So please. Just talk to me.”
And there it was, the guilt card, expertly played. Because of course Dick had been worried. Of course he’d been trying to figure out what happened. That‘s what Dick did. He fixed things, helped people, made everything better. Even when the thing that needed fixing was too broken to be salvaged.
Jason’s hands curled into fists against his thighs. “I’m dealing with some personal stuff.”
“What kind of personal stuff?”
“The personal kind.”
“Jason.” Dick sighed, and it sounded genuine. “You’re killing me here. Give me something. Anything.”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because you matter.” Dick said it simply, like it was obvious, like Jason was an idiot for even asking. “Because we had a good time—I thought we had a good time—and then you disappeared. Because I care about you, you stubborn asshole, and I need to know if I fucked this up somehow.”
Jason’s throat felt tight. He stared at his hands, at the scars crossing his knuckles, at the evidence of violence written into his skin. “You didn’t fuck anything up.”
“Then what happened?”
“I told you. Personal stuff.”
“About the date?” Dick pressed. “About me? About us?”
“There is no us.”
“There could be. If you’d let there be.” Dick took another step closer, and now he was right in front of Jason, invading his space with all that alpha presence. “Talk to me. Please.”
The please broke something in Jason’s chest. He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging at the damp strands. “The comments. During dinner.”
Dick went very still. “What comments?”
“You heard them. Don’t pretend you didn’t.” Jason’s voice came out bitter. “Everyone staring. Everyone with something to say about—“ He gestured vaguely at himself, encompassing all six feet two inches of wrong. “This.”
“About you being an omega?”
“About me being a freak show.” Jason’s laugh scraped out harsh. “Being too big, too much, too wrong. Christ, Dick, that woman looked at me like I’d crawled out of a sewer.”
“Fuck her,” Dick said with sudden vehemence. “Fuck all of them.”
“Except they’re not wrong.” The words came out before Jason could stop them. “I’m not—I don‘t look like what omegas are supposed to look like. I don’t fit. I’m not the kind of omega alphas want to—“ He stopped. Started again. “I’m not mate material. I’m not runway model pretty. I’m the kind of omega you see in dirty magazines, not the kind you bring home to—“
“Stop.” Dick’s hand shot out, fingers catching Jason’s chin and tilting his face up. “Stop it right now.”
Jason jerked his head away. “It’s true.”
“It’s bullshit.”
“You heard what they said.”
“I heard a bunch of assholes with nothing better to do than judge people they don’t know.” Dick’s voice had gone hard. “That doesn’t make them right.”
“Doesn’t make them wrong either.”
“Jason—“
“Look at me.” Jason spread his arms, offering himself up for inspection. “Really look. I’m not—I’m not what you should want. What any alpha should want.”
Dick looked. His gaze travelled over Jason’s bare chest, his broad shoulders, his muscled arms. Lingered on the scars, the evidence of hard work. And Jason waited for it, the moment of realisation, the understanding that he’d been fooling himself thinking this could work.
Instead, Dick moved into the space between Jason‘s knees.
Jason‘s breath caught. Suddenly Dick was right there, close enough that Jason could smell his cologne underneath the sweat and leather, close enough that he had to tilt his head back slightly to maintain eye contact. Dick’s thighs pressed against the inside of Jason’s knees, and the position put them almost eye to eye.
“That‘s all?” Dick said. His voice had gone soft, and his expression—fuck, he looked relieved. “That’s what this has been about?”
Jason bristled. “All? What do you mean all?” He tried to push Dick back, but Dick caught his wrists. “Let go—“
“Hey, hey.” Dick’s grip was firm but not bruising. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just—shit, Jason. I thought I’d done something wrong on our date. I’ve been out of my mind trying to figure out what I said, what I did, how I fucked it up.”
“You didn’t—“
“I thought you regretted going out with me.” Dick’s thumbs rubbed small circles on the inside of Jason’s wrists, right over the pulse points. “I thought maybe I’d pushed too hard, or moved too fast, or that you’d realised you didn’t actually want—“ He stopped. Swallowed. “I’ve been terrified that I lost you before we even had a chance.”
Jason stared at him. Dick’s eyes were very blue, and very earnest, and very close. “You thought I was avoiding you because of something you did?”
“What else was I supposed to think? You went radio silent.”
“Because I look like—“
“You look fine.”
“Fine.” Jason‘s laugh was sharp. “Right. Fine.”
“More than fine.” Dick’s hands slid from Jason’s wrists to his hands, lacing their fingers together. “You look like you. Which is all I want.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“I’m really not.” Dick squeezed his hands. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? I’ve barely slept. I’ve driven Roy crazy asking if he’s heard from you. I nearly broke into the Clocktower to ask Babs if she knew what was going on.”
“You didn’t.”
“I thought about it.” Dick’s mouth quirked in a small smile. “You matter to me, Jason. And I know—“ His expression turned serious again. “I know you’ve got reasons not to trust that. I know I fucked up before, and I know you‘ve been hurt by people who were supposed to care about you. But I mean it. You matter.”
Jason’s chest felt too tight. Dick was still standing between his legs, holding his hands, looking at him like he was something worth keeping. And Jason wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to believe him so badly it hurt. But the voices from the restaurant whispered in his memory, and his reflection in the mirror waited in the next room, and Jason couldn’t quite make himself reach for what Dick was offering.
Jason’s throat worked around words that wouldn’t come. Dick’s thumbs still traced those small circles on his wrists, patient and persistent, and Jason needed distance before he did something stupid like lean into it. Like believe it. He pulled his hands free—gently, carefully—and stood, which forced Dick to step back. “You want something to eat?”
Dick blinked at him. “What?”
“Food. You want some?” Jason was already moving toward the door, putting space between them. His skin felt too tight, his chest too full. “I was going to make something anyway.”
“Jason—“
“I’ve got chicken. Vegetables. I can do a stir-fry.” He kept walking, not looking back. “You like stir-fry.”
A pause. Then Dick’s footsteps followed him down the short hallway. “Yeah. Okay. Sure.”
The kitchen was small, barely room for one person let alone two, but Jason had never minded. He’d grown up in smaller. The apartment before his mom died had been a shoebox with a hot plate, and he’d learned to make that work. This place was practically palatial by comparison, actual counter space, a real stove, a nice refrigerator that didn’t sound like it was dying.
Jason pulled out the cutting board and started gathering ingredients. Chicken breast from the fridge, still good. Bell peppers, onion, snap peas. The routine of it settled something in his chest, gave his hands something to do that wasn’t reaching for Dick or pushing him away.
“You don’t have to—“ Dick started.
“I’m hungry anyway.” Jason grabbed his knife, the good one with the balanced weight, and started breaking down the chicken. Smooth, efficient cuts. “Besides, you cook like shit. Someone needs to make sure you eat real food occasionally.”
“I can cook!”
“You can reheat. There’s a difference.” The chicken separated under his blade, neat strips that would cook evenly. “Remember that time you tried to make pasta and somehow burned water?”
“That was once. Years ago.”
“Still counts.”
Dick leaned against the counter, watching him work. He’d stripped off his gloves at some point, and his bare hands curled around the edge of the laminate. “You’re deflecting.”
“I’m cooking.” Jason moved to the vegetables, knife flashing as he julienned the peppers. The repetitive motion was meditative. Cut, turn, cut, turn. “Can’t do both?”
“You absolutely can. You’re just very good at it.”
Jason didn‘t answer. He scraped the peppers into a bowl and started on the onion, eyes stinging slightly as the smell hit. Small price to pay for the distraction.
The oil went into the wok first, heating until it shimmered. Jason had learned to cook after he came back, during those months when he was still figuring out who he was in this new body, this new life. Talia had taught him some, all elaborate Middle Eastern dishes with complicated spices. But this—simple stir-fry, quick and efficient—this he’d taught himself. Basic fuel, nothing fancy.
The chicken hit the oil with a satisfying sizzle. Jason reached for the wooden spoon, started moving everything around so it cooked evenly. The smell filled the small kitchen, savoury and uncomplicated.
Arms wrapped around his waist from behind.
“Jesus—“ Jason nearly dropped the spoon. “Dick, what the fuck.”
“Keep cooking.” Dick’s voice was muffled against his bare shoulder blade, breath warm on skin. His chin hooked over Jason’s shoulder, and his chest pressed solid against Jason’s back. The suit was still damp from patrol, slightly tacky with sweat and probably blood, and Jason could feel the texture of it through the thin material.
“You’re disgusting. That suit is filthy.”
“Don‘t care.” Dick’s arms tightened. Not restricting, just holding. “Keep cooking.”
“I’m trying. You’re in the way.”
“I’m really not.” Dick shifted slightly, accommodating Jason’s movements as he added the vegetables to the wok. “See? Not in the way at all.”
Jason huffed but didn’t push him off. Dick was warm against his back, solid and present, and some traitorous part of Jason’s brain noted how well they fit together like this. Dick was shorter, but not by much, and his build complemented Jason’s in a way that shouldn’t work but did. Alpha and omega, slotting together like puzzle pieces.
He added the soy sauce, the garlic, the ginger. Dick hummed contentedly against his shoulder, apparently perfectly happy to stand there while Jason cooked around him.
“This is weird,” Jason said.
“This is nice.”
“You’re getting crime all over my kitchen.”
“I’ll clean it later.”
“You’re damn right you will.” Jason stirred the vegetables, making sure everything coated evenly. “I just mopped these floors.”
Dick went quiet. His breath evened out against Jason’s skin, and for a moment Jason thought maybe he’d fallen asleep standing up, wouldn‘t be the first time Dick had passed out in a weird position after a long patrol. But then Dick spoke, and his voice was careful in a way that made Jason’s shoulders tense.
“Do you really think you’re unattractive?”
Jason‘s hand stilled on the spoon. “What?”
“You said—before. That you’re not what alphas want. That you’re not attractive.” Dick’s arms tightened fractionally. “Do you actually believe that?”
“I—“ Jason forced himself to keep stirring. The vegetables were almost done. “We’ve been over this.”
“Humour me.”
Jason’s jaw clenched. “Yeah. I believe it. Because it’s true.”
“It‘s really not.”
“Dick—“
“I’ve had to listen to way too many people talk about you.” Dick’s voice had gone flat, almost annoyed. “Your chest. Your thighs. Your ‘pretty face.’ I’m so fucking tired of it.”
Jason nearly dropped the spoon for real this time. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“No, I—“ Jason twisted in Dick‘s arms, needing to see his face. Dick let him turn but didn’t let go, just adjusted his grip so Jason was facing him, trapped between Dick’s body and the stove. “What are you talking about?”
Dick’s expression was complicated. Frustrated and possessive and embarrassed. “Kyle Rayner won‘t shut up about you. Every time we’re on a Justice League thing and you come up, he makes some comment about you. Roy makes innuendos constantly—and yeah, I know he’s your friend, but it’s still annoying. And Eddie—“ Dick’s jaw tightened. “Eddie talks about your thighs way too fucking much for my liking.”
Jason stared at him. His brain had stalled out somewhere around ‘Kyle Rayner’ and hadn’t quite recovered. “You‘re—that’s not—“
“Oh, it absolutely is.” Dick’s eyes were very blue, very intense. “I’ve been biting my tongue for months listening to people talk about how attractive you are. How lucky I am to be able to see you in action so often. How they’d—“ He stopped, jaw working. “I’ve wanted to punch half the superhero community in the face. I'm sure Bruce would hold them down for me.”
“You’re making this up.”
“I’m really not.”
“Rayner is—he hates me? Last I checked. And he’s gorgeous. He wouldn‘t—“
“He asked me if you were single, in a very weird and convoluted way.” Dick said it flatly. “This was before we started dating. Asked if you were available and if I‘d mind giving him your number. Donna laughed at me for five consecutive minutes.”
Jason’s mouth opened, flabbergasted. “He didn’t.”
“He sure did. Don't worry, I told him you weren’t interested.”
“You—“ Jason’s brain was still trying to process. “You didn’t even ask me.”
“I know.” Dick had the grace to look slightly sheepish. “I’m a possessive bastard. Sue me.”
“Dick—“
“And yeah, before you ask, that’s why I never told you.” Dick’s hands slid up to bracket Jason’s ribs, thumbs brushing just under his pecs. “Because if you knew other people wanted you, you might realise you had options. Better options. And I—“ He stopped. Swallowed. “I didn’t want to risk it.”
Jason couldn’t breathe. Dick’s hands were warm on his skin, and his eyes were sincere, and the words were still bouncing around Jason’s skull like pinballs. Rayner. Roy, the fucker. Eddie? People talking about his chest, his thighs, his face. People wanting him.
“That’s—“ Jason tried. “You’re jealous of people finding me attractive?”
“Spectacularly jealous.” Dick said it without hesitation. “Irrationally jealous. The kind of jealous that makes me want to punch Roy in his smug face when he makes jokes about your ass.”
“Roy makes jokes about everyone’s ass.”
“Hm. It‘s different when it’s yours.”
“That‘s—“ Jason huffed out something close to a delirious laugh. “That’s insane.”
“Probably.” Dick’s thumbs traced small circles, absent and possessive. “But you asked if I thought you were unattractive. And the answer is that I can‘t get people to shut up about how hot you are. So maybe—“ His voice went soft. “Maybe trust that you’re wrong about this?”
Jason looked at him. Dick’s hair was messy, his face still slightly flushed from patrol and proximity. His eyes were steady on Jason’s, no hesitation, no doubt. Just certainty and want and that edge of possessive jealousy that should probably concern Jason more than it did. Something in Jason’s chest cracked open. Not breaking—unfurling. Like a fist he‘d been holding clenched for so long that he’d forgotten it could open.
“The stir-fry’s going to burn,” he said roughly, clearing his throat.
Dick glanced over Jason‘s shoulder at the wok, then back to his face. Smiled, slow and satisfied. “Yeah. Probably.”
Jason twisted back to the stove before the vegetables could turn to carbon. Dick’s arms loosened but didn’t drop, and Jason had to work around him; reaching for the spoon, adjusting the heat, salvaging what he could. The snap peas had gone slightly soft, past the point of crisp, but not ruined. Still edible. Dick’s breath continued warm against his shoulder blade, patient while Jason finished.
“Okay,” Jason said. “Okay, you need to let go now or we’re eating charcoal.”
Dick hummed but released him, stepping back enough that Jason could move freely. The absence of his warmth felt deliberate, like Dick was proving a point. That he’d let go when asked, that Jason had that power. Jason tried not to think about what that meant.
He killed the heat and grabbed two plates from the cabinet. Plain white ceramic, perfectly aligned on their designated shelf, though one had a hairline crack he’d been meaning to replace. Everything in this apartment had its place. The plates were stacked by size, the bowls nested in precise order, and his silverware, each piece polished and arranged by function in a drawer with custom dividers he’d installed himself. It wasn’t fancy, but it was orderly. His order.
Jason divided the stir-fry between the plates with the kind of automatic motions that came from years of portioning limited food. Equal amounts, roughly. Maybe slightly more on Dick’s plate because alphas needed more calories and Dick had just come from patrol. His hands moved without thought, scraping the wok clean.
“You want water or—“
“Water‘s good.” Dick had moved to lean against the counter again, watching Jason with that intensity that made him feel like an exhibit. “This smells amazing.”
“It’s stir-fry. Not exactly complicated.”
“Still smells good.”
Jason grabbed two glasses and filled them at the tap. He handed Dick his plate and glass, then grabbed his own. They settled at Jason’s latest acquisition, a fold-down breakfast bar he’d mounted to the wall last weekend. He’d spent three hours making sure it was perfectly level, reinforced enough to hold actual weight, not just decorative like the cheap ones in those home renovation shows. The polished pine gleamed under the kitchen lights, still smelling faintly of varnish. Two matching stools tucked neatly underneath, a complete set, brand new.
They sat. Dick on one stool, Jason on the other, close enough that their knees almost touched. The kitchen light was harsh overhead, fluorescent and unflattering, turning everything slightly yellow. Jason had been meaning to replace it with something softer but kept forgetting.
Dick picked up his fork and took a bite.
The noise he made was obscene.
“Jesus,” Jason said.
“Sorry.” Dick didn’t look sorry. He looked blissful, eyes half-closed while he chewed. “But seriously. This is really good.”
“It’s chicken and vegetables.”
“It’s really good chicken and vegetables.” Dick took another bite, made another one of those sounds that probably violated some kind of decency law. “What did you put in this?”
“Soy sauce. Garlic. Ginger. Same shit I always use.”
“Well it’s good.” Dick was already going back for more, eating with the single-minded focus of someone who’d skipped too many meals recently. “Really good.”
Something in Jason’s chest preened. He tried to stop it. Tried to logic his way out of the response, it was just food, just basic cooking, nothing special. Dick was being polite. Or maybe he was just hungry enough that anything would taste good. It didn’t mean anything. But his omega hindbrain didn’t care about logic. It heard an alpha making pleased sounds over food Jason had prepared, and it sent up flares of satisfaction. Provider, it whispered. Good omega. Taking care of alpha.
Jason shoved a forkful into his own mouth and chewed aggressively. The stir-fry was fine. Not great, not terrible. The snap peas were too soft and he’d been slightly heavy-handed with the soy sauce. Perfectly adequate fuel.
Dick made another happy noise.
The preening intensified. Jason wanted to punch himself.
“Thank you,” Dick said after swallowing. He reached over and his hand found Jason’s knee, squeezed briefly. “For dinner. For letting me in.” His voice went softer. “For not actually shooting me off your fire escape, thought that might end up happening for a minute.”
“Night’s still young,” Jason muttered.
Dick smiled, that particular smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed just the edge of his teeth, and leaned in, his movement slow enough for Jason to track. Jason saw it coming but didn’t move, didn’t pull back, just sat frozen on the hard wooden stool while Dick’s lips pressed against his cheek, slightly chapped but warm. The kiss lingered for exactly three of Jason’s thundering heartbeats before Dick pulled away, leaving behind the faint scent of his sandalwood soap. Warm and brief and entirely too casual, like they did this all the time. Like this was normal.
“Thanks,” Dick said again, pulling back.
Jason huffed. He could feel the heat in his face, the stupid flush that always gave him away. “Yeah, whatever. Eat your food.”
Dick did, but his eyes stayed on Jason. That same intense study from before, like he was checking details he might have not noticed before. His smile had shifted into something softer, more genuine. The harsh kitchen light caught in his hair, turned his eyes more grey than blue.
“What?” Jason said finally, defensive.
“Nothing.” Dick’s smile widened. “You’re just—“ He paused, and something mischievous crept into his expression. “You’re a good omega.”
Jason’s face went nuclear. “I—you—“ Words failed him entirely. His brain had given up the ghost somewhere between ‘good’ and ‘omega,’ leaving him gaping like a fish. Heat crawled up his neck, over his cheeks, probably all the way to his hairline. “Shut up.”
“Aw.” Dick’s voice took on a coo, like Jason was something small and adorable instead of a six-foot-two killing machine with a body count in the double digits. “Look at you. That’s so cute.”
“I will stab you.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not—“ Jason was absolutely blushing. He could feel it, the burn of blood under skin, his whole face hot with it. “Fuck off.”
“You are.” Dick looked delighted. “You’re all flushed. It’s adorable.”
“I’m going to poison your food next time.”
“No you won’t.” Dick took another bite, utterly unconcerned with the threat. “You like feeding me too much.”
That was—Jesus, that was probably true. Jason stabbed at his stir-fry and refused to acknowledge it.
Dick‘s smile faded after a moment. Not disappearing, just shifting into something more serious. He set his fork down and turned slightly on his stool to face Jason more directly. “Hey. I want to tell you something.”
Jason’s stomach clenched. “If this is another speech about how I need—“
“It’s not. Just—listen for a second.” Dick’s hand returned to Jason’s knee, settling there with warm weight. “You’re basically my ideal idea of an omega.”
Jason’s fork clattered against his plate. “What.”
“You heard me.”
“No, I—“ Jason’s brain was struggling again. “That’s not—“
“It’s true.” Dick’s thumb rubbed a small circle through Jason’s sweatpants. “And not just mine. Most of the superhero community too, if we’re being honest.”
Jason raised an eyebrow, incredulous. “You’re high. Did you get dosed with something on patrol?”
“Completely sober.” Dick’s expression stayed serious, earnest in a way that was almost painful to look at. “You want to know why?”
“I—“ Yes. No. Maybe. Jason’s mouth had gone dry. “Sure. Enlighten me.”
Dick shifted closer, and his hand moved from Jason’s knee to his thigh. Not sexual, just grounding. “You’re big. Strong. Clearly capable of defending yourself.” His eyes tracked over Jason’s shoulders, his chest, mapping the muscle there with obvious appreciation. “You could defend a mate. Defend pups, if it came to that. Nobody’s going to fuck with an omega who looks like he could bench press a car.”
Jason’s breath had gone shallow. “That’s—“
“You’re smart. Resourceful. You’ve survived things that would break most people.” Dick’s voice stayed steady, matter-of-fact, like he was listing observable truths instead of compliments. “You can think on your feet, adapt to situations, handle yourself in a crisis. You’re not going to fall apart the first time something goes wrong.”
“Dick—“
“And you’re loyal. Protective. You give a shit about people, even when you pretend you don’t.” Dick’s hand squeezed his thigh. “You take care of Crime Alley. You look out for the street kids. You’d die before you let someone hurt the people you care about.”
The words kept coming, relentless and sincere, and each one landed somewhere soft and squishy beneath his ribcage. Dick’s eyes hadn’t left his face, reading every reaction, every flinch.
“So yeah.” Dick’s mouth quirked in a small smile. “You’re strong, smart, capable, loyal, and protective. What else could an alpha want?”
Jason’s chest felt too full, pressure building behind his ribs. Dick’s hand was warm on his thigh, and his eyes were impossibly blue, and Jason could see the truth written plainly in his expression—he meant it. Every word.
Jason’s throat worked. “I’m not—“ His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. “I don’t look like other omegas.”
“Thank fuck for that.” Dick said it with feeling. “Have you seen other omegas? Half of them look like a strong wind would snap them in half.”
“That’s—people like that. The delicate thing.”
“Meh. Some people like that.” Dick’s thumb traced another circle. “I like this. I like that you could probably kick my ass and snap me in half if you wanted to. It's hot as hell. I like that you’re not going to break. I like—“ He stopped, and something vulnerable crossed his face. “I like that you’re you, Jason. Exactly as you are.”
Jason stared at him. His food sat forgotten on his plate, going cold. The fluorescent light hummed overhead. Somewhere in the building, someone’s TV blared through thin walls. And Dick looked at him like he’d hung the moon, like Jason was something precious instead of something broken.
“You’re insane,” Jason said finally.
“Probably.” Dick’s smile returned, warmer this time. “But I’m not wrong.”
Dick looked at him. Not the earnest, careful look from before, the one Jason had spent the last several minutes trying not to drown in. This was something else entirely. Dick’s eyes tracked over him with a slow, deliberate attention, one that bypassed polite assessment and went straight to rapacious want. His gaze lingered at Jason’s collarbone, the line of his shoulder, the muscle of his bare chest, and there was nothing ambiguous about it. It was the look of a man thinking about putting his mouth somewhere.
Jason’s face went hot. “What,” he said, not quite a question.
“Nothing.” But Dick’s lips curved, lazy and satisfied, and the look didn’t stop. “Just thinking.”
“Stop thinking so loud.”
“Can’t help it.” Dick tilted his head, studying him, thorough and appreciative and entirely too focused. “You’re very distracting. It's all your fault, really.”
Jason shoved his plate aside. He needed something to do with his hands or he was going to do something embarrassing, like cover himself. “You said you had a thinking problem. Years ago. Turns out it’s a looking problem too.”
“Guilty.” Dick straightened on his stool, and the smile shifted into something brighter and more dangerous. The mischief in his expression was the kind that usually preceded property damage or international incidents. Probably both. “Actually… I have an idea.”
“Oh no.”
“Aw, Jay. Come on. Don’t say ‘oh no’ before you hear it.”
“I say ‘oh no’ now so I’m already prepared.” Jason crossed his arms over his chest, which was a mistake because Dick’s gaze dropped immediately to his tits and lingered. “What’s the idea.”
“Don’t hit me.” Dick held up both hands, placating.
Jason’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a terrible opening.”
“Hear me out first, then decide if you want to hit me.” Dick’s smile was annoyingly charming. It had probably gotten him out of a lot of situations that should have ended badly. “Just—give me thirty seconds.”
“You have ten.”
“Twenty.”
“Fifteen and you’re lucky to get that.”
“Okay.” Dick took a breath, and then looked at Jason with those blue eyes doing something frankly unfair—batting them, actually. Literally batting his eyelashes like some kind of—like he was—Jason’s brain tried to formulate the sentence and kept getting derailed by how absurdly effective the gesture was. “Can I give you a blowjob?”
“I—“ Nothing coherent came out. He tried again. “You’re—“ Still nothing. The words were there, he was certain of it, they just seemed to have lost interest in forming a queue. “We haven’t even—“ He made a gesture that was meant to encompass all of it, the courtship, the dating, the normal sequence of events where two people proceeded through stages in an order that made sense. “There’s a whole process, Grayson. Steps. You don’t just—“
“Uh-huh. You can have all the steps,” Dick said agreeably. “I still want to know if I can give you a blowjob right now.”
“You… That’s not how steps work!”
“It could be the first step.” Dick leaned forward on his stool, elbows on the table, looking insufferably reasonable. “A very good first step. An extremely well-executed first step that you would definitely not regret.”
“This is—“ Jason dragged a hand through his hair. The white streak fell back over his forehead and he shoved it away. The problem was—and God, this was humiliating—the problem was that his body had already been paying attention since the look, since Dick’s eyes had done that slow deliberate sweep over his chest, and now there was a low warmth behind his sternum that kept spreading south regardless of what his higher brain was doing. “You’re skipping the whole—we haven’t even gone on a second date.”
“Due to circumstances beyond my control.”
“Your control! You’re the one who—“ Jason stopped. That was actually fair. The circumstances had been entirely in Jason’s control, not Dick’s, and they both knew it. His mouth snapped shut.
Dick’s eyes glinted with awareness that he’d won that particular point. “I want you,” he said simply, like it was easy. Like it cost him nothing. “I’ve wanted you for a very long time. And right now you’re sitting right there, and you’re—“ He stopped, and for half a second the easy charm flickered into something rawer. “You’re incredible, Jason. And I think you’d let me, if you just stopped arguing with yourself long enough.”
Jason’s jaw worked. The warmth had spread to his thighs now. His sweatpants were doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that his body had an opinion, and from the way Dick’s eyes had dipped briefly downward and back, he’d noticed.
“This is wildly inappropriate,” Jason said.
“Probably.” Dick didn’t avert his gaze.
“We should—there should be—at minimum another dinner, and maybe—“
“Jason.”
“What?”
Dick’s voice had gone soft, wrecked with something genuine and plaintive. “Let me.”
The silence stretched out between them, three seconds of it, and Jason’s willpower threw up its hands and walked out the door.
“Fine,” Jason said. “But I’m registering my objection for the record.”
Dick’s whole face split into a grin of pure, unadulterated triumph. He might have actually pumped his fist—he definitely said something that sounded like yes under his breath—and then he was sliding off the stool and dropping to his knees in one fluid gymnast motion, the suit whispering against the kitchen floor, both hands already going for Jason’s sweatpants waistband like a man on a mission.
“I haven’t agreed to any specific timeline—“ Jason started.
“The record is noted,” Dick said, and pulled the sweatpants down.
He stopped.
There was a beat of silence that lasted precisely long enough for Jason to become acutely self-conscious. Dick’s hands had gone still on the bunched fabric at Jason’s thighs, and he was just—looking. His mouth had parted slightly. His expression had done something complicated, passing through surprise and then something that might charitably be called reverence and less charitably be called oh shit.
“Okay,” Dick said, conversationally.
“I can see you doing math in your head,” Jason said, flustered.
“I’m not doing math.”
“Your face is doing math.”
“My face—“ Dick looked up at him, and his expression was completely honest, stripped of performance. “You’re enormous. Holy shit, Jay.”
“That’s—“
“Like, I knew you were built, obviously.” Dick’s hands hadn’t moved. He was still just looking. “But this is. Hm. This is considerably more than I was accounting for.”
“Oh my god. Why are you like this. Are you going to be weird about it?”
“No.” Dick’s answer was immediate and emphatic, and then his expression shifted into something that made Jason’s stomach drop clean out through the floor, focused and hungry and entirely, dangerously intent. “Noooo, I’m definitely not going to be weird about it.”
The first contact of Dick’s mouth was soft, exploratory, almost polite, pressing the flat of his tongue against the base where Jason’s cock jutted thick and flushed from dark curls. The wet heat traced a throbbing vein upward, leaving a glistening trail before Dick’s lips parted to suckle at the swollen head, tongue dipping into the slit to taste the first pearly bead of precome. Jason’s hand found the edge of the breakfast bar and gripped it hard enough that his knuckles went white. The wood creaked in protest.
Dick seemed to take the sound as encouragement. His hands spread over Jason’s thighs, thumbs pressing into the muscle there, pinning without restraining. Dick’s lips stretched wide as he took Jason deeper, cheeks hollowing with each slow, deliberate inch. The wet heat of his mouth was overwhelming, tongue working the underside with teasing pressure that made Jason’s toes curl against the kitchen tile.
Jason’s head dropped back.
The sounds were doing something to him. Not Dick’s sounds, though those were present and low and obscene in the quiet of the kitchen, the slick suction, the satisfied hum vibrating around him when Jason’s hips jerked involuntarily. His own breathing had gone shallow and uneven, embarrassingly loud against the fluorescent hum overhead. He tried to regulate it and gave up when Dick pulled back to swirl his tongue around the sensitive head before taking him to the back of his throat in one fluid motion.
His thighs had started shaking. Not much, not yet, a fine tremor in the muscle that he felt before Dick could, a signal from his body that the carefully maintained control was being eroded layer by layer. Dick’s rhythm was relentless, varying between deep, enveloping wet heat and teasing, focused attention that left Jason gasping. He’d been with people before. A small, stubborn catalogue of before. None of it—not one encounter in the whole of his reconstructed adult life—had felt like this. Like being taken seriously. Like Dick was paying attention not just to what worked but to him specifically, reading his responses and adjusting with that terrifying observational intelligence.
And the slick, he became aware of it with a mortifying clarity, the slow warmth beginning to slip free, his cock weeping steadily as Dick’s tongue worked the sensitive ridge beneath the head. His balls tightened painfully when Dick pulled back, lips stretched obscenely wide, to show him the pearly fluid pooling on his tongue before swallowing him to the root again. Jason’s cockhead nudged the back of Dick’s throat, making him gag slightly, the muscles there contracting in wet, rippling waves that had Jason’s hips jerking forward involuntarily, seeking more of that velvety pressure.
“Dick—“ His voice came out hoarse, scraped thin. His fingers had found Dick’s hair without his conscious input, tangling in the dark strands, pulling just hard enough to make Dick moan around his length. Something to keep him connected to the specific coordinates of his own body.
Dick hummed around him, taking him impossibly deeper until Jason felt the tight clutch of his throat contracting around the swollen head. The vibration travelled upward through his shaft like an electric current, making his balls tighten and his knuckles go white as precome leaked freely down Dick’s working throat. Jason could feel every swallow, every deliberate constriction as Dick’s nose pressed against the dark curls at his base.
His legs stopped working at the end. Not a metaphor, they actually stopped being reliable structural supports, thighs shaking in earnest as the heat crested into orgasm. His cock throbbed violently, shooting hot pulses of come across Dick’s waiting tongue. Jason’s hips bucked forward involuntarily, forcing himself deeper into that slick heat as Dick moaned around him, throat working greedily to swallow every last drop. Dick’s fingers dug into the meat of his ass, holding him steady through the aftershocks that made his cock twitch and leak even after he thought he was spent. When Dick finally pulled back, his lips were glossy and red, a thin white trail connecting them to Jason’s still-hard, oversensitive tip.
“Your floors,” Dick said eventually, “are extremely clean.”
“I told you I mopped,” Jason managed faintly.
Dick looked up at him from the floor, lips wrecked, hair thoroughly destroyed, and had the audacity to look pleased with himself.
Jason was too wrecked to tell him to stop being a smug asshole.