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Dick is chattering as they eat, working their way through a post-patrol dinner that he’d crashed and holding up the conversation, aside from Jason’s sarcastic commentary.
Tim had said it was Jason’s turn to pick like they did this often enough to have turns, and they’d ended up at his favorite diner, a place with waffles that were actually edible, thick cut bacon, strong coffee and a passing health inspection score they didn’t bribe their way into earning. Bruce had introduced them to it, back when Jason was first Robin, and Nightwing could be coaxed into coming back to Gotham for a few hours.
It’s soothing, being here, a reminder of simpler days, and he’s been trying to coax Jason into coming home for Sunday dinner, a task not unlike Dami trying to coax a feral cat into taking chicken from his hand.
“I just think if you came over for dinner, Alfred would make those cookies you like,” Dick is saying when it happens. “He hasn’t made them in years, Dami has never had them, it’s a crime, it’s--”
His voice trails off as Jason swipes the last bite of peanut butter waffle through syrup and offers it up to Tim, who leans forward and takes it neatly before curling into the corner of the booth with his coffee held to his chest, a content, sleepy expression on his face.
“It’s what,” Jason asks, and Dick blinks out of his daze.
He smiles, too bright to be real, and Jason’s gaze narrows on his brother, curious and suspicious.
“It’s a crime, Jaybird. You gotta come home, come on, think of the kids.”
Jason snorts and throws his crumpled napkin at Dick’s head. “Stop overselling, Dickie. I’ll come home for dinner.” The grin goes wider, real, and he flushes. “It’s Alfie’s birthday, isn’t it? Someone has to cook for him.”
~
He thinks about it as he goes home, as he types up his report and showers the last of patrol off. Bruce finds him in the kitchen, and he tips his head at Dick.
“Something on your mind?”
It used to bother him, the way Bruce always knew when he was thinking too hard, fixating on something, the way he never let Dick just stew in it, always had to butt in and try to help, in his inexpert way. It’s still irritating, but it’s Bruce, too, so familiar and comforting in his inelegant way that Dick barely acknowledges the irritation. He looks at his father.
“Have you ever seen Jason share food?” he asks.
Bruce blinks, a frown curling his lips down. “No, he’s--well, you remember what he was like, when he first came home.”
Dick nods. Even with the issues he’d had with Jason being Robin, the suffocating anger toward Bruce, Dick had been aware of the kid that was being made into family, about the fury in him and the distrust. He’d been aware of the bag tucked under Jason’s bed, stuffed full of food and guarded almost rabidly, the way he hunched over a plate like he was afraid someone would take it from him.
Jason had always had a strange relationship with food, even now, like he’s never outgrown that hungry little boy who didn’t know where his last meal was coming from. It’s something they learned how to navigate--Dick never stole from Jason’s plate, Alfred always made too much food, no one ever mentioned when Jason horded food when he was stressed.
But--
“Did he share his food?” Bruce asks, mild, like he doesn’t care, and Dick flicks a look at him.
“Just thinking,” Dick says, smoothly, and pushes up from the table. “I’m gonna crash here tonight.”
“Night, chum,” Bruce murmurs, and Dick swings close to hug him, leaning into the tightly returned embrace, before he’s slipping out of the room.
~
He watches, after that.
Not in a way that’s obvious. But he peeks into the kitchen while Jason cooks on Sunday, and spies him feeding Tim a spoonful of vodka sauce.
He watches, later that evening, when Alfred is making snickerdoodles and passes Jason a lump of cookie dough, the way he pinches it in half and slips it to Tim wordlessly.
He passes Tim the last of his fries when they’re sitting on a rooftop, and breaks his energy bar in half to slip to Tim when Bruce is briefing them about a joint case in the Batcave.
It’s subtle. He doesn’t think anyone else, not even Bruce, notices it, or if he does, knows what it means.
But he watches the way that Jason moves around Tim--the way they move around each other, a comfortability and ease that reminds him of the way Jason used to interact with him.
He watches the way that Tim folds himself into Jason’s space, the way he fits himself to Jason’s side during a movie night at his Nest and the way that Jason adjust without really thinking about it, taking his weight and juggling the popcorn bowl until Tim was settled with it in his lap and Jason’s arm draped over his shoulder.
He watches the way they fight together, the ease of any Bat fighting with another, but something more to it, the viciousness of Jason’s hits and the way he angles himself protectively as he guards Tim’s back.
He watches this, too--
The way that Tim is almost feral when he fights a cluster of gangsters one night, when Jay’s been hit and lies prone at his feet, the way Tim holds ten at bay while he waits for backup.
The way that he turns to Jason, like he knows that Jason will be there, when that kind of trust and knowledge took years for the rest of them to build in Tim.
The way that he invades Jason’s space like he belongs there, like he knows he is welcome.
The way sometimes Tim will look at Jason, when he thinks no one is watching, and his expression will slip into something soft and wondrous.
~
The day he knows.
The day he confirms what he’s known for months, he slips into a booth across from Jason and Tim in the same damn diner that had started this.
Jason is eating waffles again.
Tim is half asleep and leaning against Jay’s shoulder and there’s a bruise on his throat that can only be a hickey.
Dick watches as Tim steals the last bite of Jason’s sausage, watches Jason roll his eyes good-naturedly.
He watches, as Jason swipes Tim’s coffee cup and drains it while Tim yawns and lists into the corner of the booth, almost asleep now that he’s been fed.
“I gotta get him home before he passes out,” Jason says, tossing a few twenties on the table. “You headed back to Bludhaven?”
“Yeah,” Dick says softly, and Jason gives him a sharp look. He taps the table with his finger, indicating the two of them. “I’m happy for you,” he says, and Jason flushes, a little.
“It’s not that serious, Dickie,” he mutters, and Tim snorts, giving Jason a raised eyebrow until he sighs. “How’d you know, anyway? No one else has noticed.”
Dick smiles. “Nothing in particular, Jaybird,” he says, easily.
They don’t believe him, he knows. He’s always been shit at lying to his brothers.
It’s ok, he thinks, as Jason reaches out and snags his toast, breaking it neatly in half and offering a piece to Tim.
He might not be able to lie, but he’s got years of keeping secrets.