Work Text:
Jason didn't have access to Catherine's old recipes. By the time he'd been old enough to learn, she'd been too sick to teach him. In those days they'd eaten boxed meals, canned vegetables, fast food and, sometimes, nothing at all. But when Jason had taken out the john who'd been roughing up Sugar and brought her home, her abuelita had offered to cook him a meal in thanks, and he'd asked for a lesson instead. He'd gotten more than he bargained for. He spent four hours in Sugar's cluttered little apartment, taking notes on where in the alley to shop, what spices to use, old family secrets on how to make dishes that, she assured him, the internet would try to steer him wrong about. He believed her. Whenever he followed her advice, his kitchen smelled like home.
He'd had similar experiences with other folks in the alley, expanding the proper English cooking lessons he'd gotten from Alfred. Angelo, who's restaurant used to be a mob front and was now the man's pride and joy, with the best pizzas in all of Gotham City. The old rabbi and his wife, who invited Jason to stay with their family on every major holiday. Miss Ratana, who came straight from Thailand to share her food, barely spoke English, and somehow fit right in in Gotham.
But when Jason wanted something comforting, he always went back to the wrinkled lined paper with his notes from Abuelita. He was making simple papas con chorizo: potatoes, onions, and spiced meat went in the pan, and the warmth and fragrance pulled a little of the tension from his shoulders.
A soft knock and the sound of his door clicking open came from the front entrance. Jason didn't look away from the food, breaking up bits of chorizo and keeping everything from sticking.
Dick's voice came from by the door. "Hi, Jay," he said. "Smells good in here."
Jason hummed and didn't look up.
Footsteps approached. The spatula scraped the sides of the pan. The meat sizzled away.
Dick stopped near the end of the counter, a healthy distance away from Jason. His clothing rustled as he shifted. "How are you holding up?" he asked.
Jason idly moved the spatula back and forth against the bottom of the pan. "Peachy," he said, voice low and raspy. "Who told you?"
"It was Tim," Dick admitted, not even hesitating to throw his little brother under the bus.
"That kid's a fuckin' meddler," Jason muttered.
"Yeah, he's a regular member of the Scooby gang," Dick said in apparent agreement.
That made the motion of the spatula finally still.
"Meddling kids?" Dick added, after a long moment of silence.
"I got the joke," Jason told him. He put the spatula down and stirred the black beans he had on the other burner. "It just sucked ass."
"I guess that's fair." Another few seconds passed with only the sounds of food bubbling and popping and the clink of Jason's spoon against the metal pan. Then Dick moved in closer and laid a hand on Jason's arm. The touch froze him in place.
Softly, Dick said, "I know you aren't okay. What can I do to help?"
"Aren't you angry at me?" Jason said, trying to provoke him, but it came out flat. He still couldn't look up. "I killed three people tonight." His hands were clean, now, but there should still be a clear blood trail from the window to the bathroom, gear haphazardly thrown along the path.
"I'm not," Dick said. He took a beat, then continued. "I can't say it was right, but I care more about you than I do about them." A bitter note entered his voice. "Don't tell Bruce, but the lives of child traffickers don't rank that high on my list of priorities."
Jason sucked in a breath. He was thinking about it now. His vision swam, the simple task no longer enough to distract him, and all he could see were two little bodies in a warehouse near the docks.
Dick's voice was distant over the roar in Jason's ears. "Okay," he said, "We're going to sit down."
The gang violence was routine. Parents dead in their home over a grudge. But the kids had been missing, Gloria and Steven, nine and six years old, respectively. Jason had been looking for them ever since.
No established trafficking operations in the alley, not anymore, but the bastards had thought that they could get away with it if they smuggled the kids up to New York. Jason had caught wind. He was going to save them.
Not careful enough. Too slow. He'd failed them, failed children who'd been under his care, who needed him for protection, who might've been waiting, hoping, until the very last moment, thinking that Red Hood was going to come for them. Small bodies in a warehouse, too small, too small.
"C'mon, Jace, with me. Deep breaths, you can do it." The words hardly meant anything in the spinning fog of Jason's mind, but the feeling beneath his hand, a chest rising and falling, was grounding. Jason shuddered and breathed.
"I get it," Dick was saying. "It isn't okay. It's the hardest thing we go through. But you're going to make it through this. You're here, you're going to keep being here and you'll help so many people. You do it everyday, because you're incredible, and dedicated, and the people who live here trust you like no one else."
"They shouldn't," Jason croaked. He was becoming more aware of his body. He sat at a dining chair, Dick in another, turned towards him, holding Jason's hands, squeezing one between his fingers and pressing the other onto his chest. "They can't trust me, I'll let them down–"
"It isn't your fault," Dick stressed. "Things go wrong. You can't do everything, you can't be everywhere."
Jason snarled, "I'm not talking about everywhere. I'm talking about my alley, my people, two kids I was supposed to be there for–!"
Dick crushed Jason's hands under his own. "Not like that," he said seriously. "You spiral like that, you fall apart, and you won't be able to be there for anyone."
Jason flinched.
Dick gentled. "Let me be honest with you," he said. He released the hold keeping Jason's palm against his chest, moving so that he had one of Jason's hands between both of his own. He played with Jason's fingers as he spoke. "I'm so proud of you, and of everything you do here, but I don't want you to be okay for the alley. I want you to get through this and be okay for you, and for me." He gave a wry little smile. "I probably care about you more than I should," he admitted.
Jason stared at Dick's face, noticing him for the first time that night. He looked so fucking tired. His look in his eyes was too open, too vulnerable. Jason had to turn away.
"Did my papas con chorizo burn?" he asked.
"No, I turned the stove off," Dick told him. He started to stand. "How do we eat this? Bowls? Tortillas?"
Jason shrugged. Dick went to pull away, but Jason kept his grip on his fingers. He stopped.
"Thanks," Jason said. "For being here."
"Every time," Dick promised. "When you want me, and when you don't." He stepped forward and pressed a kiss into Jason's hair.
The food was absolutely delicious.