A/N: So, this is going to be the first in a series of one-shots that will feature the various Robins (also Alfred) after Bruce's supposed death—basically an excuse to fix their relationships and make them cuddle. I'm not exactly happy with the way this one turned out, but hopefully it will lead to better things. As ever, I own nothing. Enjoy, and please review!

I'm so confused I don't know what to feel,

Should I throw my arms around you or kill you for real?

'Cause I worked so hard to put the past to rest,

Now it's tumbling down on me just like an avalanche,

So you can't just come back now like a demon uninvited,

No you can't just expect me to open my door to you

-Skylar Grey, Back From the Dead

Damian's exit of the dining room is accompanied by the shatter and splash of a full ceramic cereal bowl that had been his breakfast and the grating crash of the heavy mahogany chair against the floor. That's the third time this week that a simple meal has ended in broken dishes and smothering silence.

And if Dick can't contain the weary sigh that slips past his lips, he thinks he's entitled.

Alfred enters predictably through the swinging kitchen door, towel and broom in hand. He makes no comment, but there is a tightness to his lips that gives Dick the urge to squirm like a child caught at some wrongdoing. He scrubs a hand over his mouth to halt the words he feels obligated to utter in his brother's defense.

He knows Damian's behavior is exceptionally awful.

He just isn't sure how to properly discipline a child who lost his father a bare month ago.

Both Alfred and the cereal disaster are gone now, leaving Dick alone once more with the impossible burden of his thoughts. The four scant weeks since Bruce's death have been filled with nothing but silence and little-concealed tension. There are four people in this house, but it doesn't feel lived in, not anymore.

The manor's inhabitants are scattered amongst their own domains.

Damian is no doubt entombed within the bowels of the cave, surrounded by his dead father's legacy and numerous sharp objects, which can be thrown at anyone who dares invade his space. Bruce's death seems to have cancelled out any progress towards emotional normality Damian may have made, and the nine-year-old is as prickly—and violent—as ever.

Tim hasn't bothered to come out of his room since dinner yesterday, and he only picked at that. Dick is worried, and not without cause. The teen rarely speaks, and in the past few weeks seems to have dropped several pounds he can't afford to lose. Tim's mind is a complicated place and, Dick thinks, not a completely healthy one right now.

Alfred is in the kitchen once more. An inviting aroma permeates Dick's consciousness, and he realizes that the butler has left him a fresh cup of coffee without him noticing. Cupping his icy hands—they are always cold now—around the mug, Dick is brought nearly to tears in gratitude for the old man's presence in their lives. Sometimes he feels that that unfaltering British stoicism is the only thing holding him up—well, that and Alfred's blueberry scones.

And Dick—Dick doesn't seem to know where he belongs anymore. Every single room in this enormous, extravagant house feels wrong now. There is no respite from his damned inheritance, no peace to be found in it.

God, Bruce, he thinks with a humorless huff of laughter, for all that you were an uncommunicative, sullen bastard, for all the multitudes of children you left strewn in your wake, this house is empty without you.

His face has found its now familiar resting place in his hands when he hears the intentional scuff of heavy boots behind him.

"I take it the demon isn't a fan of Cocoa Puffs."

Dick doesn't lift his head, but snorts derisively.

"It would seem not," he replies in lieu of a greeting. Jason has never been one for niceties. "I should've bought Lucky Charms."

Jason's bark of laughter is not entirely unpleasant. With his usual disregard for invitation or welcome, Jason takes a seat two chairs down from Dick, slouching negligently against the armrest.

Dick abandons the shelter of his hands to scrutinize his wayward brother. Jason wears civvies, tattered jeans, a plain black tee, and a well-used leather jacket. His expression is—well, not pleasant—but not angry or suggestive of an imminent fit of rage and daddy issues.

"How'd you get past the sensors I put on the widows?"

Jason snorts. "Contrary to common belief, I do actually know how to use a door, golden boy." He draws one ankle to rest casually on the opposite knee, the picture of ease.

Dick's eyebrows shoot up. "You got past Alfred? Even better. I'm impressed."

"What can I say, I'm an impressive guy," Jason shrugs. "But no, idiot wonder, I rang the doorbell."

"Oh," Dick says sheepishly. He rubs gritty eyes. "Sorry. Not quite at the top of my game lately."

Jason's eyes are on him, a slight crease between his brows. "Yeah, I'd guess a severe lack of sleep isn't conducive to stellar detective work." This is followed by a pointed look.

Dick almost laughs again. It seems both Jason and Alfred want to reduce him to the age of five today.

"I'm a big boy, Jason, I think I can handle it."

There's suddenly a mountain of brother inches away from him. A calloused fingertip skims the deep purple under his eyes, the half-healed cut along his jaw where one of Damian's temper tantrums got a little too close.

"No, Dickie, you can't. And you shouldn't have to, not alone," Jason falters, continues hesitantly, "Look, I don't know how to—Alfred…he called, and I—"

Dick blinks, and finds suddenly that he is unspeakably angry.

"Oh, Alfred called. Okay."

He stands abruptly, nearly sending his chair crashing to the floor Damian-style.

"Where the fuck do you come in, huh? Since when are you a damn Hallmark card?" He gestures wildly, unsure of where this has come from, and unable to stop.

"I reached out to you, Jay, so many times. Me and Bruce and Tim—poor Tim who worships the fucking ground you walk on, who you almost murdered—and you couldn't get over your damn grievances and let us help you! We wanted to help you, couldn't you see that? And now, all of a sudden, Bruce is dead and, hey, you're fine! The prodigal son returns, but only when the father is taking a dirt nap six feet under, right?"

"I don't know!" Jason returns when Dick pauses for breath. "What do you want me to say? I was messed up, okay? I am messed up, and I spent a whole lot of years blaming Bruce for that sick clown's existence and my own awful self, when it wasn't his fault. And now he's gone, and I don't know what the fuck to do. I…I don't know." The younger man stutters to a halt.

"I didn't expect it to hurt so much," Jason whispered. "When—when they told me, I went out and I came back bloody, and I don't remember a damn thing. And then Alfred called, and I thought maybe there might be someone out there hurting like I hurt, and I just…came here. It's not like I expect you to forgive me, or anything, I'm still messed up. But I thought maybe we could…be messed up together."

Jason seems to deflate as he finishes speaking, glaring at Dick with a horrible mixture of hope and grief and pride in his eyes.

"You hurt me. You stole my brother from me," Dick accuses quietly.

"Tim recovered, he's fine," Jason protests.

"I wasn't talking about Tim. Last time I checked I had three brothers. And only two of them are currently living in this house."

"Oh." The word whooshes out like Jason has just been on the receiving end of a quick, hard jab to the stomach. He can't seem to catch his breath.

"I just…I want my brother back." Dick looks at the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but the confusion and shame on Jason's face. "I've lost too many. My parents and—" his voice breaks, "and Bruce. And I just need you to give him back to me. Can you do that?"

It's Jason's turn to avoid eye contact now.

"I don't know if he still exists."

Jason's voice is broken and barely audible, and it makes Dick unbearably sad.

The heat of their anger has driven them closer together, and Dick reaches out and clutches a fistful of Jason's shirt, not at the neck, but at his side.

"I do. I see him sometimes, and I wish you'd let him come home."

Jason remains silent, but slowly, hesitantly, he raises his left hand to tangle in the sleeve of Dick's shirt at his shoulder. He stands there, frozen, for a moment with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, like he's afraid any show of affection will be met with violence. When no blow befalls him, his face eases slightly, though his eyes remain closed. The tension drains from his body and he slumps, the fight gone out of him, leaning ever so subtly towards Dick.

Dick is versed enough in the nonverbal cues of tight-lipped brothers to recognize a truce when he sees one.

He steps forward, careful to preserve the tentative link of Jason's grip on his shirt, so that he stands bare inches from his brother. It is not precisely a hug. Neither lifts their arms, but Dick's chin digs into his brother's collarbone, while Jason's sits almost comfortably on his shoulder.

They stay that way for the length of several heartbeats. Then Jason lets his chin drag down over Dick's shoulder, forehead coming to rest in the curve of his elder brother's neck. His respiration is a warm, unsteady ebb and flow against Dick's chest.

"Okay," he breathes.