Work Text:
Dick lounges on the couch in a muscle tee and sweats, flicking disinterested between various streaming services.
His dysphoria isn't usually this bad. He's got it on a leash, for the most part. But today it's eating at him.
There's movement behind him, pulling Dick out of his mindless clicking. He turns to see Tim and Jason entering the media room. Jason has a bandage on his nose, and Tim a brace on his left wrist. It’s clear they’ve both just finished their post-patrol showers.
Jay pauses in the doorway for a moment, looking at Dick. "What's got you looking so…" Jason gestures to all of him. Which is fair.
He decides to be blunt about it. "My ribs are busted and I can't wear my binder."
"Oof," Jason sympathizes. The teen throws himself into the armchair next to the couch..
"That's rough, buddy."
Dick narrows his eyes, sits up as much as he's able and glares at his younger brother.
"Timothy, if you quote that line at me one more time, I swear-"
"What," the brat smirks. "You'll throw a pillow at me?" He knows Dick is on enforced bed rest. There's nothing he can really do. However…
"If you antagonize me I can sic Alfred on you."
Tim's smirk drops. "You wouldn't."
Dick glares harder. "Don't test me, rugrat."
Tim feigns having been shot in the chest, stumbling back a step. "A dig at my age," he croaks dramatically. "Whatever shall I do?"
Tim and Dick continue to bicker and snark for a while. Jason sits there, watching them with an amused expression.
"What's so bad about not being able to bind, anyway?" Tim asks cluelessly.
Jason and Dick lock eyes. "Cis people," they say in unison.
"It's a genuine question!" Tim protests. "You basically never bind as it is, what makes today worse?"
"It's probably about choice," Dick says after a moment of pondering. "I don't have the option of binding so even though I barely do it, I'm conscious of the fact that I can't."
"Makes sense," agrees Jason, nodding sagely.
"Stupid question," Tim starts slowly, carefully. Dick eyes him. “But why don’t you just, you know, get top surgery?”
“Oh my god, Timothy, you can't just ask people why they don't get top surgery!”
“Shut your fuck, Jason.”
Dick drags his hands down his face, tired beyond words.
Siblings, he swears.
“Mean Girls reference aside, Jason makes a good point. Asking a trans person about their surgical status is generally considered rude. I know,” he says before Tim can get defensive, “that you’re coming from a place of genuine curiosity. But most people, when they ask, they're just being invasive.”
Tim nods, subdued. “Okay, I understand.”
“Good. Now, personally? I want top surgery, but the recovery time isn’t something my schedule can handle right now. I have a lot of responsibilities that can’t be put off. It would be two weeks before I can return to light activities, and Nightwing would have to be shelved for at least six weeks. And we all know how bad I am about bed rest,” he jokes.
Tim nods thoughtfully. Jason leans across the space between them, places a hand on his shoulder and rubs it vigorously. It's the other’s way of expressing sympathy, Dick knows.
He appreciates it.