Chapter Text
‘So, mister Wayne, you feel better?’ Jason drummed his fingers on the glass of the champagne mindlessly, his eyes scanning the hall on right and left.
His chest felt tight, and he didn’t feel well today.
He always felt a little bit wrong, when he was participating in this kind of events, grinning and waving at people he met once or twice, indulging in their curiosity. But today it was worse — today was his mother’s death anniversary, and the last thing he wanted, was to be scrutinised under heavy gazes of the petulant crowd. But missing this wasn’t an option either; as a founder of the recovering centre for addicts, he was supposed to honour her not only in the silence of his home, but amongst these vultures, too.
Whatever earned their donations and could help people, really.
‘Much better,’ Bruce agreed, his cheeks flushed a little; it was his second champagne and third wine cup for today, even though Jason was never sure how genuinely drunk this man got. ‘Truly, I don’t even know what happened to me. No memories or whatsoever. As if I was possessed.’
Jason nodded automatically.
At least, he genuinely seemed to be confused about the whole thing.
Jason left his Manor that day in a hurry and with a familiar fear jumping down his throat. Even though he knew that Bruce Wayne, technically, wasn’t into him — not like that, anyway — it still ruffled some of his feathers. More than he wanted to admit.
Well, just like Vickie Vale said once during his first public appearances: take a kid out of Crime Alley, but Crime Alley never leaves.
‘You probably overworked yourself, just like Damian assumed you did,’ Jason suggested, pressing his elbows to the bar counter.
‘Yeah. I guess,’ Bruce offered him a loop-sided smile.
Jason squinted.
He assumed he was genuinely drunk this time.
Jason didn’t know this man that much — no more than any other man he met since he raised up the hierarchy stairs; Lex Luthor, Oliver Queen, they all had the same type of flavour, even if they all were fundamentally different people — but he liked to think that he trained himself to recognise his lying patterns.
In general, there were a few types of lying people in Jason’s fucked up perception of the world. If someone asked him to assign Bruce in any of the groups, he would say he was the… apologetic type of liar.
A one that lied for surviving, and didn’t enjoy it, and gained a very little, beyond some fake sense of safety that he fed his paranoid mind to.
On occasions, Jason fell in that category, too. That’s why he wasn’t minding it that much.
So, yes, he knew when Bruce was lying to him. When his smile was forced, when his eyes hid another meanings to his words, the one that Jason could never guess. When his laughs were too sweet, and when his schedule was full of fake facts and made-up meetings.
It was just… Jason had no idea what Bruce was lying about.
Or maybe he did; just couldn’t actually make himself believe that he was right.
‘So-o, how is your life, lad? Anything new? Girls?’
Jason smiled politely.
‘You had already asked that a few minutes ago, mister Wayne.’
‘I did?’ Bruce unevenly smashed the cup of wine back on the counter, almost spilling it over. ‘Whoops, ha-ha.’
Jason hid his disgusted face expression against his glass.
He despised Brucie Wayne act more than any other in there. But then again, he assumed that Bruce didn’t enjoy him acting all politely and washed out, too — he caught him staring at him sometimes, with a pitying look in his face; as if he stared at the bird in the golden cage.
At least, though, Jason played his role only on events. Bruce seemed to live by constantly dressing up in different people.
So, who deserved more pity, really?
‘Yeah, mister Wayne, I think you had enough,’ Jason laughed awkwardly, putting a hand on his shoulder carefully. ‘Let’s find Alfred, alright?’
Bruce giggled, and allowed himself to be dragged away like a little kid. His steps were heavy, though, and the more they distanced themselves from the rest of the event, the less loud he got, until there was nothing but an uneven breathing coming from him, like a panting dog, who was in the middle of chasing something.
Jason, admittedly, had no idea where Alfred was, but he managed to sat Bruce down on the couch in the private living room, where the fireplace was cracking softly, and hoped for the best.
‘Alright, man,’ Jason sighed, looking around anxiously. ‘Knowing Alfred, he will appear here any time soon, so… I’ll probably leave and let you rest. I’ll close the door, like you taught me the last time, so only Alfred could enter it with keys, just in case if—’
If someone decides to rape you.
Jason winced, deciding not to finish the sentence.
Bruce kept staring at him persistently, tugging himself by his necktie weakly.
‘I… I think I knew you in another life,’ he blurted all of a sudden.
Jason scrunched his nose.
He saw Bruce Wayne being semi-drunk quite a few times. Sometimes, it was not so genuine, and served just an attempt to run away from the event he was on, and sometimes, he genuinely drank more than required, in less crowded places. It usually made him awful quiet, almost in a childish way, and he would be quite out of it, staring at nothing.
The most awkwardness came if he asked something — something half-philosophic, but genuinely confusing.
Like this.
Well, it was still better than that one time, when someone tried to drug Bruce Wayne, and Jason turned out to be the one to help him out.
He hated that memory; the ghost of Catherine Todd haunting him down as he hauled Bruce away from the crowd and the woman, who was responsible for this. He checked on his pulse and eyes deliriously, and when Alfred found them, he was shaking as a leaf. Jason vomited back in his house after that.
Bruce never brought it up again.
‘Well, that can be possible,’ Jason agreed reluctantly. ‘The list of universes is endless.’
Bruce shook his head.
‘You don’t understand.’
Jason sighed.
‘Hey, maybe not. But we can discuss it tomorrow or any other day. Right now, you need to sleep, mister Wayne.’
It wasn’t like Jason didn’t care at all about Bruce. On some level, he did. It felt natural to worry about this man, after all.
But they were barely friends, and bluntly speaking, Jason had other concerns.
He still needed to finish his essay, for example. And take his dog (named Dog, yes) to the walk. Maybe write a cute boy he met a few days ago, if he was in the mood.
There were plenty of things to do. And Jason wasn’t responsible for Bruce.
‘Yeah,’ Bruce sighed, throwing his head on the couch. ‘You are right. Sorry, lad.’
‘See you next time, mister Wayne.’
‘See you… Jaylad.’
He hurried to the door. His hand was leaning to its knob, when someone opened it from another side, almost hitting him on the face. Damian was standing in the doorway, staring at him, as suspicious as always.
A strange kid he was, but Jason pitied him a little. He wasn’t adapting around well, it seemed.
‘Hey, Damian,’ Jason offered him a genuine smile. ‘Your dad got a little bit drunk. Can you call Alfred? I am not sure where—’
‘I will handle this situation accordingly,’ Damian frowned. ‘You are free to go.’
Jason felt bad for leaving a kid to deal with someone drunk — especially his own father — but Damian wasn’t the one to listen to anyone, and, it wasn’t Jason’s family to begin with. He had no rights to intervene.
‘Okay. Careful, kiddo.’
‘Scram.’
He chuckled, but left instantly, ignoring a pointed stare on the back of his head.
Back in the home — in his own very home — Jason jumped out of the ridiculous clothes he wore through the whole evening, put an old vinyl record of Elton John’s music collection he thrifted a year ago, and went back to writing his essay, while the Dog snored under the table, tangled between his legs.
When Bruce called him that night, Jason didn’t pick up.
He could call him later any day.
He had his own life to live, after all.