Chapter Text
Jason's waking periods were slow-moving and hazy. They slipped through his fingers like the last dream before waking. Time bled into itself in a series of moments that made sense without making any sense at all.
Bruce was in the batsuit, hand pressed a hand to Jason’s face.
He heard crying. He thought it was Dick, but he had no idea why he sounded like someone had died.
There was a boy, a stranger, in his face and in his home. Jason screamed, until his throat was raw, until his father came and made him safe again.
Waking took on a pattern. He was always tired, and he was always ensconced within the safe, familiar confines of his bedroom. His family was there usually there to talk words at him or read from books, even though Jason would be content to stare vaguely at the wall.
Dick brought the stranger boy around sometimes but always kept him in hand at the far end of the room. Jason thought, maybe, the boy might be okay.
The man and the woman lingered, even when no one else was there. He had no memory of their names, but he knew them. The contradiction hurt his head, the way Dick’s crying hurt his heart, and Alfred’s solemn face hurt his soul.
Bruce did not hurt him. Bruce was a rock in a flowing river, water in the desert, and shelter in the forest. Bruce was home, and Bruce was safe.
The doctor was an interruption in the pattern. Jason knew her. He didn’t care about anything else until she pulled out a saw, and the light bounced off the metal and the noise rang in his ears and there was no escape, just the threat of blinding light and heat and-
Bruce was safe. Bruce made him safe.
The doctor’s visit heralded changes for Jason. He did not want to change. He liked his pattern, the safety of it.
It changed anyway.
Now, Bruce started each visit by sitting at the edge of Jason’s bed and massaging his hands gently. He said things while he worked, but Jason had trouble understanding. He never responded, regardless. Bruce placed a ball in his hand and wrapped his own hand around Jason’s to squeeze it. The day Jason did it on his own, Bruce beamed and ruffled his hair.
The doctor came a second time, and Jason hated it just as much as the first.
There were more changes after that. Bruce started doing the same thing to his legs, massaging them before moving to his ankles, stretching and flexing them at various intervals. Bruce liked to do… whatever it was himself, but sometimes, the addition fell to Alfred to complete. Even Dick did it once. He tickled Jason’s feet, and Jason did not understand why Dick smiled so widely when he kicked his brother for it.
Bruce took a particular pleasure in guiding him out of the room. Jason hated the way he tripped and his legs shook. Bruce deposited him in the library if he intended to stay, or in the kitchen with Alfred if he did not. Once he got better at being prompted, Alfred started to ask him to help in the kitchen. Jason used to like cooking with the butler, but now his weak fingers ached with the tension it took to spread peanut butter over bread. To top it off, Dick liked to find Jason and cheerfully try to harass him into talking, even if he only got single syllables in return.
Jason was not happy with this turn of events. He expressed his displeasure by pretending to fall asleep until he actually did. He fell asleep in a library armchair, on the sitting room couch, over the kitchen counter. When he woke up, he was usually in his bed. He considered that a success.
“He’s been looking at us quite a bit lately,” the man said as Bruce lead Jason toward the steps to the foyer. Jason squeezed his hands tightly as he wobbled and nearly fell. He pulled up short, breathing heavily and refusing to move.
His dad only readjusted his grip. “Take a minute,” he said kindly. Jason exhaled in relief. “And then we can go again.” Asshole.
The man and the woman walked around to stare at his red face. “Oh, maybe he’s sensitive, like Dick. Do you think he can hear us?” She patted the man’s arm, looking excited.
The words were hard to focus on, when Jason was already tired, but he’d been getting better at paying attention lately. He had more energy when he woke up from all the naps he took.
Jason focused on breathing and not falling down. He leaned his weight on his father’s arms, and his eyes fell on the portrait hanging above them. Bruce had changed a lot. Thomas and Martha had not aged a day.
His mouth gaped open, and he looked wildly from Bruce to his parents. They were dead. He knew that. It was a fact . It was a fact like Bruce was the Batman, or Dick liked cereal.
“What is it, son?” Bruce asked, all patient concern.
Jason shifted his balance, holding harder onto Bruce with his left hand so he could point with his right. Surely, he could see them. They were right there, after all. They had been there for… for… for a long time, he was sure.
"Jason, sweetheart, " Martha asked haltingly. She stepped closer to him and Bruce. "Can you see us?"
Bruce turned to look where Jason was pointing, and Jason happened to nod while his head was turned.
“There’s nothing there,” Bruce said. He frowned at Jason. He reached out to put a hand on his head. He moved slowly, like Jason would startle if he did not. Gently, he moved his hand down to cup Jason's face. He tilted his son’s head so he could look into his eyes.
His gaze darted back to Thomas and Martha. He squirmed out of Bruce’s grip and glared at them.
"You can see us!" Martha said, hand over her heart. Thomas smiled affectionately at his wife and placed his hand on her back, just like it was in the portrait. She sighed. "But you don't remember. That's probably for the best. Yes, that's us," she continued. "We're your grandparents."
Jason developed a headache as he tried to understand. They were dead, but they were alive. His head gave a particularly vicious throb, and he glared at them. This was their fault. They had lied, or something. They had spent years, decades running off on their own, leaving Bruce behind. That was unforgivable.
"It's alright," Martha said calmly, like Jason wasn’t about to kick her goddamn ass. "We're not going to hurt you." She took a step forward, and his glare and his headache intensified.
Bruce wrapped an arm around him securely. “Come on, Jaylad,” he coaxed. Bruce wanted him to follow like a nice young man, but Jason wasn’t having it. He struggled, freeing himself. He stumbled a little, moving closer toward the stairs, but he managed to steady himself and stand under his own power.
He looked from them to Bruce as Bruce reached out to him, surprised at Jason’s sudden movements. Why couldn’t Bruce see them? They were right there.
"He can't see us," Thomas chimed in. Jason frowned. It didn’t make sense, but something inside him said it was right, like Bruce supposed to be unable to see them. The contradiction made his head hurt.
"We died, darling," Martha said. "We're ghosts."
Bullshit. That was total bullshit. Jason saw red. Ghosts weren’t fucking real. They were just liars who abandoned their kid. He lunged forward and swung his fist at Thomas.
He missed. Somehow.
"Jason?" Bruce. He probably disliked that Jason was trying to punch his parents, but they fucking deserved it. He heard footsteps on the stairs as Dick and Alfred appeared, attracted by the commotion.
"Don't hurt yourself!" Martha cried. Jason ignored her, too focused on balancing himself on the railing before he tipped over.
Jason turned for another punch, only to be caught by Bruce.
"It's okay, son," he murmured. His voice reverberated deep in his chest as he sank them to the floor.
Thomas knelt in front of Jason, blocking him from the staircase. He ignored the boy's renewed struggles to get at him.
"My apologies in advance," he said politely. "This will be uncomfortable."
He stretched his hand forward. Jason's attempts to knock it aside failed and he still did not understand how. He kept struggling until Thomas's hand went into his chest. Jason jerked away, away from the reality-bending sight and the freezing cold that came with it. He curled into Bruce, ignoring the concerned voices overhead, and shuddered. His whole body jerked, trying to fight the way his insides had turned to ice, until he finally went limp.