Chapter Text
Jason wasn’t a patient person.
He never had been. It was part of what had gotten him killed. No one who had ever met him would accuse him of having a level head, and his ‘charge the fuck in right the fuck now’ strategy being his go-to plan just went to show that. So he wouldn’t hold it against anyone who thought they could outlast him in a battle of restraint.
They’d still lose, though, because while Jason might be impatient as hell, he was also stubborn. Another part of what had gotten him killed, but also something that’d saved his life a few times before that. Currently, it was helping him go toe-to-toe with the Batman.
In a round of the silent treatment.
Well, that probably wasn’t the right phrase. Bruce had come in, cleared the birds and the fae from the room amid protests and one particularly mutinous look from Tim, and sat down across from Jason. The silence had stretched taut between them like a guitar string, ready to snap if the pressure was ratcheted up even the slightest bit. Bruce hadn’t spoken yet, and Jason refused to be the one to cave and break the silence.
He just looked at him, examining Bruce’s features. He was pale, paler than usual, but he’d stood without support and there were no bandages peeking out from under his t-shirt. Dick had done a good job of patching him up. The fresh blood had probably helped too. Still, he looked tired, bone-weary and weak in a way Jason had rarely seen, and hadn’t seen at all since he’d come back. If he had, especially in those first few months. . . Bruce probably wouldn’t be sitting across from him right now.
(He couldn’t believe Dick had apologized more than once for daring to think Jason might have shot him)
(He could. Dick was a fucking idiot)
“You stayed.”
Bruce, apparently unable to hold out any longer, finally spoke. Jason’s eyes darted to his mouth as he talked, noting that, while Bruce’s fangs weren’t prominent, they were still protruding slightly. Guy still needed some more blood.
“Wow. Didn’t realize you’d changed aliases, Captain Obvious.”
Jason’s voice was rough around the edges. He’d been yelling a lot tonight– yelling to be heard over gunfire, mostly, with a little bit of blowing up on the b-team sprinkled in. The hot chocolate had helped a bit. Alfred would not be making him any more, not after what he’d said.
(He wasn’t a part of their family. Not anymore. They all knew it, so why the fuck did they have the nerve to look at him like he’d just spit in their faces?)
Bruce pressed his lips together in a thin line.
“You stayed,” he repeated, more forcefully, “And I didn’t expect you to.”
There was a whole novel’s worth of subtext under that sentence. Jason didn’t want to read it. Of course he’d stayed, he needed an explanation from Bruce. Of course Bruce hadn’t expected it, because if someone had posed Jason this exact hypothetical scenario earlier tonight, he’d have laughed in their face and told them no information was worth voluntarily subjecting himself to the Bats.
Jason looked away.
“Yeah, well. We need to talk.”
“We’ve needed to talk for quite some time,” Bruce said. “I wish it had been under better circumstances.”
They then proceeded to sit there and. . . not talk. The silence settled between them again.
They were really fucking bad at this.
(Quite some time? How long had Bruce been sitting on this information? Why had he been keeping it from Jason?)
(And since when was any interaction between them worthy of the title better circumstances?)
“I think Tim might be teetering on the edge of going full-Jason and trying to murder you in your sleep,” Jason said after a moment. “At the very least I think you’re gonna need a new punching bag at the end of the night.”
Bruce sighed. “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing with him,” he said, voice soft.
It threw Jason for a fucking loop.
“What,” he said, because seriously, what? Was Bruce seriously confiding in Jason about his parenting woes? Jason?
Apparently so, because Bruce kept going.
“He knows why I benched him. He knows why I haven’t okayed him coming back out with me. He can’t present me with any logical argument for why he should be out on the streets again and yet he’s clearly frustrated with my verdict. It’s not a lack of understanding, and I don’t believe it’s entitlement. I’m worried he’s pushing himself too hard and I don’t know how to curb that in any way other than keeping him sidelined.”
Jesus.
Okay.
Apparently they were doing this.
A large, loud part of Jason rankled at the thought. Fuck this bullshit, he didn’t care about Bruce’s struggle to parent the replacement. He cared about why Bruce had thrown himself between Jason and a fucking machine gun. Every second they spent not talking about it needled at the place where Jason’s patience was supposed to be.
But he was still stubborn. He wasn’t going to crack, wasn’t going to demand answers and give away how desperate he was, as if staying this long didn’t already more than prove it. He wasn’t going to show how much it twisted the knife in his gut to hear Bruce agonize over doing right by Tim.
(Tim had come to him for help the other night)
“The kid’s frustrated,” Jason said. He managed to make it sound almost level, like he wasn’t gritting the words out. “I know you’re shit at it, but you gotta talk it out. And I don’t mean logical arguments, I mean real talking.”
“Timothy likes logical arguments.”
“He likes understanding shit,” Jason countered, “And right now I don’t think he understands why you’re worried about him. You tell him it’s about him pushing too hard or did you just cut him off right after that Gazette article?”
A muscle in Bruce’s cheek twitched. That was all Jason needed. He leaned back in his chair with a huff of laughter, no mirth at all in the sound.
“Of course. Look, either start paying Dick to translate for you twenty-four seven or start communicating better with your birds.”
“You’re right,” Bruce said. Jason blinked. Hadn’t heard that in a while. “I’ve never been very. . . good with words.”
“Not a secret, Bats.”
“I’ve been trying to be better. With him.”
Better than I was with you, went unsaid, and something nasty squirmed in Jason’s gut. Jealousy, maybe. Anger, definitely, most of what Jason was these days was anger. Regret for the family he didn’t have anymore. A small part of him even wanted to argue, because while Bruce might not be great at talking he’d still been good enough to destroy Jason. Because Jason had loved him, loved Bruce so bad it had hurt, even back then. Loved him despite knowing what a bad idea it was, from experience even, loved him even with the memory of his mom’s frail corpse, his dad’s retreating back and vicious backhand. He’d let him in, let all of them in, because he was too stupid to learn his lesson and stay away from things that burned.
He was smarter now.
(No he wasn’t)
(It still hurt, how much he loved Bruce)
(And hated him)
“Thank you,” Bruce said, snapping Jason’s focus back to their conversation.
For what? he thought, then, Oh. The blood.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, despite them both knowing that was a lie.
Bruce shook his head. He actually had a faint smile on his lips.
“I mean it, Jason. Thank you. It’s good to know he has a place to go when he needs it.”
. . .okay, apparently it wasn’t about the blood.
“What, Drake?” Jason asked, incredulous. “Are you serious?”
“I have been told I have a poor sense of humor,” Bruce mused, “but yes. I know he stayed with you the other night.”
“He broke in.”
“And you neither threw him out nor took advantage of his weakened state. You even helped him recover.”
Fuck, screwed over twice in one night by the smell of his blood. He should’ve made Drake brush his teeth before he left, maybe poured half a bottle of Listerine down his throat. Except at the time he hadn’t been fussed about any of the bats knowing where Tim had been, who he’d been drinking, because he’d been too caught up in the vindictive thrill of helping the baby bird break the rules.
“It was–“
“Don’t say it.”
“–appreciated,” Bruce finished diplomatically. Kind, Jason heard in the back of his head.
“Fuck off,” he said, then, as a sort of thank you for not saying the word out loud, “Just work this shit out with him so he doesn’t make it a habit.”
“Trust me,” Bruce said, his tone darkening slightly. “I don’t intend to see him hurt like that again.”
There was still blood on Jason’s couch.
“Is that what all this was about?” Jason asked. “Some code of honor thing? You owing me one for not kicking the baby bird while he was down? Because I would’ve taken cash, Bruce.”
If it was, Jason was going to scream and possibly shoot something, because it would mean he’d psyched himself out and endured the slow death his old home brought for no reason.
Bruce looked uncomfortable.
Never a good sign.
“No,” he said, “That. . . that isn’t why.”
“Then what the fuck possessed you to get yourself hole-punched?” Jason snapped. He was scrutinizing Bruce’s face, checking every muscle twitch for clues. Bruce’s eyebrows drew together and he looked at Jason as if Jason was the idiot here, as if Jason had missed something obvious.
“You were in the line of fire,” he said.
“Yeah? So?” Jason asked. “The fuck was it gonna do? Kill me?”
“Yes,” Bruce said. He was looking back at Jason, examining him the same way Jason was. Like he didn’t understand what he was thinking. “You’re human, Jason.”
“A juiced-up human who keeps coming back from the dead,” Jason corrected, then– because he just loved plunging headfirst into topics that would definitely make him regret it– “What, do my resurrections kill babies or something?”
Bruce blinked. He was still looking at Jason the same way.
“No,” he said, then, as if Jason didn’t get it, “But you still die.”
“So?” Jason exploded. Relief mingled with frustration and anger and he found himself raising his voice. So he wasn’t laying waste to the population with his recklessness. Good to know he’d been worried over nothing.
Fuck, why was he even still here? He’d just gotten his answer. No need to stick around any longer. Jason got to his feet, intent on leaving, and Bruce looked up at him with a look that tore up his insides, soft and pitying and far too familiar. Far too familial.
“Jason,” he breathed, voice barely above a whisper. “Not all of us take your deaths as lightly as you do.”
Jason gripped the edge of the table, hard enough that his knuckles went white and his nails ached from digging into the wood. He lowered his head, staring hard at the floor beneath him.
“So that’s it,” he said, voice thick. “You just didn’t want to see me die.”
(Again)
(What, would the guilt be too much for you?)
(Bring back bad memories?)
(Force you to look at what you did to me?)
(How you failed?)
It wasn’t fair. None of it was. Not what Jason was thinking– uncharitable and cruel and, as Tim had said, something Jason knew was wrong. But it also wasn’t fair what had happened to him. What Bruce had let happen to him. Except he didn’t, and Jason knew that, knew it was his own fucking fault for going off on his own and being impatient and stubborn and believing that Bruce would always be there to save him, even when Jason had made it impossible. He’d put his own obstacles up between them, sabotaged everything himself, and maybe if they’d had time they could’ve worked it out. Maybe Jason could’ve been the big brother to Tim that Dick had been for him, maybe he could’ve grown out of Robin and handed it off willingly instead of leaving a gaping hole to fill. But he hadn’t. Because Jason destroyed everything he touched. Because he couldn’t let himself be happy if it killed him.
(Ha)
Something wet dripped onto the back of his hand. He was crying. For the second time that night.
He flinched when Bruce put a hand on his shoulder. Flinched when he drew him into a hug. He wasn’t sure when he’d stood up, when he’d circled around the table. Jason was stiff and unwieldy in his arms but Bruce didn’t let that stop him, just wrapped his arms around Jason’s hunched shoulders and held him.
Bruce was bad at words.
He’d always been better at actions.
Hugs. Throwing himself in the line of fire to save Jason’s life. Because apparently it didn’t matter if it wouldn’t stick.
(I don’t intend to see him hurt like that again)
(I don’t intend to see you hurt like that again)
“I can’t,” Jason choked, “I can’t–“
Breathe? Come back? This didn’t fix anything. This didn’t make anything better. Jason had still done unspeakable things to them all, they couldn’t just forgive him. Couldn’t tell him he was doing better. Couldn’t sit on the couch with him watching Kitchen Nightmares. Couldn’t make him undrugged hot chocolate.
Couldn’t save his worthless life.
“You’re an idiot,” he sniffled. He was pleased that he still managed to sound angry even with the runny nose. He wiped it aggressively on his sleeve, and Bruce squeezed his shoulders. “You could’ve died.”
“You’re right,” Bruce said– shit, two in one night? “I should have considered what this would do to you, psychologically.”
“Fuck me, imagine what Drake would’ve done if you died while you two were fighting. And you think Dick would’ve ever forgiven himself? You think Alfred would ever be the same again?”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Jason sniffled again. It was too pretty a word for the wet snorting noise he made as he tried to suck the snot dribbling down his face back inside. “Everyone needs to stop apologizing to me. I don’t like it.”
“Sometimes,” Bruce said, “Family means putting up with things you don’t like.”
It took every ounce of Jason’s willpower not to squirm free and bolt right then and there. Bruce seemed to notice the way he tensed, because he released Jason from his embrace. One hand lingered on Jason’s shoulder and Jason shrugged it off, despite the fact that losing that physical contact felt like losing a limb.
He dragged his sleeve over his face. Such a fucking crybaby still. He didn’t want to be seen like this. Not by Bruce, and certainly not by anyone else in this hodgepodge family. He eyed the sliding glass doors just past Bruce’s shoulder, then remembered his bare feet, the fact that all his shit was still down in the cave or in the wash. His suit. His boots. His helmet. His bike.
Bruce saw him looking. Of course he did. He glanced over his shoulder, following his gaze, then looked back at Jason.
“I’ll call you a cab,” he said. Jason looked up at him, surprised. “I’m not going to force you to stay. Not if you don’t want to.”
There was something in his tone that made Jason suddenly, violently certain that Bruce wanted him to stay. Wanted Jason here, under the same roof, despite everything. Despite all he’d done, was still doing, was going to do.
Part of Jason wanted to accept. The part of him that, despite everything, still wanted to give Bruce anything he wanted.
He couldn’t. It was too much. Too much had happened tonight, from a simple arms bust to all this. Messy, raw emotions were probing at the surface of Jason’s thoughts, and he needed to sleep in his own bed, in his own shitty apartment, to process them. There was too much baggage here. He needed to clear his mind. He needed space.
“I’ll be back,” he said. He said it quietly, so quietly that if it had been anyone other than Bruce, he probably wouldn’t have heard.
(Maybe Superman could’ve)
“Right,” Bruce said, and there was disappointment in his tone. Jason was very familiar by now. He swallowed something bitter.
It went down a little easier this time.
(Sometimes family means putting up with things you don’t like)
“I mean it,” he said, “I’ll be back. Soon. So for the love of fuck, don’t do anything drastic to try to get me here. This was a one-time deal. I’m not gonna come running every time you get a hangnail.”
A pause, then.
“Of course you’ll come back. I assume Nightwing confiscated your guns.”
Jason snorted. “What, actually gonna give those back to me?”
He said it without meaning to, a baiting prod that just– slipped out. Even when he wasn’t trying, he still antagonized the Bats. It was like a compulsion. He’d ask why he felt the need to constantly piss off others if he didn’t know full well where that urge came from.
(Fuck Tim for having even gotten close)
“I don’t know,” Bruce said, “I believe rubber bullets can still be lethal. I may have to look that up first.”
“I’m not putting condoms on my rounds, Bruce.”
Bruce actually, legitimately cracked a smile at him. Jason’s heart broke clean in two inside of him. He hadn’t seen that smile since– since before he died.
“Safety first,” Bruce said, then, as if it meant nothing at all, “I’m your father and I said so.”
Jason could barely wait for the cab. He needed to get out of there. It helped that Bruce had left him at the door, maybe out of a desire to give Jason space and maybe because he still wasn’t good to stand for long periods of time. Dawn was touching the horizon, pink just edging the distant Gotham skyline. Jason could hear the soft sounds of distant cars. Alarms. Sirens. The city was alive.
Jason was alive.
For now, that was all that mattered.