Chapter Text
Bruce is halfway through his 13th simulation of the potential route a gang of international drug smugglers might be taking when Jason reaches the Cave. His head’s still trekking across Bhutan when a warm hand wraps ‘round his nape, and while he’s competent enough not to startle, Bruce can’t help but make a face at having Jason disable Cave alerts (again).
“This is very unprofessional of you,” Bruce tells him as he swivels in his chair and scowls, extremely careful not to knock Jason’s hand off.
“If that’s still news to you by this point, B, you might wanna consider hanging up your cape.” Jason laughs, taking a step back now that he’s done his job of surprising a Bat. “And I’m not here for long, have some shitty banker types that I’m gonna make scream my name in an hour. Just needed to put in a mission request, you know how it is.”
Bruce does not, in fact, know how it is. While everyone makes an effort to post details of ongoing missions on Alfred’s calendar to keep him apprised, requests for assistance between non-Alfred members of the family are substantially more chaotic than Bruce is happy with. Receiving a postcard from Montenegro sent to his WE office that just says Help with a little blue bird scribbled at the bottom had not been one of Bruce’s favourite ways to find out that Dick had bitten off more than he could chew while tracking down alien tech, but a postcard from a son living on the run in Montenegro is better than no postcard, so Bruce tries to keep things in perspective.
Speaking of living sons(?),
“What do you need help with, Red Hood?” Bruce says like the Batman, albeit the Batman without his cowl, padding around barefoot in thick sweats. Wednesdays are generally set aside for admin and computer work, because working mid-week is depressing enough to stem even stone-cold criminals. “Is it urgent?” Bruce moves to get up and get changed, absently beginning to unbutton his dress shirt.
"Not really. Not today, at least." Jason's hand stops Bruce's, a light touch right by the hollow of his throat. "You're up for next Thursday, right?"
"Of course." Date Night is compulsory and immutable barring the threat of literal death or dire disrepair: just the way Bruce likes it. "Do you need to postpone?" Unfortunate but not unprecedented, though Bruce is usually the one with unavoidable commitments thanks to the League.
"Nope," Jason says in that casual, almost-belligerent way he has when he's not comfortable with where a conversation's headed but he'll be damned if he doesn't see it through. "Just got a request, like I said."
"Anything," Bruce says, meaning it. "Within reason," he adds, because international travel for pleasure on a weeknight is a tall order for the Bat.
Jason's face twists, goes a little sour and slanted. "Yeah, real curious to see which way your judgement goes on how 'reasonable' you think this is." He exhales low and slow and looks Bruce dead in the eyes. "I wanna have dinner with Alfred."
"I see." Bruce doesn't, but he proceeds with calm and caution regardless. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind. I can make arrangements, too, if you wanted to eat outside the Manor." He's trying to sound as relaxed as possible, not betraying his growing sense of unease.
(The barb about his judgement strips him bare, but that’s hardly news. Most things with Jason hit him raw, after all.)
"We both know I wasn't implying we needed a family catch-up, B, but 10 outta 10 for trying to go with it." Jason snorts and leans his weight against the edge of the table, hip cocked and looking lovingly disheveled in his jacket and jeans.”We’ve been together in some way or another for over a year now, B, and…” He runs his hand through his hair in mild unease. “Feels like I should meet Alfred properly with you. Meet , meet. That’s the consensus, anyways.”
“The consensus?” Bruce asks, feeling far, far more faint than he’s ever felt while still retaining most of his blood in his body.
Jason steadfastly doesn’t fidget, even if he does look away. “You know, Kori and Roy and them. Obviously I didn’t say it was you, but I. Uh. Information gathered for this sort of thing. And if I’m gonna do this right by you, I need to have dinner with Alfred.”
Do right, by Bruce. Lord God, it’s a miracle that Bruce can make an interested little hmm sound and nod instead of just blinking and staring dumbly at Jason. “I’ll talk to him,” Bruce hears himself say in a perfectly steady voice, “and arrange for dinner at home next week, if that’s all right for you.”
This is probably a common situation faced by many an adolescent and young adult across the world, so he needs to not react badly, but it’s fully the first time in Bruce's entire life that someone has wanted to meet Alfred to make their intentions clear(er), and forcibly being made to feel prickly and pubescent past his midlife crisis is… an intense experience.
At Bruce’s faux-casual acceptance, tension melts out of Jason quick as anything, dripping right down through his boots and dissipating in the chilly air of the Cave. He’s grinning at this point, self-satisfied and smug, and he takes a step closer to Bruce. “Yeah? You’re not gonna mock me relentlessly for being juvenile , or soft-headed, or some other shit ass thing you’d throw at the face of someone trying to look out for you?” He takes another step, and now their knees are almost brushing. “You gonna be good and look forward to next Thursday?”
“‘Looking forward’ might be a stretch, but no, I don’t have a problem with you wanting a… formal dinner with Alfred. I’m,” and it’s a struggle to get out, but he must, so he will, “I’m willing to follow your lead on this. You’re better at it.”
Bruce, for example, hadn’t even thought to do collaborative research re: romantic relationships, more fool him. “I’m sorry that I can’t do the same for you.”
Jason leans down and rests his arm along the back of Bruce’s chair, boxing him in. “Sorry for what?” Jason murmurs, in the voice of a man who could have people screaming his name all hours of the day and he sure as hell knows it. “My date knows the people who raised me plenty well, so I’m good.” He ducks down further for a cheeky kiss, and pulls back with a smile that makes him look young and desperately sweet. “So we’re on for next Thursday?”
“Yes,” Bruce says. “And if things change and next week won’t work, I will let you know.”
“Good.” Jason doesn’t tacitly acknowledge Bruce building in the ability to call things off at a moment’s notice, but he broadcasts his satisfaction with it loud and extremely clear. “Keep me updated if anything changes. Otherwise, I’ll see you next Thursday in my Sunday best.”
Bruce sighs but doesn’t mean it. “I think I would be satisfied if you just showed up bloodstain-free with a bottle of wine, Jason.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Jason barks out a laugh, pulling out his riding gloves from his pocket. “That’s all I wanted to say, babe, and now I got a schedule to keep. Try not to die, and I’ll see you around.”
As disruptively as he arrived Jason disappears, and Bruce is left to himself in the Cave once again.
He rolls his neck and hears something crack, and turns his chair back to face his monitor.
Two more hours of trying to theorise the most likely routes for smuggling krokodil into Gotham, Bruce thinks, and then for a treat he’ll give himself two hours to worry and relentlessly plan for what may well be the world’s most intimidating date.
-
It’s four in the morning when Bruce finds himself drafting his tenth aggressively-inoffensive dinner menu for the date, red-eyed and scowling at the allergy content of deep-fried banana fritters. When he catches himself muttering “For God’s sake,” under his breath at the presence of pine nuts in pesto, he decides that he should, perhaps, call it a night.
-
Bruce slinks up from the Cave on the Saturday to corner Alfred in the kitchen, early enough that Manor inhabitants are still sleeping and Manor visitors aren't due till late brunch.
Alfred doesn’t look surprised to see him, but he’s had longer and more occasion than most to perfect his poker face so Bruce doesn't take offence. “Good morning, Master Bruce. You're certainly up early.”
“I was working a case,” Bruce says gruffly, reaching for the teapot. The case at hand is ‘how to bring this up with Alfred when he’s never put words to it ever before’. Step one of the solution is to, ah, simply not sleep to catch him bright and early. “Anything I can help with?”
“Of course.” Alfred plucks steamed buns out of the steamer basket, and plates it up with butter and coconut jam. “Try and get some food into you, and then feel free to confess whatever it is that's clearly distressing you.”
A cup of tea and some sweet buns work better than a tranquiliser dart to calm his nerves, and there are some advantages to being singularly unable to hide a blessed thing from Alfred. “Won’t you join me?” Bruce nods at his plate.
Alfred takes a good, hard look at Bruce, and whatever he sees is enough to convince him to turn off the stove, grab a mug, and take a seat with Bruce at the counter. “Eat up, sir, while it’s still warm.”
Bruce dutifully takes a bite, then takes another because he can’t help it. “Jason came by a few days ago,” he starts, easy and light. “Nothing serious. He just wanted to discuss plans for next week.”
“Did he now? Anything that I can help with?”
“Yes. He was wondering if you would be… available, for dinner this coming Thursday.”
Alfred does little more than blink and frown the slightest little bit. “Of course. He hardly needs to ask if he wants to eat my cooking, surely he knows that.”
Bruce winces but keeps at it. “He meant it more as dinner with just you and me, Alfred, less of a family affair, more of a…”
He suspects Alfred knows what he’s trying to say; it’s easy to see the barest hint of amusement in the arch of a brow, but it’s easier still to see that Alfred’s not going to be making this easy on him. Character-building, he’d probably say with a high-handed sniff.
Bruce isn’t opposed to any form of self-improvement, of course, but proposing a dinner between his partner-son-not-son and his butler-father at half past seven in the morning is a lot to ask an emotionally-incompetent man to bear with.
He finishes off his bun and his tea and laces his fingers together, forearms resting on the counter with his gaze fixed firmly on Alfred’s left brow. “Jason wants to have dinner with you, because he thinks it’s important that he meets you properly as my partner.” Bruce doesn’t waver, even as he desperately wants to rub at his face. “Despite the complex nature of our relationship, despite our tumultuous recent past, despite my being literally old enough to be his father -,” his voice has gone ragged, he has gone ragged, but still-
“Despite two dozen other reasons that render this pointless, Alfred, he says he wants to do this right, and that’s why he wants to have dinner with us both this Thursday. If that’s all right with you.”
Alfred sips his tea while Bruce sits and stews, and the quiet clink of ceramic on granite rings awful loud when Bruce is as tense as he is.“I never thought you would find someone genuinely keen to do things in such a proper, old-fashioned way, Master Bruce.” Alfred laughs quietly to himself. “It’s a pleasure to see you treated with care, and to have your partner visit officially, overdue as it is. Of course the lad can come over for dinner. Over a year of some type of 'together', sir, and I daresay it’s well-earned.”
Whatever Bruce had expected, this outcome is worlds better. At the base of it all he had been ready for judgement, for distaste finally being made clear. Alfred’s a good man through and through, which is precisely why a not-so-small part of Bruce had believed that this would be the conversation that has the man staring at him with an unloving gaze and finally, finally asking what is wrong with you, how could you play along with this farce, how dare you put your hands on him again and again and again -
Instead, he gets casual acceptance given out as easily as a hot steamed bun, and it leaves him a little lost.
He doesn’t resist the desire to rest his hot hot face on the cool cool stone of the counter. “I wasn’t aware,” he says quietly, “that it was possible to feel like a hormone-ridden teenaged wreck this late in life.”
He doesn’t move at Alfred’s light touch mussing his hair, or Alfred's quiet hum filling the air.
“Master Bruce, I for one am delighted you are finally getting to enjoy the highs and lows of puberty, even if you are running several decades behind. Now up you get, sir, I shall not stand about while you mope and brood over being cared about, leaving forehead-sweat on my counter.”
And that is how he gets told by Damian that “Father, you look terrible,” when he passes his son on the way up the stairs and back into bed, equal parts drained and buoyed by a hell of a mortifying conversation.
-
Jason calls him on the Tuesday, and Bruce spares a moment to wonder if this check-in ahead of the main event was also a workshopped idea. He’s in the office and it feels vaguely unnatural to be receiving personal personal communications right now when it’s still light out, he’s dressed in his business best, and a tie lies some type of heavy around his neck.
Before he picks up the phone, Bruce presses the ‘Do Not Disturb’ button on his desk that sends an alarm to Dionne, and absently taps a couple of buttons to make sure he records his secretary’s increasing zeal in scowling down magnates and ministers both into submission when he needs privacy. Last week a junior finance minister from Botlavia had tried to pull rank while Bruce had been busy walking Cass through exactly which high-security vault he needed her to break into, and Dionne, mad on power provided by the carte blanche Bruce had long since given her to stop people by whatever means she thought necessary, had looked the man in the eye and scoffed as she deleted his appointment to see Bruce.
It almost turned into an international incident, and it certainly made waves in the building when security guards were pitted against each other while Dionne faced off against the minister, her frighteningly long acrylic nails in full fearsome view. Her voice still echoes in his head, when she had icily said “Mister Wayne is taking a very important call at this moment, and on God if you call me ‘woman’ one more time-”
Bruce had intervened in time to de-escalate, thankfully, but he has a meeting with the truly loathsome Jeremy member-of-the-Board Stevenson in ten minutes’ time and he’s happy to let Dionne run amok if Jason’s call goes on too long.
Keep your enemies close and friends even closer. Five foot four single mothers of two who are allowed to self-actualise with the full-force of the WE legal team behind them are a sorely underappreciated ally group, and Bruce tries to never forget that.
“Hello Jason,” he says into the secure line, reclining in his chair. “Everything all right?”
“Just got up,” Jason tells him, voice sleep-hoarse and crystal clear over the phone. “Was gonna call earlier, but had a busy weekend.”
Red Hood going into a knock-out drag-down fight versus the police and the mob has dominated headlines since Sunday, with Jason on a one-man rampage to weed out cops who were taking bribes in the Narrows. At last count, sixteen investment bankers and senior officials that handled money for both sides have been called in for questioning, while a dozen more are in hospital for injuries they all insist were from ‘accidents’.
Busy might be an understatement.
“Went a little overboard, did you?” Bruce aims for neutral but knows it comes off as chiding instead. Better that than recriminatory, so he’ll take it.
“Trust me, if someone hadn’t managed to grind some souped-up ketamine so fine it got through my mask’s filters, I would be out there finishing off the round-up.” A jaw-cracking yawn, then the sound of sheets rustling. “Instead I got knocked out for like 18 hours, and now I have to work on Wednesday. But shut up, that’s not why I called. You talked to Alfred?”
“Yes. He said to come over at 8 on Thursday, and that you don’t need to bring anything.”
There’s a pause so long on the other end that Bruce pulls back to check that the call is still connected. “Jason? Did you hear me?”
More sheets rustling, then the heavy thump of feet hitting floor. “I did, just took me a while to double-check my fucking ears. You actually asked Alfred? No bullshit, no weird misdirection, you just straight told him why it was I wanted this dinner?”
Oh. “Jason,” Bruce says calmly, staring at the carpet by his feet. “Was this supposed to be a test that I would fail?”
There's a snort on the other end. “Be real with you, B, I don’t actually know. You gave the okay to tell Dick months ago, so it’s not like I secretly thought you were ashamed or uninvested, just.”
“Just what, Jason?” Bruce isn't excited to hear the answer.
“Just that it’s one thing to tell Dick, and it’s another to tell Alfred, you know? Approval-seeking always looks up, right, and I guess I thought for you, Dick being against it wouldn’t have mattered as much as Alfred, so not bringing it up directly with Alfie meant you wouldn’t have to find out if he disapproved, or something.” Jason grumbles something indistinct. “I sure as shit know that the opinions of father-figures can outweigh everyone else’s by like, ten to one.”
Bruce looks at the cool glass of his work table, and thinks of forehead sweat and the opinions of son-figures. Jason’s unflattering read of Bruce’s character has hit harder than a sledgehammer to the back, and it’s really hard to imagine anything heavier than this. “I see.”
He’s not even sure what he’s referring to.
“Stop it,” Jason says sharply. “Christ, I can hear the brooding from miles away. I maybe didn’t think you’d be able to go through with it, but I wanted you to. And you did. You did good, B.” His voice drops down low, fervent and steadfast. “You were good for me. Do you get that?”
Bruce gives up on resisting the temptation and slumps over, head hitting glass with a heavy thunk . Despite Jason’s assurances, Bruce doesn’t feel like he’s done more than just meet the minimum requirement of being a decent human being.
He doesn’t feel like he’s been good.
“Maybe I will, later.” He can see the imprint of his forehead that will form already, and the ghost of a future with Jeremy fucking Stevenson after this promises to give him a migraine. “You’ve made every first step necessary ever since I met you, Jason. I have to repay like with like.”
“Bruce,” Jason says with exasperation, pots clattering and the tap running in the background. “I can’t fucking believe that I’m the one that has to tell you this, but keeping score is fucking weird and unnecessary, and I’m not the better boyfriend just ‘cos I throw my weight around. I do things because I want to, or because I think it’d be good for you, or because I got doped up on cat tranquilisers and thought it’d be funny.” He sighs. “I’m so fucking easy for you, Bruce, do you know that? I already planned like three different take-outs we could get if dinner with Alfred fell through, and nowadays even when I’m thinking the absolute worst shit about you I get a little thrill when you say ‘yes’ and ‘no’ to me. You’re good, and you’re good even when you aren’t.”
Jason sounds a bit breathless by the end, and they both subside into silence. Head down and eyes closed, Bruce doesn’t have a way to tell the time until he hears a bit of a commotion outside, likely heralding the arrival of Jeremy (fucking Stevenson). “Relationships are difficult,” Bruce finally says to break the silence, and his voice sounds a little fractured. “But I’ve always been luckier than most in mine, Jason. I remember that most days. Thank you for calling.” He hesitates and then he persists. “I’m looking forward to Thursday.”
“Take care of yourself, old man. See you when I see you.”
Jason hangs up with little fanfare, and Bruce greedily takes another ten minutes to himself while the Dionne-Jeremy turf war escalates in the lobby and the boy who pushes the mail cart picks up a letter opener with violence in his eyes.
Two more days, and he’s faced apocalypses with more aplomb.
-
By the time Thursday rolls around, Bruce greets lunchtime with an uncharacteristic desire to swallow sedatives and simply pass out till dinner time; being this perturbed over a, a date coming over is shameful. It doesn't help that Dick has predictably been roped in to help keep an eye on Gotham while her usual guys have a quieter night in, and the way he keeps glancing at Bruce and then glancing away is enough to have Bruce on the very edge of picking a nasty fight.
He can see Dick’s thought processes written large and loud across his face, skittering between I have to be cool and this is kinda hilarious and is this time to put on my concerned big brother pants?
Bruce has had some variation of the shovel talk coming from Dick on an effectively monthly basis since Jason’s grand reveal, and while in theory he supports the repeated clarification that if things turned sour Dick has already picked a side (it’s the right one), today he passes the gravy boat at lunch with his jaw wound tight and if Dick tries to remind him (again) that he only gets to keep Jason by Jason’s grace and goodwill and that he damn well better remember it, well.
The resulting fight will get someone kicked out of the house, and judging by how Bruce can be so easily awful even when he doesn’t mean it, Bruce is sure that it would only end in disaster.
They don't get far into their meal before Dick slams his spoon onto the table and springs to his feet, chair legs making an unholy scrape against the ground. “Bruce, we gotta talk-” he says all in a rush, smear of sauce still glossy on his mouth. Bruce feels himself tensing up, wound tight and ready to burst. He puts his hands to the table and intends to start shouting before Dick can get a word in, but before either of them really get going, Alfred’s here, a firm hand on Dick’s shoulder.
“Master Richard, if you have a moment?”
Alfred easily snaps the tension before the nervy energy could lead to an explosion. He leads Dick away to first help with the dishes and then to brief him on the work that needs doing in the night, while Bruce is left to himself with his slice of roast chicken and his gently sagging Yorkshire puddings to once again question his decisions, his relationships, and his itinerary for the night.
It's not the time to close his eyes, lie down on the table, and meditate 'till things seem clearer. It hardly ever is.
He gets up, and gets going.
-
By seven Bruce is in a turtleneck and slacks, even if it’s an exceptionally warm evening in May in Gotham and the heat and humidity has had him damp and itchy ‘round the neck since he got dressed an hour ago. He had tried out a pair of jeans to decide if denim would give him a tactical advantage in Being Regular, but when he looked in the mirror, Bruce had never felt more like a man in costume. And frankly, at this point...
What’s he got left to hide?
So he’s neat and plain and severe in his slightly-nicer-than-usual sweater, standing directly under the air conditioning vent in the Little Green Library while he nurses a finger of whiskey and a cucumber sandwich. Dick had slinked off to work soon after lunch, probably at Alfred’s suggestion. Before he went down to the Cave, though, Dick had found Bruce, had squeezed his forearm and said “I really hope this goes well for you, B,” and that’s more fortifying to the spirit than any amount of extremely expensive liquor could hope to be.
The cool air feels like a caress on sweaty skin, and Bruce tilts his head forwards to let it wind down and ‘round the nape of his neck, where the breeze feels the smoothest and sweetest. He sighs a little, settling down into the headspace that’s all Bat on the eve of a massive, complex mission, and runs through the various mundane and insane scenarios that could potentially unfold tonight.
He’s halfway through a contingency plan for what to do if the electricity goes down due to non-natural causes when he feels it, the prickling in the skin when he’s being observed and there’s a split second’s worth of hang time to react before he’s acted upon.
Bruce relaxes instead, soothes his own shoulders down just in time for an arm to wrap tight round his waist, for Jason to bite a kiss against his nape. “I heard you coming from miles away,” he says scoldingly.
“You absolutely did not,” Jason says with easy confidence. “I’m kinda surprised you didn’t show up in full armour, to be honest.” Jason shuffles closer, contact borderline obscene for the little green library, broad thigh slotted perilously high. “This is better.”
Bruce extricates himself neatly, heavy heel onto Jason’s instep, armlock broken in two steps. “Behave yourself,” he hears himself sternly say even as he doesn’t let go of Jason’s wrist.
“Don’t I always?”
“Almost never.” But Bruce can’t help that he’s halfway to smiling. He arches a brow. “You came to see Alfred empty-handed?”
Jason just grins. “I came to see you empty-handed. I bought a whole-ass gift basket filled with gin and limes and shit for Alfie. You know I’m damn good at making a first impression, B.”
How could Bruce ever forget? “I’ve rarely met anyone so memorable.” The whirring and burring air conditioner ruffles Jason’s bangs, and quite frankly Bruce isn’t sure he’ll ever stop being some level of startled by Jason. “You're here early."
"I'm here right on time, B. Figured you were gonna be stressing out. Figured I'd distract you." He takes a step forward, followed by another four, and now he's got Bruce pressed up against a bookshelf. "How am I doing so far?"
“Really well,” Bruce admits, careful to keep fondness out of his face. It’s a rare pleasure, to be surrounded on all sides and not need to think about fighting and escaping. Jason’s being twice as distracting as he usually is, though, brighter and louder and closer than he ever gets in the Manor, and it’s unusual enough behaviour that Bruce reaches up to catch Jason’s face in his hand. “Too well. What’s the matter, Jaybird?”
It’s clear by the tightening of his jaw that Jason doesn’t appreciate being called out, is considering outright lying, but it’s clearer still when he relents and goes pliant, leaning more heavily into the light touch. “If you say anything even kinda dumb I’m going to sit through dinner and be charming as hell and then I’m gonna shout at you, I just want to get that clear.” He sighs, closes his eyes, and Bruce is fully immobilised when Jason slumps forward and rests his forehead against Bruce’s chest. “I’m kinda worried that…. Alfred won’t like this. Y’know. Won’t like me .”
A lifetime of practice at taking things seriously no matter how inane or insane they seem at face value stops Bruce from going “What the hell are you talking about?”. Instead, he tries to get more comfortable while being pressed against the bookcase with a heavy weight on his chest, and moves his hand to cup the back of Jason’s neck, rubbing through the fine hairs at his nape. “If Alfred disapproved, he would have told me right at the start.” Bruce’s cowardice at talking things out isn’t a trait he shares with Alfred, thankfully. “And if Alfred disapproved, Jason, it would be me he disapproves of. You don’t have anything to worry about.” He leaves an absent-minded kiss on the white forelock, just because he can.
It doesn’t seem to soften Jason any, who’s shaking his head like he’s trying to burrow into and through Bruce’s ribs. “B, you’re just gonna have to take my word for this, okay? You might’ve adopted or semi-adopted half a village’s worth of kids, but there’s one father-son bond in this house that blows everyone else’s out of the water, and it’s between Alfred and you. Shut up,” he says preemptively, blindly reaching up to cover Bruce’s mouth with his hand before he can get his thought out. “Just shut up and listen, okay? I don’t mean that you love your kids less than Alfred loves you, fuck. I mean that I look at you and I know you’re trying damn hard to be a good dad to, like, Damian. I look at Alfred, and I know he’s your dad. It’s not a matter of quantity. It’s just a matter of is .”
Bruce is confounded, offended, and a little bewildered. “I have a father,” he says against Jason’s fingers. “Alfred is a father-figure, certainly, but-”
He’s whapped with fingers again, Jason using the leverage of Bruce’s face to push off and back so that they can see eye-to-eye. “B, you struggle with son-liness like you struggle with father-liness. Just believe me, okay? If Alfred had to choose who to save in a fire, if there’s an emergency and he’s on lizard brain responses only, if a comet hits the world and he’s got half a second before humanity’s wiped out, he’s gonna look for you. And that's something you can't say 'bout yourself, B. First, ‘cos there’s a bunch of us so picking favourites is right out, and second, ‘cos you always, always have Gotham on the brain."
Jason sighs, sounding rundown. "I’m not accusing you of a lack of love, not when I know you’re always fucking trying.” He kisses Bruce, right over his own fingers. “And I know I’m not exactly the go-to guy to talk about healthy family relations, but just trust me, okay? When we sit down at that table, I’m the one that’s going to get judged, and God help me if Alfie takes a good hard look at me and thinks yeah, not this mess for my son.”
It’s a deluge that comes in at breakneck speed, and Bruce doesn’t even know what issue to address first, which ones he even has a right to bring up. His first instinct is to protest, but to what? His second instinct is to argue, because when in doubt, fight it out.
His third instinct is to nibble on Jason’s fingers, and that at least seems right, so he goes with it. “A lot of what you said I don't know that I agree with,” he says diplomatically. “But if what you’re saying is true, Jason,” his voice becomes steadier as he gathers confidence, things becoming clear all at once, “if when the world is an inch from exploding Alfred will turn to look for me, why wouldn’t he like you, when you’d do the same?”
That stuns Jason stupid, which is a rare treat too, so Bruce continues to dig his canine into the tips of Jason’s fingers. While he doesn’t know what he would do in the same situation, while his inability to prioritise one person above any other is his greatest shame and his greatest talent, he does know Jason.
He knows he’s right, and it’s clear that Jason’s been caught flat-footed too.
Jason groans. “I take everything about everything right the fuck back, I hate you.”
Bruce just laughs, quiet and dark and pleased. “Right in time for dinner.”
-
Dinner’s off to a hell of an awkward start. Alfred is simultaneously their guest of honour and their butler still, and it’s not like they could have had temps over to serve the salad or have Tim set the table while they’re trying to sort out what the hell they all are to each other. The table’s beautifully laid with Bruce at the head and Alfred and Jason at either side, the candles flicker prettily from where they're perched on the candelabra at the centre of the table, and Alfred keeps fucking getting up to serve them all their food.
Jason’s about to vibrate out of his skin. Yeah, it would have looked borderline insane to show up to dinner with the Red Hood on, but at least there’s some semblance of dignity he gets to keep if he’s hidden under armour, and no one can see that he’s tracking Alfred’s every move with some full-on crazy eyes. He hopes that Alfred’s got space in his big ol’ heart to forgive Jason for staring a hole into the side of his skull as he comes by to serve French onion soup.
He can see B out the corner of his eye, can tell the bastard’s amused by Jason running feral, but Jason’s using every ounce of detective skill he has to bear to try and gauge how Alfred’s feeling about all of this.
It’s not amounting to much; Alfred can be more opaque even than Bruce, because he’s so fundamentally unflappable. “Thanks,” Jason says lamely as Alfred drops a freshly-baked dinner roll onto his plate and goes back ‘round the table to take his seat. “You really didn’t need to.”
“Nonsense. Why wouldn’t I cook for a meal with my family in my own home?”
Jason can’t help glancing between Alfred and Bruce, trying to figure out where he fits in that sentence, if he fits the way he wants to. “Still, though, this was my idea. Should’ve at least taken you both out somewhere nice, y’know?”
“Oh, I doubt we would be able to have much in the way of good conversation if we were in public.” Alfred takes a polite sip of his soup, and looks quietly pleased with the flavour. “How have you been lately, Master Jason?”
“Been better, been worse.” Jason puts down his spoon and puts away any hopes of outmaneuvering and out-strategising the man who raised Batman mostly single-handedly. He’s always been a bigger fan of the head-on approach anyways, and now's a better time to be upfront and honest than usual. “Look, Alfie, I really was going to try and have a nice dinner and do this the regular way, but your soup’s tasting like ash in my mouth and I’ve never been good at beating around the bush. Tell it to me straight; are you alright with me and Bruce being in a relationship together?”
Stillness pervades the air, as three men of varying degrees of largeness completely cease to move or make any sound at all. Jason feels like he’s been tazed so hard his muscles have spasmed into solidity and his spirit’s been forcibly ejected into the ether. The concept of letting go of the breath he's holding only feels like it’ll be possible once Alfred’s said his piece. Until then?
He’s (back) in Limbo baybee.
Alfred breaks the spell by neatly dabbing at his mouth with a pristine linen napkin, letting it fall back onto his lap. “You’re both adults, Master Jason. I don’t know that I have much say in the matter.” He’s calm and serene as ever, but there’s a glint to his eye that comes off like a challenge inlaid with a thousand traps.
Christ, no wonder Bruce hadn’t enjoyed feeling like he was being tested. Jason regrets more and more with every moment that he decided to push for this dinner, but he had, and Bruce had come through, and there’s not a chance in hell that he’s going to be the one to fall short. He settles back in his chair and folds his arms, feeling a little annoyed he hadn’t thought to at least bring a support gun strapped to his thigh. “Bruce’s your son, and unlike how it is for a lot of people, he’s never gonna not be your son. So I don’t need your approval, Alfred, but I sure as hell want it. If you say no, though, I’m still not going to give him up.” He can’t resist baring his teeth just a little, because where Bruce might still be able to hold on to his principles even after a tragic loss, Jason already knows that he won’t let Bruce be taken away from him without a hell of a fight.
(If the universe collapses in on itself and there’s a second’s worth of time to look at just the one thing, fuck, Jason knows which way he’s facing.)
“I wouldn’t, and I won’t, but I care about you too, Alfred. So if you disapprove, I’ll work ‘round it. I just… need to know.” Blurting this out to Dick had been a thousand times less intimidating, holy God. “It’s okay if you’re just gonna be vague. That’s a clear answer too.”
He breaks his gaze, looks away from Alfred and Bruce to stare at the bit of cheese toast slowly sagging into his soup as heat crawls up his throat and cheeks and ears. Maybe he should also have ran what he was going to say to Alfred through a committee, but this degree of heated vulnerability isn’t a trick Jason’s capable of performing for just anyone.
Waiting for a response is clear straight agony, but Bruce is so fucking lucky that Jason’s built to deal with things even the Batman struggles with.
He’s broken out of his reverie by Alfred clearing his throat, and he’s taken right aback by Alfred’s quiet laugh. Jason snaps his head back to make sure he hasn’t hallucinated the sound, and yeah, it really is Alfred looking pleased and pink in the cheeks, shoulders still shaking.
“My dear boy,” Alfred says, and he’s blasting warmth into the words despite his even tone, “if I disapproved, I assure you, you would know. If I thought you were going to cause Master Bruce harm, I promise you, you would know.”
The older man leans back into his chair and crosses his legs. Somehow the rigorous dignified manner that marks most of how Alfred interacts with the world dissipates with just that small motion, leaving just Alfred at his base, just Alfred having dinner with people he cares about. “You see,” he continues, mild and soft, “I’ve seen my fair share of unloving relationships, but I’ve made my peace with the reality that there is very little I can do to protect the people I care about from it.”
Jason had assumed Alfred would look over to Bruce and think some pointed Catty thoughts, but instead he looks up at the ceiling like the lack of loving’s not an issue with the living, and isn’t that… something to consider. “You give out enough to make up for most shortages, to be fair, Alfred,” Jason says just for something to say, to make up for Bruce’s absolute silence and steady-eyed stare.
Alfred inclines his head in polite acceptance. “Nevertheless, there is plenty I’m not equipped to give. And while yours and Master’s Bruce’s relationship is certainly unconventional, I don't doubt that both of you care about each other, and are doing what you can. Maybe a different man would find a lot to be displeased about. Myself, Master Jason, well."
Alfred reaches up and pops the first couple of buttons on his waistcoat, looking as relaxed and casual as the man can manage. “I like to believe that good things happen to good people.” He refills his half-empty glass of red wine, and he smiles the smile that Batman’s used to strike fear into Gotham’s ne’er-do-wells for over two decades now. “Those good things sometimes happen naturally, of course, but I've never been opposed to getting my hands dirty to help things along. So no, lad, I’m not opposed, and I won’t be unless I’m given reason to.” He looks at Jason, and he looks every inch the guardian of Gotham’s protector even as he smiles. “At which point, Jason, we will have another dinner, and we can see how that one goes.”
Relief comes through like heavy rain through a window cracked the littlest bit open, and Jason’s grinning even as he raises his glass in a one-man toast and knocks it right back. “I’ll drink to that, Alfie. Kinda ass-backwards that you’re the one making an honest man out of me, but I’ll take it like I’ll take him.” Jason nods over at a Bruce who’s still shell-shocked and big-eyed, and he feels a giddy sort of elated that this has worked out, somehow.
“I feel like I should have some say in this,” Bruce says mildly, looking like he’s working through some mighty complex thoughts in his head, none of them particularly unpleasant.
Alfred gets up to grab the roasted salmon he has been keeping warm under a cloche, and serves Jason first before he moves to carve up a hunk for Bruce. “Do feel free to contribute, Master Bruce. Would you like the sauce on the fish or on the side?”
Bruce blinks. “Side, please.”
“Excellent. Some potato gratin?”
“Yes, please.”
“Wonderful.” Alfred scoops out the gooey goodness of gratin onto Bruce’s plate, before continuing in the same even tone: “And are you happy as you are, with Master Jason?”
There’s a longer pause, but Bruce’s voice is steady as anything. “Yes.”
Alfred puts down the serving tray, and squeezes Bruce’s shoulder. “Then that’s truly all I need to know.” He steps away, serving himself last and not taking a bite till both Jason and Bruce have tucked in. “Honestly,” he says with fond exasperation, “you both certainly have a way of making simple things seem difficult.”
For the first time since dinner started Jason and Bruce’s eyes snap onto each other, and they both roll their eyes. “Gonna be real with you, Alfred,” Jason says, “you’re the weirdo that makes complicated things look easy. You managed to raise Bruce into a halfway normal man, for one, and that’s miraculous enough to make me think you're at least a meta.”
He ignores Bruce’s look of mock outrage to instead delight in Alfred who unsnaps the buttons at his cuffs and folds his sleeves up, getting comfortable in the warm candlelight.
“Oh, Master Jason, there were plenty of times where I questioned myself and my abilities to bring up young Master Bruce. Did you know, he was sent home from middle school no less than three times for biting classmates and teachers alike, which was alarming and deeply unhygienic-”
“Alfred!” Bruce snaps, embarrassed and aghast, but Jason’s losing his mind with laughter.
“Fuck, so that’s where the demon brat gets it!”
Alfred ignores them both, though, head tilted back like looking at the ceiling is letting him look back in time. “He never has turned either teeth or hand upon me, though.” Part to himself, part to the sky, Alfred murmurs “I’ve yet to meet a sweeter child,” and-
Yeah, thinks Jason as he looks at Alfred and Bruce both looking a little soft and and a little dazed.
Yeah, meeting the father really was a smooth fucking move.
-
Dinner goes down smoother than syrup after the floodgates were opened for Alfred to recount a lifetime’s worth of deeply embarrassing stories, and Bruce doesn’t do much to stop the man. Alfred’s long since earned the right to do away with Bruce’s privacy when he thinks it necessary, and Jason has also earned the right to be told these secret things that have never left the little quiet space that exists between Bruce and Alfred.
Time goes soft and strange somewhere between salmon and dessert, and somehow without him quite realising it, Bruce finds himself at the front door to see Jason off, while in the kitchen Alfred bustles his way through clean-up he’s firmly declared he'll do by himself.
Oh, Jason’s saying something. Bruce blinks a few times to reorient himself with the present, and it’s been a long, long time since he’s been so distracted by the past. “I see,” he says with as grave a face as he can muster, and he hopes that he’s not about to be called out for being absent.
“You don't see jackshit, B, you’ve been off, off, and away for a while now.” Jason’s openly laughing at him, fond and mocking in equal parts. “Really can’t keep you up late on a school night, huh?”
Bruce leans down and sharply nips the corner of Jason’s jaw. “Behave yourself.” He has to at least pretend to be a good influence, even if he’s feeling uncommonly warm and lovingly pulled open inside.
Jason leans in for a kiss, but keeps it chaste and keeps his hand to himself. He doesn’t bother pulling back much when he speaks. “Trust me, I’m doing my best. If I wasn’t trying to keep on Alfred’s good side tonight, I’d be sneaking into your room just to remind you that while I might be great company at dinner, babe,” Jason grins with too much teeth, “I’m even better in bed.”
It’s hard not to huff a laugh, feel a little giddy and wild and addled with hormones that didn’t see this much use even in his teens. Bruce steps closer towards Jason, invades his space and rests his hands scandalously low on Jason’s back. “I would like to see some proof of that claim, Jason,” he says in his Batman voice, and he’s gratified to feel the shiver that zips down Jason’s back.
“Don’t tempt me.” Jason groans and pulls away, shoving his hands into his pockets like he’s trying to resist something awfully enticing. “I told myself I’m going to do this right tonight, so I will. Keep it in your pants, old man.”
Bruce raises his hand in casual surrender, even if he knows he looks fully remorseless.
“Keep it in your pants,” Jason says again, even if this time he sounds like he’s directing at himself. Then he looks up at Bruce and his eyes are bright bright bright and it hits harder than a punch to the mouth (Bruce can almost taste blood in his mouth). Unperturbed, Jason continues.
“Tomorrow, though, keep your balcony door unlocked. Have a good night, Bruce.”
Bruce remains on the front step long after the taillights of Jason’s bike have faded into the darkness, absently straining his eyes to catch the hint of an afterimage. Alone for the first time since he was found in the Little Green Library, Bruce allows himself a rough, shuddering breath.
Good god, he can hardly wait for tomorrow.