Chapter Text
Things become fuzzy after the fight with the Hyper Adapter and his actual death. But as Bruce slowly comes to, he realizes he’s back home. Even without opening his eyes he can tell, the feel of Egyptian cotton sheets, the smell of the wood polish Alfred uses and just faintly underneath that the scent of Bruce’s own cologne, the sounds of male voices—Tim and someone else he doesn’t quite know.
When he does open his eyes things are blurry—he doesn’t feel like he has a concussion, perhaps it’s just having been out for who knows how long—it takes a year to turn his head, but when he does he sees Tim talking to a dark haired boy. If Bruce could frown he would. Standing next to the boy though is Cassandra and even in this half-awake state Bruce finds his heart leaping in elation. He doesn’t know what brought her home, but he’s grateful she is.
The strain of trying to overhear whatever conversation Tim and the boy are having wears Bruce out and he finds sleep taking hold once more.
-
Again he awakes, feeling more...awake this time. It’s dark in the room, the only light the bedside lamp. More than enough to see Dick asleep in a chair, sprawled out in a way that Bruce would consider uncomfortable, but is likely cozy for Dick.
Gritting his teeth to stifle any sounds Bruce pushes himself upright. Upright is perhaps as far as he can make himself move on the other hand. Strangely enough the familiar flash of annoyance at being bedridden is comforting. Things are, as Alfred might say, as they should be.
Gleaming in the light is little bell. Bruce finds a soft smile crossing his face as he manages to reach out and ring it. Thankfully Dick’s a deep sleeper and doesn’t wake. Absently Bruce wonders who’ll answer, while he waits he tenses and relaxes his muscles, getting them used to moving again.
Measured footsteps approach, Alfred then. Yet there’s a whisper and then the familiar tones of Cass’ voice. Protestations from Alfred, but Cass’ is insistent. Again Bruce smiles.
When she enters the room Bruce finds himself studying her. The past few years haven’t changed her as much as they might have. Although there’s an ease to her movements that he doesn’t recall from before. She’d always had a grace to her, but this is different. There’s also an engagement ring on her finger, a gold band with jet embedded in it, whomever she’s marrying is lucky.
She sets down the tray on the bedside table, and before he can say anything she’s pulling him into a hug. “Missed you,” comes out thick between her tears.
He hugs her back just as tightly. Feeling a few tears of his own slipping out.
Before either of them can pull away another set of arms wraps around the both of them. “You’re having a hug party and didn’t invite me?” Dick tries to sound insulted, but it’s mostly lost in his own tear-rough voice. “I’m hurt.”
Cass laughs and Bruce thinks everything he’s been through might be worth it if there’s more moments like this in his life from now on.
-
It’s been a few days now and Bruce can now make a few easy laps around his room without getting tired—which also means he can go to the bathroom on his own, which is honestly a far greater relief.
At the moment he and Tim are in the little seating area by the windows, Tim catching him up on everything WE related that he’s missed in the past six months.
Six months. It doesn’t feel like that much time’s passed for him, yet it also feels as if more time should’ve passed. A strange paradox Bruce isn’t sure how to resolve. So he tries not to let it bother him—some night’s that’s a losing battle—mostly by throwing himself into learning what he needs to know. People believe he never left Gotham after all, he doesn’t want them to have any doubts.
“...Alvarez is doing fine, but I’ve been thinking we should move him to…” A commotion outside the door cuts Tim off.
“I will not be denied anymore,” the voice is young and imperious, the boy from before, Bruce identifies. The door nearly slams open and the boy storms in.
He’s perhaps eleven or twelve, black hair, brown skin, and striking green eyes. He’s carrying a brown and white cat, seeming uncaring of the fur being left behind on his black shirt—Bruce tries not to feel the pang of missing Selina that brings.
He comes to a stop in front Bruce. His expression suggests that while he’d been intent on getting inside the room he doesn’t quite know what to do now that he’s here. After a few silent seconds he rolls his shoulders and takes on a haughty expression. “Drake, leave us.”
“Oh my god,” Tim sounds more exasperated than offended. How long has the boy been here? “And here I thought you liked me.”
“I tolerate you, Drake,” the boy replies.
Bruce finds himself frowning. Old habits from raising Dick, Jason, and to a lesser extent, Tim, rear their various heads. “Apologize.”
The boy’s taken aback, as is Tim. “Uh, Bruce. Damian’s an ass, but it’s fine.”
It makes Bruce frown, he really should just ask who Damian is, but he finds himself hesitating. As if something in him already knows, but refuses to acknowledge it. Which, when he realizes that, makes him only more determined to ask. “Damian?”
Tim stands. “I think I will see myself out.” He’s gone before Bruce can say anything otherwise.
Damian sighs. “They said you wouldn’t know who I was,” for a change he looks his age, a sort of familiar childish hurt in his voice. “I wish mother hadn’t been so damn stubborn.”
Which only makes Bruce’s frown deepen. Yet before he can say anything another voice speaks up, quite literally. “Damian,” the voice is deep, yet there’s something in it that rings familiar. “Leave Bruce alone dammit!”
Frustration and anger flit across Damian’s face as he turns around. “I’m not going to let you or anyone else stop me anymore from finally meeting my father, Todd!”
“Jesus, kid.” The man who appears in the doorway and marches into the room is eerily familiar. His hair is perhaps shaggier, he’s dressed in jeans and a t-shirt instead of motorcycle leathers, there’s a necklace with a robin skull and he’s wearing an engagement ring on his finger that almost matches said necklace; but besides those things he’s a spitting image of Clayface impersonating Jason. If Talia’s claim was true.
Ja-The man picks Damian up by the back of his shirt, giving him a shake as if he were an errant pet. The actual pet Damian’s carrying seems to appreciate this as much as Damian does, giving an angry yowl before leaping out of Damian’s arms and onto the coffee table. In it’s haste to leave it knocks over Tim’s erstwhile cup of coffee and the vase of flowers Clark had sent over.
“Let me go, Todd!” Damian squirms and struggles, but Bruce can tell he’s not trying as hard as he could to escape the man’s grip. “Father and I were going to have to meet eventually.”
Father, this time it actually registers in Bruce’s mind—it had before, true, but then the man’d come in and Bruce’d been distracted. Bruce makes himself study the boy. The black hair doesn’t mean anything really, save that Damian already fits right in with the rest of Bruce’s children, but the dark skin and green eyes take on newer meaning. “Talia.”
The man and Damian both stop in their light-hearted struggle. Setting Damian down the man turns. “I need a fucking drink.”
“Master Jason,” Alfred’s tone is one Bruce knows well. He passes the man, a silver tray with a mug and a towel on it in his hands.
A disgruntled noise leaves the man. “Technically I’m over twenty one, Alfred.”
Alfred’s pointed hum follows the man out.
Damian tosses himself into Tim’s vacated seat, accepting the mug Alfred hands him. “Talia is my mother,” he agrees.
It’s easy to go back and pinpoint the year it would have happened, the rest follows. Jason had only died a few months before, Talia’d come into town like a small tornado. Taking him out to dinner and chastising him for his recklessness in the past few months. Not that it had penetrated Bruce’s grief at the time. He recalls drinking far more wine than he should have, Talia and him stumbling back to the Manor.
He’d awoken in the morning to her gone, Alfred commenting that she’d left sometime in the night.
The old memories now bring with them a new train of thoughts, but he shoves them aside, doing his best to ignore the roiling in his stomach. He can deal with what possibly happened to him later, now it seems he has another son to look after. “How...long have you been here?” Long enough it seems.
“Since your supposed funeral,” Damian answers. “Although I’d left mother’s side a few months before then, thanks to Slade,” Damian sneers.
Bruce recalls Talia mentioning that too, during Hush. “Is that really…” Bruce wishes he could finish the question.
“Master Jason?” Alfred, bless him, seems unruffled as always. “Yes, Master Bruce, it is. Things here have changed far more than you think they have. For the better I would say.” A smile hangs about his mouth as he straightens the bouquet.
“Of course they’ve changed for the better,” that haughty tone of Damian’s is back. “I’m here now, and now that you’ve returned I can be Robin in true.”
The words catch Bruce off guard, oh it’s no surprise Damian already knows he’s Batman, Talia probably wouldn’t have had it any other way. But that Bruce hasn’t quite thought of returning to Batman just yet. Alfred would perhaps be pleased to know Bruce feels fragile, needing to find his footing before he can fully return to his own life.
“I think that is enough for now, Master Damian,” picking the tray back up Alfred heads for the door. “Come along, there will be plenty more time for you to get to know your father in the coming days.”
Surprisingly Damian gets up and follows, closing the door behind them.
Damian, Jason alive—Talia’d been right then, but how had she known?—himself and Talia…
His whole body seems to ache as he climbs back into bed. He feels tears leave him, but he doesn’t know quite who he’s crying for.
-
Over the next few days Bruce is determined to speak with Jason, yet every time he asks it seems Jason is pointedly absent.
“The construction thing’s taking up a lot of his time,” Dick offers up. It feels like an excuse, but Bruce stomachs it.
Nevermind the bitter taste it leaves in his mouth that Jason seems happy to live here, but also seems to have no interest in reconnecting with him. “Construction?” He hasn’t quite caught up on everything yet, and he’s begun to realize why Tim always side-stepped any questions about the family.
“He bought his old building,” Tim answers, not looking up from his laptop. “He claims he’s only restoring it, but I’m also pretty sure they just tore the whole damn thing down and are starting from scratch.”
Oh. Bruce doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. He’s proud of Jason, and understands why he’s doing it. But it’s not as if it’s something that would require his input. It leaves him feeling even more disconnected from his middle son. “I see,” is about as diplomatic as he can be.
A welcome distraction comes in the form of Cass and Alfred. “Lunch,” Cass’ smile is broad.
-
...slick pearls pouring from his hands faster than he can grab them…
Bruce awakes with a start. There’s a nightmare he hasn’t had in a very long time. He still mourns his parents true, but his life after their deaths has provided him with far more nightmares. With a soft groan he climbs out of bed and goes to the windows, opening one and letting the cool March air dry his sweat soaked body as his thoughts meander.
A pained groan breaks through his thoughts.
At first Bruce thinks the sound came from him, yet now that he’s paying attention he hears it again, softer this time.
Without thought Bruce follows the sounds, all the way to a closed door. Thankfully the Manor hasn’t changed as much as his family, although there seems to be far more chairs and benches scattered about than he recalls. Again, perhaps not thinking as much as he should, he bursts in.
Cass, and Jason, naked in bed together. Both staring at him in aghast. Bruce starting to realize he’s interrupted them having sex.
It should’ve occurred to him, but he’d been perhaps thinking Jason too much like the teenager he’d once been. Only on the cusp of discovering about sex and people. The very Batman part of him points out that considering Jason’s handcuffed to the bed he’s very past discovering sex and people. Bruce tries to purge that thought from his mind.
“Sorry.”
As he closes the door Cass’ laughter follows him.
-
In the morning he makes himself go downstairs. Alfred is sitting with Cass, while Tim drinks his coffee and reads the newspaper with his usual single-minded intensity. It’s easy enough to spot Jason at the stovetop, even if he weren’t the tallest person in the family now.
Not letting himself second-guess this, he might not get another chance, Bruce goes right to Jason. “Jason…”
Who turns and attempts to be threatening with a spatula—to middling success. “This better not be some sort of safe sex talk. I got a vasectomy and Cass’ on the pill, so I think we’re damn good.”
The two of them haven’t talked at all since he’d realized Jason wasn’t dead, and Jason thinks their first real conversation is going to be a sex talk? He watches Jason slide his omelette from the pan to his plate, sort of stunned and unsure what to say.
“Cat got your tongue?” Bruce knows Jason’s doing it on purpose, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t get to him.
“Would you just shut up and let me talk!” The whole kitchen falls silent with his outburst.
Broken what seems like an eternity later by Alfred. “I think perhaps we should leave,” his tone brooks no argument and he’s soon ushering Tim and Cass out. Leaving Bruce and Jason alone.
Which is both good and bad.
Jason’s glare is clearly attempting to burn holes in Bruce, while Bruce himself is starting to feel tired—physically and emotionally. He’ll likely get chewed out for it later but he pushes through, wanting to at least try to make things better between them.
Which is why when the idea pops in his head he doesn’t try to second guess it. “Come on.”
“What?” Jason’s all anger and bluster and it’s aching how familiar it is.
“We’re going to talk somewhere else.” He turns and heads out of the kitchen, hoping that Jason’s angry and curious enough to follow.
“I hope to god you’re not gonna chew me out in the Cave.” Before Bruce can even respond he can hear Jason asking Cass to make sure Tim eats the omelette Jason made. It’s a good thing he’s not facing towards them, he doesn’t think Jason would like the fond smile on his face; always nice when his children look out for each other.
“Not the Cave,” he finally answers. Shoving his feet into a pair of shoes he grabs a coat out of the closet, uncaring he’s still in his pajamas—he’s sure within the hour there’ll be a million posts wondering why Bruce Wayne looks a mess, but Jason’s more important.
Beyond leaving the Manor looking half a fright he probably shouldn’t be driving, but he’s never let that stop him before. Honestly he’s just grateful that Jason’s still tagging along, anger and bemusement warring across his face as Bruce drives them downtown.
48th and Lansing comes sooner than Bruce remembers it being, but like always Hal & Sal’s is there. Even this early in the morning Sal’s there with a smile on his face. “Two chili dogs with everything,” Bruce orders without thinking. He also pretends not to notice Jason slipping two hundred dollar bills in the tip jar.
“Sure thing, Mr. Wayne.”
Five minutes later Bruce and Jason are on a nearby bench, eating with mostly single-minded focus. “How’s...the construction going?” It’s not the question he wants to ask, but perhaps it’s safer to start with.
“Alright,” Jason answers slowly. Bruce can tell Jason’s anger is still there, but he’s been thrown for a loop by the whole situation. A fact Bruce is not ashamed to admit he’ll take ruthless advantage of right now. “Still got a few more months before I can move all the old tenants back in, but we just finished with the insulation and the wiring.”
Bruce eats his chili dog—he normally wouldn’t eat such things, but he could argue right now he needs all the calories he could get—mentally choosing his next words carefully. “How…” All those carefully chosen words dry up in his mouth.
Jason makes a sort of grunt as he finishes his bite. “How does anything in this weird-ass world happen? I died and then five years ago I wasn’t, although according to Talia I wasn’t what you’d call...thinking.” Finishing off his chili dog Jason crumples up the wrapper in his hands. “According to her and the people at the facility I was at before she scooped me up, I’d eat and sleep and take basic care of myself, fight if I was attacked, but I wouldn’t speak or write or do much more than exist.”
Bruce wants to reach out and touch Jason, hold him in some way, but he holds back. Jason wasn’t like Dick to just accept touch, Bruce would have to be careful.
“She threw me in a Pit against Ra’s wishes and I barely had a chance to get dressed before I had to go on the run. Even if Ra’s wanted me dead, I at least had Talia’s resources and help to draw on if I needed it. She gave me fake IDs and pointed me towards people I could learn from,” he shrugs. “Course I didn’t know it at the time but after a few months I could’ve, you know, settled down if I wanted to, since she and Nyssa killed Ra’s.”
Bruce remembers that. How would it have gone if he’d known then Jason was alive? If he’d thought to check the coffin sooner? He shakes his head, dwelling on ‘what ifs’ from years ago wouldn’t help him now. He does want to ask more questions, but he fears speaking will stop Jason from opening up.
“Did that for a few years, 'til Cass found me in London. She brought me back to her hideout in Tibet and asked for my help in getting in contact with Talia to try and broker a reconciliation.” Bruce at least doesn't have to ask the why of that, Cass’d already told him about what Slade did to her and what she’d done with the League. “Slade happened, and Cass, Damian, and I ran to Oregon and holed up for the next few months. Few months later we saw the report of your death and we came back. Not much more to it than that.”
Except there’s so much more Bruce wants to know, Jason’s certainly left a lot out.
He won’t push on it...yet. “Have you been avoiding me?”
“Eh,” is the unsatisfactory answer Bruce gets. Jason twists slightly, aim, and tosses his garbage into the nearby can. It’s a perfect shot, not even grazing the sides. “Tim and I went a whole month without any sort of conversation after we met. So it’s not like you’re special.”
Bruce lets himself pinch the bridge of his nose. “Jason, that’s…”
“Not good?’ Sarcasm fills his voice. “I got him to show me the video eventually, scary how good Clayface is.”
“That’s not you.” Even if they haven’t interacted much the ways Dick and Tim talk about Jason are mostly good, and Cass wouldn’t just marry anyone.
Jason laughs. “Oh I needed that.” Bruce does his best to let the flare of anger pass through him. “It definitely is fucking me, Bruce. I’m maybe not that bad anymore, but probably only because of Cass and Damian.” He turns to look at Bruce, blue eyes cold. “I mean there’s still a sliver of me that wants you dead, Bruce, and I don’t know if it’ll ever go away.”
He looks away, hands staring at his fists instead. Bruce isn’t sure what to say himself. “And I still want to kill the Joker. ‘Course he’s been MIA since you ‘died’, Harley thinks he might’ve killed himself. The only bad thing about that is I wasn’t there to see the fucker brought that low.”
The anger isn’t shocking, the flavor of it might be different, but it’s the same sort of anger that’d been in Jason during the whole Garzonas fiasco. Good people were being hurt and all the ways of helping he could think of weren’t doing anything. “Jason...lad…” Bruce does it slowly, but he still reaches out and puts a hand over Jason’s fists.
“I’m...sorry I couldn’t be what you wanted me to be.” Time travel and an actual, if brief, death have taught Bruce that perhaps he needs to be more forgiving with his family. That they’re not all just copies of himself. That he needs to start treating them as the people they are instead of what he wants them to be.
Under his touch Jason stills, but doesn't pull away. It’s perhaps a small victory, but right now it’s more than Bruce could ask for.
-
When they do finally make it back to the Manor Bruce is far too tired to try and manage something as dastardly as stairs. So he ends up slumped on a couch in the small living room. Not even protesting when Alfred comes in and fusses, starting a fire and leaving a cup of coffee and a plate of sandwiches.
Still fairly full from the chili dog he only nibbles on a sandwich, but the coffee is a warming comfort.
He’s starting to drift off to sleep when the door opens, Damian and another cat—this one nearly all white with a dark brown sock on one foot and a matching tail—enter. “Father?” The boy’s voice is quiet, as if he doesn’t want to wake Bruce if his is sleeping. His knuckles pale a little as he grips the sketchbook and pencil box in his hands tighter.
The cat doesn’t seem to feel the same hesitation Damian does, marching right up to Bruce and joining him on the couch, finding his hip an apparently good place to curl up. “Lady Macbeth,” Damian hisses.
“It’s fine,” Bruce answers. He most certainly prefers dogs, but he doubts Damian will give up the cats—and how many exactly did he have? He can’t sit upright, but he does shift as best he can, bearing the small pains of cat claws digging in. “What’s up?”
Damian doesn’t answer right away, clutching the sketchbook tighter to him, as if torn between protecting it and using it as a shield. Bruce’s known Damian drew for a few days now, Dick’d let it slip, but the boy so far hasn’t seemed willing to share—Cass’d told him this was nothing new, Damian wasn’t ashamed of his art but he also didn’t seem interested in showing it off to others. Perhaps that’s changed now.
“I had thought...we could talk while I draw.” The words are carefully measured.
The coffee when Bruce picks it up is cooler than he likes it, but that doesn’t stop him from taking a sip. “I’d like that, Damian.”