Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jim wakes up to the sound of rattling and the feeling of sunlight bearing down harshly on his eyelids.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, bringing an arm up to shade his eyes. The moment they’re open, a black silhouette appears in front of him, blocking the light out enough to let him adjust.

His eyes are burning. Shit. He slept with his contacts in.

“Good morning,” he says as he reaches toward the nightstand for his glasses. A hand takes his own and presses the wiry shape of his crutch into his palm, and he clumsily fumbles them on in his half-upright posture.

Cassandra waits patiently, as always.

“Right.” He shoves himself into a seated position and looks up into her still-masked face; the empty black eyeholes stare back at him, completely expressionless. It’s one thing to see that in the dark, he figures, where its purpose is to conceal and to terrify. But here in the daylight, it looks almost comical. If he didn’t know how dangerous the wearer is, he supposes it would be.

“Hello,” he says casually, like it’s completely normal to wake up in his boxers with a teenage girl dressed as a bat standing in his bedroom.

Cassandra holds out, of all things, a magic eight ball. That explains the rattling, at least. Jim takes it from her hands and finds a tiny white smiley-face staring up at him from the glass window. He smiles a bit, and when he looks up he smiles wider: Cass has taken the mask off, and she’s beaming.

“How many times did you have to shake this to get the smiley face?”

Cass shrugs. “Many.”

Jim huffs a laugh. “Man, I feel that,” he says, shoving himself to his feet on the other side of the bed. “Have you eaten?”

Cass thinks, then shakes her head.

“Go down to the kitchen, I’ll be there in a second.”

She smiles at him, holds out her hand, and when Jim gives her the eight ball back she trots down the hall toward the stairs. That should stand to say something, the ease and comfort with which she navigates the halls of his home, but he’s still too groggy to quite decipher the forty-seven layers of meaning behind it. Instead he leans over the bathroom mirror and pries the expired contacts out of his eyes.

Ten minutes later he’s mostly dressed for the day, save his shoes, tie, and coat, and he’s at the stove making Cassandra eggs with extra cheese. She’s still playing with the eight-ball, shaking it ferociously for a minute or so only to grunt in something like frustration and try again.

“What are you up to back there?” Jim asks as he takes down some paper plates from a shelf.

“Probility,” she answers.

“Prob-uh-bih-li-tee,” he sounds out for her.

“Probability,” she repeats slowly, testing out the grander scale of the word. She’s getting better at it, thanks to Babs and Bruce.

“Right. Probability of what, if I may ask?”

“Have good day.”

He splits the mound of scrambled eggs in two and places the larger portion onto Cass’ plate. “For you or me?”

“Yes,” she answers.

“Both.”

“Both.”

He sets the plate down in front of her. “Ketchup? Salt or pepper?”

She shakes her head. “No. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

The coffee maker beeps, and Jim pulls the jug off the burner as he whips a mug out of the cabinet. “Anything big happen last night?”

“Bust. Down by docks.”

“The docks.”

“The docks. Black Mask. Guns. Cole cane.”

Jim glances at her, an eyebrow raised. “What?”

“Cole cane.”

“Cocaine?”

Cass points at him and nods rapidly. “Cocaine,” she repeats.

Jim sits down across from her with his coffee and eggs. He thinks about running back upstairs to get his meds, then decides to wait at least until she leaves. If she doesn’t after breakfast, he’ll head up and get them anyway. It’s not like she doesn’t know he takes them.

“Was anyone hurt?” he asks.

Cass shakes her head. “A few henchmen. Be fine. Hospital.”

Jim grunts in acknowledgment around his mouthful. “How’s your dad?”

“Tired.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s just his constant state of being by now.”

Cass giggles and nods. “Always working. Like you.”

“No rest for the wicked.” He takes Cass’ empty plate and silverware as she watches him dutifully; the plate goes in the trash, the silverware in the sink with the pan. “Has he gotten hurt badly lately?”

“No. Last time was three weeks ago. Big gash on his shoulder.” She draws a line with her finger from her collarbone over her shoulder to somewhere on her back to illustrate. “Is fine now. Sleep helps.”

“That it does.”

She walks over beside him to study the potted plants on the windowsill. He’d gotten them as an incentive to come home every now and then: he was very determined to keep them alive, and so far it was working. Granted, succulents were fairly low-maintenance, but there was a satisfaction there nevertheless.

“Names?”

“I haven’t named them, no.” He glances down at her. “Would you like to?”

She nods eagerly.

“Go for it.” The clock over the stove says thirteen minutes past eight—in other words, last chance to beat the rush hour. He starts out of the room and up the stairs to grab his shoes—and his meds, can’t forget those. “I have to head out, but you can stay as long as you’d like. There’s extra clothes in the guest bedroom upstairs, if you wanna get out if that costume.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he calls from halfway up the stairs. He slips into the bathroom and tosses the pills down his throat—Sertraline and Diazepam—before scooping up his shoes and dashing back downstairs.

Cass is sitting at the counter, waiting for him. She holds out the eight ball.

“Ask,” she says. He takes the eight ball and looks off at middle distance, considering his question.

“What’s the probability that Cass and I will both have a good day?” he asks finally, then gives it a firm shake.

The answer stares out at him through the glass: Outcome looks good.

He smiles up at her. “It says there’s a good chance.”

“Hope it’s right.”

“You and me both.”

“Don’t forget your coat.”

“Get some rest, kid.”

He snags his coat off the hook and slides out the door all in one smooth motion, flashing Cass one last smile as the door shuts.

The day is bright and warm, and as Jim walks to his car, he hopes beyond hope that it's an omen for a good day coming in. He knows there will be paperwork and crime scenes and meetings and who knows what else, but maybe it’ll be a bit better than most days.

As he drives away, he catches sight of Cass in the window and waves.

He just barely catches her own wave back before he’s halfway down his street.

Hope it’s right.

Chapter Text

“What’s in the box?”

Jim doesn’t look up from the contents of the shoebox on his kitchen table. “Good evening, gentlemen. If I may, there’s a perfectly functioning back door that’s open for use.”

“It’s for the aesthetic,” Duke declares as he climbs the rest of the way through the living room window. Damian is already inside, standing by the bookcase, wrapped up in his cape like a smaller, sharper version of his father. “What’s in the box?”

“Using a window as a door is only viable with skyscrapers and old mansions,” Jim replies. “If you trampled my daffodils, I swear to God—”

“Are we going to have to ask what’s in the box again,” Damian says. It should be a question, but the question mark is dropped somewhere along the line, turning it into a statement. Bruce has a tendency to do that, too.

“If you’re so curious, come over and see for yourself.” He fiddles with the drawstring of his sweatpants, a habit born out of not knowing what to do with his hands.

Damian snorts. “You’re going to need more than mere curiosity to get us close, Gordon.”

“Is he, though?” Duke asks, already walking over. “I mean, it’s a shoebox, what could—”

Something in the box chirps.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Jim says conversationally.

Duke and Damian are both at his side almost immediately, peering down into the box covered safely with newspapers and padded with old rags.

“No way,” Duke whispers.

A tiny brown bat lies in the box, a small bowl of water tucked away in the corner. It looks up, ears twitching every which way, beady black eyes staring at the three figures looming above it. It twitters a few times before it starts to survey its surroundings.

“Of course,” Damian says, voice vaguely disbelieving. “Of course it’s a bat.”

“How did this even happen?” Duke asks, cautiously reaching over to scratch its head. The bat squeaks again, but makes no grand motion for or against the contact.

“Flew into my window,” Jim replies. “I dunno how, since I’m pretty sure bats are supposed to echolocate, but I wasn’t gonna just leave ‘em on my porch for the cats. It felt wrong, for some reason.”

“Bat-policeman solidarity saves the day again,” Duke quips.

“If she ran into the window, then maybe there’s something wrong with her echolocation,” Damian says, swatting Duke’s hand away. “She might have some broken bones, too.”

“That’s what I was thinking, too,” Jim replies. “I gave the animal hospital a call after I found her, but I got a busy signal on every extension I tried. So I Googled “how to help a bat after it flies into a window” and I’m hoping for the best.”

“How do you know it’s a girl?” Duke asks Damian, his masked eyes hiding his confusion.

Damian points to a small tail poking out from the webbing of the bat’s wings. “Female brown bats have that tail, males don’t.”

“Ah.”

The bat chirps again and wiggles one of her wings.

“She’s definitely hurt,” Duke says decisively.

“Yeah.” Jim looks up at Damian. “What do brown bats eat?”

“Bugs, mostly. Some smaller animals, like mice and frogs, if they get a chance.”

“Would raw chicken meat cut it, do you think?”

Damian hums and taps his heel on the ground a few times. “Wouldn’t hurt to try, I suppose.”

Jim rises from his seat with a grunt. Sore muscles and a lifetime of tension makes it hard to move most days. “Keep an eye on her, I’m gonna cut that chicken up for her.”

“Ten-four,” Duke calls after him.

He walks back in five minutes later with a few cubes of chicken meat on a teacup plate that probably hasn’t been used in decades. “Chicken a la Bat, coming right up,” he says, cautiously placing a cube in front of the bat’s face.

She sniffs it a few times, takes a cautious nibble, then begins to bite into it with a vengeance.

“I take it she’s hungry,” Duke remarks.

Damian sniffs once. “She should be taken to a veterinarian as soon as possible. There’s a high likelihood her wing is broken.”

“I’ll take her first thing in the morning,” Jim says as he feeds her another piece of chicken. “She might have rabies or something. I’d rather I get bitten than you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Damian says. “She obviously doesn’t have rabies, she’s not twitching or foaming. She’s just confused.”

“Nevertheless, it’s after two in the morning, and I’m not letting you guys go home this late, much less make a detour to drop off a bat at a pet hospital.”

“You’re not our father,” Damian shoots back immediately.

“No, I’m not, but it’s still not happening.”

Duke pets the bat’s head with the pad of his index finger. “We should stay the night, Damian,” he says, never taking his eyes off the bat. “It’d be easier for three people to look after her than just one person.”

Damian pauses and taps his heel again before huffing in resigned agreement. “Fine, we accept your invitation.”

“Glad to hear it,” Jim says, giving the boy a half-smirk. Just as stubborn as his father—maybe as stubborn as Jim himself. He’s just as kind as Bruce, though, and it more than makes up for his occasional arrogance. “You know the drill. Extra clothes upstairs in the spare bedroom, toiletries under the cabinet. And no sneaking out of windows.”

“Got it,” they both say in unison.

“We should name her,” Damian says immediately after. Of course it’s his idea to name it.

“Crash Course?” Jim suggests, and the answer is a fairly hard punch to the side from the smaller boy. “That’s fair.”

“How about Eunice?” Duke asks, reaching up to undo his helmet—finally.

Damian takes his hint from his partner and follows suit, peeling the domino mask away from his eyes. “Eunice is acceptable,” he says. “Better than Crash Course.”

“It would’ve been funny,” Jim snarks as he heads toward the couch. He’s been up for almost thirty-six hours straight by now, and he’s fairly sure he can take a nap without worrying about the bat trying to make an escape. “I’m crashing. If anything pressing happens, wake me up.”

“Got it,” they both say; Duke is headed upstairs, likely to change out of his costume, while Damian sits at the table, watching Eunice with a gentleness rarely seen on his face.

Jim smiles, pulls a pillow over his eyes, and drops off to sleep.

In the morning, he wakes up to see Damian curled up his armchair, dressed in a AC/DC T-shirt several sizes too big for him and a pair of fairly-new basketball shorts that Jim had bought for the sole sale of the kids having something else to wear when they came by.

“Rise and shine,” Duke singsongs somewhere nearby. “The early bat gets the fly.”

Jim groans as quietly as he can while still displaying his intense dislike of being awake. “I’m not a bat,” he says as he sits up, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How is she, though?”

“She’s okay, seems to me.” Duke leans against the doorframe between the living room and the kitchen. He’s in sweatpants that fit somewhat reliably and a sweatshirt that’s emblazoned with the logo for the Chicago PD. “I think she’s asleep.”

“What time is it?”

“Just after six.”

Four hours of sleep without a nightmare—cause for celebration!

Jim hauls himself off the couch and into the kitchen, peers into the box at Eunice. She’s still and silent, but her chest is rising and falling steadily, her ears twitching every now and then.

“We should get her to the vet,” Jim says.

“Yeah. I’ll wake up Damian.”

Jim drives them all to the vet, Eunice tucked away safely in the box in Damian’s lap. They hand her over, offer up their care procedures up until that point, thank the staff, and leave. The whole errand takes about a half an hour.

Still, Jim feels a soft warmth in his chest when he watches Duke and Damian say goodbye. Damian puts on a brave face, but his concern is solidly palpable, and anyone who knows what his childhood was like can understand why. Duke puts an arm around his shoulders as they walk back to the car.

“She’ll be okay,” Jim says, ruffling the boy’s hair. It’s incredible, how much he sees himself in Damian: the boy who escaped and still never says die. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that bats are resilient. She’ll make it through just fine.”

Damian gives him an affronted glare and fixes his locks. “I know that,” he grouses, “and I’m not worried.”

“Of course you’re not.” Jim smiles. “Why would I ever think otherwise?”

Chapter Text

Jim is at his desk going over reports, home sick with a violent cold, when he hears a clatter somewhere upstairs. He doesn’t bother even getting a little worried; the footsteps are as familiar as his own.

“Get the fuck out of my mentions,” he shouts vehemently, and someone laughs.

A moment later, Jason appears in the doorway, clad in his usual black jeans, black leather jacket, dirt-encrusted combat boots, and about seventeen bracelets on each wrist. There are dark circles under his eyes, as always, his hair is wet from the rain outside, and there’s a new piercing in the shell of his right ear. There’s a backpack visible over his shoulder, and he’s also holding a bag of what might be Chinese takeout.

“Nice piercing.”

“Thanks. Did you grow your hair out?” Jason asks, quirking an eyebrow upwards.

“I’m trying a new look,” Jim replies. He hates that he sounds as sick as he is.

“Jesus,” Jason snorts. “ I leave Gotham for three weeks and I come back to you being sick and growing your hair into a rat tail. The world must be ending soon.”

“Never imply that I’d grow my hair into a rat tail ever again,” Jim rumbles, but he’s wrapped up in a blue bathrobe and sounds like a much more demented version of Donald Duck, so it’s not all that intimidating.

Jason laughs at that, and Jim cracks a smile. It’s a nice sound, Jason laughing. He’s missed it.

“How was Cairo?”

“A complete shitshow,” Jason answers as he leaves the door frame, making headway to the kitchen. “I’m never getting involved in a gun rat race ever again.”

“You say that now, but in three months you’re gonna let Kori, Roy, and company drag you out to some town in Ghana to assassinate a drug lord or some shit.” He sniffles and hauls himself out of his office to join Jason, who’s unpacking the contents of the takeout bag. It is Chinese food, thank God. Jason knows what’s best.

“Just because you’re right doesn’t mean you have to call me out on it. Besides, I’m the one who brought you food, don’t go insulting me.”

Jim sneezes three times in quick succession into the sleeve of his bathrobe.

“Gesundheit times three.”

“Danke,” Jim replies. “And thank you for the food.”

Jason shrugs. “No worries. It’s not like I have anything better to do. The freaks don’t come out until nightfall.”

Jim hums a few bars of “The Freaks Come Out At Night,” earning him a look of complete and utter exasperation from Jason. The look is enough to make Jim laugh, despite his aching lungs.

“You love to test me, don’t you?”

“If I didn’t test you, then that would mean I don’t like you.”

Jason shrugs. “Touché.” He sets a plastic container of chicken and rice soup, a plate of boneless spareribs, and an eggroll wrapped in wax paper in front of him, along with some napkins, a spoon, and a glass of water. “Stuff yourself, old man, there’s more where that came from.”

They eat in comfortable silence as the rain roars down outside. There’s a few cracks of thunder somewhere in the distance, and the house groans as the wind presses against the outside walls.

“You sure you got nothing better to do?” Jim says after a while, spooning the last of his soup into his mouth.

Jason sighs and rocks back in his seat, rattling his fingers over the armrest. He’s clearly not ready to talk about that yet, so Jim changes the subject.

“Everything okay with Bruce?”

“For once, yeah,” Jason says, not looking at him. “This last mission was a no-kill. I promised him I’m gonna try and stick with jobs like that from now on. He’s still not happy about the guns and everything, but we’re not arguing at least.”

“That’s good,” Jim says, and he means it. “I’m glad you’re reaching some common ground.”

“I think everyone is,” Jason admits, his face bearing a shaky smile. “It’s nice to not be afraid of getting into an argument every time I stop by.”

Jim huffs a laugh. “I get that, believe me.” He takes another bite of his eggroll. “You okay on the other fronts?”

Jason sighs slowly. “Yeah.”

Jim leans back in his seat. “What aren’t you telling me, kid? Don’t make me bribe you, I have a bag of cinnamon bread in the cabinet just for that purpose.”

Jason laughs again, softer, a hint of fear behind it. When he’s done, he looks at him with a familiar shadow in the shape of his smile; it’s the same shadow Jim looks at in the mirror every day, the same shadow he sees every time he wakes up in a cold sweat with the ghost of a belt over the skin of his back.

“My dad tried to call me from prison last night. Willis, I mean.”

Jim inhales slowly through his nose as he straightens up. A small lick of fury begins to warm his chest. “Does Bruce know?”

Jason shakes his head. “I don’t want him to worry. You know what happens when he does.”

“That I do.” He downs the rest of the water and sets the glass down a bit more forcefully than necessary. Jason shifts in his seat, the gleam in his eyes a marker of his anxiety. It’s never easy to talk about cruel fathers with people who don’t understand—or even with people who do.

“What did he say?”

Jason shrugs with an air of practiced nonchalance. “The same old shit. Tried to apologize, figure out how I’ve been, what I’ve been up to, that kind of stuff.”

“And?”

“Didn’t give him an inch.”

“Good.” Jim sneezes into his sleeve again before continuing. “Don’t give him a micrometer. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“I know,” Jason says, but there’s a few cents’ worth of guilt in the statement.

“Jay,” Jim says, reaching over the counter to lay a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “You’re not his little girl anymore. You don’t owe him the time of day, remember that. And if he calls you again, let me know. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Jason nods slowly, then turns away in the hopes Jim won’t see the sudden shine pressed against his lower eyelids.

He does.

“Ah, Jay,” he exhales, rising from his seat, making the trek around the table to pull Jason into a hug. Jason remains still for a moment, then wraps his arms around Jim’s hips and presses his face into his stomach, shoulders shaking with unreleased sobs.

“You reek,” Jason says, voice muffled, and Jim laughs a bit. He feels the smile against his belly, just as he feels the wet warmth of tears seeping through his shirt.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says, running a hand brought the younger man’s hair, and Jason trembles when a short sob wracks him. It’s sad, really, how much Jason carries on his shoulders when he has so much more to offer than a weekend gig as Atlas’ stand-in. “I promise, Jay, it’s gonna be okay.”

Jason spends the day at Jim’s house, headphones on, hunched over a notebook, scribbling words down like his life depends on it.

At one point, Jason’s screen lights up with a notification, and Jim just barely catches a glance as an image of the Les Miserables soundtrack album pops up, the song title reading “Bring Him Home.”

They share a knowing smile, and Jim goes back to his reports.

The storm carries on.

Chapter Text

Jim supposes he should be used to the sounds of people making their way through his house, no matter the time of day or the season. And he is, for the most part, and he’s okay with it, for the most part.

This is one of the few times he isn’t, because he’s in the middle of a shower when he hears the telltale click of his window lock being displaced.

“Are you serious,” he breathes, scrubbing the last of the shampoo suds out of his hair before turning the water off. “Whoever’s out there, the bathroom is off-limits!”

“I’m not deaf!” Stephanie’s voice yells back.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Jim mutters as he towels off, only for Stephanie to slam the side of her fist against the door.

“I heard that!”

“Sure you did. Go entertain yourself, I’ll be out in five.”

“I’m counting.”

“Go for it.”

When he comes down to his living room, Stephanie is spread out on the couch, looking like she just came from a gala: perfect makeup, dyed-blonde hair pulled back into a perfect braid, a long, flowing black dress, a pair of bright red heels discarded at the base of the coffee table. A matching red clutch rests against the lamp on the table-stand by her head. One arm is thrown dramatically over her face, the other hanging off the couch. Both of her feet are propped up on the opposite armrest.

“Howdy,” she says from under her arm. “Your total elapsed time is seven minutes, forty-one seconds. Your total I.O.U. is now sixteen dollars.”

“When did we establish an I.O.U.?” Jim asks. “And frankly, I don’t think I should have to pay you anything, considering you came through my bedroom window while I was in the shower. And what kind of payment system are you even using?”

“You’re the one who said it’s an open-door policy.”

“Open-door.”

“Windows are just high doors, Jimmy. And the payment system is irrelevant.”

Jim sighs deeply and sinks into his armchair. “How did you even get through my bedroom window in a dress and heels?”

“Never underestimate the power a little black dress can have over your confidence. Even Bruce can tell you that’s true.”

Jim tries to picture Bruce in a floor-length evening gown. It doesn’t work very well.

“What ails you this fine evening, Miss Brown?” he asks, knowing full damn well that this is Stephanie’s idea of what leads up to an emotional conversation.

Stephanie sticks one of her legs in the air in a perfect ballet pointe. “My dad’s an asshole!” she sings, throwing her arms up to do jazz hands, like the proclamation is worthy of a musical number and a standing ovation.

Jim offers neither of these things. “Have you eaten?”

Stephanie scrunches up her face, the rest of her body remaining in stasis. “I think I had lunch.”

“Jesus,” Jim utters, getting out of his seat and walking into the kitchen. Seems it’s all he ever does when people are over nowadays. “Let’s go, blondie, I’m making you chicken and waffles.”

“Your I.O.U. is now officially voided.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Ten minutes later, Stephanie is scarfing down a plate of fresh waffles and gravy-smothered chicken with the familiar, predictable hunger of a teenage vigilante. Her ponytail has become a bun, her dress hanging in the upstairs closet and replaced with a pair of hot pink yoga pants and Jim’s old Superman T-shirt. She’s clearly exhausted, and her dark cheeks are pale under her makeup.

“Long night?”

Stephanie laughs. “Long week, long month, long year, long life,” she manages with her mouth full of food. She swallows and shakes her head. “Man, I’m burnt the fuck out, and I’m not even a legal adult yet.”

“Don’t say that, you’re gonna jinx yourself out,” Jim replies as he takes a sip of his Heineken. He rarely drinks these days, but it has been a long week, and he needs to unwind just as much as anyone does.

“Too late,” she says, scraping the last of her chicken up onto her fork.

“So, about your dad.”

She holds the palm of her hand over her mouth, facing towards him, and Jim waits until she’s done chewing. “Held my mom and Leslie for ransom again. Batgirl and Batgirl showed up again to save the day, but it’s starting to get fucking draining.”

Her eyes are far older than they should be. It’s like looking at Barbara after one of her bad days, only that’s how Stephanie always looks. It makes his shoulders tense sometimes, with how much it hurts.

These kids, God, these kids.

“Did you balls him?” Jim asks.

Stephanie scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Who the fuck do you think I am, an amateur? Of course I ballsed him.”

“Good.”

“It was hilarious, too. Did it right in front of the cops just before they booked him. The rookie looked like he was gonna bust a gut laughing.”

Jim watches her as she rises from her seat, places her dish in the sink, and washes it painstakingly. Her face brightens when she notices the plants on the windowsill.

“When did you get these?” She grazes the leaves of one with her fingertips.

“Few months ago. They help me remember to come home every now and then.”

She leans over the sink and squints at the popsicle sticks poking up through the soil. “Oh my God, did you name them?” Her voice is soft with something like amazement and adoration simultaneously, and when she turns to look at him her whole face is written over with surprising tenderness.

“Well, I didn’t name them, Cass did. I just put the sticks in the ground.”

Stephanie’s eyebrows upturn, and the tension in her shoulders vanishes. “Oh, my God,” she whispers. There’s the barest hint of a smile on her face.

Jim knows that tone far too well; he’s been the bearer of many a comment made about a one Dick Grayson in the exact same way. It’s no secret to him that Stephanie has a crush on Cass, partly because she admitted it to him one night when she came to his house from a party, drunk out of her mind and raving about her so-called “gay crisis.” They had never spoken about it since then, but he figures now is as good a time as ever.

“You think you’re gonna ask her out anytime soon?”

Stephanie laughs at that. It’s just once, but it’s shaped like a jackknife and cuts the air the same way. “Please. I’m a disaster. I have daddy issues up the wazoo and I can barely take care of my own emotions. I’m not exactly girlfriend material.”

“Maybe not,” Jim says over the rim of his bottle, “but let’s be realistic for a moment: is anyone really any kind of romantic material?”

Stephanie traces the spines of one of the plants—a fasciated haworthia—and shrugs. “I guess not.”

“I will say this, to your credit. Arthur Brown may be a complete and utter shitstain, but it’s a true feat of will that you resisted him. It’s easy to follow what we see our parents do. It’s hard as all hell to rebel, even if it’s the right thing.”

Stephanie doesn’t look up from the haworthia.

“From chaos comes chaos,” Jim continues, knowing full well that she’s still listening. “But rarely is it the same species.”

Stephanie snorts. “Who said that? Shakespeare? Wilde?”

“Nope,” Jim says, “just me.”

And Stephanie laughs a bit, and for a moment, Arthur Brown’s chaos is forgotten, traded out for that of his daughter.

Chapter Text

“What are you doing,” Jim says, staring with half-dead, half-blind eyes at the twenty-something year old vigilante hunched over his freezer drawer.

In the yellow light spewing from the open fridge door, Dick looks less like a young man and more like some ghoul that was summoned from the pits of Hell for the sole purpose of antagonizing Jim—and possibly the contents of the nooks and crannies of his kitchen. The expression on his face lends itself well to this comparison: dramatic and extravagant, as a demon should be (if anything Terry Pratchett has ever written has any say in it).

“I just came from a hoedown in the East End,” Dick whispers conspiratorially, the white lenses of his mask wide. “I swear, I’m here for a microwavable sandwich and I’m outie.”

Jim runs a hand over his face and flips the switch on with his other, then immediately regrets it as spots pop up in his line of sight. His eyes are definitely not what they used to be. “Kid, you’re marrying my daughter, you could at least be quieter when you’re sneaking in to steal my food.”

Dick makes a noise like an aborted protest, then changes gears: “I dunno what you’re talking about—”

“Anyone with eyes knows what I’m talking about.” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe, eyeing Dick with a mix of fondness and stoicity. “Come on, kid, when are you gonna do it, seriously—?”

“If you finish that question with I want grandkids, I will literally throw myself out that window.”

Jim’s face contorts in confusion. “What? No. Jesus Christ. I just need to know when to clear my schedule so I can mourn for her sake for a week.”

“Ha, ha.” Dick pulls a breakfast sandwich out of the freezer and kicks it shut as he rises to his feet. “You know, some people say that Babs has excellent taste.”

“I don’t doubt her taste. Sometimes I doubt her sanity, but I never doubt her taste.”

“Ouch.”

Jim sighs. “Kid, you’re evading the question.”

Dick tears the wrapping off the sandwich and swaps it out for a paper towel. “I don’t know when, exactly,” he says finally, not looking up into Jim’s eyes. “I just know it’ll be soon.”

“I’m assuming you have a ring?”

Dick gives him a look that screams, do you really think I’m that stupid?

“So, yes?”

“Duh.” He tucks the sandwich into the microwave and hits the buttons with his knuckles. “I haven’t told anyone else yet, so—”

“Do you honestly think Bruce doesn’t know?”

Dick shifts his weight from one foot to another, looking every bit like he did in his younger years oh so long ago—bashful and anxious and so, so eager to please. “Bruce knows.”

“Oh?”

“I’m proposing to her with his mother’s engagement ring.”

The air falls flat between them, and for whatever reason Jim’s lungs constrict at the thought of Bruce handing his eldest the ring of a woman long dead and telling him to use it as a proposal. It’s definitely not out of character, all things considered, and it’s really a show of trust more than anything, but Jim remembers how Martha Wayne’s face looked the night she was shot down in that alley, remembers the face of her son as Jim used his knobby teenage limbs to lift him out of the puddle of blood on the blacktop—

The microwave beeps, and they both jump.

“Jesus,” Jim hisses as Dick fumbles his sandwich out of the microwave and onto a paper plate.

“My thoughts exactly,” Dick replies. “Look, I wasn’t expecting it, either, but he says if she says yes, he would be okay with us using his parents’ wedding rings. If Babs agrees, that is.”

“Are you doing this to placate him, or—?”

“No.” Dick looks up, and his eyes are hard with determination. “This isn’t about Bruce. This is about Barbara and I. He might have made the suggestion, but it’s up to Babs and I. Not him. And he knows it.”

Jim hums and nods slowly as Dick digs in. They don’t speak for a long time, and the silence isn’t exactly comfortable.

“So,” Dick says finally, “when are you gonna strike up the guts to ask out that scientist you like?”

Jim rolls his eyes. “Who told you about Anna?”

“Bruce.”

“Of course he did.”

“Listen, if you ask me, you should go for it.” Dick catches a piece of wayward croissant and pops it back into his mouth. “The world could end tomorrow, man. You never know.”

“I hope you’re listening to yourself right now.”

Dick gives him a glare that lacks heat and shoves the rest of his sandwich in his mouth.

“The world could end tomorrow,” Jim parrots, trying not to grin. “You never know.”

Dick swallows his mouthful and gives him a cheeky smirk. “Go trim your mustache, man. And my point still stands.”

“Sure it does.”

Dick slips past him as easily as a dancer and darts toward the back door. “I’ll have her home by eight, sir—”

“Richard.”

Dick stops mid-pace, but doesn’t turn to meet Jim’s gaze. That’s okay, really; it might be easier to say it to his back.

“I know you don’t need my blessing, because it’s 2019 and Barbara is her own person and can make her own choices, but you have it anyway.”

Dick looks over his shoulder at him. His eyes are still hidden by his domino.

“And I know I don’t have to say it, but take good care of her.”

Dick smiles. “That’s the number one goal, sir.”

“Good. Now get on home. It’s late and I’m sure she misses you.” He heads toward the stairs.

“Jim.”

He stops and looks over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Jim blinks, and he’s gone, his diamond-white smile still Cheshire-Catting in the darkness. Jim chuckles, then turns back to the kitchen to turn out the lights.

Before he does, he leaves a sticky note on the fridge for himself in the morning: Call Anna for coffee?

Because as young as he is, Dick is right: the world could end tomorrow.

Chapter Text

A cold steak to a black eye: the most reliable method of comfort that Jim knows. The only thing is that he has no damn idea how it got there.

“You can thank me for wrapping it in plastic later.”

Ah.

“Why wait?”

Tim is sitting on the chest at the foot of his bed, hunched over what looks like a tablet of some kind. He’s not in his uniform—he’s in his Slytherin sweats—but he is fiddling with what looks like a batarang. He’s also chewing on the end of a pen.

“Thank you for wrapping the steak. Now take that pen out of your mouth, it’s disgusting.”

Tim sniffs and scratches the side of his nose. “I’ll stop chewing my pens when you stop listening to musicals unironically.”

“So never?”

“Yep.”

“Fair enough.” Jim slumps back against his lumpy mattress and pulls a pillow over his face. “Refresh my memory, what exactly happened after Jonathan shot through the crystal chandelier? It’s all a haze after that.”

“Well, you pulled some woman out of the way first.”

“Anna.”

“Yeah, and then like twenty minutes later you booked her?”

“Timeline, Tim.”

“Right. Well, you pulled Anna out of the way and knocked out a few of Crane’s goons, then Crane cornered Bruce, then Dick showed up as Nightwing with Steph and Damian and took care of the rest of the henchies while Bruce smooth-talked Crane. Then you came up behind Crane and did this whole inverted takedown thing, which was really fucking cool by the way, and you were about to book him before Anna maced you and punched you in the face. Twice.”

Jim sighs. “Where did Crane go?”

“Not far. Steph got him halfway down Sycamore.”

“And then I booked Anna?”

“And then you booked Anna. I thought you were going out with her.”

“I took her out to coffee once.”

“And dinner.”

Jim pulls the pillow back. “Where the hell did you hear that?”

“Montoya. She told me you liked her a lot.”

Jim feels an odd yet familiar heaviness in his chest. “I did like her. A lot.”

“Enough to consider a third date?”

“This is getting way too personal.”

Tim looks up from his tablet, one eyebrow raised in an expression of simultaneous exhaustion and incredulity. “Okay, so I can’t ask you if you wanted to take a Scarecrow henchwoman out on a third date, but you can ask me if I’m using protection?”

“Those are nowhere near the same thing. And you actually need protection, you dumbfuck, if you’re fucking Superboy—”

“Aaaaaaaand we’re changing the subject!” Tim imitates the bell on a game show that Jim can never remember the name of. “Next up, did Jim like the henchwoman enough for a third date!”

“Yes,” Jim says resignedly, because there’s no getting around this line of questioning, so he might as well face it head-on. “I liked her enough to want to take her out on several more dates. Happy now?”

Tim doesn’t look very happy. “Not really.”

Jim’s throat feels tight, and he swallows around the growing lump buried there. “Was Bruce okay?”

“Yeah. He was just a bit shook up. For the cameras, at least.”

Jim inhales slowly, trying not to let Tim hear the tremble in his breath. He shouldn’t be this upset over a woman, least of all a woman who clearly had it out for him since the start, but for whatever reason he still finds himself gulping air around the shape of a sob in his chest.

“You okay?” Tim asks.

“Yeah,” Jim replies, swallowing the break in his voice. “You?”

“Dude, I’m fine. You’re the one who got maced by a potential girlfriend.”

“Can we drop the subject, please?”

Tim sticks his tongue between his teeth and puffs out his cheeks, releasing a rather unflattering noise as he exhales.

“Thank you for your contribution,” Jim deadpans.

Tim cackles at that, and Jim cracks a smile.

“Dude, wait, did I tell you what I found in the basement of Drake Manor?” Tim manages when he comes down from his laughing fit.

“Nope. When were you there?”

“Jason and I went over last weekend to do some renovations. The WiFi signal was all wonky and the A/C kept breaking. Which isn’t exactly ideal for a halfway house full of vets.”

“Obviously not.”

“So we were in the basement, just minding our business as we rewired the router, and you know what we found?”

“A dead body?”

“Yes.”

Jim sits bolt upright, the words no shit forming on his tongue, only to be greeted with Tim’s shit-eating grin.

“You little bitch,” Jim whispers, and Tim cackles again.

“Did you actually find anything, or is this just an elaborate story to get me pissed off for no reason?”

“We did, I swear.”

“Are you gonna leave me hanging, or—?”

“I’m pretty sure Jack and Janet killed a woman named Tabitha and stole her identity.”

Jim blinks twice, opens his mouth, starts to speak, stops, looks around, and tries again. “Exsqueeze me?”

“I’m serious. We found this huge like, locked chest thing padlocked shut. It was full of all these legal papers and shit for a woman named Tabitha Jane Michaels. She looked exactly like Janet. It was fucking weird.”

“Maybe Janet is Tabitha. Tabitha faked her death and recreated her identity to marry a rich billionaire. Then they named their child after Janet’s dead persona so she wouldn’t forget her roots or some shit.”

Tim removes the pen from between his lips and waves it over his head. “So we discover that another part of my history is a lie, along with any reliable claims that Jack and Janet were abusive and neglectful! More news at eight!”

Jim sighs heavily and wipes a hand over his face.

“You might wanna stop doing that, you’re gonna rub your face raw someday.”

“If I had the time, patience, and ability to fight every single abusive parent that you kids have collectively faced off with, I’d do it in a fucking heartbeat.”

“Implying that Bruce wouldn’t.”

“We both would. Fucking Avengers: Endgame that shit.”

“Oh my God.”

“Seriously. Bruce and I split the timeline in two with the infinity stones and use the dark timeline to go completely off the fucking shits.”

“That is my favorite thing you’ve ever said. Which one of you fights yourself a la Steve Rogers?”

“We both do at the same time, but we swap out halfway through and kick each other’s asses.”

“Who uses Willis Todd as target practice?”

“Yes.”

Tim snorts a laugh. “This is awful.”

“Bruce and I are terrible people. I thought you knew this.”

“I know Bruce is terrible. He ate my Cinnabun. I’m not so sure about you, though. You give me free food and punch transphobes in full public view.”

“Bruce does that, too.”

“Bruce also ate my Cinnabun.”

“You’re really hung up on that, huh?”

“It was a deluxe size, Jim. I was saving it as a reward.”

Jim bites his lower lip and shakes his head, shoulders shaking with laughter. “If I buy you another Cinnabun, will that placate your feud with your father?”

Tim purses his lips and hums thoughtfully. “I’ll consider it.”

“In the meantime, what do you want for dinner?”

“Can we get Korean?”

“Sure. You wanna make the call or should I?”

Tim whips out his phone and starts to type in the number for the local Korean barbeque. “I got it. You made the call last time.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Anxiety can kiss my ass.” He holds the receiver up to his ear, and as soon as his call connects, he greets the speaker in Korean before rattling off their usual order.

And as Jim studies his face, young and tired and impossibly worldly, Jim reminds himself to schedule a meeting with Jack Drake at the county jail—there are some feuds that can never be put to rest, not really, and the one he has with the Drakes is one of them.

Chapter Text

Babs licks her thumb and touches it to one of her thighs. “Zing,” she says softly, a grin stretching her face.

“This is cheating,” Jim declares, staring banally at his hand. “You definitely fixed these beforehand.”

Babs sends him a wink. “What you don’t know won’t kill you.” She deals him a new hand all the same. “How’s the whole thing with Crane going? Is Anna talking?”

Jim grunts. “No.”

“Bitch,” Babs says out loud.

“Not to be that guy, but she kind of is.”

“Hey, if a woman punched me in the face twice and maced me, I’d call her a bitch, too.” She lays out a few of her cards and eyes her father over her glasses. “Calling it.”

“Fuck,” Jim bites out, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. Babs laughs at his conflicted expression, which just makes him laugh, too.

“Why do I always play this with you?” Jim grouses as he folds his hand. “You always beat me.”

“I don’t know much, but I do know how to kick your ass at every card game in existence.”

Jim leans back in his chair and throws his head back to stare up at the ceiling. “I wonder if there’s some kind of Kryptonian card game or something. Do you think the League plays it when meetings get slow?”

“You should ask Clark the next time he’s in town.”

“I think I will.”

Babs flicks something at his face, and he looks at her with the utmost betrayal. “Rude.”

“I’m trying to get your attention.”

“Well, you have it through sheer force of rage and willpower.”

“Excellent. What I’m trying to get at is if you’re okay.”

Jim raises an eyebrow. “Okay, hold on, you’re not supposed to ask me questions like that. I’m your dad, it’s my job to make sure that you’re okay, not the other way around.”

“You’re evading.” Babs’ green eyes flash with something halfway between amusement and concern. “Dad. Seriously.”

Jim offers her what he hopes is a sincere, soft smile. “I’m fine, sweetheart. You don’t need to worry.”

“I know I don’t need to. Doesn’t mean I don’t.”

“I know, I know. Also, what exactly did you just throw at my face?”

“An old eraser cap.”

Jim spots a neon green rubber point on the carpet. “Nice aim.”

“Learned from the best.” She backs herself out from the table and guides her wheelchair toward the kitchen. “Hey, you wanna watch a movie? I still haven’t seen Inception.”

“I’ll watch whatever you want as long as it’s not The Hangover.”

Babs makes a noise that sounds like a retch, and Jim laughs so hard he wheezes.

The landline rings.

“Ooooooooh shit,” Babs crows, peeking in through the doorway.

“How much you wanna bet it’s the mayor?”

“Four hundred dollars and my wheelchair.”

“You’re on, Sparky.” Jim lifts the receiver. “Gordon.”

“Jimmy?”

Jim feels some small part of him turn to ice. “Roger, hey,” he says, struggling to keep the surprise out of his voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Babs’ expression harden. “Hey, long time, man. How are you?”

Jim’s brother has never been the kind of guy to beat around the bush. “I’m fine. Look, I’m sorry to call you so late, but it’s important.”

“I would think so—”

“Jim, it’s about Dad.”

Jim inhales slowly through his nose, his body suddenly as tightly coiled as a spring. “What happened? The old fucker finally kick the bucket?”

Roger’s answer sounds injured. “Yes.”

Jim feels something well up inside him at that, but he’s not quite sure what it is. Victory? Anguish? Laughter? Sobs?

“Oh,” he says quietly. “How?”

“They think it was a heart attack. I dunno. Some intern walked into his office and found him keeled over at his desk. It’s a huge deal here. The press is losing their minds and the city’s trying to launch an investigation—”

“What are you asking me to do, Roger.”

Roger goes quiet for a moment, clearly put off by the rumble of his younger brother’s voice.

“I think you spend too much time around a certain flying rodent,” he says finally, and Jim resists the urge to slam the receiver down and pull the plug out of the wall. He knows Babs sees the sudden, vehement clench of his jaw and the white-knuckled grip he has on the phone, so he works to keep his anger in check.

“Roger.”

“Mom wants you to come out for the funeral.”

Jim laughs then. It’s a long, loud, humorless laugh, and it makes the air taste like some noxious emotion that Jim doesn’t want to put a name to.

“Are you fucking serious,” he spits, and he hopes that Roger is wincing at the acid in his voice, mourning be damned. “Do you really just expect me to drop all my responsibilities as the literal head of police in a city of over six million people to spend a weekend in a city that hates me, honoring a man who never bothered to show me an ounce of respect or compassion? Is that what you’re asking me to do?”

Roger makes an indignant noise. “If it was Batman—”

“That’s not a convincing argument, firstly. Secondly, don’t compare Batman to him. Don’t even fucking try it. Or father hasn’t got shit on Batman.”

“Jim, it’s the least you could do—”

“I disagree.”

Roger growls in frustration. “Then at least give it some thought?”

“We’ll see. Goodnight and good riddance.”

Before Roger can reply, Jim hangs up, whereupon he spends a good few minutes staring at the phone like he wants to set it on fire.

“Well, that was pleasant,” Babs says finally, and Jim lets out a huge breath he’s pretty sure has been trapped in his lungs since the day he left his home in Chicago for West Point at the age of eighteen.

“What just happened?”

Jim clears his throat. “It’s about my dad.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

Babs taps her manicured nails against the armrest of her wheelchair. “Not to sound too morbid or blasphemous, but is this the part where we break out the champagne and start playing Queen’s Greatest Hits album at full volume?”

“No. Yes. Maybe. I—” Jim cuts himself off and tries to get a handle on himself. “I don’t know, Babs. I really don’t.”

Babs’ whole body softens in a way that reminds Jim of himself a little too much. “Dad?”

A sob suddenly slaps Jim in the face with the relative force of a punch from Bane—what the fuck, why is he crying? “Fuck,” he gasps, and he tries to reign it in, because there’s no way he’s letting his daughter see him cry at a time like this. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I don’t know why this is happening but I’m fine, I swear I’m fine—”

“You’re obviously not.” Babs looks so open, so gentle, and her eyes speak of wisdom beyond her young life. “Dad, it’s okay to not be okay.”

Jim sinks against the wall and puts his head between his knees. A whole slew of emotions are at war inside him, but panic is taking the lead, and he has no idea why. He should be celebrating, not sitting in his hallway trying not to explode from pressure he didn’t even know he still had locked up inside him.

A pair of arms wrap around him.

“It’s okay,” Babs soothes, and Jim tries to lessen the force of his heaving cries against her. This role reversal is so wrong, and it just makes him cry harder.

He’s so confused.

“It’s okay.”

It’s not, not really, but it will be eventually.

“It’s okay.”

Chapter Text

When Jim gets home from his trip to Chicago, Bruce is in his front hallway.

He’s sitting in a backwards chair from Jim’s kitchen table, dressed in his usual all-black, a toothpick between his teeth. He also has a five-o’clock shadow and a new scar on his left temple, and Jim can see the usual bulging of bandages underneath the sleeves of his turtleneck.

“Hello.”

Jim shuts the door. “Hey.”

“Barbara called me and told me what happened.”

“Yeah?” Jim doesn’t have the energy to take his shit upstairs and unpack it all—hey, look at that, the metaphor works for both his suitcase and his emotional state of being. A twofer! He drops his luggage with a heavy groan and sinks down to sit against the front door. He feels far older than he is.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“I doubt you would be, if you knew what kind of man he was.”

Bruce’s stone-still face does that thing where something changes, you just can’t figure out what. It’s another mystery about Bruce that Jim’s been trying to solve for decades. Weird, how you can call someone your best friend and still feel like you’re talking to a stranger sometimes.

“And what kind of man was he?”

“A fucking terrible one. Beat his kids, cheated on his wife, probably accepted bribes to move up the chain of command in the DA’s office. Didn’t deserve a heart attack, that’s for damn fucking sure. Deserved something worse.”

The statement surprises both of them, Jim perhaps more so. He’s always known these things about his father; it’s something else to actually let them breathe and move in midair for other ears to catch them.

“I’m… sorry to hear that,” Bruce says in the way that means I don’t really know how to answer that without sounding either insensitive or like an asshole.

“Don’t be. He’s dead. There’s nothing he can do to me now.”

They sit in silence for a long time.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bruce asks.

Jim definitely doesn’t want to talk about it, but he surely needs to. But his conscience makes him feel guilty for wanting to dump his pathetic emotional bullshit on Bruce, who already has far too much to deal with on his own time. Asking Bruce to carry more for his sake feels wrong and weak.

“No.”

“You suck at lying.”

“Only to you.”

“That’s true.”

Jim sighs. “You’ve got enough shit, man. I don’t want to give you any more.”

“Two backs lighten the load.”

“That’s only if it’s a mutual lightening.”

Bruce gives one of his scowls-that’s-not-quite-a-scowl. “That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair. If it was you’d still have your parents and the world would be warless and prosperous and I wouldn’t have to worry about a dead man shooting another hole into my daughter. But life’s not fair, so here we are. You with your fucking crusade and me with all these fucking issues.”

Something in that statement is a scream begging Jim’s heart to let the dams fall. He valiantly fights against the urge.

Bruce’s face remains unchanged. His toothpick moves slowly up and down in perfect timing and succession. It’s like a metronome, and it’s just as mesmerizing to watch.

For whatever reason, that thought makes him laugh. It’s wild and untethered, like something is coming loose in his head, his chest, his something, because there must be something deeply wrong for him to be laughing at a fucking toothpick, of all things.

Bruce watches as his laughter climbs, crescendos, then falls and shatters on the carpeted hardwood floor of his home and lapses into sobs that make his whole being ache. Bruce is by his side in an instant, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, pulling Jim into his side and letting him cry into the soft-scratchy fabric of his turtleneck.

“I don’t even know why I’m so fucking upset,” Jim wheezes, ignoring the sharp dig of his glasses into the bridge of his nose. “I hated him. I still hate him. All he ever did was hurt me. I-it doesn’t ma-ake any sense.”

Bruce lets him rant and rave along this vein for what feels like hours. When the breakdown is over, he aches with the half-dead, half-alive feeling of a good cry, and Bruce doesn’t make any motion to push or pull away. Bruce is good like that. Bruce is good in a lot of ways.

“Better?” Bruce asks.

“Marginally.”

Bruce pulls him in even closer, if that’s possible. “Have you eaten?”

Jim tries to remember if he has, and he shakes his head in a solid no.

“I swear to God,” Bruce mutters. “My kids talk about how all you do is feed them and the second they’re not here to remind you to eat—”

“In my defense, Chicago food is fucking disgusting.”

“That’s not a defense, that’s an excuse.”

Jim looks up at Bruce, eyebrows drawn together in a pointed glare. “Hey, bat-brain, I will bet the rest of this year’s salary that you haven’t eaten, either, so don’t go lecturing me about keeping myself alive.”

He’s expecting, maybe even wanting an argument, but Bruce’s face turns into a soft shape of fondness instead. It’s overwhelming and intoxicating and it’s like a plastic-wrapped steak on a black eye after getting your heart broken for the third time in as many months, it’s like home and belonging.

He finds himself dangerously close to mirroring Bruce’s not-quite smile. “Stop being good at not making me angry.”

“No part of that sentence makes any sense.” Bruce braces his back against the door and uses the leverage to shove himself to his feet. Jim winces as he hears his joints groan and creak under the strain. “Let’s go, get up. You’re helping me help you make dinner.”

“Oh, no, absolutely not,” Jim replies, taking Bruce’s offered hand and letting him pull him to his feet. “I’ve been explicitly told not to let you near my kitchen alone.”

“Well, I’m not exactly alone, am I?”

“Only by proxy.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how that works.”

Jim slips ahead of Bruce’s larger figure and into the kitchen. “Listen, your role is limited. I’m the head honcho for once. No stealing evidence vials while we’re still at the scene.”

“That was one time.”

Jim raises his eyebrows at him.

“Okay, maybe seven.”

“Holy shit,” Jim whispers incredulously. He shakes his head, face stretched into a smile, as he pulls some pork chops that are still waiting to meet their end date out of the cold cuts drawer. “Do you eat pork?”

“I’ll eat whatever you feel inclined to make.”

“Then I guess you’re having pork chops tonight. Get out the bread crumbs, will you? Top shelf over the stove.”

Twenty minutes later, the pork chops are breaded and baking in the oven, a pot of rice simmering, a frying pan of broccoli lying in rest after a thorough flaying, and Jim is leaning into Bruce’s chest in something that’s halfway between a hug and a slow-dance. There’s music playing from the little speaker on the windowsill, which Jim bought more for the plants than himself if he’s being honest, and Bruce has his steel-cord arms wrapped around him and is singing softly in his ear.

If anyone ever asked, Jim would never admit it, but Bruce has a lovely voice for singing.

“So goodbye yellow brick road
Where the dogs of society howl
You can’t plant me in your penthouse
I’m goin’ back to my plough
Back to the howlin’ old owl in the woods
Huntin’ the horny back toad
Oh, I’ve finally decided my future lies
Beyond the yellow brick road…”

Jim presses his cheek a bit harder against Bruce’s shoulder and just lets everything else fall away. There’s no grief, not darkness, no Gotham, no Batman. Just Jim, and Bruce, and the music, and the rolling comfort of holding his best friend close.

“Thanks for dealing with me,” he says quietly. “I know I’ve been a damn disaster lately. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to say thank you, you know that.”

“I’m saying it anyway. Someone has to.”

Jim feels Bruce’s smile pressed into his hair. “It’s not dealing with you if you’re my best friend.”

The last bit of tension falls free from Jim’s spine and scuttles away. Jim imagines a crab doing a sideways dash across his kitchen floor, waving its clawled arms indignantly in the realization that the pinch can’t be felt anymore. He huffs a short laugh and pulls Bruce just a little bit closer, his hands settling over war-roughened shoulder blades.

“Glad to hear it.”

“As you should be.”

And despite it all, Jim laughs out loud, and Bruce follows soon after.

Chapter Text

“Is all this really necessary?”

Bruce swings an arm over his shoulder as they walk toward the theater, steps in perfect tandem as always. “I promise, you’re gonna love them.”

“I’m only here because you insisted that I come.”

“Exactly.”

It’s been three months since Peter Gordon’s death, and Jim’s been getting better day by day. It’s not a linear process, obviously, but he’s getting there, and it’s been long enough without an actual crime spree that the family decides to take a night off.

“Sleeping At Last,” Jim reads off the program handed to him at the door by a reasonably excited usher.

“They’re 100% your speed,” Bruce says, guiding him by the elbow. “It’s all orchestra stuff. You’re gonna love it.”

“And you got box seats, didn’t you?”

“Obviously.”

Jim smiles affectionately at his best friend. “I really hope you’re right about this being good. I took a night off for this.”

Bruce laughs. It’s his loud, public socialite laugh, but there’s an undercurrent of truth that’s visible just so, the same way dust motes can be seen when they float in a shaft of sunlight.

The box seat is huge, and it’s not hard to see why.

The kids all flash huge smiles at him as he climbs down the stairs to the front row, right beside Barbara, who leans over to press a kiss to his cheek. Bruce slides into the seat on his other side and slips his hand into Selina’s, and Jim can’t help a grin at the matching golden rings on their fingers.

Jason claps his shoulder and leans over the seat. “You ever listen to these guys before?”

Jim shakes his head. “I’m waiting to be surprised.”

“Oooohoohoohooooo,” Stephanie sings, almost laughing. “You’re in for a treat, my dude.”

Jims casts his smile towards her—and to Cass, who’s leaning her head against Stephanie’s shoulder in a way that’s a few layers deeper than she had before. “I sure hope so. It’s the only reason I’m here.”

“You suck at lying,” Dick snarks.

“You’re obviously here for us,” Damian contributes.

“Shhhhhh, it’s starting,” Tim whispers, just as the lights begin to dim.

On stage, a spotlight comes up on a man at a huge grand piano, playing delicate notes with deft fingers. Somewhere in the darkness, there’s a teasing tone of violins, just barely there under the wind-chime notes and the hesitant, lovely voice.

Jim squeezes Barbara’s hand in his and feels a thrill when his fingers catch on the platinum band on her ring finger.

Things are looking up.

“I set out to rule the world
With only a paper shield and a wooden sword…”