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Jason Peter recently re-minted Wayne takes another long look at his adoptive father and bursts in loud, big peals of wild laughter.
They erupt from deep within his stomach, travel all the way up to his throat and pour out in an uncontrollable flow. He tries to calm himself – having a giggly fit in a random safe-house in the middle of the night is not helpful when it comes to being a feared crime-lord, if your name isn’t Joker at least – but every time he gets even remotely close, he finds himself looking back up at Batman and being set off again.
“At least one of us is enjoying this, I suppose.” Bruce says, dryly. His voice is warm, though, which almost never happens when he has the cowl on, so Jason knows he isn’t really offended.
“Sorry.” He snorts through, not sorry in the slightest. Takes a deep, calming breath. Gets himself back under control. Nearly. It’s the thought that counts. “But this is like your worst nightmare, in the best possible way.”
He makes the mistake of looking at Bruce.
“It’s far from my worst nightmare, Hood. It’s merely-” Bruce pauses, visibly looking for the right word. “-Inconvenient.”
It gets so much worse when he’s speaking.
So much yellow.
“If you’re quite finished?”
“Never.” Jason swears, not as solemnly as he could have, and snaps a picture.
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He’d been having a quiet night in; slurping Chinese take-out over a few case-files. Shifting through papers, jotting down notes, analyzing evidence. Then, his comm had crackled with a short: “Hood. I need evac. Bring a change of clothes. Civilian. Disguise.” and he’d been running. Rushing. He’d rushed through gathering the supplies, rushed through adding an emergency first-aid kit, rushed to his bike, rushed through the streets, rushed through casing the address he’d been given.
With not enough information - not enough vantage points, no idea what had gone wrong, or what was happening in the apartment Batman had holed into, no idea what those sickly red and green beam of lights were or where they were coming from - he had strolled casually through the door, looking for all the world like he’d taken his sweet time getting here, not giving a single hoot.
Bruce wouldn’t be fooled. Still, Jason had a reputation to maintain. He’d steeled himself, prepared himself mentally for whatever he would find that would have forced Bruce, Bruce, to call him for help.
And he’d stopped dead at the sight. No enemy, no grievous injury or pool of cloying blood. No corpse, or mind-altering substance awaited him.
Just Bruce, clad in the Batsuit, arms crossed, beaming.
Quite literally.
Every square inch of Batman’s exposed skin – all one and a half of them - was emitting light.
To say that Jason hadn’t been prepared for that was an understatement.
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Driving back to the Cave is complicated by two things: Jason’s occasional snickers, and the bright yellow and green lights Bruce seems to be constantly emitting.
They manage.
It’s not until they’re skidding to a stop, having sped all the way back, far too fast to be reasonable, but just fast enough to leave him giddy, that the pun comes to him. It’s late enough that all of the others are already back, and he just knows that he won’t ever be presented with such an occasion again.
The Red Hood, dismounts his bike, takes his helmet off.
“Ladies and Nuisances of the Cave, may I present to you tonight: The Knight Light.”
“Hood.” Batman sighs, long-suffering, taking off his own helmet.
Bruce can sigh all he wants, the other’s reaction makes it entirely worth it.
Plus, it was a good pun, if Jason dares to say so himself.
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They have a meeting about it.
Because of course they do. They brainstorm. Batman explains in curt, clipped words his altercation with a magic user with a grudge, then they get to research.
They’re all sipping decaf, slumped on the table in various state of awareness, and Bruce’s already done every test, every experiment, he can come up with by the time Damian raises a valid concern.
“Father. You can not be seen that way.”
“I am aware of that, Damian, thank you.” Bruce replies, not unkindly.
“I’d say the problem is precisely that he can be seen a little too much like that.” Jason interjects. Helpfully.
He’s silenced by twin, vicious, glares.
“You misunderstand.” Bruce makes a small ‘keep going, then’ gesture. Damian nods his thanks, diverting his -murdery glare- focus from Jason and his commentary. “Killer Moth is unaccounted for. He could represent a hazard for your health. One we mustn’t overlook.”
Tim, who had been doing so well in being supportive right up until then, snorts out a laugh.
“Sorry- I’ll just- yeah.” He excuses himself from the Cave, clasping a hand on his face and waving the other vaguely towards the stairs.
Bruce watches him go with something like consternation on his face. The lights he’s emitting turns green again, speckled with small flecks of blue.
Jason’s hit with an idea. A theory. One that’s a bit crazy, but hey– He’s the Red Hood.
“Hey, B.” He says. Bruce turns to look at him and the lightshow changes completely. Deep blues and yellows, fighting for dominance with strikes of strong pink. “Lazarus pit.” He says.
It changes again. Greens, blues, reds, pitch-black.
Jason speaks again. “Crime Alley. Ethiopia.”
Blue so deep it could be black.
“Is there a point to this, Hood.” Bruce asks through gritted teeth. Jason waves a hand and says-
“Robin.”
Garish pinks and yellows. Damian blushes. Dick seems to catch on in the very same breath, eyes lighting up. Bruce’s a bit slower, but they’re back to green, fear – or embarrassment if Jason’s reading this correctly.
“Welp, there you have it B. You pissed a magician off enough to get turned into the human equivalent of a teenager’s mood ring. That’s a new one, I guess.”
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Comes morning, having slept on it, Dick is certain that he can’t let this opportunity pass.
“Oh, Brucie-” He simpers in the same voice many of Bruce’s fake dates use to try to seduce him. Brings a hand to his cheek and swoons. He leans dramatically to the side until he nearly overbalances and Bruce is forced to catch him in his arms. “Fatherhood has been so good to you. You’re practically glowing.”
Bruce sends him a thoroughly unimpressed look. A little like he’s considering dropping him. Dick knows he won’t, though.
“You were a bright child, Dick. I know you can do better than that.”
A large grin starts taking over his face, without any input on his part whatsoever. He tries to squash it down. Fails.
Dick’s missed this.
Bruce shines a little yellower.
“Is that an amused gleam I spy in your eyes?” Dick asks gleefully.
“A flicker of doubt, I’m sure.” Comes the dry answer.
“Oh, one thing’s for sure. Your glare is so much more effective now than it ever was.”
“It may dawn on you that me dropping you is still an option.”
Not for long, it isn’t. Dick circles his arms around Bruce’s neck and uses his new hold to swing himself the other’s back, piggy-back ride style. It’s not the same as when he was still a kid, but it’s close enough, and again, he’s missed this.
It’s not every day death grants your family a second chance.
He juts his chin until it’s resting on the top of Bruce’s head.
“Weak, Brucester, weak. Dim-witted. Lackluster. Pale. I could do better than that when I was ten. You could do better than that when I was ten.”
“Sure, chum. The rest of us don’t hold a candle to your brilliance.”
“Don’t go throwing shade at the others, now. Jay’s not half-bad at this.” A few years ago, that name would have signaled the end of the light-hearted moment, so it’s pure reflex when Dick creates a distraction. He kicks lightly at his sides, mindful of the no-doubt endless amount of bruises resting there. “Onwards. To the kitchen.”
“You are twenty-eight, you realize?” Bruce deadpans. But starts walking.
“What of it?”
Silence is the only answer he gets. He can’t help but think he’s made a mistake, a misstep somewhere in their dance, though he can’t quite see where.
“Nothing.” Bruce murmurs after a while.
“B?” Dick cranes his neck until he can see his expression better. “You okay?”
“I’m glad you’re home.” It should be a non-sequitur. He can’t quite bring himself to believe it is.
Not with the subtle tension that appears in Bruce’s shoulders.
Dick should argue. He was kicked out, once. Home is Blüdhaven. It’s Titan Tower, or the penthouse. Haly’s, or Mount Justice.
“I couldn’t miss you being a veritable beacon of wisdom for once, now, could I?”
Bruce’s face doesn’t change in the slightest. But the tension in his shoulders disappears. Dick almost wishes he had his sunglasses on him, the yellow light that fills the corridor is that blinding.
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Of course, when presented with such an opportunity, his children can’t let it rest. Bruce’s not that lucky.
His poker face is as impeccable as it always is, but the spell betrays him. He’s glowing bright red. Crimson, really. It exposes him, and being unable to put up his usual walls feeds his irritation.
“Which one of you,” Bruce asks, teeth gritted under the effort of staying calm. “-thought it clever to e-mail Jordan a copy of my curriculum vitae?”
“Oh, chill out, B. It’s not like whoever did it chose to send it to the actual Lantern Corps. It’s just Hal.”
Cassandra gets up. Bruce’s been betrayed. The red colors deepen.
“Am sorry.” She says, kissing his cheek. She’s sincere, and just like that Bruce can feel all of his anger disappearing. The red bleeds out of the room, lightening, changing until all that’s left is a deep, almost violet, pink. “Did not mean pain. Just fun.”
He squeezes her hand. It’s all she needs, as she shoots him a small smile. Communication between the two of them is, and has always been, easy.
“Harm.”
“Harm.” She repeats. “Did not mean harm.”
“And he still expects us to believe that he doesn’t have favorites.”
“You’re just mad it isn’t you.”
“Damn right I am.”
Faster than any of them can react, Cassandra’s arm shoots out and pulls Jason against Bruce.
“Wrong.” She says.
“What?”
“Wrong. No favorites.”
“No favorite. Love.” She adds, firmly. “Complicated.”
Jason’s blushing now, almost as pink as the room still is, and Bruce hugs him tighter. His other children slowly trickle out of the room, giving them a little bit of space. Possibly to try to escape what had been shaping up to be quite the lecture, too.
It’s only when they’re alone that Jason speaks again.
“You know she was covering for Tim, right?”
“I know.”
“Oh, good.”
“Bruce?” He asks, after a long moment of silence.
“Yes, Jason?”
“I still can’t take glowing-you seriously.”
“I know, Jason.”
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(“Jay,” Dick sighs. “Why do you think he called you?”
“Hey!”
“No. Think about it. Was the situation life threatening? Was he in immediate need of an extraction? Could he have gotten back to the Cave without any help?”
“Okay, fine. Why?”
“Because he knew you’d get a kick out of it.”)
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The truth is, Bruce’s real self has always been bad with words.
It hadn’t been such an issue with Dick who was as good with actions as Bruce himself. Or even with Jason, in the beginning. In his early– Robin days.
It had grown more complicated later on, when his son had needed to hear words Bruce hadn’t known how to say.
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Two weeks later, if a certain magician got a new job opportunity and a gigantic box of chocolates, well. That was no one’s business but his.