Chapter Text
The silence was overwhelming.
It wasn’t like the Batcave had ever been particularly loud. Bruce was quiet when he worked– the most common time for him to stop breathing was when he was sitting in front of the monitors down here– and Jason could remember spending entire evenings with no words exchanged at all, interrupted only by the occasional interloper. Alfred, coming down to check if he needed a late-night snack, or Dick tagging in for the night and chattering away in Jason’s ear while Bruce threw occasional, fond-eyed glances at their reflections in the monitors, happy to see his boys getting along.
His boys.
Bruce hadn’t been completely mute or anything. He talked plenty; correcting Jason’s form when they sparred, bouncing theories off of him, outlining plans. Jason had never been afraid to speak up, to break the silence, but that was the thing– with Bruce, the silence had always been a choice. Comfortable to settle into, like a pair of old worn-out pajamas. Some of Jason’s best memories, the memories that hurt the most, were silent ones. The ones where Jason was curled up in a too-huge chair beside Bruce, listening to the soft clack-clack of the keyboard and nothing else.
This silence wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t comfortable. This silence was oppressive, heavy, hanging over him thick enough to choke.
Jason let out a breath, prompting Tim, seated opposite him in a delicate perch on the counter, to refocus his attention. He shouldn’t have let it wander in the first place. Jason was dangerous; if the birds were smart, they’d have already packaged him up and gift-wrapped him for Arkham by now. It was a thought that both terrified Jason and left him completely apathetic. He probably should be locked up, his head hadn’t been right since he’d been dragged out of his grave and his early retirement. He shouldn’t be in Arkham, he wasn’t that crazy. He might be that crazy. He’d probably try to kill the other inmates. Fuck it, he’d definitely try to kill the other inmates, it wouldn’t be safe for him or them. The thought of being helpless, weaponless, and probably drugged out of his mind sent a sick, shivery feeling sliding into his chest, and Jason had always been violent when he was scared.
Still. If Bats was anything but a hypocrite he’d be locked up by now.
(For some godforsaken reason, he still trusts you)
(Look where that fucking got him)
(Idiot)
Jason was covered in blood. That wasn’t unusual. Tim was glaring at him– also not unusual. One of his wrists was handcuffed to the arm of his chair, which would be insulting if everyone here didn’t know full well he could get out of it in less than thirty seconds. That was the point of the thing, a delaying tactic that would give the birds a chance to stop him from leaving.
As if Jason would even be here if he hadn’t shown up all on his own.
It was weird, being back in the cave. He’d been back before, more than once, and every time it was a fresh kind of hell. He should’ve just dumped Bruce at the entrance and left, ding-dong-ditched the manor and ignored the little voice in the back of his head that said that Alfred was going to have a fit about the blood on the stoop. He should’ve just left the fucking idiot where he landed, let him bleed out, die one of the worst deaths a vampire could or worse– attack the first person with a beating heart who came near. That would destroy him in a million different ways, Jason knew. Hell, he could’ve just grabbed the communicator out of Bruce’s kit and called in backup for him, let his boys clean up his mess. Never mind how much worse he’d have been when they finally got there. He was a vampire. He’d live.
(Jason would have lived, because nothing could kill him anymore, not really)
(He shouldn’t have done that)
“So,” Jason drawled when the silence got to be too much for him, “You get in trouble with the big man over sneaking out?”
Tim’s silence was answer enough. Jason nodded as if he’d gotten a verbal response.
“Ah. Still flightless, then.”
Tim gritted his teeth. His fangs looked a bit too big for his mouth, too much predator packed into his expression, and Jason wondered if it was anger that was doing it– and if so, who at? Jason? Himself?
“Is that why you did it?” Tim asked. “Because you knew he was alone?”
His voice dripped with venom. Jason was almost impressed. He leaned into it, leaned into the anger, and leaned forward in his chair. His friendly grin turned mean at the edges.
“Aw. Is that regret I hear, baby bird? You wishing you hadn’t spilled family secrets to the enemy?”
Tim’s hands tightened into fists– bare, Tim was out of uniform, he’d been dragged down here in his pajamas and only had time to throw on a belt– then relaxed again. Tightened, then relaxed. It’d been a while since Jason had wound him up like this; would he be more sensitive? Go off sooner? Or had Jason lost his touch as he’d gotten comfortable around the bats again?
“I don’t understand you,” Tim muttered. Jason spread his hands, splaying his bloodstained fingers and giving Tim a wide, easy smile.
“What’s to understand? I’m an evil monster. A real one, not like you and the rest of the brood. Maybe if you had some of that edge you wouldn’t trust as easy, Timmo.”
“I don’t–” Tim bit off his sentence, but Jason knew where he’d been going. I don’t trust you. It was satisfying to hear, the same way it was satisfying when Jason threw a punch too hard and split the skin on his knuckles. The same way it was satisfying to fight until he could barely stand, until all he could think about was the easy pain and none of the hard stuff. It was the bite of his nails digging into the palm of his hand.
“You don’t what?” he prompted. Tim’s lip twitched.
“I know what you’re doing,” he said quietly. Jason blew out a disappointed breath.
“Oh, and that means it ain’t gonna work? Worked on Bruce, didn’t it?”
“Shut up.”
“Pretend all you want, baby bird, you’re not cold. You’ve got feelings in there and we both know I just took soccer cleats to that heart of yours. Come on, you wanna take a swing at me? I won’t even tell Dick!”
Jason tilted his chin, first one way then the other, offering himself up as a target for the Robin’s fury. He didn’t think Tim would actually hit him but fuck would it be incredible if he did. Put that betrayal and pain into a good solid punch, one he wouldn’t have to hold back for knowing Jason would be fine. Jason was pretty sure a vampire could hit someone hard enough to snap their neck, but no vampire he’d ever known had been willing to try.
Tim looked away. His shaggy black hair fell in his eyes, obscuring them from Jason’s view. His hands kept up their rhythm for a moment longer– clench, unclench, clench, unclench– before he forcibly stilled them, pressing his palms to the side of his legs. He let out a shaky breath that Jason knew he didn’t need. He’d know he’d gotten Tim riled up good and proper if he stopped breathing through his nose; that would mean he was too pissed to handle the scent of human blood. And non-human blood. Jason really was covered in the stuff.
It just smelled like iron to him. Cloying. Overpowering.
He swallowed hard against the burn at the back of his throat.
“What a good little bird. Playing nice even when the warden isn’t around to enforce his rules.”
It came out less taunting this time. More bitter. He dropped his gaze, examining the blood caught under his nails, and ignored the prickling feeling of eyes on him. If Tim was back to scrutinizing him, he didn’t want to know.
“He said–” Tim’s voice broke off. There was a pause in which the only sound was Jason’s breathing, or– Jason supposed– his pulse, if you had ears to hear it. He couldn’t, but he could feel its uneven beat in his chest.
“Bruce doesn’t talk a lot about what you were like. But he told me about how you kept trying to go out and help him when you were recovering from a concussion. How you wouldn’t stay in no matter what he said.”
“Was this before or after I came back?” Jason asked offhandedly. As if it didn’t matter who Bruce had been talking about– the lost son, or the monster who returned with his face.
Either way, Tim didn’t answer.
“He’s not mad at me for sneaking out. But you know that.”
“Oh, do I?” He raised his eyes and, yep, Tim was staring at him again. He had that look on his face, the look he wore when he was unraveling a tricky bit of code or sizing up an opponent. Like he had Jason all figured out.
Jason hated it. He chafed under that look. Under the thought that anyone had access to his mind.
“Yes. You do. Because despite how you might act you know Bruce isn’t the person you pretend he is. That he doesn’t deserve to be–”
Tim snarled, the sound cutting through his words and only barely contained by those oversized teeth. He tried so hard to remain the calm and collected person he’d been before everything, before Jason came back and ruined him, but when Jason got his claws into him he was viciously expressive. It was wonderful.
(It was horrible)
(Jason ruined everything he touched)
“Why did you do it?” Tim asked again.
Jason shrugged his shoulders. He kept his expression blank.
“Saw a chance. Took it.”
“And then brought him back? ” Tim shook his head. “This clearly wasn’t about killing him. This was about twisting the knife. Is it because I felt safe enough to come to you for help? Are you so insecure that you can’t even handle a microscopic amount of trust?”
Yes, Jason thought.
I thought you didn’t trust me, he thought about saying.
I thought he was already dead when I hauled his ass back here.
I don’t need a reason to hurt you, replacement.
He didn’t say any of it. Not because he’d thought better of it– Jason hadn’t thought better of anything in years – but because he didn’t get the chance. Tim stiffened, sitting up slightly straighter, and that was all the warning Jason got before Nightwing swept around the corner.
He was in uniform, just like he’d been when Jason first arrived, but he’d taken off the domino. His gloves, too, were gone, and there was the same crescent of red caught under his nails as Jason. Unlike Jason, the rest of his hands were clean, which meant he’d washed up after tending to Bruce’s wounds.
Jason let a smirk affix itself to his expression as he gazed up into Nightwing’s face.
He looked tired.
“You look tired,” Jason said. “Long night?”
Dick didn’t answer, looking away from Jason and instead meeting Tim’s expectant gaze.
“He’s gonna be okay,” he said, voice soft. It was like someone had cut every one of Timmy’s strings– his whole body relaxed, and even his eyes lost some of the tension around the edges.
“Oh thank God,” he breathed.
“No,” Dick said quietly. “Thank Jason.”
His words hit like a gutpunch. Tim turned his once-again wide-eyed gaze on him and Jason’s whole body locked up, his smirk turning to a rictus. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Dick.
“I mean,” he said, shrugging his shoulders in a movement that felt jerkier and more robotic than it had earlier, “I didn’t think a thank you was in order for not separating the guy’s head from his shoulders, but I’ll take it. Can I bill you guys for the clip I emptied into his back, or. . ?”
To his horror, Dick actually pulled a key from his belt, coming over to unlock Jason’s cuffs. Tim’s sharp intake of breath was the salt, spice and insult to Jason’s wound.
“Oh,” he breathed, as if all the pieces were falling into place, then, “Oh. Oh, Jason–”
“Don’t,” Jason snapped, shaking his head. He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Dick or Tim. Don’t uncuff me. Don’t apologize.
It didn’t stop Dick. He straightened up, taking the cuffs with him, and Jason rubbed at his wrist out of habit rather than necessity. He hadn’t even been chained up long enough for it to hurt. It wasn’t fair.
“Jason,” Dick began, and Jason gritted his teeth.
“I said don’t.”
An hour ago, Jason had dragged the Batman’s unconscious, bleeding body back to the cave. He’d pinged Dick with a message from Batman’s own system and Dick, arriving only a few minutes later, had been horrified to find Bruce dumped unceremoniously into a cot in the med bay with Jason smoking a cigarette in the cot beside him. He’d been even more horrified when he’d realized a near-full clip of machine-gun fire had been poured into Bruce’s back. It was cowardly. It was underhanded. It was something that could only have happened if Bruce had been stupid enough to turn his back on someone he was starting to trust again.
It was something that had become very typical of Jason.
Jason didn’t argue when Dick’s nauseated what happened? had turned into a sharp, accusatory what happened. He encouraged it, even. Played along. Because if the birds wanted to think Jason had done this, he’d let them. It would keep them at a distance again. No more injured robins turning up on his couch. No more tiny displays of affection. Of trust. If he was lucky, Bruce wouldn’t even remember what had happened, and Jason would be free to act out again all he wanted without letting anyone down.
(And then he’d never know why the fuck Bruce had done what he did, and he’d add that to the massive pile of things he lay awake at night thinking about)
“Jason,” Dick said again. He was trying to make eye contact. Jason wasn’t letting him.
Had Bruce woken up or something? Explained that it hadn’t been Jason’s finger on the trigger? That was bullshit. It wasn’t like it mattered. It was still Jason’s fault.
“Oh, Jaybird,” Dick breathed, and his voice hurt. The bad kind of hurt, the kind that was nauseatingly sweet and affectionate, the kind that reminded Jason far too much of (reading aloud in the library, laughing over breakfasts, arguing over the remote). It was sympathetic. It was pitying.
Dick was standing right in front of his chair. Jason didn’t have an escape route. He probably still could’ve done something– flipped the chair backwards, rolled off the side, kicked Dick in the crotch– but in the split second he took to feel cornered Dick was already reaching out for him.
He wrapped his arms around Jason’s shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug.
The angle was awkward. Jason’s chin had to be digging into his shoulder, and his arms were crowded between his chest and Dick’s. He was still covered in blood, and it had to be getting all over Dick’s uniform, as if there wasn’t enough already by now. He’d probably had to do surgery to get all the shrapnel out of Bruce, all on his own because Jason needed guarding and Alfred was getting more blood. At some point– probably more than once– Dick would have thought about how easy it would be to get that blood from Jason. To drag him into the med bay and force him to fix what he’d done.
(Jason had already poured himself down Bruce’s throat, as much as he could give without blacking out, and he would’ve given more but he had to get Bruce)
(Back to the cave)
(Home)
He could see Tim’s face over Dick’s shoulder. He looked pale, like he always did. His teeth were flat and human, and he looked as dazed as he did after one of Jason’s blows.
(When was the last time Jason had hit him? Really hit him?)
“Jaybird,” Dick murmured, “I am so sorry.”