Chapter Text
Jason got the call just as he was slamming another roundhouse kick into a gangster’s face. His eyes flicked over his helmet’s display for the briefest moment, not wanting to let his attention lapse for more than a second or two, and his eyes were back on the fight before the unfortunate bastard he’d clobbered hit the ground. Already, two more goons were clamoring to take his place, summoned from the back of the building by the sound of his fight, and Jason flipped one of the tables over on its side before sending it careening in their direction with another well-placed kick. They flinched, as people were wont to do when someone threw an upwards-of-two-hundred-pound table at them, and Jason took that brief respite to consider his options.
He really didn’t want to pick up. It wasn’t actually anyone he wanted to talk to. He’d have taken the call for one of his girls, even abandoned the fight if they were in trouble, but for one of the bat-brood? Pass. Hard pass. If they were really in over their heads Jason would have heard the explosions by now, and he was busy. Thanks for calling, don’t leave a message, and I bet you can guess what kind of creative language the beep is covering.
Unfortunately, this particular bat wasn’t going to be so easily deterred. Also, unlike most of the other bats, the chances that this one was calling just to talk now that they’d spent some time on officially-maybe-probably non-lethal terms was low. Besides, Barbara could probably patch herself through anyway even if he didn’t pick up, and there was more dignity in answering her himself than having her turn his helmet into her own personal sock puppet.
Jason sighed, ducked a spray of gunfire as he rolled behind a counter, and picked up.
“Lemming,” he greeted dryly, “If you were calling because you had a sudden hankering for Italian-fusion takeout, I regret to inform you that this place probably isn’t going to be open for orders for at least a week.”
“That better not be your guns I’m hearing in the background,” Barbara said curtly. Jason rolled his eyes and pulled the pin on a grenade, counting down a second or two before chucking it behind him.
“You think my aim is bad enough to need a machine gun to compensate? I’m wounded, brainiac,” Jason said.
There was a shout from the other side of the counter, then Jason was bracing against the explosion that rocked the building. His sloppy smack-down had announced his presence, which meant the time for quiet was out and the time for brutal efficiency was in.
Barbara clearly didn’t agree.
“What was that?” she snapped.
“Fireworks,” Jason deadpanned. “Do you have a reason for calling, or is this purely because you missed the melodic sound of my voice?”
Barbara began muttering something that Jason couldn’t quite parse through, though he thought he caught more than a few curse-shaped sounds in there. A moment later the sprinklers were going off, and Jason was letting out a few curse-shaped sounds of his own as he scrambled to his feet.
“Goddamnit Lemming, no one asked you to make it rain!”
He’d shut off the fire measures on his way in– not for this exact scenario, but as a secondary step in turning off the building’s security. No sense in switching off the sensors if he was going to let the goons alert each other by pulling the fire alarm. That having been said, he wouldn’t have been opposed to the place burning to the ground, and the fire department would’ve gotten there before the flames spread to any adjacent buildings. Probably. It was Gotham, they had practice. Shit blew up or burned down every goddamn day.
“Get out of there, Hood,” came Barbara's firm command. “You’ve done enough damage for one day.”
“Fuck you,” Jason snapped, “I’m in the middle of an operation! Do you have any idea how long I’ve been planning this for?”
“If your current performance is any indication? One afternoon at most using a monopoly board as a sand table.”
Jason stood. The diner behind him looked, appropriately, like a bomb had gone off. It didn’t look like anyone was dead, unfortunately, but two of his three opponents were out cold and the third was clutching a leg that gushed blood between his fingers like the water from above. There were footsteps on the stairs, raised voices coming his way, and Jason got his mouth around a swear he’d learned from Kori that always sounded a bit like he was hacking up a ball of phlegm.
“Charming,” Barbara said. “Listen, someone across the street just called this in. If you don’t get out of here before the police show up, don’t count on anyone posting bail.”
“Why would I?” Jason growled. Fuck. Fuck. As much as he hated to admit it, and as much as he wanted to stick it out here out of spite, Barbara was right. Jason needed to bail. He gritted his teeth, turned on his heel, and ran.
He hit the front door hard with one shoulder, dead-center, smashing the floor-to-ceiling glass and sending bits of the custom decal skittering along the pavement outside. His boots crunched over the shards as he legged it, out into the night, away from the slowly-approaching sirens and the gangsters with piss-poor attitudes and worse aim. This wasn’t how he’d wanted tonight to go. He’d wanted to take out this stupid nest of jackasses entirely, yank the gang out by the roots, and instead he’d caused some minor property damage and given some low-level grunt a possible limp.
He’d like to blame this entirely on Barbara, but the truth was shit had been going south way before her call. Taking on this many heavily-armed mob goons at once was ambitious, even for a guy who couldn’t die. Some may even have called it reckless.
Jason had been reckless a lot lately. Even more than usual. Not that he’d admit it to anyone, but Jason privately wondered if he was spiraling. If he was, he wondered what had triggered it. If he’d be hitting rock-bottom again anytime soon, or if he had a lot further to fall before he could rest.
He ducked around an apartment building into the alley behind it, filthy but thankfully deserted. A fire escape clung to the building like bittersweet choking a tree, and Jason took a deep breath before leaping to catch the edge of the lowest platform. His momentum swung him forwards, toes of his boots brushing the underside of the steel grating, and with practiced timing Jason used the backswing to flip himself up over the railing. His boots clanged against the metal, and then Jason was off, scaling the steps two at a time.
“I hope to God you really do have a reason for calling,” he snarled as he ran, “Otherwise I’m going back on Bat’s shitlist when I come over to beat your ass.”
“You can just say thank you,” Barbara said coolly, “I’m certainly gracious enough to say you’re welcome.”
“Beating it is. Go ahead and give the rest of the family a heads-up so they can get their disappointed in you calls over with ahead of time.”
Barbara’s sigh crackled in his ears, aggressively disdainful.
“Batman wanted me to call you,” she said.
Jason came to a stop on the roof of the apartment building, peering down into the streets below and watching red and blue lights wind their way towards the restaurant he’d fled. There were no signs of pursuit, no gangsters nipping at his heels, and Jason had picked the building he’d scaled randomly, so he felt comfortable in dropping to sit on the edge of the apartment, legs dangling over a twelve-story drop.
“Bats couldn’t call me himself?” he asked.
Barbara huffed. He thought she might be about to come out with something like what, am I not good enough for you? But instead, she said, “I asked the same question. Nightwing says he’s trying to get us to talk more.”
Jason bit his tongue. Hard. Not hard enough to bleed, but enough for the pain to ground him in the present moment, a moment where Barbara was Barbara and Babs was long gone.
(No one had had to force him and Babs to talk. He’d liked talking to Babs. A lot, actually)
(But Babs had been buried while he’d been cold in the ground)
“And what message did Bats want you passing along? Because if it’s about the Violet Heist last month, I will grudgingly admit I have learned my lesson about pocket squares, and I’ve already apologized to A.”
“Actually,” Barbara said, “He wants to ask you for a favor.”
Jason blinked. Leaned his palms on his knees and stared hard at the ground below.
“Me?” he asked. “He wants me to do him a favor.”
“I asked the same question,” Barbara said again, dryly, “But it’s true. He wants to know if you’d mind doing beach house duty. With one important caveat. . .”
Beach house duty was one of the many carefully-constructed facets in the bedazzled mask that was Batman’s secret identity. Bruce Wayne the fifth, playboy philanthropist and Gotham’s local himbo, had a waterfront property on the outskirts of Metropolis that he visited whenever the pressures of being a figurehead got to be too much for him. The place had excellent security, which was to be expected, but that didn’t stop the paparazzi from getting as close as they could manage. Once or twice a year, with the same dependability as feel-good pieces about dogs saving their owners from fires, blurry pictures of a half-naked Bruce Wayne straddling a surfboard or building a sandcastle with one of his kids would surface online, captured with a telephoto lens from a legally distinct distance past the property line. There would be the usual comments about how different Bruce looked in candids, about how yummy his muscles were, how much that tan suited him, and all the while Batman would continue his bat-business in Gotham without interruption and without connection.
The truth was, Bruce hardly spent any time at the beach house. Sure, it’d happen occasionally when there was a case nearby and the location was convenient, but Jason didn’t need both hands to count how many times that had lined up. No, the beach house had been a him-and-Dick thing, a thing Jason had all but pushed from his mind since his return from the dead. It had hurt too much to think about, and anyway, there had been murder to plot and revenge to serve. There wasn’t time to wallow in painfully cozy memories of the family he’d lost.
(He still had, on his worst nights when his own mind was eating him alive and he curled up in his safe houses with the scent of damp earth choking his throat, but it had been a less than efficient use of his time)
Jason had long since resigned himself to never returning to the beach house. For one, he’d deliberately put himself on non-family-vacation-friendly terms with the Bats, and for another, the world thought he was dead. Beach house duty was supposed to conceal Bruce’s identity, not have every tabloid in Gotham swapping blurry candids of a son Bruce had supposedly lost. As far as the public was concerned, Bruce only had one son now, and Jason could never pass for him.
But he could pass for someone else.
The scenery passed by his window, aggressively sunny and picturesque. Jason felt each familiar street carve another notch into his heart, reopening a pattern of old wounds. There was the ice cream parlor still advertising their signature Brain Freeze, the surf shop that carried Dick’s favorite brand of board wax, the drive-in movie theater. It was real fucking obvious that this wasn’t Gotham, but despite his hometown pride Jason could never find it in himself to judge this place for how very Metropolis it was.
There was a derisive snort from beside him, and Jason glanced over at beach house duty’s caveat.
Damian had started the trip strung bow-tight, with perfect posture and an eagle-eyed focus on potential threats. So, mostly he’d just been glaring at Jason. He hadn’t actually said anything, and Jason sure as shit hadn’t prompted him to, which left them in a tense silence for most of the drive. As they’d covered ground, Damian had started to slouch lower and lower in his seat, his glare losing focus as he started to alternate between Jason, the window, and the divider in front of them. By now he’d managed to make the transition between tiny soldier and petulant child, and was currently judgmentally eyeing the passers-by who dared commit the grave sin of stopping to look at the fancy car driving past.
They’d be at the beach house soon. There wasn’t much of the drive left, just a handful of turns on streets that hadn’t been laid out in a grid system. Then Jason and Damian would duck out of the car, ignoring or possibly waving at whatever gawkers were excited to see the Waynes in town, and they’d make their way into the house.
Where they’d be staying.
Together.
For a week.
God fucking help him, Jason couldn’t believe he’d agreed to this.
He should say something. He should say something now, before they exited the car, if only to make sure Damian didn’t assault any innocent bystanders. He barely knew the kid, and only knew him at all if he was allowed to count the little terror breaking into one of his safe houses to try to beat the shit out of him, but he didn’t have to be the world’s greatest detective to work out from what little he did know that Damian wasn’t exactly sociable. At his age, Jason had been one bad mood away from punching a reporter. Damian would probably escalate that to a full beatdown, complete with improvised weapons and actual torture techniques.
Jason took a deep breath.
“There’s probably going to be people staring at us when we get out of the car,” he said. Damian’s head whipped towards him, eyes narrowing as he went from slouching to ramrod-straight again in an instant, full child soldier mode engaged.
“There are people staring at us now,” he countered. His tone was curt. Unyielding. It reminded Jason of Talia, of how she spoke without any room for disagreement.
“Sure,” Jason allowed, “But when we get out, they might try to talk to us.”
Damian made a sharp sound of distaste in the back of his throat, and Jason couldn’t entirely disagree with the sentiment. It had been one thing, years ago, to be greeted with familiarity by clerks and cashiers who’d put the time in to get to know him, and another thing entirely to have random weirdos vying for the celebrity’s attention.
“I know,” he said, “It sucks. But you’ve only gotta grin and bear it until we get inside the house.”
“I am perfectly capable of putting on a pleasant front, Todd,” Damian sneered. “Did you think this was going to be new information for me?”
Well. He’d tried.
“I don’t like you,” Jason said. That got a scoff out of Damian, who folded his arms as he glared Jason down.
“The feeling is mutual.”
“Oh, really? I didn’t get that from you trying to cave my head in the first time we met.”
“I was well appraised of your resurrective capabilities! No permanent damage would have been inflicted, and there was no need for you to contact father–”
“Ya fucking khara, you were gonna go brag to him yourself if you’d somehow managed to beat me, don’t act like you–“
The two of them abruptly cut off at the sound of the soft, gentle whir of the divider sliding down. The rearview mirror only caught Alfred’s eyes in its small surface, but that was more than enough for him to convey how aggressively and pointedly unimpressed he was. It was the eyebrows. It was all in the eyebrows. If Jason ever worked out what fey magic allowed Alfred to guilt-trip him with the slightest twitch of those things, he was going to be unstoppable. But for now all he was doing was abruptly realizing that he’d been yelling at a ten-year-old.
Whoops.
“Excuse me, master Jason,” Alfred said, “Master Damian. I appreciate the two of you finally engaging each other in conversation, but I would prefer it not be so passionate that it drowns out my book on tape.”
Jason winced.
“Sorry, Alf,” he said weakly.
Damian made a sound that bordered on a scoff, and when Jason glanced over at him, he saw that the kid had gone back to glaring out the window. Jesus, was the kid rude to Alfred too? Jason was one thing, but nobody fucked with Alfred. He was literally the best person Jason knew. Not to mention he was the kid’s grandfather in all but blood.
Not that Damian seemed to understand that family didn’t have to share dna.
“It’s quite alright, master Jason,” Alfred said, and Jason felt the car slowing as it rolled into a smooth turn. “We’ve arrived, in any case. Are you sure you two will be alright on your own? Master Bruce could manage a week left to his own devices, should you require my services.”
His steady blue eyes found Jason’s in the mirror as the car pulled to a stop. Jason considered the offer. On the one hand, having a buffer between him and the brat wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world, and Jason hadn’t spent any real quality time with Alfred in. . . shit, it must’ve been months. The beach house’s kitchen had nothing on the manor’s, but it was cozy and adequately equipped, and had room enough that Jason could easily imagine him and Alfred standing shoulder to shoulder as they worked on putting dinner together. Maybe Alfred could even make some of his cookies, and Jason could pick atrocious shows to watch while they ate just to hear the cutting commentary Alfred would murmur over a glass of that weird-ass green booze.
But the fact that the tail end of that daydream had ended with Damian conspicuously absent was enough to tell Jason what his answer had to be. He couldn’t force Alfred to spend the week mediating between the two of them; he already had to put up with the brat twenty-four seven back at Wayne Manor. No, if Jason wanted to hang out with him he’d have to make actual plans, not just drag the guy into beach house duty as an afterthought. It was the least he could do to show Alfred how much he cared about him. In a nice, nonverbal way that didn’t require Jason to admit to anything in a way that could be proven.
(God, he had hangups)
“Nah,” Jason replied lightly, “Not unless you’re dying to get out of Gotham for a bit. Unlike Bruce, I won’t burn the house down if I go within five feet of the stove.”
“True enough,” Alfred granted with a dip of his head. Damian made an indignant sound, and Alfred, well of infinite patience that he was, just turned enough to smile at the kid.
“I’ll be back to pick you two up at the week’s end,” he said, seemingly more to Damian than Jason. Damian didn’t look away from the window.
Jason, for his part, took a moment to glance at his own. It was the closest reflective surface for him to do one final once-over of his disguise. Alfred himself had helped style Jason’s hair into the kind of effortlessly messy yet immensely stylish look that Bruce spent an hour on when he had to go out in public, and it seemed like the hair gel’s rich-person witchcraft was holding well. It was still weird to see himself without that streak of white winding through his bangs, and Jason was going to be doing double-takes in the mirror until the hair dye wore out, whenever that would be.
He took a deep breath and unhooked the massive name-brand sunglasses from the collar of Bruce’s shirt, sliding them on and obscuring half his face. He gave the tinted window his best approximation of the Bruce Wayne smile, and thought once again about what a bad idea this was.
“Okay,” he said. “Here goes.”
“Good luck, master Jason,” Alfred said, and the smile Jason gave him was his own. He had a feeling Alfred was talking about a lot more than just him passing as Bruce.
“Thanks, A. I’m gonna come around to open your door, kid, remember to smile.”
He unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out of the car. It was warm here, the sun gently caressing his face and a cool breeze blowing in off the water to stir the hem of Bruce’s light button-down. That was Metropolis for you. Back in Gotham the sun would beat down on you like you owed it money, and the wind reeked of cigarette smoke and sewage instead of the pleasant salty scent of the sea. Jason didn’t know what the Gothamites had done to make the elements themselves hate them, but he had to be proud of his people for managing to piss off a force of nature.
“Mister Wayne!” someone yelled from across the street. Far across the street. The beach house had a long driveway, excellent for putting some distance between the property line and the front door, and when Jason turned to wave at the small gaggle of people clustered on the sidewalk he felt himself relax slightly. There were at least twenty yards between him and the onlookers; there was no way they’d be able to peg him as a fake.
Logically, he’d known that, but he wouldn’t have put it past himself to be the first stand-in to fuck up faking Bruce.
The calls and cajoling continued as Jason circled around to the other side of the car, the crowd attempting to recapture the attention he’d briefly passed their way. He’d seen a few phones pointed in his direction, and he felt reasonably confident that this was going up on Thyme before the day was out. It was just about the only thing he felt confident in. Was he doing this right? Was he walking right? Did Bruce walk like this? Why the fuck hadn’t Jason payed more attention to how Bruce walked? He’d lived with the guy for years, been to countless events by his side, he should know this. Bruce had made a terrible decision in sending Jason on beach duty and now his secret identity was going to be revealed because Jason couldn’t walk right.
God, being caught on camera was so much easier when he could just point a gun at whoever was holding it.
He opened Damian’s door. Damian was on the tail end of a sentence, mouth snapping shut around the last couple of words as he turned to glare at Jason– make it, he’d been saying. Talking to Alfred. Jason wondered what he’d been talking about, but he wanted Damian to know he cared even less, so he just turned the Bruce Wayne smile up to eleven and held out a hand.
Shielded from the onlookers by the protective swaddle of expensive car, Damian’s glare briefly intensified. His grip, when he took Jason’s hand, was hard enough to hurt, and if Jason hadn’t been expecting it it might’ve made his grin slip. Damian slid out of his seat, and as the sunlight hit him his dour expression melted away into a bland, pleasant smile that almost reached his eyes.
Almost.
“Thanks, dad,” he said, and tightened his grip on Jason’s hand. Jason felt his knuckles grind together, and he turned towards the house just so he could drop the smile.
“Little shit,” he muttered.
“Barbarian,” Damian replied, tone still disgustingly pleasant, if much quieter.
This was going to be a long fucking week.