Chapter Text
They don't find out by accident. Not like he'd always assumed they would. A sleeve riding up too high, a blood stained bandage out in the open, one of his disassembled razors being found.
No, he reveals his habits by himself. Not completely on purpose, but when he sees the raised marks on his dad's arm, perfectly thin and straight, a set of four, he can't help but ask.
"You do that to yourself, too?"
He feels like a kid again when Bruce starts denying it and then falters as he understands the full meaning behind his words.
He knows Bruce isn't like this, but he can't help but shake as his piercing eyes immediately go to his wrists. Bruce has always respected his personal space and privacy, trusted him and never once doubted his fear of unwanted touch. This time, too, he doesn't even raise a hand to push his sleeve down like his da- like Willis would. No, he rolls up his own sleeves and lets Jason have a look.
"This one's from Selina. I didn't do it myself." Now that Jason's looking he can recognize the pattern of sharp claws and the unusual angle of the wound that didn't even cross his mind earlier "But these ones" Bruce continues, turning his arm to show Jason tens of tiny, microscopic scars, precisely cut into the skin horizontally. "I did that to myself when I was your age."
Jason can't look away from his dad's arm, too drawn to the undeniable proof that he isn't alone in this, but too scared to actually face his disappointment. Because how many times have he and Alfred commented on how difficult Bruce used to be as a child? Always angry, mean and riddled with diagnoses.
But Jason wasn't Bruce Wayne. He wasn't an heir to a fortune. He was street trash, always would be, no matter how hard Bruce and Alfred tried to help him, change him. All he was was a fucking problem.
"Jason, look at me. Please." His eyes finally move from Bruce's arm to his face and he dares to breathe at the lack of anger or hurt. Not even disappointment.
No, just worry. Worry and a feeling Jason still fears to call love.
"I won't make you show me, but I want you to tell me what makes you feel like you need to hurt yourself." Jason looks away, visibly inches his body away from Bruce and clenches his fists. Bruce just takes a step back, giving him space. His sleeve is still rolled up, his hands reaching out but not actually trying to get Jason.
"Son, please." Jason can't stand the flash of pain as Bruce's voice wavers "You can tell me."
"I-" He starts, and promptly chokes on his words. There are tears burning at the corners of his eyes and he still can't look at Bruce, not without breaking down like a little kid. "I don't even know."
He waits for a response and continues when Bruce remains silent, waiting.
"I don't know. It doesn't help, it just makes everything worse, I hate hiding it, I hate lying to all of you but I can't- I can't just stop. I feel like if I stop I'm- If I stop hurting myself, someone else will hurt me or something bad will happen, because what am I even doing here? I don't belong here, you're just waiting to throw me out or hurt me but if I… If I fuck it up myself, If I hurt myself or give you a reason to be mad, then I control the situation, but it doesn't even fucking work! I feel just as helpless and I still can't stop because I feel like it helps. I know it doesn't, I know I'm stupid and a problem, I know but I can't help it, I can't- I can't do anything, dad, I-" He stops for air, chest heaving from the confession, and realizes there are hot tears rolling down his cheeks and Bruce is looking at him with such worry and the utmost care, he amost feels like running away from it all. "I don't want to do this anymore, dad. I'm tired."
It's only a whisper, but Bruce hears anyways and very, very slowly tugs him by the palm of his hand. Meeting no resistance, he wraps his arms around his son's shaking frame and holds him. He holds his whole world in his hands, listens as Jason explains and cries, chest shaking with sobs, because he understands him completely and he can't help him. Not immediately, he can't take that pressure off him, he can't resolve the issue with one talk. It's a long, painful process that takes years and years, if not forever.
He can't stand the thought of his child having to feel that pain forever. Not like he did. Not like he does.
"It's alright." He rubs Jason's shoulder, swallows as his hands, trapped between them, tighten into fists and grab his shirt, already wet with tears. "It's alright, Jason. Listen to me, it's okay. You're not stupid, not a problem. You could never be a problem for me, you're my son. You're my son and I love you. I love you with my whole heart."
He shushes the chorus of "I'm sorry"s and holds his boy close, wishing he could just take it all away.