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“And what exactly were you thinking?”
Jason stares at Bruce unblinkingly, heart in his throat and palms clammy. He rubs them along his pants, covering up the weak action by turning a fierce glare toward little Damian, who still looks too damn smug.
“You told on me, you little brat?” he hisses, fingers clenching at his sides to form tight fists. He didn’t even tell Damian what he was doing, but of course, he had to run to his precious daddy, so desperate for the attention that he’s probably been given his entire life.
Not that he can blame him too much. Jason knows a thing or two about wanting attention, positive or not.
But it still makes him feel like crap, stuck under Bruce and Alfred’s heavy, displeased gazes.
“You’ll have to be more specific than that, Boss-man,” he manages to bite out, moving soundlessly past them and toward the kitchen. He wonders distantly if Alfred has made any cookies recently, because he’d commit actual murder for one of his infamous chocolate chips right now, future aspirations of becoming Robin be damned. “I think about a lotta things.”
Heavy footsteps follow him through the doorway, and Jason tries not to tense, feeling his lip start to curl.
A deep sigh sounds from behind him, annoyed and tired and almost relieved for some reason. He can just hear Bruce pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine, let’s start over. Where were you?”
Jason opens the jar of cookies, huffing when he finds it empty, save for the few crumbs at the bottom. Dickface probably ate the rest of them after his workout today.
“Jay.”
With a sigh, the teen slinks over to the counter, leaping up to swat down his stash of Oreos from the top shelf. He peels back the lid, and in a distant part of his mind, he wonders if his mild disappointment at the thought of no fresh-baked cookies means he’s gotten spoiled. He would’ve killed for a couple of Oreos when he was living on the streets of Gotham.
“ Jase.”
Jason is used to tuning people out - perks of living with a druggie and an asshole for the duration of his childhood - so it’s pretty easy for him to wave goodnight in the vague direction of Bruce, Alfie, and The Snitch, content with taking his cookies to his room if it means avoiding them. Golden Boy is probably asleep by now, anyway, since he likes going to bed by, like, nine, so Bruce really has no right to blame him for being tired. He never gives Dickie Boy shit for it.
But apparently, the old man is perfectly fine with playing favorites.
Jason chokes on air, hands flying up toward his neck as he’s pulled back by his hoodie, and he can hardly even hear the crash of his precious Oreos over his own loud yelp.
He gasps again when he’s turned around but clenches his teeth shut immediately afterward, wishing his hands weren’t preoccupied with gripping B’s beefy forearm so that he could slap himself. Geez, when did he become such a girl?
“I will ask you again,” Bruce says, voice low. Jason swallows the instinctive squeak that tries to tear past his teeth. Distantly, he hears Damian mutter a smug ‘Goodnight, Father. Jason.’ as Alfie quietly takes him upstairs. “What. Exactly. Were you doing?”
Jason swallows, pushing lightly against that damn Godzilla arm, but if anything, Bruce’s grip on his sweatshirt only tightens.
Asshole. “It’s none of your business, B, now let me go. I’ve got crushed Oreos to eat and hot chicks to dream about, so if you’ll excuse me.” He pointedly tugs on his own sweatshirt, then nearly falls on his ass in shock when he’s actually let go.
He takes a quick, skeptical step back, eyeing the man suspiciously. His cookies are left in a sad, abandoned heap on the floor, and Jason hesitates, wondering if the sugary goodness is worth being within Bruce’s reach again. Once upon a time, he would’ve killed a man for those things, but now…
Well. Maybe he still would. But Bruce is an impenetrable force that shouldn’t be reckoned with.
And, it’s not like Jason has to decide, apparently.
He lets out a quiet umph as he’s yanked forward by the arm, faceplanting into a scarily solid chest, and he jolts in place when large arms wrap around him, one across his shoulders and back and the other cupping the back of his neck, keeping his head still. Before Jason can even think of getting his stupid mouth to open and protest like it’s supposed to when Jason tells it to, Bruce’s face presses against his hair, and he inhales deeply. For a moment, he swears his heart stops.
He’ll blame it on too many Oreos. “Shit,” he whispers into the mound of muscle.
“I knew it,” Bruce breathes, and if Jason were a few IQ points dumber and a bit less aware of how much he’s about to get chewed out, he’d think his grip tightens for a moment. “I can’t believe you, Jason.”
Jason swallows, trying to ignore the sudden lump in his throat. This is all that little bastard’s fault – damn nark.
The man pulls back, holding him by the shoulders at arm’s length and looking him up and down, eyes like steel.
Like Batman.
Jason is gonna freaking die.
“What did we say about smoking, Jason?” Bruce asks sharply, and damn if Jason shouldn’t have just gone straight to bed. Jason never thought there would come a day that Oreos weren’t that important, but then again, whoever thought Jason would end up living in a damn mansion? Working as Batman’s sidekick?
Life is full of surprises.
He should’ve left the damn Oreos.
“Uh…” Jason says eloquently, the smooth-talking intellectual as usual. “That I…should do it in a safe place… surrounded by people I trust?”
Jason definitely isn’t imagining it now. The grip on his shoulders tightens.
“Not with cigarettes, damn it,” he says through gritted teeth, unfortunately not finding Jason’s grin as charmingly adorable as it is, “and definitely not when you’re a fourteen-year-old boy that’s living under my roof. You don’t touch those cancer sticks with a ten-foot pole.”
Huffing under his breath, Jason jerks out of the grip on his shoulders, crossing his arms and keeping his gaze fixed to the side. “Don’t I?”
Bruce stays quiet for a moment, and Jason uses the silence to plot an escape. Alfred would be pissed if he broke one of the windows just to avoid a lecture, and he’d deal with a pissed-off-Bruce over a pissed-off-Alfie any day. He ain’t messing with the guy that feeds him anytime soon.
He might even take away his Oreos.
His eyes snap up when Bruce sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “...What did I tell you last time you pulled something like this?”
Without his permission, Jason’s spine straightens.
“You… said not to do it again,” Jason admits quietly, resisting the urge to fiddle with his hair and make himself look even more kiddish. Damian is starting to look like a graduate student, compared to him.
“And what did I say would happen if you did do it again?” Bruce questions, voice pretty even in the face of Jason sweating like a damn pig. The man gets his panties all in a twist about Jason taking a late-night stroll, but as soon as he starts throwing around threats like tomorrow there will be no more mulligatawny soup, he’s calm as a sleeping bear.
Jason stares down at his ratty tennis shoes, embarrassment flushing over him. He reaches into his jacket pocket, fingers wrapping around that precious, precious pack that holds second place to Oreos – maybe third, if they’re throwing Goldfish crackers into the mix – and thrusts it toward the old bastard.
It’s caught and hidden away easily.
“Thank you,” he acknowledges, and Jason’s shoulders creep a bit more toward his ears. “I appreciate it. But, I’m a man of my word.” When had Jason started chewing on his lip? “Drop ‘em and bend over the table, lad.”
As much as he’d expected the words, Jason still jolts up, ramrod straight and indignant in an instant. Because, well. It’s deserved, the old bastard. “You can’t be serious – !”
“Deadly,” Bruce says flatly, even when Jason turns furious green eyes on him. “As I said, I’m a man of my word. I promised that I would tan your backside should you ever decide to risk your health so recklessly again, and I don’t break promises. This is your last warning, Jason.”
Jason. Not even Jay.
Grumbling quietly and rock in his belly, Jason steps up to the emptied kitchen table, shoving a chair out of the way. Bruce may not have beaten his ass before, but Jason has endured his fair share by this point. It’s not like Bruce has the balls to actually make it hurt or anything.
A drawer opens somewhere on his right, but Jason busies himself with muttering obscenities under his breath, almost wishing that Alfred were here to scold him – and Bruce, for ‘encouraging such behavior’.
Shoving his jeans midway down his thighs, Jason lays his torso across the table, hating how thin his briefs feel like this. Bruce approaches from behind him, and Jason makes it a point to turn his head and glare at him, still burning from the injustice of it all.
Then his eyes fall to Bruce’s implement of choice, and for a moment, that fire rages.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he hisses, trying to push himself up only to be held down by a steady hand. He glowers at the stupid wooden spoon in the man’s hand, arms braced to shove himself off the table. “Don’t insult me – use your belt or something, damn.”
He can turn his head just enough to catch Bruce’s eye roll. “Don’t tempt me, Jason, but I prefer not using something that extreme. I assure you that this will be plenty. Now settle down before you make things worse for yourself.”
Jason huffs, crossing his arms under his head as soon as the pressure on his back is gone. A spoon – he’s not some snot-nosed brat!
Bruce could break that damn stick over his ass for all he cares, and it probably wouldn’t even tickle. The very thought of Bat whooping him with a spoon like a middle-aged mother from a bad 60’s sitcom has him letting out a small groan, already bored of this.
At least Damian isn’t here. “You will receive fourteen, one for each year you’ve been alive – hopefully to remind you that you are young, and you have a whole life ahead of you if you don’t make such irresponsible choices. Do you understand?”
Fourteen… that’s even more insulting. Bruce has to be doing this on purpose.
Still, Jason nods, letting his eyes fall shut when he feels the hand holding the spoon lift from his lower back. A moment later, he feels the impact of it squarely in the center of his ass, the resounding sound ringing in his ears. Briefly, he hopes that Golden Boy and Demon Child can’t hear this shit.
Then, humiliatingly enough, he squeals like a little girl.
By some miracle, he doesn’t reach back to grab his ass, but what the hell? Batman isn’t supposed to have superpowers, so what the hell?
A hand settles on his shoulder, and Jason jerks, becoming aware all at once that he’d been squirming in desperate search of relief, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. “You can cry and yell all you want,” Bruce murmurs, though Jason is far too focused on keeping his breathing steady, because how would they explain that at the hospital? Ah, yes, my adoptive son was getting swatted with a wooden spoon and promptly went into cardiac arrest. “But don’t put your hands back. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Right. Well, perhaps Jason forgot to say it – “Ow.”
Bruce, of all things, laughs. “Seriously hurt you, I meant. Your backside will be fine, I assure you, but I don’t want to hit your hand instead.” He takes a breath, and Jason mirrors it. “Brace yourself. You still have thirteen remaining.”
The Oreos were really not worth it.
He takes the second and third strikes with slightly more dignity, though it’s a low freaking bar. He pushes uselessly against the table, against the floor – nothing helps. It doesn’t feel like getting punched in the ass or anything, it just stings.
He can’t help but cry out when strikes five and six land just a bit lower, nearly approaching the tops of his legs, though he sticks a knuckle in his mouth immediately afterward, biting down. He’s not some girl. He can take a kid’s punishment… no problem.
Number seven actually nails his thigh, hard, and Jason will deny the sound he produced until his dying day. “Spit that fist out of your mouth right now, young man, before you hurt yourself.”
Jason obeys instantly, not even realizing it until after the fact, resting his face on his clenched fist afterward.
When did his face get wet?
“Clearly, we should have had a conversation about healthy coping mechanisms a long time ago, lad,” Bruce says quietly, and Jason isn’t given any time to think about what that means before numbers eight and nine form matching bursts of pain at the base of his ass, which seems pretty damn counterproductive, if you ask him.
“You should never be needlessly reckless like this, son,” Bruce murmurs, number ten making itself known when Jason grunts, another tear rushing down his face. “We all care about you too much for that.”
The eleventh strike falls, and Bruce pauses. “Even Damian and Dick, you know.” Jason breathes out sharply, some semblance of a laugh at that hysterical notion – Damian is the whole reason he’s here, and he’s sure that Dickwad will be giving him disapproving looks and soft sighs and be shaking his head to himself all day tomorrow.
Being the middle child sucks.
“If you ever need help or feel that you want to pick up that nasty habit again,” Bruce continues, twelve carving itself into his thigh and making Jason pound his fist once on the table, “come to me. Come to Alfred or Dick – even one of your teachers.”
Thirteen makes its way back up toward the center, and Jason wonders distantly if saltwater can ruin a wooden table. There’s a pause. “You’re not alone now, Jason. I hope you understand that.” The fourteenth swat lands, harder than the others because of course Bruce had to make his life miserable at the last possible moment, landing across both his thighs.
He shoots up and out of position, hands immediately reaching back to grab his ass, even if it only aggravates the burning. Hissing through his teeth, he shifts from foot to foot, cursing whoever made that brand of spoon — whoever decided that solid, light wood was a good option. Ow.
He glares at Bruce as best he can, using the sleeve of his sweatshirt to wipe roughly at his face, but he pauses when a white handkerchief emerges from the man’s pocket. Reluctantly, he snatches it from Bruce’s hand, scrubbing away any evidence that he bawled like a baby over that stupid charade, then blows his nose.
“Better?” Bruce questions softly, taking it from Jason’s grip when he’s finished. Jason tries and fails not to wrinkle his nose when Bruce folds it up and neatly tucks it into his pocket, because even if he cleans up real nice, Jason’s snot isn’t the most sterile thing out there.
Still, he grumbles under his breath, scratching awkwardly at the bottom of his chin. “Uh… yeah. Fine.” He reaches down to pull his jeans up, failing to contain a wince when they pass over his raw ass.
Bruce stares at him for a moment, and Jason sniffs softly, shifting on his feet. “So… can I go to bed now, or…?”
A sigh, and then Jason finds a hand on his shoulder, pulling him toward a broad chest.
Jason lets it.
He squeezes his eyes shut as arms wrap around him, one hand cradling his head, and he reluctantly reaches around the man to grip the back of his shirt. Bruce is slightly cool to the touch, clean and dry and smelling slightly of that stupidly overpriced cologne that he wears.
Jason’s muscles relax against his will, loosening him in a way that a cigarette never has. He hadn’t even realized he was so tense.
“…You’re a jackass, you know,” he mumbles into the fabric, exhaling shakily. This stupid post-crying-like-a-two-year-old tiredness is already getting old.
Bruce sighs quietly, tugging lightly on his ear with one hand but not pulling out of the embrace. He doesn’t need to say it for Jason to know he’s reprimanding the language. “Did you learn your lesson, at least?”
Jason huffs to himself, moving his head so that his other ear is pressed against Bruce’s chest. The hand on his hair accommodates easily.
“…yeah, whatever. I won’t…” he pauses. He definitely doesn’t cling a little tighter, because he’s not that much of a wuss, and he’d never hear the end of it from Damian. “I’ll come to you guys. If I need to. I guess.” Ew.
Bruce’s hand rubs his head with an approving sound, and if Jason smiles slightly into the man’s shirt, no one will ever know.
When Jason pulls away after an embarrassingly long amount of time, Bruce pats his shoulder, then nods his head toward the nearest staircase. “Go get some rest, Jay. We can talk more in the morning.”
Jason nods easily, turning to leave after palming away what he hopes are the last of his tears. God help him if Damian saw him like this – or worse, Dick. He might even try to comfort him or some shit, and Jason may be the less experienced fighter, but he could and would come out of that with at least two of Dickie’s teeth. The wholesome bastard.
He takes a step forward, then pauses, glancing down at the edible gold laying near his feet.
Footsteps approach from behind him, and even if Jason’s super cool Robin reflexes are getting pretty darn impressive with all his training, he can’t snatch them off the floor in time. “Should you really be eating chocolate this late, lad?”
Jason growls under his breath, whirling around to face the thief, only for the Oreos to be held over his head and out of reach when he grabs at them. “I heard they have healing properties and boost dopamine levels, which I clearly need after you roasted my ass.” Bruce looks thoroughly unimpressed. “Have you no heart?”
Okay, maybe Dickie Boy was rubbing off on him a bit too much.
Still, Bruce sighs, lowering the package just enough to peel back the lid, and if that man thinks he’s going to eat Jason’s cookies in front of him, then Jason may have to change career paths and join Joker’s mission.
He takes out two cookies and presses them into Jason’s palm.
The teen stares at them for a moment, blinking owlishly, before suppressing a grin. “Y’know, they come in a pack of thirty for a reason, B,” he says easily, turning to head toward the stairs. He stuffs one into his mouth, wishing he could push his luck more and grab some milk, but appreciating the crisp texture nonetheless.
A clap, and then a bright sting makes itself known on the undercurve of his ass, sharp enough that Jason can’t believe it was only Bruce’s hand. “Ow,” he hisses pointedly, instinctively using his free hand to cover his butt from any further assault.
“And there’s a reason the serving size is two cookies,” Bruce informs him, and Jason scowls, meeting teasing blue eyes. “Goodnight, son.”
Jason grumbles under his breath, rubbing gingerly at the spot as he trudges toward the stairs. His ass smarts with how it brushes against his jeans, and Jason barely manages to suppress a miserable groan when lifting his stupid leg up to the stupid stair only makes it worse.
He pops the other Oreo into his mouth, then shoves his hands into his pockets, feeling the emptiness there. His precious cigarettes.
He tastes the sweetness on his tongue. “Goodnight, Dad,” he whispers under his breath.