Chapter Text
THEN
Jason, in his youth, had an odd approach to Father’s Day gifts.
The first time June 19th rolled around after Bruce brought him home, Jason didn’t give him anything. Just stared obstinately at Bruce when he arrived at the breakfast table to find Jason empty-handed, as if expecting to be punished for it.
Bruce, of course, knowing about Willis and knowing Jason, hadn’t truly expected anything, and he would never punish a child for something like that anyway. He just sat down and asked about Jason’s day as he ate his eggs, until the kid relaxed a little bit into his seat, not so stuck in that frozen position, half-ready to run.
Bruce didn’t realize it was a test until after, and could only be thankful he had apparently passed.
#
The next two years, Jason refused to wish him a happy Father’s Day (or, in fact, verbally acknowledge the holiday at all) but did leave him gifts – the first on Bruce’s desk and the second on his bedside table. There was no note either time, but it was clear enough who they were from.
It was a tie, first, and then cufflinks the next time. Like Jason was working off a list of ‘dad things’. They were carefully chosen, of course – this was Jason, who exuded thoughtfulness – but hesitant.
When Bruce wore the tie, dark grey with the silhouette of Gotham embroidered at the bottom, skyline emerging from the v-shaped end, Jason had pinked a little, looking quietly pleased. Bruce made sure to wear it at every important opportunity, and the cufflinks too, once they’d been gifted. Those were shaped, to Bruce’s amusement, like little tires. Because apparently Jason had gotten comfortable enough with him to be a bit cheeky.
Dick had always given Bruce a Father’s Day card, even when they were fighting and the cards became brief, terse things, but he hadn’t been one for gifts. (To tell the truth, they had never really lost their sharp edge after they’d acquired it, even now that Bruce and Dick had hammered out a tentative truce and Dick had set up in Blüdhaven.)
Bruce wasn’t his father in the same way, after all – John Grayson had left big shoes to fill, and he feared he’d never been up for the task.
Willis Todd hadn’t really left any shoes at all.
#
After those first two years, it was baked goods.
Jason had settled in gradually, and after two years was much more secure in the family than he had been when he was first brought home. He’d also started shadowing Alfred in the kitchen, eager to learn how to cook and bake, and encouraged by Alfred’s quiet pleasure at having a child in the house who didn’t burn everything in sight immediately upon entering a kitchen.
That third Father’s Day, Jason accosted Bruce on his way to breakfast by saying, “I got you these,” and thrusting forward a white cake box.
Bruce, bemused and a little bleary before caffeine, took the box and lifted the lid while Jason stood there, stiff and nervous.
Settled in the holes in the cardboard were a dozen lemon-poppyseed cupcakes, iced with what looked like cream cheese icing and topped with little curls of lemon peel. Bruce took a second to take them in.
He was always a little bit Batman, even at seven-thirty in the morning with his slippers on, and he couldn’t help the way he analysed everything. The cake box meant Jason clearly wanted Bruce to think the cupcakes were store-bought, otherwise he’d have presented them on one of Alfred’s many platters or even on a plate.
But they weren’t store-bought. The box was plain, the type you could buy in baking supply stores, with no shop logo on the bottom or side. And the contents were neat and pretty, but the icing was just a little uneven, and the cupcakes themselves somewhat varying in size. Not by much, but by enough that they were evidently not professionally made. Carefully done, perhaps even lovingly done, but not store-bought. Not by a mile.
Bruce would bet the Batmobile that Jason made them himself.
He also got the distinct impression, from all the little details his pre-coffee mind had collected involuntarily, that Jason didn’t want him to know that.
He didn’t quite know what to do with that.
Jason said nothing as Bruce gazed down at the cupcakes, just stared almost confrontationally at him, chin thrust up in the air, eyes daring. Trying to hide his nerves.
Maybe he wanted Bruce to taste them before he told him he made them? Get an honest opinion?
Bruce decided to go along with it.
He was constantly worried about mishandling things with Jason, and often his worries were proved to be justified as he misstepped again and again. Bruce always felt like he was on the brink of messing up his relationship irrevocably with his second son, repeating history and ending up with two children that didn’t trust him. He must have hesitated a little too long, though, gotten a little too caught up in his own thoughts, because–
“They’re your favourite,” Jason said, almost accusingly. Tensing up.
“Yes, Jaylad, they are.” Bruce smiled in (what he hoped to be) a comforting manner.
Jason didn’t stop bristling.
Realizing his son probably wouldn’t relax until he tasted one, Bruce juggled the box to rest in one broad palm and lifted one up to his mouth, taking a bite.
They were good. They were really good. A tad overbaked, perhaps, and the buttercream wasn’t as light as a professional’s would be, but still good. And even if they weren’t, they still would be – the paradox of fatherhood. Anything your children made was amazing, just because they were the ones who made it, and this was amplified tenfold if they made it for you.
“They’re delicious, Jay,” Bruce said, because it was true. “Thank you.”
Jason ducked his head to try to hide the pleased little smile he was now wearing, and was only partly successful. They stood there for a moment, both of them a little overwhelmed – Jason with the approval he was so sensitive to, and Bruce with such a thoughtful gift and the emotional minefield surrounding it – before Alfred called up the stairs to summon them downstairs to breakfast.
#
The next year it was a cake.
Coffee-chocolate, with dark ganache and wafer-thin slices of candied orange on top and fresh marmalade between the layers. Casually skillful, showing just how naturally Jason had taken to the kitchen.
Jason delivered this one to the study in a black cake box, tied with white ribbon that ended in a neat bow on top by what could only have been Alfred’s hand. Bruce had suspected Alfred’s touch in last year’s gift, and was glad for the confirmation that at least Jason trusted one of them enough to let them in on the ‘secret’ of who was behind the confections. Though he still didn’t understand the need for pretense.
(Bruce had retired to the study after a breakfast where Jason emerged, rumpled, from the kitchen, shoveled his eggs into his mouth with a single-minded determination, then disappeared back through the swinging door to leave Bruce bewildered.
When Jason reappeared to deliver the box to him, he realized there must have been a delay in Jason’s baking that edged his preparation time into his breakfast time, and something warm made itself known in his belly at the thought that Jason, despite being busy with his gift, had still wanted to eat breakfast with him.)
Jason dropped the box on his desk, explained brusquely what it contained, passed over a small dessert plate and fork, then retreated immediately.
Bruce, of course, pretended not to notice the way Jason ‘left’ but peeked right back around the corner of his study’s doorway to watch him try it. He made sure, though, to make extra loud appreciative noises upon tasting it, and caught a hint of a smile as Jason left for real.
With Dick’s card — delivered the day before — tucked into the drawer of his desk and a slice of cake in front of him, it was perhaps one of the best days of Bruce’s adult life.
#
There was no fifth gift.