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Jason must be on the good drugs, he decides. His brain has that heavy, foggy feeling that it only gets when he’s on the high pain medication, and he can’t feel anything but the impression that there should be pain despite the fact of his increased tolerance. The good, good drugs, he thinks again. There’s a soft, comfortable mattress underneath him, and he doesn’t feel like he’s covered in dried blood, so someone must have cleaned him up and stuck him somewhere nice.
Hmm… So why is he on the good drugs?
A faint echo of an explosion plays in the back of his mind, the bright flash of fire, the cacophonous trembling as the building collapses around him, beeping —
Jason sucks in a deep breath. Tim. The little bird was in the building with him, too, wasn’t he? Fuck, fuck, where is he, where—-
The steady beeping in the room increases; he had thought that was part of last night, what, no, no, no—
“Breathe, Master Jason. In, two, three, four, hold, two, three, four, five, six, out, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Good lad,” a hand latches onto his, soft and old and weathered, pressing his calloused one against pressed wool and a steady chest, “Come now, again—”
He’s not dying or in an explosion. He’s not even in the Batcave — there’s no sense of the permanent chill that permeates the place or the faint echo of bats — but if the faint lemony smell of cleaner and fresh linens is anything to go by, he’s in the Manor. He must have been really fucked up to be getting a bed upstairs. Long-term care only gets the upstairs treatment. Fuck. And Tim—
“Where’s Tim,” he asks raspily, urgency working past the dryness of his throat, peeling his eyes open for the first time since waking.
Alfred is watching him with solemn eyes, and Jason is begrudgingly grateful that his hand remains clasped in his. Physical affection from Alfred is rare, even more so since his return. “Master Timothy is fine. He walked away from last night with nothing more than minor scrapes or bruises. You, however, have a concussion, two fractured ribs, three breaks in your left leg, and a bullet wound in your right hip that you are quite lucky did not break anything or rupture any organs.”
Jason winces. “...Sorry, Alf,” he mutters, looking away even as relief courses through him. The Replacement, Tim, is okay. Fire and debris didn’t capture another bird.
Alfred exhales softly, squeezing his hand once as he says, “My dear boy. I am glad you’re alive.”
Jason swallows thickly, ignoring the thick knot of emotions that tangle up at his words.
Alfred seems to understand, squeezing his hand once more before he lets go. Jason tries to ignore the loss that swells up within him at the motion. Alfred moves around the room, checking the readouts on the medical equipment and generally giving Jason the space he needs to get himself together without leaving him alone.
It’s nice.
As the initial rush of confusion and panic slowly ebb out of him, the fact that he’s in the Manor comes back around in his forethought. Christ, he’s in the Manor. He’s only been in the Manor proper once since he came back — the Batcave, sure, that’s all Batman, but the Manor? With Bruce? — and that one time ended in one of the largest fights B and he has had since he came back and a solid three months of no contact whatsoever.
He spares a moment to be grateful that he’s not in his former room, then immediately banishes the thought.
Of course, nothing in reality is that simple. As soon as the thought comes, so does another, then another. As much as he values Alfred, he can’t help but notice who else isn’t there. He faintly recalls strong arms wrapping around him, the soft embrace of a black cape. They weren’t on the best of terms, arguing more than having conversations, working together under masks rather than spending time together. But someone got him out. He came. And yet—
“Where’s Bruce?” he asks, tiredness pulling at his words unexpectedly.
Alfred doesn’t do anything so expressive as look away or fidget, but the faint tightening around his lips and shoulders speak as easily as if he had.
“Right,” Jason responds, looking away. He traces the detailing in the wallpaper instead. “Why would I expect anything different?”
The walls give him no answer. He doesn’t know why he got his hopes up, however small they are. He knows his place. He’s the black sheep, the warning story, the family fuck-up. Bruce saved him, sure. He’s saved the Joker, for fuck’s sake, saving Jason is the least he can do. He’s not required to do anything more, up to and including visiting Jason in his recovery.
Still, he wasn’t expecting it to hurt so much.
A pause, then: “Master Timothy has been asking to see you.”
Jason blinks, taken aback. “What?” The kid wants to see him? The little bird, as far as Jason knows, if doesn’t hate or fear him, then at least is uncomfortable around him —- understandably so. He must’ve misheard. There’s no chance the kid is willingly trying to see him if it doesn’t pertain to a case or an immediate crisis.
“Master Timothy has been asking to see you. I’ll let him know you’re awake, if you’re comfortable with that?”
“Uh—” Jason didn’t mishear. He stills in his speech, dumbfounded only momentarily before he says without much consideration— “Sure.”
Alfred nods. “I shall let him know then. Excuse me.” He leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind him softly.
The silence gives room for his thoughts to spread, grow. The explosion. The replacement. The Manor. By the time Jason hears the turning of the doorknob, Jason’s nearly worked himself up again. But as soon as he sees the mop of black hair—- his thoughts go as quiet as the room around him.
Tim walks in quietly, face watching the floor as he shuts the door behind him. His skin is paler than it should be, dark shadows under his eyes. There’s a butterfly bandage on his forehead across a deep red scab, but that seems to be all. There’s no other injuries. At least, not that Jason can see. The kid’s gaze flickers up once, briefly, as he pads towards the bed, and in that brief moment he meets Jason’s eyes. There’s no fear, not like Jason had been expecting, but there is hesitance, uncertainty.
“Hey, kid,” Jason greets, voice raspier than he’d like. From smoke inhalation or something else, he didn’t know, nor want to.
“Hey,” Tim says to the carpet, and Jason realizes this is the first time that they’ve ever spoken out of mask. It’s… surprising, somehow. It shouldn’t be, not with their tenuous-at-best relationship, but it is. It knocks him off-kilter, and he doesn’t know how to respond when Tim blurts out— “I’m sorry!”
“What? Kid—”
But Tim either can’t hear him or is too worked up to respond, “---You told me not to help, and if I wasn’t there, you might not have gotten shot, and you definitely wouldn’t have given away your helmet, and now you’re going to be in bed for weeks, and all I walked away with was a few stupid scrapes, I just ran away, I didn’t even follow B back into the building, and I’m—”
“---Kid—”
“---I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I messed up, I’m sorry you got hurt, please—”
“Tim! Robin! Take a breath!” Jason tries to sit himself up, but that hurts, even through the drugs, so he holds his arms out instead, placating. He exaggerates his own breathing, despite how much his ribs protest.
The little bird sucks in a breath, then another, and another, too fast—
“Tim! Breathe. Slowly, with me.” He reaches out a little. The kid had stopped just on the edge of easy grabbing range — whether consciously or not, but some part of him still is wary of Jason —- and Jason has to strain himself to grab the kid’s hand and tug him forwards, placing his palm against his own chest. “With me.”
He doesn’t miss the fact that Alfred had just done the same with him mere minutes ago. Slowly, Tim’s breath evens out, and a bit of clarity comes back to his eyes. His cheeks tinge pink in embarrassment, and he takes the chair next to Jason’s bed without looking at him.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
Jason sighs, and tries not to wince at how the kid tenses up at the sound. “Kid— Tim. It’s all good. You don’t have to apologize for—” he flaps his hand, “---any of it. I had as much choice in the situation as you, and you followed orders that I gave you. Don’t stress it.”
Tim shifts, but doesn’t respond. It’s clear he doesn’t agree, but Jason doesn’t press. He and the kid are rocky at best of times, and Jason doesn’t really feel like their relationship is at the point where that kind of thing would be okay.
“Are you injured?” Jason asks.
Now that gets the kid to finally look up at him. “Am I injured?” he parrots, shaky chuckles falling from his lips, “I’m not the one who had a building fall on top of him.”
“Well,” he starts slowly, acknowledging the point, “Yes. But I’m all patched up, and all but restrained to this bed ‘till further notice. Besides, you’ve known about how I’m doing since Alfred finished patching me up.”
“M’ fine,” he says, shrinking back into himself. He pulls his legs up into the chair and wraps his arms around them in a sad parody of a hug.
Jesus Christ, this kid. Jason doesn’t sigh, but it’s a near thing. “And that cut on your head? No concussion?”
TIm shakes his head no. “Your helm— Your helmet took the worst of the damage. Cracked it. Sor—” He cuts himself off, shrugging.
A little fluttery feeling goes through Jason’s chest, fast and crawling and uncomfortable. “Well. Glad you had it, then.” He’s a little surprised at how much he means the words. Cracked. The helmet broke. If Tim hadn’t been wearing it— Jason doesn’t want to think about what might’ve happened.
“Yeah,” Tim agrees halfheartedly.
The conversation trails off, and the silence that fills the space is awkward. Jason doesn’t have much to do but lay there and think, and his body slowly starts dragging him towards sleep. Tim’s faint shuffling every few minutes is the only sound in the space besides their breathing and the faint beep of the medical machines, and it’s lulling, and Jason’s just about given up on staying awake when—
“No more dead Robins.”
Jason blinks. Absorbs the words. Then swallows. Hoarsely, he chokes out, “Yeah, kid. No more dead Robins.”
—--
Jason falls asleep before Tim leaves.
He drifts, dreamless, comfortable and secure, safe.
Too content in his slumber, he isn’t even annoyed when movement in the room wakes him.
He stirs to consciousness just on the edge of too-warm as the side of the bed tips down, something weighted and radiating heat secure around his hand and wrist. Jason stretches a little, and the presence at his side — because that’s surely another hand grasping his, fingers steady against his pulse — stirs as well. They go to pull back and Jason snaps his hand out, grabbing their retreating hand unwittingly.
Their brooding presence is enough to give them away, and any threads of good feelings that Jason had mustered up snaps and trails away. He lets go of the hand. If it were anyone else, he would just pretend to go back to sleep. Unfortunately, it’s not. Reluctantly, he opens his eyes, not ready to face… this.
Bruce clears his throat.
Jason beats him to it. “Gotta admit, I didn’t really think you’d stop by, old man. What, you here to relive old times?”
Bruce’s lips thin. “I— no, Jason.” He stops. Presses his fingertips together against the edge of the bed. It’s a nervous gesture, a thinking gesture.
He notes it, but in his spoiled mood, he doesn’t really have the energy for Bruce’s constipated emotional bullshit. “Whatever. Don’t you worry. I’ll get out of your hair as soon as possible.”
It’s not like he wants to be here. Alfred is nearly always welcomed, and the kid is… okay, but being within the Manor’s walls often makes him want to crawl out of his skin, and always makes him feel like he’s on the precipice of screaming.
“You should stay at least as long as it takes you to recover.”
Jason snorts. “Please. You know I’m not going to stay a second longer than I have to. As soon as I can walk without falling on my ass—” Jason flicks his fingers.
“Hn. It’s for your own good that you remain where you can be monitored.”
“My own good. Monitored. Right. Do you hear how that sounds? C’mon, B, we both know better than that.”
His fingers all tap against one another, but his face remains the same expressionless mask as ever. “You were heavily injured. This is the best place for recovery.”
Jason scoffs. He’s not getting it. “Stop trying to lie to me. I know my place. It isn’t here. So let’s stop with all these games and bullshit. You want me gone, and I don’t want to be here. I can damn well take care of myself. All of this–” he waves his arm around, “---isn’t necessary. Just— Fucking stop it, old man. I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to accomplish, but it’s not working. Just—” his voice breaks, and he deflates into the bed, tired and done, “Just fucking leave me alone, Bruce.”
Bruce inhales sharply. Jason can’t make himself look at the man, and he aches to go back to the warm, comforting sleep from before.
His— whatever takes in another breath, deeper than before. “Jason, Jaylad, I— of course I want you here, chum. I know we don’t always… agree, or get along, but not once does that mean I don’t want you here. I’m not trying to— to accomplish anything. There’s no hidden agenda. I just want you safe.
“I love you, Jason,” Bruce’s voice is quiet, like he’s weighed down by the weight of his own speech. The words hurt worse than any gunshot wound. “I love you. And I am so grateful, everyday, that the universe decided to give you back to me. And last night—” the breath Bruce lets out is uneven.
He closes his eyes. “B—” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for. For him to stop talking, for him to leave, for him to say the words again, for him to never say them again, for—
“Last night I almost lost you again. And I am terrified of losing you again. Of losing any of you. I can’t— I can’t do it again. I can’t. Jason, I’m not trying to keep you here because of Batman, or because of some kind of punishment, or because of whatever else you think. I just— If you’re here, where I can see you, then I know you’re okay. I know you’re safe and not out there where I can’t protect you, getting injured. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for every way I failed you. I’m sorry that I make you feel not wanted. God, Jason, the last thing I ever wanted to do was make you feel like you’re not welcomed or that I don’t care about you as anything other than the Hood.”
Jason swallows past the lump in his throat and resolutely keeps his eyes close against the warmth he feels prickling up behind them.
“If I could get all you kids to hang up the mask, I would. Every night, you all go out there, risking your lives. And I’m so proud of you, of all of you. That doesn’t mean I’m not scared every night that one of you won’t make it back. All it takes is one mistake, one stroke of bad luck, and—” Bruce cuts himself off, and Jason realizes that the man is crying, silent.
God. God. Jason can’t— Jason can’t. Warm water splatters down his cheeks and he’s not surprised to know that he’s crying too. “B—”
God. It— It hurts to listen. His chest throbs, raw and torn open. “B—” He can’t make the words form. Blindly, he opens his palm hopeful, hopeless expectation.
Bruce takes it. Weathered, calloused fingertips brush against his, wrap around his own and squeeze tightly. The warmth is steadying, and Jason lets out a ragged breath. “Bruce.”
“Jaylad,” he responds, voice equally as wrecked. “Can I— Can I hug you?”
Jason nods, frantically, without even thinking about it. There’s a fleeting thought — they haven’t done this since he got back — but it’s gone as soon as it comes, Bruce’s hand is leaving his, traveling up his arm to wrap under his shoulders gingerly, the other coming up behind his head to nest in his hair. Bruce’s heat and weight press against him, gentle and all-encompassing, safe.
Jason threads his arms around his torso, grasping on tight enough to bruise bone, to make his own ribs ache. He shoves his head in the junction between Bruce’s neck and shoulder, lungs fighting to breathe as he sobs into his father.
Bruce just holds him tighter, rocking the two of them softly. He murmurs sweet, meaningless platitudes into his ear, even as his own tears trickle down into Jason’s hair.
It’s not perfect. It’s not some cure-all for his and Bruce’s problems. They’re still going to argue: Jason’s going to yell, Bruce is going to shut down. They definitely need to talk more, which they’ve never been strong at.
But it’s a start.
It’s a start.