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Bruce’s eyes snap open.
Someone is at his window. He’d fallen asleep with it closed, but now it’s been pushed open, and he can feel the cool air of the night and smell the rain and wet grass outside.
He turns his head.
There’s a moment of not recognizing — a moment of raw fear and confusion — and then things settle. Jason is crouched at the window, his white hair illuminated in a perfect halo from the lights outside the house. The rain streaming down around the world behind him gives the whole thing a soft, dreamlike quality. If Jason came to him as a ghost, he imagines, this is what it would have been like.
“Jason.” He breathes.
“You alone in there, old man?”
“Yes.”
Jason climbs in, and it’s almost like he steps into reality in that moment. Now that he can see him in the darkness of his bedroom, Jason seems firm, solid and present. He strips off his boots and wet jacket and jeans, tosses them onto a chair parked in the corner.
Bruce almost admonishes him about the rain and mud, but doesn’t. It’s so rare to have Jason in the house like this, even more special now that Bruce understands why he’s been avoiding their home.
Jason looks up from his clothes, and something like anxiety crosses over his face.
Bruce pulls back the covers. Jason relaxes, almost imperceptibly, and climbs into bed as though he was always planning to do it, as though he knew he’d be welcome no matter what.
The confidence is faked, but he wishes it weren’t. He wishes Jason knew he was always welcome in his home, in his bed.
Jason flops flat onto his back and stares up that the ceiling. “You need a new mattress.”
Bruce smiles in spite of himself. “If you’re going to complain, you can use one of the guest rooms.”
Jason is quiet for a moment. “If I stay in another room, Alfred will know I was here.”
“I don’t think he’d mind.”
“I don’t want him to know that I was here and didn’t go see him.”
Bruce smile falls. “They’re going to see eventually.”
Jason’s hands twitch. “I’m not ready.”
“Then let Dick dye it for you.”
“I can’t.” Jason says, his voice tight.
“Why not?” Bruce asks. He reaches out, very gently running his fingers through Jason’s hair.
Jason’s eyes squeeze shut. “Because it changed because of Roy.” Jason says, his voice cracking. “And I can’t—“ He cuts himself off, inhales sharply.
“Okay.” Bruce says softly. He rolls onto his side, reaching out to pull Jason against him. Jason goes easily, rolls over to press his face against Bruce’s shoulder, grasping a fist into his shirt. “Okay, okay.”
He thought this was over.
At first after Bruce had told Jason about Roy, he hadn’t heard from him at all. Jason had missions to work on, things to focus on, and Bruce felt like they’d parted on relatively good terms. It even seemed like Jason was feeling fairly okay about the whole thing. Certainly not fine, it was still a terrible loss, but he seemed steady. Put together.
Two weeks after Bruce told Jason about Roy’s death, Jason showed up at the Manor. The only thing he’d had was a ratty backpack that Bruce recognized as one of his go-bags. When he opened the door Jason had stumbled into the manor as though drunk, but clearly painfully sober.
Bruce had caught him in his arms.
For one glorious, terrible week, Jason had been home. Bruce and Alfred had taken care of him, tried to coax him into eating, into showering. He didn’t want to eat or drink. He didn’t want to get out of bed. He spent his time laying in his bed, blankly staring at the walls or the ceiling, or more often with his head buried under the covers.
And every night, Jason would creep into Bruce’s room and cry himself to sleep in his father’s arms.
One morning, Bruce awoke to an empty bed, and Jason’s bedroom empty, his go-bag gone. He feared the worst, called his son repeatedly until his phone pinged with a text.
I’m fine.
I’ll see you on patrol.
Just like that, it was like that week had never happened.
Bruce can’t help but think of it now, holding Jason in his arms and rocking him just like he’d done three months ago, when his son was falling apart.
He wonders if Jason still cries himself to sleep every night, but this time alone in his apartment, hiding his changed hair and the pain of losing Roy. The thought of it makes Bruce ache, makes him wish so badly that he’d tried harder to bring him home when Jason had disappeared from the Manor.
At the time, he’d thought Jason needed space.
Bruce knew Jason and Roy were close, were teammates and partners, had travelled together and worked together. He’d known Roy’s death was something Jason needed to learn about in-person, from family.
But he didn’t know they were this close. That Jason would rip himself apart over it. That he would be in so much pain that his body simply couldn’t ignore it.
Bruce wants to ask, but he doesn’t.
Jason isn’t crying, but he’s shaking so badly, like he’s going to fall apart. And Bruce holds onto him, as though by wrapping him in his arms he could hold him together.
“I can’t—“ Jason’s voice is shaking and breathy and muffled by Bruce’s shirt. “It feels like everything is going away—“ He’s clawing at Bruce again, digging his fingers into his shirt and arms so hard that it almost hurts, and Bruce doesn’t stop him.
Jason has always needed to hold on too tightly. He needs something to grab onto.
And he had grabbed onto Roy.
“Everyone leaves.” Jason’s voice wrenches out of his throat like it physically hurts to keep it in.
Bruce’s heart breaks. He wants to fix it. He’s a practical man, he can only look at the reality of things— these are the ways he can resolve the issue, these are the things that he can change. But there’s nothing to do here. Jason’s in pain, and he can’t fix it. He wants the impractical. He wants to pull Jason’s pain out of him and absorb it into himself, as though if he holds on tight enough it could transfer from Jason into him.
He takes in a deep breath, and his chest feels heavy from it. He knows that grief doesn’t go away, he knows so well how badly it hurts. This isn’t an agony that he can fix with bandages or money or Batman.
Bruce is not a man that is used to feeling helpless, and every time he sees one of his children in pain he is reminded what a devastating thing it is.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Bruce murmurs past the unfamiliar lump in his throat. “Shhhh.” He rubs his hand firmly up and down Jason’s back. Some of his children prefer a lighter touch — Damian in particular hates being held too tightly — but with Jason even being crushed by a hug is barely enough for him.
When Bruce had first gotten him, Jason was terrified of being touched, was prickly and angry and shrank back when Bruce got too close. His abuse was carved into his body in the worst way.
But once Jason internalized that Bruce was safe, that he wouldn’t be hurt if he got too close, it was like a switch was flipped. He needed affection constantly, needed to be physically touched, be held, be close at all times. He craved it like a drug. Dick would come to Bruce for hugs, would smile and savor them and then continue about his day, but Jason clung to him.
Bruce buries his face in Jason’s hair.
He wants to protect Jason. He wants to wrap him in cotton and keep him safe in a kinder world. He doesn’t want him to lose people. He deserves something better. He deserves a family who is safe.
But Jason got Bruce. Jason got brothers and sisters and partners who are constantly dancing on the brink of death.
Jason’s not crying, just breathing heavily, his lungs heaving as he gasps for air. Bruce isn’t sure if it’s a panic attack or just him trying to hold back tears. He tries to pull back a bit, pull Jason away from his shirt so he can get air.
“No.” Jason gasps, burying himself back in Bruce. “Don’t go.”
“Okay.” Bruce soothes. “I’m right here, sweetheart. I’m right here. I’ll be right here.” It’s not fair to Jason. Bruce could get hurt, could die, could leave Jason once again spinning out as another member of his world disappears.
Jason clings to him, shuddering. Bruce can feel Jason’s heart pounding against his chest, wills Jason to calm down, to relax into him, to let himself be held without being so terrified that he’s going to be abandoned again.
“I’ll be right here.” Bruce whispers into Jason’s hair. “I’m here. I’m here.”
He holds on tighter.
“Don’t go.” Jason begs.
“I won’t.” Bruce lies. “I’m here.”