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Jason had a bit of a rough year.
This is what Bruce said, when he caught up. “When I caught up,” that’s another one. “I only caught up with what has been going on when I found… his collection.”
The collection. Jason has a premonition that there’s already a capital C forming there, too. A codeword for the jar of tablets, white and colourful, round and rectangular, that Bruce held in his hand when Jason entered his room earlier that day.
“Jay, I'm just trying to understand what is going on here,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. And Jason could not blame him for wanting answers, especially that Bruce finding the jar wasn’t a matter of invasion of privacy. It was entirely Jason’s fault. Roughly five minutes before that, he asked him to grab a notebook from his room, because he was almost late to his AP class. He happened to forget that he kept the jar in the same drawer. So when he saw it, at first he froze, lost for words. This was not a part of the plan. If anything was a part of a plan. If there was a plan. Which there wasn’t.
“It’s not like I would do it,” he settled for saying, eventually, in defence, and that was the wrong thing to say apparently, because Bruce dropped the jar (good that there’s a carpet there), and it seemed that he really had not caught up until then. Only then it occurred to Jason that he could have made up some convenient lie. It’s not like saying that he started dealing or that he got into recreational experiments would be more humiliating than the situation that he has found himself in right now.
They waited in the Emergency Department for maybe ten minutes, after the secretary’s eyes lit up as she scanned Bruce from head to toe.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Wayne, someone will see you shortly.” She said sweetly, and passed Bruce a piece of paper. It was no more than a hospital leaflet with her phone number written down on the edge, but Bruce didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did, because he threw it out on the way to the waiting room. The woman’s smile immediately vanished. Jason almost felt bad for her.
There were plenty of other patients there, probably at least a couple in a mental health crisis. Jason made a frankly unethical game of trying to figure out what each person’s health issue was. With his experience, it was a pretty easy one; he managed to identify two broken bones, three fevers, and a case of what looked like bad food poisoning. There was also one of the Penguin’s assistants there, vaguely nauseous, and pale as a sheet. Whatever her problem was, Jason couldn’t guess. She locked eyes with him for a second, and if he were in costume, he would wave at her and ask how her nephew, Tate, was doing, and if he got into that summer programme he was applying for. But there was no reason for Jason Wayne to know about her family affairs. She would probably be also surprised if Robin remembered something she shared in small talk two months ago. Besides, when a nurse approached to lead them to an office, the assistant looked up and there was a resentful glint in her eye. He could sympathise; they did not give an impression of someone in an emergency. They were not in an emergency.
It’s just that Bruce panicked. And normally, Jason knew exactly what to do when Bruce panicked, he figured just the right tone for it years ago, and he had a whole set of smiles for it. But however hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to perform even one.
At least up until now, Bruce followed the typical pattern; he was quiet as he usually got when stressed out, the silence having a strangely intense quality that made itself known during the crazy drive to the hospital. Jason wanted to remind him that it was a Porsche and not the Batmobile, and that he would get a ticket. There was also an unhelpful part of his brain that wanted to ask: “Wow, are you sure that it’s me who’s in need of an intervention?” He opted to partake in the silence instead.
And then something most unexpected happened the moment the doctor sat down; Bruce started talking. Well, that, in itself, was not that surprising, but in a minute, he probably said more full sentences than he did for a whole day, a week even, his explanation frantic. He spoke so fast that Jason struggled to tell the words apart, and dazedly wondered if the physician got any of them too.
"He volunteers at the Memorial Clinic," he hears Bruce explaining. That is true, some of his pills were from there, but he actually got more from Alfie’s cabinet, from the med bay at the Justice Hall, and from the medkit at the Titans Tower, and Dick’s bag. He only felt guilty about the last one, especially since it was standard SSRI, so it would be useless. But who knows, it probably had the potential for freakish interactions with the metahuman meds he got from elsewhere, and the abundance of painkillers and anti-inflammatory drugs too. And Jason had a variety. That came with being careful; he would not take whole bottles nor packets. Just one, two tablets from different containers.
“Jason?” The clinician nudges. He looks up at her properly for the first time. The badge says her name is Tilly Wells. Dr. Wells has red hair and brown eyes that are bright in the fluorescent lighting of the office. She is also so exhausted it makes her seem ancient despite probably not being a day past thirty-five.
“Sorry,” he says, maybe for bothering her at all. He quickly adds: “What was the question?”
It turns out to be the standard risk assessment. He has done it with some patients at Leslie’s before too, and he never liked it. It made him feel like a cop. When he told Leslie that, she looked at him as if what he said was hysterical. There was probably an unspoken tirade about vigilantism behind that expression. He would hold his ground on this matter if he had to; at least as Robin he did not have to ask invasive questions. And he was right about it being unpleasant. Now, on the receiving end, he can feel himself getting defensive, so he negates everything. No, no, no. Three quick answers.
He’s not paying enough attention to register what the reaction of Dr. Wells is, his eyes on the wall behind her. She moves on to talk to Bruce again anyway. They’re discussing the signs now, and Jason can tell it will enter Bruce’s vocabulary too, along with other codewords.
There’s what Bruce calls simply “Ethiopia” or “the Incident”, and what Jason calls “A Near-Death Torture Experience Sponsored By His Biological Mother, Who Not Only Sold Him Out But Also Rudely Died Right In Front Of Him Despite His Best Attempts At Saving Her Life.” And there is what Bruce named “the Time” but what Jason would call “A Fortnight Of Relentless Crying After He Found Three Fragmented Corpses of Victims He Rescued from Getting Trafficked Two Nights Before. The Murderer Left the State Before They Got to Him. There Has to Be Something We Can Do About It, Has To. You’re Just Going To Let That Go? Her Head Was Packed In A Plastic Bag and Thrown In Some Random Trash, No, I Don’t Need to Calm Down, I’m Not Crying, See, I Will Find A Way.” Well, the latter usually got replaced with “No, Dad, It’s Not Happening Again, I’m Just Tired.” Or maybe as Bruce said, it was a “Bit of a Rough Year.” And these two events weren’t even the beginning nor the end of it.
Jason would not be surprised if Bruce made an Excel file to keep track of just about every tragic moment and minor meltdown he had. A whole new language invented to talk about what was wrong with him. An alphabet of Jason’s fuck-ups.
All utterly useless when talking to a civilian.
“Reckless behaviour…I think it’s self-harm,” Bruce says instead.
“Could you describe it?”
Jason stares. He knows what Bruce is talking about. The couple of lucky hits that the criminals got on him in the past weeks. And maybe they were lucky because Jason did not care enough to block properly, or because the adrenaline did not rise as it used to on the field. Or maybe because he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing there, in pixie boots, at two o’clock in the morning, fighting a mob next to his dad who was dressed as a bat. Kicking people he might as well be patching up next weekend at Leslie’s clinic.
“He’s been getting into… fights. In Park Row.“
The smell of the antiseptic in the room is suddenly making Jason sick. Sick to his stomach. He looks down and he realises that Bruce is holding both of his hands, probably been holding them from the beginning, his whole body turned in his direction, even when he’s facing the doctor. Jason’s shoelaces are loose. His throat is tight.
“Dad– Can we go home?”
They stop talking, and look back at him, like they just remembered he is there.
“I have only a couple more questions, Jason. About your medical and personal history. Do you think you can wait?” Dr. Wells asks, her voice businesslike.
He nods, now merely half listening to Bruce explaining his background. He recalls, in a terrifying moment of clarity, a visit from a social worker when he was twelve, when the worker asked about Jason’s mental health, and Bruce talked about how well adjusted he was, how little trouble. There was some worry in that statement back then too, a careful question, and a whole set of operations that he put in motion to ensure that Jason knew that he could be trouble and that he knew he could ask for things if he wanted to.
Jason glimpses at the file on the desk, a note stating his age. Sixteen. He doesn’t want to ask for anything. He doesn’t even want anything. That, Dr. Wells would perhaps say, is the problem.
“Jason. Do you have anything to add?”
He shakes his head this time.
There’s a care plan, and there’s a prescription, and close to a thousand questions Bruce has about the meds and appointments that should be made for a closer evaluation. Then there are, finally, the doors, and the fresh (as fresh as it gets in Gotham) air at the parking lot. And the grey Porsche with heated car seats.
“Seatbelt,” Bruce reminds him, but Jason’s hands are trembling so badly that Bruce ends up fastening it for him. He doesn’t need to remind him about the breathing exercises, at least. In. And out.
“Home,” he repeats, before Bruce can say anything.
And Bruce drives.
“We need to slow down a little,” Bruce says a moment later. Jason glances at the speedometer, and he’s about to say that Yeah, 35mph in the city is no good for a civilian. Once again, he says nothing.
“You’ve been putting a lot of pressure on yourself.”
“I like it.”
“It doesn’t mean that it’s good for you. Especially when it gives you an opportunity to…hurt yourself.”
But what isn’t an opportunity to hurt yourself? He doesn’t need a supply of drugs in close vicinity to do that. Not that he is planning to, either way.
He’s not sure how to even start explaining to Bruce that it’s the opposite, that it helps, that it makes him feel like he’s doing the right thing, and that he managed to reach out to some of his friends from the Alley. Before he started it, he had not spoken to Dana in years. Now, they hang out, and they had something to talk about, an effect of re-familiarising himself with the community. People recognised him. They talked to him, and they did it freely, appreciating his work. One stupid mistake shouldn’t cost him that.
“Also… Sleep schedule is important for your health,” Bruce says, and it sounds absurd, but only now it comes to him that they’re talking about Robin. About patrols, not about his Saturdays at Leslie’s.
“Oh.”
He doesn’t know what to think of the relief that overcomes him.
“Okay? I’m not taking it away from you. You can still help out,” Bruce says, and it occurs to Jason that he words it with such caution because they had a very similar conversation before, one that did not end too well. And he doesn’t even seem to be aware that this time, Jason isn’t really arguing. He doesn’t reply to it at all, and Bruce seems to have hit a limit in speaking for today, because the rest of the drive is silent.
There’s Dick’s bike in the driveway. Normally, Jason would be excited, but it’s Thursday, so it’s concerning. Dick never comes during the week, and he usually texts him beforehand, so something had to happen. A mission go wrong or an intergalactic crisis. That sort of thing. Although Dick would probably go straight to the cave if that were the case; and Bruce does not seem too alarmed at his presence.
“Come on,” he nudges gently, and opens the door for him because Jason has frozen again. His legs are so limp, for a moment he can’t think of anything but the weeks when he couldn’t walk at all. It’s almost a surprise that they work now, and when they finally move, it doesn’t feel like he’s the one behind that action.
As they enter the manor, and Bruce is tugging at his coat to take it off, Jason spots Dick’s jacket on a hanger. It’s a cool one, vintage racing leather that Jason probably wouldn’t be able to pull off as his brother does.
Despite his brother’s love for performance and fanfare, he appears in the corridor without a sound. Or maybe it’s just that Jason is too focused on taking his shoes off to care and notice anything else.
“Couldn’t you reply to my text?” Dick snaps at Bruce first, but he passes him right after. He cups Jason’s face and scans him as if he’s checking for physical injuries, or trying to read him like a psychic. His expression almost mirrors the severity of that of Bruce, but his voice instantly drops to a softer timbre:
“Hey. How are you feeling?”
Right. It’s Jason that happened.
“Like a child of divorce,” he attempts at a joke. Dick doesn’t indulge him with a smile, and okay, maybe that was an unfair jab– Both of them, Bruce and Dick, are careful not to ever involve him in their conflict. If it is even a conflict anymore, and not just a matter of principle.
“I missed my AP classes today,” he adds, and for some reason, that makes Dick’s mouth twitch.
“Yeah? Like you’re not already well ahead.”
Jason shrugs.
“You also missed dinner. Alfred made bisque, but it will take a while to reheat.”
“It’s okay. I will nap.” He usually takes a nap now, before patrol. Dick nods, but before Jason can move to leave, he opens his arms. Jason leans into the hug easily, without thinking. It’s not new. It’s familiar, but there’s something desperate in the way Dick holds him, the embrace stronger, the way he brushes through his hair more tender.
“Alright. Take your wonder nap,” he says after a moment, though it’s clear that no one is going out tonight. Jason looks up at him, searching. “I’m staying at least until tomorrow.”
Bruce is still standing there, and just glancing between them, Jason can tell that they will be having a discussion. They always wait for him to be out of the room before they talk, and he doesn't want to think about it, so he heads to his room.
He doesn’t count them, but he could swear there are more stairs all of sudden. The corridor is longer, and it takes him so long to get to his room that he can’t help but catch the muffled sounds of the conversation.
“You know how sensitive he is.” Bruce’s voice is barely audible.
He’s not sure what Dick replies, but it sounds strangled. Angry. It motivates him to take the last couple of steps.
The light in his room is offensive as he turns it on. He needs air, but the window can’t be opened fully, and he wonders when Alfred managed to install a restrictor.
It’s stupid to check if Tylenol is in its place, on the bedside table, when he knows it will not be.
At least the bed looks inviting. He takes a moment in the bathroom, to brush his teeth. In the mirror, his reflection is like a ghost. His skin got so pale that the shadows of the burn scars that are usually barely pinkish seem red. His eyes are red-rimmed too, even though he has not cried today.
He turns his gaze again and dresses to sleep. With a face buried in the pillow, there's no worry of being seen. He’s hoping to be able to skip the meal and hide himself here, when there’s a knock on his door. Bruce appears in the doorway, frowning.
“Sleeping already?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Bruce doesn’t argue. He flicks the lights instead, only the dim gleam of the bedside lamp helping him to navigate the room. That, and his Batman instincts.
He sits at the edge of the bed, and takes Jason’s hand in his own, for what has to be at least a tenth time this day. But for the first time, Jason has enough willpower to squeeze it back.
Neither says anything, and Jason dreads the moment when Bruce starts talking. He’s probably trying to figure out the angle, sorting through his internal spreadsheets. They’re going to analyse the past year in as few words as possible, or discuss the treatment, to give Jason the illusion that he has any control over it. Or maybe they will get back to the topic of how Bruce simply cannot do what Jason wants him to; the judge, jury, and executioner lecture that Jason never really needed, because deep down he knows that his cries and requests were selfish. Childish, even.
But the silence stretches. It starts feeling more like peace.
“I love you,” Bruce says, and that’s not code for anything.
And it is true.
He knows it’s true, he’s just not sure if it changes anything.
“I’m sorry.” He says. Bruce looks strangely shattered. “No, I mean, I know. Sorry. I love you too,” Jason adds lamely.
“Don’t apologise, Jay. It’s been…”
“A bit of a rough year,” Jason finishes for him. Bruce exhales.
“Sweetheart…”
Jason closes his eyes. Bruce seems to take it as his cue to stop talking, but he doesn’t leave, rubbing his hand with his thumb lightly. It’s a gesture he must have performed hundreds of times before. He did it when they were first talking to CPS, and before his first day at school, and when Jason was still learning to fly, and his knees shook a bit after every jump. He did it day after day during physio sessions when Jason was squeezing his eyes in pain. He probably did it the whole time they were in the ER today too, but Jason was too withdrawn to take notice, then.
It’s grounding now. The shaky feeling, that hollow ache that Jason has been trying to ignore is not completely appeased, but it’s easier to forget about when he focuses on Bruce’s presence, on his calloused fingers keeping his hand warm and safe. Like that, he can drift.
He barely registers the shift in the weight on the mattress later, and the gentle grip on his ankle. Then there’s another, time-worn hand that briefly touches his forehead.
The door gently shutting wakes him up for a split second. It will open and close many times tonight. He doesn’t mind.