Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Before Bruce knows it, April 27th has come yet again.

He spends little time choosing what to wear. He throws on a simple outfit for once, because today isn't about red carpet appearances or photo ops. Bruce tries to keep his mind blissfully empty, only to a moderately successful degree; it's times like these when he wishes he could shut his brain off, go on autopilot, but he isn't wired for that. The thought brings a brittle smile to his face, but as soon as he spots it in the mirror, he smooths his expression into something bland and inoffensive. That, too, slips away almost immediately.

Bruce finds that there's no need to avoid looking at his phone, because people have kept from messaging him, anyway. It's surreal, the thought that today is just like any other to the people of Gotham, when to Bruce the mere date is enough to expose the deep cavern in his heart that he knows he will never be able to fill.

Dick had come over last week, but they didn't speak about it. Tim had been pleased though, Bruce could tell, and so had Alfred, even though today loomed over them the entire time. There were no words to describe what their presence meant, just as there were no words for them to offer, either. Just their company was more than enough.

He'd had lunch with Clark a few days ago, as well. Last year, it had all felt very contrived, ringing false and utterly wrong, as though he'd been trying to offer Bruce pity. This time, it felt like a balm. Some small pocket of peace where he could accept the gift of friendship now that the wound had begun to scab over.

He hadn't patrolled last night. No one had to tell him not to. When he'd made the decision, his relief had been palpable, enough that he could ignore the small pang of guilt in his chest. Jason would have wanted… Bruce's therapist told him even he deserved to rest, and finally, Bruce has started to believe that.

Alfred is already waiting by the car when he reaches the Manor's entrance. For a moment, Bruce stands in the foyer, meeting Alfred's eyes where he sees the same bittersweet wistfulness that must be in his own. There are no greetings exchanged, but there's always been meaning in their quiet moments—

Both silence and words are gifts, Master Bruce. Those which I will always offer whenever you need them.

—Bruce has learned to appreciate that. He's learned to appreciate a lot of things over the years.

The ride over is spent similarly silent, but Bruce feels more comforted now than ever by Alfred's presence, feeling like he had when he was a young boy. They pull up to the driveway of the center, and Alfred opens the door for him again, but this time, Bruce clasps a hand on his shoulder.

"Thank you, Alfred," he says, and that is enough for them.

The foundation director greets him at the entrance with a bright, genuine smile, and instead of Brucie Wayne's enthusiastic greeting, he returns it with his own kind one. For a moment, she seems at a loss as to how to interpret his uncharacteristic subduedness. She, like everyone else, doesn't know what today means to him.

"Mr. Wayne," she says, with the relieved expression of someone who still couldn't believe he'd actually appear. She'd been caught off guard at his call last month, unused to speaking with him directly, and Bruce had made the decision to visit more often then and there. "Thank you again for coming today."

"Of course," he replies warmly, shaking her hand. "I don't come here nearly enough. My apologies about that."

"Not at all," she rushes to say. "We understand you're a very busy man."

"Never too busy for this, I assure you," he says, sincerity shining through.

She relaxes significantly before gesturing at the doors with a nod of her head. "Shall we head inside, then?"

Despite his infrequent visits, Bruce doesn't actually need a tour of the center, but she insists on giving him one anyway. The new wing had been erected last summer, and it's positively bustling now, with people looking surprised to see him; they greet Bruce as they pass and turn back to each other with hushed excitement.

"Everyone will really be very happy to see you here, Mr. Wayne."

"Bruce is fine, please," he insists, hearty; it's time for Brucie's gregarious nature to make an appearance once more.

"Alright." Her smile widens. "As I was saying earlier, we have quite a number of new volunteers, some of which I've been meaning to transition to full- or at least part-time staff," she explains, "They really should be getting paid for the work they do—they're invaluable members of the foundation as they are, it's only right they get compensated for it. But most of them barely accept the recognition. It's amazing what these young people do."

"Well, then. I'm excited to meet them," he says with a grin as they exit the hallway.

That's when someone catches his attention from the corner of his eye, and just the passing glimpse is enough to make Bruce's world stop turning.

He's not a gossip or anything like that. But when one of his fellow volunteers scurries into the breakroom and gestures furiously at him to come closer, he decides one time wouldn't hurt anyone. Besides, he doesn't like not being in the know, which nowadays, happens a fair amount.

"Who is it?" he asks curiously, raising his eyebrows as he tries to peer out of the backroom door. "Some bigshot?"

"You'll never guess." She seems eager enough to share, her attempt at a whisper coming out more like a squeal. "It's Bruce Wayne!"

"No way. He never shows himself over here." Even a staff member who's been here much longer than them both sounds curious. "Doesn't he have better things to do with his time?"

Jason's head snaps up like a bird, immediately defensive.

He looks at Jason sideways, amused. "Right, forgot you were a Wayne fanboy, Jay."

"I'm not," he rushes to say, mouth suddenly dry. He's a little lightheaded, even. Jason doesn't know why he feels compelled to explain himself, but he blurts out anyway, "I just—I feel like I owe him a lot."

They both look at him then, the staff member with a knowing smirk and the volunteer with a wrinkled forehead. Immediately, things feel a little more awkward.

"You weren't here last year," the staff member explains for her benefit, while Jason looks back outside the door and tries to ignore the heat creeping up his neck. "Jay here's one of Papa Wayne's own success stories."

Jason directs a glare straight at him.

"What do you mean?" she asks excitedly, like she's about to hear even juicier gossip.

Evidently, the asshole doesn't get the hint. "Where'd they find you again—Gotham Gen?"

"West Mercy," Jason mutters.

"Find him? Huh?" the volunteer gasps.

Jason rolls his eyes and slips past them and through the breakroom door.

"Wh—Jay!"

He strides into the hallway before he can chicken out. Mr. Wayne is at the far end, walking in his direction, chatting animatedly with the director of the foundation herself.

Oh shit. He chickens out.

He's Bruce Wayne. He's a busy man who's here for something important. He doesn't have time to shake hands with—all the words he's ever been called ring in his head—a-fanboy-charity-case-walking-Hallmark-movie.

He feels his shoulders steadily creeping up to his ears and turns on his heel quickly, berating himself. What was he even thinking? That he was ever going to get to say a word to Bruce Wayne? For a moment, however, it's like his shoes are glued to the floor. His hands are shaking.

Breathe.

"Jason?"

He flinches.

Jason glances backwards quickly, because that voice had come from far too close behind him. Jesus fuck, how'd Mr. Wayne cross the whole hallway that fast—?

Their eyes meet. Jason's breath gets caught in his throat, and he can't find the strength to look away.

Neither can Mr. Wayne, it seems.

"Sorry," Jason says, voice rough and almost shy, hating himself more and more with each second that passes.

Mr. Wayne looks… lost.

Jason stares up at him, wide-eyed, because he can't even begin to understand the look that's being directed at him, like Jason is—a ghost.

"Bruce?" The director says hesitantly, catching up to Mr. Wayne.

Jason finally turns away from him to look at the director in confusion, but she doesn't seem to understand what's going on either.

"Oh, have you met Jason before? I was going to introduce you, but…" She shoots Jason an inquisitive look, but he just shakes his head jerkily.

"No," Jason denies immediately, and he feels more than sees that Mr. Wayne's as still as a statue beside them. "… This is the first time."

"I saw you in the packet I received from the director," Mr. Wayne cuts in fluidly, and when Jason's eyes snap back to him, he looks composed. As though the last few moments hadn't happened at all. "My team received a brief on your projects here." It's like he has to drag himself away from Jason to address the director.

When Mr. Wayne looks at him again, though, Jason finds he still can't breathe.

"Um—"

"Could we have lunch?" Mr. Wayne says, rushed, and then abruptly chastised, as though he regrets it immediately.

Why Bruce Wayne—the richest and most powerful man in Gotham, and the man who'd saved his life—would want to have lunch with him, Jason would never know.

But in the face of those wide, desperate eyes, there's no way he can say no.

Chapter Text

It's strange to think a year's passed since he's gotten his life together.

He owes everything to the Thomas Wayne Foundation: the paid hospital bills from his time at West Mercy, the job that he loves working at the library, even the clothes he wears on his back. He tells himself this is enough, that he doesn't need his memories back, but the ache in his chest never goes away.

Now that Jason's sitting beside Bruce Wayne on a bench in the center's courtyard, the pain returns tenfold. He can't explain why it hurts so much, or why it also fills him with a feeling that tells him he's safe.

Mr. Wayne is looking around the scenery, but somehow Jason knows his full attention is on him. He tries not to look uncomfortable at it, but he thinks he must fail miserably.

"I-" Jason makes a valiant attempt at conversation; he fails. "Sorry the Director couldn't be here for lunch. But I know she wouldn't have left you with me if the call weren't urgent."

"It's no problem." Mr. Wayne's voice is low, soothing. Jason hadn't thought he'd be so quiet. "My apologies for springing this on you last minute. I needed a break from the tour—everything suddenly felt a little… overwhelming."

Jason nods quickly, latching onto that; the foundation he can talk about easily, so he relaxes a little. "Yeah, we're pretty busy nowadays. Lots of projects going on; I can imagine it's a lot to take in."

He stops fiddling with the wrapper of his sandwich and tears it open, Mr. Wayne taking the cue to start eating his own. That Jason's eating cucumber sandwiches with Bruce Wayne—the thought is absurd.

"Yes. You're doing good work here," Mr. Wayne says, and Jason's surprised at how genuine he sounds. "Your initiative in particular holds a lot of promise. It's admirable how you're uplifting the homeless who have no access to a support system—"

"I wanted to thank you!"

Mr. Wayne looks startled at his outburst, and Jason can't blame him. He's mortified himself. Mr. Wayne's mouth parts, but no words come out. Oh god; he's broken Bruce Wayne.

"I really… wanted to thank you." His hands are cold and clammy and his mouth suddenly dry. But Jason steels himself, makes it so that he doesn't falter anymore, not when he's saying something as important as this. Breathlessly, he pushes forward, "Mr. Wayne, you changed my life."

Mr. Wayne holds Jason's gaze the entire time, but he can't even begin to fathom the depth of what he sees in those eyes. He inhales deeply.

Don't be afraid.

"The foundation gave me everything when I needed it most. Got me back on my feet after…" He shakes his head before carrying on. "The hospitals you fund help people more than you can imagine. The foundation gives free housing to those who have nowhere to go. Their character references were the only reason I could even interview for a job."

He lets out a laugh that's more of a shaky exhale than anything. His cheeks are flushed with relief at finally having said the words out loud, and he feels the knot of tension in his chest release for the first time in a year. It's felt like an entire lifetime, these twelve months, and it's funny how all of it has led up to this one moment.

"I know this isn't the work of one person. But I wouldn't be where I am without what you started. So… I wanted to thank you, Mr. Wayne. For all that you've done for me."

"Bruce," Mr. Wayne says hoarsely, and Jason's breath hitches. "Please call me Bruce, if that's alright."

"Okay," he says, voice thick. "Bruce. Thank you."

"Where do you work?" Bruce asks, instead of the million other things he wants to know.

Jason chews his food faster. Bruce feels a pang of fondness, barely able to keep from telling him to take it easy. Back when Jason first came to the Manor, the habit had baffled Bruce, at least until he'd said, when a guy like you asks a question, B, he ain't gonna wait for an answer.

Bruce wonders if this young man in front of him has also had to live such a life.

"At the East End Library," Jason says after he swallows. "It's a twenty minute walk from my apartment."

"The library," Bruce repeats, testing the feel of the words on his tongue.

Jason nods. "Yeah. It's pretty big and really well-maintained. I think you guys fund it too."

"But you like it there?" Bruce asks, insistent.

Jason pauses. The smile that forms on his lips brightens up his whole face.

"I love it," he says simply, and it's more than enough for Bruce.

It's been exactly two years since he'd last seen Jason alive and well. Oh, Bruce has seen him plenty of times after his death of course, in dreams and in waking hours, in moments of weakness at the bottom of a bottle. Jason had haunted him. Bruce knows that if the child he lost were to know that, he'd be heartbroken.

His precious boy. His son, too sweet for this world that it ate him alive. Jason had been good, had felt so much love but so much hurt as well, and Bruce had loved him in return but in the end it wasn't enough.

Those first few months after… They'd been the hardest of his life. Bruce had felt only pain at the beginning, but guilt had soon followed. The shame had come much later.

I'm scared, Alfred, Dick's hushed words outside his bedroom door. I'm scared I'll wake up tomorrow and he'll be gone, too.

Your death changed him, Tim in front of Jason's grave, a confessional Bruce shouldn't have been witness to. Batman fought like he wanted to die. And I could tell that's what Bruce wanted, too.

I shall not lose another son, Alfred, and it was a promise as much as an order. You will not do this to me, Master Bruce. I won't let you.

"Bruce…?" Jason says, hesitantly.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I wish I could have done more."

Jason looks uncertain; it's an expression that doesn't belong on his face, and Bruce had put it there. He needs to pull himself together.

"Your project," he says, inclining his head, "could you tell me more about it?"

Jason's silent for a moment longer, but he nods. "Yeah, 'course."

His voice is lower now but still familiar, and Bruce just allows himself to get lost in it. To bask in a presence he's not sure is even real. He knows this isn't the end of it—eventually he has to return to reality: there is a young man with his son's face who's been in Gotham lord knows how long, and Bruce needs to figure out how.

He needs to run tests. He'd gotten Dick to call the center earlier under the pretense of WE and foundation affairs, just so he could get Jason alone. He won't be able to confirm everything for certain, but Jason's discarded wrapper next to him would have to do for now.

Bruce needs to stop thinking like a father and do his job.

Bruce Wayne gives him his personal calling card.

"I—are you sure?" Jason blinks up at him owlishly. "I'm not really anyone… you know, important."

Bruce shakes his head. "What you do is important, Jason."

Jesus. The guy acts like nothing he'd expected. Bruce was supposed to be the Prince of Gotham or something, last he heard, but so far he's seen none of the—he hates to say it—airheadedness and incompetence that everyone seems to think he has. He treats the foundation like it's actually important, that their projects are worth paying attention to and investing time in. He even says Jason's name with weight like he genuinely cares about the work he's doing.

"Are you alright?" Bruce asks lightly. He leans in a little, looking at him closely. "Your face is red."

"I'm fine!" he squeaks. Bruce seems amused by that, so Jason buries his face in his hands and groans. "It's nothing, really."

There's no response. Something in the air changes, and Jason peeks out from behind his fingers to furrow his brow at Bruce.

Bruce, who's staring at his hands.

Oh.

"S-sorry," he stutters, snatching them away from his face. "They're not… very nice to look at. Sorry."

He squeezes them by his sides to hide them, but Bruce just looks at his face with a quiet, inoffensive expression. But Jason couldn't bear any sort of awkward silence, not after getting so comfortable with Bruce, so he just keeps talking.

"I know they bother some people. The scars," he offers. His hands are one of many, many things he hates about himself, and they aren't even the worst part of him. "I was in an accident, so."

Jason doesn't sugarcoat it. His hands are poor, ugly things, remnants of his past injuries. The doctors at West Mercy hadn't considered fixing them aside from mobility, so the scars had remained and so had their crookedness. His nails never really grew back properly either. He hates feeling self-conscious about them, but it's not anyone else's business, he tells himself.

He doesn't even think about how he got them.

"I'm sorry that happened to you," Bruce says simply; it's so different from the looks of pity or the insensitive questions that usually follow hearing about it.

He almost says 'car accident' even though Bruce hadn't asked. That's usually enough to keep people off his back, although Jason knows it's not the truth. He doesn't know what's true, even with the nightmares.

Jason shrugs, brushing it off. "It happened a year ago. It's fine now."

And it is, sometimes, when he's able to forget. That's what he loves about his life working as a volunteer—you do enough good in the world and it doesn't matter how rotten you are, or that you don't deserve any good, yourself.

There are a few moments of heart-stopping silence. Bruce's eyes drift towards the side for a bit, and Jason holds his breath. This is where he loses what little semblance of peace that he's gotten.

But all Bruce does is nod. "Alright." And he doesn't pry.

Jason presses his lips together, looking stricken, not sure how to feel about yet another thing he's grateful to him for.

Bruce Wayne is kind.

Chapter Text

The prints are a 67% match.

Bruce is neither disappointed nor surprised; from the beginning, he'd told himself to temper his expectations, and he's always been exceedingly skilled at compartmentalizing, anyhow. Muscle memory is what keeps him steady as he pores over the results of the computer analysis—what keeps him from falling apart.

It isn't a perfect match, but he isn't disheartened; that can easily be explained by the scarring on Jason's hands. He steadfastly does not think of the sight of them.

The lack of definitive answers makes Bruce press his lips together and narrow his eyes at the screen. Right now, there's only one other thing he can do.

"Oracle." He tunes into their network, a secure line that only the two of them have access to.

It's 9:00 PM, far ahead of any of their patrol schedules, but he knows she's listening anyway. She always is. Barbara is one of the few people in their line of work who remains as vigilant as him.

Oracle deals in secrets because she knows the value they hold. It just so happens that Batman is the only one with the currency to afford all of them. There are no wasted words between them, no yes, Batman, or I need a favor from you. The gravity in his voice is sufficient.

"Compile all the footage from within the Thomas Wayne Foundation center along with its perimeter from the last six months. The CCTV recordings of the East End Library as well. I need these by tonight."

He doesn't mention any names by design. Bruce hasn't ruled out the likely suspects: magical doppelganger, clone, an elaborate illusion, or merely a severe mental breakdown on his end.

But deep down… he knows that boy is his son.

Bruce heard this Jason refer to him as "Mr. Wayne" countless times, but the first time he'd called him Bruce, he very nearly lost his composure. Jason's voice had only ever been that low, that tentative, the first time he called him Dad—that time Bruce had gotten hit with fear toxin and Jason was so afraid to see him hurting.

He saw Jason devour a meal like he wasn't sure when or if he'd ever be allowed to eat again. Bruce witnessed him squirrel away a muffin from the cafeteria in his backpack. Blueberry. Jason loved blueberries.

And earlier, Bruce clapped him on the shoulder, feeling his warmth through a threadbare hoodie, like he had when Jason finally stopped flinching at his approach. It was so different from the last time he'd held his son in his arms, when he'd hugged his cold corpse and tears had trailed down his cheeks at the sight of the Y-shaped incision on his torso. He had begged for it not to be true.

The young man from today is Jason Todd, his son, the boy who had held his heart in the palm of his hand the moment he'd looked up at Bruce and told him, I'm not afraid of you.

He knows that his son and the Jason he met are one and the same, and Bruce has never been afraid to say the words: in every life, Jason, I love you with all my heart.

"What the hell are you playing at?" Barbara hisses into his ear a mere thirty-four minutes later.

"Upload the video files to my server immediately."

"Explain everything to me now. Bruce—"

He turns off his phone, grabs the shovel from the trunk of his car, and walks through the gates of the cemetery.

What the fuck.

Jason squints at his phone before rolling his eyes. He has half a mind to check his bank account or to see if he's been hacked; that's what scammers do, right, shit like that?

Things had felt so surreal yesterday that a minor annoyance like this is actually a nice distraction, like something from a cheesy movie. What are those called again… meet cutes…?

He checks his banking app to be safe, anyway.

To say he's baffled is an understatement; as the conversation progresses, his eyebrows creep closer and closer to his hairline. But a part of him is amused, and just a little bit entertained, truth be told.

Jason doesn't have many friends. It's a little embarrassing to admit, but… He stifles a sigh, resting his cheek in his hand and trying not to frown. He's just a little too harsh, he guesses, a little too quiet. Jason has no clue how to hold a normal conversation, no matter how much his coworkers invite him out to grab a bite to eat, and he doesn't think it's just because he's a couple of years behind on the pop culture front.

He likes to read—a good thing when you work at a library—and he likes to cook—not really a multi-person hobby. He likes to work a lot, and he doesn't even find it boring. When he's not working, he's studying to get a GED, supplemental classes courtesy of the foundation yet again.

So, yeah. Jason needs to get a life. It's difficult when no one really wants to talk to you, though.

But this person seems to want to talk. It's… nice. He curls in on himself, feeling a little pleased all things considered.

Jason smiles. He clicks his phone shut, only to turn it on again not five seconds after. Time to apologize to his supervisor for being an hour late.

He should be ashamed when Alfred finds him on his knees beside Jason's tombstone, curled over the edge of the pit as though he wants to join his son six feet under. There's no one for him to join down there. Jason's not resting peacefully in his grave.

The grave is not empty, however. Bruce sees the edges of the mahogany coffin, barely recognizable as it is with its rotting wooden edges. Coffins aren't supposed to rot, Bruce thinks. But its lid is caved in, weighed down by packed mud that Bruce couldn't make himself dig up any longer, because his son isn't there.

There's a gasp behind him, but Bruce doesn't know what Alfred must see: the work of a madman, attempting to exhume a boy's grave? A broken father consumed by the grief brought about by his the anniversary of his child's death? Or the final resting place of his own grandson horrifyingly defiled?

But Bruce feels no shame because there is nothing left in him at all. He is not numb—it isn't that he cannot register the pain, or grief, or anger, because there is nothing in him but a vast, unfathomable void.

It's as though everything has stopped existing.

Bruce can pinpoint the exact second it dawns on Alfred, because his legs give out just in time for Bruce to catch him. He gets stains of brown and red on Alfred's immaculately pressed jacket.

"Careful, Alfred. Your knees," Bruce says quietly.

Alfred merely lets out a low, pained sound, grabbing a fistful of mud and clutching at the ground like his life depends on it. Bruce sees it caked under his nails, and with a spark of realization, the sensation comes tenfold: his own fingers are sore from clawing at the dirt, blood dripping sluggishly from his palms and fingertips from the abrasions he'd collected while carelessly scraping at the hole in the coffin's lid.

Oh god.

Chapter Text

Bruce comes back to the center three days later, to everyone's surprise.

They're instructed to keep their gossip to a minimum. The others aren't particularly good at it, Jason thinks, and keeping things quiet is frankly an impossible challenge among overworked, unentertained youths; when it's time for work, their 21-and-under group chat already has a few blurry candids and exactly one selfie with Bruce, which—okay.

He stares down at his phone and its non stop buzzing with bafflement, his coworkers now detailing, of all things, the route Bruce is taking throughout the building. Next is a photo of that infamous press smile, then a message declaring boldly that Wayne's aftershave smells like money, and after that is a thirst post that makes him roll his eyes to the high heavens.

Jason opens another chat, hesitating only briefly before shooting off his own message asking Duckie if he knows anything about the foundation's special guest. Barely ten seconds later comes Duckie's reply, a simple, Godspeed, Jay, with a saluting emoji that leaves Jason utterly bemused.

Thirty minutes later and he understands why Duckie thought he'd need the encouragement.

When he arrives at the center for his shift, there's a crowd of reporters waiting out front. Jason frowns and doubles back, circling the building to get to the small employee entrance at the other side.

"Morning, hon," comes a weirdly familiar greeting from one of the volunteers. She bats her eyelashes at him.

The others greet him similarly, and it takes a while for Jason to realize that news of his little lunch date with Bruce have made their rounds after all.

His glare is enough to fend off their nosy attempts at gossip, thankfully, with most of them teasing more than anything. Still, he laments another missed opportunity to make friends with his coworkers, but tells himself it's none of their business. They leave him alone eventually, thank fuck.

Jason huffs a heavy sigh. He's so on edge, restless in a different way than the others, and he barely registers them coming and going until he's finally alone in the room.

He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against a locker, the cool metal doing wonders for his overheated skin.

The breathing exercises don't help. The mantra of in for four, hold for seven, and out for eight had been his best friend for the past year, but today it's like those first few months all over again—that period of time where he'd be fine one moment, and in the next be trapped in a place where there was no air to breathe in at all.

These moments are the hardest, if he's being honest with himself. Not the nightmares that have him sweating through his sheets, or the sharp flare ups that convince him that his body's breaking down. Fear he can push through, and pain always passes. No, what he hates the most is this terrible feeling of loss that leaves him raw and empty and overwhelmed. It doesn't make any sense.

Why does it feel like he's grieving?

Bruce is hiding in a broom closet.

At least, that's what it feels like after that hour-long attack of claustrophobia that hit him out of nowhere. He had sidestepped the tabloid reporters with an ease that only comes after years of practice, and the foundation director, as guilty as it made him feel, was similarly easy to dodge.

The horde of middle-aged women was, unfortunately, much harder to shake off.

Bruce lets out a long breath, resting his forehead against the door which he'd locked for good measure. It doesn't take long to compose himself, and he smiles wryly at the thought that he really should shed this little habit of his.

A cursory glance around the place, and he takes stock of his surroundings; he's in a break room of some sort, in a secluded part of the center, one with little foot traffic now that people have started working properly.

But he isn't alone in here, he registers soon enough.

There's a thrumming under his skin that he can't explain; he's reasonably in no danger here at the center, and he'd be able to defend himself from any threat, no matter. He doesn't know what he'll find around the corner, but once he sees past the lockers he understands exactly why he was drawn to this room in the first place.

Jason.

It's always Jason.

He's facing away, but Bruce would recognize the crown of his head anywhere, and Jason's curly hair that he'd ruffled so many times before. In the silence and from this far away, Bruce sees him in a different light than he had two days ago:

Jason's taller now, he realizes with a twinge in his chest, long limbs telling of a growth spurt that isn't quite over yet. He isn't as muscled as he had been as Robin, but neither is he malnourished like the 12-year-old Bruce had first met. But… there's a crookedness to Jason's form that hadn't been there before, and he knows, he remembers everything that had been in that medical report—Bruce can list any of the dozens of injuries that would account for that.

He's striding forward before he knows it, starting to call his son's name out, hand landing on Jason's shoulder—

But in a split second, Jason's whirled around and has his fingers wrapped around Bruce's wrist, mouth parted in a choked gasp, eyes wide and panicked with a grip strong enough to make his bones creak.

Bruce's heart has stopped. In front of him, it looks like Jason's has, too.

… The spell breaks and time starts once more.

"Holy fuck, B, you scared me!" Jason exclaims.

And it's his voice, and his face, and his stance, and Bruce is back in that Alley where he'd been saved all those years ago.

There's absolutely nothing else he can do but look back with stricken eyes and whisper, "Jay…?"

Jason's brow knits into a glare, one so familiar it has Bruce's lips twisting. For a moment, it's him, there's no question, this is his boy—but then Jason's snatching his hand back and there's a horrified expression on his face that doesn't belong.

"I—oh my god, Bruce, I am so sorry," Jason stutters. His eyes dart from Bruce's face down to his wrist and back up. "I'm—I didn't mean—"

"Jason," Bruce says blankly. He hates how he can't help his own expression from shuttering, face smoothing over into something impersonal and inoffensive. Detach himself from the situation, take a step back and analyze what the hell it is that just happened. "It's—" You're alright, Jaylad. "There's no need to apologize. I'm sorry for startling you."

"Your wrist…"

"It's fine. You didn't hurt me." He holds up his hands slowly, taking a step back, trying not to crowd Jason; it's no use, however, because his walls are already back up. Bruce slides on a mask, but he can't manage Brucie at all, not when his mind is screaming at him to gather Jason in his arms and never let go. "That was entirely my fault."

Jason looks like he still wants to say something, but instead all he does is ball his hands into fists by his side.

"I don't know what got into me," he manages eventually. Jason shakes his head, brow furrowed like he's fighting with something on the inside.

"I'm sorry for frightening you."

"I'm not afraid," Jason says, defensive. His voice rings out in the room, making Bruce frown in worry. "I know you wouldn't hurt me."

Bruce takes a deep breath.

Jason seems to realize what he's said, and he makes a confused, aggravated noise, running a hand down his face harshly.

There are those scars again. Now that Bruce knows exactly how he'd gotten them, he feels the phantom pain under his fingernails once more, and he knows it'll haunt him forever.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Jason looks up, obviously trying to shake off the distress; he seems desperate to change the topic, so Bruce lets it go.

"Oh. I was… hiding."

Jason blinks slowly. "Hiding. From what?" At Bruce's wince, understanding dawns on his face, and he raises an eyebrow. "The girls got to you, huh."

All Bruce does is smile charmingly.

Jason barks out a laugh. "God, B, I can't believe you."

This time, he doesn't catch the nickname, and Bruce's heart constricts in his chest. For a few seconds, it's comfortable, like they're both in on a little joke, but the moment fades soon enough.

"Well, if you don't need anything else from me," Jason says after a long pause, shifting awkwardly on his feet, "I guess I better get to work."

"Wait." After everything that just happened, Bruce can't possibly let this go. But he doesn't know what to say and that terrifies him, the idea that this could be it, that he's just about to let his son slip through his fingers again. He doesn't know what to say.

Jason's eyes meet his hesitantly, filled with something like yearning—like hope.

For the first time in two years, Bruce feels it, too.

"Actually, there is something I wanted to talk to you about."

Jason walks into the cafeteria in a daze.

He makes a beeline for the self-serve buffet in the middle of the room, scooping some roast beef and mashed potatoes onto a plate. One of the great things about the center's facilities is that the food is good and the food is free, with staff members allowed however many helpings they want. There are takeaway containers under the island, even, and although he enjoys cooking, most of Jason's dinners are actually from this place.

Why he's thinking about the convenience of cafeteria meals right now is beyond him, but after the last three hours he's just had, he can hardly blame himself. Better to focus on food and enjoy the most bizarre dream he's ever had while it lasts.

"Hey!" A staff member snaps when he bumps into them, making Jason tense up, but after a moment where he can't make himself respond, her frown turns slightly worried. "You alright, kid?"

"Yeah, sorry," he says gruffly, ducking his head and hurrying to a table in the corner of the room.

The conversation he'd had with Bruce… is unreal. None of it makes any sense, not the fact that Jason now has the number of one of the most important men in the country in his cellphone, or that there's an accompanying message saying, This is Bruce, or that he'd signed it with a -BW like an old man.

He still hasn't replied. What could he even say to that? To any of what Bruce had just told him?

The only thing keeping him from losing his mind is the fact that he has the rest of the week off to think about things.

No one bothers him for the next fifteen minutes, thank god. Jason eats in peace, shoveling food into his mouth and chewing quickly like he always does, so he can get back to work as soon as possible. It's a sad existence, maybe, but at least this way he doesn't lose sight of what's actually important—like, you know, helping people. Even if his world's just been turned on its head.

The peace is disturbed when someone crashes in through the doors with an unhinged look of glee on his face; he rushes towards a table with unmistakable excitement, and Jason sees other people turning to peer at them curiously. Despite himself, Jason's eyes dart over there too, sinking in his seat while dread settles in his gut.

Then everyone hears what he has to say, and the whole room breaks into chaos.

Bruce Wayne just donated 20 million dollars to the foundation—

—and left some green nobody in charge of the money!

Chapter Text

I don't think I've ever seen a kid this excited to visit a library, the man says, sounding puzzled, but for some reason Jason thinks he might be smiling.

There are bookcases spanning the entire room, filled with endless volumes he can't make out the names to. They're so tall. Or maybe he's just short. It's so easy to feel tiny when you're surrounded by so many words.

I feel like I'm dreaming right now, Jason hears himself whisper, and—oh. He is. This is a dream, another of the good ones, the ones that he always wishes would never end. He wishes it were a memory, because he has so few of those. I kinda don't want to wake up.

The man chuckles, but he lowers his voice as Jason had just now. That's really nice of him. It's rude to make noise in a library, you know, not that a lot of people back in Crime Alley even cared.

Well, if this is a dream, then tomorrow at breakfast make sure to ask me to take you.

Jason wrinkles his nose, because get a load of this guy, right? Man, it's unreal how weird you are sometimes—

The man's name slips out, but he just can't hold onto it.

How am I the weird one? the man asks amusedly.

You just are. I don't think I've ever seen a grown ass man willing to take someone who isn't even his kid to a place like this. Jason rolls his eyes and huffs.

With care, the man reaches out to ruffle his hair. He knows he'd ducked away from it, but in the dream—because it is a dream—Jason leans into the touch.

Can I go now? This place is huge—I wanna make some headway before it gets dark.

A fond sigh. Alright, Jay. Just don't wander off…

But as much as he wants to stop himself from running away, from ruining everything again, all Jason does is call out:

I know you'll find me anyway, old man!

Right?

Come find me—

Jason's eyes flutter open.

"… please," he mouths against his damp pillow, lashes thick with tears.

Bruce is in a good mood this morning, all things considered.

Absently, he hums a tune one of the kids had been playing in the kitchen, but promptly clears his throat and coughs when he realizes he's doing it. He's nursing only a single fractured rib and having breakfast in his study—a rare indulgence, or some would say an indication that he's letting himself go—looking over paperwork that he for once doesn't actually mind doing.

His pen doesn't hesitate as he dots and crosses literal i's and t's, signing over millions of dollars to the care of his 17-year-old.

Bruce keeps his expression blank just in case Alfred comes into the room and finds him laughing hysterically to himself. Jason is 17 years old, and according to all the evidence in front of him, Jason is not dead. Bruce sets his pen aside and covers his face with a hand.

Jason's coffin is in a secluded part of the Cave, where no one else has seen it since Bruce hauled it out of his grave. It won't stay that way for long. He's running out of time, and there's only so many times he can dodge Barbara's calls. Alfred hasn't spoken to him about it since that night, either, but Bruce knows he also owes him an explanation.

He owes them all an explanation.

Buzzing from his phone draws him from his thoughts, but without looking at the caller, he waits for it to go to voicemail. That in itself is like his own silly private joke—no one leaves Bruce Wayne a message over the phone.

It's likely to be another one from his lawyers anyway, which he usually ignores… which, in turn, makes for a very unhappy legal team. Oh well. It isn't unlike Brucie to be careless with his money, and he doesn't need to justify himself to them. It's his money. It's his foundation, and he can do whatever he damn wants with it.

Jason is his son.

It feels a little bit like he's indulging in something unhealthy. Like it's a fantasy almost, some messed up version of fear toxin that's giving him everything he could ever want. The realization, while sobering, isn't enough to extinguish the hope in him, not when it's the most at peace he's felt in months.

Then he sees the caller ID and nearly works himself up into a heart attack.

His eyes dart towards the study's doors, and then to the grandfather clock, and then back to the phone. Bruce tells himself it's for his cover when he takes seven more rings to answer.

"Hi," Jason says gruffly.

"Hello," Bruce replies pleasantly.

There's shuffling on the other side of the line, a distant honk of a car horn, and a lot of yelled cursing. Jason coughs, presumably to muffle the sounds, and Bruce can practically see the tips of his ears redden in his mind's eye.

"You wanted to talk to me?" Jason says, sounding impatient. He stopped being jumpy around… hour two of their meeting the other week.

Good. Bruce is glad. That's how it should be.

"Oh, yes. I was actually hoping to speak to you in person, however."

"What?" This time, Bruce imagines he's wrinkling his nose. Sounding suspicious, Jason asks, "Why?"

Bruce doesn't miss a beat. "I want you to give me a tour of your library."

"Uh, no," Jason fires back immediately, and doesn't even question the strange request. "Sorry," he says, not sounding particularly apologetic, "but you'd attract way too much attention. With, you know, your everything."

"You're hosting an event next week, correct? For the youths?"

"The library is hosting an event," Jason grumbles, and Bruce hears him repeat the phrase "for the youths". "It's not mine. It's a public library, B."

There's that nickname again, but today it doesn't make his chest constrict the way it did when he'd first heard Jason say it. It doesn't make much sense, perhaps, that Bruce feels lighter now than he has in forever, even with all of this uncertainty.

He lets the smile be heard in his voice. "It's a library that you work for. Therefore it's your library."

"You'll scare the kids away," Jason says stubbornly, ignoring his nonsense. "Or you'll bring the press again and it'll ruin the whole thing."

Bruce hums. "A little press wouldn't be so bad, would it?"

"It's not a fundraiser. We advertise things just fine."

"Living in the limelight has its perks, you know. This could be one of them."

"Sure, Bruce. But no one wants storytime interrupted by the paps snapping a shot of you and your latest celebrity date," Jason scoffs.

"I'd go incognito. No one will even know I'm there."

A snort. "Yeah, right."

"I want to go, if you'll hear me out," he says earnestly.

"Fine. Why do you want to go so badly?" Jason asks, sounding exasperated.

You don't have to come, B. My grades are fine! I'm not stupid.

I know you're not. But I want to be there, Jaylad.

No one else's parents are coming!

Oh? No other parents are going to your school’s PTA meeting? Hmm.

Ugh. You know what I mean.

Well, I want to go. After all, I'm going to need proof if I want to brag about my son being on the honor roll.

B!

"My son would have wanted to go," he finally says.

There's silence on the other end. Bruce waits.

He has been waiting. He’s been waiting for forever and he hadn’t even known it.

And all this time, Bruce has kept Jason waiting too.

Oh my god, Bruce, you are so obnoxious. Fine—

"You can come," Jason says quietly.

Suddenly, it’s difficult to breathe.

"—but no paps, okay? I mean it," he makes sure to add, even as his throat threatens to close around the words. "Sorry, Bruce, I gotta go. See you."

Nausea threatens to overcome him, but Jason still has some sense in him not to get sick right here on the street. That doesn't make him any less rattled than he is.

Another car honks as he hangs up in the middle of the crosswalk, but Jason just flips it off. He takes a good look at his scarred, crooked fingers while he's at it; after all, they're one of the few things that's been keeping him tethered to reality nowadays.

As much as Jason's been preoccupied with how much his life is changing, there's something he just hasn't been able to ignore, no matter how hard he tries.

Because Jason looks like Bruce Wayne's dead son.

The thing is, Jason knows he's been naive about all this. About Bruce and his life and his memories and his past. About things being too good to be true. About the fact that people have started to whisper things behind his back.

It's not even about the money. The 20 million fucking dollars is both a blessing and a curse anyway, because now Jason's on everyone's radar when he'd just wanted to keep his head down and do his job.

Now he can't even sit in the cafeteria without hearing people's not-so-ridiculous theories about how exactly he knows Bruce.

It had been too absurd to even consider, at least at the beginning. Sure, Bruce had changed his life in an entirely different way—Jason had known this to be true since before they'd ever even met, but he's—he's not Jason Todd.

Bruce Wayne's son had died three and a half months before his 16th birthday. He'd been 5'3", short for his age, but the pictures from various galas had made him look fierce and strong. A spitfire. Larger than life.

He is none of that.

Jason is prickly. He's ugly, from his crooked bones, to the white streak growing from the scar at his hairline, to that godforsaken why carved onto his chest. To the fucking emptiness and rage that have him screaming himself hoarse most nights.

He's broken.

So Jason knows. He knows that this couldn't possibly be true.

He is not Bruce Wayne's son.

Somehow, Jason always ends up at West Mercy, feet gravitating towards the hospital like they'd led him here a dozen times.

The nurses are glad to see him. It makes something warm bloom in his chest as much as it does twist something painfully in his gut.

"Hey, Crys," Jason calls out when he sees the familiar brown hair.

"Jay," she exclaims, spinning around to look at him. She seems surprised to see him but pleased at the same time.

She lowers her clipboard and leans it against her hip, tapping at her chest with her pen in the way Jason knows is to keep her hands busy. It wouldn't do for a nurse to hug a patient outright, after all—she'd said as much the day he'd been discharged.

In all his months of recovery here, Jason wouldn't say she'd been the nicest nurse, but he knew she was kind. That she'd always wanted to help.

"You look good, hon. Haven't seen you here in a hot minute—everything alright?"

Having steeled himself for this, Jason doesn't so much as pause.

"I wanted to ask you about the night I was admitted… Can you tell me anything about the woman who found me?"

Chapter Text

There are gaps in his own memory, Bruce is ashamed to admit.

Those first six months after Jason's death had been the most difficult. Which isn't to say it's gotten any easier, but… There's a different sort of terrifying to waking up with hands bruised and bloodied and not knowing how you'd gotten there. To have to turn to someone else and ask if you'd just crossed a line—if you've killed a person.

Bruce has dreamt of killing people before: the Joker, most of all; his other Rogues, his allies in the League; his friends, his family, his children. Even, to his utmost shame, Jason.

Sometimes Bruce still thinks, despite everyone around him telling him that he is wrong, that he had been the one to kill Jason with his own two hands.

Sometimes Jason dreams of dying.

He's never told anyone that before. Jason's not in the habit of making a nuisance of himself, not when that's already all he's been these last two years. But more than that… he doesn't have anyone to tell, anyway.

Dying isn't even the worst part about those dreams, which sounds morbid but it's true. It feels a little like release, because dying means letting go—letting go of each of your pains; of every single persistent fear; of all that wonderful, useless, aching hope.

A. There's a woman in front of him, and it's a race against time to save her. Jason doesn't know her at all, but he really wishes that he did. There's a man above him who won't stop h-hurting him, even when he cries and cries and cries. Jason counts down from sixty and just prays for the pain to end.

B. There's a woman behind him, and with every step he takes it gets harder and harder to stay out of reach. Jason's not afraid of her, but he thinks maybe he should be. There's a man who loves him but he's so far away—too far away to hear when he says I love you too. And Jason waits and waits but the man never comes to say it back.

A or B, which hurts more?

Jason presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and tries to breathe.

It's unfair that he has to be at the library at ass o'clock in the morning. Normally, Jason wouldn't mind, but after the shit night he'd had… It's a little difficult to be his usual, perky self.

He can't catch the snort that leaves him at his own little joke, because he's hardly the type. Jason's lips quirk up into a smile just thinking about it; he's glad he has room in him today to find any sort of levity in things. But his conversation with Duckie had made him feel a lot better, even though he's not as awake as he should be on a day like this.

You know, not while he's supposed to be hosting an event for the "youths".

He bites his lip at that, suddenly a little nervous. The thought of Bruce showing up today has his heart racing a little, both from the anxiety that, well, Bruce is going to ruin everything with his appearance, drawing attention away from the kids they're supposed to be helping today. But also—

Jason…

He wants to see Bruce.

It doesn't make any sense, Jason thinks as he gathers up the books in his arms to bring to the front of the library. Bruce has been—

(—wonderful, generous, kind—)

—a pain the entire time Jason's known him. He's conflicted about the fact that Bruce Wayne entered his life so abruptly and hasn't left. Jason's been on his own for two whole years, and to have someone show up and trust him and be concerned about him and want to be around him is—it's…

It's too good to be true.

Bruce makes him feel safe. Bruce terrifies him. Bruce makes Jason want things that he'll never be able to have.

"Are you okay, lad?"

Jason's breath hitches in his throat. When he turns around, there's a man standing there, looking worriedly down at him. He blinks away the wetness in his eyes and scrubs at the drying tear tracks on his cheeks, nodding quickly.

"Yeah! Sorry about that, I didn't hear you come in." Jason puts the books down carefully into his little cart, before tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie to cover his hands. "How can I help you?"

The man tips his head down at him to meet his eyes. "Jason? Are you sure you're alright?"

Now, he blinks for a different reason, genuinely caught off guard.

"Um… Sorry, do I know you?"

The man blinks back at him. "It's… Bruce?"

Jason's brain stutters. His eyes dart up to the man's greasy, unkempt hair, down to his ratty cardigan with a hole in its sleeve, to his slouched shoulders, and back up to the face with a five o'clock shadow.

"Bruce??" he sputters.

The man's—Bruce's—eyes widen comically and he looks around to see if anyone noticed Jason's outburst. He puts a hand over his chest and sighs in relief when no one seems to have heard…

Then his whole demeanor changes. Bruce stands up straighter, smiling just the slightest bit smugly down at Jason, eyes twinkling in mirth.

"What do you think? Good, right?"

"Oh my god. I can't tell whether you're supposed to be a struggling artist or an English professor at community college," Jason says dumbly.

Bruce's eyes crinkle at the edges. "I moonlight at the soup kitchen on 4th, too, right?"

Jason is delighted. "Holy shit, B. You really are good at going incognito, huh?"

"Took the subway here and everything. No one batted an eyelash."

"No fucking way," Jason says, laughing.

"I did!" Bruce insists, smiling amusedly at him; Jason's cheeks warm, pleased to see a different side of Bruce for once. "I'm good at playing a part, I'll have you know."

There's the depth in those blue eyes once more, making Jason look up at him in wonder. "You're really not the airheaded billionaire playboy you want everyone to think you are, are you?" He grins. "Pretty cool, old man."

Bruce's smile turns fond at the edges.

Jason shakes his head, snorting. "Well, that just made my day."

"You look tired," Bruce says. "Rough night?"

Jason runs a hand through his hair, sighing. "And you're still unfairly good at reading me, huh?" he says dryly.

Bruce hums, tilting his head this way and that.

"Just had a bad dream," he admits. Truthfully, Jason isn't sure why such a silly interaction's got him to let his guard down, but he feels a lot more comfortable with Bruce than before. "I get them sometimes. Guess it's the PTSD or whatever," he jokes.

Bruce stills.

"It's a joke. I'm joking," Jason reassures Bruce. He turns back to the bookshelf, dismissing the topic already. "So, who are you supposed to be today?"

Thankfully, Bruce is willing to play along. After a moment of deliberation, he slips his hands smoothly in his trouser pockets and nods at a book on one of the nearby shelves. "How about Arthur?"

Jason raises an eyebrow at him, a smile tugging at his lips. "Master of disguise you may be, I don't think you're Sherlock Holmes material, Bruce."

Bruce just chuckles.

"So… are you ready to educate the youths on some classic literature?" Bruce raises his eyebrows.

Jason groans. "Stop being such a dad, B."

The library event goes well.

A lot of things go well, in fact.

Jason spends the next four weeks working with him on foundation matters. Their time together means the world to Bruce, and he thinks that it means something to Jason, too.

Bruce hasn't been so involved in anything that doesn't have to do with Bat, WE, or League business in years—so much so that the others have started to comment on it. They say that they miss having him around, and in the same breath they tell him he looks lighter, he looks happier, he looks more at peace.

Barbara's stopped hounding him with calls, although Bruce knows she hasn't let this go. Things are good with him and Dick, who doesn't know what's going on for now, and Tim seems more preoccupied with other things lately too. Alfred hasn't opened up about his feelings on what happened at the cemetery. Cassandra seems curious, but hasn't yet pulled him aside to speak about anything, either.

(Even Gotham has decided to be still for the two of them.)

He can't wait to tell everyone the news, because he's sure of it now.

Bruce has his son back.

It's all going too well.

An hour and twenty minutes after Batman retires for the night, Bruce gets a phone call from Oracle—

—and across the city, Jason hears Duckie's voice for the first time.

Gotham Gazette, front page.

"Jay… There's something you need to see."

Chapter Text

Bruce calls him fourteen times before he answers his phone. Jason counts.

"Jason?" His voice is both frantic and relieved. Bruce says something else right after, but it's lost in the din of Jason's thoughts pounding in his head like the worst migraine he's ever had.

He curls up into an even tighter ball, lying on his side and staring blearily at the wall over at the far end of the room. He's under the covers even though it's 80 degrees out, shivering from some imaginary chill. That's probably not a good thing.

None of this is good.

Bruce is trying to get him to focus, Jason recognizes, but echoing in his mind are other people's voices instead: Duckie's, urgent and worried as he drops a bomb on Jason that turns his entire world on its axis. His own, unfair and harsh as he blows up at his one and only friend for something that's entirely his fault in the first place. An older man's, grandfatherly and level, soothing a child's anxiety with words of wisdom. A young woman's, brave and earnest, telling him that he is stronger than he thinks.

"Jaylad, are you alright?" Bruce asks, insistent.

"Don't call me that," he snaps, upset—and he doesn't even know why.

Jason's spent two years looking for something that would fill up the emptiness inside him. He's spent two months thinking it could be this, that it could be the small spark of hope he'd begun to feel when he and Bruce had first met.

Bruce is quiet for a whole seven seconds. Jason counts. It's not nearly long enough, because he starts back up again.

"Jason," Bruce begins slowly, like he's talking to a wounded animal. It grates on his nerves because Jason isn't fragile. "I know you must be confused right now—"

"I'm not confused," Jason says through gritted teeth, low enough that the mic of his cell might not even pick it up.

Bruce shuts up, though; he always does whenever Jason is speaking, because apparently he cares about what Jason has to say. And in this moment, Jason has a lot of cruel and petty things he wants to say. But he tells himself it's not Bruce's fault this is happening, even though he isn't sure whether that's really true.

"I'm angry," is what he ends up crying out in one rush of breath.

At you, he doesn't say. At myself, is what he actually means.

"It's okay to be feeling this way. You are allowed to be angry, Jason," come the platitudes, frustratingly useless; come the reassurances, endlessly validating. It soothes him; it scares him.

Jason doesn't want to hurt Bruce. Jason doesn't want to be hurt by Bruce.

"We should talk," Bruce says after a long moment, once it's clear Jason isn't going to say anything more.

"Then talk."

Hesitation. Well, Jason thinks bitterly, he hasn't seen that from Bruce in a while.

"I don't think we should do this over the phone," Bruce says gently. He's always so goddamn gentle, and earnest, and kind, and—Jason doesn't deserve it.

"And how am I supposed to do that," Jason says, brittle, "when there are a dozen reporters outside my apartment waiting to accost me as soon as I leave?"

"Do you want to see me?" Bruce asks, and Jason knows with absolute certainly that if he hangs up the phone right now, he'll never ever hear from Bruce Wayne again.

So Jason…

(Quiet and afraid and smaller than he's ever felt before—)

… says yes.

Bruce is silent for a while, and Jason thinks he's given up. But he continues to surprise Jason again and again.

"Wait for me," Bruce says.

Bruce knocks on Jason's window three times, just loud enough to be heard. He waits.

And he waits and he waits and he waits.

Lost in his thoughts and the sight of his own reflection in the glass, Bruce wonders what Jason will see in him when they're finally face to face. He certainly doesn't recognize himself in it. Bruce doesn't know who he is, anymore: the man who'd fled the Manor before Alfred could say anything, who'd ignored the barrage of messages from his cellphone and communicator alike, who'd never even considered to stop lying to his family before all this came out.

But Bruce knows he's never really stopped being the scared little boy from that alley all those years ago.

"Hey," Jason murmurs when he slides it open four minutes later, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. His bangs are wet, curls sticking to his forehead, his collar heavy and dark with dampness—he'd been in a hurry to wash his face before letting Bruce in. There's a flicker of something in Jason's expression, quickly suppressed but not before Bruce can recognize it for what it is: confusion. "You climbed up the fire escape?"

He nods.

"How—" Jason looks uncertain and bemused, looking at anything but him. "Why?"

"I told you I'd come," Bruce says simply, trying to get Jason to meet his eyes.

Jason just squeezes his own shut.

Had that been the right thing to promise? Lord knows he's broken his word so many times that it hardly even means anything anymore. Bruce doesn't ask to be let in, hoping instead that he hasn't just lost his second chance, his third, his fourth, his last yet again.

So when Jason grabs him by the hand and drags him inside his apartment, he feels something in him loosen, just a bit.

It's sweltering in here. That worries him even more, but Bruce keeps his face as carefully blank as he possibly can.

"Stop that," Jason says abruptly.

It catches Bruce off guard. "Pardon? Stop… what?"

"Analyzing me." Jason sounds frustrated as he scrubs a hand over his face, but whether it's at Bruce or himself isn't clear. "There, again. Do you even realize you're doing it? Jesus Christ, Bruce."

Bruce nods slowly. "I… apologize. I'll try my best to stop doing that."

"Now you just sound like a robot," Jason mutters. He finally looks up at Bruce with a fierceness in his eyes that makes Bruce's heart ache. "You wanted to talk," Jason says bluntly, "so talk."

Everything he can possibly say feels woefully inadequate then. Bruce's expression shutters against his will, and by the way Jason's brow knits, he can't hide it in time. Still, he speaks up before Jason can say anything else.

"Did you read the article?" He has to ask, even though he knows the answer.

Jason's jaw flexes. "Yeah. What about it," he says defensively. "It's an article. It doesn't mean anything. I'm not your—" He snaps his mouth shut abruptly, hard enough that Bruce hears his teeth clack together.

Bruce moves to take a step towards him, but Jason crosses his arms so he stops in the middle of it.

"I think…" Bruce says with a tentative smile, "I think that you are, Jason."

You're my son.

"And I'm—"

I'm your father.

But he's cut off before he can say it.

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," Jason says, shutting him out.

Bruce falters. Jason's looking at him, but he's not letting Bruce in. This wasn't—this wasn't supposed to happen. The last time Jason looked at him like this, he'd ended up dead a week later. Bruce's mind goes blank. That can't happen. He won't let it.

He tries to bridge the gap between them again, hands raised as he tries to be as unthreatening as possible.

"I don't know who you think I am, but I don't even know myself," Jason says. He's hurting and angry, but Bruce can't do a damn thing about it.

This is quickly spiraling out of his control. Control is the one thing he can't afford to lose.

(That is a lie.)

"I am not—" he says frustratedly. Bruce stops, gives a deep exhale through his nose and tells himself this isn't about him. "I am not trying to upset you," he says instead of lashing out.

"I'm not upset!" Jason cries out, voicing something that Bruce isn't allowed to. "Stop acting like you know me. You don't."

But Bruce does know Jason, and Bruce is upset. He's also paralyzed: by indecision, by helplessness, by fear.

He stops in his tracks.

"I want to," Bruce says, sounding empty.

Jason watches as Bruce's face crumples. He blinks once, twice, and then rapidly in succession, and then he's catching himself and turning away to hide. Bruce presses his lips together but not like he's angry; instead, he looks exactly like how Jason feels, exposed without wanting to be, vulnerable in a way that only promises hurt.

He did that. Jason did that. He hurt Bruce, just like he was afraid to, and that… that hurts Jason, too, more than anything else that's happened today.

Jason sees the exact moment Bruce begins to compose himself, and it's like a switch: just like when they'd been in the library and Bruce dropped the act he'd put on, letting Jason in, allowing himself to be known. But he's pulling away now.

He doesn't really know Bruce, just like Bruce doesn't know him.

But Jason… wants to be known.

"Bruce," he says, voice thick with emotion. But not afraid, not anymore.

It feels like there's magic in him, giving him the courage to do this.

Bruce stutters, just the slightest bit. Jason thinks he's more used to hiding himself than he lets on, like he's been hiding all his life. The realization stirs something in him: Jason is also hiding, has been for two whole years of his life, since the first time he'd woken up in that hospital bed all alone.

Does Bruce feel this emptiness in him, too?

Bruce licks his lips, calm like the tears from earlier had actually been Jason's imagination all along. He nods once, looking as though he's convinced himself of something. "I apologize—"

He doesn't let Bruce finish speaking.

"Can you tell me how your son died?" Jason whispers. It's his turn to be gentle.

Bruce… stills.

He'd been adopted at 12 years old, a kid from the streets of Park Row. It was fitting, in a morbid sort of way, that Crime Alley had orphaned both the father and the son. The photographs of his Wayne Gala appearances and certificates of his various academic merit awards were buried under articles about his death, but even those had been sparse. For two years, it seemed like no one in Gotham wanted to disturb Jason Todd's grave nor Bruce Wayne's grieving. But that unspoken rule was broken just yesterday, and it's impossible to ignore the reality of it anymore.

Bruce looks lost now. Jason is tired, exhausted in a way he hasn't acknowledged for a long time. But he's not lost like Bruce. Because, suddenly, it feels like things are finally clear to Jason; for once, just once, he knows exactly what to do.

Jason smiles, raw and sorry and open. His lips tremble as he does, but he keeps at it anyway, waiting until the walls Bruce has put up just… fall away. He lets himself slide to the ground, leaning against the foot of his bed, before he draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them.

Bruce follows, the movement fluid and graceful. He sits with his legs crossed, back straight and looking almost uncomfortable, if it weren't for the loose line of his shoulders. Is this just another way for him to hide, Jason wonders?

Who are you, Bruce?

"Will you tell me?" Jason asks again.

Bruce nods.

You can't see the moon while you're in Gotham. The closest thing to it would be the Batsignal, Jason supposes. And while it isn't what he's looking for when he climbs out onto the fire escape, it's what his eyes gravitate towards anyway. He feels a strange itch in his fingers as he watches it, so Jason figures he might have been a smoker in his past life.

That's just how things are, isn't it? There's before and there's after, there's then and there's now, and Jason's finally beginning to accept that he can't ever go back to who he used to be.

He turns on his phone again and smiles when he sees he has a new message from Duckie. You okay, Jay?

To which Jason replies, I will be. Thank you.

He brings up his other messages, thumb hovering over the screen before he gathers up the courage to give Bruce his answer.

If Jason Todd is who Bruce needs right now, then he'll happily play the part of his son.

Jason's already broken, but that doesn't mean Bruce's family has to be.