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“So, usual routes tonight?”
“Not quite. There's been reports of suspicious activity near the Bowery, so Nightwing and Red Robin, I want you both on that.”
Dick grins, elbowing Tim, who allows it. Most all of the Bats allow it when it's Dick.
“Signal, I've received nothing from anywhere near your route, so you are to carry on as normal.”
Duke shoots him a thumbs-up. “Sounds good.”
“Spoiler, you and Orphan…”
Bruce rattles on with his patrol-prep, saying nearly the exact same thing to everyone- nothing to report, everything is peachy, patrol as per usual. All he'd really needed to do was amend Dick and Tim's route, but no, he needs to just keep talking, keep droning on and on and on about patrol, and Jason-
“Hood, there's been nothing on my end of any changes near Crime Alley, but you have more of a sway there. Have you heard anything that might be of import?”
“Nope,” Jason says, resisting the urge to sniff and hoping that the clog in his voice doesn't come through the modulator. “All clear.”
-Jason seriously needs to blow his nose.
He's sick. He knows he's sick. He knows this, but he also knows that he's patrolled with far worse than a cold and made it through the night in one piece. Hell, he’s patrolled with half-healed bullet wounds and still managed to pull himself through his window by morning. This? This is child’s play.
There’s just the matter of keeping Bruce in the dark. Bruce doesn’t want anybody going out on patrol unless they’re fit to- which he is, of course- but his standards of ‘fit’ are perhaps a touch off from Bruce's. Put simply, if the Bat saw him snag a tissue, he’d probably bench him for the night. Well. He’d try and bench him, to which Jason would object, because he’s perfectly capable of hopping around a city with a stuffed nose, and Bruce wouldn’t budge. Then Jason would probably end up saying something he doesn’t mean and Bruce would do the same, and oh look, another two months before he can show his face around the manor.
So, yeah. No grabbing a tissue, no coughing to clear his throat, and absolutely no hints for Bruce to sniff out.
“Hood.”
Speak of the devil. “Present,” Jason drawls, blinking himself back into focus behind his mask. He’d spaced out there a bit- Bruce is in front of him now, and the others are-
“I asked if you were ready,” Bruce says, gesturing behind him, where everyone else is already gathered around their respective modes of transportation. Damian’s sat himself in the passenger’s seat of the batmobile, and is subtly nudging towards the driver’s. Before he can reach the wheel, however, Dick shoots him a look over his shoulder, and the boy snaps back into place. Dick must have some kind of sixth sense for that kid.
“Hood.”
“Huh?” Shit. He’d spaced out again. Is it getting warmer in the cave? His jacket feels warmer, thicker against his skin despite being short-sleeved and breathable. “Good thing I switched out the leather,” he jokes, and at Bruce’s raised brow, he continues, “‘Cause, y’know, it’s…” Wait. He hadn’t said that part out loud. “Never mind.”
Bruce doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Behind his lenses, Jason can’t really tell what he’s looking at, but if he were a betting man he’d probably say himself.
“...Well,” Jason says, accompanied by an awkward cough- the cough tries to grow into a hack, but Jason swallows it down, along with a disgusting serving of phlegm. “Guess we should-”
“Take your mask off.”
“Uh.” Fuck. “No?”
Lighting-quick hands push against Jason’s forehead, and not for the first time, he curses the abandonment of the helmet. Half-face masks let people do shit like this. Let them see fifty-percent of anything you’re feeling.
“You’re warm,” Bruce says, frown clear both in his voice and on his face. He’s taken his glove off- when had he done that?
Jason shrugs, then crosses his arms over his chest, taking the edges of the short sleeves between his fingers so he has something to do with his hands. “It’s warm in here,” he mutters, “that was the joke.”
“We are in an underground cave in autumn, Hood.”
“It’s- a warm autumn.”
“Take your mask off,” Bruce repeats.
And Jason can feel it- can feel the scream building in his throat, the snarl of an accusation. There’s the classic fuck off, old man, or the stinging why do you care? He can even feel the growl of you can’t order me around, I’m not one of you. All of them are there, right at the tip of his tongue, and he digs a nail into his skin.
He doesn’t really- want to say any of that, is the thing. But if he opens his mouth, that’s all that will come out.
Instead, he grits his teeth and pulls off his mask.
Bruce’s face doesn’t change- he doesn’t think it does, anyways, but anything can happen behind that cowl. He does, however, let out a near silent sigh.
“I’m fine, old man,” Jason says tiredly, already moving to put the mask back on.
Bruce catches his arm. “You’re sick.”
“It’s a cold.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” Jason narrows his eyes. “C’mon, B, you got me, I’ve got the sniffles. It’s not serious. Can we go now?”
Bruce still hasn’t moved, and, more importantly, is still holding Jason’s hand away from his face. Frustration burns beneath his skin, and the building anger only adds to the minor headache behind his eyes, bringing it to a throb. He’s not even lying, not this time. It’s just a cold. He’s patrolled with worse. He can handle himself. But Bruce, stubborn, immovable, untrusting Bruce, won’t let go of his fucking arm.
“Go upstairs,” Bruce says, voice deadly soft. “You’re sidelined until you get better.”
Fuck off, old man.
Why do you care?
You can’t order me around, I’m not one of you.
He doesn’t want to argue. Not tonight.
Ripping his wrist out of Bruce’s grip, he snaps, “Yes, sir,” before anything more caustic than that can make it out. He nearly misses the way Bruce stiffens at the words as he stalks away, not bothering to look back at the multiple pairs of eyes watching him leave.
Fucking perfect. He knew this would happen. Bruce hasn’t raised his voice, and Jason managed to hold back, but it’s only a matter of time. Bye-bye, manor. Who knows how long it’ll be this time, once the fire in his chest spills out and the fighting begins.
_____
After changing out of his uniform and making his way back upstairs, he makes it about three steps into the den before his vision starts to cross and he has to reach out for the wall.
“Master Jason,” Alfred says, alarmed. When did he get here?
“Hey, Alf,” Jason murmurs, finding his footing and easing himself back upright. “Stairs, huh?”
“You’ve come down with something.”
“What gave it away?”
“Mainly the wallhugging, my boy.” His lips press into a thin line, and he sighs. “I will prepare you some tea. Do make yourself comfortable.”
He has until Bruce gets back from patrol before the probable argument will begin. Might as well spend these last few hours slumming in front of the fireplace in their living room instead of in the impersonal guest room he’s tentatively selected as his own.
Alfred comes back with the tea shortly, along with a blanket, and just as he’s turned on the fireplace does Jason hear footsteps behind the couch.
“Dick?” he says as he turns, because everyone’s supposed to be on patrol, but he can’t think of who else would’ve stayed behind- “Bruce.”
Bruce is here. Here, as in, in the living room, as in, not out patrolling the streets of Gotham, like he’s supposed to be. He’s not even in costume- all he’s got on are some worn pajamas, a t-shirt and sweats instead of one of the nice silk pairs Jason knows he owns.
He’s also holding a tissue box.
“Jason,” he nods, not moving from the spot he’s rooted himself to. “Mind if I sit with you?”
“What the hell,” is the only thing that makes its way out of Jason’s mouth. When Bruce’s hands begin to lower- a peace offering, he knew it, of course he’d come armed- Jason manages to tack on, “I mean- it’s your house.”
“Not just my house,” Bruce says under his breath as he finally stops being a statue and reclines on the opposite end of the couch. Reclines is a strong word- he’s still stiff, all awkward angles and tense muscle, but his back’s against the cushions and he’s not leaping up immediately to leave.
He passes over the tissues wordlessly. Jason takes them.
“...Alfred given you anything?”
“Not yet.”
From Bruce’s pocket comes benadryl, which is passed his way as well, and Jason takes it again, uncertainty gnawing at his gut. Just as he’s about to ask what Bruce is doing, the man shifts forward, grabbing the remote on the coffee table and handing it over. “What are we-” He stops himself, then says, “Want to watch something?”
This is surreal. Genuinely, mind-bendingly surreal. What is going on?
“I’ll, uh,” he pauses, clearing his throat and frowning at the spike of pain it sends down his neck. “Sure?”
Bruce nods once. “Good.”
And it’s like that, for a little bit. Just- sitting on the couch, watching TV. With Bruce. Who he hasn’t sat in a room alone with for reasons unrelated to work or arguments in a good handful of years.
He still hasn’t said what he’s doing here, or why he’s not on patrol, and it’s certainly not because he’s distracted by the show they’re watching. He’d just clicked through the channels a few times before landing on a game show, fucking Family Feud, of all things. The irony of it would make Shakespeare weep.
Jason’s about to ask something- an inane question, just to fill the awkward, stifling silence, something about who hosted the show before Steve Harvey- when instead of having a voice, he finds himself hacking into his knees.
“Jason?” Bruce says sharply, and oh, he’s much closer now. Did he move or did he pull Jason closer? His hand is on Jason’s back, square and steady and warm, and Jason’s thirteen again, leaning into Bruce’s side like it’s the safest place in the world. “Are you-”
“Fine,” he croaks out, embarrassed at his own juvenile neediness. He starts to pull away, but when he meets resistance, he stops, blinking as he tries to work through why that’s not what was supposed to happen.
When he looks up at Bruce, his face is the strangest combination of grim and soft. “You can stay there,” he says.
He means to say okay, but what he ends up saying is, “Why aren’t you on patrol?”
Bruce stills. “You’re sick,” he says, as if that explains anything.
“You made that-” Another hacking fit. This time, Bruce rubs his spine up and down, tentative, like if he does it any harder Jason will shatter. He’s got his other hand on Jason’s bicep to brace him. “...Very clear,” he finishes dully, reaching for a tissue to spit up any of the awful, good-for-nothing phlegm that he may have loosened from his traitorous throat. “You already benched me.”
“Sidelined,” Bruce corrects quickly- desperately, almost. “They’re different.”
Jason rolls his eyes. They feel heavy in his head. “Sidelined,” he amends. “But you didn’t need to stay.” There’s the unasked question in there, the silent why did you? Jason hopes Bruce can hear it without needing it to be spelled out.
“...You were never sick often when you were young.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Okay?”
“And because you were never sick, you always thought you could do everything, even when you were.”
“Okay,” Jason says again, a bit annoyed this time. He sees the lesson in this- you never learned, Jason, you don’t take care of yourself, Jason.
He does take care of himself. He did learn. He just- it’s just a cold.
Bruce sighs, stiffness lost as his head slouches to his chest. “I’m not saying this right,” he says, seemingly to himself, before turning to Jason and running a broad hand through his hair. He’s so dumbstruck by the action that he doesn’t even flinch. “I haven’t…been there for you,” he says slowly, hand making its way through the curls that are starting to cling to his forehead in sweat. “And tonight reminded me of a time when I was. I wanted to be there for you again.”
His hand hasn’t stopped carding through Jason’s hair, even though it’s kind of gross and Bruce doesn’t like being dirty. Jason feels like if he so much as breathes, Bruce will be gone, and he’ll have been dreaming the entire ordeal.
“What time?” he asks, and it comes out as a rasp. The scratchiness in his throat is making itself very well known.
“Hm?”
“The time,” Jason urges, “when you were there for me.”
“Oh.” Surprisingly, Bruce relaxes- his face flickers into a smile, only lasting a moment before sobering into a more classic Bruce expression of gentle frown. “You were sick with the flu,” he starts, a faraway look in his eyes, “and Alfred told me to make you stay home. At first, I thought you knew your limits-”
“I get the lesson, old man.”
“-But I was wrong. I made you take the night off, and I…” He pauses, parting his lips but no words coming out.
“You?” Jason prompts. The headache is making him impatient- more than that, though, something just…it doesn’t feel right. This story, he can’t…
“I took the night off too.” He says it like a confession. “And we watched TV together, right here,” he gestures to the couch briefly before returning his hand to Jason’s hair. “Until you fell asleep.”
The hand in his hair resumes its brushing, an almost subconscious action, if Bruce’s distant gaze says anything, and Jason-
He can’t- he doesn’t-
“I don’t remember that,” he whispers.
“That’s okay. It was a while ago-”
“No, Bruce, I don’t-” His chest tightens, and it hurts. The sting in his eyes isn’t only from the sickness now. “I wouldn’t forget that, I wouldn’t-”
Here’s the thing about Jason’s memory.
It’s bad. Before dying, it has actually been pretty damn good- not Tim good, but that bastard’s got an unfair advantage, so he doesn’t count- but then he’d died. A crowbar to the head and six months underground can mess with someone’s retention, no matter how much magic green water said someone gets dunked in. Memories from before the pit are spotty, and memories made after are a gamble. Either the brain works like it did before, or it doesn’t. Flip of the coin kind of a deal.
The spotty memories from before he’d died, though, are important, because he’d latched onto them the moment he surfaced from the pit. He’d needed something to ground himself, something to remind himself what he was doing and why he was doing it. He’d comb through the memories incessantly, focusing on whatever it was he needed to assure himself of that day. Usually it was the bad memories, the memories that would solidify why making Bruce pay was the only option. Sometimes, though- sometimes he needed to remember that Bruce had cared. That there was a before, a life he’d had that had been ripped away from him, and that it had been a life worth living.
So he’s intimately familiar with his good memories. That doesn’t mean he has them all, of course- a spotty memory is called as such for a reason- but most of the time, if Dick, Alfred, or Bruce are telling a story, or remarking on something from the past that Jason can’t recall, there’s at least a dredge of familiarity. A pull, a feeling like, oh, I know where that should go, and he can fit it somewhere into his messy timeline of events.
This, though.
This story is like a black hole in his chest. A cold space. A dead spot where nothing lives, and he can’t find anything to fill it.
“I can’t remember,” he says again. His voice is thick with congestion, and it barely comes out at all.
“You need to breathe,” Bruce tries to soothe. He’s pulled Jason upright to free his chest from the slouch. “C’mon, son, it’s okay. It’s just an old memory.”
“But it’s empty,” he cries nonsensically.
“The- the memory?”
“Me.”
Bruce’s eyes fly wide. “Son, you- you’re not empty. You’re not…”
This doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense, and everything hurts. His skull feels so tight that it’s suffocating him.
Maybe it is more than a cold.
“You’re not empty,” Bruce says again, clearly uncertain in his wording. “You have memory problems- that’s okay. It’s just something that happens.”
“I should remember,” Jason sniffs. He’s not sure why that in particular feels so true, it just- it is. He should remember this, and he doesn’t.
“Why?” He sounds genuinely confused, sincere in his asking. “Does it seem-” He cuts himself off sharply.
“...What?”
His jaw works for a few moments before he relents. “Special,” he says. “Does it seem special.”
And that’s just it.
Yes. Yes, it does, it feels incredibly fucking important, and Jason can’t remember it at all.
“Somethin’s wrong with me,” he mumbles, turning his face into Bruce’s arm so he doesn’t have to hear his own loose-lipped and pathetic words.
“No,” Bruce says immediately. “Nothing is wrong with you. Especially not this.”
Jason doesn’t think so, but his chest sparks with warmth at how vehemently Bruce denies him. “...What were we watching?”
“What?”
“That night I was sick.” When Bruce puts his arm around Jason, he surprises himself at having expected it. It’s the fever, it must be. Making him sentimental and gooey and gross. And Bruce…it’s the fever for Bruce too, just differently.
Bruce snorts a laugh. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
“It was Family Feud.”
Jason gapes, searching Bruce’s face for any sign of a joke, of deception, but he finds none. The Bat’s telling the truth. “Fuckin’ Steve Harvey,” he says vacantly, letting his head fall against Bruce’s chest.
“Fucking Steve Harvey,” Bruce deadpans. That gets Jason to laugh, even if it hurts his sore throat.
“Hey, B.”
“Hm?”
“Who was the host of this before Steve, anyways?”
_____
Jason wakes up the next day far sicker than the previous night, and is forced to accept the fact that he does not have a cold.
“Do not tell me it’s the fuckin’...” He squeezes his eyes shut against the lights in his room, and Bruce, in a moment of mercy, turns them off. “The flu again.”
“It’s the flu again.”
“Fuck.”
Once Jason’s able to crack his eyes open, he sees Bruce hovering over him with a sympathetic gaze. He’s holding out a glass of water, which Jason accepts, knowing the relief would only be temporary.
“This sucks,” Jason rasps after a couple of sips. “I hate…bein’ sick and shit.”
“Be glad you almost never are, then.”
“Ugh.” He grabs a tissue and blows his nose loudly before he can ruin his blanket with an ill-timed sneeze. “Let’s watch more of that show. Fuckin’. Steve.” It sounds nice, a repeat of the night before, but then his stomach clenches at his mistake. “Patrol,” he sighs, too tired to fully correct himself.
Bruce goes quiet for a moment. “I’ll stay with you,” he says softly.
“Wha- no. You n’fucking…Gotham, you’ve gotta…you want to…”
“Son,” he chides, “taking a night off once in a while isn’t a crime. Gotham will still be standing.”
“But…you…” He has no argument he can muster other than Batman and Gotham and oath. Bruce doesn’t take nights off. He just…he doesn’t. That’s not something he does, especially not for- for him.
When Bruce’s hand combs through his hair again, just like the night before on the couch, Jason can’t bring himself to protest anymore. “Let me be here for you,” Bruce says.
“...Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, okay.” He sniffs loudly, grabbing another tissue. “...I wanna see blood on Steve Harvey.”
“Family Feud.”
“Sure, yeah. Let’s watch ‘em…tear each other apart.”
When Bruce laughs- actually, genuinely laughs, something Jason hasn’t heard since he was fifteen, god- the hole in his chest seems to fill, just a little bit. Maybe it’ll be full by the time his flu’s gone.
It’s a long stretch, but for once, Jason’s feeling hopeful.