Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One moment Damian is switching his grip around on his katana—he prefers the stability of a two-handed grip, but with his right hand a mess at the moment he’ll have to rely on one—and the next everything goes up in flames. 

Pain, concussive and searing, wraps around him. Damian goes airborne, skin scalding, bone cracking, blood running. He lands in a mess of rubble and grit and agony. It’s instinct to curl up, cry-out, allow unconscious reprieve to rescue him. But Damian has not been a slave to instinct since he was a small child, and he does none of this. Instead, he lies still, allowing the moment to categorize.

His katana is gone, ripped from his grip in the explosion. Warm salt fills his mouth and puddles around his body and washes over his eyes. His ears are ringing and unreliable. Damian blinks, and his vision runs and warps. His senses are half-functional at best. He focuses on his body. 

A probe of his tongue unearths two loose molars, the throbbing of his nose indicates a break, and his left side cheekbone is already swelling. Limbs next. Damian’s right hand is still inflamed, bleeding, the fragile small bones of his fingers snapped and limp. His knee on that side is wrenched, lapped with pain at the smallest twitch. Damian recognizes the feeling of broken and bruised ribs. Beyond that, the myriad of cuts, bruising, and small injuries is too numerous to list. 

Damian takes all of this in a second. 

And then he is on his feet. 

Around him, the base is in shambles. Forks of fire lick around the piles of crumbled walls, sparks fly and cough off of freed wires. The bodies of the men Damian was fighting lay prone, some complete, others less so. The rubble is a maze requiring intricate footwork to travel steadily across, but Damian manages it, knee notwithstanding. He doesn’t know if there’s more explosions primed to blow. He doesn’t know if there’s anyone else coming. He just knows Todd is in a different building, and Damian needs to find him—this explosion was beyond unexpected, and they need to leave. It’s clear there are no hostages here, and this mission was fruitless. 

Damian speaks into his comm as he starts to walk. “Hood,” he says.

He waits for the answer—the ringing still thrumming between his ears is the only sound. It takes another minute for Damian’s hearing to clear up enough to realize that some of the ringing is actually coming from the comm. Damian scowls. He tries once more in case. “Hood,” he says. “This is Robin, come in.” 

Nothing. Todd is sure to have seen and heard the explosion, and there’s no way he would ignore Damian after that. The comlink is down Damian will have to find Todd himself. 

His progress across the field of rubble is disjointed. The pain in Damian’s knee grows. It clenches like the toothy maw of something predator is ripping into Damian’s leg. He steps wrong and there’s an organic shift that seizes around his knee, panging fiercely. It almost sends him to the ground. Damian is forced to stumble to keep his footing, tilting into the remains of a half wall, which ignites agony as he catches himself with his right hand. Switching quickly, he takes a moment, just a moment, to rest. 

And then he’s moving again. 

He’s slowing down, toes scuffing trails of grit and ash. The damage to his knee is the biggest concern to his mobility, but the longer Damian remains teetering upright, the longer a sapping mix of chemicals released in his brain have to muddle his coherency. Damian is reluctant to encounter combat in this state. He needs to find Todd, before something finds him. 

Except, Damian is merely halfway across the expanse of damage, the neighboring building Todd entered far from reach, when its doors burst open. 

A group of men dressed in tactical gear flood through the opening, visors blackened over their faces, guns pulled free of their belts. Damian is the only thing moving in the sea of blackened building husk and sporadic flames. The group is outside for a moment before they zero in on him. The guns are up a second later. 

Damian immediately hurls himself behind a soot-stained support supporting nothing. But he’s too late. 

Most of the bullets miss—a spray peppers the ground at his feet, punching divots into the cement, digging in or pinging off of metal scraps. Some cut through the air around him. But others find their marks. Sort of. 

One bullet skims against Damian’s thigh on his bad leg, another cuts close enough to his head to put a groove in his hair, as the third finds a home in Damian’s shoulder. One more pierces Damian’s shoe and eats a chunk of his heel. 

Damian lands in a sprawl behind the support, heaving. The pain is metal teeth crunching into flesh and bone and blood. Damian grits his teeth and falls forward on his knees, holding himself up with his good arm as his thighs shake and sweat runs before his fading vision. Nausea squeezes his airway. Blinking against the black spots and listening to the roaring of his spitting commlink, Damian barely hears the footsteps coming closer. 

But they do. 

Damian is well aware that the gun-toting security team is closing in on his flimsy excuse for cover, and that if he remains on all fours, choking on the blood between his teeth, he can expect to die or be taken captive. Both are powerful motivators for Damian to return to his feet. 

He claws himself up using the metal support, the teething edge of metal chewing into his hands. His body shakes and spasms and his vision goes white and spotted black as that animalistic maw of pain clamps down on his nerves like fire. The roaring in his ears runs louder than the broken comlink alone. Clenching his teeth, he swallows a fresh wave of salt from his injured molars. Damian tastes smoke and smells rusted coins and then he blinks and regains just enough vision to see that group of men coming closer. 

He’s running out of time.  Damian’s fingers brush the smoke grenades concealed in his belt. Enough for a brief screen. He does not close his eyes against his misted sight. He does not bow his head to the pain. He holds his smoke grenade and swallows salt and resolves to fight until the last against these men—

A silhouette steps between them. 

Familiar shoulders, a helmet that spits red into his abstract vision. 

And then it all happens so fast.

The bullets pop and exposed bone burns white as Todd raises his guns and shoots one, two, more, and then more still, until the bodies are laying in awkward, twisted mounds that overlap, blood and tissue bits smeared between them. Todd uses the last of his ammo and casts the spent guns aside, devolving to the use of his hands. 

Teeth roll, bones slump, flesh bends and breaks and bursts. 

Damian swallows his salted spit and shies into the metal support, the pain in his knee biting but muted. He has not seen Todd use his hands—not like this—since the worst of the pit madness. 

And sure enough. 

As the last of the bodies fall, draped, carnage over carnage, Todd’s head whips around. He yanks the helmet free. Having forgone his usual domino, the gaze that grips Damian is green and glowing like the vapor of oozing poison. Sweat runs down his face and heaving breaths twist between his clenched teeth as Todd stomps to Damian’s side. The air around them bleeding rust and smelling like the sour sting of death. 

“Hood,” Damian breathes. In the League, under the control of his affliction, Todd’s anger never tied to Damian. Todd never raised a hand against him then—but it’s been years since Mother’s pet project was first brought to them. It’s been years since Todd was the protector at Damian’s side. 

Damian does not know whether he should trust the uncertainty of Todd’s current cognition. He does not know whether to receive himself to Todd’s attention, or to recoil. 

He does not get a chance to decide. 

All at once his knee buckles, his heel pangs, his thigh burns. The strength of the damage swallows him, and Damian collapses. 

Into Todd’s arms.

Todd is still beyond words—but Damian does not have the strength nor breath to complain of his undignified position cradled in his arms, so it matters little. Damian’s hands come up, broken and brittle, and cling to his brother’s armor, slick with blood both his and not. 

Todd makes a kind of shushing noise, dropped gently by the shell of Damian’s ear, and then they sway with the movement of walking. Walking away. 

Damian can’t find it in himself to shy away from the relief it brings. 

The cast of green from Todd’s gaze entangled them. 

And Damian lets his own eyes close. 

Chapter Text

Duke very carefully removes the arm sprawled across his middle. Stephanie makes some kind of grunting noise and rolls over, burying her head in a nest of pillow and forearm. Duke slowly eases the pillow back in the interest of her airway. He pauses, but Stephanie remains asleep. 

Next order of business—Dick. 

Dick has one leg thrown over the lower half of Duke’s, while the rest of his body is pressed close to where Duke fell asleep, curled into his side. Escaping presents a challenge. Duke very gently eases his body into the gap that Stephanie’s body has rolled free of. He uses a pillow to slide under Dick’s leg as he moves—

“Duke?” Dick is half-asleep, with lidded eyes and a mess of bed-head. He pushes an arm under himself to stare groggily in Duke’s direction. Damn Bats and their light-sleeping. “Wa’s going on, bud?” 

Duke thinks fast. “Bathroom.” 

“Mmm,” Dick says. “Okay…feeling alright?” 

Duke nods. A tinge of vertigo is wrapped around his ears, his body is sore and pinching, and part of him feels like tipping back into the mattress. But he’s not as nauseous as earlier, and all of his limbs are working. “Yeah.” 

“Wake me if you need me,” Dick murmurs as he drops down. Duke counts himself lucky—if Dick hadn’t been coming off an all-nighter yesterday, paired with spending tonight waking up at timed intervals to check on Duke’s concussion, he might pry a little more. Insist on walking Duke to make sure he made it down the hall or something equally as embarrassing. 

Like most of the Bats, his brand of care can be a little overbearing. Unfortunately, Duke knows it stems from good intentions. He feels bad complaining, even in his mind. 

Holding his breath, Duke crawls off the bed and tiptoes from the room. He makes a stop in the bathroom, but when he steps back into the hall, he’s hesitant to go back to the guest room. Well, his room? Bruce had been pretty insistent it belonged to Duke now. It’s still weird to think about having a bedroom at the Wayne manor.

Duke makes up his mind not to go back to kind-of-his-room. Instead, he heads for the kitchen. He’s been cooped up on that queen bed all day—he needs to stretch his legs, bruised and aching as they are—and a glass of water is as good an excuse as any. 

He ducks into the kitchen, not bothering to be quiet because at this hour, there’s no way anyone's in the kitchen, prepared to drag him back to bed. 

Except it turns out Duke is wrong. 

He confidently turns the corner, only to freeze, as Jason, half in the fridge, twists his head around, like an owl, with g lowing eyes. 

Duke shrieks. 

“Wah—” Jason’s hand jolts, and juice spills from the carton in his hand. “Duke?”

Duke slaps his hand over his mouth. Upon closer inspection, Jason’s neck is not twisted at an owl-like level. Just turned back sharply in Duke’s direction. However, his eyes are definitely glowing. 

“You—” Duke trails off. Jason is staring at him, nonplussed. He’s wearing Wonder Woman sweatpants and a shirt from the Bludhaven police department. He looks like…Jason. Except, you know, the eyes. “Are you okay?” 

Jason blinks and rests the near-empty juice carton on the counter. “Me? Aren’t you the one on concussion protocol?” 

Duke can’t stop staring. There’s a kind of shining quality to his eyes, like when you catch a glimpse at the eyes of a nocturnal animal rummaging through dark, leafy underbrush. Duke’s brain runs through the possibilities. Is Jason secretly an alien? Or a meta? Has he been replaced by a robot? Is he suffering from the symptoms or a villain attack—?

Duke pauses. 

Because Jason is not a meta, or an alien, or anything else. 

Other than revived. 

Duke looks away from the eyes—the pit-changed eyes, as he comes to the realization. It’s not like they don’t ever mention Jason’s…hiatus. But usually it’s Jason who’s cracking jokes about it. Duke sure isn’t about to start asking Jason questions about Lazarus side effects. Even if it is…a tiny bit creepy coming across what looks like an Animal Planet predator skulking around the kitchen in the small hours of the morning. 

“Duke?” 

He’s been quiet too long. Duke clears his throat. “Sorry,” he says. “Still half asleep.” 

“Yeah well, you should be asleep asleep.” Jason narrows his eyes. “You’ve been spending too much time with Tim.” 

Duke gives a noncommittal shoulder shrug. “I got bored staying in bed—I’ve been sleeping all day.” 

“Concussion protocol,” Jason says understandingly. 

“Concussion protocol,” Duke agrees. 

Jason nods. “Okay,” he says. “I get the whole restless leg shit, I know it sucks, but you’re kind of…swaying. So I’m going to bring you back to bed anyway.” 

“What?”

But then Jason is grabbing Duke around the upper arm, gently, weirdly-gently, and tugging him up the steps. 

“Hold on,” Duke says, because he definitely thought he had a few more minutes of freedom, even if the vertigo has been bouncing around his skull for the last few minutes and something nauseating and thick has his stomach wrapped up and churning. But Jason doesn’t pause. 

“Bed,” he repeats. “Dickie-bird let you down the stairs alone? Didn’t you get thrown through, like, multiple walls?” 

Duke doesn’t answer. 

Jason just shakes his head an continues guiding him through the dark of the hall, around where a table and vase lie in wait. “Careful.” 

Duke swallows down a groan. Now that they’re moving, he maybe feels a little worse for wear. He kind of gets why the others have been so set on keeping Duke reclined and stationary—he’s definitely feeling those walls. 

“Almost there,” Jason mumbles when they reach the bedroom. "C'mon Light-Switch." 

Duke sighs and follows him, toeing his way carefully to the bedside, hesitating when Stephanie snores and twists in her sleep. Jason is relentless, nudging Duke in Steph's direction as he comes around to Dick's bedside. “Hey,” he says, and smacks Dick on the face. 

Dick pops upright. For a second, the look on his face is twisted and dangerous and one of his legs moves laser-fast to push himself off the bed—and then he sees Jason, and he smooths out. “Jay,” Dick murmurs, a little more aware than when Duke first escaped. Disturbing sleep twice in ten minutes will do that. “What’s wrong? Nightmare?” 

Jason crosses his arms with a scowl. “When do I ever wake you up for a nightmare?”

Dick rubs his eyes. “Guess it’s been a while.” 

“Yeah,” Jason says, and then his attention shifts to Duke with those glowing eyes. Duke's never going to get used to those, but it's the look of determination on Jason's face that has him stepping away. He's not fast enough. Jason grabs Duke by the arm and brings him front and center. Duke tries a winning smile for Dick, like it’s going to help with Jason presenting him like a naughty toddler neglecting bedtime. “Were you half-asleep when you let Flash-light over here wander the house concussed off his ass?” 

Duke frowns at that. “I’m fine actually—”

But Dick is already turning to him, alarmed. “Did something happen?” Any and all traces of sleep are gone now. “Weren’t you just going to the bathroom?”

“He decided on a midnight stroll,” Jason says, and then nudges Duke forward toward the bed. As unsteady as he is, Duke has to catch himself on the arms Dick shoots out to steady him. 

“It was just for a second,” Duke says defensively. 

“You know you’re not supposed to be up and moving around alone,” Dick scolds, already tucking Duke back onto the bed and rearranging blankets. Steph remains knocked-out. “That’s how you get hurt—again.” 

“Sorry,” Duke says, mostly to get out of them telling Alfred about his late-night escapade. The last thing Duke wants is more time added to this leg of bed-rest. 

As Dick fusses with propping pillows and brushing tangles of blonde hair out of the way—Steph lets out a noise like a bear and shuffles over— Jason takes the opportunity to start to leave. Duke notices because of the green-tinged flash of reflective light in the darkness of the bedroom. 

“Dick,” Duke says, grabbing his arm. He nods at the door, and Dick follows the gesture to where Jason is slipping out of the room—

“Little Wing,” Dick says. “Where’re you going?”

Jason glances back. Dick doesn’t make any kind of exclamation at the sight of the glowing eyes—he’s seen them before, Duke assumes. “Back to my room.” 

“Why weren’t you there to begin with?”

Jason doesn’t answer. 

Dick pats the bed beside him. “C’mere.” 

“The bed’s not really big enough for four of us?” Jason says. 

“We can kick Steph off,” Duke suggests, because he’s a little tired of waking up with blonde hair in his mouth or a fist flailing against his nose. 

“Heard that.”

Duke jumps, twisting to look at Steph, who lays still as a corpse, eyes trained on him accusingly. “Uh,” Duke says. “Joking?”

“Mhm.” 

Dick ignores them. “There’s space,” he assures Jason. “We’ve done six before.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Jason points out, but he comes back into the room, very decidedly not looking anyone in the eye, and deposits himself on the bed with an elbow to Dick’s gut. “Dammit, roll over.”

Dick is all grins, scooching ever-closer to Duke’s side. Stephanie finally relinquishes some of her two-thirds of the bed, and Duke finds himself propped up on pillows, high enough for an angle to look over Dick’s shoulder, where Jason is rolled back-to-back with Dick. “I’m only doing this cuz you and Blondie suck ass at keeping watch.” 

“Maybe I’m just really good at escaping,” Duke suggests. 

“Don’t even try it,” Jason warns, pinning Duke with those eyes. 

And suddenly—smushed into the same bed, wearing Wonder Woman pajamas, with Dick winding them into a tapestry of inescapable blankets and limbs—Jason and those eyes feel a little less like a predator. 

Duke shrugs in surrender. "Fine," he says. "Truce." 

Stephanie surfaces. "Sleep," she demands.

And they do. 

Chapter Text

“Dick-Head,” Jason warns, flipping to the next page of his book. “I will cut those fingers off.” 

Dick’s hand withdrawals from where it hovers near Jason’s head. There’s a pause, and then Dick is vaulting over the back of the couch, landing in a contorted sprawl at Jason’s side, looking at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Little Wingggg,” he wheedles. “I’m just curious.” 

Jason ignores him. 

“Is it…” Dick hesitates. “Have you ever touched it?”

“Fuck off.” 

But Dick is already reaching out again, slowly, cautiously, like Jason is primed to bite. “Because it’s just…it looks really soft.” 

“I said fuck off,” Jason repeats, and rolls his head to the side dodging where Dick continues to reach for his tuft of white hair. “And yes, I’ve touched my goddamn hair before.” 

“Wait,” Dick says. “Let me compare it to the rest of your head—”

Jason knocks his hand away with a groan, shifting to the other end of the couch. He poises his feet between them, ready to kick. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Go bother your gremlin.” 

“Damian’s at a sleepover with the Kents this weekend.” 

Jason turns back to his book, trying to find his spot on the page. “What about Replacement?” 

“Timmy’s busy,” Dick says with a frown that says his attention has clearly already been rejected today. 

“And I’m not?” Jason points out, resisting the urge to smack him with a book. 

Dick sighs. “Fine, fine. I’ll let you read.” 

“Finally,” Jason says. 

A minute passes. 

“...are you going to leave?” Jason asks. 

“No.”

“... can you leave?” 

Dick scoots closer. “Why do you want me to go? Why can’t we just spend time together?”

“You don’t want to spend time with me,” Jason says. “You wanna hang off of me and paw at my hair like a creepy-ass leach.” 

Next time, Jason is showing up twenty minutes after Alfred's dinner invitation. Not ready his ass—Jason should have known this would be a ploy to keep him hostage at the manor, and to it's occupants.

“Jay,” Dick says, all soft eyes like it's going to help. “I’m wounded.” 

“I wish you were.”

Dick sighs. “Alright, alright,” he says. “I can see where I’m not wanted."

Jason ignores him, turning another page. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Dick tilts so his hands are on the couch seat, using a foothold on the coffee table to bend himself backwards over the back, because he’s incapable of awkwardly shuffling between the table and couch into open flooring like an actual human. 

Jason rolls his eyes, about to warn Dick he’ll tell Alfred if he touches the table with his gross-ass socks again. But before he can even look over his shoulder, there comes the feeling of a hand on his head for the second time in five minutes. The fingers card from his forehead back, ruffling his hair in a single, practiced swipe that sends warmth and something soft down his shoulders. 

When Jason can’t find it in himself to throw off the hand right away, Dick’s confidence grows. He leans forward and droops his arms to rest on Jason’s chest, connected in the loosest form of a hug. For a moment, Dick’s chin rests on the crown of Jason’s head, but his brother doesn’t push it. 

“Enjoy the book,” Dick says and pulls back, offering a gentle, parting tap on the shoulder. 

Jason waits until he leaves the room before letting his hand come up to tug on the lock of white hair. 

Huh. Dickie-Bird is right. 

Jason lets his hand fall and goes back to reading—trying very hard to ignore the discovery that some of his hair could be a goose down transplant. 

Chapter Text

One second Jason is tearing himself out of his helmet and shirt as he makes a beeline for the cave shower, grimacing at the sweat drenching his hair and running between the layers of his Hood getup. The next, he’s realizing he should have held out for his very nice, very private, safehouse bathroom. 

“What is that?” Replacement asks, voice pitched dramatically, like something important is happening. 

Jason spins around. 

There’s literally nothing important happening. 

It’s just him and the kid in the cave, and Tim looking right at…him? The hell?

“This?” Jason holds up the object in his left hand. “Called a helmet, Timbo. Guess you didn’t wear them enough as a child.” 

Tim crosses his arms, standing up from where he’s camped out at the Batcomputer, the novelty, bat-printed, gallon-large coffee mug Steph bought him for Christmas empty beside him. His sweater—well, Barbara’s oversized sweater—is a rumpled mess, his eyes are blood-shot, and it looks like someone took a sharpie to work under them. Jason doesn’t want to guess at how long he’s been down here. 

“Turn around?” Tim asks. 

Jason’s eyebrows knit together suspiciously. “What?” 

“I want to see your back.” 

“You want to see my back?” Jason repeats. “Why?”

“Following a lead.”

Jason sighs. The sweat is starting to dry and itch, and he smells way too much like Killer Croc for his liking. He should have turned the other way when he saw the Demon-Brat and Wing zipping around the overgrown lizard like gnats. Instead, Jason had to be a good samaritan.

“Listen, I’m not really in the mood for your crap today.” 

“I’m serious, Jason!” 

And Jason is serious too—he’s not about to take time out of his busy schedule to cater to Tim’s whims when he’s already gotten mixed in Bat-antics today. It’s just, to get to the showers, he has to turn around. 

So, he does. 

Except Tim apparently misreads this as an invitation to scuttle over—tripping on one of his slippers in his haste, you know, like an idiot—and stroke his back.  

“What,” Jason says, jerking back. “The fuck?”

Whirling around, he finds Tim squinting at him. “There’s nothing here,” he says. “You used to have a scar there—remember when you fell off the fire escape and tore up that side of your back? It was like, two months after you became Robin.” 

Jason blinks, because one, the fascinating tidbits Tim decides to share from his very creepy stalker phase always blindside him, and two, he hasn’t exactly told any of the Bats about the whole, clean-slate thing. He didn’t think anyone would notice. 

Except Tim, who’s now staring at a blank spot on Jason’s bicep where he took a shot from one of Ivy’s razored plants, is clearly noticing. Jason turns to hide his arm, except he made the mistake of flinging his shirt in the direction of his bike, and now Tim’s red, analytical eyes are scanning for evidence. 

“First of all,” Jason says. “If you ever tell anyone about me falling off the fire escape, I will murder you, for real this time. Second, congrats, you’re right, the scars are gone. I’m gonna hit the showers now—Dickie’ll be soon, so if you don’t want him to drag your ass to bed, I’d get moving voluntarily—”

“The scars are gone?” Tim interrupts, because he has zero manners. 

“Gone,” Jason says, rolling his eyes. 

Tim frowns. “How are they—oh.” 

Yeah. Oh. 

Jason crosses his arms. This is…a conversation he doesn’t want to have. Much less with Tim, without a shirt, while he wants his damn shower.

“The pit,” Tim says. Out of all the Bats, Jason has to give it to him. He’s never been afraid of prying into the ‘off-limit’ topics. Like Jason almost ending him in a jealous, murderous rage disqualifies him from tact. Unfortunately, there's a part of Jason that squeezes when he thinks about flesh under his knuckles and blood between Tim’s teeth that actually gives him the assumed pass. 

“Yeah,” Jason says, shrugging. “Came out squeaky clean, baby-soft. Healed me up, you know?”

Tim frowns. “So all of those…are new?” 

Jason knows exactly what he’s talking about. He might have crawled out of the pit rejuvenated, but in the time since, too many hasty stitches have done a number on his skin. “Part of the job, Timmy-Time.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?” 

Jason shakes his head. “We all know what we’re signing up for.” 

“Not that,” Tim says. “The…the restart. I mean, you went through all those things and the scars kind of…they suck, but it’s like? You earned it? I guess? They were part of you.” 

Part of Jason is wondering why they’re having this conversation. Part of him…considers the question. 

After the first couple of weeks post-pit—spent raging and hurting, his mind in shambles and the shards animalistic—when Jason came back to himself , he remembers looking in the mirror. It was his first glimpse at who he had become. 

The person in the mirror was…clean. He didn’t have broken bones jutting under and through skin, or shredded, empty nail beds from clawing through wood and dirt and maggots. There wasn’t a scar on his hairline from when Willis kicked him into a table, or a burn on his thigh from an unlucky run-in with Firefly. The map of scar tissue that covered his body—too slow to dodge that bullet, too much trust on that grappling line, not fast enough to jump away from that knife—was gone. 

The person in the mirror was different. Different from the young boy whose home was Gotham streets. Different from the teenager who suited up in green tights and a mask and dodged Batman’s footsteps night by night. Different from the fifteen year old who thought that damn ticking timer would be the last thing he saw. 

No, the Jason in the mirror was someone new. And his lack of scars, of memories, made it easier to see that. 

Except now, now, Jason is back in the cave. Jason is stopping by the manor to pick up Alfred’s leftovers. Jason is standing back to back with Nightwing in Gotham streets. 

And some days…it’s hard to be just the ‘new’ Jason.

“Jason?” Tim prompts. 

Jason glances up from where he’s been idly staring at his helmet, thoughts tangled. Tim's question—does it bother him? Not having anything to show for who he once was? The before? It did, once. 

But not anymore. 

“I don’t need to remember all that crap with scars,” Jason says. I’ve got someone to do it for me.” 

Tim’s eyebrows furrow together. “Who?” 

“My own personal stalker.” 

And then the realization floods into Tim’s sleep-deprived, overworked brain. His lips start to do a dangerous, soft, turning up thing. The look in his eye is the same brightness Jason would catch glimpses of when Tim’s Robin trailed after Batman, picking up scraps of praise. It’s the look that comes when Dick swoops by with a hair ruffle and a bright ‘proud of you Baby-Bird!’. It’s the look that threatens to destroy any of Jason’s remaining reputation as a cold-blooded, mass murdering crime lord when directed his way. 

Jason spins around, content to leave Tim standing in the middle of the room, smiling like an idiot. But…he pauses when he reaches the doorway to the locker room. 

“I was serious about heading up to bed,” Jason says, before ducking inside. “You look like crap.”

Chapter Text

Jason is at the cave for a very specific reason. It’s the third Saturday of the month, and as such, it’s a day of pillaging. 

Jason spends half an hour in the cave’s storage. He sorts through every kind of weapon and gadget under the sun, discarding most of them for a variety of reasons. This one’s bat symbol is too prominent, this one is fucking stupid, this one looks like it would need hours of training until he can be confident he won’t drop it and sever a toe or two. 

He doesn’t bother keeping any kind of organization system with the duds—they get shoved to the side in a sad, nonsensical pile. Mostly, Jason is just picking out his normal stuff anyway. 

New rebreathers, ammo, grapple lines, smoke bombs. With Mr. Freeze out and skulking around Jason adds a few pairs of thermal gloves. The same line of thinking has him picking out enhanced cuffs—he’ll need something to hold Killer Croc if he’s the first Bat to stumble into the sewers. Jason stocks up on some medical supplies too, and several antidotes for the most recent additions to Gotham’s never ending chemical warfare game. 

Jason hefts the bag of commandeered supplies over his shoulder and steps into the main room of the Batcave—

It’s no longer empty.

Bruce looks up at Jason’s arrival, gaze narrowing in on the bag slung over his shoulder. Jason tenses, waiting for a call out, but Bruce only sighs and turns back to the two teenagers hanging out by the Batcomputer. 

Tim is driving, his hands still resting on the keyboard as he sits, half-turned to face Bruce. Cass is draped over the chair’s backrest, one of her hands playing with Tim’s hair. Her focus is narrowed in on Bruce too.

“Dick and Damian are back from grabbing take-out from the Waffle-House we went to for Barbara’s birthday,” he’s saying. His gaze very quickly dances to Jason and then away. “They got enough food for everyone.” 

Jason blinks. 

He didn’t exactly expect a sneak attack invitation to hang out with everyone when he showed up at the cave. Honestly, he expected them to mostly be out of the manor—Bruce and Tim off navigating company waters, Duke patrolling, Dick taking Damian and maybe Cass out to the zoo, or the aquarium, or wherever else Damian could stare all wide-eyed infatuation at elephants or stingrays for a day. 

Except…here they all are. At the manor. With waffles. 

Cass is already sliding past Bruce, narrowing in on the prospect of food. 

“Wait up,” Tim says, tagging along at her heels. 

That leaves Bruce looking at Jason, clearly trying to hide the nervous tilt to his eyebrows. “Jason?” he asks. 

Jason crosses his arms. He didn’t come here for this—he came to steal hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of supplies and leave. Doing this…joining everyone for food can go wrong so easily. Has gone wrong so easily. Does he really want to deal with that today? Storming out of the manor pissed off and snapping and hot and having to avoid the Bats for the next couple of weeks? 

On the other hand…what if this is one the times that goes right?

“....Fine,” he says, with an obligatory reluctance. “But only if Dick-Bird got me maple-cream.” 

Bruce tapers down on his obvious happiness as he leads the way up the steps. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he says. “Dick bought everything.” 

They reach the manor sitting room, Jason sees what he means. 

Every surface is laden with waffles, condiments, and sides. Heaps of smoked bacon and cooling eggs and sweet and spicy delicacies Jason doesn’t know the name of are everywhere. It’s not really breakfast time any more, but Jason also hasn’t eaten since hours before patrolling last night, and he’s starving. He takes the plate Bruce passes him and starts piling food on.

“Dude,” says Tim as Jason sacrifices the natural order of food division, maple cream sloping off his pile of waffles onto fresh-cut fruit and kielbasa. “You want a plate to go with that?”

“Ha, ha,” Jason says. “You should take that comedy on the road—seriously. Get walking.” 

Tim throws a wad of napkins at his face.

Jason’s hand jumps toward his gun, but then Dick is there with his stupid face and stupid grin. “Wanna fork, Jay?”

“Want you all to fork off,” Jason says, snatching the utensil.

Everyone makes their plates. Without speaking, they decide to remain in the room instead of searching for a more civilized meeting place, like a table you can actually set a plate on. Dick makes himself comfortable on the windowsill. Tim sits on the carpet, you know, like a dog. Damian stretches out under the coffee table. Cass sits so she’s perched on the back of the couch, and Jason…

Jason eyes the only open spot on the couch. 

Next to Bruce. 

For a moment, Jason strongly considers claiming a random post like the rest—maybe he can use the fake logs of the fireplace as a seat? Or, better yet, lean against the wall. That would be fine. Normal people actually do that—Jason can feel good about himself with that choice. 

Except….

Jason wants to sit down. 

He hasn’t gotten any sleep since patrol, just up and moving and not stopping. He’s hungry and shaky and tired and damn it, if Jason wants to sit on the couch he’s gonna do it.

Trying to ignore how obviously anxious Bruce is, Jason slides himself onto the middle seat, Bruce sitting on one side, Cass perched near his upper right on the other. Beside him, Bruce is still. Very rigidly, he starts to cut into his waffles. The sound of cutlery fills the room. A moment later, it’s drowned out as Damian comes up with the remote for the television.

“Come on, no,” Tim exclaims when Damian goes to play a Stephen King’s adaptation. “We have enough horror in our actual lives.”

Dick smiles glibly. “Maybe something a little lighter, Dames?”

“Brown told me that this film is a well-rounded production featuring animals in its central plot—”

Jason snorts a laugh, reaching down to pluck the remote away from where Damian has sat up indignantly, hair staticky from rolling around on the rug.

“Todd—”

 “She’s screwing with you, Baby-Bat,” Jason says, going for a hair ruffle that gets expertly dodged. “The cat dies.” 

Damian frowns. 

Jason navigates to an old reality show from the Animal Planet channel, and the rescue of malnourished animals is enough to suck the kid in. He doesn’t even fight for the remote back. 

Tim, however, voices a complaint. “This is sad,” he says, craning his neck back to scowl at Jason. 

Jason kicks him.

Only for Cass to kick him in retaliation. Jason is taken by surprise, and in his haste to keep his plate of food level, he barely notices the body he lands against or the large, familiar hands that steady him. 

“Hey!” 

Cass shakes her head. “No kicking.” 

“You just kicked me.” 

Damian growls from the floor. “Father, ” he complains. “I can’t hear the veterinarian’s diagnosis.” 

“We’ll replay it,” Bruce says placatingly, and then he’s rescuing the remote from slipping into the seat cushions and rewinding the show. Damian settles and Tim scooches closer to where Cass has slipped down to play one-handed with his hair again. Dick is quiet and unproblematic, Mr. Golden boy. And Jason. 

Jason has fallen closer to Bruce. 

Catching himself has put him right up against Bruce’s side, his arm spread along the back of the couch, leaving Jason underwing like he’s a twelve year old Robin again. Jason stills. Casually, he takes a bite of his waffles and cream, and pretends to be absorbed with the sight of a scrawny, balding cat drifting into the hold of anesthesia on-screen. 

The thing is, it's the first time Jason’s sat like this, next to Bruce, in a situation that isn’t the Batmobile, or a medical cot, since he died.

This is Jason sitting on the couch, with Bruce’s finger trailing somewhere near his shoulder, and it feels…different than he expected. Jason isn’t going to call it nice or anything like that. It’s too awkward for nice. But it’s…it feels like something he doesn’t want to ruin. 

So Jason doesn’t move. He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t do anything that could mess this up. 

Bruce, unfortunately, does. 

“Jaylad?” Bruce says, quiet enough that the others can pretend not to hear. The fingers brushing the collar of his cotton t-shirt pause, then curl to press against the skin of his neck. “You’re cold.”
Bruce sits up, jostling him. 

“Hey,” Jason complains, but Bruce is already grabbing his hands. 

“You’re freezing,” Bruce corrects, surprise coloring his voice. He starts to rub Jason’s fingers between his hands. 

Jason tries to pull away, but Bruce yanks him closer. At the same time he reaches over to grab a throw blanket that Cass has come up with. Bruce is steadfast, tucking it in around Jason like a cacoon. Jason rushes to save his waffles from the onslaught of blanket and hair from Damian’s damn cat. 

“I’m fine,” Jason says. Sure, maybe he’s spent the last hour or so in the cave in a t-shirt, and maybe that’s on par with hanging around a walk-in cooler. So maybe Jason is like, a little chilly.

But that’s normal. 

“B, stop,” Jason says, because Bruce is feeling his forehead and eyeing his lips like they’re about to go blue. “I’m always cold.” 

“That’s not true,” Bruce says dismissively, and his gaze tilts to the side for a second like he remembers a preteen heater crawling into bed to cry into his chest after a tough patrol. Jason always ran warm. “And you’re not just cold, Jay-bird, your hands feel like ice.” 

The rest of the room is clearly listening in at this point. Dick is half off his window sill, clearly ready to help Bruce kidnap Jason for any number of unnecessary tests. Jason scowls, shifting, putting space between him and Bruce. He just follows. 

“Were you hit with something?” Bruce presses. “On patrol? What was it?” His tone takes an edge. “Who was it?” 

“I wasn’t hit with anything.” 

Tim rears his ugly head. “He intercepted one of Bane’s shipments last night.” 

“Shut up,” Jason hisses, but Cass is there with narrowed eyes to keep him from smacking the kid on the back of the head. “I wasn’t drugged.” 

“Then what is it?” Dick asks, off his sill and coming closer. Even Damian has risen to his knees, squinting suspiciously at Jason.

Jason almost can’t blame them for not believing them—it would be far from the first time someone hid an injury or drug exposure. Except, this time, Jason’s not. He’s fine, this is normal. At least, his new normal. 

Jason just wishes he didn’t have to… explain to convince everyone to lay off. 

“It’s…” Jason looks very seriously at his waffles. “It’s the pit.” 

Bruce’s ministrations—tugging the blanket closer, testing the temperature of Jason’s ear, peering at his fingernails for a color change—end. Damian looks resigned. Cass frowns. Dick’s face is openly twisted with something ugly and sad. Tim just raises an eyebrow. 

They’re all too quiet. Jason reaches forward to deposit his half-eaten brunch on a slim corner of unused table, no longer hungry. His stomach is twisting instead and it feels like crap and Jason wants to turn back to ten minutes ago and lean against the wall. He regrets looking at the damn couch. 

Everyone is still staring at him, and that doesn’t help unwind Jason’s middle. He crosses his arms and rolls his eyes at them. 

“I run cold now,” Jason says, editing any defensiveness from his voice. “It’s…it takes a lot, to get warm. I’m used to it.” 

They all exchange looks, like they’re subtle. 

“Does it bother you?” Dick asks, eyebrows knitted—of course, zeroing in on implications to Jason’s comfort. 

Jason shrugs. “It is what it is,” he says. 

Bruce makes a very low noise in his throat, one that Jason almost doesn’t hear. Jason can’t look at him—frustration is twisting up his insides. Why couldn’t Bruce have left it well enough alone? Jason was fine leaning into his side, where the smell of Alfred’s lemon detergent and a cologne more expensive than Jason’s rent clung. Where Bruce’s shirt was soft against his bare arm. Where Jason was pressed against warmth.

Part of Jason wants to lean back into the spot like a moth to a candle. 

But that part of Jason is overruled. 

Jason sits forward. He casts his thoughts for an excuse, but comes up blank. “I should go,” is all he says. 

It’s a lie, of course it’s a lie. Jason doesn’t have anywhere to be for hours. Half of the people in this room know that too—fucking stalkers and detectives. Zero privacy with any of them.

But no one calls him out. 

Jason ducks his head—whatever, he got the supplies he came for. And some waffles too. Even if the syrupy, sweat cream is sort of curdling in his gut. It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. None of it. 

Jason stands, hands reaching to brush essence of Alfred the Cat from his pants—

A projectile smacks into his face. 

Jason’s open eyes sting and his recoil has him tripping over the couch cushions against the back of his knees. Only the fact that whatever hit him is soft and the knowledge that he’s surrounded by allies keeps his hand from jumping to one of his guns. Instead, the softness—thick swells of fabric—drops into his hands. 

Behind him, for the second time in so many minutes, the same hands catch him. 

Bruce breaks his stagger, threatened-fall, and guides him back into the middle seat. His hands immediately go to pull the throw blanket back into position. 

“What—?” Jason looks at the blanket. Then his hand and the sweater he holds. Cass is perched with a glint in her gaze, a twist to her smile. 

“Wear it,” Cass says. 

And, well. Jason’s instincts tell him to throw the sweater, and her help, back. But Jason pauses with the sleeves in his grip, because what would be the point? The fact is, Jason is cold. 

Ignoring Cass, Jason tugs the hoodie overhead. It’s probably Dick’s, because it has Superman’s S stitched to the front and one of Damian’s confiscated knives in the pocket, but it’s oversized because when Jason shrugs it into place the shoulders don’t tug. Jason glances at Dick to see how he feels about the clothing appropriation, only for a jolt of alarm to buzz through him. 

“Dick-head—” Jason growls, but he’s too late. 

Dick lets himself flop onto the couch. Cass shuffles into his side as Jason quails away. Dick takes advantage of the limited space, practically wrapping himself around Jason, simultaneously pushing them both nearer to Bruce. Damian is still on the floor, but he’s shuffled closer so he can sit primly beside Jason’s legs. Tim curls closer on the other side. 

Jason has been boxed in. 

“What the fuck are you guys doing?”

Dick pats him on the shoulder. “You can pretend it’s cuddle pollen if it makes you feel better.”

Jason head-butts him in the nose—lightly, because waffles naturally sate fratricidal tendencies. Unfortunately, Dick is pretty accustomed to getting smacked in the face because he just uses the arm he’s wrapped over Jason’s blanket enclosure to tug sharply on Jason’s earlobe.

“Seriously,” Jason complains, trying to pull his arms from the entanglement. Bruce hums disapprovingly. Jason does not give a fuck. 

“Quit wiggling,” Tim says, from below. 

Jason scowls, ire sidetracked to him. “Quit bitching.”

“Timothy is always ‘bitching’” Damian reveals. 

Dick gasps. “Damian!” 

“Boo!” Cass complains. 

“Shut up,” Tim says. 

Bruce sighs. “Everyone, please. Can we shelf the fighting for one morning?”

“Yes,” Damian says, gaze fixed on the screen. On it, there’s a little girl with arms outstretched and tears in her eyes as a three-legged cat bounds awkwardly in her direction. Jason honestly has lost all track of what’s happening there. “I cannot hear Mr. Meow’s reunion with Elizabeth.” 

“Damian you can’t say ‘bitching,” Dick says, still very stuck in the past. 

“Todd said it.” 

Dick shakes his head. “Jay’s an adult. You are eleven, and eleven year olds do not swear—” 

“Richard,” Damian says, sending a fierce look over his shoulder. “I am trying to concentrate on the television.” 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Tim pipes up.

And then, of all fucking things, Jason finds himself lifting his legs to act as a blockade so the two idiots don’t kill each other in the airspace of his shoes. 

This damn house. 

“He’s biting me!” Tim yells. “He’s biting me! 

Shit, Jason isn’t even a good blockade.

“Damian, stop biting your brother,” Bruce says. 

Jason rolls his eyes, really, that’s it?

Dick reaches out, snags Damian by the collar, and pulls, but Baby-Bat’s got those needle teeth dug in well. Tim shakes him like a chihuahua but Damian’s jaw strength is unrivaled Jason tries to kind of kick them apart, because he’s actually a little interested in why Mr. Meow is going a different direction from Elizabeth on screen and he’d like to hear, but really his efforts do very little. 

It’s Cass, of course, who puts an end to the chaos. “Brothers,” she snaps. “Nice morning. No fighting.” 

Tim stops, because he’s a goody-two-shoes (until he absolutely isn’t). Between Dick and Jason, they’re able to pull Damian free. Dick lifts him in the process depositing Baby-Bat in the very nonexistent gap between him and Jason. Jason gets an elbow to the eye out of the whole thing. 

Meanwhile, Bruce looks at his daughter like she is the apple of his eye. 

Jason hates this house. 

Unfortunately, he’s very decidedly stuck in this house, on this couch, with all of these bat-shit crazy people. With the sprawl of people around him, he can't even tug himself to his feet to leave. Not without bodily harm and possible firearms. Jason's trapped. 

...But maybe...that isn't the worst thing. 

Jason lets himself relax into the mess of limbs and blanket and sweatshirt. The heat of the pile surrounds him, thawing through frozen layers of flesh and blood and bone until there’s something behind his breastbone warmer than it’s been in a long time. 

There’s the occasional shift, occasional bicker, but for the most part everyone’s attention is very captured by the ongoings of cat rescues and vet visits on the screen. Dick starts to cry when one elderly Maine Coon is euthanized. Damian, similarly devastated, doesn’t even try to break out of the tight squeeze his eldest brother has wrapped him into. Jason himself clears his throat, blinks several times, and tries to focus on the more light-hearted story the show moves on to. 

He watches the half hour episodes blur by, and tries not to think about the looser, softer hold that’s wrapped around him. 

It’s still tentative, still careful and anxious and too hesitant to be like the all encompassing hugs and squeezes into Bruce’s side that he used to have. Before the fight, before dying, before waking up with green eyes and a mangled mind.

But it’s a start. 

Jason lets himself curl into Bruce’s side, Damian and Dick and Tim and Cass woven into a careful nest around him. No one says anything about the pit, or the cold.

Bruce just whispers somewhere near his ear. “Warmer?”

Jason shrugs. Wrapped in blankets and superman sweatshirts and this weird-ass version of a family—this time, things went right. 

“Yeah,” he says, letting his head rest against a familiar shoulder. “Warmer.”