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Jason whistled a jaunty tune as he pushed open the heavy wooden door of Wayne Manor’s master bedroom, balancing a tray of breakfast foods and green tea.
“Wakey, wakey, old man.” He called out brightly.
He didn’t get a response from the lump hidden under the blankets, though he expected as much. The only sound in the room remained the reassuring beep of the heart rate monitor. Jason briskly walked into the darkened room and set his tray on the bedside table before moving to the large bay windows to draw back the curtains.
With the room bathed in the early morning light, Jason took a moment to appreciate the view of the manor grounds from up high. A layer of frost covered the browning grass, and it wouldn’t be long until a blanket of snow marked the start of another harsh Gotham winter. After years of living a cushy life, Jason never forgot those awful years of his childhood, living on the streets, doing everything to survive in the unforgiving weather. Like stealing the wheels of the batmobile.
Jason doesn’t regret that impulse that eventually led him to the warm confines of the manor all these years later. Warm, safe, and at home. Eventually, the winter would come and go, and the spring flowers would be back in bloom, including Alfred’s prize rose bushes. The delicate petals stood out among the ground’s many stately and soft blooms, much like the man who tended them every year without fail until he passed.
On good days, Bruce spent hours sitting near the rose beds the previous summer until Jason forced him to come inside. Some days, he joined him; they had their meals in the garden, or he would read to Bruce if the mood struck. Mostly, they sat together in silence and remembered the man who poured his love into every corner of the manor with such tenacity that it felt like he had never left.
If Jason could convince Bruce to move to a bedroom on the guest floor, making the manor much more accessible than the master bedroom tucked deep into the family wing on the second floor, he suspected next spring would bring more lazy afternoons surrounded by bright flowers and warm sunlight.
If Bruce survived the winter.
Jason turned away from the windows and marched to the bed, where its occupant refused to surface from his cocoon. He unceremoniously jerked back the blankets until, finally, he laid eyes on his father.
“Morning, B.” Jason greeted softly, contrasting sharply to his earlier greeting.
Bruce glared at him with dull blue eyes and sweat covering his brow. That, plus the blanket cocoon, told Jason that today was a bad day when the pain engulfed and consumed, and every minute felt worse than the last.
Yet despite that distress, Bruce still grunted a greeting back through clenched teeth. Jason offered a knowing smile and reached out to push his sweated hair off his forehead. He kept his hand on the side of his father’s face, and the man relaxed ever so slightly into his palm.
“I brought up breakfast. Thought we could eat in bed and watch TV. You up for that?” Jason queried. Bruce’s bad days didn’t come on without a few warning signs. Last night, when Bruce spent the latter half of the evening vomiting up the soup Jason made for dinner and then having a fever set in fast and furious told him how today would play out.
Jason spent the night monitoring Bruce’s vitals, waiting for the fever to break before he managed a few restless hours of sleep on the day bed he moved into the master bedroom around mid-summer when he could no longer sleep unless he heard the constant beep of his father’s heart rate monitor.
“You eat.”
Jason agreed, predicting he wouldn’t be up for food yet and didn’t expect more than those few words for the rest of the morning. He moved over to the other side of the bed and climbed up, pulling the tray of cooling breakfast with him. Jason got comfortable against the headboard before turning on the TV anchored at the foot of the bed with the remote sandwiched between the many feathered pillows.
He switched to one of the always broadcasting cooking channels and tucked into his breakfast. Jason rattled off a casual commentary about the recipes and kitchen disasters to his silent bed partner. Bruce hated silence, and although he wasn’t healthy enough to participate, he once told Jason he appreciated the attempt at normalcy.
Around the time Jason finished his breakfast, Bruce managed to turn toward him in the bed and listen to the television. Jason scooted closer and switched to the news after a few minutes in time for the 10 AM headline recap. Like most mornings, the anchors began with Gotham’s caped crusader and the sensational takedown of an arms dealer at the port last night. Some very dark security camera footage showed Batwoman swoop in like a bat out of hell to capture the man and his goons with extreme prejudice.
Jason grinned, watching Cassandra kick ass and heard Bruce hum in pride next to him though his eyes remained closed. Bruce loved hearing about Cass’ exploits the day after. She texted Jason after wrapping up at the docks, responding to his earlier message about Bruce’s rough night and saying not to bother popping by the manor today. No matter how much he loved seeing his kids, he wouldn't be up for guests. From the start of his illness, Bruce hated anyone seeing him weak.
Jason was not an exception to this.
But Jason happened to be the stubborn asshole who stayed at the manor when Bruce came down with a nasty flu, prepared to nurse him back to health and lord it over him for all time.
Except Bruce never did get better.
He got worse.
Then came the diagnosis—the prognosis. Jason attended every doctor’s appointment, went on pharmacy and grocery runs, and sat chairside at chemotherapy sessions. One day, he realized he lived in the manor full-time and called it home again.
So, while Bruce’s pride refused to allow his siblings to see him on his worst days, Jason took a front-row seat and categorically refused to leave unless death herself came for him.
They fought for a long time about that; ugly, seething screaming matches echoed in the manor's near-empty hallways once Bruce managed to push everyone else away. Those arguments left Jason hoarse, and Bruce doubled over, unable to breathe until Jason scrambled to get an oxygen mask on him. That only helped Jason make his point, though he refrained from saying, ‘I told you so’ when those awful knockdown, drawn-out fights reminded him painfully of Bruce and Dick’s heated fights when he first came to the manor.
Playing an antagonistic caretaker suited Jason exceptionally well, and he thrived on watching Bruce flush with anger and ego each day he refused to leave him in this vast home no longer filled with children. Met him word for word, glare for glare, unflinchingly and unbothered. Jason relished those moments. He missed those days now that the fight deserted his father and his body stopped responding to treatment. Back when Jason was still on speaking terms with Dick.
These days weren’t the worst either. Quiet, bed-ridden days, when Bruce was in pain but still lucid and present. Days when Jason felt strangely peaceful in the routine set out by the best oncologists in the country. He’d take Bruce miserable and lying in bed next to him, then unresponsive in the back of an ambulance.
He continued to mindlessly watch the television and listen to Bruce’s hitched breathing until it settled into something deeper, and he realized his father had dozed off. Jason glanced down, watched the lines of pain smooth out for the first time since yesterday, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Jason turned the volume down on the TV and settled down further on the bed until he lay parallel to his father. He needed to change out Bruce’s IV, order groceries for delivery, and clean up the kitchen that he had largely abandoned the previous night. Yet, his exhaustion kept him glued to the silk sheets and feather pillows.
He blinked lazily until his eyes closed, and Jason fell into a dreamless sleep.
Several hours later, he drifted to consciousness with the feel of a hand running through his hair. Jason mumbled incoherently and chased the feeling until he heard a deep chuckle. Jason’s eyes popped open and stared at Bruce’s face.
“Morning, sleepyhead.” Bruce greeted him with a warm smile as he continued to run his hand through his hair.
Jason smirked, thrilled that Bruce was feeling better. “It’s way past morning, B.” He sat up, regretfully dislodging Bruce’s hand, but he had things that needed doing. He rolled out of bed and moved to the other side to change the IV.
“We’re both night owls.”
Jason snorted. “Neither of us can stay up past midnight anymore.” With the glaring exception of Bruce throwing up his guts and Jason desperately checking for blood. “Gotta say it's done wonders for my complexion. Don’t I look more handsome than ever?”
He smiled at Bruce as he readjusted the line, ensuring no tangles. Bruce looked at Jason unamused and suddenly severe. Jason braced for what always came with that look.
“Don’t you miss it?”
“Miss what?” Jason played dumb and began to fuss with the blankets around his legs. He averted his gaze from Bruce’s all-knowing stare, hoping the man would take the hint and drop it.
“Being the Red Hood. The rooftops. Freedom.”
“Do you?”
Jason knows his answer before Bruce responds, “I don’t have a choice.”
“Well, this is mine. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
Bruce reached over and covered the hand, smoothing his blankets and squeezing until Jason gave in and looked up at his father’s face. “I’m sorry, Jay.”
Jason heaved a great sigh and turned over his hand to hold Bruce’s properly. “Hey, we’re not doing that today. Stop it, or I’ll have Cass come over to kick your ass. And she’s much more busy and important than us, so we shouldn’t bother her whenever you say stupid shit. Right?”
Bruce’s face softened, and he smiled indulgently. “Right.”
“Okay, I’m gonna take care of some things downstairs. Need anything?”
“I’m good.”
“Good.” Jason leaned over automatically and pressed his lips to Bruce’s temple. “Love you, old man.”
Bruce hummed quietly, “Love you too, son. Thank you.”
Jason pulled back and collected the empty IV and his discarded dishes before quietly leaving the room. Halfway down the hall, Jason paused to take a deep, centring breath, the likes of which he has done more often than not as of late. His hand trembled around the fine china, and he took a moment to collect his thoughts.
Out of habit, Jason recounted everything he was grateful for today—the heat in the manor. The crisp fall air. Bruce was alive. It was a peaceful morning. Cassandra was safe after patrol. Bruce was alive—a full stomach. Bruce was alive. Bruce said he loved him—the warmth of Bruce’s palm on his hand. Bruce was alive. Bruce was alive. Bruce was alive.
Jason sucked in another deep breath and continued to the kitchen.