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As Batman, he is phenomenal at being unpredictable when the situation calls for it. He’s hardly an army, after all. Anticipation and strategy are the twin gods keeping Gothamites safe and him in business.
As Bruce Wayne, he has predictability down to a science. He has done research on the dumb playboy personality—has it balanced just so with the billionaire philanthropist, so that he maintains the typical celebrity reputation the media expects, all while remaining completely harmless to the public eye.
But there are times he is neither. Times when he is a sprawling gray area; not something in between Batman and Bruce Wayne, but rather something apart from the two. Something nameless and hazy around the edges; nebulous, but apparently real, as he has come to learn. No amount of crime-fighting or masquerading can erase the person he eases into, in the liminal moments. After he solves a challenging case, or after a particularly grueling gala—after he’s exhausted the limits of his own stringent control over his personalities—what emerges is a messy thing; candid, unrehearsed, and unrefined. Not the clear symbol of justice, nor a celebrity’s precise charm. He just is.
As the thing that is, whether or not he is predictable depends entirely on his subconscious.
Take, for example, his couch.
It’s not really any more his than every other piece of furniture in Wayne Mansion. But after an endless patrol or an exhausting dinner party, more often than not, he would sleep through breakfast and, in the late hours of morning, migrate to the couch in his study to blearily regain his sense of personhood.
Alfred is aware of this. And although he disapproves of skipping meals, he understands how necessary these quiet moments are to Bruce’s functions and, blessedly, lets him be. Damian, at first, used to scowl and pout when they didn’t dine together; routine was important to him. But the kid had quickly realized that an exhausted Bruce was not much fun to dine with, and quiet mornings were better spent causing mischief he wouldn’t usually get away with when Bruce was cognizant.
His other children didn’t look for him during these moments. Granted, they scarcely looked for him beyond these moments either. They needed to have their own lives apart from Bruce, and he… couldn’t blame them.
More and more often, he wonders if he’s been selfish for dragging these children into his twisted self-therapy. Nevermind that they wanted it. Nevermind that they were good at it. If he didn’t want them to come along in the first place, they wouldn’t have. Nothing could persuade him otherwise if he had already made his mind not to endanger anyone else.
If. Therein lies the rub.
It nags at him, to know there are timelines out there where Bruce knew to leave well enough alone. He’s afraid to see those—to see how well his kids would thrive if he had been just a little more selfless; to know for sure that in this timeline, he’s left them somehow worse than how he found them.
These are the thoughts Batman and Bruce Wayne aren’t allowed to have. Alas. Now, he is neither. He is something else; something that sweats through bedsheets, crawls into the shower, and trudges downstairs, to his couch.
Only, when he gets there, it’s already taken.
Lounging against one side of the couch is Jason Todd. He’s reading a book; Huckleberry Finn, it looks like. The morning rays obscured by rippling blue curtains cast him in a soft, almost sleepy light. Shadowed. Hazy. Like a dream.
Bruce barely recognizes him as the Jason Todd he fought alongside just yesterday, taking down rogues and bat mutants all night through—
He sees his son.
Jason wears a rumpled red shirt (his favorite color) and loose grey shorts that flop about his knees (Dick’s old pair). His hair furls in every which way in an atrociously fluffy bed head.
(Did he sleep here in the manor? Impossible. Jason never does that anymore.)
He’s a ghost, in more ways than one, and Bruce freezes in place.
What can he do? It’s his couch. Everyone knows to reserve it for him on days like this. Everyone. And no matter how immersed and comfortable he looks reading his book, this is Jason. He has noticed Bruce standing there, watching him, dithering by the doorway. Which means—
Oh.
Jason must want Bruce to sit with him.
It’s improbable, almost impossible, but there seems to be no other explanation. Every memory that proves this conclusion wrong resurfaces, unbidden. All the things Jason has screamed at him, terrible things spat in glowing green rage… and all the things he has done to Jason with his own hands and weapons.
(It’s as if there’s a batarang to his own throat.)
Bruce sits because this is what Jason wants him to do. He takes the rest of the couch, his back against the opposite rest, folding his legs so that they don’t make contact with Jason’s arm. He’s uncomfortably comfortable, and he decides to hide this behind the morning papers, spreading them wide enough to cover his torso, his face.
As if maybe Jason would allow the moment to continue, if he forgot even for a second that he was spending it with Bruce.
They used to sit like this, he muses. They used to sit much closer, with Jay squished to his side, rambling about Star Trek or whatever happened to be on the television that day. Now, Jason rarely talks to him. Rarely ever wants to be in the same room as him. It makes his chest smart.
He swallows past the lump in his throat.
So much for regaining his sense of personhood.
His hands are trembling, and he has to will them to stop before Jay can hear them rustling the papers. Enough pining for the past. His son is alive, and sitting with him. That's all he ever wanted. Jason being here is all he ever wanted. And he wants it still.
(But he’s terrified.)
He keeps the newspaper in place. That way, he doesn’t have to see white streaking through black tufts. That way, he can pretend the radiating green eyes are still a soft baby blue, like there’s nothing wrong. Like there’s no hurt between them.
“Dad?”
The voice is light, soft, and it spears through him. It’s not the voice of the Red Hood, and it’s not a tone Jason has ever used on him since returning.
But it is his voice.
“Yes, Jay?” Bruce replies brightly, calmly, playing by the rules of this tenuous game. He lowers the papers slightly to take a subtle peek at Jason. (It’s still him. It’s still him. )
Jason glances up at him, then returns to his book, frowning. “How long will I have to be dead for?”
And what sort of question was that? What could he possibly mean? Bruce continues to play the role of Jay’s sinless and loving father. “You’re plenty alive to me, chum.”
“No,” Jason says emphatically like he's being especially obtuse. Ah. So that wasn't what he meant. Still, it doesn't escape Bruce’s attention that despite his annoyance, Jason doesn't cuss him out like usual. Somehow, today is different.
His son sighs when he speaks, like he's frustrated he has to explain himself at all. “It's hard to be alive when my latest legal document is a death certificate.”
Bruce remains puzzled. It's not as if Jason doesn't have at least twenty fake identities scattered across a dozen countries by now. The kid, like all his kids, is a genius. If he wanted to be ‘alive’, he would do it himself.
But Bruce keeps all these observations trapped in his throat. None of them hits the mark. There is a point to this, he knows. There’s a meaning behind Jason seeking him out like this, for once quiet and reserved, asking him, of all people, for something that seems so simple on the surface—calling him Dad.
He’s the greatest detective alive, yet he can't help but be a shitty fucking dad. But he’s trying. Just like Jason tries with rubber bullets and family dinners. He would meet his son in the middle, of course he would, if only he can find out what Jason means.
Before he exhausts every mental trail—before he deduces Jason’s meaning through psychology and body language like he’s a suspect rather than his own son—
He realizes he could just ask.
“What’s the difference between being dead and alive, legally?” He tries to keep his voice neutral. It's difficult—a slight frown in inflection would make him sound dismissive, and a slight smile would sound patronizing. He thinks he nails it, but Jason’s expression turns stormy, and he panics. “For you, I mean,” he adds quickly, wincing when he hears the alarm in his own voice. Doubtless, Jason has heard it too. His son is going to think Bruce fears his emotional response, and it's all because Bruce can't understand what he means when he's literally right there in front of him, speaking so plainly, because Bruce is and always has been such a terrible father who can't give his kids what they need.
“I…I just never had this problem. I don't understand it very well…” he mutters miserably, excuses that trail away into resignation. It feels like giving up. He doesn't sound like hero-vigilante Batman or billionaire-philantropist Bruce Wayne. Any semblance of confidence has evaporated from him and left him deflated. Constricted. He's afraid to even meet his son's eyes.
He can hear Jason’s breathing, heavy and quick with fury, but then something happens—he takes a deep breath and exhales steadily, deliberately from his mouth. Bruce risks a glance up and sees Jason's eyes are closed. His brow is furrowed, but with every slow breath that fills and empties his chest, his visage relaxes into one of his more subdued scowls.
He sighs again, exaggerated. “Dad,” he says, urgent and glaring.
(Bruce’s heart leaps with hope all the same.)
“There's a ton of stuff I can't do anymore! I can't—I can't finish high school, for one! I can't even get a degree! I can't ever get married, or—or like adopt a kid, or anything normal! How am I supposed to go back to normal when you need to be legally alive to do normal things?” Jason’s voice is rising, and his face is starting to get flushed, but it's surprisingly level-headed for him.
For his part, Bruce tries to hide his own shock. He never knew Jason was planning on— any of these things anymore, to be candid. Jason's priorities revolved around revenge and criminal economics even before he shed Robin colors and became the Hood, with the exception of justice on rare and desperate occasions. Hood never beats around the bush when it comes to his own morality. He's a murderer. They both know that Jason doesn't see university, a spouse, or god forbid, a kid in his prospects.
Except.
Except today, Jason isn't just a murderer. He's a nineteen-year-old who still blushes when he talks about marriage. He's a frustrated kid asking his old man for help. He still flounders with his words when it comes to expressing himself, just like he used to when he was fourteen. He's a murderer, and Bruce still loves him so hard that it makes his chest ache; would still give him anything he needs to make things right. He's never been just a murderer to Bruce.
Jason deserves to have the choice to do all these things. The chance.
But the detective in Bruce can't help but point out that he does have these choices. He can do these things. Fake identities and fake credentials are as easy as a cheap party trick to the Red Hood. Just the flight of his fingers, the flick of his wrist, and he could make another Jason Peter Todd. It's a common name, after all. It's not as if he would let legality be a hindrance if he really wanted those things.
This is important, his brain whispers, important. He's closing in on the mark. The point of it all. Something shivers in the collimator sight, red dot flickering with the movement. It can't be any Jason Peter Todd. It has to be the dead one, come back to life.
But why?
“You have to come back to life,” Bruce says, knowing, but not understanding. “It's the only way.”
“Yes!” Jason says, exasperated and relieved all in one. He must hear the hesitance in Bruce’s voice, by the way he’s on the edge of his seat, eyes searching Bruce’s face for any sign of comprehension. And the look on his face… Jason rarely ever lets Bruce see him so upset. Always, it's marred by a taunting rictus of a grin, or obscured by an angry red helmet. Today, he is no domino-masked vigilante, no merciless drug lord.
He's a boy.
(He's my son.)
But. Bringing a dead boy back to life… is needlessly complicated. Especially a boy like Jason Peter Todd. There was too much coverage, too much leaks. He'd be a billionaire’s heir and a gruesome freak accident all rolled up in one improbable resurrection. There was no way to do this without putting the entire family under scrutiny.
But it’s important, his mind whispers, nags. It is.
Bruce tries and tries, but in the end, he fails all the same.
“Why?” he asks, defeated.
“Why?” Jason repeats with a disbelieving huff that stings to hear. “WHY?”
Bruce hears his son's breathing pick up, sees those hands tremble and clench, and panics. “Jason—”
Huckleberry Finn hits the floor with a thump.
Jason snaps.
“Because—Jesus fucking Christ, do I have to spell everything out for you? How can I be your SON when he's DEAD?! How can I have this—this family when I'm just some fucking guy?! I'm only your son until you die, and I'm not invited to your funeral! Or I'm only their brother until they're confined, and I'm not allowed to see them! I'm not a Wayne where anyone can see, and honestly, it— it fucking —”
Jason stops. His chest lifts and falls, belaboured. He holds a look on his face as if he had just heard his own voice, his own raw and unfiltered emotion.
He looks horrified.
His hands clench and unclench. Clench and unclench.
“Son,” Bruce calls urgently. “Jay.” He sets the papers aside and shifts closer. Jason shifts back, leaning against the arm of the couch.
He lowers his head, runs his fingers through his own hair in a way that looks almost painful. “It fucking sucks, okay?” he says in the smallest voice, like he doesn’t want anyone to hear his words; doesn’t even want to hear them himself. “Don't I matter to you?” Jay asks. “Don't…don't you want it too?”
He sees Jason curl into himself, too foreign to the gravity of his own desperation, too unused to asking for what he actually wants. It’s Jay through and through. He knows, intellectually, that Jason and the Red Hood are the same person, but there aren’t many times that he actually feels it. That Jason ever had to ask, to beg for this, that he ever made Jason question his welcome when it should have been Bruce’s priority all along—
It fills him with grief and shame.
So much has happened between them. There is too much love for it not to hurt. Tragedy and betrayal drove them apart, but here they are again, after all this time, on the same ratty old couch; together.
Tentatively, Bruce decides to listen to his impulses. He scooches closer and tugs Jason by the elbow to sit beside him. Slowly, gently, he untangles his son’s hands from the bruising grip they have on his own hair. Then he does what he’s always wanted to do: he rests both hands on Jason’s cheeks, framing the boy’s face. Jason shuts his eyes tight.
“I— I do want it.” Bruce swallows. He has to take the leap, make the shot. “Jaylad, I want it more than anything, and I'm. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jaylad, I—”
Jason opens his mouth, a sneer plastered on it like he’s planning to say something flippant and untrue like, ‘ it’s fine.’ But his lips tremble too much, and no sound is released. It’s more pain than he’s ever let himself show, even when tortured.
Bruce now knows why Jason couldn’t resurrect himself, even though he was perfectly capable.
It's the same reason Hood asked Bruce to kill the Joker with a cocked gun already pressed to his temple.
It has to be Bruce. How else would Jason know that Bruce wants to keep him?
Gingerly, Bruce brings their foreheads to rest together. “I'm going to bring you back from the dead,” he whispers in the gentlest voice he can possibly muster. “I'm going to bring you home. You’re going to come home.” It feels like he’s reassuring himself just as much. “You’ll be home soon, I promise.”
Jason doesn’t reply. Bruce can feel his doubt, his hope, his grief in equal measure, through reverberating shudders, through the hands that claw at his shirt, through the head that rests on his shoulder, hiding, always hiding his face.
And Bruce lets him.
Sometimes, Bruce doesn’t know what to make of himself; this imperfect self who doubts and sins, who ruins and breaks. Who tries to be a hero, but always falls short. He doesn’t know who he’s meant to be . But now, he feels his son clinging to him, crying silently against his neck, and suddenly, none of that matters.
Because he knows one thing he wants to be.
The day is late, and the sun has risen. High above, through a break in stifling curtain shadows: a crack of light, bright and purging. It slices thinly through the amalgam figure on the couch, through white streaks and green eyes, through haze and doubt and sin.
It’s a light that can make ghosts real.