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Forehead coated in sweat, Jason took large and deep breaths, trying to steady himself from the nightmare that uprooted him from the promise of sleep. Brushing his fingers through his damp hair, he groaned, biting his lip and wondering what to do next. In the sanctuary of his safehouse, he'd likely mosey his way into the kitchen, a habit he had formed since his early days with Bruce, in a never ending search for something warm to sip on and lull him back to sleep. And if habitual roaming didn't work, Jason would find himself crawling in bed again, this time, curling up to the warmth and steady breathing of Roy (something he'd always say he'd regret doing, but all the same, the nightmares came and Jason would still find comfort in the heartbeat of the obnoxious yet sentimental redhead).
But he wasn't at home. The bed that he slept in tonight wasn't his. Not anymore, anyway. In another life, a different story, but even with the nostalgia of his belongings untouched, left exactly as he liked them, this room still wasn't his anymore. It was just another relic from a life he could no longer live.
Kicking the sheets off his legs, he moved to stand up straight and stretch out his back. Not that he found his old bed uncomfortable, Bruce Wayne had fine taste in mattresses, and if Jason was being honest, the mattress beside him still felt like sleeping on a cloud. But not even soft mattresses could lull him to sleep. Not when the nightmares came back in full swing, taxing Jason on his sleep and ultimately, his humanity. No doubt, he'd be grumpy and moody tomorrow, his fuse cut short and only getting shorter the more sleep deprivation he suffered.
He always got like this though, especially when there were "Joker Issues", both direct and indirectly. But unfortunate for Jason, every knew about his moods. They knew about the nightmares, and they'd be overwhelmingly careful around him, like walking on eggshells. The moment there would be word about an escape from Arkham, everyone would just about hold their breath for Jason's reaction. It was still a touchy subject, especially between him and Bruce, though one Jason has come to terms with. It would genuinely be over Batman's dead body that Red Hood would pull the trigger, aimed straight at The Joker's head. And while Jason considered the idea of keeping the piece of shit alive out of respect for Bruce's memory, Jason knew that if he didn't pull the trigger, it would likely be someone else touched by Bruce's crusade to deal the killing blow. Jason considered the image of Dick strangling Joker to death with his black and blue gloved hands, his teeth bared and his eyes darkened with a need of vengeance. It scared Jason. Because if golden boy couldn't hold his own in the light of Bruce's death, then what chance did the rest of them have?
He wasn't entirely sure how, but Jason found himself in the hallway, dressed in only sweatpants, his bare feet forcing the wooden floor beneath to creak slightly. Old habits must die hard. But as he made his way down the hallway, certain that he'd end up in the kitchen again, making a cup of hot chocolate as though the sentimentality of the childish drink would soothe his sorrows, he heard a small cry. Pausing, waiting to hear more, he froze and held his breath. Another strangled groan and Jason spun on his heel to find the source of the noise. His eyes landed on the ornate design carved into the wood of Damian's bedroom door. A muffled "No...", and Jason began to approach the child's room. He tapped his knuckles against the frame, hearing no audible response. He pushed the door open slowly, whispering Damian's name as loud as he could without actually speaking.
Tangled in sheets, his black hair that usually stuck out in several directions now clung to his neck and forehead, his brow furrowed as he tossed from side to side, whining softly. Jason's heart somehow broke. Jason didn't involve himself much with the kid, seeing very quickly that he was ill-tempered and violent and arrogant. Infuriating didn't begin to cover it. As far as Jason was concerned, the newest Robin was Bruce's concern, and he constantly reminded Dick of that when the oldest would complain about something mundane regarding the child. "But he's such a good kid, really, he just needs to know that he's loved s'all...." Dick would chirp and Jason would roll his eyes. Jason would beg to differ, firmly believing that Damian Wayne was born with a silver spoon up his ass and a sense of self entitlement because mommy told him he was the best and daddy simply wasn't there to knock him down a few pegs until it was too late. For too long, would he and Dick joke about what would happen if Batman procreated. Careful what you wish for.
But this wasn't that angry little snot that Jason had come to know. This was a distraught and harmless child, helpless against the demons that haunt him at night. And when Jason approached the bed, ready to wake him up, it suddenly occurred to Jason just what tortured this little one. Because he still had the scar on his forearm, the smell of burning flesh still fresh in his mind. All the signs were there and even if the pit wasn't involved, it's still traumatizing to simply die and come back. And Damian...small, overly confident and precocious Damian... he was suffering the consequences of a fate far too similar to Jason's for comfort. And Jason couldn't help but wonder if maybe Dick saw it too. If maybe... well, to put it bluntly, of maybe Damian was as every bit as determined as Jason was when he was given the mantle of Robin. If Bruce took one look at Damian and saw the ghost of Jason's youth in the boy's eyes. And Dick, who had admitted openly that he mourned Jason just as much as Bruce, who had openly loved Jason as a brother, saw an opportunity to right a wrong by being the brother he should have been to Jason with Damian. That maybe, Damian was their second chance. Because surely, while Tim had admirably replaced Jason, Tim was far more like the beautiful light that was Dick Grayson than he was the burning challenge that was Jason Todd. No, Jason was sure that he and Damian were far more alike than they both would be willing to admit. And Jason began to mentally smack himself. He could find refuge in the boy. They could find safety and love in each other, come to accept one another for all their flaws and anger issues. And here Jason stood, having spent the better half of the year that Damian had spent in his life doing nothing but brushing the boy off as another one of Bruce's projects.
Letting his hand fall on Damian's shoulder, he nudged the boy softly, calling his name only to find the kid bolting upright in bed with a knife in his hand, nearing Jason's throat. Any normal person would have been afraid in that moment. Jason only smiled. "Cute..." It wasn't like he too didn't sleep with a weapon nearby, in the unlikely event that his safe house was compromised.
"What do you want, Todd?" Damian's voice caught on tears that were threatening to fall, ruining the facade that Damian wasn't affected at all by the images that flood his mind at night.
Jason let his features soften, his hand reaching up to slowly influence Damian's hand down, ensuring that the boy let go of the knife. "You were whimpering in your sleep."
"Don't be ridiculous, I wasn't..." Damian stopped when Jason rolled his eyes and let his head fall lower to give Damian that knowing smile (a smile that he learned from Dick no less).
There were many things that Jason expected from Damian. He expected denial, he expected sarcastic remarks and sneering. He expected name calling and tongue clicking and eye rolling. But what Jason could expect and what he got instead were very different things. Because Damian's arms were now wrapped around the bulk of Jason's ribs, his cheek pressed into Jason's chest as tears began to fall freely. And Jason, who simply didn't do hugs, was wrapping his arms around the small boy, lifting him up into his lap, cradling him, holding him and lulling him.
"You're home now, everything will be okay." Jason cooed. Damian still cried and Jason did everything to ensure that his grip would not loosen, his thumb rubbing along Damian's clothed arm, his chin sitting on top of Damian's crop of sweaty hair.
Minutes and then hours passed, and the two didn't move. Damian's sobs softened into soft breathing, eventually mutating into a gentle snore and Jason couldn't bring himself to leave. Because the child in his lap, the one who had suddenly trusted him enough to break down on him, had pinned him there with the weight of unforeseen affection. And Jason, Jason who wondered what might have been had he had his family there in the direct aftermath of his rebirth, couldn't deny Damian a sense of hope, a chance of normalcy (by their definition anyway). So he held Damian tightly, let himself fall back into the pillows slowly, and granted Damian the same comfort that he often sought every night that he too suffered from the heartache of dying.
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When Bruce had found Damian's bedroom door opened, he figured he must be up already. But when Damian didn't show for breakfast, Bruce wondered how the hell he had even made it this far as Batman. Still, he expected to find Damian in his room, sketching perhaps or sleeping, curled up with Titus and maybe Alfred The Cat. Instead, his jaw dropped when he saw just where Damian was... and who he was with. Because before him lay a very much asleep Jason, holdingBruce's tiny son as though Damian was Jason's own. Damian shifted, nuzzled into Jason's chest and Jason adjusted slightly to compensate. Bruce only smiled, grabbing the handle of Damian's bedroom door and shutting it as slowly and as quietly as he could, letting his two sons find comfort in each other from a world that brought them nothing but suffering, happy that while they may, in a sense, resent Bruce for his inability to be the father they needed, they had formed their own little family.