Chapter Text
It started, as most problems in Jason’s life do, with Timothy Jackson Drake.
Jason is minding his own business in the Batcave, elbow deep inside the engine of the Batmobile, when Tim comes limping down the cave stairs. His Wendy the Werewolf Stalker t-shirt is wrinkled and awkwardly bunched up in the front where it’s tucked into the waistband of his Blue Beetle sweatpants. The left pant leg loosely rolled up above his knee to tease Dick with his pristine white cast.
Or, at least Dick claimed it was teasing. He's been trying to vandalize Timmy’s cast with a blue sharpie since Alfred had put it on the kid, to absolutely no luck. Dick had recruited the other batlings into trying to jump Tim with colored sharpies and it turned into an all out war. Essentially, the first Bat to tag Tim’s cast with their designated color gets to pick what to watch for the next three movie nights.
Jason was appointed Timmy’s babysitter the night of the break. He would argue Tim was old enough to feed himself and wipe his own ass without Jason, but he was given the position by Alfred. No one argues with Alfred.
That night Jason was given a red sharpie from Dick and a cackled good luck from Stephanie before they all left for patrol. Tim froze like a deer in headlights when he saw the marker in Jason’s hand, and only relaxed when Jason tossed it onto the kitchen island and asked if Tim was in the mood for fried chicken.
That was probably the only reason Tim was walking around with it uncovered now. Mini Bruce was sleeping over at Uncle Clark’s, Steph and Cass were having a girls night at the Clocktower with Harper and Barbara, Duke was spending the night at his girlfriends, and Dick ran back to Blüdhaven to spend time with Kori. Jason, Alfred, and Bruce were the only ones supposed to be on the property tonight, and the only ones not plotting to corner him so they could draw on his cast.
Jason took quick note of the kid's heavy breaths and the slight twitching of Tim’s bloodshot eyes every time he stepped forward onto his cast clad leg. He mentally reminded himself to inform Alfred that Tim lied about “barely feeling the break” before redirecting his attention back to the Batmobile.
Something had dislodged under the hood, causing it to make a loud clicking sound whenever you accelerated the gas past seventy. His Dad, too busy to pop open the hood himself, asked Jason to take a look for him. Getting a sharp glare from Alfred in response, who was not pleased that they were discussing vigilante business outside of the cave.
Jason had wanted to believe his— Bruce. Jason naively wanted to believe Bruce asked him because he remembered their tradition. Of course he didn't. Jason doesn’t know why he expected anything different.
Whenever Jason got hurt as Robin and couldn’t patrol Bruce used to come back home insisting something was wrong with the car. He would loudly complain to Alfred that he was so tired and how he wished he had a partner that knew how to fix the Batmobile. Jason would always offer himself up as mechanic and Bruce would go up to his room, pretend to sleep for ten minutes, and then run down to help Jason with the “problem”.
Jason never admitted it to Bruce, but he realized B was full of shit by the third time Jason played mechanic and they didn’t find anything wrong.
He enjoyed spending time with his Dad too much to spoil it.
Jason initially hoped this was an olive branch, but after pretending to be busy examining the car for fifteen minutes, jittery with anticipation, B still hadn’t shown up. Jason had worriedly checked his civilian tracker and saw that it was right where Jason was worried it was going to be.
Wayne Enterprises.
As a kid, Jason always hated it when Bruce brought him to the office. The investors always looked down their noses at him, and the rare few that deigned themselves to speak to him said things like:
“I’m surprised someone like you has such good manners, Mr. Wayne has done quite a fine job fixing you up.”
Or once, when Jason had snapped back at a particularly obnoxious businessman spewing rhetoric about “Alley kid trash”, he was told,
“You’re lucky you’re Wayne’s kid. If I was the one taking care of you you’d be meeting my belt buckle for lipping off. “
Jason was still new to the manor and unsure how the Waynes dealt out punishments. He didn’t know whether Bruce would defend him or if Bruce would let his office friends smack him around for being disrespectful. He exclusively stuck to the side of Bruce’s secretary from that day forward.
Michelle was always nice, she would sometimes help him with his homework when he got confused or she would send in an order for his lunch when Bruce got stuck in meetings. She was the only good thing about Wayne Enterprises, aside from Lucius.
Dick understood when Jason complained about Wayne Enterprises. Apparently, it gets tiring being told it was a blessing your parents died because now you can have a “better life” after the first few times. Dick had gotten out of it by faking a stomachache every time Bruce offered until he eventually stopped asking.
Jason wasn’t a cute eight-year-old though, when he faked an illness he was taken to Leslie’s and then brought back to the office once she realized he was fine. On the drive back Bruce had started reminiscing about when Thomas would take him to the office. They were his most cherished and the clearest memories he had left of his father.
Jason didn’t have the heart to fake a stomachache again.
Jason wasn’t twelve anymore. He was a grown man who wouldn’t be let anywhere near Wayne Enterprises even if he gave the receptionist his birth certificate, drivers license, and (if Bruce had even kept them) his adoption papers. Thinking about the office and all the slimy business men still has his lunch rolling around in his stomach though.
Bruce was pretending to be one of those businessmen right now. He was probably sitting at the head of the boardroom table, in a ridiculously expensive tailored suit, sipping coffee and forcing laughter at their snotty digs at Gotham’s charity cases.
Charity cases like Jason.
Jason hated it whenever Bruce put on his Brucie Wayne persona. Oblivious, privileged playboy who didn’t know whether he was signing a business contract or his own head shot. Brucie let women hang off of him before even learning their names and dutifully ignored every poorly concealed insult sent his way.
He flirted to make deals and laughed at every distasteful joke he needed to to maintain his image, regardless of his own opinions on the matter. Sometimes Bruce’s distaste was so heavy you could feel it in the air, other times his facade was so perfectly constructed you couldn't tell apart the mask from the man.
Every time Bruce chuckled or ignored a dig about The Alley Jason tried to find a crack in the mask. A furrow of the eyebrows or a twist of the lips to show him the truth, and every time he failed to find a fault his mind would whisper the same quote into his ear.
“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”
Apparently Bruce enjoys putting on a mask and going over contracts with grimy business men more than he would enjoy being in the cave with his… least favorite co-worker. Because that was what Jason was now, his co-worker.
The belated realization only made him feel pathetic and stupid. But mostly, pathetic.
Pathetic for thinking Bruce had been the one to leave the note inviting him into the manor for the first time since his death. It must’ve been Alfred rebelling against Bruce’s wishes. Bruce hadn’t wanted him there, that’s why he had been so fidgety that night.
Pathetic for wrapping an arm around Damian on patrol last week when he noticed the kid shivering. Pathetic for telling the cashier at Alfred’s favorite store that he was grabbing a few things for his brother when Duke had asked him to run some errands. Pathetic for thinking Cass leaving a flyer for her next dance recital on the fridge of one of his safe houses meant anything other than she wanted Jason to cover her shift.
Pathetic for still thinking of Bruce as his Dad. Of not wanting to stop referring to him as his Dad; scared that if he stops that’ll only cement the fact Bruce doesn't want him anymore.
The only Bat that didn’t make him feel moronic after his epiphany was Tim. He didn’t feel stupid for having looked up recipes to make Tim on late nights when he dropped by after patrol because Tim had been the first one to reach out, asking if he could spend the night on his sofa after he got a bullet in his shoulder.
Tim had been the one to send Jason pictures of Young Justice eating ice cream in a mall somewhere in San Francisco, asking if he wanted Superboy fly him over some. Tim was the one who told the elderly woman that lived in Jason’s building that they were brothers when he was helping with her groceries.
Tim and Jason’s relationship (as tumultuous as it is) is a mutual give and take. Jason’s relationship with Bruce feels more like Jason giving, giving, giving and Bruce taking, taking, taking.
Tim finally stops walking on his cast by plopping himself down into the Bat-computer chair and using it as a makeshift wheelchair, slowly making his way around the cave.
Bruce had spent weeks making sure the entire cave was easily accessible for Barbara, and Tim often abused the cave ramps to skate around the cave on his board. Hell, this is probably the first time since they have been installed that Jason has seen Tim use the ramps for their intended purpose.
Jason sticks his head back under the hood, keeping an ear out for the sound of Tim’s wheels echoing in the empty cave. The Bat-chair catches on the grips embedded into ramps and the wheels slow as Tim rolls himself down towards where they keep the vehicles. If the slow pace he’s going at is any indicator then Timbit’s still loopy from the buprenorphine Alfred made him take before Bruce sent him up to his room.
The wheels stop rolling against the floor. "Hey B, what are you looking at?”
Jason reflexively lifts his head to look towards the stairs where Bruce must be sneaking down. He stops himself before he fully straightens up and quickly refocuses on the flashlight in his hand. He dazedly notices the black grime caked around the cracked exhaust manifold but he’s much more focused on not looking up to see Bruce.
Bruce in his pressed, three piece suit and dress shoes walking down into the cave. The faint traces of concealer still smeared under his eyes and temporary hair dye concealing his grey streaks. Not his Dad. His Dad would’ve been down in the cave with him, black grease smeared on his cheek, his graying hair sticking up in every direction as he pretended to look for a fake problem with the Batmobile.
The image of Brucie Wayne walking into the cave is enough to steel Jason’s resolve.
“I know you heard me.” Tim’s closer now, still yelling up to Bruce. “I saw you move, Bruce! Are you really ignoring me because of what I said about your plan earlier? It’s not my fault he didn’t show!”
Jason is starting to get annoyed in Tim’s defense. Why the hell is Bruce being such an asshole, right now? He can ignore Jason if he wants—and although usually the idea of Bruce pissing Tim off would be hilarious—Tim hasn’t done shit to deserve Bruce’s silent treatment as of recently.
“I said I was sorry!” Jason feels a rough tug on the back of his tank top. The sudden touch has him throwing his arm back on reflex, almost whipping Tim in the chin with his flashlight in the process.
Tim’s looking up at him, a handful of Jason’s top tightly clutched in his fist, and a blank expression on his face. Jason whips his head around the cave to find Bruce. The stairs are empty and Bruce’s tracker is still pulled up on the Batcomputer.
Bruce Wayne — Current Location: Wayne Enterprises Current Heart Rate: 35 bpm
Did Tim hit his head after falling off that roof the other night? If Tim has been hallucinating this whole time and decided to lie about it, Jason’s going to murder him. He mentally goes over Tim’s chart and can’t remember Alfred mentioning a head injury. But he also knows Tim and this kid would try to run into the field in a full body cast.
Jason crouches down. “Yo Timbers, ya doin’ alright, buddy?”
Jason regrets being so concerned when Tim starts cackling in his face. “Holy shit– Ha! I’m sorry, I'm sorry!” Tim looks down at his lap, a hand over his mouth, and seems to calm himself down. He looks back up at Jason again to speak and all that comes out is a breathless wheeze.
“Oh my god. How did I never—” Tim is talking more to himself at this point that he’s talking to Jason. His eye catches on the faint scarring on the corners of Tim’s mouth and he starts debating whether or not he should call Bruce.
After two minutes of uncomfortable cackling Tim straightens back up in the Batcomputer chair, wiping tears out of his eyes with the back of his hand. “Sorry, sorry.”
"Ya done yet? Or am I gonna have’ta put you in an isolation chamber?”
“No, no, I’m okay now.” The kid stifles another laugh into his shoulder. “It’s just… I thought you were Bruce.”
What?
“...What?”
Tim looks him up and down. “I mean I’ve always known that you guys look alike, but holy shit, you really look alike, Jason.”
Jason wants to refute the bullshit spewing from Tim’s mouth, but if he could get his mouth to co-operate with him he fears all he would be able to say is huh? Tim continues on as if he doesn’t notice Jason’s shock.
(He does. Jason knows he does, but the kid is a brat so of course Tim’s going to try to see how far he can push until Jason breaks.)
“Come on, Jason. You’ve always been the most like him in terms of—” Tim waves his hands around, gesturing at Jason’s everything, “but usually I can tell you guys apart once I’m close enough. This time I didn’t even realize until you tried to smack me—”
Jason did not try to smack him. If he wanted to smack Tim he could’ve, but he chose not to. Because he believes in a fair fight and Tim; high off pain killers, in a cast traveling around on a chair, is not a fair fight.
“—have you gotten fatter? Maybe that's why you’re his clone now. You were always on the leaner side, even after you put all those fake muscles in your suit.”
“For the last time! They aren’t fake muscles, it’s called armor. Which all of ya guys should be wearin’ more of, by the way.”
They diverge into petty bickering back and forth for the next hour and a half as Jason replaces the Batmobile's faulty exhaust gasket. By the time Alfred comes down into the cave to drag them into the Manor for dinner the heavy weight in Jason’s chest from Bruce’s absence has lessened from an overwhelming pressure into a barely there ache.
He almost forgets.
With Tim sitting across from him in the breakfast nook, shoving half of a cucumber sandwich in his mouth, and sipping Zesti out of a plastic bendy straw, he almost forgets.
Alfred is hand washing the dishes, quietly playing British show tunes on the kitchen speakers, and softly humming along in agreement to Jason’s complaints about a recent book release. He almost forgets
Jason settles down for the night in a guest bedroom next to Tim’s and locks himself inside. He makes his way into the connecting bathroom and locks eyes with himself in the vanity mirror.
He doesn’t forget.
The healthy tan he had maintained while traveling with the Outlaws has all but disappeared in the past four months of residing in the sunless hellscape named Gotham. The natural curl of his hair is only noticeable in the constant frizzyness of his nearly straight fringe since he stopped being able to afford the products for his hair Alfred used to buy.
Jason mechanically peels off his tank top, taking in the broadness of his shoulders and the bulk of his torso. His eyes briefly trail down to assess the width of his thighs before shooting back up to make eye contact with his reflection.
The complexion of his skin doesn’t quite match Bruce’s once you really look. Bruce has always been too pale. If he spends too long in the sun his skin flushes a bright pink and if he spends too long without his monthly dose of sunlight his skin develops an almost translucent appearance. Whereas Jason naturally has an olive skin tone, even after months without the sun touching his skin he still has a healthy flush to his cheeks.
His curl pattern, though less defined than it should be, still couldn’t ever be mistaken for Bruce’s meticulously styled, needle straight head of hair. Jason’s has a warm undertone that makes his hair look closer to dark brown in the sunlight. Bruce's hair absorbs any and all sunlight like a sponge, making it a hassle during the summer.
He had once contemplated buzzing his hair off when Dick was younger. According to Aunt Kate (who was not supposed to have told Jason this story) it took Dick begging him not to, Alfred cancelling all the hair appointments he'd made that month, and Selina tripling the amount of compliments she gave him regarding his hair for Bruce to drop the subject.
Jason’s reflection twists in the mirror, a hand coming up to squeeze the muscle covering his shoulders and torso. Calloused fingers catching on the raised, jagged scars decorating his skin and patches of body hair that grew in white after he came back to life. He turns again, trying to mentally compare his figure to what he remembers Bruce looking like the last time Jason saw him out of the Bat-suit.
In hindsight, Tim had obviously been fucking with him about being the same size as Bruce. They were similar in height, sure, but Jason’s physique, even with the additional fat, was more comparable to Dick’s than anyone else.
The tension eases out of Jason all at once and he quickly strips off his sweats to hop into the shower. If he grabs a bottle of his old curl defining conditioner from the bathroom closet and steals a bottle of Dicks tanning lotion from his room, then that is nobody's business but his own.