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“This is fucking stupid, Richard,” grumbled Jason from a cot in the medbay of the Batcave, a hand pressed tightly to the stab wound on his thigh. “I still can’t believe you tricked me into coming here.”
Peeling off his domino mask with his face halfway between a cheeky grin and a grimace (because no one could look suave while unsticking a mask from their face, not even the original Boy Wonder), Dick shot back, “And leave you bleeding out on the pavement? When pigs fly.”
“Who even says that? ‘When pig’s fly.’” Jason snorted. “You’re such an old man.”
“I’m twenty-eight.” Dick rolled his eyes. “I’ll be sure to remind you that you called me old when you’re my age.”
“As if I’m living to twenty-eight,” he shot back. “I’ll die of old age first.”
“Rude. See if I patch you up then.”
Dick turned around to continue sterilization protocol, obviously still planning on patching him up. He scrubbed his hands diligently over the sink. Washing hands was an important step in first aid drilled into them both by Bruce in their Robin years (“The only thing worse than an injury is an infected injury”), but it was also clearly an attempt to ignore him.
Still, Jason wanted to push.
“I just said that you didn’t have to, dick.”
“I don’t appreciate you using my name as an insult,” muttered Dick , not even turning around, and before Jason could even retort, he added, “And yes, I can tell when you’re using it as an insult.”
“Well I don’t appreciate being dragged to the Cave. You should’ve just brought me to one of my safe houses. Guess we both lose.”
“Jay, please.” Dick sighed and turned to give him a look that was too earnest, too soft, too much. He was obviously finished sterilizing because plastic gloves now covered his hands. “Bruce and Alfred are upstairs entertaining to gather intel on a case—I’ll have patched you up before they even realize you were here. Can you just let me help you? For once, can you just let me help you without being an asshole about it?”
“I could just do it myself.”
Like he always did.
Blue eyes peered at him, searching for something that made him want to squirm. Finding what he was looking for, Dick tentatively approached and sat on the edge of his bed, not touching him but closer. Closer than he normally let people get.
He focused on schooling his expression.
“Why did you trigger your distress beacon if you didn’t want me to come help?”
He made a non-committal noise and landed on honesty. “Never used it before. Figured no one would come, and I wanted to test the hypothesis.”
Dick’s face eyes widened, softening; his mouth dropped, then closed in a frown; his eyebrows raised then scrunched together. The devastated expression he landed on was hard for Jason to look at.
“You thought no one would come?” Dick asked, as if their relationship after his resurrection wasn’t so contentious to warrant the assumption. Still, the words seemed to melt something in him. “Jason, we lost you once. I lost you once, and I have no intention of losing you again, not if I can help it. Younger siblings aren’t meant to die first—you’re supposed to follow me. Whether we’re fighting or getting along, whether you’re working with the Bats or not, or whether you’re being a giant asshole or not, you’re my brother.”
Dick placed a hand on his leg overtop the blanket, the one he wasn’t putting pressure on. “Of course, I’ll come. Of course someone would come. Why else do you think you have a beacon? Just to rub it in your face?”
Honestly, yes that’s exactly what he’d thought. Or assumed it was some other way to track him. Based on Dick’s reaction, he’d clearly… miscalculated.
“Please, let me help.” His eyes bore into Jason’s, and frankly, there should be a warning attached to being on the full receiving end of Dick Grayson’s gaze. That shit was practically a weapon.
There was a beat where Jason considered protesting again, but… if he was already here…
“Fine, whatever. Just quit being such a fuckin’ sap about it.”
Dick gave him a small smile and stood up from the bed while Jason shrugged and shimmied out of his cargo pants to give access to the wound. It was hardly even that deep. They both knew he wouldn’t have bled out on his own. He could have easily made it to one of his safe houses—he almost did stumble onto his bike without calling for help like he usually did, until a treacherous voice had whispered louder than usual that it would be nice to know where he stood.
And… it was nice to know Dick (his brother) cared; that he had someone in his corner even when they were on different sides of the battlefield—apparently.
Dick got to work, now with access to the bleeding cut on his thigh, and Jason had to hand it to him: he was efficient. Disinfecting the wound, applying even sutures, warning him at just the right moments. The occasional quiet reassurance that he was doing a good job, as if it were Jason’s first time being stabbed and not a run-of-the-mill Tuesday. Sure, it hurt like a bitch, but all things considered, Dick was being gentle, and it felt… nice.
It felt nice to be taken care of.
And for a moment, he could almost pretend like this was his normal.
In some other universe, it could have been. This could have been an average night—him and Dick out for patrol, fighting bad guys when Bruce had to entertain socialites, and sneaking first aid before he could tell them off for taking unnecessary risks.
Jason probably wouldn’t be Robin anymore, not in his twenties. He’d have some other name, maybe some other bird, definitely not Red Hood with no need to reclaim anything. No murder to avenge. He’d probably be close with Dick, he realized. Closer than they’d been before his death with more years between them. Hell, he’d probably have taken Tim under his wing if he’d still joined the fold.
Jason could imagine it, and it felt nice to live in the illusion for a bit. A daydream of an easier life. He let himself be taken care of while Dick fussed, humming a tune to himself while he worked.
Rather than pull on his bloodied cargo pants when Dick finished, he borrowed a soft pair of sweatpants (probably an old pair of Bruce’s), and after allowing himself to play house for a bit, he decided to grab a blanket while he was at it. Surprising warmth filled his chest when he found a plush Wonder Woman blanket that had been his before his death, bought on a trip to Gateway City when he was thirteen.
Bruce had kept it after all this time.
(He wondered what else of his still haunted the Manor halls. Maybe he was more missed than he’d thought?)
Jason settled back on the cot, wrapped up in the soft fleece, and allowed himself to breath. The Batcave had the good drugs, but because he was hoping to drive after, he’d only taken some Tylenol and Ibuprofen. The wound stung, but it hardly compared to some of his worse injuries in the past. Still, while he pretended things were different, there was something comfortingly nostalgic about the whole night.
When Dick returned, dressed down as well in sweats and a t-shirt looking more like the older brother he remembered than he’d seen in a long time, Jason immediately noticed the two steaming mugs in his hands. One had a cartoon thumbs up that read “#1 Dad”, except someone had crossed off “Dad” and written “Bat” and the other was plain white with the words “Play Stupid Games, Win Stupid Prizes”.
He was an expert at playing stupid games which left Dick with the bat. Typical.
“Thanks.” Jason smiled tentatively over the steam. He blew on the top to cool it. “‘ppreciate it.”
“Course—don’t think I didn’t see you shivering before. You’re not as subtle as you think.”
Jason scoffed. “I’m plenty subtle. Subtle is my middle name.”
“Your middle name is Peter,” returned Dick with a raised eyebrow, as if to say gotcha. He blew on his mug, took a sip, and sat in the chair by the corner of the room. “It’s written on your tombstone and everything.”
Jason tried to shove Dick, narrowly missing when Dick dodged out of his reach, laughing.
“Asshole. Way to bring down the mood. Pretty sure it goes against social etiquette to bring up a guy’s grave in front of him.” He finally took his first sip of the tea and grimaced, almost spitting it out. “This is the worst fuckin’ tea I’ve ever tasted. Who raised you? Certainly not Alfred.”
“That would probably be my influence,” answered Bruce, appearing from the entrance to the medbay. “I’ve been told I always over-steep it.”
He was dressed in a well-tailored charcoal suit with a black button up, undone at the collar. His hair was perfectly quaffed. He stood stiff in the doorway, hands locked at his side. The image could have been straight out of his childhood give-or-take a few grays, although his expression was impossible to read. Something conflicted ran across it.
“Jay—”
Bruce took a step into the room, and the illusion was shattered.
“Alright, I’m out.”
Jason stood up, ignoring the pain from pulling on the stitches on his thigh. He reached over to grab the carefully placed crutch by the side of the bed. It would do him no good to rip out his stitches before he even made it home.
“I…" Bruce sighed. “I can go. You stay. I’m glad that you’re… I’m just glad you’re alright.”
The words made him pause.
Since when did Bruce pay attention to his boundaries? And when did he ever back down from a challenge? The Bruce he knew would never cede control over a situation or miss out on an opportunity to analyse his faults. This was where the dressing down happened; this was when they fought over methods and morality; this was when he stormed out to punch something until he felt better.
Jason decided to slow down. He had detective training just as much as the rest of the Bats, and he focused it all on Bruce. He noticed the slight sheen of sweat on Bruce’s forehead. His hair was actually more mussed than he’d initially assumed. There was a spot of something liquid and orange on the sleeve of his shirt. His breathing was elevated, as if he’d ran there. The darting in his eyes; a near imperceivable twitch in his hand.
And he was turning away, looking resigned. Tired.
“Wait—” Jason said before Bruce could finish turning. “Why did you come down here? Dickhead said you were entertaining. Pretty early night for your guests to leave.”
Bruce looked startled at the question. Then, almost hesitantly, he replied, “I faked a stomach flu when I noticed your distress beacon went off. I’d have been down sooner, but Dick said he had it handled.”
Jason felt his eyebrows raise.
“I was worried.”
To worry about someone, Bruce would have to… care about that someone. He didn’t realize he was still included in the collection of people Bruce cared about. Not when all of their interactions since his resurrection had ended in a shouting match or outright violence. Sure, they hadn’t been in actual combat in a while, but it wasn’t like Jason had given up his crime lording. It wasn’t like he’d stopped using guns or killing when necessary.
Yet when Bruce had seen his distress beacon, he’d apparently cared.
Huh.
“I can go,” insisted Bruce. “If you’re injured, you should—”
“How’d you fake the flu?”
Bruce cleared his throat, still stiff as a board standing in the entryway to the Medbay. “I puked in a potted plant.”
A laugh forced its way out of his chest. “I assume you’re gonna be the one to clean it up.”
“Unfortunately, it seems that way.”
He’d cared enough to puke in a potted plant at that.
The moment seemed to take a breath, the three of them in the small room unsure of where to go from there. He almost forgot that Dick was still in the room with them, for once not breaking the tension or escalating it.
It meant something to Jason that Bruce had cared enough to come, even though they weren’t on speaking terms, even though they weren’t quite allies. He peered at the man who he’d once considered his father and couldn’t help but wonder if, somewhere in there, was the man who’d loved him, at least a little bit.
“Think you can make a better cup of tea than Dickie here can?”
Bruce took the peace offering that it was. “I can’t say it will be much better, but if I could convince you to stay, you could taste test.”
Jason shrugged with false-nonchalance and sat back on the cot. “Maybe just for the night.”
Maybe just for tonight, the illusion didn’t have to shatter.
“I don’t suppose you’ll want to join me upstairs.” Bruce gave him a small smile.
“Don’t push your luck,” he scoffed, but his heart wasn’t all the way in it. “You’re lucky I’m not halfway over the bridge into the city right now.”
“I’ll prepare it and bring it down for you then.” Bruce’s eyes seemed to soften. “Staying off of your leg longer is probably for the best anyway.”
“Probably,” he agreed as if he hadn’t been prepared to steal a bike and book it back to one of his safe houses five minutes ago.
Thankfully, neither of them called him on it.
As soon as Bruce’s footsteps could be heard climbing up the stairs back to the Manor, Dick casually perched himself at the end of the bed, back in his personal space. It was becoming easier by the minute.
“Y'know, Jason,” said Dick, conspiratorially. “When your beacon went off, B freaked out.”
“Yeah, whatever Dick.”
“I’m being serious.” Dick pulled out his smartphone. “Look here if you don’t believe me.”
With a quick swipe of his fingers, Dick unlocked the screen to pull out his messages under the contact “B” and handed it over to Jason.
Jason scrolled through message upon message, showing increasingly worried texts from Bruce. Dick had been providing poorly transcribed voice-to-text responses while he drove to help him, and when the updates stopped, there was a stream of worry asking for updates: asking about his state, asking if they’d made it, if he should just come, if he was alright, if they needed an evac…
Finally, one from Dick that read, hes fine 🙄 were in the cave now.
“Paranoid asshole.” Jason scoffed, despite feeling a warmth in his chest, and handed back the phone. “Also, learn how to use an apostrophe.”
“I know how to use an apostrophe!” Dick protested, but Jason ignored him, as was his right. “I did great in English. You don’t have to be a classics snob to be literate.”
He was still thinking about the fact that Bruce cared. He had multiple pieces of evidence now to support the theory, despite all the other evidence to the contrary. It was becoming harder and harder to dismiss outright.
“So he really cared I used the distress beacon,” muttered Jason.
Dick nodded, solemn. “Yeah, he really did.”
He tried to fit the imagine of Bruce fretting over that of Batman clashing with him in the field. He couldn’t. But what he could picture was a younger Bruce, the one from his childhood, pacing in the kitchen when he’d arrive late from Drama Club—despite the ten texts reassuring him he was fine. He could picture a younger Bruce patching him up in the Cave, his brow scrunched in frustration and maybe fear, as he dressed him down for making mistakes. He could picture the Batman from his Robin days asking for constant check-ins and worrying whenever he was out of sight.
The Bruce today, in his mussed jacket with a splash of vomit and anxiety in his stiff posture, had been familiar to him once.
One moment of care didn’t erase Bruce’s wrongs against him since his return to Gotham or change that Jason thought he should be doing more to stop the most irredeemable criminals from harming more innocents, but it did bring back that nostalgic feeling from before. The one that sat uncomfortably in his chest. Thoughts of ‘what ifs’ and ‘could have beens’ spun flips in his head.
Jason took a breath. “Think you can get the footage of B puking in that plant?”
“Now you’re talking!” Dick perked up. “I know B has the whole place bugged, so I should be able to…”
Dick wandered off to, presumably, the Batcomputer and, in only a few minutes, returned with a grin across his face. “I present…” He held his phone out in declaration. “…blackmail material.”
“Are you planning on sharing with the class?”
Dick raised a singular eyebrow. “Are you going to give me your personal number?”
Jason also raised a singular eyebrow. “As if you don’t already have it.”
There was no doubt in his mind that, as fast as he could change numbers and move safe-houses, Oracle’s eyes could find them. Even if he liked to pretend he had any ounce of privacy in Gotham.
Dick smiled all the same. “It would be nice to have it with your permission though.”
“Fine, whatever. Just don’t go spamming me with memes and shit.”
“I would never,” returned Dick, like a liar.
Jason read out his number, and in moments, he had a video pinged to his phone. He saved the contact as “🕺🪽”, ignoring Dick’s protests, and opened the video.
He tried to contain his laughter as Brucie Wayne, in a room full of pretentious rich people (some he recognized because of their known crime family ties—Bruce must really have been working a case), suddenly got up from the velvet armchair he’d been reclining in, clutched his stomach, and yakked in a potted ficus. He made apologies while the guests barely concealed their ridicule.
He had to admit, the performance looked realistic. It had been a while since he’d seen Brucie Wayne in action. He seemed to be glimpsing all the versions of Bruce tonight, although Matches Malone had yet to make an appearance.
“That’s a good look,” said Jason sarcastically. “Really living up to his reputation as Gotham’s most eligible bachelor.”
“I think people stopped calling him that when he adopted his third child…”
“Prejudiced much?” Jason said in mock-outrage. “Are you trying to suggest single fathers can’t be hot? Because if you are, I’m definitely telling Roy.”
“You’re such an asshole. Why did I come help you again?”
“Because of my charming personality.”
Dick scoffed and took a sip of his disgusting tea. “Definitely not that.”
The bickering was easy and familiar, less dangerous than addressing any of the feelings that came with acknowledging that Bruce maybe actually still cared about him. Not that Jason needed Bruce to care, but… What if he really did? Did it change anything?
When Bruce finally arrived with two more warm cups in his hands, Jason pursed his lips and forced himself not to react. He still wanted to run, to fight, to lash out, but instead, he clenched one hand a little tighter on the Wonder Woman blanket and thought about worried text messages and the creased lines on Bruce’s brow.
Bruce took a tentative step into the room, and he could feel Dick tense on the chair beside him.
“Be careful.” Bruce handed him one of the steaming mugs, this one with a familiar floral pattern from the Manor's kitchen. “It’s hot.”
Jason gave a terse smile. “Thanks.” He blew some of the steam off and took a sip.
The tea was… still pretty horrible, a bit too bitter and definitely over-steeped with more sugar than he usually took, but there was more of that strange familiarity the rest of night seemed to have to the taste.
When he’d first moved in with Bruce—twelve and scared, fresh off the streets and in disbelief of his new life—he’d had nightmares. He hadn’t wanted Bruce to know, worried one misstep would have Bruce realizing how much of a mistake he’d made by taking him in, but somehow, Bruce had figured it out anyway (or more likely, Alfred had, knowing how perceptive the old man could be).
He remembered the first time Bruce had knocked on his door, two cups of poorly brewed tea (decaf) in his hands, hours past his bedtime. They hadn’t talked about the nightmares, or the trauma, or the reason they were up at two in the morning, Jason bathed in sweat. Instead, Bruce had placed himself at the foot of his bed, and they’d sipped the warmth until his heart had steadied. Bruce had read to him when the cup ran dry until Jason’s eyes had started to droop closed. He always slept soundly after.
It had been routine, and he’d forgotten. He’d forgotten so many of the good times—he’d tried to forget the good times. They hurt too much.
Jason took a breath to steady himself. “You still make pretty shit tea.”
“It’s decaf.” A hesitant smile lifted at the corner of Bruce’s lips. “So you can still fall asleep.”
“I’m not a kid anymore. I can handle a little caffeine.”
Bruce’s smile dropped, eyebrows pulling together. “I know.”
The room seemed to be holding its breath, until a Jason gave a smirk towards his brother. “It’s not as shit as Dick’s though.”
“Hey—” Dick stood up out of his chair and snatched the mug out of Bruce’s surprised hands, spilling a little on the floor. “It can’t be that much better than mine!”
Dick took a sip from one mug, then one from the other. Then he frowned. “They basically taste the same. You’re just a little prick.”
“I have a big prick, thank you very much,” Jason shot back. “I’ve had no complaints.”
“Not something I need to hear about.”
Jason laughed, the exasperated expression on Dick’s face too good to pass up, until his gaze passed over Bruce, still standing stiffly in the doorway.
“So,” Jason started. “You planning on coming in, old man, or are you just gonna stare at us like a weirdo without social skills?”
Bruce cleared his throat. “I— I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to stay.”
“Wasn’t sure if you’d want to stay.” Jason raised both eyebrows in challenge. “It’s not as if you’ve spent much time in a room with me since I came back without tryin’ a tear me a new one on my methods or avoiding me all together.”
This would normally be the part where they’d fight. Bruce would push back, and Jason would push back harder. They’d push and push until there was no going back.
Instead, Bruce inhaled, moved to speak, and stopped himself. He seemed to be testing the words out, not quite finding them. After a few false starts, he said, “Batman and Red Hood might not see eye-to-eye—”
“That’s putting it fucking mildly.”
“But Bruce and Jason,” Bruce looked at him meaningfully with insistence, “will always be family. At least for me. I always want you here, I always want you safe, and I’ll always come when you call.”
Jason peered at Bruce, pushing away the twisted feelings in his chest, to look for the lie. Finding none, he looked away. “Sure have a shit way of showing it.”
Another moment passed, and Bruce really was thinking through his words. It grated on Jason, but it, admittedly, forced him to take in the words instead of brushing them off.
“Communication has always been a failing of mine.” Bruce sat down on the edge of his cot, and Jason fought everything not to bolt then and there—both Dick and Bruce clearly having no concept of personal space. “I’ve failed you, Jason. I’ve failed you since you’ve come back, and for that, I will always be sorry.”
Jason didn’t think he’d ever live to hear an apology from Bruce.
“My son came back from the dead, and I—” Bruce’s voice broke on the words. “I would like to stay. If you’ll let me.”
He could still run. He hadn’t taken any of the good pain meds, so he could still hop on his bike and be alone in his safe house in twenty minutes. Alone.
Yet he could see the olive branch that this moment was.
His mind’s eye flickered through the events of the evening, the small moments of proof that maybe Bruce did care, even if he didn’t care in the way Jason wanted. Or at least… Batman didn’t.
Looking at the man perched on the edge of his cot, much too familiar in a way that went straight to his chest, Jason saw the man who’d adopted him, not the bat he’d fought with. He saw the father who’d tucked him in at night, not the vigilante who disagreed with his methods. He saw a future where maybe, just maybe, he had a family again. Jason didn’t know if he could be like Bruce was trying to be; he didn’t know if he could truly separate the two men.
But maybe he’d like to try, if only for the night. Just to try.
Jason shrugged. “It’s your house. Go where you want.”
Bruce exhaled and a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. A weight seemed to lift off the air.
“Pretty sure it’s Alfred’s house in most of the ways that matter,” Dick chimed in.
Bruce chuckled. “I’ll agree with you on that.”
The rest of the night wasn’t easy, necessarily, but it was a step. They talked over tea, eventually moving to the main part of the Cave where there was more space to breathe. Bruce worked on the batcomputer, Jason answered worried texts from his lieutenants, and Dick spammed his phone relentlessly with memes until he blocked him (only for the night).
Jason didn’t go upstairs—that would be too much—and the conversation stayed in the realm of things that didn’t matter, but when he tucked himself into the cot in the medbay, finally cashing in on the good drugs when no one would be around to hear him say anything embarrassing, he smiled.
He was glad Dick pushed him into coming back to the Batcave. He was glad for the reminder of what he could still have if he wanted to claim it.
The next time he was injured, Jason didn't hesitate: He pressed the concealed distress beacon at his side, and when Batman arrived, the usual tension that followed wasn’t absent, but there was an understanding. A tentative hope of a promise to be fulfilled. Still, a trip in the Batmobile later, the first thing they did—before even washing their hands for medical safety—was change into civilian clothes. With them, it had to be Bruce and Jason.
At least for now.
It became routine. Only on injuries. Only out of masks.
He wouldn't take Bruce's offer to leave the Cave for another year, but knowing it was there made it easier to reach out, to take smaller steps towards home.