Chapter Text
Jason loved reading.
He preferred the Classics, naturally. Something about the language conventions kept him engaged, so he says. His selection mostly consisted of drama novels, but there were some philosophy and mystery peppered into the mix, and the occasional myth collections.
Bruce, in comparison, has never had a taste for reading recreationally.
This wasn't caused by the fact that the library was his father's space and staying there too long hurt, nor was it because some of the books had his mother's funny annotations in them.
Bruce just needed action more than he needed rest.
But he enjoyed participating nonetheless, in the act of staying still and reading, in whatever way Jason felt appropriate to share with him.
Sometimes, Jason would read to him.
These were for Bruce's harder days, when waking up is a chore, and every inhaled breath refused to settle too long in his lungs.
Today was one such day, September 25th.
The Martha Wayne Foundation had another project expansion today for the public dance studio being constructed in the late curator's honor. Afterwards, Gotham General Hospital's Thomas Wayne wing saw a visit from the city's prince; every father got a firm handshake, and every bedridden child received a promise, then a piece of candy. Between that was a meeting, and a ride to Batburger that Alfred was not happy to clean the car for.
Bruce would say something about how it was to make up for not going on patrol today. But Jason and Alfred knew it for what it was.
Punishment.
It was night now. The blackout curtains were drawn, the bedroom as cold as humanely possible.
Bruce sat on his bed cross-legged, rolling his mother's pearl on his fingers.
Back when he was 9, grief was ugly and venomous. Now, at age 32, the grief was just grief - uneasy, quiet, made apparent by the weight of all that was stolen from him.
The door cracked open, and for all his attentiveness, it took Bruce a second to raise his head and meet the gaze of his intruder.
Jason, sweet little 12-year-old Jason, stood there in his paired Wonder Woman pajamas, clutching to his chest a leather-bound tome.
"I just wanted to see you," Jason said.
Bruce smiled and nodded, making room on the spot beside him as the boy crawled under the covers.
Jason nestled to his side, forcing Bruce to stretch his legs and lie his back on the pillows. The boy then flipped the book open and began to read.
Which actually makes Bruce shake out of his thoughts, "Since when did you know Arabic?"
"Since I got bored of all the English books in your library," Jason huffed, flipping over to the next page.
"I love Byron as much as the next guy, but it does get mind-numbing sometimes. Not Austen, though; can never get bored of her, but you also need to check the perspective. She's still a white woman, and I'm not basing my entire worldview on just that."
"You listen plenty to Alfred," Bruce pointed out.
"Yeah, well I'm pretty sure Alfred came from some eldritch Celtic cult sometimes," Jason retorted in his characteristically thick Park Row accent.
They spent the better part of an hour like that. Jason would make an off-handed comment about medical history. Bruce would sometimes correct Jason's pronunciation.
He reminisced about Talia briefly when he told his son: "Arabic is a language that commands respect; it's spoken with the back of your mouth so that you think through how you want to say something with that tongue."
And he saw himself in Jason, a little, when he responded to that with: "No wonder English sucks. You speak it from the front."
That's the first time Bruce laughed today. Be it of Jason, truly, to make Bruce find the joy in the oddest of times and places.
Eventually, the impromptu Arabic lessons ceased when they were yawning more than they were speaking. The book was put on one bedside table, and the pearl dropped into a tray of another.
Jason doesn't leave. He curls deeper into the bed, hair mussed after too many ruffles and cheeks flushed from all the giggling.
"Why do you have so many books in Arabic anyway?" Jason asked.
Bruce answered so quickly that he didn't even realize himself.
"My father liked to study how medicine is practiced in other countries, so his business partners like to gift him medical textbooks in their language. It's how he learned so many languages."
It came so easily, he realized, to speak and exist and breathe when Jason was around.
Jason, sweet and unaware of the leaning magic his presence brought, grinned, "You think I can learn the same way? Just by reading enough books in the language?"
Robin was magic, truly.
Bruce chuckled, pulling the boy close and kissing his forehead, "You can learn anything you want, baby. Just make sure it makes sense to me."
Sometimes, Jason would let Bruce read his annotations.
This practice was more consistently shared, usually owing to how much busier they got. Especially as Jason started growing into his schooling.
Bruce with his meetings, Jason with his clubs… sometimes, it saddened Bruce how quickly his son was growing.
There was the deep fear that maybe one day, he might lose his son to the same yearning for independence as he had lost his eldest once.
But like a particularly clingy cat, Jason started leaving little tokens in places Bruce would come to find it. If Bruce brought it up, Jason would light up and become a chatterbox, and it's as though the silence of their busy lives outside of the cowl meant nothing.
This time, the book in circulation between them was Ilustrados by Miguel Syjuco. It wasn't particularly long, only a modest 300 pages.
The reason why it had been in circulation for so long was because of how Jason tended to put it down for long periods of time, due to how frustrating the story is.
Interesting way to view how immigration works! Unfortunately, you're a man.
Oh my god, why are you such a fucking moron.
Is this a mystery or a confession?
A love story that came out of nowhere MIDSTORY sure is… a choice!
Angry scribbles covered every page, slow-coming. Sometimes, there would be pressed sticky notes with references to other books. Other times, there's a sheet of paper or two just ranting about the characters and the plot as a whole.
Bruce admittedly had less leisure time than he'd hoped, what with Dick's return to Gotham and the Justice League's expansion.
But he knew that curt responses were more appreciated than a lack of it, so with his own curly handwriting ("In blue," Jason asserted, "Red, green, and yellow are all my colors, okay? Just trust me! It makes sense!"), Bruce would write in return.
not meant to be a story about the act of immigration, by diaspora realities as a whole. though i get your point about the lack of recognition of the feminine perspective his partners have to offer. after all: as a writer of social commentaries, the author should know better in 2008.
agreed, but don't say 'fuck'
it's shit, is what it is
it's more like a biography than mystery now. I don't know where this is going either
Bruce had once asked Jason during his designated rant time while having dinner, "If you hate the book so much, you can always put it down."
To that, Jason flicked his nose and huffed at him. "If you start it, you have to finish it, because that's just self-respect."
Truthfully, Bruce doesn't care much if Jason would choose to ruin his own mood by reading awful books made by less-than-quality writers. He knew that this was the most moderate form of masochism that one could engage in with this family.
And besides, they find that bad books were always the most fun to read.
This is such a dumb way to perceive CS' death. you would laugh at this
it is. i did. i love you.
And sometimes, if ever so rarely, Jason would ask Bruce to read to him.
Jason generally preferred to do the reading himself. He's extra guarded with his books, especially those that he bought or were bought for him. If not for some remnant of trauma, then because he genuinely loved such particular books.
But Robin's magic didn't include invulnerability, and colds typically meant puffy eyes for Jason.
He was already so upset with missing school and being unable to keep food down, but when he tried reading to pass the time and ended up tearing up the pages, Bruce knew he had to step in.
"Give me that, sweet boy," Bruce cooed, taking the book out of Jason's trembling hands.
Jason gargled out a response, but his voice was shot, and his lungs were more shallow.
For some reason, Bruce knew exactly what to say.
"Yes, I know you're bored and want to pass the time, but the point of resting is to turn off your brain and let your body build itself back up."
Jason whined and sank back under the covers. Tears welled in his eyes as the stench of sickness and medication that permeated under his blankets hit him tenfold.
Childish, Bruce thought, if a little endearing.
Whatever was he going to do with him?
Instead of continuing to poke at the angry little blanket mound that was his son, Bruce settled back into his chair next to the bed.
He turned the book, unsurprised to find Austen's Emma staring back at him.
Bruce flipped the book open from the beginning, because he knew Jason hated people reading to him from points he stopped at. He began to read from the first chapter.
By the time Jason had groggily crawled out of bed and onto his dad's lap, Bruce was already at the bookmarked page.
Bruce closed the book and set it down, carrying Jason with him as he went under the covers again.
"Dad?"
"Yes, Jaylad?"
"…again? Liked it."
Bruce chuckled and kissed his sweat-drenched forehead, "Aren't you tired from all the reading, baby?"
Jason keened and rubbed his face into his dad's collarbine, trying to crawl into that space in Bruce's heart that was all his.
It was never about the book; they both knew.
When Jason died, Bruce had locked up everything that reminded him of his sweet boy.
The library shelves were draped in black. The boy's bedroom was locked up in a dignified state. All the books scattered around the manor were haphazardly left on the library coffee table, where Jason's sticky notes and pens still lay.
Dick and Alfred had been angry with all of Bruce's choices.
Jason loved reading.
His memory with his love for literature deserved to be honored, for people to know Jason as the well-read young man who made their home a bastion of joy and conversation.
But how could they understand?
Bruce loved reading too.
He loved books. He loved writing in books. He loved books in other languages. He loved drama, mystery, philosophy, and myth anthologies.
But only if Jason was there.
Only if it was Jason reading to him. Only if it was Jason asking him to read for him. Only if it was in a language Jason liked. Only if Jason was reading those genres.
They can't have that. No one can take any of that away from him. No one should be allowed to.
They already took Jason away - all of them; the Joker, Sheila, Gotham.
They can't take this away too.
Please.
Bruce would spend his days sobbing into the settee they shared, or sitting in the bedroom, cradling the red hood he first found his sweet boy in.
He can't look at the books.
He'd start to think Jason would be there when he blinked, reading again.