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It took forty-five minutes.
Not because the door was locked—it wasn't, not anymore, not after the family learned that locked doors only made things worse. But because no one wanted to be the one to break it.
The silence that had lived behind Bruce's bedroom door for three days had shifted sometime in the night. Not disappeared. Just... softened. Like a storm finally losing its teeth.
Dick stood in the hallway with a tray of coffee. Steph hovered at his shoulder, Cass a shadow behind her. Tim pretended to read something on his phone. Bernard held Tim's free hand. Duke leaned against the wall. Damian sat on the floor with Titus, pretending not to care.
Jason was the last to arrive.
He didn't say anything. Just crossed his arms, leaned against the doorframe, and waited.
"Heard movement," Dick said quietly. "About twenty minutes ago."
"And?" Jason's voice was flat. Careful.
"And nothing. Just... moving."
They'd learned, over the years, not to rush this part.
The door opened at exactly 7:23 AM.
Bruce filled the frame first, pale, hollow-eyed, wearing yesterday's clothes and the weight of something none of them could name. But he was standing. He was present. His hand was wrapped around someone else's wrist.
Salix emerged behind him.
If Bruce looked hollow, Salix looked empty.
His mismatched eyes were swollen. His face was blotchy, raw in a way that suggested he'd stopped crying hours ago but his body hadn't gotten the message. His hair, usually so carefully styled, that long braid draped over his shoulder was a tangled mess. The braid had come partially undone, strands escaping in every direction.
He was still wearing yesterday's clothes. Maybe the day before's. No one could tell.
And he was still touching Bruce.
Not holding hands. Not anything that neat. His fingers were curled around the edge of Bruce's sleeve, like letting go would mean losing him entirely.
Bruce didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn't care.
"We're fine," Bruce said.
No one believed him.
No one said that either.
Untangling them was a group effort.
Not because they resisted—they didn't, not consciously. But because they'd been woven together for three days, curled into each other on that bed like two cats who'd forgotten they were separate creatures. Their limbs had learned each other's weight. Their breathing had synced. Every time someone tried to pull one away, the other leaned back in.
Steph tried first. Gently. She touched Salix's shoulder and murmured something about breakfast, about getting him cleaned up, about Jason waiting for him.
Salix's grip on Bruce's sleeve tightened.
"Give it a second," Cass said.
They gave it a minute.
Tim tried logic. "Bruce, Alfred made tea. Your favorite. And the board meeting isn't until tomorrow, so you have time to—"
Bruce didn't move.
Bernard tried the gentle approach, steering Tim back and offering soft words that blurred together in the tense air.
Duke tried standing very still and being present, which worked about as well as everything else.
Damian, surprisingly, tried the blunt approach. "You're both being ridiculous. Father, you need food. Salix, you look like you've been crying for three days. Go eat. Go shower. Come back when you remember how to function."
Salix blinked at him.
Then he laughed.
It was a broken sound. Cracked. But it was something.
"He's not wrong," Salix said. His voice was wrecked—scratchy, barely there. "I probably smell like a swamp."
"You smell like soap and lotus petals," Bruce said automatically. "You always smell like soap and lotus petals."
"That's—" Salix stopped. Swallowed. "That's not the point."
He let go of Bruce's sleeve.
It took him three tries to fully release it. His fingers didn't want to obey. But finally, finally, he stepped back.
Bruce's hand twitched.
He didn't reach for Salix.
But everyone saw it.
Jason moved.
He didn't ask. Didn't announce himself. Just stepped past the others, wrapped an arm around Salix's waist, and guided him toward the hallway.
"Shower," Jason said. "Food. Sleep. In that order."
"I'm not—"
"You're grumpy. I know. Come on."
Salix went.
Not gracefully. He stumbled twice, and Jason caught him both times without breaking stride. His head drooped toward Jason's shoulder. His feet dragged.
But he went.
And the family let out a collective breath they didn't know they'd been holding.
---
The shower took longer than it should have.
Not because Salix was slow—he was efficient when he wanted to be. But because he kept stopping. Standing under the spray with his forehead pressed to the tile, eyes closed, letting the water run over him without actually doing anything.
Jason sat on the closed toilet lid. Watched. Waited.
"You gonna stand there all day?"
"No."
"I can leave if you want privacy."
"...No."
So Jason stayed.
When Salix finally emerged—wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, skin flushed pink from the heat, he looked less like a ghost and more like a very tired, very annoyed cat who'd been forcibly bathed.
Jason was ready.
He'd laid out clothes on the counter. Sweatpants. One of his old hoodies, the one Salix had stolen months ago and never returned. Clean socks. Everything soft.
And he'd grabbed the hair dryer.
"I can do it myself," Salix grumbled.
"I know."
"I'm not a child."
"I know."
"I could just will it dry. With magic. Or whatever."
Jason raised an eyebrow. "Could you?"
Salix paused.
"...Maybe?"
"That's a no."
"It's not a no—"
"Salix."
"Fine."
Salix sat on the edge of the tub, still wrapped in the towel, and let Jason work.
Jason was gentle.
That was the thing people didn't expect about him. The Red Hood, the angry one, the one who'd died and come back wrong—he was gentle with Salix in a way he wasn't with anyone else.
He started with the ends, working out the tangles with his fingers before he even touched the dryer. Salix's hair was a disaster—the braid had come undone in clumps, strands knotted together from days of neglect and sweat and crying.
"You look like a feral cat," Jason muttered.
"Feel like one too."
"Meow for me."
"Jason."
"Kidding. Mostly."
He untangled as much as he could, then reached for the dryer. Low heat. Gentle movements. His fingers carded through Salix's dark hair, separating strands, smoothing them down.
Salix's eyes drifted closed.
The grumpiness didn't disappear. But it softened—like ice cream left out too long, losing its edges.
"You didn't eat," Jason said quietly.
Salix didn't answer.
"For three days. You sat in that room with Bruce and you didn't eat."
"Neither did he."
"I'm not dating Bruce."
Salix's jaw tightened. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't make me—" Salix stopped. Swallowed. "I can't. Today. I can't do the thing where you worry and I reassure you and we talk about feelings. I don't have anything left."
Jason turned off the dryer.
The silence was loud.
Then Jason set the dryer aside, knelt in front of Salix, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"Okay," Jason said. "No talking."
Salix blinked at him.
Jason kissed the corner of his mouth. Then the other corner. Then his nose. Then each of his closed eyelids.
"You're being aggressive with the affection," Salix mumbled.
"You need it."
"I don't—"
"You do."
Jason pulled back just enough to look at him. Salix's mismatched eyes were still red-rimmed. Still exhausted. But something in them had eased.
"I brought sushi," Jason said.
Salix's eyebrows rose. "You brought sushi to Bruce's house?"
"I brought sushi for you. It's in the kitchen. Barbara's guarding it."
"Barbara's here?"
"Everyone's here. They've been here for three days." Jason stood, offering Salix a hand. "They were worried. About both of you."
Salix took the hand. Let Jason pull him up.
"I'm fine," Salix said.
Jason didn't argue.
He just wrapped an arm around Salix's waist—not guiding this time, just holding, and walked him toward the kitchen.
---
The kitchen was suspiciously empty when they arrived.
Barbara sat at the table with a spread of sushi containers in front of her. She was typing something on her phone, but she looked up when they entered, gave a single nod, and stood.
"I'll leave you to it."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm going to check on Bruce." Barbara's voice was gentle but firm. "Eat, Salix."
She left.
Salix stared at the sushi.
It was his favorite. Everything—the salmon sashimi, the spicy tuna rolls, the eel, the everything. Jason had even remembered the pickled ginger and the good soy sauce, the kind Salix couldn't find in Osaka.
"How did you—"
"I have your location. And your credit card info. And a very patient delivery driver."
"You track me?"
"Romantically."
Salix snorted.
It wasn't quite a laugh. But it was close.
They sat. They ate. Not much. Salix's stomach had shrunk after three days of nothing, but enough. Jason watched him the whole time, not hovering, just... present.
When Salix set down his chopsticks, Jason pulled him out of his chair and into his lap.
"Jason—"
"You're done eating. Now you're getting held."
"That's not—"
"It's exactly what's happening."
Salix stopped protesting.
He curled into Jason's chest—smaller than he looked, softer than he acted, and let himself be held. Jason's arms wrapped around him. Jason's chin rested on top of his head. Jason's heartbeat was steady under his ear.
"Thank you," Salix whispered.
"For the sushi?"
"For everything."
Jason pressed a kiss to his hair.
"You don't have to thank me," Jason said. "I'm your boyfriend. This is literally the job description."
"I cheated on you."
Jason went still.
"Not—" Salix winced. "Not you. Not this time. But I've cheated on people before. I've been the problem. I'm not—I'm not good at this. At relationships. At staying."
Jason's arms tightened.
"I know," Jason said quietly.
"You still came back."
"I always come back."
"Why?"
Salix pulled back just enough to look at him. His mismatched eyes were wet again—not crying, not yet, but close.
"Because you're you," Jason said. "Because when you're not busy drowning in Bruce's feelings, you're mine. Because you let me mark you and you bite back and you can out-stamina me in bed and I hate you for that, by the way—"
Salix laughed. Real this time. Cracked and exhausted but real.
"—and because," Jason continued, cupping Salix's face in his hands, "I folded first. I crawled back. I broke up with you eight times and I still came back. That's not about you being good at relationships. That's about me not wanting anyone else."
Salix stared at him.
"I don't deserve you," Salix said.
"Probably not." Jason kissed his forehead. "But you've got me anyway."
---
Bruce sat in the living room.
Not the cave. Not his bedroom. The living room, in daylight, surrounded by his children.
No one knew what to do with him.
Dick had given him tea. Tim had given him a blanket. Damian had given him a look that said "I'm watching you" without actually saying it. Steph had started a movie no one was watching. Cass sat on the floor near his feet, her back against the couch, her presence a quiet anchor.
Duke brought Titus. The dog rested his head on Bruce's knee.
Bruce's hand found Titus's ear. Stroked.
No one spoke for a long time.
Then: "He cried," Bruce said.
The room went still.
"Salix," Bruce continued. His voice was hoarse. Unused. "For three days. He cried because I couldn't."
Alfred appeared in the doorway. Said nothing. Just watched.
"I didn't ask him to," Bruce said. "I never ask. He just... does."
"That's what love is," Cass said quietly.
Bruce's jaw tightened.
"Is it?" he asked. "Because it feels like I'm taking from him. Every time. I take and I take and he lets me and I don't know how to make it stop."
"Maybe you're not supposed to," Tim said.
Everyone looked at him.
Tim flushed. "I just mean—some people are like that. They're not giving because they want something back. They're giving because that's who they are. And Salix..." He trailed off.
"Salix what?" Bruce asked.
"Salix was made for you."
The words hung in the air.
"I don't mean—" Tim rubbed the back of his neck. "Not literally. But everything about him. The way he watches you. The way he knows you. The way he'd rather drown with you than swim alone. He's not trying to fix you, Bruce. He's trying to be with you. There's a difference."
Bruce was quiet for a long time.
Then: "He's dating Jason."
"He is," Dick agreed. "And Jason's okay with it."
"How?"
"Because Jason understands," Steph said. "That bond you two have? It's not romantic. It's not familial. It's just... yours. And Jason doesn't want to take it away. He just wants to be there for the parts Salix has left over."
Bruce stared at his hands.
"I don't know how to be without him," he admitted. "When he's not here, I feel like I'm missing a rib."
"That's not unhealthy," Bernard offered from the corner. "That's just... intertwined. You've known each other since you were kids. You've been through things no one else understands. It would be weirder if you weren't attached."
"He cried for three days," Bruce said again. Like the weight of it was still settling.
"He cried because you needed someone to," Dick said gently. "And he'd rather it be him than no one at all."
---
Salix came back to the living room an hour later.
He was wearing Jason's hoodie—the sleeves too long, the hem falling past his hips. His hair was dry now, loose around his shoulders, the braid gone entirely. He looked less like a ghost and more like a person.
Jason followed behind him, one hand on the small of Salix's back.
Bruce looked up when they entered.
Their eyes met.
Neither spoke.
Then Salix crossed the room, dropped onto the couch beside Bruce, and leaned his head against Bruce's shoulder.
"You smell like Jason's detergent," Bruce said.
"You smell like three days of not showering."
"I showered this morning."
"You showered yesterday morning. It's different."
Bruce's lips twitched. Almost a smile.
Jason sat on the arm of the couch, near Salix's feet. He didn't try to insert himself between them. Didn't try to claim space that wasn't his. Just... stayed.
"I'm sorry," Bruce said quietly. Only for Salix. "For all of it."
Salix closed his eyes.
"Don't be," he said. "I'd do it again. I'll always do it again. You know that."
"I know."
"So stop apologizing."
Bruce nodded.
They sat like that—Bruce's shoulder under Salix's head, Jason's hand on Salix's ankle, the rest of the family scattered around them like planets orbiting a binary star.
No one said it was healthy.
No one said it was sustainable.
But for now—for this moment—it was enough.
---
Later, after the movie ended and the family dispersed and Bruce went to bed (actually to bed, not to the cave, which Alfred counted as a victory), Jason and Salix lay in Jason's old room.
The one Bruce had kept exactly the way Jason left it.
Salix was curled into Jason's side, his face pressed to Jason's neck, his breathing slow.
"You're thinking too loud," Jason murmured.
"I'm not thinking."
"Liar."
Salix huffed. "I'm thinking about Bruce."
"I know."
"And about you."
"Now we're getting somewhere."
Salix pinched his side. Jason caught his hand and held it.
"I broke up with you eight times," Salix said.
"Technically, I broke up with you. Eight times."
"Same thing."
"It's really not."
Salix lifted his head. Looked at Jason in the dim light from the window.
"Why did you keep coming back?"
Jason considered the question.
"Because you never asked me to," he said finally. "You let me go. Every time. You never begged, never guilt-tripped, never made it about you. You just... opened the door and let me walk out."
Salix waited.
"And every time I walked out," Jason continued, "I realized I'd rather be in—even with all the Bruce-shaped complications—than anywhere else."
"You're a terrible decision-maker."
"You're a terrible boyfriend."
"I'm your terrible boyfriend."
Jason grinned. Pulled Salix up by the hoodie and kissed him—slow, deep, thorough.
"You're mine," Jason said against his mouth. "And Bruce is yours. And somehow, against all odds, I'm okay with that."
Salix kissed him back.
And for the first time in three days, he didn't feel like he was drowning.
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