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It's all Batman's fault. Nothing surprising there, not really, but when Jason ends up in mortal danger, he prefers to be the one who got himself there. There's no comfort in it, and comfort isn't what he's looking for anyway, but despite the image of him everybody likes to entertain, Jason is a huge fan of responsibility. It's a part of why he works alone as often as he can. You do well, that's great, not much difference who you're with as long as you got the job done. You fuck up? Now that's a whole different story.
See, Jason likes control. Had been lacking in it for a huge part of his life, and as it turns out, authority is definitely not his favorite thing. Sharing the blame isn't, either. If you get yourself in a shitload of a mess, then you're the one who has to get out of it. It's cut and dried that way. Own up to your mistakes and fix whatever you still can. Consequences wait for no one.
What's happening right now, though? It's infuriating. It's galling. It's so fucking unfair. He did everything right. Jason planned, because he's not fucking incompetent, he's not, he does things remarkably well when he wants to. His reputation and the Alley's declining crime rates will gladly attest to that. So, he was fully prepared for everything before he entered the warehouse, before he even set his foot out to attack, but no. Batman just had to show up. Live and let live is a foreign concept here in Gotham—Wayne family especially, though Jason knows he's not a part of it anymore—so it would be irrational, truly, to expect any understanding, or even tolerance for his (apparently) morally dubious, but miles more efficient methods. No, Bruce had to come preach mercy, and it got them both tied up and handcuffed like in one of those stupid, inaccurate action movies he never had any interest in watching.
Naturally, this means his mobility is limited to his fingers, toes, and facial muscles behind the hood. Speaks volumes about his costume choice, if you ask him, that nobody dared to try looking at his face. Smart guys. Those bombs were very much real. He really wishes they left him at least one of his guns. Stealing is wrong, after all, considered a sin too, he's pretty sure, thus these guys sure are going straight to hell once he puts bullets between their eyes. Child trafficking probably didn't help their situation much either.
Jason doesn't know if he believes in afterlife. Sometimes, he wishes it to be true, simply so the sort of scum he puts out of their misery get what's truly coming for them. He'd welcome the fire with open arms—because let's be real, his trip would be long and hard and down—if it meant it would burn brighter and hotter for those who hurt children, who rape, who exploit, who laugh as they're crushing skulls, who smoke disinterestedly as their own blood dies. Sometimes he thinks there has to be hell, because nothing else would be fair. Most of the time, he knows nothing about the world is, and takes the job upon himself.
Criminals have gotten used to ropes not being enough. They're used to handcuffs failing as well. It's probably why, this time, instead of finding their way wherever's the most convenient, the other end of the cuff around Jason's wrist clicks shut around Bruce's. Fuck. He's halfway through wondering if he has a lockpick on him when one of the assholes pours something that smells strongly of superglue into the keyholes. Who the fuck does that?! Tonight keeps getting impossibly worse.
They're sitting back to back, which means Jason has no way to tell what Bruce is thinking, but he can sense small, inconspicuous arm movements and hopes the other man has some kind of a plan. He made sure to inhale—the wrong way, with his chest—the moment they started tying him up, but the ropes were too tight in the first place, so it didn't do much other than allow him to breathe more freely than he otherwise would. There goes any hope at loosening them. Bruce better have some sort of blade on him, because Jason can't take his own out without being seen, and that's dangerous. They're threatening children. It's the only reason they got him like this in the first place.
More movement. It would be annoying if it didn't fill Jason with hope. The realization that Bruce could still evoke that in him was a bitter one, regardless, but he pushed it away in an effort to assess the situation. Their weapons weren't too far. He could grab a gun before anyone figured out they slipped from the ropes. He could then shoot each and every one of the traffickers, leave their bodies to rot as he leads the kids to safety. There was just a small issue with the plan—a small issue with bat ears and a ridiculous cape. He could shoot Batman too, (or even slit his throat to be more dramatic—you know what they say, eye for an eye), but dragging a dead body by hand until he finds a way to get the handcuffs off seems wildly impractical. That's the only reason he refrains from that line of thinking, of course.
Ropes loosen. Batman flashes him an old hand signal, telling him to wait. Jason hates how nostalgic it makes him feel. They spring into action surprisingly in sync.
"No killing," Batman warns as Jason grabs his gun, immediately shooting a trafficker's shoulder.
"No promises," he replies, but aims for non-lethal shots anyway.
By the time backup arrives, there's no fighting left to help with.
"Want me to pick that lock for you guys?" Dick is getting a bit desperate with trying to break the tenson. It's not working. Leave it to him to force his help on people regardless.
"Assholes superglued it," Jason rolls his eyes, pointlessly trying to rein in his anger at the situation. "You really think it would've taken us this long to fix it if we could?"
"Eh," Dick shrugs, because he's annoying like that. "You two are weird, don't drag me into it."
It's been around ten minutes of hanging around the bats, and that's ten minutes too much. Over a half of that time was wasted on trying to get Robin to stop laughing. Jason wonders if he can slam his head against the nearest wall hard enough for the bombs inside his helmet to activate.
"No, but like," Tim starts again, completely ignoring Bruce's disapproving frown, "this is amazing. 'Wing, I get why they're being like this, but you can't tell me this isn't objectively the funniest thing."
Dick could, probably, without any lying. He might, even, if only to preserve the peace, but Jason isn't putting much faith into him on that front. He kind of gets it, deep down. If it was anybody else this was happening to, he would be the first to laugh, and the loudest too.
"Robin, we went over this already," Nightwing tries to deescalate, but it's obvious his heart's not in it. There's too much amusement on his face.
"Yeah, whatever, I wasn't listening." He turns back to the handcuffed pair. Bruce has probably never looked this stiffly uncomfortable and out of his depth in his life. Jason looks ready to repeat the whole heads in a duffle bag thing again. "This is the best day of my life."
"Should've killed you when I had the chance," Jason laments, at the same time as Bruce scolds with a simple "Robin".
It takes him a moment to process Jason's words and redirect his glare at him.
They're in the Alley, which means Batman is in the Alley, which means Jason is substantially more pissed off than he is on a bad day. Fucking humiliating. It's Tuesday, though, and on Tuesdays he checks on a group of street kids who refuse to visit any of his thoroughly vetted shelters. Which, fair. He would have done the same thing in their shoes. Has done, actually.
"This could have been fixed long ago if we just went to the Cave. I see no point in being here this early in the morning." Perhaps, Bruce was right, and five in the morning really was way too early for this sort of thing. He couldn't risk it, though. They're all light sleepers, and Jason is fairly sure most of them are already awake. Someone always had to be on the watch, even with the streets safer now than ever before.
"Well, maybe you could just go, but I have things to do."
How does he explain this to the kids? He's bringing a stranger into their space, a stranger known for working with police. Jason is so fucked. All the trust he worked so hard to gain, gone. Just like that. He can already see it all way to clearly.
It was still better, though. Much better than the alternative. They need supplies, a guiding hand, an adult to watch over them. Jason has felt more like an adult at seven than he does now, if he's being perfectly honest, with everything going downhill. Arguing with Bruce never fails to make him feel like an overgrown, overdramatic, petulant child, even when he knows he's right. Still, the kids need someone, and even if he's near certain they see right through him, it's a cause for which he's content to pretend there's more than two not quite full decades behind him. The gaping holes where memories of his mid-teens should be make the whole thing a tad bit harder, but it's the only time he's somewhat grateful for all the parentification bullshit. Shit kind of cancels each other out, really. It's the thought that counts anyway.
"I have no interest in partaking into your criminal activities, Hood." He keeps following despite his words, but that doesn't make them sting less.
"Right, because that's all I do." It sounded a bit more resigned than what he was going for. He was, once again, desperately thankful for the mask concealing his expression. Best suit out of everyone, hands down. No competition comes close. What can Dick hide with his domino that doesn't cover much more than Clark Kent's civilian glasses? Nothing, that's what. No sadness, no joy, no anger hot enough it makes the pressure behind his eyes burn, no need to fight his father he has to hold back because kids, Jason, think of the kids, you're almost there.
The door of the building he stops in front of is barricaded. Not actually, but it sure look it and that's all that matters. No one cares to go in.
He knocks, not genuinely expecting that to get him much of an answer.
"Hey, you little shits!" Jason calls out standing near enough for it to carry through, distortion erasing any warmth he tries hard to put into his voice. "Out before I die waiting out here. Don't have all night, you know?"
The door opens from the inside with no struggle, a pair of brown eyes peeking out cautiously before slamming them open. Bruce throws him a questionable look, but before Jason can say anything, there's a quick rush of steps and a pair of small hands wrapping around his waist, barely reaching. Jeremy was always short for a seven year old.
"Good to see you too," he says, forever thankful for the trust these kids extended him. The hug is withdrawn once Batman's presence becomes apparent.
"What's going on?" Jeremy asks wearily, and Jason can see the way some of the children who just got out stiffened, looking the situation over and trying to deny the evident betrayal. He feels like the biggest asshole on Earth.
"Didn't get much choice in the matter." He lifts his right hand to demonstrate, rising Bruce's left along much to his annoyance. A real good thing he learned to shoot with both, considering his dominant can't do much at the moment. "Sucks, but such is life. He won't be a problem." His voice is as cheerful as the modulator lets it, but the implied threat is there. Jason takes a moment to get the helmet off his head in an attempt to appear less dangerous. With one hand, it takes more effort than usual before he's left in his domino.
"Of course I won't be," Bruce adds in, surprisingly cooperative. It's so unexpected Jason turns around to look, because one sense will never he enough to confirm Batman agreeing with him. Wrong time to take the hood off, then.
Jason crouches to be more at an eye level with the child, and really wishes the situation didn't make it all look completely ridiculous.
"No word of this to anyone, but the Bat and I go way back. Doesn't make us friendly in the slightest, they're still not allowed here and everything I said before still stands after this, but he didn't call the cops on me when I was a little older than you, and I'm extending my trust to him now to do the same thing again. Okay?"
The explanation isn't really a lie, and while it's not nearly the truth either, it does a good job at reminding the kids that Jason was one of them—still is, in a way—and that nothing else plays as much of a role in the safety they feel around him. Bruce never reported Jason because he took him in instead. That's definitely not what's happening here, but Jason really needs to avoid panic, and he knows he can convince Bruce to drop the subject later as long as the man plays along for now. By some miracle, he seems to be content doing exactly that, if his silence and non-threatening posture are any indication.
Jeremy's eyes go from his hero to a man he never expected him to bring, and with a reluctant "Okay" he returns back to the group to pass the message. Everybody already heard them, but it was the principle of the thing, and also a great way to avoid standing too close to them for too long. Jason stands up, trying not to take the skittishness to heart because he knows he's not the cause of it.
"So," he addresses them all at once, as if he shouldn't know by now how bad of an idea that is, "where's Maya?"
The chorus of answers he gets in return tell him nothing, because he can't understand shit, but that's his own fault.
"Alright, alright, my bad." He points a finger—index of his right hand, pulling Bruce's along with his—at a girl who looks around ten. "Bri, talk."
"She's sleeping. Want me to go get her?"
Now, one thing Jason definitely did not want to do is wake up a homeless sixteen year old who more likely than not spent the whole night awake to look out for seven other homeless children. Maya is, however, the oldest of them all, and she keeps tabs on their supplies, which is information he couldn't help without. He nods, not without a hint of sympathy, and Bri disappears behind the door. She shows up not even a minute later, dragging a much taller girl by hand.
"Shit, sorry, I completely forgot it was Tuesday." She smiles at him apologetically, then freezes when she sees his company. "What's up with the Bat?"
Jason sighs, lifting his right hand for her to see. She laughs in his face, like the asshole she is. Not again.
"Sorry, it's just" —she cuts herself off with laughter again and gets a few strands of red hair out of her face before continuing—"it's just that you shit on him so much, this is killing me."
Jason can see amusement fighting not to show on Batman's face, and it's pissing him off. All the guy is doing is standing there like a creep. None of it matters, though, because all he can think about is how the girl in front of him trusts him so blindly that even bringing a Bat—the Bat, the one they all grew up avoiding—isn't enough for her to treat him any differently. He doesn't know what it is that he ever could have done to deserve the ease with which these kids put their faith in him.
"Want me to get you a lockpick?" It's a genuine question, even if she still looks way too entertained by his suffering. That makes it worse.
"I have one," he admits. "The keyhole is superglued."
At least it takes her half as much time to stop laughing this time. Small wins.
"Fuck off, you got a list for me or no?"
"Not yet, actually, but I'm sure I've got a pen and a paper lying around somewhere."
She does, and Jason drags Bruce's hand along with his so he can write down all the necessities they've run out of in the past week on the paper pressed against the wall as she lists them. They're both aware he'll bring much more than what he writes down, but neither mentions it. The gratitude is silent, the safest way for it to be. Once he's done, and Bruce's hand can finally rest, he pockets the list.
"Oh, I forgot," Maya adds, already grinning, "You should get yourself nail polish too. Never cashed in on that promise to let me paint your nails."
Jason groans, more to be theatrical than out of actual annoyance. He has no real problem with his nails being painted, but he kept forgetting about it.
"Will you ever let it go?"
"No way, you promised!"
"I have nail polish," Batman cuts in, of all people. He takes out a small bottle of black nail polish for proof.
"Of course you do," Jason says, simultaneous with Maya saying "Of course it's black."
"It's practical" is Bruce's only defense as the girl fearlessly snatches the bottle away from him with a victorious grin.
"No more excuses, Hood."
"Seriously?" Jason asks, because while handcuffed to Batman seems like a really bad time for this. "Now?"
"Yes. Gloves off."
That's how Jason ends up on the ground, Bruce right next to him so both his hands would be available, while a sixteen year old finally gets to pain his nails black. It's the last thing he expected to be doing at five thirty in the morning. Fatigue threatens to put him to sleep. He rises a hand to cover a yawn.
"Don't move it, you'll ruin all my hard work."
"I've been away for thirty hours, leave me be." He ignores Bruce's disapproving frown. What a hypocrite.
"Skill issue. Stand still, I'm almost done."
Jason sighs. He should've never encouraged her to get a phone.
Twenty minutes and seven comments about how 'emo' he looks like later, after Jason suffers another layer, he's finally ready to go. He puts the gloves back over the now dried polish, much to Maya's disappointment (They'll leave marks!), and turns to grab the only missing part of his uniform only to find it in an eight-year-old's hands.
"Hey, hey, hey, Emile, no," Jason snatches the helmet away, heart in his throat. "Explosives, remember? Careful."
"Explosives?" Bruce questions, startled.
Jason throws him a "Don't worry about it", then turns back to lecture Emile, who proceeds to completely ignore the subject of conversation to complain about how he wanted to pain the Red Hood's nails too. It's a fight that, somehow, Jason seems to be loosing.
"You can paint my nails," Bruce tunes into the conversation unexpectedly. Emile lights up like a Christmas tree. Right, Jason thinks. That one was always a bit of a fanboy, despite everything.
"I can? Really?" One would think Bruce offered him a ride to the Moon and the entirety of his fortune, with how wide the boy's smile is. Batman—the same Batman always lecturing about safety and biometrics—takes off his gloves without a question, and just like that, Jason is forced to remember how good with children Bruce is. You know, as long as they're not his own.
They end up staying for another hour, trading the bottle and painting the nails of excited children, and while it's a small miracle that no one passes by to interrupt them, it's a miracle that Jason can appreciate. He doesn't remember the last time he had this much fun. He doesn't remember last time he hung around his father casually like this. No danger, only the two of them existing in each other's presence. When it's time to leave, Jason tries his best to deny the sorrow he feels tugging at his heart.
"Well," he says, standing up and pulling Bruce with him, "we better get going. I'll get W to deliver all this later." He says goodbye to all the kids, telling them to relay messages to the ones who slept through his visit. It's the longest one he's made in a while. "Go get some rest before your shift," he tells Maya, knowing it's like talking to a wall. "See you guys around!"
They leave, and Jason can feel the questions radiating off of Bruce now that there was no kids around to scare with them. He surrenders himself to his fate.
"Alright, I'll bite. What do you want to know so bad?"
"Who's W?" Bruce asks, and that's a waste of a question right there if he ever saw one.
Jason shrugs. "You know, just a guy."
"What guy?"
"Literally just a guy."
"That tells me nothing."
Good, Jason thinks for himself. Externally, he sighs, but the sound is quiet, and it doesn't carry through the helmet that's now back on.
"Why does it matter? A guy I know. We work together."
That, of course, manages to make him more suspicious, because of course it does.
"What does W stand for?"
"Wilson," Jason answers honestly, sick of the questioning. Another one in the line of his many mistakes.
Bruce stops, posture stiff, anger evident in the clench of his jaw.
"You're working with Deathstroke?"
Jason stares at him. He stares back.
Jason bursts out laughing. It sounds chilling though the modulator.
"I—what?" Oh this is good. This is hilarious. He can't even— "You think I'm paying Deathstroke to send supplies to homeless children? Are you serous?" He barely manages to calm himself enough to sound serious. "Look, B, just—just shut the fuck up and keep walking. We can go to the cave."
It's seven in the morning by the time they finally manage to drag themselves to the Cave. Jason has been awake for thirty two hours and he's barely standing on his feet. He's too tired to appreciate the wave of nostalgia that hits him as soon as they enter. Too tired, luckily, to notice the memorial in his name too.
"Tomorrow?" he asks, even though he'd rather get everything over with now. His head is killing him, and while freedom and a hot shower sound tempting, the energy he has now is only enough to fall asleep on the nearest horizontal surface. The floor has never looked so soft.
"Tomorrow," Bruce agrees, because he's equally tired or to take pity, neither of them are sure. The world may never know.
The Manor still smells like home when they climb up, having disregarded only the parts of their suits that cover their heads, and every Bruce's rule about costumes upstairs along with them. Alfred's favorite cleaning supplies in the air make Jason incredibly glad that not even his childhood grandparental figure wakes up this early in the Wayne household. He's startled to find most things exactly the same as before he left.
The walk to Bruce's room is silent, but familiar. Jason remembers walking in a couple of nights, once he realized he was in the Manor to stay for good, in a desperate need for human warmth to shake off the memories of his mother's cold body. Nightmares have long since chosen him as their favorite.
The room is different now. More organized, more sterile. Almost impersonal save for the desk and the wall space above it. If he wasn't currently handcuffed to its resident, Jason would really wonder if it had one at all. There are new pictures—of him, of them—and he tries not to think about it too much as he crashes on the bed next to his father. Fuck, even the smell of jasmine laundry detergent makes his eyes burn.
They're both lying on their back, because that's the only practical way to lie down like this, even though there's nothing practical nor comfortable about sleeping in leather and kevlar. Jason slips his left hand out of the jacket sleeve it occupies and, knowing that there's no way he'd be able to fall asleep like this, rolls onto his right side to get Bruce's attention. It works way better than he expected, and his father's eyes drift to his neck. Jason freezes.
Bruce's face goes through a set of complicated emotions and settles on something he's used to wearing like second skin, that makes his son viscerally uncomfortable. It settles on guilt.
"Was that me?" he asks, voice uncharacteristically quiet.
Jason wants to run away. He returns to lying on his back, to hide both the red, badly healed scar, and himself from the look in his father's eyes. From the watery shine in them.
"I thought we agreed to never speak about this."
"When?" He sounds genuinely confused. And pained. Maybe the coffin was better than this conversation.
"Like, you know. An unspoken agreement."
"Then that is from—with the Joker—?"
"Can we not?" He wishes he never ended up here. That there was a way away from the conversation. Unfortunately, he's stuck in it, quite literally, meaning his best bet is to try and end it himself.
"I wasn't aiming for your neck," Bruce says, desperately. Jason knows what he sounds like when he's lying. He accepts it anyway.
"But you were aiming for me."
"Yes," he admits. It's undeniable. "I had to stop you."
"I could've died." He almost did. He probably did. It' something he doesn't want to talk about, much like all of this.
"I know. I'm sorry." The remorse doesn't really make it better. Knowing he means it does, just a little.
"Would it be worth it?" he asks the ceiling. "My life for his?"
It's a question that hunted him in the nights after the explosion. Why would his father put him at risk for the sake of his murderer? The man they all hate more than anyone, who's hobby is filling graveyards, is worth saving when he isn't. The conclusion he draws from that statement isn't one he likes. Finally getting the opportunity to confirm it from the source is way more terrifying that he imagined it being.
Bruce seems startled, at first, and then horrified at the question. He turns left towards him, almost sitting up in panic. "No, Jason, Jay, never, I would never—"
His voice catches, and Jason, to his horror, sees a tear drop from the corner of his eye. Bruce is crying. Bruce is crying.
Bruce is crying what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what is he supposed to do about this?!
"I, uh, I knew that. Sorry." He didn't. Believing it still feels impossible, even when he heard the words with his own two ears.
Bruce's right hand moves, hovering near his hair before he gives up and lets it drop back. His mouth opens, as if to say something, and then closes helplessly, as loss. Jason takes pity.
"I don't think this is going to work," he says. "I can't sleep on my back. It's—" too vulnerable, to open, to much like a coffin—"I don't like it."
"Okay." Bruce sounds calmer now. Good. "Stomach, then?"
Hell no. His back out in the open like that sounds like a nightmare, and lying on his front always makes him too aware of his heartbeat.
"No. You're already on your side, and I don't want you breathing in my face, so I'll just turn the other way."
Jason turns left, back cracking lightly since he left his right hand behind it. He feels incomparably more comfortable with the scar hidden against the pillow, at least emotionally, but finds his current position impossible to fall asleep in. Considering his next course of action carefully, he decides there's nothing left for him to do other than change it. Bruce's hand gets dragged with his own, which he puts right beneath the pillow, and they both ignore how his father's hand falling conveniently around his waist makes this a one-sided hug.
"Can't hold my hand behind like that," he defends the closeness, "it's stupid. Feels weird."
"Of course, Jay," Bruce agrees, holding him a little tighter, and Jason is sure that if he turned around, the look on the older man's face would be something soft enough to pass for a smile.
They lie in silence for a while, until it's certain both of them are almost asleep. There's no sound in the room except for slow, steady breathing. It's peaceful.
"Night, Bruce," he says, because leaving in any way with no goodbye simply feels wrong.
"Good night, son."
Jason buries his head in the pillow. Bruce pretends he can't hear him cry.