Work Text:
Bruce's hands are surprisingly steady when he lands a knock on Jason's door, a curt thud followed by a rap of two in a rhythm he'd always heard Jason tap on his own. Two months and it feels like a shared secret between the two, an unspoken thing only Bruce and Jason can pick up on. To be fair, Bruce's intentions are more so to make Jason comfortable and feel more at home and one of those things involve Jason knowing who's up and at it in front of his door.
Quick shuffling on the other side but it takes a good few minutes for the door knob to click and turn, the door opening ever so slightly. Jason peeks at him, eyes questioning.
"You ready?", Bruce says, lifting his hand to show the car keys dangling on his index finger. Jason huffs, opening the door and stepping to the side with his shoulders hunched ever so slightly, but not missable. Never to Bruce.
Bruce enters the room, taking in Jason's gait. A small mass in the cavernous master bedroom, drowning in a suit stitched to the inch of its life. His hairs slicked back but the edges slightly sticking up, the very nature of his unruly curls coming through. Bruce can't help but feel a pang through his chest of this little gentleman now standing in front of him. In all but his tie which hangs loose, if it can even qualify as one, a twisted mess of a knot with sides crumbling and Bruce can tell Jason's had a go at it a good few times.
Jason takes a heavy breath, shaky as he walks towards the mirror, a sight Bruce can tell he'd been fixated on the last couple minutes.
"What's the matter?", Bruce asks, a gentle solicitation.
Jason glances at Bruce through the mirror, hand reaching for the tie and undoing the knot, letting it lose. Then he starts again, eyes furrowing in concentration and his tongue peeking out just a tiny bit. But his hands work odd, like trying to replicate a distant memory. Bruce can feel the tension in his body along with what he can only pinpoint as desperation. He opens his mouth, half a mind to tell Jason the tie is not important, but decides against it. The boy had picked his own clothes, and had expressed clear excitement to glam himself up. All for the court. And who is he to stop this kid from wanting to look dapper for his own adoption.
So instead, Bruce reaches out, hands on Jason's shoulder and utters a soft, "Let me."
It's not a question. Jason freezes, letting go of the knot and turning to face Bruce who gets down on his knees to meet Jason's eye level. His hands feel large, deep scars and calluses in contrast to the tiny length of Jason's tie. But they move with delicate precision, working it out of its knot. He smooths the fabric, loops it around, tucks it and tightens it with a final deft pull leaving the knot to sit perfectly in the dip of Jason's collar. The whole thing takes less than fifteen seconds.
"There", he says, meeting Jason's eye who quickly glances away, looking at anything but him. He steps back to give Jason an appraising look. His gaze was heavy but marred with a gentle smile. Jason looks down at it, fingers tracing the outline but his expression doesn't shift. Bruce notices with a frown, the boy is bothered.
"Jay? Is something wrong?"
Jason doesn't look up at him, his eyes downcast and his fists clenched. "I don't know", he says with a click of his tongue.
"Its okay to be nervous-"
"I'm not!", he says then quickly retracts at his own voice, pulling his shoulders back in and repeating, much softer this time. "I'm not nervous... I want this. It's just..."
Bruce takes his hand, pulling him towards the bed, making him sit while taking place next to him. He keeps a hand on Jason's back. The pause of silence must've helped because Jason starts speaking again. "I mean look at me, I don't even know how to tie a tie. I feel like such a..."
After another beat of a moment, Bruce speaks, "I don't expect my twelve year old son to come with a manual on tying ties, y'know."
Jason chuckles, softly digging his fist in Bruce's side only for Bruce to pull him in a side hug. Jason leans in. Now that they're close like this, Bruce can feel Jason's heart thundering through his back. He rubs his hand trying to bring some relief, it's a big day. It's a huge step for the both of them. "What's the matter, lad?", he tries again.
Jason shrugs, "I'm just not it."
"You're not... it?", Bruce asks, incredulous but a hint of a smile on his face and his words slightly amused.
"Yea. I'm not. I mean look at all this. It's like I'm playing a part in some play. Like it's pretend. Like I'm just some... fraud", his voice dies out at the last word, a mere whisper. Bruce pulls him closer, running a hand through his hair. His boy, soon to be. A gentle heart with all its wonderful diligence.
"Does it help if I say I feel the same most days?"
Jason looked up at him, eyes narrowed with furrowed brows. "No? It's different. You belong."
"And you don't?", Bruce asks. "Remind me again, what were the parameters of-"
"Bruce, I'm serious!", Jason whines, his voice pitching in a way Bruce has only caught a few times but it endears him regardless. "I just... I don't know how to do any of this", Jason's voice small as it cracks ever so slightly and suddenly it's not about the tie. It never was. It's about what it means, what it symbolizes. The suit. The manor. The name. The name that's about to become his.
"I don't know how to be like... like you."
Bruce's hand squeezes his shoulder, "Who says you have to be me? Jason, you just have to be yourself. That's all I'll ever want." And Jason stares, eyes searching. Bruce said it so easily like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like it was enough.
"And the thing about belonging? You've belonged here since Day 1, Jay. No doubt about that", Bruce stands up walking Jason over to the mirror, standing him in front of himself with both hands on his shoulder. He reaches from behind and adjusts his tie just a bit, then ruffles his hair, letting the hold of the gel loose and Jason's curls unruly. "There. Looks Wayne enough to me, Mr Wayne."
Jason leans into the touch, doesn't pull away. Looking into the mirror with consideration. Peering into every inch of himself. "Sure you're not talking about yourself, Mr Wayne?"
"Why of course, there's enough room for the both of us."
And Jason cackles, shifting to his side and once again landing a soft punch just under Bruce's ribs. He doesn't say anything, his throat too heavy despite the smile to muster any words. Instead he just looks up at Bruce, holding his eyes as if speaking all he wants out there and hoping for Bruce to catch it. Bruce does, eyes catching a glint. He pulls out his keys again, dangling on his index.
"Shall we?"
And Jason purses his lips, sending a nod Bruce’s way as he reaches for his outstretched hand, “We shall.”
The thing about Wayne Galas that goes without saying is the absolute voracity at play by the masses attending. It rings true to Jason while he stands atop the grand staircase, regretting every considerable decision that had led him to his moment. The ballroom below is a sea of glittering jewels, designer clothes and the kind of specific predatory smiles that'd give the Riddler a run for his money. Jason feels his skin crawl.
Surely there's some other way, he thinks to himself only to be reminded how this had all been his own hubris. Bruce, in a moment of what Jason would call brilliant parenting, had asked Jason to pick a cause he'd want some work towards. A cause Jason feels deeply about. It had been hard because all he did was look back at his time in the streets and think of multiple different gaps that could use the money. He remembered the soup kitchens and the crowded shelters, the after school programs, health campaigns that would run out of resources with just half the people getting the help they needed. Ultimately it had been a battle between allocating resources to rehabilitation programs for people struggling with addiction or empowering the after-school meals program for underprivileged kids.
"We can do both, just pick the one you want done first", Bruce had said. And thus underprivileged kids it had been. Something about the phantom pains from having been one, the hunger pangs until your stomach gnaws in on itself, the begging and the stealing. He could finally do something. He could finally bring a change.
And thus he stood, vibrating with nervous energy he didn't know he could muster for anything other than patrol nights. He tugs at his collar for the umpteenth time, feeling the silk of the tie Bruce had helped him pick. A deep rich blue impersonating a noose. He hates it.
A hand catches his fidgeting, gently pulling it away, "You're going to strangle yourself", Bruce says as he steps in front of him. Skillful, practiced fingers with which he feels a slight tug to center the knot. One swift pull and the firm pressure of Bruce's palm against Jason's chest to smooth the fabric one last time. All the while Jason tries to read Bruce's face, a warm smile with a tinge of something in his eyes that sends Jason's own heart fluttering. Pride.
"There, better?"
Jason manages a nod, eyes drawn back to the crowd. Bruce follows his line of sight, feeling his apprehension.
"You alright?"
Jason sighs, straightening himself but his posture remains one of swirling anxiety. He looks at Bruce then quickly looks away, unable to meet the man where he is because Jason's not all there. Jason could never be. All that jazz about being his name, but at the end of the day it is but a word on paper and Jason is years of damaged parts brought into the limelight.
"They're gonna eat me alive", he says, no bite behind his words. Just genuine unease. Bruce smiles wider, hand reaching for Jason's back and turning him to face the crowd below again.
"You see these people? What they're here for tonight? What got them out of bed to put on their high-end couture to extenuate the snobbery with an excuse to throw money at something...", Jason's eyes remain downcast, not quite looking at anyone in particular but the swirling masses haphazard in faux participation. He shrugs. Bruce continues, "They're here for you, lad. For your cause. You're the reason, Jay and it's not easy but it's how you learn when you're the most important person in the room."
Jason exhales through his mouth, a loud sigh. All this does nothing to alleviate the pit in his stomach. And yet again Bruce can feel his heart right where his hands rubs a circle, thudding against his back like he'd just run a marathon.
"Come here", he says, pulling Jason close and slowly enveloping him in his arms, one hand remaining at his back, grounding and the other finding its way to the nape of his neck.
"You're doing a good thing tonight, Jason. A noble thing, it's important. To you, to me, to the city", he feels Jason dig into his warmth, letting the hold console, with it the assurance seep in. "And I'll be there the entire night. Right next to you, lad." He pulls away after a tight squeeze, his hands holding Jason by the shoulder as he looks him up and down. A little gentleman. Barely fourteen. His son.
"So what do you say? We face the music?", A hand sliding back to Jason's back, guiding him as they start their descent down the stairs.
Jason lets off a chuckle, light. "You're so old."
"Oh to be betrayed by my very own", Bruce shakes his head, keeping his voice to a whisper as people start noticing them and a ring of applause starts ranging through the Manor foyer.
"Stay in your lane, Mr Wayne", which earns him a chuckle, one final squeeze on his shoulder before Bruce lets go. Jason's nerves settle as he smiles his widest to the flashing lights of the cameras, following Bruce's suit in shaking every extended hand. Jason doesn't tug at his tie for the rest of the night.
Bruce's hands are numb.
The air hangs thick and cold, clinging to his skin like a damp shroud. Dark drapes covering every inch of natural light entering the room and the overwhelming scent of formaldehyde masked beneath cheap perfume. But Bruce is elsewhere. His body remembers the burning embers, a ringing in his ears that never stopped since the explosion and the metallic tang in the air that seems to not leave him alone, clings to his throat like ash. Stood in front of him in all its stillness, a polished box at the center of the room. A coffin too small.
The fabric in his hand feels distant, the soft silk now feels like it's cutting at the soft meat of his palm. To let the blood out, alive and pulsating. Blood that's not flowing through his son anymore.
When he moves it's as if it's not him. Not entirely. Practiced motions, a detached brain, a hollow chest. A figure carved from grief. He never thought this day would come, that he'd dress his son for a final goodbye. The same dark suit that learned the curves of Jason's body over the few years he'd had the opportunity to put it on. Bruce remembers the day he'd worn it first, never thinking he'd ever see it on him last. The tie, in his hands, a somber understated coal, waiting. Eyes blurring as he peers into the open casket.
He lifts Jason, ever so slightly at first and then leaning him closer, almost cradling him to his chest. Every breath agonizing for the fact that it's in him and keeping him alive while Jason is not. Instead all he's left with is a stillness. If he just takes a second, he can smell the faint, fading scent of Bergamot, courtesy of the rack of supplies Alfred had passed on to the mortician who'd done his job well. The bruising on his face carefully concealed, the worst of it gone and still-
Bruce loops the tie around his neck, his fingers clumsy and shaking for what feels like for the first time in years. He fumbles, vision refusing to focus at the intensity of how wrong this is. How wrong it all is. It never should've been him. Not his kid. Why his kid.
Bruce takes a shaky breath, forcing himself to perform the familiar motion. Over, under, around and through. The pull and his fingers lock, unmoving. It's a fight for composture. His breath comes in short, ragged bursts. Loose, Jason would've liked it loose. He straightens the collar and smoothens the fabric like he'd done many times before, his hand landing on Jason's chest. So still, unmoving. Not another breath to ever grace his lungs. A laugh he'll never hear again.
If Bruce fazes out for a moment, it looks like Jason's sleeping. Like a simple touch, a light shake, a gentle ruffle of his hair and he'd wake up just that second, like he'd open his eyes, tell Bruce to leave and Bruce will say something ludicrous and Jason will laugh with all its mirth yet throw a fit. But Bruce knows the difference, and has seen death enough to feel it. Yet some desperate irrational part of his brain keeps waiting for Jason's eyes to open and for the silence to be broken.
Aiming for the guiness world record on the saddest Windsor knot, old man?
The voice comes unbidden, like Jason's right there. And in that moment, as his knees give away, unable to keep him anymore, he can't help the sound that escapes the back of his throat. A raw broken thing as he gathers his son in his arms, pressing a kiss to the cold, still forehead. The next moment is spent in a slew of bargains where his own voice becomes unrecognizable to him. Please and one last time and take me. Take me instead, please take me and give him back. Give him back. And he'll never ask for anything, he had said. He'll never ask the world for a single lick, just bring his son back to him.
Because it shouldn't be like this, should never have been like this. Jason should be tying his own tie, complaining about it, tugging at it until Bruce comes in with his insistence on perfection only for Jason to roll his eyes at him.
And as he pulls away, tears soaking Jason's face and hair, he apologizes. He apologizes for the mess, he hadn't meant it, is it okay? Can you say something?
"-Jay?"
And realization hits him the very second the words die in his throat. He's crying openly now, heavy racking sobs shaking his entire body. He did this, his uniform, his mission, his failure. His crusade that had cost him his son. His darling sunshine of a boy who had so much ahead of him. He brushes at Jason's hair, fingers shaking but settling it in its place, the feel of his curls against his skin one last time. He leans down again, once again pressing his lips to Jason's brow, letting it sit for a moment, letting it shape the memory of the thousand different times he'd done so.
"I love you", he chokes out, willing with everything in the world that Jason knew. That he knows. "I love you. And I'm sorry", his voice cracks, "I'm so sorry. Jay, I'm sorry for everything. I should've-"
His words dissolve into sobs. This is what he's left with. This is what he deserves. He stays there, hand on Jason's, knelt in front with his head resting on the open casket. Minutes pass by, maybe hours. He doesn't know until he feels a hand on his shoulder, a hand pulling him away, grabbing hold of his arm. It's time Master Bruce, he hears. We have to let him go. He must've fought, must've shouted, because he can't. He can't leave just yet. He can't leave Jason.
And all Bruce is left with is just one plea. Just one appeal to any entity listening, any being in the universe able to grant it. Just the one.
Only a few rare occasions have called for the manor to be cleaned till the inch of perfection. Every light blazing, every chandelier gleaming, every window scrubbed until it reflects the flash of cameras like a thousand tiny suns. The foyer now transformed to a stage, a carefully curated set designed to sell a specific story. Every inch of which is a lie.
Wayne son's return from the dead had been the official headline, running a fairy tale of Jason's secretive recovery and rehabilitation into society. Just another instance of Brucie Wayne's well oiled PR team coming through in the clutch. Everything about this that's supposed to scream celebration which in turn is yet another nightmare.
And Jason isn't here.
He's never here, Bruce is reminded. Thinking of the many attempts at reconciliation that's only been met with rejection, an adamant distrust that now sits between them. It's wrong of him to ask for more, Bruce knows this. It's wrong of him to think his Jason any different from the Jason now. He has no right. But sometimes he can't help it. Sometimes, when he'd see those green tinged eyes and he'd hear that voice; sharp and jagged and wrong. Sometimes, in the way Jason would flinch when Bruce would touch him, the way he'd sneer at every attempt at kindness, the way he'd look at Bruce like he's seeing a stranger. Like he's seeing an enemy. All a reminder of the past they couldn't come unscathed from. All his son had endured that'd brought them to this juncture.
And yet here they are, meant to play a happy family for the camera.
The shift in the air and immediate sinking tension is enough for Bruce to recognize the presence behind him. The same presence that once used to fill the manor with laughter, that used to sprawl across the library couches with a book and a gentle plea for Alfred's sandwiches. The same presence that once sought Bruce out during the darkest of the nights with questions and fears and an unshakable faith that Bruce would come through. Instead, now there lies something colder between them. Something bruised and angry and aching.
"You're late", Bruce says, doesn’t turn around.
A scoff followed by, "Nice to see you too, old man."
Bruce finally turns to face Jason and his heart, in its many years, still manages to find more ache in the sight beholding him. There stood Jason, in a sharp gray suit, immaculately tailored and fitted to his physique in a way none ever managed to before. His gait, perfect. His hair, styled. And his face is set in a mask of cool, bored indifference. But catching his eyes of all things was his tie; red, a deliberate provocation, a statement and on top of it all, a mess.
The knot is too loose, the ends uneven. It hangs crookedly and Bruce has half a mind to believe Jason had tied it with his eyes closed. Without a word, as if a distant memory from a time still too raw taking over, Bruce reaches for Jason's tie. In turn, Jason's response is immediate. He tenses, hand shooting up to grab at Bruce's wrist and pushing it away with his lips turning into a snarl and his eyes narrowing in unbridled suspicion.
"Don't touch me."
"I'm just fixing your-"
"I said don't."
Bruce had felt it in his grip the tremor he heard in his voice. The barely restrained anger and the overwhelming urge to break something. For a beat of the moment, they just stand like that. Father and son, once. Now strangers, playing pretend. A twisted leap of faith locking them in a stalemate that neither knows how to break.
A collection of separations, the expanse between them growing larger and larger by the second only gnaws at Bruce's desperation to do something about it. To grab Jason by the shoulder and apologize. And explain and shake some sense into him and scream it's me. IT'S ME. Your father who loves you, who never stopped loving you. Who would burn this entire world to the ground if it could bring you back. Who can see all that went wrong but doesn't know how to fix this. I don't know how to fix this, Jason. And I'm so tired. I'm so tired of losing you over and over-
He doesn't say any of it. Can't, the words feel too impossible, too big for him. It's never been his thing, not since he'd lost him in the first place. It's why they're here to begin with. And thus Bruce does the one thing he actually knows how.
"Hold still", he says gently, then adds after a moment's pause, "Please."
He waits, watching intently and he can't help notice something crack in Jason's expression. Just a little. Just enough to allow Bruce to see the boy underneath, the one who had once looked at him like he'd hung the stars. One who used to call him Dad like it was the easiest word in the world.
He reaches for the tie again. This time, Jason lets him.
Bruce's fingers work carefully through them. Motions automatic, muscle memory from a lifetime ago. Over, under, around and through. Jason remains still, too tense like he's bracing for something. His eyes are fixed somewhere over Bruce's shoulder, refusing to meet his gaze. His jaw clenched, so tight that Bruce can see the muscle jumping beneath the skin. Much like every other time before, Bruce smoothens the fabric over Jason's chest, his palm ever so briefly pressing against the place where Jason's heart beats fast; a wild rhythm matching his own. The fluttering bear that confirms for him, still his son. Still his boy. It's all too familiar, and how easy it had been to comfort his son with just a hold, an option that seems aeons away from him now.
"There", Bruce says, stepping back. "Perfect", he mutters under his breath almost on reflex.
Jason meets his eyes for the first time, a look carrying so much grief and rage, a tinge of confusion and a desperate longing ache. Bruce doesn't let himself shy away from it. For a moment they just look at each other before Jason breaks the silence.
"Don't", a frown taking over his face, contorting his youth with the weight of all that he's faced. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?", Bruce asks.
"Like you still see him", Jason answers, voice dropping to a whisper as he brushes past Bruce, leaving it at that.
Bruce follows suit, the entire foyer erupting into the chaos of flashing lights and journalists and reports screaming for attention. Bruce notices the way Jason walks closer than he needs to, lets their sleeves touch, brush against each other. Pulls the chair for him to sit then takes his own place. All a ruse, it might all be. But Bruce can play the bit. For as long as he needs.
Maybe for now, it's enough.
A sunny afternoon like this is hard to come by. Especially in Gotham of all places. A beautiful day which feels no less than a gift from a city that very rarely has something to give. The blue expanse of the sky with not a single cloud in sight as the sunlight peers through the ancient oaks that line the campus quad, dappling in gold and green.
The quad itself is buzzing with life, with families excitedly chattering, clutching at bouquets and balloons and cameras. A sea of faces bright with pride. Some laughing, some crying, most hugging like they'd never let go. Somewhere a band is playing a triumphant march as graduates gather around in their gowns and caps. Jason being one of them.
The ceremony itself had been incessant. Speeches that went on forever, names that blurred together and the endless shuffle of students across the stage, swiftly grabbing their degrees and walking off. And then his had rung through; Jason Todd-Wayne.
Immediately a cheer rang through, among the applause, one corner of the auditorium ringing out hoots which caught Jason's attention. A standing circus of his family cheering in matching enthusiasm. Impossible to miss. Dick, with his phone out and Tim with his own camera. Steph who was probably stood on her own chair because Cass stood next to her cautious, making sure she doesn’t fall while also clapping along with Damian. Duke with his phone out too. And then Bruce. Among the sea of hundreds, the hardest to miss. Jason could see his face from the distance, shining under the golden light, looking at Jason like he had just hung the moon.
It's a look Jason had thought he'd never see again. That bright burning pride, the softness around the eyes, that almost smile, all of which made Jason feel like the most important person in the world. And Bruce's face is a variation of I knew it, I told you so and you did it. I always knew you could.
Jason had to look away, suddenly the pressure building in his chest and pushing through his throat all too much. All that they'd been through and all that they hadn't fixed. Couldn't fix. And despite it all, here they are. One day, to pretend they're normal. Because they're so far from it. Still shaped by the wounds running too deep, the scars too old yet raw. There were still nights when Jason woke up screaming, days when the phantom pains would follow him throughout. Dinners where he’d try only for them to end with screaming matches and slammed doors and Jason knowing only to go radio silent to deal with it.
As the ceremony had come to a closure and the crowd had started thinning, families drifted off for their personal celebration, students shedding their gowns and throwing their caps into the sky. Jason had found a quiet corner, silently scoping out the masses for familiar faces until it landed on a hand raised towards him, waving. Bruce.
"Jay!", he shouts, beckoning him to come closer. Jason moves. "Jay, I was just telling lovely Mrs. Satine over here about your thesis. What was it again? Emily Brontë and something about the confrontation with power structures-"
And his face, it's what struck him. Bruce's smile, a real one, reaching his eyes. His expression jumped with barely contained euphoria. In one glance, he looks dapper, dressed in a suit. Like he'd walked right out of a magazine, a picture of composed elegance. Hearing him talk only points elsewhere. And then Jason's eyes land on his tie. Or an abysmal excuse for one. Hanging crookedly, a knot slipped down to the second button of his vest. The ends twisted like he'd tied it with one hand behind his back. Jason stares at it, then looks at Bruce's face as he continues to talk about Jason's thesis without knowing a lick of information about it, then looks back at the tie again.
"-and thus the connection between Victorian race, class and gender-"
"Bruce", Jason calls out, hand reaching out and pulling him away from Mrs Satine who looks just as discombobulated. "Excuse me, Mrs Satine. Just need a moment with my father", as he pulls him out of the crowd and walks him over to the side, the noise slightly buzzing out.
"You look like a disaster", Jason says, coming to a stop and gesturing at him vaguely.
Bruce blinks, "What?"
Jason points at his chest, "Your tie. It's a travesty."
"I... I put it on on the way, I was-"
"Oh shut up", Jason says, stepping into Bruce's space, hands reaching up. "Just... let me." Bruce goes still, wariness taking over his eyes. A caution that quickly melts when Jason's finger reach for the knot. It makes Jason's chest ache in a way he'd known oh so thoroughly. Because maybe things wouldn't be like this between them, maybe there's a world where they'd welcome each other with an ease this one has written off. Here, where there stood a perpetual wall. Always a distance.
"I wrote about it once", Jason starts, his finger tugging at the knot. "The rite of passage of learning how to tie a tie, a classic coming of age tradition. From father to son and so on and so on", he pauses, hands hovering over the crooked silk. "I learnt from you. Watched you every time. And every time you fixed it, it was an addendum to the memory."
Bruce's throat works but he doesn't say anything as Jason takes the tie in his hands. The rich feel of the fabric, a deep midnight blue which matches Bruce's eyes. Bruce keeps still, for a moment his breath catches and his hands move ever so slightly to reach for Jason before dropping to his sides again. Jason works with precision. His fingers shake, scarred around the knuckles and the nail beds from a life he shouldn't have lived but he moves them gracefully nonetheless. Remembering all those times Bruce's hand had steadied his nerves. Jason sighs and starts.
He loops the fabric around Bruce's neck, adjusts the ends. Over, under, around and through. He pulls the knot tight. "Now for the best part", he murmurs more to himself. His fingers brush against Bruce's collar, against the strong, steady pulse Jason can feel beating beneath his skin. He tugs the knot in place, centering it at Bruce's collarbone and smoothens out the fabric. Taking a step back to appraise his work.
"There", he utters, voice surprisingly heavy as it works through the words, "Perfect."
Bruce looked down at his tie. When he looks back up his eyes are bright. Too bright. For this moment. For the strange aching tenderness. For the man in front of him and the boy he used to be. For all that had been lost between them and all that they've somehow, impossibly, managed to keep.
"Jason", and his voice cracks at the name.
"Don't", Jason utters, quickly stepping back. "Don't you dare cry. You'll ruin the photo op."
Bruce laughs; a wet, broken sound that's half a sob and half relief. "I'm not crying."
"Could've fooled me. Look at you, you're a mess", Jason's voice remains rough but maintaining the smile tugging at his lips. Bruce doesn't say anything, instead reaches up, touching the knot Jason had tied. His fingers tracing it with reverence like it's something precious. Remarking all that stands fragile between them.
"You've grown", he settles at that as his hand drops. He's still looking at Jason like he's seeing him for the first time. Like he's looking at the boy who he had lost turn into a man he's on his way to find. Somehow, along the way, he'd gotten so lucky. "You've grown so much", without me goes unsaid.
Jason's own throat tightens. "Yea well... that's what happens."
There's a pause and then Bruce starts again, "Jay", his voice barely a whisper. "Jay, I'm sorry. For everything. For all the ways I-"
Jason holds up a hand, shaking his head, causing Bruce to stop in his tracks. "Just... no. Not today, okay? Just let me have this. Let me pretend for one day everything's fine."
"Okay", Bruce's response is immediate. "Okay, Just... I'm so...", he clears his throat for good measure and starts again, "Jay, I'm so proud of you", he vaguely gestures at Jason, at the gown, the cap, the diploma. Jason shrugs, feigning non-chalance as his heart flutters inside his ribcage, pounding through his back. I'm glad you're here, he wants to say. The words that eagle around his mind but never quite reach his tongue. And Bruce smiles, warm and open as if having read it in his eyes without it being said.
Words hang between them, neither knowing how to respond further, where to take this. Just treasure the moment as it lasts, stretches into seconds, minutes. Until finally Jason moves, with the same casualness he had mustered before as he grabs hold of Bruce's arm and pulls him back into the crowd.
"Come on, let's find the others before they send a search party."
"Wait, your thesis-"
"I'm not telling you a single thing."
As they walk into the crowd, Jason's hand on Bruce's back, guiding him throughout until their eyes land on Dick's jet black mass of hair, Steph waving at them enthusiastically, beckoning them to come over, the rest gathered around. Jason smiles, feeling it stretch wide on his face. Just for today, for this one day.
Let him have this.