Work Text:
— ~ * ~ —
Jason looked at Bruce. His Dad. The one who took him in when he was nothing, the one who made the past few years full of some of the best moments in his life. He wouldn’t be able to have many more ‘best moments’, as they had described them as in the photo album now. Not for the first time, he bitterly wondered Why? Why me? Why can’t Dad make it alright again, he’s the Batman for god’s sake!
Oh no. Dad would probably go mad if when Jason died, like he almost did when they first learnt of the tumor. Dad, who was currently crying and kissing Jason’s too-thin wrist. He took a deep breath. He had to be strong. For Dad.
Trying hard to keep his aching heart and mind hidden, he smiled as brightly as he could, a single tear running down his face as Bruce looked up.
“It’s okay, Dad.”
— ~ * ~ —
Bruce almost broke into a fresh round of tears at the sight. With great effort, he managed a shaky nod and gently swiped the tear off his beautiful, brave son’s face, asking if he would like to rest in his room instead.
— ~ * ~ —
Dick Grayson had been having a good morning for the first time in a really, really long time. The sun was shining for once in his thrice-damned city and today was one of his mandatory days off, enforced by none other than an incredibly corrupt Officer-in-Charge who had been favouring Bruce Wayne’s former ward since day one in hopes of eventually gaining access to the billionaire’s too-deep pockets. Dick snorted to himself at the thought. As if Bruce and I were on good terms those initial days.
Grabbing a jacket and making sure to lock his apartment door, Dick headed out to his favourite coffee place for a bagel.
Snapping a photo of the cute dog straining against its leash in the hand of a comically distressed teenager, he snickered and sent it to his little brother. And to Bruce for good measure, Jason hardly ever checked his phone these days.
After he finally reached the little corner cafe and placed his order, his phone buzzed thrice against his thigh. Thrice meant it was Bruce texting, which meant it was an emergency, because Bruce Wayne wasn’t one to text unless in truly dire circumstances. He thanked the smiling waitress and pulled out his phone, uneasiness steadily rising in his chest.
We need to talk. It’s about Jason. How soon can you reach the Manor?
Dick’s heartbeat skyrocketed, and he was pretty sure he had started hyperventilating. He could see the waitress peering at him concernedly from the corner of his vision. With trembling fingers, he clicked call, and waited.
And waited.
And waited. Why wasn’t Bruce picking up? Did someone die?
He forced his breathing to slow even as visions of his brother dying and sick plagued his mind, sweet, lively Jason hooked to a hundred machines, looking so small against the white hospital bed–
“Dick? Can you hear me?”
“Bruce,” Dick gasped, “What’s wrong? Is Jason okay–”
“Jason is sleeping. Can you come to the Manor?” Bruce cut him off abruptly, leaving the wind to whoosh out of his sails even as a small part of his mind traitorously whispered he didn’t say if Jason was okay.
A short pause later, Bruce said “I know you have the day off. You need to come to the Manor.” Dick’s jaw went slack. “Please.”
Nodding furiously and then following it up with a curt “okay” when he realised Bruce couldn’t actually see him, he put his phone down and shoveled food into his mouth as fast as possible, pushing the growing panic down by sheer force of will. Bruce didn’t usually repeat his words, and he never said ‘please’.
Okay, then. Rolling his shoulders back and letting his movements grow fluid, he left a hundred dollar bill and a half-finished bagel back on the table as Nightwing took over.
Somewhere in the back of mind, Dick sighed. He knew he had jinxed it when he thought his morning was going good.
— ~ * ~ —
Bruce was not having a good day. Having to inform both his sons of the younger’s impending death did that to you.
He had already selfishly cried all over Alfred and Jason. He wondered if he would force Dick to be strong for his father, too.
— ~ * ~ —
Dick burst into the library exactly forty minutes and 16 seconds later, startling a blank-faced Bruce. You wouldn’t know it without living with him for years, but Bruce always tightened his shoulders imperceptibly when startled.
“What happened?” Dick gasped out, chest heaving. “You said–it’s Jason. Where is he??”
Bruce didn’t look at Dick. He didn’t have the courage to. Instead, he simply said “In his room. Sleeping.”
Dick remembered when Jason had first come to the Manor. God, those first few months he hardly ever slept at all. And then, after the…that checkup, he often used to spend nights with Alfred in the BatCave, insisting on helping out with comms even though he was shit with technology. And in between, the terrible window of time where Jason just wouldn’t get better, weak and delirious with pain, he was always up, seeking the comfort of his family, unable to sleep even if he wanted to. But he slept so much these days.
Dick waited for Bruce to look up. He knew pushing him would just make him delay whatever he had to say.
“Leslie... she said the tumor was getting bigger. And it’s still growing.” Dick’s heart sank. “Bigger than before the surgery. The chemo isn’t working. It’s too big to remove now.”
“We have two, maybe three months left with him.”
A sob suddenly and violently tore itself out of Dick’s throat. No, no, no. This–this wasn’t supposed to happen. Jason was supposed to get better, he was supposed to be Robin and they were both going to move to New York for college. They were supposed to be brothers forever, they were supposed to rely on each other, be there for each other till they grew old and died. This–this wasn’t right. It isn’t fucking fair!
Dimly, Dick realised he had fallen to his knees, hands tightly gripping the arm of a nearby couch. Bruce was kneeling in front of him, saying something, and the glimmery shine in his eyes was what brought Dick back to himself.
“–I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I should have paid more attention, God, I’m so fucking sorry, I don’t know how to fix this…”
Dick blinked. Bruce–well, Bruce never swore. And it obviously wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t have known. Dick surged forward, wrapping his trembling father into a bruising hug, desperate to give and take any comfort possible.
"No, no, Bruce, look at me, it’s not your fault, if anything it’s mine. It's my fault. I saw him resting so much. I saw him, Bruce, and I just thought he was getting better, I thought he was just tired... oh my god. Oh my god, I should've known."
Bruce merely shook his head and they clung to each other, a father and his son desperately seeking comfort after devastating news, which is how Alfred found them, hours later.
— ~ * ~ —