Work Text:
Jason’s the first one out of medbay, despite not being any less injured than the others.
It’s the Pit, as far as he can tell. He needs it to survive, with how goddamn broken his body was when he was dunked in, and it does probably more legwork than it needs to, with it still running through his veins. Not enough to be distinctly noticeable, not even enough to classify him as a meta, but he gets a bit of a head start when it comes to healing.
He clutches the side of his ribs as he sits up. Stitches, he’s willing to guess, under the careful layers of bandages courtesy of Alfred. The rest of the beds are occupied, as well, all of them hit hard by the most recent fight. Well, all but one - Bruce is notably absent, and Jason remembers he and Dick organising for Bruce to be taken to the Watchtower instead of being treated in the Cave, because he just had to be so stupid as to jump in front of the alien laserbeams.
He stands. Keeping still in the cot is a good way to remember what it’s like to be dead.
Back before Jason died, there were only five beds, one for Bruce, Jason, Dick, Barbara, and a spare. Now there’s enough that he has to suck in his stomach to not disturb his siblings as he makes his way towards the elevator. He glances at the time flashing on the Batcomputer as he passes - 02:37. Alfred won’t be awake yet. Maybe Jason can make him some pancakes.
He leans his head against the wall of the elevator. Tim bugged it to play Freddie Mercury in German to piss off Dick, and during the whole alien invasion business no one ever had the time to fix it. Jason hums along to Killerkönigin as the elevator lifts to the ground floor. It dings as the doors open.
He makes his way to the kitchen and stares at the stove as the motion lights flicker on. There’s the smell of bread still in the kitchen - Alfred’s been stress baking.
He limps over to the fridge and stares inside at the contents. He might be feeling fried rice. He’s pretty sure he’s got the recipe for a tofu fried rice memorised, one that only takes twenty minutes to make, and it’s vegetarian so he can leave the leftovers for Damian whenever the brat wakes up. Alfred’s got eggs, and he can see some tofu and he’s pretty sure all the sauces and oils are in the pantry. He kicks open the vegetable drawer in the fridge and mentally checks off the ingredients he’ll need - garlic clove, cabbage, carrot, spring onion, baby spinach--
He doesn’t want to eat that many vegetables. He’ll make a vegetarian bolognese.
He grabs pumpkin, carrot, onion and some garlic from the vegetable drawer, because he can’t quite convince himself to have an unhealthy meal, and dumps them on the table. He turns away to preheat the oven and grab a cutting board, rummaging through the second drawer for a knife and peeler.
“You should be asleep.”
Jason gives Barbara a dead look as he starts peeling the pumpkin. She’s not injured like them, since she wasn’t on the field, but she’s still been managing everything for the last seventy-eight hours, and keeping an eye on eight injured birds isn’t easy. He can see her eyebags even behind her glasses.
“Yeah,” she mutters. “Fair point.”
He shuffles a little over. “If you want to help, line a tray for me.”
She nods and wheels herself over. The kitchen isn’t the most accessible place, since Alfred hasn’t allowed it to be changed since he started working for the Waynes, but she manages to fish out baking paper and a tray from the cabinets and lines it next to Jason on the counter.
“The old man kick the bucket yet?” Jason asks her when the silence gets too quiet, pushing the pumpkin chunks into a pile and moving the carrot over. Crass, Alfred would have called it, but Barbara just snorts lightly. (They both know how afraid Jason is of death.)
“Probably be easier if he did,” is all she answers, rolling towards the kitchen table to get out of his way. “I’m pretty sure Clark’s getting ulcers.”
Jason pushes the chunks of carrot to the side with the pumpkin pile and pulls the onion over. Mamá taught him how to finely chop things before the drugs got bad, and he can still hear her voice in the back of his head when he does it. “Can Kryptonians get ulcers?”
“Their skin’s impenetrable, so I don’t think so,” Barbara argues.
Jason blinks tears out of his eyes and wipes the knife before he starts on the garlic. “Internal ulcers exist.”
“I think his insides are impenetrable too. I mean, if you get thrown into a wall you’re going to get broken ribs at least.” She rests her head on the table and half closes her eyes. Jason puts the pumpkin and carrot in the tray and flicks on the kettle as he roots around for olive oil.
“Nah, the insides can be, but it takes a hell of a lot.” Tim sits on the counter.
“Get off the counter.” Jason finds the right cabinet and grabs a bottle of olive oil.
“No. I have broken ribs.”
“So do I, asshole. You ain’t special.”
“Why are you walking around with broken ribs?” Babs asks, exasperated.
“I’m not getting off the counter,” Tim tells Jason.
“Your funeral,” Jason says, and cracks open the olive oil to pour it on Tim’s head.
“Oh my god!” he shrieks, jumping off the counter and scampering behind Barbara for protection. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Alphabetical or chronological?” Jason asks, and gives Tim a smile before eyeballing two teaspoons of olive oil on his pile of chopped carrot and pumpkin spread around in the tray. He starts seasoning them with salt and pepper.
“Why do you know that Kryptonian insides aren’t invulnerable?” Barbara asks, turning as far as she can to look back at Tim.
“I accidentally broke Kara’s ribs,” Tim answers, cringing as he runs his fingers through his hair. One of his hands is wrapped in bandages. “Jason, I’m going to fucking bury you again.”
“Anadón, I got out of that once, you really think I can’t do it again?” He wraps his hand in a tea towel and puts the tray in the oven, setting Alfred’s egg timer for fifteen minutes. “You’re a wimp, anyway. Olive oil in your hair’s probably good for it - like tomatoes, or eggs.”
Tim stares at him, mouth open in disgust. He fills a saucepan with water and salts it before putting it on the stove to boil.
“Why and how did you break Kara’s ribs?” Barbara demands, despite her exhaustion. The kettle whistles and Jason pours the boiling water into a mug, leaving a tea bag in there to steep. Then he grabs flour, salt, sugar and vanilla extract and pours them all into a mixing bowl. He pours a cup of milk and puts it in the microwave for thirty seconds.
“She visited Conner and we convinced her to play chicken with the ground,” Tim explains. “She lost.”
Jason takes the milk out of the microwave and pours it in the bowl, replacing it with butter. “How high were you jumping from?”
“Clark’s office building,” Tim answers without shame.
Babs puts her head back on the table.
“Hey, Timbo,” Dick mutters as he limps into the room and presses a kiss to the top of Babs’ head, then Tim’s. He landed badly enough to fuck up one of his arms and strain a muscle near his spine, Jason remembers. “Babs. Jaybird.”
Jason pulls the butter out of the microwave when it starts beeping and pours it into the bowl. He passes the bowl and a fork to Tim. “Mix.”
“Aye, aye, cap’n,” Tim mutters as he takes the bowl and Jason grabs another frying pan to place on the stove, gathering up his ingredients. “Dick, Jason put vegetable oil in my hair.”
“It was olive oil,” Jason corrects, throwing in his garlic and onion before crouching down in front of the fridge to look for the vegetarian mince Alfred keeps on hand for Damian.
“It’s good for your hair,” Dick answers, easing himself and his bruised tailbone down onto the seat. “Helps with split ends.”
“See?” Jason pours the mince into the pan. “Just like eggs.”
“I’m going to fucking annihilate you,” Tim growls.
“No death threats between patrol and sunrise,” Dick orders. “Especially after potential extinction.”
“I’m going to fucking non-fatally maim you,” Tim corrects.
Jason snorts and clicks his fingers in Dick’s direction. “Tomatoes, seasoning, paste and oregano,” he calls, and Dick pushes himself to standing, shuffling around the kitchen for Jason’s ingredients.
“I’m done mixing,” Tim tells him. Jason passes the tea to Babs and takes the bowl from Tim, pouring it into the waffle iron.
“What seasoning?” Dick asks.
“Italian. And keep your damn arm down, you’ve broken the goddamn thing.”
“I’m fine, pájarito.” Dick bites back a scream as Jason pokes his shoulder.
The egg timer goes off. He turns off the oven.
“Alright, alright, thank you for your slavery, out of my kitchen,” Jason enforces, ushering Dick towards the kitchen table and pouring his ingredients into the pan.
Dick eases back down to the table. “I hate aliens.”
“Cheers.” Barbara lifts her tea. “Fuck them and their stupid tech.”
“Woohoo,” Tim says, deadpan. Jason puts the lid on the pan and lowers the temperature. The water’s boiling. He grabs Alfred’s insanely overpriced spaghetti and dumps it in.
Tim yawns. “Ugh, JJ, can you make me coffee?”
“If you call me JJ again, all you’re getting is a bullet in the teeth.” Before Dick can berate him, he corrects, “A non-lethal bullet in the teeth.”
“No coffee.”
Tim screeches as Cass appears beside him, jarring his ribs. Jason fumbles his spoon.
“Dirty knife,” Cass declares. “No coffee.”
Tim groans. “Just because I don’t have a spleen doesn’t mean I should be held back from one of life’s true pleasures.”
“Yes, it does,” Jason answers, levelling his spoon at Tim. “We hate immunocompromised people in this house.” He turns his spoon to Cass. “Whatchu want, princesa?”
She blinks slowly. “Eggs.”
He nods and grabs another non-stick pan. “Scrambled or soft-boiled?”
She stares blankly at him.
“Fried,” he decides, and grabs a pair of eggs from the fridge. He cracks them on the edge of the pan and drops them in.
“You have a hairline fracture on your skull,” Babs informs Cass. “Out of everyone here, you are the person who should be standing up the least.”
“No.” Cass smiles. “You are.” She laughs at her own joke. Dick laughs too. Tim’s still mourning having his spleen stolen from him, so Jason makes sure to laugh for him. Even Barbara gives a begrudging chuckle.
The joke’s terrible. But the fact Cass is the one who makes it is enough to cause a giggle. The panic-induced hysteria might help. Jason decides to make hot chocolate.
Cass still sits down at Babs’ coaxing, leans her head on her shoulder. “Aliens… talk… much,” she mutters. “Not like Alien aliens.”
“Bully to that,” Jason answers, pouring milk and powdered chocolate into the milk frother and turning it on - 150 degrees exactly. He returns to the eggs and checks that they’re not sticking to the non-stick pan, because he grew up where advertisers were about as trustworthy as weathermen and no one’s proved him wrong yet.
They don’t stick. He flips them. Grabs a plate and some bread. Butter.
“Morning,” Duke calls, and Jason glances up from putting bread in the toaster to see him and Steph lean on each other all the way to the kitchen table.
The waffles are done. He gets them out - he hasn’t made enough for all three (Tim, Duke and Steph), but he has spare batter, so it should be fine. He slides a plate stacked with them all across the table, and Duke winces. Steph covers his ears.
“Concussion,” she whispers. Jason nods and puts the maple syrup down silently. Tim pushes himself out of his chair and flicks off the lights; Duke’s concussions are usually on par with epileptic seizures. He hums his thanks but keeps his eyes closed as he fumbles for the waffles. Jason puts on another batch on his way to turn off the stove with the eggs and pouring a mug of hot chocolate for Tim in place of coffee.
The kid has the sense to sniff it for tranquillisers, because he’s very good at recognising patterns. Jason gives him a noogie for his effort. Then he remembers the olive oil and wipes his hand down on his pants.
“Who won?” Steph asks when the toast pops out of the toaster. Jason puts them on a plate and butters them.
“Sixty-four,” Dick says with a raised hand. Steph swears.
“Sixty-six,” Duke offers, and Dick gives him a quiet cheer.
“Only fifty-nine for me,” Jason calls over, “Not many were in Gotham.”
Cass signs, same.
Steph groans and puts her head on the table. “Tim, what did you get?”
He blinks up, hot chocolate moustache and all. “Sixty-two.”
“So Duke wins!” Dick whispers, and pretends to wave a flag. “Sunshine’s first highest kill count!”
“I feel like I should be acknowledged for taking down the mainframe,” Babs interjects, but Jason waves her down as he approaches with Cass’ eggs.
“Let Narrows have this, Babs,” he tells her, and she sighs. Cass gives him a kiss on the forehead for the food.
He limps back to the stove and checks on the spaghetti. He turns everything off, grabs a sieve and drains the pasta.
“Father has awoken.” Jason gives Damian a glance as he puts the next batch of waffles on the plate.
“Fuck!” Steph slams her fist - gently, forgiving for Duke’s concussion - onto the table. “That’s fifty dollars.”
Duke gives her a blissed out grin as he pours syrup on his waffle. “I’ll give you a week before I put an interest rate on it.”
Tim gives him a gentle shoulder-bump of commiseration.
“We’ll make a businessman of you yet,” Dick teases. Duke has a moment of visible panic.
“Do not fear,” Damian orders, taking a dignified seat beside Barbara despite his fractured collarbone. “We will protect you from the dangers of the commercial world.”
“Thanks.”
Jason puts everything in three bowls and places two in front of Damian and Barbara, mixing his own as he sits.
Damian sniffs it with a scowl. Jason waves him down. “It’s vegetarian mince, Grasshopper. You’re fine.”
Damian nods and starts mixing his own food. They ate together sometimes, at the League. Talia’s boys. Everyone avoided Jason, and everyone avoided Damian, because they were hers. Still, they never really had much to say to each other - Damian was younger, then, and Jason wasn’t prone to civil conversation.
The Lazarus Pit did more work, then, constantly knitting his body back together. He could feel it under his skin, sometimes, running through his blood and forcing his heart to beat.
He can feel it under his skin now, too. Patching up his ribs, blurring his eyesight. He tosses his food, over and over, vegetable chunks and spaghetti and sauce. The Pit, doing its job just a little more than it needs to, the shapes of his siblings spinning around in his vision. Over and over.
“Catch him--” Duke starts, just before Jason topples to the side and his vision turns green, then black.
He wakes up slowly, warm and heavy.
The lights are off, but Duke glows just slightly in the dark when he’s asleep and it’s enough to see by.
This is Jason’s bed, he’s pretty sure. He can see his books piled up on his bedside table. 1984 should be on top, Persuasion underneath it. His blankets are piled up over him because no one’s bothered to fix the thermostat for folks who haven’t spent considerable time as a corpse.
His hand’s resting on the back of someone’s head - Damian, he realises as he runs his fingers through it. The baby bat mutters lightly and curls up tighter on Jason’s chest at the action. Like a lil’ gatito. Jason keeps carding through his hair. There’s a weight on his other arm - Tim, he’s pretty sure. Bony fucking shoulders digging into the soft of Jason’s elbow. His hair is dark and all over Jason’s pillow. That’d be Babs holding his hand then, her ginger hair spilling out behind Tim’s, head resting on her own arm.
He lets out a long breath around Damian’s weight, and gets a little whine from somewhere near his bad ribs - Cass, curled protectively around his injury, knees and elbows carefully arranged so they don’t stab him like Tim’s shoulders. Steph’s the one with an arm on Jason’s stomach then, curled up behind Cass with their hair mixing together in inky gold swirls. Duke’s light is coming from near them, and he can feel warmth from below Cass’ feet, so he’ll assume Duke’s head is resting on thigh. Dick’s weight is pinning his legs down.
The door creaks open. Damian starts to stir and Jason runs his fingers through his hair to keep him calm.
Bruce’s face doesn’t really change, but Jason has known him long enough to tell that his worry fades away at the sight of them all. He even gives the slightest hints of a smile.
Jason blinks slowly at him. He’s half-covered in bandages, and one of his arms is in a cast. When Jason was little, had first moved into the manor and wasn’t used to sleeping in a bed as big as his living room, he’d curl up under Bruce’s arm and nestle into his chest and it all felt more secure.
He runs his fingers through Damian’s hair again.
Bruce takes an experimental step into the room. Jason allows it. Barbara pulls herself a little closer to him, legs hanging behind. Bruce trails his hand over Duke’s hair.
“I didn’t realise he could glow,” he whispers. Jason shrugs one shoulder. The Pit is under his skin again, pulling at his ribs. He can feel it inching into his brain the longer he looks at Bruce.
Cass makes another sleepy noise and curls closer into his side. Tim buries his head into Jason’s shoulder.
“They’re protective,” Bruce mutters, moving to Jason’s side and pushing his curls out of his face.
“Yeah,” Jason croaks.
Bruce almost smiles and presses his lips to Jason’s forehead. “I’ll leave you to sleep.”
Then he’s gone, and Duke is the only source of light in the room again.
Jason wouldn’t be able to move if he wanted to, not without disturbing his siblings. The Pit is still doing more than it needs to, and he still remembers what it’s like to be dead.
But with half a dozen bodies on his, and half a dozen hearts beating like they’re meant to, it’s easier to forget. It’s easier to run his fingers through Damian’s hair, and breathe slowly enough not to disturb Cass, and slowly close his eyes and fall back asleep.