Chapter Text
His mouth is stern. Jaw tight. Eyes unreadable behind the godforsaken cowl. Jason knows that something is up with Bruce - sorry, Batman - even beyond the obvious.
“You’re here,” Batman growls.
“I’m here,” Jason echoes. He hadn’t been there when the world was under attack. He’d been with the Outlaws. He’d been busy. There’s only so much one person can do, and Jason is becoming more and more aware of that fact as time goes on.
In an attempt to remain casual, Jason crosses his arms and leans back on one of the Cave’s many walls. He keeps his expression as neutral as possible. Batman doesn’t need to know that his voice still makes Jason’s hands shake.
The muscles in Batman’s jaw and mouth relax. The corner of his lip tips up ever so slightly. If anyone other than a protege of Batman and child of Bruce Wayne saw it, they’d never notice the difference.
But Jason knows. Jason knows quite well.
Batman - or is it Bruce? - is smiling. It seems to be out of relief, but Jason frustratingly can’t see his eyes. Can’t tell for certain why he’s smiling.
“You’re here,” Batman repeats, and Jason has ten witty comebacks on his tongue when he’s abruptly silenced by the hug.
Hug.
Batman.
Batman is… is hugging him. Jason can’t remember many times Bruce hugged him. He often jokes that the only time he’d been cradled by Bruce was after he was already dead. No one ever finds it funny, but Jason keeps saying it anyway.
“Bruce,” Jason says, tone flat and arms stiff at his sides. He’s pretty sure he’s talking to Bruce, not Batman. “Let go.”
And emotionally constipated Bruce Wayne hugs Jason just a bit tighter, lingers for just a moment longer, before begrudgingly letting go. He straightens, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m, uh… I’m glad you’re okay.”
Jason squints, returning to his position against the wall. “I… Thanks?”
Bruce clears his throat. “A… A lot’s happened.”
Stating the obvious. Just because Jason was off-world doesn’t mean he wasn’t inundated with chaos the second he landed back on Earth.
But rather than say this, Jason decides to deflect, deflect, deflect. Anything to avoid discussing feelings with this uncharacteristically-vulnerable version of Bruce. “Where is everyone?”
At this, Bruce lets out a comically exaggerated sigh. He tugs the cowl down and runs a hand through his hair. Finally visible, Bruce’s eyes are tired. Exhausted, even. “Red Robin’s on patrol.”
Avoiding Bruce, Jason translates.
“Alfred’s with Leslie. Some people still need medical care after… everything.”
Meaning the world is so fucked that Alfred actually left the cave.
“Oracle should be in bed, though I doubt it. Probably still running comms.” Then he falls silent. Like the question has been sufficiently answered.
As per usual, Bruce’s true meaning lies with the unspoken.
“... and Dick?” Jason ventures.
Bruce sighs again, finding a chair to sit in. He lowers himself down gingerly, like every muscle aches. But his mouth stays shut. Jason can’t even hear a noncommittal “hn.”
Jason’s hands tighten on his arms. He and the golden boy aren’t the best of friends, but they’re still brothers. They’re still family.
And god knows what this family will do for each other.
“Where’s Dick?” And then, after another too-long pause - “Where’s Dick, Bruce?” His tone is tough enough to pierce titanium, sharp enough to cut diamond.
Bruce looks away and then back at Jason. “Nightwing’s dead.”
The words are spoken with a cold finality. With all the loving kindness of a dull icepick - weakened in mechanism but brutal in delivery. There is no room for care. No room for questioning. It’s spoken as Batman conducts his detective work: factual and efficient.
Jason may have forgiven the tone if Bruce at least looked sorry. But he doesn’t. His eyes are hardened. They’re not sorry. Not devastated. Not even sad.
They’re as expressionless as they were when he wore the cowl.
Something in Jason snaps. Sweat breaks out on his palms, his forehead, his neck. His shoulders tense, and his stomach flips. Jason’s face burns, and his vision goes a sickly green.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” he demands, patience paper-thin.
“Nightwing was kidnapped by the Crime Syndicate. They revealed his identity on television and wired a bomb to his heart.”
Jason feels nauseous, but Bruce isn’t done.
“The bomb was set to go off unless Nightwing died. Lex Luthor killed him.”
And there it is. That railroad spike of flippancy. That absolute carelessness. It’s becoming painfully clear that even with the cowl off, this is Batman. This is the man that trained Jason. Not the man that tried to be his father.
That tried to be Dick’s father too. But hadn’t tried hard enough.
“You…” Jason means to say something defensive. He means to say something demanding and intimidating and furious, because that’s what he is. He’s furious.
…so why does he feel so empty?
“It’s not…” But still, Jason can’t manage a sentence. He opens his mouth to speak, and words fail him. Because… because surely there’s something wrong. Surely, this is a lie.
And while Jason wrestles with this, Bruce studies his expression. Is no doubt waiting for an angry outburst or a pathetic wave of tears.
But he gets neither. Because Jason is just… confused.
“You’re… He’s dead?” he finally manages.
And Bruce nods, eyes still devoid of grief or ire. It makes Jason’s stomach knot.
“And you’re certain?” Because sure, he’s dead. They’ve all died. But it never quite sticks. Being assumed dead is very different from being face-to-face with a corpse. And even then, it isn’t always forever. Jason is living proof of that.
“I wouldn’t lie about this.”
“Did you see the body, Bruce?” Jason presses. “Can you confirm-?”
“Yes.” Bruce’s tone is cold, but his eyes are devoid of emotion. He sounds upset about being questioned. Not upset that his son is dead.
Jason tries to ignore that. “When?”
“Two months ago.”
The revelation is like a hammer to his gut.
For a long, long moment, Jason says nothing. He stares out past Bruce, eyes losing focus.
“Jason.” Bruce is cautious, voice concerned. “Jason, say something.”
“... where’s Luthor?”
And suddenly, Bruce is the quiet one.
“Bruce. Where’s Luthor?”
Bruce doesn’t respond. Just shakes his head before turning around, sweeping his cape, and pacing to the Batcomputer.
And then rage hits Jason like a bullet train. “Don’t you care??” he shouts.
Still no response. Just rapid typing on the keyboard.
Jason’s eye twitches. He forces a controlled stream of air from his lips, struggling to compose himself. “Where’s Luthor?” He stalks towards the computer himself, not stopping until he’s standing next to the console chair.
The typing pauses, fingers stilled over the keys. And then Bruce - Batman - shrugs, resuming his case report.
Jason’s vision is filtered by a deeper shade of green. The blatant lack of respect - of decency - makes Jason’s mouth taste bitter. It’s so, so painfully reminiscent. So similar, it’s practically identical. So like Jason’s death.
The Joker is out there somewhere. Living to swing crowbars another day. Living to kill kids another day. Batman hasn’t stopped him.
And here it is. Dick. Dead. And where is Luthor?
Batman certainly doesn’t know.
“Don’t do that,” he warns, sight narrowing in on Batman. “Tell me Luthor’s dead. Tell me he’s dead, Bruce!”
But Batman doesn’t say it. Bruce doesn’t say it either. Both are the picture of calm. Of someone who hasn’t just lost a son.
“Where is he?” Jason seethes. Even if Batman doesn’t care, Jason needs somewhere to go. Something to do.
This seems to snap Bruce forward and push Batman away. “Jason,” he begins softly, finally looking away from the computer and spinning in his chair to see Jason clearly. “There’s nothing we can do.”
Wrong thing to say.
“Isn’t there?” Jason fumes. “Is that what you said after Joker killed me??”
“Jason, I…” Bruce scowls. “I’m sorry that I don’t seem remorseful enough for you. The fact of the matter is that Nightwing is dead. The Crime Syndicate has done a lot of damage, and there are people we can help if we act now. But being upset about Nightwing isn’t going to fix anything.”
Wrong. Thing. To say.
“This is your fault,” Jason growls. “This - your whole holier-than-thou, no-killing bullshit - is why Dick is dead. If you would just get off your soapbox for five seconds, if you actually thought about what you were doing, if you hadn’t recruited a bunch of kids into your dumbass crusade, Dick wouldn’t be-!”
“Jason-”
But there’s that tone again. Not caring. Not sympathetic.
Bothered.
“Why did you drag him into this? Why did you drag us into this?” Pace, pace, pace. Jason pauses in front of Batman. Swivels to face him. Lowers his voice to a chilling whisper. “Did you lose a son? Or just another toy soldier?”
Batman rises abruptly. His silhouette is foreboding. Just as foreboding now, when Jason is taller than Batman, as when he was a kid. When he got saddled with Dick’s old job. At the time, it sounded fun. But at the time, he was also twelve and living on the streets
(Had Dick thought it was fun? It was his idea, as far as Jason is aware. But he was eight. Just how much resistance had Batman put up before he let Robin patrol with him?)
“Do not say that.” The words are terse, forced through gnashed teeth.
“What? That we’re all just pawns in your game of chess? That you caused this?”
Batman doesn’t back down. He maintains fierce eye contact. Balls his fists before hiding them in his cape. “You are my children,” he insists. “I did not force any of you to do this, and you know that. Nightwing knew that.”
Nightwing. Not Dick. Not Richard. Not even goddamn Grayson.
Nightwing.
“Dick,” Jason corrects, barely concealing a growl. “Dick knew that. Your son. At least have the decency to say his name.”
Batman levels Jason with a glare hot enough to melt steel before returning to his desk and continuing his report.
Because the truth of the matter is that Batman - that Bruce - is incapable of handling emotions like this. Whenever things get hard, he ducks his head and becomes engrossed in his work. He blocks out the world until the problems disappear.
But nothing can erase this.
Jason can’t take it anymore. He throws his helmet on the floor with a resounding crack. “Fuck you,” he hisses. Then he jumps onto his motorcycle and peels away. This is too much. It’s all just too much.
With an absent hand, Jason pulls out his phone and speed dials Dick’s cell.
“You’ve reached Dick Grayson. I’m not available right now, but please leave your-”
Jason hangs up. He’s not going to listen to that.
(He can’t listen to that.)
Instead, Jason flips his manual comm on, regretting the tiniest bit that he’d destroyed his helmet. “Hood to Oracle.”
The comm crackles and pops more than a toddler’s breakfast cereal. Jason really needs to replace his backup equipment. But through the hissing and static, he can make out a voice.
“Oracle.”
Ah. So Barbara had stayed up. Maybe to spite Bruce. Maybe because she just wanted to. Who’s to say?
“What’s Lex Luthor’s status?”
A long pause. Jason wonders if his comm has finally crapped out before Oracle replies, voice so loud it makes his ears ring. “Don’t bother, Hood.”
No explanation. No reassurances. Just one firm order.
But Jason is tired of taking orders.
“Look, I’m finding Luthor one way or another. The only question is if you help or if I need to consult a different source.”
Jason could swear he hears a huff over the receiver. “Can we talk?”
But Jason doesn’t want to talk. He wants to act. Now.
“No,” he says curtly. “Do you know where he is or not?”
A new voice invades the channel, uneasy and slightly out-of-breath. “I don't know what you're planning, Hood, but whatever it is, you shouldn't do it.”
“I wasn’t asking you, Red Robin,” he growls. “Oracle, where is Luthor?”
A heavy pause. “Come to the tower.”
“Copy.”
Jason leaves his comm in - just in case someone decides to be helpful - but keeps driving south. If Barbara isn’t going to tell him where Luthor is, Jason will just find another way. Do some detective work, just like he’s been trained to do.
Because Dick deserves it. He deserves for someone to give a shit about him.
The thought makes Jason’s eyes burn. The Golden Boy, even in death, is taken for granted. And if Dick was still alive? He’d probably forgive Bruce for it too.
It makes Jason’s vision turn a deep emerald, and he has to focus on finding Luthor. It’s the only way to sate the fury in his veins.