Chapter Text
The second day without Damian is easier. Mainly because Alfred makes it difficult for Jason to wallow in melancholy.
Much like the day before, he’s recruited into free labor the moment he steps out of Damian’s room and he swears Alfred had been waiting around the corner to ambush him. That’s how he ends up spending most of the day following Alfred around with his arms stacked full of heavy maroon drapes patterned with orange leaves, helping the latter replace every drape in the manor. They’re nearly done in Bruce’s study—a threshold he only ever crosses for Damian’s sake because he refuses to be caught in Bruce’s presence alone—when another presence enters the room through the double doors. Currently engaged in a battle of wills with the curtain rod and drape hoops, Jason fails to acknowledge their guest.
“Ah, Master Timothy.” Well that answers that question. “How was your sleepover with your friends?”
“It was fun, Alfred. Kon wasn’t able to make it though, something to do with Jon needing him for something.”
“That’s a shame. You were looking forward to seeing him.”
“Only a normal amount.”
“Right, of course. How could I forget—”
Jason curses colorfully when the end of the rod slips off the wall for the third time. The step ladder wobbles precariously, testing his balance from his perch. He only realizes it’s moved because of Alfred’s pointed steadying of it.
“Please be careful, Master Peter,” the butler implores, frowning up at him.
“Sorry, Alfred,” he answers, wrestling the rod again.
Alfred hmphs before turning back to the conversation at hand. “Just friends, you say?”
“Alfred.”
“And I suppose Master Bruce and Miss Kyle are ‘just friends,’ hm?” Alfred prompts suggestively.
Oh? Does dear little Timmy have a potential beau? Tim’s eyes lock with his and, if possible, the younger grows redder and attempts to valiantly smother himself in his hands.
“Okay, I get it! Please stop,” Tim groans, voice muffled.
“If you are in need of some tips, I’m sure Master Richard would be happy to provide some.”
Curtain rod finally in place, Jason slides down from the ladder. He tilts his head, gauging its levelness. It’s slightly crooked. Slightly. Hopefully no one will notice or care. How often do people come into Bruce’s study to stare at the drapes? Besides, the man’s such a control freak that it’ll bug the hell out of him once he notices it, and that alone is enough for Jason to leave it be. Declaring it a job well done, Jason dusts off his hands and turns to close up the ladder.
Alfred clears his throat, stopping him in his tracks. “I do hope you don’t intend to leave it in that state?”
Jason reopens the ladder and promptly drags himself back up the steps.
“That’s what I thought, young man.”
There’s a snort from Tim and one look from Jason is enough for it to turn strangled.
“It’s not like anyone would notice,” Jason grumbles, reaching up to scooch up the left side of the rod.
“Master Bruce would.”
That’s what I was hoping for, he thinks, snickering in his glee. He covers it up with a cough when Alfred levels him with a disapproving stare, the worst type in his arsenal. Even Tim looks chided and he isn’t even the target. Back on solid ground, Jason busies himself with folding the old drapes so Alfred doesn’t have to, and folding up the ladder for storage.
“I’m not asking Dick for dating advice—” Tim declares outright.
“Then perhaps Master Bruce,” Alfred poses.
“—And I’m definitely not asking Bruce.”
A fourth presence enters the room and Jason fumbles his next fold.
“Not asking me what?” Bruce asks, gaze bouncing curiously between his pseudo father and son.
“Nothing,” Tim says too quickly to pass as unsuspicious, embarrassment continuing to color his cheeks. Alfred, on the other hand, has no such qualms and easily throws Tim under the metaphorical bus and, Jason supposes, Bruce too.
“Master Timothy requires dating advice and I suggested he ask you, Master Bruce.”
Bruce morphs into a deer in the headlights. “O-oh, I see. Um, yeah—I mean, I can do that.”
“No offense, Bruce, but I highly doubt it.”
“Hey, I’ve got ‘game’. I ‘pulled’ Selina, didn’t I?”
Jason physically shudders, sharing a commiserating glance with Tim. Whoever taught him those phrases deserves to be shot. He bet it was Dick.
“Never say that again,” he grimaces, unable to help himself and unfortunately drawing attention to himself. Bruce looks surprised to see him much less hear him, an appropriate reaction given he’s been using every trick in the book to avoid the man while he’s been riding solo in the manor. What confuses him is the subtle way that surprise turns into keenness, and Jason decides to disappear the moment he’s set free in case Bruce has something nefarious planned.
“Selina’s dating you through no efforts of your own,” Tim drawls. “I mean…” he looks Bruce up and down pointedly. Bruce gasps, though the upward twitch of his lips betrays the lack of any real offense.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bruce demands and the silence is loud. He turns to Alfred. “Be honest, Alfred.”
The butler inclines his head thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I must agree with Master Timothy. Your father’s charisma seems to have skipped a generation and that of your public persona fails to transfer into your normal life.”
“Alfred!”
Jason bites down on a smile.
“I apologize, Master Bruce. I cannot lie.”
His phone dings with a text, distracting him from the five stages of grief Bruce is going through over his apparent lack of charm. His good mood rises with the sight of Talia’s name on his screen and plummets at her text.
“Call me,” it reads. No endearment, no punctuality, or request. It’s an order.
He excuses himself quickly, oblivious to the looks shot towards him as he exits the study, phone to his ear. The dial tone taunts him every step and he pushes down his worry to remain rational, quickly running through possible reasons for her request. He sequesters himself in the library, shutting the door behind him all within the time it takes Talia to pick up.
“They’re coming for him,” she says, skipping the pleasantries.
“Why?”
“Ra’s has changed his mind. He no longer wishes for Damian to learn from his father.”
“If this is about skill—” He makes his way over to the window seat, gazing out onto the backyard and not really seeing anything.
“It is not. It is about character. Ra’s believes Damian will become soft now that he is no longer under the League’s thumb. I refused his demand to bring Damian back with little success and so he’s sent assassins to retrieve him behind my back. Though, there are a few advantages on our side. For one, he is in Gotham under his father’s protection. This will make the assassins wary in their approach in an attempt to avoid a confrontation with Batman. It will make them slow. Another thing, have you encountered any trouble since your arrival?”
“The occasional pest. I’ve taken care of them.”
“Good. Then with no returning scouts or trail leading to their demise, your presence in Gotham is unknown. As far as the League and Ra’s are concerned, you are still recovering after the near fatalistic injuries you sustained and are unable to be at Damian’s side. This will give you the element of surprise.”
“Am I ever without it?” He quips and is pleased to hear her chuckle.
“You are, as ever, a menace,” she says fondly and he smiles. He hears a shuffle and a clank of something metal. He wonders where she is, what she’s doing. If she’s safe. Denying Ra’s of anything is risky and for her to deny him Damian—his heir and blood—is an insult of the highest order. He would not take kindly to it and Jason fears what the creep has in store for her.
“If you need me,” he declares seriously, “I’ll be there.”
“Damian needs you more.”
“Damian has Bruce, like you said. He has Dick and Tim and Alfred. You have no one.”
“I have my assassins loyal to me.”
“They aren’t me.”
“You are hard to beat, habibi. I appreciate your concern and your protection, but it is not necessary. Not yet. I will call for you when I need you. When your job is done. Ra’s will not move against me until he fails so we have time. Focus on Damian for now and do not worry about me. Is he with you now?”
“No. He’s with Dick for the weekend.”
“Ah, Richard. A big heart that one has. Fiercely protective from what I’ve gathered.”
“I suppose,” Jason mutters noncommittally, drawing up his knees to curl up against the pillows. He picks at a feather peeking through the fabric, tugging it free and observing it lazily.
“How is Damian?”
“Doing better.” Jason tilts his head against the glass. “He’s built bridges with both Dick and Tim. Bruce remains an issue. I don’t know what you or Selina see in him, Talia. The old man’s got the emotional intelligence of a brick, no offense to the brick, and that’s putting it generously. He doesn’t understand Damian and he really doesn’t understand how to start to understand him. Every time he opens his mouth he eats his own foot and it’s equally painful and infuriating to see it happen. And Damian’s strung too tight whenever Bruce is around, making him prone to lashing out or completely ignoring the man. He’s insecure about his place and Bruce has only fed into those insecurities. He won’t admit it to anyone else, but he’s afraid of rejection.”
“I’m sure you can relate.”
He scowls, flicking the feather away harshly. It jolts in the air before floating down gently onto the pillow it came from.
“It doesn’t matter if I can or can’t. This job isn’t about me and my unfinished business.”
“Habibi,” she reprimands firmly with a cluck of her tongue that is an exact replica of Damian’s. It is intriguing to look at Damian and see a perfect mix of Talia and Bruce in him. His appearance is purely Talia. Jason recognizes the scrunch to his nose when he’s displeased and the sleek arch of his brow when he’s scrutinizing or questioning something. His personality is totally Bruce. They’re honestly too similar for their own good, no wonder they butt heads. It’s also probably one of the reasons why Alfred had taken such a liking to Damian when he’d first arrived. He saw a mini Bruce with a troubled past and every fatherly instinct came rushing back to the surface. “Just because you are there for Damian does not mean you exist to serve him. You are allowed and expected to build your own bridges.”
“What, just so I can burn them when I leave?”
“They don’t have to burn.”
“What if I want them to?”
“Is that what you want?”
His jaw clicks shut and he glowers. She got him there.
“Enjoy yourself while you can, Jason. Remember, to them you are a stranger. They hold no expectations or prior obligations to you. To them, you are simply Damian’s brother and this only requires you to be yourself. Be the person he and I love, and you will be fine. Perhaps better than fine,” she implies and Jason rolls his eyes, plucking at another feather and flicking it to the carpeted ground to be forgotten and vacuumed the next day by Alfred.
He slips off the seat to pick it up and places it with the other, reminding himself to dispose of them properly.
“I must go now, but keep in mind what I’ve said, Jason. It’s important to me,” she states and Jason sighs like the angsty teen he is.
“Yes, mother,” he drawls.
“That’s what I like to hear. Keep me updated on the movements of Ra’s assassins.”
“I will.”
“I love you, Jason.”
“Love you too, Talia.”
“Be careful.”
The call ends with an uncomfortable finality.
Talia’s words play on repeat in his head, filling him with apprehension. Does he want to build bridges? To let himself be known by the others and be a part of their space. To listen to their stories and share their inside jokes. Or does he want to let himself fade into the background, nothing more than a sentinel by Damian’s side? It would be easier to fade in the long run. He wouldn’t have to concern himself with the grief of having had a taste of what could be and realize that it would remain as such, because he had another life now, one he owed everything to. Plus, he doesn’t even know if they’d accept him, if Bruce would accept him, if he knew what he’d become.
Tainted.
He groans in frustration, lost in which path to follow. He slumps over, arms wrapped around his knees so he can bury his face in them. To Talia, the path is clear. To Jason, it is a maze.
A floorboard creaks at the entrance and his head whips up, instantly spotting the intruder. Bruce stands there, looking uncharacteristically nervous with a hand on the doorknob and poking his head around the door.
“I knocked but I didn’t hear a response,” Bruce explains and Jason straightens up, snagging his composure around the collar and drawing it back on. Bruce gestures towards the door and Jason nods, giving his go ahead for Bruce to enter. He does so gingerly, toeing into the room and strategically leaving the door open. Jason appreciates the consideration. “Everything alright, Peter?”
The tone unsettles him more than the question does.
Jason shrugs, tracking Bruce’s approach. “Business as usual.”
Bruce nods, making his way slowly towards the window. He casts an appraising glance around the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and swipes a finger along the spine of a book to rub off the nonexistent dust. They both know Alfred keeps the place immaculate. It wouldn’t be surprising if the man somehow found the time or technique to clean dust off the pages in no time.
“Interesting place you’ve chosen.”
Jason follows his gaze, watching it linger on the couch. An echo of a laugh tinkles in the air, high-pitched and carefree. Bruce’s hand trails along the couch arm and the pillow that rests there, fingers shifting in muscle memory for ruffling through soft hair.
“Quit it, Bruce!” A voice yelps, earning a soft rumble.
Jason shakes the mirage free.
“The library’s got an old soul, doesn’t it?” Bruce poses rhetorically. “Jason loved it here. My late son, though I assume you reckoned that much. He said it felt safe to him, like every Wayne that’s come before is with him, resting in the pages of the books and the grains of the wood. Reading with him.”
Even now Jason can feel eyes on him when he knows there are none.
“Sounds stupid,” he tosses out, wiggling his toes.
Bruce doesn’t raise to the bait. “Maybe.” The man keeps his distance, taking position against the back of the couch and crossing his ankles. “I used to think it was fanciful. I don’t believe in ghosts or whatever it is that people think sticks around after death, but I thought, just this once, I could be swayed because it was something he believed. Now, I like to believe he was right.”
“Why?”
“Because I hope that he’s still here, in some way or another. Whether it’s his energy, his memories, his spirit."
“You still miss him?”
“I’ll always miss him.” Bruce smiles sadly and this brings Jason pause. It silences the voices in his head for just a moment, long enough for something fragile to take root in his chest and scour away the doubt. “I just hope that when we meet again, he’ll be waiting for me in a library with a new book to tell me about.”
Jason smiles at the imagery. Or, to borrow Bruce’s phrasing, the fancifulness of it.
“What kind of books did he like?”
“The classics, like Charlotte Brontë, Mary Shelley, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He’d tell me his love for them was purely for the messages in the stories and the style of writing, but I’ve caught him swooning over Pride and Prejudice and Wuthering Heights. I knew at heart he was a helpless romantic. I suppose that’s why his death struck me so hard.”
Oh my god, he knew. He knew all along.
Bruce misinterprets Jason’s embarrassed horror for disturbed horror, quickly rushing to apologize for sharing too much to someone he’s traded a total of four sentences with.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t—” Bruce rubs the back of his neck and averts his eyes to one of his socks. There’s a hole in the big toe of his left one that Jason knows Alfred is itching to get his hands on to either patch it or burn it. Jason finds himself shifting, opening up his body language as he rests more comfortably on the pillows in the face of the reminder that Bruce isn’t bigger than life. He is a man with responsibilities, aches and pains, and a desire to be normal. “I don’t usually find myself able to discuss him.”
Jason frowns, worrying at his bottom lip. “Because it’s easier to forget?”
“God no,” Bruce rejects that notion adamantly, seemingly physically struck by it. That fragile something soothes in Jason’s chest. “Because I’m not sure I’d be able to hold myself together. Every year on his birthday, I stock a new book on the shelves and each year it has to stay in plastic wrap until it’s been placed on the shelf. Otherwise, I’m afraid I would stain the paper.”
Jason eyes the unfamiliar titles he’d noted the first time he’d ventured in here. Which book had Bruce learned this lesson from? Would it carry the evidence of his grief on it or had it been replaced?
“That’s very kind of you,” Jason murmurs sincerely.
Bruce disagrees. “It’s selfish: a way to keep him close.”
Maybe that’s what Jason wants.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
Bruce shakes his head at Jason, a hint of reluctant humor at his stubbornness. Jason offers a small smile evident in the crinkling of his eyes and the tilt of his head. Bruce falters, eyes glinting with confusion and a double take, but recovers quickly with nothing amiss.
“How have you been settling into the Manor?” He asks and Jason seeks out a third feather from the unlucky pillow.
“It’s been fine. Easy to acclimate when your mind’s occupied by someone else.”
“I’d assume so. Damian’s had a hard time.”
Jason hardens, narrowed eyes cutting. “No thanks to some people.”
Bruce at least has the self-awareness to wince. Seems he does recognize his role in the matter after all.
“I…deserve that.” Sensing Jason’s sudden hostile disposition, Bruce switches gears. He focuses on Jason, asking questions about his days at the Manor and his time in Nanda Parbat. Questions like:
“Were you present when Damian was born?”
“No, he was already four when I arrived.”
“Arrived?”
“Taken in, I suppose.”
“You’re not related to Damian?”
“Not by blood. Though you could say we share everything else.”
“I’ve heard you’re his protector. Did you have to step in often?”
It soon becomes clear to Jason that he’s being interrogated, subtly but surely in a way only a master detective can do. There’s a pattern to the questions, a certain phrasing of them that prods for the mention of companions, and a carefully crafted neutrality to them. Bruce is trying to get information about Damian and Jason’s had enough of it.
“Did you visit the League stables often?” Bruce poses innocently enough, just as he had the others. In other words, does Damian like animals?
Jason’s on his feet so fast that he causes Bruce to deliberately suppress a reflex—the twitch of his fingers and the shift in body weight distribution—and Jason wonders if Bruce is typically this reactive to everyone or if he genuinely sees him as a potential threat. Part of Jason is pleased as punch that his reputation and skill are enough to cause Batman concern. He shouldn’t underestimate Jason. Things don’t end well for those who do. On the other hand, the part of him that is freshly budding underneath layers of years’ worth of hate and shame is sick. Sick that the person he’s become is someone his dad now sees the need to defend against and, by extension, protect his family from.
And things had been going so well.
“If you’re so curious about your son, ask him yourself,” Jason snarls, hands clenched into tight balls. “Leave me out of your fucking mind games, you manipulative bastard.”
Bruce catches Jason’s wrist as he tries to leave. “Wait, please.”
Shock and anger nip at his spine at Bruce’s audacity, but he holds himself back. For Talia, Jason holds himself back from socking Bruce in the throat and tattling on him to Alfred, who’d be sure to give him a talking to.
“Get your hands off me.”
“I’m sorry.” Bruce lets go, tucking his hands into his pockets. Jason takes a defensive step back. “I just…I don’t know how. To talk to him. To fix this.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“It isn’t, I know. But…” Bruce releases a full body sigh, shoulders sagging. “I need your help.”
“My help?”
“You know Damian better than I do. I thought you could teach me, just for a few minutes over a couple of days.”
Jason snorts incredulously, crossing his arms. “What, like lessons?”
“One conversation won’t be enough to salvage this.”
Jason has to agree, Bruce is right about that. It’d be so easy to tell him no. To say, fuck off, you’re on your own. Good luck fixing your inadequacies. But it wouldn’t be fair to Damian. His dad wants to do better and he’s come to Jason for guidance. As much as Jason doesn’t want to help, he can’t do that to Damian, not when Bruce’s acceptance is what he desires most. But then there’s the principle of the matter: going behind Damian’s back to collaborate with Bruce over the topic of him. Who is he kidding, unless Bruce can somehow get into Damian’s mind, they’re going to be stuck at an impasse.
“And what do I get out of this?” Jason asks.
Bruce brightens at the prospect of him agreeing. “Name your price.”
Jason raises a brow. “Anything?”
“Anything. Within reason,” Bruce rectifies with a lifted finger.
“The Batmobile,” Jason states without hesitation.
Bruce blinks. “The Batmobile?”
Jason nods. “I wanna take her on a spin. Feel her behind the wheel.”
Bruce looks hesitant and apt for the situation at hand—the perfect picture of a parent whose unlicensed kid has just asked to drive the car. For his information, Jason does in fact have a license. Granted, it is filed under a fake identity, but it is otherwise completely legit.
“So what do you say, Bruce? Do we have a deal?”
Bruce purses his lips, looks skyward to pray that someone grant him strength, and nods stiffly. “Okay.”
“What was that?”
“Yes. You can drive the Batmobile.”
“Really?!” Jason exclaims in shock. He didn’t actually think that would work. Nobody is allowed to drive the Batmobile, not even Dick and he’s the safest driver out of all of them.
“Really. Just,” Bruce glances as if checking for extra ears. He leans in conspiratorily and Jason follows. “Don’t tell anyone.”
Jason grins, giddy. He’s gonna rev those engines so loud that everyone in the house will know exactly what he’s been given permission to do. Dick’s gonna be so jealous, the twerp. “Fine. We start tomorrow before Damian gets back. He’ll kill me if he finds out I’ve been conspiring with you behind his back so you better make this fucking worth it.”
“Why not today?”
“Because I’ve got shit to do.”
For the second time, Bruce stops him, this time with words. “Is Damian in danger?”
Jason turns, spotting a muscle jump in Bruce’s jaw.
“No,” he answers honestly. Not if I can help it. Bruce looks up at him, brow set in a serious line and Jason can’t tell if it’s Batman or Bruce talking to him. Regardless of who it is, Jason can hear the concern and desperation in his voice, one that is of a father scared for their child.
“You’ll tell me if he is?”
Jason softens, nodding. “Yeah, Bruce.”
“Okay.” Bruce lets it go, though every fiber of his being screams to keep digging. Jason reads it in the tense line of his shoulders, the unnatural stillness in his body, and the darting of his eyes. Eventually, Bruce sighs in all exasperated-dad-glory, waving him off with a hand. “Go on, do what you have to, just,” he covers his eyes and shakes his head, “don’t tell me what it is.”
And Jason snickers in surprised delight. That’s a green light if he’s ever heard one. He catches himself on the library door, contemplating whether he should say anything or not. The angel and devil on his shoulder tell him to speak.
“You know,” he starts, drawing Bruce’s attention. “You could knock if you wanted.” Bruce looks surprised then sheepish, like a kid caught out. Maybe Damian’s noticed his dad’s lurking tendencies and has kept his mouth shut about it, but Jason’s not about to let it go unspoken. Almost every night, Bruce stops by Damian’s bedroom door, lingering. Jason has watched his shadow underneath the door every time, seeing it grow as he got closer, shifted, and retreated to continue down the hall on second thought. It’s as painfully frustrating as it is sad. “Damian wouldn’t be offended. Or upset. He’d want it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time.”
With that, Jason leaves in his civilian clothes and discards the sunglasses and mask, wanting his target to know exactly who’s hunted them. He keeps to the shadows, dodging the CCTV cameras and finds himself in an alleyway across from an Arab restaurant. It’s embarrassingly easy to spot Dick and Damian sitting at an outside table and what looks to be a small gray blob wiggling at the latter’s feet. The blob jumps and a faint bark drifts across the street. Damian smiles widely, cheeks round and small hands grasping at equally small paws. It’s downright humiliating how easy it is to spot their tail.
Jason sneaks up behind them, waiting until they're a breadth apart.
The assassin freezes, turns into his chest, and follows it up, up, up to a pair of glowing green eyes.
“You look lost,” he purrs in League Dialect with sharp teeth bared in a promising grin. “I can fix that.”