Archive of Our Own ^beta

It starts with a phone call.

Bruce is in his study, forced into a few hours of actual Bruce Wayne paperwork as opposed to the more familiar case files and patrol reports down in the comfort of his Cave. It's not often he's in this position, but responsibility is found in the strangest of times these days — sometimes it's in the form of adopting children who are trying to steal your car tires, and other times, it's your board of directors half-way to tears asking you to sign some papers.

So here is Bruce, signing papers. He's rather proud of himself.

It's in this strange amicable serenity, the satisfaction of having completed some good and easy work bubbling under his skin, does Bruce's phone ring loudly on the table. It's not his work phone that's screaming at him, which is surprising. It's his personal phone, which hardly receives any calls on days that weren't holidays or birthdays.

What's even more shocking, is that across the screen, the name that flashes is Dick.

The picture on the contact is an old one, of him and Dick out by the pool, hair sticking down against their foreheads with twin grins — something silly the boy must have set years ago that Bruce didn't bother changing. It's been a long time since they've been in the company of each other with nothing but smiles and giddy hours spent by the pool during summer break.

In quite a daze, Bruce answers the phone, "Hello?"

"Bruce," comes a rushed tone, sounding surprised even if they had been the one to call him first, "Hi."

Bruce blinks, "Dick. Are you… alright?"

He winces after the question leaves his mouth, growing restless at the silence that follows. Dick and Bruce have come a long way from where they were this time last year, after months of excruciating silent treatments and creepy unspoken check-ins from the shadows. The boy is more lenient to catch up these days, even if he only visits the manor under the guise of saying hello to Alfred or to pick up Jason for a day out or patrol. Even then, he never steps foot inside.

They're not alright yet. There are still months of no contact where Bruce awaits anxiously for any sort of update on his first son, the young man closed off and agitated with just about anything that comes out of Bruce's mouth. But they're working towards something new. Something that isn't a decade of Batman and Robin, perhaps, but something familiar.

That being said, they are definitely not at the stage of reconnection where they make casual phone calls to each other. Bruce's stomach drops with worry.

"I'm fine," Dick finally offers. Bruce suppresses a sigh of relief. "I just —" the boy continues, and Bruce braces a hand tight against the phone, "I wanted to ask something. About Jason."

"Oh," Bruce whispers, clearing his throat and loosening his grip on the device. That had not been at all what Bruce thought Dick was going to ask. 

He remembers the apprehension that settled between the two initially. Dick was, now looking back on it, rightfully and unsurprisingly hurt by the new Robin without his knowing — but was ultimately the one to give Jason the role in a way Bruce couldn't. Jason was a shy boy by nature, but when he feels as though he is safely out of the danger zone he ends up being an insatiable ball of friendliness, and it became even more apparent when he was with Dick. Acceptance must have meant a great deal to them both.

The two were closer than Bruce could have hoped for now. Dick tries his best to reach out periodically when he gets a free day — in which he's also feeling particularly kind and magnanimous — of which are few and far in-between now that he's Bludhaven's sole protector. Jason is more than eager to spend the spare time with his new and tentative brother, except for the days he finds treading on the fine line that exists between Bruce and Dick too overwhelming. On those days, frustrations are usually directed at, or imposed by, Bruce.

Though, judging by Dick's tone, he's not calling to tell Bruce about their last outing together, which had only been earlier this week. From what Bruce got out of him at dinner, Jason had said they went out for ice cream.

"What happened?" Bruce asks urgently, worry starting to grow sickly in his chest.

Dick usually might have met the paranoia with scoffing, laughing and asking why Bruce is acting like a mother hen, but instead, he clears his throat and asks, "Did something happen, between you and Jason? Before I picked him up on Tuesday?"

Bruce's brows furrow, "No. I was at the office that morning so it was just Alfred at home. I left before he woke up and didn't see him again until later that night," Bruce puts the pen he's been fiddling with in the other hand down slowly, "Why?"

"It's nothing! He just — well, he said something." Dick continues just as cryptically, and now the tightening of Bruce's gut is becoming so unbearable he's sure he's about to collapse.

"What did he say?" Bruce asks, knowing his tone is itching towards something too demanding, too close to breaking their peace treaty, "Dick —"

"I didn't call to snitch on him!" Dick suddenly announces, huffing exasperatedly, "He was just… weird that day. Said some things I'm sure he didn't mean. So I assumed the two of you got in a fight beforehand."

Bruce blinks. Now, he didn't grow up with siblings, or many people his age at all, but this sounds less like something that should actually concern him and more like petty squabbles between children somewhat close in age. If the parenting books and opinions of others are anything to go by, Dick and Jason being close enough to fight and make up afterwards should be a good sign.

Regardless, Dick's always been smart with his insults and jabs, but Jason is definitely quick on his feet to talk back. Now that Bruce thinks about it, he's surprised that they haven't butted heads before now. It's a miracle they've made it this far with each other relatively unscathed.

"Did he say something… mean?" Bruce asks awkwardly, relaxing back in his seat.

Dick snorts on the other side of the call, "When you put it like that it just sounds ridiculous. He didn't offend me, but it was definitely out of character. You sure you didn't do anything to piss him off?"

Bruce pauses, thinking back to the events of the last few days, but comes back blank. In fact, the only times he can remember him and Jason truly fighting with each other has only ever been out on patrol, where disagreements are surely going to arise in the heat of a case. None of these issues had ever been serious enough to bleed into their lives outside of Batman and Robin.

In fact, just this morning, he and Jason had breakfast together in the greenhouse. They'd then taken a nap together in the den a few hours ago after Bruce helped Jason with his chemistry homework. Jason hadn't seemed upset about any of it at all.

"Not that I can remember," Bruce mumbles, which to his surprise, makes Dick laugh a little.

The laugh isn't really amused at the situation, but rather, a laugh that Bruce understands is directed at him. Dick doesn't believe that Bruce hasn't done something. Distantly, Bruce also can't say for certain. He doesn't know.

A familiar and horrible warmth hits Bruce's sternum, the flush of embarrassment, and he frowns, “What's funny?”

“I'm not laughing,” Dick states.

“Dick, I didn't do anything —”

“Sure,” Dick cuts him off in finality, “I don't know why I bothered asking,” dry humour still wrapped in his tone, before he ends the call abruptly. Bruce sits there with the phone against his ear for a long while after, willing his breath to return to a normal pace.

The second call that week didn't come from Dick.

“As you can imagine, we as a school are quite concerned with Jason's behaviour this morning,” the headmistress continues, but she's just on a tangent now, repeating everything she's already said to make Bruce believe her. He stopped really listening to her the second time she'd told him about the purpose of this call.

And well, he doesn't… not believe her, not necessarily.

He's just having a hard time wrapping his head around the idea of Jason misbehaving at school.

Every call from his teachers thus far have been nothing but singing high praise and well wishes, everyone's cruel predispositions of his background or lack of centralised grades thrown out the window after having him sit in one of their lessons. Your son is so attentive. He is always on time. Jason's assignments are a joy to read. He's a hardworking boy. Jason has a bright future ahead of him.

“It appears this isn't an isolated event either,” the headmistress adds on suddenly, making Bruce pay attention again, “A talk with his English teacher has revealed some similar disagreements with other students in lessons recently, though none quite so physical.”

Playground fights were one thing. If not because of the fact that Bruce let Dick get away with many of his own colourful and very memorable fights that occurred at school, Bruce would be a hypocrite for pretending like he wasn't a nuisance to teach. The teachers were lucky to see Bruce for more than three days a week, and he was kicked out of boarding schools faster than Alfred could find another to send him to before he turned fifteen and decided his education could be found elsewhere in the world.

Back then, the teachers were perhaps a little hesitant to enact any lasting punishments onto the last and expensive Wayne heir, but their frustrations quickly won in the end, whether that be via cane or isolation. Times had changed from when Bruce was in school — but Bruce made sure that Dick, and now Jason, were never left in such situations.

It was an amalgamation of his childish anger and desperation for violent intimacy, never necessarily towards his fellow students or the school faculty themselves, but at the general state of himself at the time. Being eight years old and newly orphaned was devastating, the years after were simply vicious excuses for normalcy. A way to sedate the painful itch under his skin.

He'd watched the same thing happen with Dick, and perhaps needlessly, allowed him the same freedom to find a healthier balance. It had been part of the reason for allowing Robin to exist — since Dick would have found a way, with or without Bruce's permission. Granted, the state of them both at the present moment isn't the best proof of a successful childhood or upbringing.

Thinking back to how Bruce was at twelve years old, or even Dick at that age, then to how Jason currently is — Bruce is hitting a bit of a dissonance issue. He can't quite begin to combine the two in order to compare what the problem might actually be.

“Is the other boy alright?” Bruce asks finally, cutting off the headmistress’ fourth rundown of the event. He probably should've asked this first. Children fighting is normal. Robin fighting is training.

The headmistress sighs, “He has a bit of a bruise on his chin from where the book hit him, but he was more upset than hurt.”

Jason, chucking books at classmates across the classroom. Bruce isn't sure what's more surprising, that the choice of weapon was books or that Jason had been this violently disruptive in school at all. The boy loved school.

“The other child's parents don't want to make this any bigger than it is, especially since Jason is usually such a well behaved kid,” and especially since his full name is now Jason Todd-Wayne, she doesn't say, but Bruce hears clearly with newfound shame, “But I hope you will discuss this with him. Again, we are all very concerned about this behaviour.”

Bruce hums in understanding for lack of much else to do.

He feels as though he's been anxiously humming all day, to the point that when Jason comes home from school a few hours later, the nervousness of it all goes right down his mouth and sticks to the back of his throat. The apprehension for solidifying such a situation by talking about it hangs there like a bad cold, making Bruce clear his throat many times.

Jason is standing in the main foyer, waiting for Bruce to come talk to him. They're both watching each other expectantly.

Distantly, Bruce recognises this sort of behaviour as familiar. Earlier that week, when Bruce had told the boy that Dick called him, Jason had stood and waited. The first time it happened, Bruce just chalked it up to Jason being worried about having hurt Dick's feelings.

Now, with a second time, it's proving to be a strange coincidence. It always feels like Jason is sizing him up.

“Jay,” Bruce starts, watching the boy carefully, “Do you have something you'd like to tell me?”

Other than the minute way Jason's fingers tighten around the strap of his school bag, the boy makes no other indication of worry. There's a distinct lack of remorse in his expression as well. Bruce is a bit disappointed by this reaction.

“Not really,” He replies with an indifferent shrug, “Is there something you want to talk about?”

Answering a question with another question is a very Alfred-like thing to do, the man in question pausing slightly to listen to the conversation from the corridor. Bruce wishes desperately that Alfred will come to deal with whatever this is, but the butler makes no move to help. In fact, from what Bruce can see in his peripheral vision, the old man looks just as confused as Bruce feels.

While a veteran at parenting he might be, no one said Alfred was exceptionally good at it. It's times like these where Bruce realises how alone he is with this particular mission.

“You're sure?” Bruce settles on asking.

Jason meets his eyes squarely, not at all apologetic, not at all concerned, “Yup. I'm good.”

Well.

Jay must've had a good reason for trying to give that child a concussion via hardback novel, Bruce thinks to himself as he nods in finality, turning on his heel and missing the way Jason exhales in relief, I trust him.

“I have never been so disrespected in my life!”

Trust isn't something Bruce gives freely.

There's not exactly a starting price for it either, and the work someone needs to put in to be eligible for the unwavering faith of Batman can be extreme and tedious. However, once his trust is gained, Bruce is known for latching on and never letting go. This causes quite a few problems with those who perhaps didn't sign up for such a consuming relationship.

It is usually, not always, but usually, reciprocated.

But after the second woman comes rushing to him, eyes wide and a sneer painted over their features in pure distaste, Bruce begins to worry that Jason doesn't actually trust him as much as he thought he did. After all, he seems to be under some sort of distress, and is deciding to take it out on everyone around him instead of letting Bruce fix the problem.

“I don't think that's what Jason meant, Katherine,” Bruce smiles warmly, trying his best to placate the woman's twitching vein about to pop out of her forehead in anger.

“He called my dress an antique!” She cries in outrage.

Bruce winces, but continues smiling nonetheless, “I think he meant vintage.”

It was the wrong thing to say, since now she looks like she wants to strangle him with her fluffy scarf, “This is new! From this season!”

“Of course, it's positively lovely!” Bruce laughs, a migraine starting its slow ascent to debilitatingly unavoidable in the centre of his head.

Katherine looks like she really might just strangle Bruce with her scarf, but is thankfully discouraged by a new appearance on Bruce's left. A tall man in a suit that's just slightly too tight over his arms glowers at him, a recording device held out and ready between them, the red dot blinking steadily.

“Mr Wayne, I'm Paul from the Gotham Gazette,” the man says, easily sidestepping Katherine's bubble of terror to hold a hand out.

Bruce inwardly sighs in relief, both at the distraction from Jason's uncharacteristically rude comment towards an Heiress, but also that it's this reporter he has to deal with. 

“Ah yes, I love the Gazette,” he replies jovially, shaking Paul's hand and leaning in with a wink, “One of my best investments. What can I do for you this evening, Pat?”

The man smiles a little too widely, “It's Paul. I just wanted to ask you about your new ward, Jason.”

“My son, you mean,” Bruce corrects easily. Paul doesn't even flinch. 

“Yes, so, it appears your son has some strong opinions on the fashion of the attendees!” Paul continues, hoisting the recording device higher so it’s practically tucked under Bruce's nose. While doing so, Paul makes a deliberate side eye towards Katherine, eyeing her scarf and matching feathered hat, “Do you share these opinions as well?”

Bruce is glad they'd decided to make this gala a no-camera event, since the only one who will see the way his smile drops to a startling degree is Paul. That makes the man startle for a moment, but no one will ever believe him. Keeping his voice high enough to pass for tipsy (he's not had a drop of alcohol), Bruce glares pointedly into Paul's eyes as he says, “Pete, you know the rules. You're not to interview my children without an adult from my team or myself present with them.”

Paul loses his cool a bit, clearing his throat and passing it off as casual and not nervousness when he says, “It wasn't an interview, Mr Wayne. Jason approached me himself, wanting to share his opinion. Do you not allow your children that freedom?”

Bruce smiles, all teeth, “Paul, you know how I mentioned I owned the Gotham Gazette? You might want to delete these tapes. Enjoy the rest of your evening,” he states in finality, his sudden turn for the seriousness so apparent it leaves both Paul and Katherine in shock. He walks right through them, zeroing in on the desert table, where Jason is standing with a cupcake.

The boy had been watching him. As Bruce approaches, Jason's shoulders draw up in anticipation.

“Jay,” Bruce starts, catching the defensive movement and letting it sit in the back of his head as something to remember, “Are you alright?”

That obviously hadn't been the question Jason expected, since he frowns. He doesn't answer verbally, probably due to the excessive amount of cupcakes he's been stress eating, proof of it all over his chin, but he does nod.

“Is it true you sought out that reporter on your own?” Bruce then asks.

Jason watches him warily. He nods again.

“You know they’re not allowed to talk to you alone,” Bruce grabs a napkin from the table next to them, reaching out to wipe away the frosting around Jason’s mouth, “You should’ve come get me if—”

To his horror, Jason flinches at the approaching hand.

Bruce pauses halfway. His arm hangs there awkwardly, a napkin bunched up in his palm, mere inches away from Jason's face. The boy realises his reaction, grabbing the napkin quickly with sticky fingers and rubbing it all over the bottom of his face. He misses a spot beside his top lip, but Bruce is too surprised to point it out. He doesn't dare reach forward again.

Jason hasn't flinched because of him in a long time. The first few days, both in and out of Robin, Bruce noticed the boy jumping at his shadows, eyeing Bruce's arms and legs critically whenever he ventured too close. They've come a long way since then.

But here—

“Can we go home now?” Jason asks suddenly, voice small and quiet amongst the bustling of the gala.

They still have a few hours to go. Paul doesn't seem like the type to back down after some idle threats, so leaving early would only add fuel to the fire of that article, and who knows what sort of damage Katherine will do to Jason's name without Bruce around to supervise.

“Yeah,” Bruce states, head spinning, “Let's go home.”

Bruce has packed and repacked his utility belt twice by the time Alfred makes his way down to the cave, hands behind his back and an unreadable expression across his face. Bruce spares a short glance over, doing a double take only when he realises that Jason's telltale giggling and pre-patrol jitters aren't following the butler.

“Is Jason still taking a nap?” Bruce frowns, snapping the belt into place and grabbing his gauntlets. Jason's gloves remain on the workbench, folded and untouched.

Alfred watches him for a moment, which isn't anything new, but the tense silence does emphasise his hesitancy about something. Finally, after Bruce is almost completely ready for patrol, Alfred says plainly, “Master Jason has decided to skip patrol.”

Bruce pauses, turning to face the man slowly. Jason's uniform is bright and unavoidable from where it hangs in his peripheral vision.

That's not… a new thing. Not as new as picking fights and throwing books and insulting old ladies. Jason has often prioritised important events and work over patrol, and Bruce has never scolded him for it because Jason has also always recognised when it is equally — if not more — important to be Robin. More often than not, Jason is inspired to get school or community work done faster in order to be Robin.

Except, Jason hadn't mentioned skipping patrol tonight to Bruce.

“I see…” Bruce starts, because Alfred's looking slightly pink in the face at his silence, “Ah, right, is he finishing off his science project? I did offer to help with that.”

“No, sir,” Alfred states.

Bruce frowns, “Does he have an event to attend?” he asks. Jason attending something without Bruce is rare, but not exactly impossible. He has far too many extracurriculars for Bruce to keep track of this term. Perhaps it's another play rehearsal. Or extra baseball practice?

“I'm afraid not,” Alfred says in an identical tone to before.

“Has he caught the stomach bug the school nurse sent that letter about?” Bruce tries, growing more and more concerned.

Alfred must take pity on his growing distress, “Master Jason wants to play video games tonight. He's locked himself in his room.”

Bruce blinks.

“Is he okay?” Is the first thing that comes out of Bruce's mouth.

The only other time Jason had skipped patrol for something unrelated to school had been when he had a cold, and even then, it had taken hours of convincing to keep the boy home. In the end, Bruce had taken the night off as well, simply to show the boy that there was nothing wrong with taking a break when needed.

But for video games?

Alfred's eyes narrow, “Quite.”

“Are you sure he's not ill?” Bruce asks again, already unclasping his gauntlets. He'd checked on Jason when he was taking a nap after school, and the boy had seemed fine — exhausted after a long day, but not sick.

“I'm sure, Master Bruce,” Alfred continues, turning on his heel in the direction of the manor stairs, “He seemed quite alright when he slammed the door in my face when I tried to check on him. If you think you'll have better luck dealing with that attitude, be my guest.”

“He —” Bruce starts, stunned, but Alfred is already too far to get any answers from. The old butler is more level headed than most, but impertinence is not something he's lenient about. Alfred's more colorful words over the years directed at him have been due to Bruce's inconsideration of others. Not even Dick, who Alfred treasured, had escaped a lecture here and there about poor manners.

But Alfred was wholly and uncritically fond of Jason. The two were as thick as thieves. In fact, despite the growing concern of Jason's behaviour these last few weeks — Alfred had never thought less of the boy.

Watching the old butler all but stomp away makes Bruce think more was said along with the slamming of Jason's bedroom door.

Bruce holds the clasp of his gauntlets tightly, head spinning. He considers, taking off the suit, knocking on Jason's door, What's wrong, Jay? Are you okay? Tell me what's happening. Talk to me.

But all this over video games? Bruce huffs incredulously, tightening the clasps and grabbing his cowl. Alfred's irritation is infectious and Bruce feels oddly offended about it all.

The shadows that follow Batman feels exceptionally dark that evening, without Robin at his side.

—

When Bruce returns that night, or early into the morning, really, it's with a bruise across his jaw from getting hit in the face with a metal pipe. He'd dislocated his shoulder earlier as well, and had to pop it back in alone by throwing himself against a brick wall repeatedly before racing after Penguins goons.

If that hadn't soured his mood, then hearing talk that Penguin’s re-established his child-labour trafficking business at the border had made a painful surge of anger rush through him. With the holiday season approaching, Batman should've expected this. Bruce can still feel the horror and disgust under his skin, prickling at his blood and making every vessel burst. He collected what evidence and clues could, but there was simply not enough to do anything substantial tonight.

Bruce is tired, and aching, but more pressingly, very aware of how alone he was tonight.

It's not rare for Bruce to handle a case alone. There are some things that are too far for Robin's palms to reach, certain obstacles he's not yet old enough to overcome in order to play as a reliable back up. Bruce has contingencies for this. But these nights are purposefully alone.

Robin will be elsewhere, conducting his own investigation and solving his own case; he's helping people home, swinging from lampposts and guiding a lit up path through the evening's darkness. He is training, with every action he takes away from the safety of Batman's cape. If not outside, then Robin is on the comms, ever the bright voice by Bruce's side.

Tonight there had been no Robin at all in Gotham. Simply, Batman.

He hasn't felt this way since before he took in Jason. Dick's absence had been an infected wound left untreated and ever present. Bruce feels his skin start to peel in that familiar area once more.

He's losing Jason. He's losing his boy and he has no idea why.

With Dick, it's been long enough for Bruce to see the faults that were always there. The controlling nature of Bruce's life had become akin to a prison warden rather than a guardian, and Dick was constantly pushing and pulling to loosen the hold. Eventually, Bruce pushed too hard and Dick had pulled too far, and whatever understanding they had snapped unceremoniously between them. All that was left was remnants of trust hidden beneath anger.

With Jason, Bruce doesn't know what it is he's done. He'll admit, the pit Dick left behind in his life with his absence had been cavernous, so Bruce might have pulled Jason too close to avoid another excavation to his heart. But he — but Jason didn't seem like he was upset with that — he never pushed — he —

Of course, the overwhelming sadness of losing Jason sours at the actual sight of him immediately. Jason is nervously pacing back and forth by the BatComputer, biting the inside of his thumb in a familiar nervous tick. Usually, Bruce would chide him for it, offer him a lollipop from his utility belt to eat away at instead.

But a little bitterly, Bruce thinks that Jason doesn't deserve any sweets right now. How childish of him. This, too, feels familiar.

“You're still awake,” Bruce states, unable to stop the harsh edge to his voice when Jason jumps to attention, “I thought you'd be asleep by now.”

Jason bites the inside of his cheek, looking Bruce up and down quickly, “Are you okay? Alfred said you got hit hard.”

Bruce sees the exact moment Jason noticed the blooming bruise on his face, no doubt sinking in colour and becoming darker and less inconspicuous. It will be a pain to try and hide before work tomorrow morning. The boy's face twists in worry, rendering him motionless as he stares at Bruce's face in obvious discomposure.

More hysterically however, Bruce feels inexplicable anger at Jason's worry. Jason had nipped him by picking something as trivial as games over Gotham (over Bruce), perhaps thoughtlessly without any realisation of malice — but Bruce's knee jerk reaction has always been to bite back harder.

“Were the video games not to your liking?” Bruce asks coldly.

Jason opens his mouth as if to say something, guilt as clear as day on his face, but immediately snaps it shut loud enough to make a sound. He looks at Bruce again, pupils shaking in suppressed something, wanting desperately to say...

Bruce waits. He's expecting an apology. But truly, he's hoping for the truth. An explanation for his recent behaviour and what's causing him this strife.

Do you have something to tell me, Jay?

Jason doesn't speak. Instead, he huffs loudly, turns around, and storms off.

It's only the next day does Bruce realise Jason has been ignoring him.

Usually, they seek each other out almost instinctively. They spend time together doing the most trivial of activities, even just to sit in silence in one another's space. Jason hadn't come to him as a particularly clingy child — Bruce isn't sure clingy is even the right word now — but it had become normal for them. Bruce's life often consists of an extra seat at every table, just for his son to join him.

However this last week, it had been Bruce doing the chasing. Jason hadn't pushed him away, but he hadn't approached Bruce first, hadn't started any conversations first, hadn't left any space free for Bruce's company.

It becomes apparent when Jason gets home from school, rushes past Bruce's study, runs into his room and slams the door shut. Bruce waits, a minute passes, then ten, and an hour later admits that Jason is not going to come greet him. Earlier this week when this had happened, Bruce hadn't thought about it at all, and simply knocked on Jason's door and asked him about his day before the two went down for dinner.

The man puts his pen down, crossing his palms under his chin and thinks. The bruise across his jaw stings for a moment, healing slowly but surely, however it's overshadowed by the ache in Bruce's chest.

He doesn't move to get up. He picks up his pen again.

Maybe there is nothing wrong with Jason. Perhaps this is the space he craves. Bruce supposes he should allow this, unless he pushes too hard and Jason leaves him as well.

Then, his personal phone rings; Dick.

Feeling dozens of things at once, but mostly a shiver of deja vu rippling across his skin, Bruce answers slowly, “Hello?”

“I've never once spoken bad about you to Jason,” Dick says instead of a greeting, words frantic and rushed and tone like venom, “I knew I didn't have the right to do that. I had assumed you thought the same.”

“Excuse me?” Bruce states. His pen slips from his hand.

They hadn't spoken to each other since that conversation almost a month ago, where Dick had vaguely started the spiral that is now developing into a plethora of Jason's cruel intentions. An amalgamation of yesterday's loneliness, mixed in with Dick's familiar tone of disappointment for something no one will tell him about, fills Bruce with burning anger.

“Even after all this time, you can't stop picking at all the things you think I do wrong, huh?” Dick continues hurriedly.

Bruce inhales sharply, “I don't know what you —”

Dick scoffs, pulling the phone away from him to mumble something harshly before returning to say, “I know you must regret it. It's why you replaced me the first chance you got!”

“How…” Bruce starts, voice so weak and brittle he's sure it doesn't get picked up by the phone speaker. He clears his throat, hand balled into a fist on his desk, “How dare you—”

“How dare I?! You know what, you can take your pride and shove it right up your —”

The call ends abruptly. Bruce blinks, looking down at the screen to check if he'd done so, only to realise Dick had been the one to cut himself off. It must be his version of mercy. Even now, when they're knee deep in another fight, Dick tries to soften his blows.

Bruce shuts the phone off and throws it haphazardly across his desk, knowing Dick calling to finish their argument is less likely than Dick showing up to finish it in person. This is the three steps back in their one step forward dance, and Bruce will be lucky if he hears from Dick for the rest of the year.

Things had — things had been going well! Until they weren't. Until Jason—

Bruce frowns, standing to his feet abruptly. The chair makes a painful screeching sound against the floor, and his phone that had been precariously tipping over the edge falls with a loud clatter against the floor. Maybe the screen shatters; Bruce is too distracted to notice anything else but the slight shift of a shadow behind his door.

“Jason,” Bruce states coldly.

The study door remains unopened, but the shadow pouring in from under the door stops in its tracks.

“Get in here,” Bruce instructs louder, “Now.”

This time, the shadow spills forward, pulling the door open as well, allowing the small tuft of dark hair to peek through the opening first. When Bruce doesn't call again, Jason must understand the severity of their upcoming conversation, stepping in entirely and shutting the door behind. Looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, Jason waits with his hands behind his back.

This reaction only infuriates Bruce more. At the tip of his tongue rests multiple questions of varying importance; Why are you acting out in school? What's with your disrespectful attitude? What lies have you been feeding Dick?

But then, more pressingly, sickly and sour with betrayal, what comes out of Bruce is a hurried and confused, “What's wrong with you?”

Bruce had initially thought that this question allowed for the least amount of damage, but Jason blinks and rears back like Bruce had struck him, eyes wide. The reaction vanishes just as quickly as his palpable horror had, a completely unassuming — and more importantly, guiltless — expression painted across stiff features.

“What do you mean?” Jason mumbles, clearing his throat and shrugging, “I'm fine.”

“You might be fine, but I can't say the same for the people around you,” and just like that, Bruce realises that he doesn't really care about strangers attending his gala, or school teachers, or even his own bruises, because then he demands, “What have you said to upset Dick?”

“Nothing,” Jason says again, but his indifference cracks, eyes watching Bruce curiously.

“Don't lie to me,” Bruce states coldly, “You've been doing that a lot lately. What did you say to him?”

For some reason, focusing on Dick specifically seems to ruffle Jason's metaphorical feathers, the boy balling his hands into a fist at his side, “Nothing he didn't already know.”

Bruce's jaw ticks, “What was that?”

“I said,” Jason breathes in harshly, “I didn't tell him anything he didn't already know!”

It's why you replaced me the first chance you got!

Shame courses through Bruce's blood, but it is overshadowed by the unavoidable boiling of his blood. He's sure he's seething, and while this sort of reaction is exactly what he promised to never exhibit in front of Jason, Bruce feels his patience waning dangerously. If Jason has the cheek to do this, then Bruce might as well return the gall.

Then, he sees Jason's eyes flicker to the bruise across his jaw. For a split second, he seems to deflate, guilt and regret pooling across his face, followed by the worried furrow between his brow. But in a split second, Jason shakes it off, pushing it down and instead curling his lip cruelly, egging on Bruce's growing fury. He scoffs, rolling his eyes — it seems almost… theatrical.

Vaguely, Bruce notices that Jason's uncaring look that had turned curious now shifts to wary. But while other children so obviously in the wrong would try to get out of a lecture, either through an ear splitting tantrum or abandoning it all for their surrender — Jason doesn't let his apprehension stop their argument.

In fact, he seems almost eager to see it through to the end.

Bruce realises it then with a sudden startle, all the anger and frustration that had been building up over the last couple days freezing under his skin, blood cold. Jason is waiting for a response, breathing heavily from his outburst, hands trembling by his sides.

"You're trying to make me angry…" Bruce carefully says out loud, all the pieces of the puzzle finally coming together, watching the way Jason's shoulders tense at the shift in tone from angry to a calculative calmness, "On purpose?"

Jason's previous expression, one filled with twisted amusement at Bruce's apparent annoyance is immediately replaced with something tragic. His blue eyes grow wide and fearful, and Bruce watches in delayed understanding as the boy takes a fearful step back.

“I—” Jason starts, suddenly having lost his voice and his vigour.

Bruce's stomach is in knots, but it's not his fear that sours the air around them, “Jason, wait—”

He knew it was going to happen, but Bruce's heart still clenches when Jason turns tail and rushes out the room.

Bruce does not like thinking of anyone, much less his children, as anything but human.

That being said, he knows what the less respected, but just as popular, papers say about him. How he seems to be on a completely separate ladder to the one everyone else is climbing, how he is as genuine as a porcelain doll come to life in a world of insects. How he can't help but fix what is unfixable, have what is unhaveable — how his selfishness will truly outlive his kindness for the less fortunate projects that continue fueling his ego.

When he'd taken Dick in, the papers had a lot to say about that too. The court case for his custody, granted just as a ward, had been a public one, far more public than anyone seems comfortable with admitting now, but it had happened and it remains to be seen if there will ever be a more publicised case with the name Wayne stuck on that wasn't an obituary. The papers had said Wayne takes in Circus Star and the front cover had been Haley Circus’ tiger ‘Raja’, not Dick, because to them, it was just as exciting. Just as colourful. Bruce had worked tirelessly — and bought most of those publications — to remove them from circulation.

With Jason, Bruce saw the word stray thrown around more times than he can count. Wayne takes in a Gotham stray. Had it not been for the blurry pictures taken of Bruce and Jason going about their lives, you would think he had adopted a pet and not a child.

Bruce is not blind to why they seemed to distinguish his children from him so differently, in such a way as this. He makes it a point to never let them think he agrees.

And yet, when Bruce follows Jason's trail after he'd ran away from home, he finds himself standing in front of a very familiar building near Crime Alley and thinking: A dog always finds its way home.

Guiltily, Bruce clears his throat, “You're going to catch a cold.”

“Whatever,” Jason grumbles below him, sniffling.

Bruce is proven right when a shiver racks its way through Jason's small frame. He's sitting on the front steps of his old apartment building, though the tips of his fingers are red and nails jagged — indicating he'd tried to break open the boarded up door. The building was shut down by the city not long after Bruce had taken Jason in, the publicity of a homeless orphan adopted by the local billionaire drawing attention to the less than safe standards of his previous living conditions.

The mayor had wanted a quick and quiet remodeling of the building. Bruce's informants within the city council had thrown out words such as car parks and storage unit. Not that it mattered in the end — Bruce owns the building now. He's left it in his will for Jason. Or, if they end up having that particular conversation before his death, then Bruce would simply write Jason Todd-Wayne as the new owner. If he so wanted.

For now, and quite possibly for a long while now, the building remains boarded up and desolate. That did not prevent Jason from attempting to get inside, assumedly back into Willis and Catherine Todd's apartment.

Sighing, Bruce shrugs off his coat, draping it across the boy's trembling shoulders. Jason stiffens for a moment at the contact, but as the warmth surrounds him, it thaws his walls as well, and he relaxes on the step. Slowly, he looks up at Bruce, and then at the empty spot next to him.

It's a tight squeeze. Enough so that when Bruce lowers himself down onto the step, he all but crushes Jason against himself and the wall beside him. It forces a surprised huff of laughter out of Jason, who wriggles around to no avail, before finally accepting his fate and lets himself be trapped in the small space.

He could easily get out, but he doesn't. Bruce remains completely still when Jason exhales deeply, resting his head against Bruce's arm.

“Are you alright?” Bruce asks quietly.

Jason inhales shakily, “I'm sorry.”

“That's not what I asked,” Bruce mumbles. It makes sense that Jason would think an apology is what Bruce wants to hear, and he imagines that most other people would've agreed that it was the most appropriate thing to hear first after recent events — but Bruce has never been other people. The many problems and conflicts that happen in his life can never be fixed with simple apologies.

“I'm fine,” Jason starts, then when Bruce lets that silence grow heavy, the boy sighs, “I just —”

What Bruce has always wanted, what he wants now, is an explanation.

“At my first foster house, if you were naughty, you didn't get breakfast,” Jason tells Bruce simply and as casual as an observation of the weather may have been, and he must feel the way the man immediately stiffens in both horror and surprise, since the boy immediately sits up to explain, “It wasn't just me! The actual kids got the same punishment.”

That doesn't make it better, Bruce thinks with sinking dread, wondering if his look into Jason's background had been tampered with or if he had been purposefully negligent on the realities of it. The guilt Bruce feels is almost as strong as the anger coursing through his blood at the thought of the children who hadn't escaped such a home.

“In the boy's home, they lock you in your room for the day,” Jason shrugs, “That wasn't so bad, I guess.”

“Jay…” Bruce starts, though he has no way to finish that sentence. He's at both a loss for words and full of too many words he doesn't think either of them want to hear.

“In my last foster house they would — he —” Jason frowns, pulling his knees up to his chest and ducking his head down, hiding most of his face from view, “Well. It doesn't matter. That was the last place I let them send me too. It was nicer out here. No one takes your things or hits you.”

No one at all.

There's very little Bruce can do now. Getting angry on Jason's behalf does nothing but dig further into the boy's wound, taking part of his trauma and trying to make himself feel better by entertaining the impossibilities of if I was there. That's what Batman is for.

Here, Bruce is not Batman. He's something worse.

Bruce swallows thickly, “You wanted to see the kind of punishment I would enact on you.”

“You always said if I was curious about something, I should investigate,” Jason mumbles in response.

Bruce doesn't point out how that advice had been for Robin, when he found himself walking into a case without Batman's information as backup. It was a roundabout way of keeping Robin out of harm's way, and Batman's way, until they could more efficiently decide the safest and quickest course of action. It also forced the boy into training his detective skills in any situation.

Had Bruce been anyone else, a man less familiar with how deeply children feel and remember physical and mental injuries, this sort of investigation would have become far more dangerous than it ended up being. It's horrible, really, that it was a risk Jason was willing to take to find a clear answer.

“And what did you find through this investigation?” Bruce dreads to ask, but his own investigation into this matter can't end without all the facts.

“Well, I know what makes you angry,” Jason tells him quietly, “That wasn't the hard part to figure out. You're pretty easy to read. You don't care about reputation or grades.”

You care about Dick, is what he doesn't say, but Bruce hears the accusation like church bells in his ears. Despite the severity of the conversation, how honest Jason is being in this particular fear of his, Bruce feels an inkling of anger gnaw at his heart at the reminder of where this has left him with Dick.

It appears Jason wasn't being ambitious when he said he could read Bruce easily, since he immediately lifts his head from Bruce's side, trying his best to put some distance between them on the step. Before Bruce can reign back his childish frustrations and pull Jason back into his warmth, the boy laughs a little.

“You can get pretty scary when you're angry,” Jason whispers quietly, looking steadfastly at the ground in front of them.

And just like that, the rising tension across Bruce's shoulders tightens hard enough to snap him back into the present. He pulls back, narrowing his shoulders to give Jason the allusion of space, and maybe himself as well — but they're both pressed too close to admit otherwise. It dawns on him then that neither of them are truly trying to escape each other either.

From the start, before Jason — before Dick — Batman was never meant to scare those he was made to protect. It's times like this that remind Bruce that no amount of training and discipline and carefully thought out contingencies can prevent him from being just another man in Gotham.

“I'm sorry,” Bruce whispers.

Jason shakes his head, “No. It's fine.”

“It's not fine,” Bruce starts, “But I don't think I need to tell you that how you went about this was also not fine.”

“Yeah,” Jason admits, the tips of his ears that peak through the dark curls of hair flushing red.

Part of Bruce feels dirty. Dragged along a muddy path for the last few weeks, needlessly getting his clothes soiled from the surrounding nature. A smaller part of him is distantly annoyed at the fallout that comes with such a needless plan — scorned reporters, unimpressed teachers, Dick Grayson drifting further and further away.

But Bruce knows none of these things, especially the latter, are truly Jason's fault at all — which is why a greater part of him is relieved.

“What conclusion have you come to?” Bruce asks in a tone that isn't too dissimilar to Batman asking Robin for his post-patrol report, “Taking into consideration all the facts learned through your investigation.”

Jason huffs in amusement, perhaps charmed by Bruce's ability to compartmentalise the betrayal of his trust for the sake of Jason's fear, or maybe because he too finds this whole thing ridiculous in hindsight, “I don't know, really. I wish you would've acted in a way I could've expected. Or in a way I could've understood.”

Bruce doesn’t ask for examples. He doesn't want to know what Jason deems as an acceptable punishment. 

“So, what now?” Bruce asks carefully.

“I don't want to make you mad,” Jason answers, though it doesn't seem like it's in response to Bruce's question, but rather some other question he's been asked before, “I'll try not to but — but I always do something wrong eventually.”

Assumedly, he is speaking of his experiences from before: the two foster homes, the boy's home, whatever else befalls a child left alone on the streets of Gotham. Unreliable as Jason is, it's a wonder if he was truly deserving of any of the punishments given to him.

Bruce inhales sharply.

“You don't strike me as a child who does things wrong on purpose, Jaylad,” Bruce offers, wondering if maybe he should stop to think about his words first, but can do little to stop them from pouring out of his mouth now, “Everyone does something wrong, eventually. It doesn't make you any worse than it does me.”

“You don't know that,” Jason stresses, “I could do something really bad one day. And you'll get super mad at me!”

“Probably,” Bruce shrugs.

Jason looks up in a startle, apparently not having expected such an easy agreement on the matter. Even with the severity of the situation, Bruce feels the corners of his mouth twitch despite himself. He quickly controls his expression, not wanting the boy to think he's laughing at his worries — though Jason's brief look of disbelief warms his heart.

Deep down, Jason knows I won't give up on him. Even if he's trying very hard to convince both of us otherwise.

“I probably — no — I definitely will get mad,” Bruce continues, looking away from Jason's growing mortification. Slowly, he leans towards the boy, pressing him close to his side again, the phantom weight of a cape wrapped around them both, “And then we can sit just like this and find a solution to whatever it is that's happened. Maybe somewhere a bit warmer, though.”

Jason's expression goes from shock to wariness, “You say that like it's easy.”

“Maybe it is,” Bruce replies easily, “We'll have to find out when it happens.”

Jason watches Bruce's face like a hawk, bright eyes focused on every shift of muscle for any hint of deception, like this too is part of his investigation, before finally, he relaxes against Bruce's side. Bruce pushes him away only for a second, just to raise his arm around the boy, before scooping him even closer. Jason's head knocks onto the side of his chest, wriggling into the warmth between the hills of Bruce's ribs.

“I am sorry,” Jason repeats, quieter this time, though Bruce hears it louder with the boy now in his arms.

“I know you are,” Bruce appeases, realising maybe he should start picking his battles if he wants to avoid another upsetting conversation “I forgive you. I'm sure the others will too.”

Jason scrunches up his nose, “I'm not apologising to Katherine. Her outfits are horrible.”

“You awful boy,” Bruce teases, squeezing Jason against him and making the boy giggle in surprise, “What am I going to do with you, trouble?”

Jason's laughter trails off, becoming softer, and he speaks directly into Bruce's heart when he says, “I'm not trouble.”

Above them, the building in which Catherine and Willis had raised Jason Todd looms over them, almost bending in the wind that rushes through Crime Alley. A little ways away, the exact place Bruce lost his parents and his tires, but gained a son, remains alone and waiting for it's next story. At that reminder, of the life both Jason and Bruce have lost in order to be here today, Bruce holds his boy even closer to his chest. The wind picks up, as if trying to take Jason from him, but Bruce's frame shields him from most of it.

“No,” Bruce agrees, leaning down and smiling into the crown of Jason's head, curly hair tickling his nose, “You're not trouble.”

You'll never be, not to me.