Chapter Text
Jason knew.
He knew.
Despite what some people thought, he wasn’t dumb.
He wasn’t ignorant.
He wasn’t stupid.
He was smart.
Alert.
He paid attention.
Which is how he knew that Bruce had been visiting his safe houses while he slept.
Bruce was good, some might even say the best, but Jason was paranoid.
It wasn’t every night. It wasn’t every week. It wasn’t even every month.
It was random.
The visits.
And it was annoying.
There was never a consistent motive, no reason that made sense in Jason's mind, behind the visits. They just happened, and when they did, Jason ignored them.
There was no reason for Jason to care or be concerned.
Bruce never lingered, never stayed, never touched anything of Jason’s—when morning came it was like the man had never been there.
Which is why when Jason woke to see his guns moved, the light on his nightstand turned off, and his bedroom door open, he felt a sense of panic run through his veins.
Things were askew.
Wrong.
Bruce was changing the moves of their well-established dance, leaving Jason wrong-footed and confused.
He had never invaded Jason's space in such an obvious way before.
On the nights Bruce visited, the ones where he made enough small sounds to wake Jason up, he would linger outside of Jason's bedroom door and enter the room only briefly before fleeing once more.
It didn't make sense.
Unless...
Unless it wasn't Bruce.
The noises he heard late at night, the ones that he dismissed as another annoying visit from Bruce that neither one of them would acknowledge, might have been from someone else.
Someone dangerous.
But if they were dangerous, they would have killed him, Jason reasoned with himself as he slowly moved from his bed and made his way to his bedroom door.
There was no sound being made, the entire apartment was silent and still, but the smell of cinnamon penetrated the air. It was faint, but ever present—touching every corner of his apartment outside of his room.
Jason mentally ran through the list of possible people who would be visiting him, but his mind kept turning up blank.
There was no one.
Not anymore.
He grabbed a gun, checking to make sure it was loaded, and headed for the kitchen.
None of the alarms on the windows or the doors had been set off, which meant whoever was in the kitchen disarmed them or somehow found a way around them.
Barbara could have disarmed them with ease, but last he checked, the rickety fire escape outside the building wasn't wheelchair accessible.
The smell of cinnamon grew stronger as Jason entered the kitchen area that bled into the living room. His eyes scanned the room, first landing on the freshly made cinnamon rolls and then the man sitting only a few feet from them.
Fuck.
It was-
Fuck.
Bruce was there.
Sitting at Jason’s shitty little table, reading the newspaper, dressed down and relaxed.
Or he tried to seem relaxed, but Jason could see the way he held the paper a bit too tight, how his back was a bit too straight, and how his eyebrows were drawn in. He was the image of a contradiction—a man who seemed unburdened upon first glance, but another look, one more in-depth, would show a man holding up the weight of the world.
The man had never sought him out in his safe house before.
He would come late at night sometimes and linger for a few minutes before vanishing, but he never stayed to see the sun.
Part of Jason would have preferred anyone, and he meant anyone, else other than Bruce. But he was never a lucky person.
Jason rolled his eyes.
He knew what he was in for, and it made his blood hot with rage.
Jason should have expected it.
In a way he did.
He was prepared for the conversation—the scolding that would turn into a screaming match—but he hadn’t expected it so soon.
Jason had just killed those men.
Usually, Bruce would avoid him for a week before seeking him out on the rooftops of Gotham’s old buildings to scold him.
But this time was different.
Jason knew that this time would be different, but he didn't anticipate how much different everything would play out.
It wasn't like his usual killings.
There was a witness.
Not just any witness either.
Tim Drake.
Jason had killed those men in front of Tim and now Bruce had come to yell at him in a random safe house instead of allowing their normal routine to take place.
He didn’t regret what he did.
He’d kill all those men over again if given the chance, but sometimes Bruce’s lectures were enough to make him hesitate.
They weren’t convincing; they were just a nuisance Jason would rather avoid.
He stood at the entrance to the kitchen and waited.
But Bruce never spoke.
He didn’t even look up from the paper.
“Get it over with, old man,” Jason snapped, voice still hoarse from just waking up.
Bruce’s eyes snapped over to Jason before returning to the paper as if he hadn’t heard a word Jason had said.
Jason was too annoyed to be weirded out by how strange the image in front of him was. He had no time to pick apart the being of Bruce Wayne—he had responsibilities, a job to do, and he wasn’t going to let Bruce interfere with it any more than he already had.
“Right,” Jason muttered, turning away from the kitchen, “I’m leaving.”
Not just that safe house, but all of them.
Every single one that Bruce knew of, even the ones Jason was sure Bruce didn’t know about, were going to be vacant come nightfall.
He wasn’t sure where he would move to, but-
“I made cinnamon rolls,” Bruce finally spoke, interrupting Jason’s thoughts.
“Yeah,” Jason replied, confused, with his back still turned, “I could smell them in the hall.”
“Strong smell,” Bruce agreed with ease as if the conversation was a normal one for them to have. “You should try one.”
“No. I-”
“They’re homemade,” Bruce continued, interrupting Jason’s protest.
Jason turned back around and slowly made his way over to the rolls that were next to the man.
Something was wrong.
Something was off.
Maybe a shapeshifter, a hallucination, some magic spell, or wishful thinking, Jason wasn't sure, but he knew his mind was deceiving him.
Those were the only explanations for the situation Jason was in right now.
“What time did your parents die?” Jason asked bluntly. He wasn’t in the mood for games or tricksters, the sooner he found out what was happening the better.
Bruce regarded him with a strange expression and for a brief moment, Jason’s finger inched closer to the trigger on the gun that was held tightly in his hand, still facing the ground.
“10:47,” Bruce answered, watching Jason just as closely as Jason was watching him.
There was no relief that came. No satisfaction that the man in front of him was who he appeared to be. There were only more questions that popped into Jason’s mind.
Bruce pushed the glass pan of cinnamon rolls closer to Jason.
“Why are you here?” Jason asked, ignoring the rolls and focusing solely on the man in front of him.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Then talk.”
“After.”
“After?” Jason repeated, confused.
It could be a dream.
“After you eat,” Bruce replied with a small but kind smile.
It was definitely a dream, Jason concluded, reaching for a roll.
“No glaze?” Jason half-joked, trying to embrace the first nice dream he had since being brought back from the dead.
“In the fridge-” Bruce pointed, newspaper fluttering while he made the movement- “I know warm glaze makes you sick.”
Jason squeezed the roll a bit harder than was necessary as he got the glaze.
It was stupid.
He was being stupid.
He knew the longer he stayed in the warm embrace of this dream, the colder reality would feel when he woke up.
But maybe just this once, he could indulge himself.
Pretend that everything was okay—that nothing bad had happened.
He could pretend to be happy instead of angry at the world and at Bruce.
He could pretend that he mattered enough to be remembered—to be saved, to be wanted.
He ate the roll in silence, the cold glaze dripping from the golden flakes of the toasted rolls as he did.
Bruce didn’t speak.
Jason wasn’t sure what to say.
He didn’t want to break the illusion or the brief peace that came over them. He wanted to cherish the moment—he wanted to pretend it was real.
“So,” Bruce began, as Jason swallowed the last bite of his second roll. “You saved Tim.”
Jason’s eyes snapped up to Bruce.
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
“Right,” Jason said because he didn’t know what else to say. Even in his dreams, he still had a hard time accepting the compliments he desired.
“Tim wanted me to give you his thanks as well. It meant a lot- you helping him out like that,” Bruce paused for a brief moment, “I- I… you’re a good person, Jason.”
Jason hummed quietly in response, the words crashing into him leaving him gasping for air.
“Jason-” Bruce stared directly at him as he spoke- “I mean it.”
“Right,” Jason rushed out, “Yeah. Of course.”
Bruce frowned but didn’t comment further.
“Are you busy next weekend?”
“Busy?” Jason repeated. “No, I don’t think so.”
“It’s Alfred’s birthday.”
“That’s nice.”
Bruce nodded.
“Tell him I said happy birthday,” Jason continued awkwardly.
He had never been so aware of a being in a dream before. It was like he didn’t know how to act or speak; part of him didn’t, at least not in response to the situation and the words Bruce was throwing his way.
The whole interaction was making his head dizzy.
“You can tell him.”
Jason sent Bruce a questioning look.
“Come over to the manor on Saturday,” Bruce clarified.
“Right.”
“Jason, it would make him happy to see you there,” Bruce paused for a moment, staring at the younger boy in front of him. “It would make me happy to see you there.”
It was added in like an afterthought, but Jason could hear how serious Bruce was.
“I’ll be there,” Jason agreed, awkwardly.
It was just a dream.
It wouldn’t hurt anything or anyone if he indulged himself a bit.
“I have to-” Jason cut himself off. He didn’t have to do anything. Not while he was technically still sleeping. He needed to wake up. “I’m going to go lay down.”
Jason didn’t wait for Bruce’s reply, he just left the living room and headed back to his room. The gun that he had brought was left behind.
Maybe by going to sleep, he would wake up.