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Jason doesn’t actually hate going to the Manor or the Batcave despite his theatrics. Those bonds are fixed. That nightmare is far, far behind him. It’s been nice, knowing he has it to fall back on if he ever needs to (and he has, once or twice throughout the years), but just because he doesn’t hate it – actually kinda loves it. Having his dad, his siblings, his family around is better than he ever imagined – doesn’t mean he always wants to be there.
Like now, for instance. Shivering cold and drenched to the literal bone, tired as all fucking get out, he’d rather be alone in his apartment under a scalding shower, taking comfort in the silence and solitude like some tragic hero from a classic novel. But nooo, Bruce just had to insist Jason come to the Cave for a full check-up. You know what’s in those waters, Hood. This is not up for discussion.
Ugh.
Truly. Ugh .
Never mind Jason hasn’t gotten sick from a mere toxic dip since the Pit. His early Robin days were constantly filled with the bedridden delirium of high fever after ill-advised Gotham River almost-drownings and infected wounds from dirty knives and chemical warehouses that were never up to code. Ap-par-ent-ly growing up in Crime Alley meant jackshit in the face of childhood malnourishment and got compounded by the shit he got up to as part of the Dynamic Duo. But now?
Red Hood is built like a brick shithouse with an immune system to match. He doesn’t have to get checked out let me go home, damnit, Bruce.
Still no.
Double ugh.
He’s not pouting like a child who didn’t get what he wanted as he strips off his outer layers right there in the main room of the Cave. His clothes make gross wet sounds as he drops them carelessly on the floor. Now, see here, normally Jason takes care of his stuff. Great care actually. Him stripping to his base layers out here in the cold is not his idea of a great time. But tonight, he’s feeling petty.
Because this is so worth it. Bruce wrinkles his nose at the display, a muscle in his cheek twitching at every sound of gear dropped and squished. He even rolls his eyes, cowl pulled down to show his annoyance in all its glory. Jason gives him a shit-earing grin that earns him another eye roll, but that was definitely combined with a smile! He saw it! It was one of those fond-exasperated ones. It was totally there even though he only caught a glimpse of it as Bruce turns away without saying anything. He starts gathering up the supplies needed to make sure Jason’s not about to succumb horribly to the toxic waste that is Gotham’s waters. Really going all in. Jesus.
His undershirt sticks as he tries to pull it off. Jason scrabbles with the back of it, drawing it up and over his shoulders. It clings to his arms. “God, it’s like taking off my skin ,” he complains loudly, breathing in wet cloth that tastes, and smells, like ass.
Maybe he should just burn it hall.
Bruce actually laughs at him. Bastard. “Maybe next time don’t swim in the – .” He cuts off abruptly.
The sudden silence is thundering loud. Jason finally gets the shirt off. He flings it to the other side of the room before he looks at the terribly pale Bruce. His face is sheet white and blatantly horrified, not trying to hide a single speck of emotion.
“What?”
Bruce swallows thickly. “Those scars…”
This time Jason is the one who laughs. “My autopsy scars? Really, B?”
“Jason. You didn’t have an autopsy.”
…
“ What.”
Bruce looks like he’s gonna be sick. Jason feels like he should be sick too. Anything to spew out this awful, sticky tar that’s appeared in his stomach up to his chest to his throat, but he just feels…not here. Like his body is out of alignment with the rest of him. His ears are ringing. A high-pitched wail that sounds like some noise he should be making but isn’t. He makes no sound at all.
“I knew how you died. Why would – why would I have an autopsy done?”
And there goes the ground – disappearing from under his feet.
Bruce catches him as he falls, Jason’s face smushed against his chest. He controls their downward momentum the best he can, but Jason’s knees still crack on the floor. It should hurt. It doesn’t. It doesn’t even register. Jason blinks and breathes and, what? Does what? He can hear Bruce saying his name, growing frantic as each one goes unacknowledged ( Jason? Jason! Jay, Jaylad. Sweetheart – ), and he wants to answer. He wants to get off the floor and take that hot shower and tease Bruce for his mother-hen tendencies he pretends he doesn’t have – but the words don’t come, the actions are far out of reach. His lips. His whole face is numb. That tar climbed up his throat and stuck his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He can’t. He can’t.
He wants to rewind time and erase this revelation from ever coming to light.
Someone cut into him . Someone cracked open his ribcage and rummaged around inside. Splayed out the deepest parts of him for the world to see and weigh and find wanting.
He was – Jason gags, hunching in his dad’s embrace like that’s going to protect him from this next thought, realization, terribly truth. And Bruce wraps his arms around him so tight it almost hurts, like he can do that protecting.
He was alive the whole time.
There’s no way around that. There was no space between his death and rebirth for someone to do an autopsy. He was dead and in the ground.
Then he wasn’t dead and then wasn’t in the ground. In that order. Sometimes he still tastes grave dirt between his teeth and worms on his tongue.
Not an autopsy. This would’ve been a – a vivisection.
He was alive and they split him open like a corpse.
Or worse. Like an oddity. Like a curiosity. Like a, a scientific marvel.
Jason squeezes his eyes shut until there’s starbursts under his lids. He clings to his dad like his life depends on it. Like if he lets go then his head is going to dip under the surface and he’ll d r o w n .
He’s vaguely aware of Bruce not – moving him, but arranging, and then suddenly Jason isn’t on the floor anymore. Instead, he’s practically curled up in his dad’s lap, face tucked in the crook of his neck like a child. But for all that Jason’s all broad-shouldered and an inch taller, Bruce keeps him tight in a hug, fingers card through his hair. There’s a cheek pressed to his temple and words – indistinct, but soft and comforting and constant, smothering the terrible clamor inside his head.
“I’ve got you, Jaylad,” Bruce murmurs. “You’re okay. I have you.”
As the phone rings, Bruce watches over Jason. He and Alfred managed to coax him into warm clothes and up into the Manor proper. Now he sits on a couch in the entertainment room, blanket pulled over his head, and Alfred the Cat kneading his lap. Jason pets him, but he’s not focused on it, hollow-eyed and pale, staring at the turned off TV with blank, distant eyes. Occasionally, he’ll glance over at Bruce, furtive and desperate, looking for assurance that Bruce is still there. When they make eye contact, Bruce smiles. A little pinched, a little forced, but something settles in Jason every time and he looks away again.
He can’t imagine what’s going on in his son’s head right now.
The phone picks up on the fifth ring. Bruce turns away from the room without leaving as Talia’s voice comes over the line.
“Beloved,” she says warmly, sounding as pleased as she ever does when he calls.
Bruce is less warm. “Jason didn’t have an autopsy,” he says instead, straight to the point. The silence on the other end is telling. “You kept this from me.”
“I kept this from Jason, ” she corrects.
“That’s not any better.”
She sighs heavily. “ Jason had been through so much already. Can you fault me for wanting to keep this one thing from him?”
His knuckles creak, he grips the phone so tightly. “Talia…”
“Jason came back to life and was, for the most part, healed of what killed him. There were a few lingering injuries, but what was there healed at an exponential rate. What should have taken years took months. What should have taken months took weeks. All that remained was his catatonic state. My father…My father wanted to know how.”
“Did he find out?”
“No. And I am thankful for it. Who knows what would have happened if he had. But after he…After he discovered there were no secrets to be learned, he did not care for Jason. He left him on the table. I had already considered the waters to restore his mind, and the universe decided to punish me for my hesitation, for I doubt my father would have tried if Jason had been awake. The…wound was too deep to heal fully, hence the scar.”
Bruce swallows thickly. He glances back at Jason, relieved to find him slouching casually instead of that despondent slump from before. Jason is actively petting Alfred now, no longer dragging his hand over the cat’s back, but scratching under his chin, like he’s giving it conscious thought.
“Jason never questioned it.”
“Do you think he’ll remember?”
She’s quiet. Distressingly so. Then… “ Most likely.” Bruce closes his eyes against the blow. “ I’m sorry, Bruce.”
The thing is, he can see exactly where she’s coming from. If their roles had been reversed, he can’t say he would’ve done anything too differently. He sighs. “Give it a day and give him a call please.”
“Of course. Take care of him.”
Of course, he echoes silently. She hangs up before he can actually say anything though. Bruce sighs again and pockets his phone before he rolls his shoulders and sits next to Jason. Jason tips over to rest his head on his shoulder. Bruce wraps his arm around him, tucking him a little closer. Alfred takes advantage of two laps and sprawls out, tail twitching, purring up a storm.
For a moment, that’s the only sound.
Bruce opens his mouth, but Jason speaks first. “I don’t wanna know,” he whispers.
He snaps his mouth shut, teeth clicking. When he realizes Jason’s not going to follow up on that, he offers. “It might help.”
Jason snorts. “Will it? I already know who did it. I don’t need, or want, the gory details.”
“Fair. What do you want?”
He presses closer, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. Bruce doesn’t miss the way he folds his arms over his chest, like he’s protecting it. “Watch a movie? We never finished The Princess Bride. ”
Bruce freezes mid-reach for the remote. His eyes burn. The Princess Bride. Right. They tried to watch it – years and years ago when Jason was fourteen, but they were interrupted by a scheme put on by the Riddler and never managed find time to finish it.
“Yeah,” he croaks out. “You didn’t…?”
Jason’s nose twitches and he shrugs. “Didn’t seem right,” he mumbles.
Bruce doesn’t say anything to that. He can’t with the lump in his throat. Silently, he queues the movie and gets a little more comfortable on the couch. Jason pulls his feet up, scrunching himself in as small of a ball as he can without dislodging himself from his place against Bruce.
It only takes ten minutes for Damian to show up, hair in disarray and pajamas rumpled. But he's alert and scowling like the world has done him wrong. Based on the careful way he assesses Jason. Talia must have called him, told him no details except that his brother needed him. His entire demeanor gives way to relief when he sees his brother is physically unharmed, but there's no denying something else is wrong.
He doesn't ask. Just glances at the now-paused movie, visibly debating how welcomed he would be. Jason peeks out and waves a hand in encouragement. Damian walks stiffly over and perches on the edge of the cushion before Jason huffs and drags him closer to lean against Jason's leg, cheek smushed on his knee. Not too much closer, just enough to have the contact without being crowded.
Jason makes a gimmie motion and Bruce hands over the remote. He goes to the menu screen and starts the movie from the beginning.
“Damian hasn’t seen any of it,” Jason explains. He pokes Damian’s cheek with the remote, snatching it out of reach when he tries to grab it. “Pay attention, little bat. This is a classic .”
Damian scowls, but he settles back down with Alfred the Cat curled up in his arms.
It doesn't take long for both boys to doze off. It's six in the morning post patrol. Damian's still a child and Jason's had a distressingly eventful few hours. Bruce waits then pauses the movie, unable to stomach finishing it without either of them, but he doesn't move. Jason's drooling on his shirt and Damian's drooling on Jason's knee. The cat made his way to Jason's hip, looking pleased as punch.
Bruce tilts his head back and closes his eyes, rubs soothing little circles on Jason's bicep. For a moment, everything is calm. For a moment, he can forget that terrifying scene of Jason's face draining of color and his knees buckling as if he'd taken a physical blow. For a moment, he can pretend that nothing happened, that this discovery never came to pass.
Then Jason whimpers, shattering the calm.
The floodgates were opened. Whatever mental blockage there was keeping Jason from remembering or acknowledging the last moments before the Pit had been washed away. Once, Jason admitted he remembered some things in the six months between his grave and the Pit. Little flashes of kind strangers and cold nights then less-kind people and stone walls. Talia's voice and Damian's curiosity. The burn of protectiveness and the fathomless pool of terror. Never could they have imagined he was forgetting something like this.
Something that makes Jason whimper in his sleep even as he curls against his dad. His cheeks shine with tears. His lips part as he chokes on a shout that cuts off into a sob. He grips his shirt over his heart then lays his palm flat where the two branches of his scar meet in the middle.
How much does he remember? Did Ra's put him under for it, spared him the slightest mercy? Or did he treat his catatonic state as enough and took rib shears to a living, breathing, conscious child?
Jason thrashes, fighting against invisible bindings. Damian gets shoved off, narrowly avoiding a knee to the face. He sits there, blinking blearily for a second, before the situation registers and he leaps to his feet, hands out as if to wake Jason, or sooth him, or both. But he stops halfway when Jason lets out a wobbly keen, eyes squeezed shut tightly, blood bubbling on the corner of his mouth from biting his tongue.
“What's wrong with him?” his youngest demands, voice low and harsh – and frightened, as any teenager would be to see his brother cry and fight against unseen enemies.
Bruce doesn't answer. He hauls Jason up into his lap instead, holding on even as Jason fights him, his hits weak and sloppy, like the fists of a teenager fighting against someone bigger and stronger. He bundles him close and rocks him, lips pressed to his sweaty temple as he whispers meaningless phrases that he knows Jason would've never heard there in whichever compound he was in. He adds Spanish into the mix. His accent isn't quite right, but that's alright. Jason tucks his face against his neck and shudders in his hug, sobbing breathlessly.
When he wakes up, Bruce doesn't know. His cries don't lessen at all, but his hand snakes up to grip Bruce’s shirt so tight his knuckles pale.
Damian climbs up next to them, slow and uneasy like a cat easing onto a lap when someone is distracted, and tucks himself close. And when Jason feels him brush against him, he snags his sweater, tugging him closer until Bruce finds himself with a lap-full of sons who occupy the two opposite sides of the height and weight spectrum. Jason slides off a bit to make room, but he doesn't let go of either of them, the tears still coming and making the pocket of air between them humid.
They've slowed, though. His breaths hitch instead of shudder. Damian hums softly, gaze flickering across Jason's pinched expression – until he hits a certain point in the song and Jason suddenly smiles. His face is still mostly hidden, but his lips quirk in the ghost of a smile and he huffs out a wet laugh.
Damian smiles, pleased as punch, and lays his head down. He's still humming even as he closes his eyes, drifting off into a doze.
Bruce shifts under their weight. Jason stiffens, his grip on Bruce's shirt tightening.
“You're okay. I'm not going anywhere,” Bruce assures him immediately. “Go back to sleep, Jaylad.”
Miracles of miracles, he does – like the nightmare never happened. Bruce knows this is only the start. Jason’s other hand is still tangled in Damian's sweater. It’s only going to get worse as the memories come back. Tear tracks are drying on his cheeks. But Bruce is glad, selfishly maybe, that if Jason had to remember at all, at least he’s remembering now, on good terms with his family, a support system already in place. Jason’s breaths come out as little snores, his nose red and his eyes swollen.
Bruce drops his cheek to rest it on top of Jason’s head, his son’s curls tickling his nose. He’s going to ache fiercely tomorrow…later today. They all are. But he holds his two sons close, wishes he could hold all of them, and drifts off into an uneasy, restless sleep.