Chapter 1: Crisis Management, Self Management
Chapter Text
"Oh, my head," Bruce moans, palm spanning the space between his temple and forehead in a vain attempt to ward off the headache blooming across his skull. Where is he? What had he been doing? Why --
There's a growl behind him, and the following split-second finds him caught as his arm is twisted painfully behind his back.
Bruce yelps. He should know how to get out of this. A blind leg sweep, or a clever spin, or something, but all his memories feel distant and hollow. Like impressions left in wet sand, he can make out the general shape of the object that was once there from the cavity left behind but the details are left to guesswork and imagination. What is wrong with him? And is there another wave coming to complete his wet sand analogy and wash away more of his mind?
"Who are you?" a low voice rumbles from behind him and far too close for his comfort.
"I --" He catches a glimpse of his own hand, the one that isn't pinned high against his spine. It's sheathed in Batman's protective gauntlets. Further back, Batman's cape hangs from his shoulder. That should be his answer, then. Shouldn't it be? Except it feels like a lie even to think it. Except when he tries to pull Batman's mindset around him like his cloak and shield, just as he has for years, it slips from him like mist. And that's terribly frightening because most days Batman comes to him more easily than being Bruce does.
"Who are you?" the voice repeats and warns, "Don't make me ask again." It's angry, and aggressive, and... And terribly familiar for all that it sounds wrong and distorted coming from outside of himself but without any of the pervasive tinniness inherent in recordings.
"O-oh," Bruce breathes, going slack in his captor's grasp. The man holding him is taut with tension ready to spring into violence, but Bruce can spy a tall, pointed 'ear' as he rests his head back over a shoulder that is the same height as his own and most of his fear leaves him instantly. He wouldn't say he feels 'safe,' not exactly, but any worry he'd held for his life vanishes. "You," he gasps, hysteria threatening to overtake him before he pushes it back down, "you're Batman, aren't you?"
"That wasn't an answer to my question," Batman growls and forces Bruce's arm a little higher, causes a little more pain with the hold. Bruce releases a hissing breath and pushes up on his toes to help relieve the pressure, but he doesn't fight, doesn't struggle. He knows better than most how paranoid, prepared, and ruthless the man behind him is. He also knows with absolute certainty that as long as he doesn't initiate a fight, Batman won't do anything that would truly harm him. Compliance is his best option. The trust needed for it isn't hard to find. He doesn't bother looking deeper into his alternatives and tries to ignore how unlike himself his decision is. "Last chance."
"You're not going to like my answer," he warns -- whispers -- and tries to relax despite the discomfort in his arm. Bruce can't think like Batman. It's out of reach. But that doesn't mean he can't think at all, and he doesn't need to be a world-class detective to figure out what's happened faster than Batman when all the most relevant pieces of this puzzle are the ones he's holding rather than his counterpart through sheer happenstance.
"Tell me anyway," Batman instructs.
Bruce can't see much of the room they're standing in, but it looks like the smashed remains of a lab. He hasn't the foggiest as to what it might have been used for before its destruction. Had this been a Justice League mission? This doesn't feel like Gotham and murky memories hint in that direction. He tries to think of who might be around to overhear, but he can't for the life of him recall who had been assigned to the team.
Batman draws a breath to speak and Bruce is out of time if he wants to keep things from escalating to involve the other heroes. He really hopes Superman is minding his own damn business right now.
"Bruce," he says as softly as he can, head lolling toward the other to minimize the small distance remaining between his mouth and Batman's ear, "I'm Bruce."
Impossibly, Batman grows even tenser at his back. "Don't lie --"
"We have a gala we need to get back for tonight, or Alfred will be upset," Bruce says, still in the barest whisper he can manage, "Dick's planning to come home this weekend. There's a business meeting at the end of the month that we actually do need to be there for and can't just let Lucius --"
"Enough," Batman snaps, but his voice drops to a similarly low volume. "If you were who you claim to be, you'd know you're breaking protocol."
"I don't remember the protocol!" Bruce hisses, "I'm not Batman. I'm Bruce. You got those memories. Not me."
There's a long pause. And then...
"I don't remember this quarter's earnings," Batman says and, to his credit, most would not hear the tightness in his voice as he attempts to bury rising panic, "I can't recall what Alfred's favorite flavor of tea is. I forgot Dick was coming home until you mentioned it. The information is there, but it's..."
"Out of reach, or faded, or all you can grasp is the shape of what should be there but the details are gone," Bruce says and finds himself adding almost without thought, "It's okay, Chum. We'll figure it out."
"I'm not a child you need to reassure," Batman rumbles in irritation but he finally lets go of Bruce's arm.
Sore as he is, Bruce still uses his newly restored freedom to catch one of Batman's hands. He ignores the way the man stiffens at the unexpected grab and continues to lean trustingly on the man's shoulder, though he does appreciate being able to let his weight fall back on his heels again. "Not a child, but still too late for objections to mean anything. I just had that thought again."
"...What thought?" Batman asks cautiously. He isn't trying to push Bruce away or shake their hands free of each other, though. That's no small show of trust from Batman, which is about the time Bruce realizes that the other man must have kept the lion's share of their paranoia. It's incredibly freeing to be without that crushing weight of writhing doubts, but some part of him worries if he'll be too trusting without it.
"The one we had right before we admitted to ourselves that we were going to take in Dick. And Tim. 'I know how that feels. I know what that does to a person. Maybe I can help.'" Bruce hesitates before asking, "Do you not remember?"
"...No. Not for Dick and Tim," Batman responds, "But I do for Jason." Bruce gasps like he's taken a blow he hadn't been braced for. "And you don't," Batman sounds sympathetic as he says these last words.
"I --" How could he forget meeting Jason? He knows what he's feeling isn't logical. There's nothing to be gained by moping over lost memories, and it isn't as if he'd been given the privilege of choosing which he kept. He still feels like a terrible father for forgetting the specifics of how he met his second son. "We... We found him while on patrol. We brought him home. I have an impression of something reminiscent of a half-drowned kitten: pitiful but with claws bared and ready to fight for every breath."
"He was stealing the tires off the Batmobile. When I confronted him, he swung the tire iron at me. I picked him up to prevent his escape and the fire in his eyes could have razed Gotham to the ground."
"We saw our anger in him," Bruce murmurs, trying to patch together what little he recalls with what he has been told, "He's still angry. He's more angry than he ever was as a boy. ...We've failed him."
Batman flinches. Bruce squeezes the hand he's still holding captive. Batman loops an arm around Bruce's waist and lets his head fall to Bruce's shoulder, eyes hidden away from the world as the man shudders. "Worse than you know."
"...How bad?" Bruce forces himself to ask. He remembers Jason dying, vaguely. (More clearly, he remembers the grief and suffocating rage that had followed until Tim had forced his way into Bruce's life to drag him back from the brink.) There are also memories pertaining to the discovery of Jason's miraculous return from the dead, which is an even more chaotic and blurry collection of memories, but none of the pieces he has fit cleanly together. He doesn't know how Batman is so certain in his assessment of what Bruce knows about Jason when they are only now beginning to figure out what's happened to them, but... He trusts that there is a reason, and he's afraid to find out what it is.
Batman shakes his head. "Not here. And not before running tests to determine exactly what happened, how, and if it can be reversed."
"Alright, Chum. I trust you."
And he does. Trusting Batman is practically second nature for him. He's been doing it nightly for years, after all. Being in separate bodies doesn't so easily undo that trust on his end, for all that he already knows he's about to effectively become Batman's newest lab rat.
For his part, Batman allows himself one last moment to nod into Bruce's shoulder before drawing away, both literally and metaphorically.
Cuffs encircle Bruce's wrists. He doesn't fight.
His utility belt is swiftly relocated above the belt already hugging his counterpart's hips. He allows it to happen without fuss.
Batman efficiently strips him of every lock pick stash hidden away in his copy of the batsuit. "Huh, I actually remembered three of those," Bruce remarks, uncertain what to make of that detail. "Doesn't ten seem a little excessive, though?"
"No."
Bruce shrugs, unwilling to make an argument out of it.
Batman remains stonefaced and places a guiding hand on Bruce's shoulder as he says, "Let's go."
Bruce paces the containment cell he'd been placed in after returning to the Watchtower. He hadn't fought the confinement, but that doesn't mean he isn't agitated by it.
Clark already knows their secret identity. Bruce isn't sure how he forgot that until Batman reminded him, but it might be simply because he rarely sees Clark outside of hero business or professional encounters.
Wally knows, too, but Bruce had remembered that because Wally likes to zip through the manor whenever he comes by to visit Dick.
J'onn knows by virtue of being a telepath, but it's politely ignored on both sides. (At least, Bruce really hopes that was the case, because he'd convinced Batman to let the Martian do a brief test to confirm their identities and reassure the rest of the Justice League. If J'onn hadn't known previously, he certainly does now.)
Everyone else has been successfully kept in the dark. They think. He hopes.
There had been a slight stumble when he'd tried to answer a question and suddenly realized he couldn't remember the precise pitch he needed to hold for Batman's voice or how much growl to add. He'd faked a coughing fit that may or may not have fooled anyone present and let his counterpart speak for him.
"Hey, Bats-Two!" Wally says, showing up as quickly as his heroic namesake implies. Wally had not been on the mission's team. Either he was called in because Batman felt he was the best League member he could trust to watch Bruce or -- No, Batman would have sooner left Bruce alone with his thoughts than call someone in to distract him with conversation. Wally must have been on monitor duty, or else already on the Watchtower for another reason. Regardless, his greeting makes it clear that Wally has already been briefed on the situation. "Brought you a hot chocolate!" The man jostles the two thermoses in his hands slightly to emphasize his words before sending one through the mini-zeta on the wall and into Bruce's cell.
"Thank you," Bruce says. He thinks he at least manages something close to the proper growl and pitch. Honestly, he can't wait to get home and stop pretending. He's never been so uncomfortable simply being in the batsuit before, but everything feels... not ill fitting so much as wrong, like he's wearing someone else's skin. This doesn't belong to him anymore.
"Huh."
Bruce raises an eyebrow in silent question as he collects the hot chocolate. It's Wally's preferred cheap, instant, store brand powder made up with hot water rather than any kind of dairy because Wally had spent the first half of his childhood poor and old habits are hard to break. It's terrible quality hot chocolate, far, far below the standards of anything Bruce would usually deign to ingest. He drinks it without comment and takes comfort from its familiarity. He's known Wallace West for a long time now.
"It's just weird. Seeing... you in the batsuit," Wally tells him.
"Hm," Bruce hums, more mild acknowledgement than anything else.
Wally makes a face. "And that's straight out of the uncanny valley."
Bruce sips his terrible hot chocolate and waits. Wally isn't one to keep his thoughts to himself.
"That hum. It was almost something Batman would do, except more congenial and without an underlying growl to it." Wally shrugs. "I guess I always knew there were a lot of differences between Batman and Bruce, bu--"
"No names!" Bruce snaps. Even he remembers that rule and Wally definitely knows better.
"Relax, B," Wally drawls, but he holds his hands up in surrender and switches easily to the nickname his children all seem to default to given time. "Bats-One has the audio disabled. The only one that can hear us right now is Supes, who apparently already knows. Not that you and Bats-One gave me a heads up about that before today's crisis. And here I was, hoping I'd maybe earned a bit of trust over the years. Anyway, it's the little things I hadn't really noticed before that are tripping me up."
Batman wouldn't trust Wally's assertion that the area is secure. Bruce has the benefit of knowing Batman will already be on high alert to prevent any slip-ups and has doubtlessly taken as much control over the space station as possible. Seeing as Batman designed the station and has all the lockdown codes, that control is considerable if not quite absolute.
Bruce allows himself to relax, just a little, and stops trying to imitate Batman's growl. He'd forgotten -- in a more natural, old, unnecessary memories way -- how much vocal strain he'd suffered through in his first few months operating as Batman. (Odd that it's become a problem for him again. Are there physical differences between him and Batman? He wouldn't have thought so -- He's not sure how that would even work. -- but now he can't help but wonder if that isn't the case.)
"Don't worry about it too much. I doubt you'll be seeing me in the batsuit after this," he tells Wally.
"That confident Bats-One can pull a rabbit out of his cowl?" Wally asks with good humor that doesn't quite hide his nervousness.
Bruce shrugs. "Either this will be reversed and we'll go back to being one person, or it won't be and my responsibilities don't include Batman."
"You'd give up being Batman?" Wally asks in surprise.
Bruce smirks wryly. "As you've already picked up on, I'm not Batman," he says, "Besides, the role is in good hands. I'm not worried about Gotham going undefended."
"Huh. Hey, can I come over this weekend? Dick mentioned he'd be visiting the manor and I, well, I'm not really sure there's anything I can do to help, but --"
"Wally. You're welcome to join us for dinner on Saturday," Bruce interrupts with a smile, "I'll tell Alfred to double the menu."
It's after three in the morning by the time they zeta into the cave. They have completely missed the gala and Alfred will certainly have some dry but pointed quips prepared by the time breakfast is served. It's unavoidable at this point, but a worry for later all the same.
Bruce pulls his cowl free of his face and heads for the showers. "You're going to write the report?" he asks over his shoulder, "Or did you already, between tests on the Watchtower?"
"It needs some editing," Batman responds, splitting off for the computer, "a few details added."
"I'll leave you to it, then."
The shower feels amazing. Getting out of the batsuit feels like... He has no words for it other than relief. His body is covered in bruises that Batman collected before they split. It's nothing he isn't expecting or already well used to dealing with.
Bruce dresses in a soft set of sweat clothes and house slippers. He feels more like himself than he has since the split.
"Alright," Bruce says, leaning back against the computer's physical desktop to the left of the keyboard. Batman doesn't outwardly acknowledge him but Bruce knows better than to believe he is actually being ignored. "Save the file. You can finish after breakfast. You'll have all day, after all. I'm the one that will be going in to work. It's time for bed."
"I'm almost done."
Bruce smirks, self-deprecating -- Is it still self-deprecating? -- and amused despite himself. "If I leave you down here alone, you'll work clear through the night. Alfred is already going to be displeased with us as it is. Remember that gala we were supposed to be here for?"
Batman hesitates.
So Bruce pushes just a little more and encourages, "Let's not tempt fate further, Chum. Go shower."
"Hrm." Batman saves the file and pulls up another one. Before Bruce can protest, Batman rises from his chair and stalks toward the shower. "Read," he instructs as he walks away, "The report isn't finished, but the preliminary will give you the broad strokes."
"Are you injured? Further, I mean," Bruce asks immediately after his counterpart returns.
The report had been on the gala that Bruce had missed. Apparently, he'd been the only one of them that had failed to make an appearance tonight. Bruce's cover was a sudden case of food poisoning from an ill-advised lunch. Batman, on the other hand, had shown up to take down a low-level gang that thought a gala at Wayne Manor would be easy pickings. They'd tried to kidnap Tim while they were at it.
"No." Batman shifts, seemingly just as agitated out of the batsuit as Bruce had been while wearing his own copy of the armor. He leans over Bruce to close the report on their uninvited guests. "If Tim had been Robin at the time, he likely could have handled the burglars by himself."
Bruce purses his lips in displeasure at the thought. He doesn't like the idea of Tim being left to handle any vigilante business on his own, but Batman's assessment is based on capabilities, not ideal circumstances. Bruce lets it go without comment.
"You can take our room," Batman says, "I'll use one of the guest rooms."
Bruce stops himself from rolling his eyes. "Neither of us has a greater claim to our bedroom than the other. --"
"It's Bruce Wayne's bedroom, and, as you've pointed out, you're Bruce."
He ignores the assertion. "-- And I'm willing to bet at least one of us is prone to nightmares," Bruce continues, "if not both of us. You know as well as I do that having a trusted ally nearby during moments of vulnerability or distress can be soothing. We may as well take advantage of the situation we find ourselves in."
Batman hesitates again, thinks it over in clear discomfort, and finally dips his head in a nod of reluctant assent. "Hrm."
It's awkward. Bruce is pretty sure it's not so much because of any inherent need for bedsharing to be awkward between them -- He's aware that the poorer families in Gotham often double-up on beds for children. Sometimes space is limited enough that the children simply share their parents' bed. A whole family crowded together on one mattress if necessary. To say nothing of some homeless sleeping arrangements he vaguely recalls witnessing. -- so much as the fact that they aren't used to sharing a bed outside of sexual encounters and Batman operates on enough paranoia to single-handedly fill half of Gotham's quota as a city that's home to the likes of Joker, Scarecrow, and Killer Croc.
Still, it's not like they've never personally shared sleeping space with other people before. They definitely have. It shouldn't be a difficult experience now, when it's only the two of them.
When they'd been young and had nightmares, their parents had allowed them that comfort. Alfred had gently refused to participate in any bedsharing, but he'd spent many hours in a chair watching over them through the worst nights following their parents' deaths. There had certainly been several times during their training across the globe that had necessitated sleeping alongside strangers. Yes, it's been a while since those days, but...
When had they last shared a bed with someone purely as a sleeping arrangement?
Had it been Dick? He'd been used to sharing his parents' bed, and directly after the trauma of losing them hadn't been the time to encourage him to completely change his sleeping habits. Jason and Tim had both been older when they'd arrived at the manor and had come from drastically different family structures. Jason might have actually tried to stab them with a smuggled steak knife if they'd ever so much as mentioned the idea of their second son crossing the threshold to their bedroom. Not that Jason hadn't sneaked his way into the room on occasion for reasons usually only known to Jason himself, but trying to tell him that he was allowed to enter (let alone welcome to do so -- within reason) would have done no good in light of the connotations Jason had learned on Gotham's streets.
...Bruce has let himself get sidetracked. If Dick really had been the last person they'd shared a bed with for no reason beyond company, then that would be... a full decade past.
Hm. Maybe he and Batman have reason to be out of practice.
(A handful of vague memories tease at the edges of his mind of Justice League missions gone array, but Bruce would put good money on there being few beds and more body armor in any of those instances. Such a situation hardly carried the same implied request for willing vulnerability as Bruce's thoughtless insistence has.)
"Neither of us will be able to sleep while you're tense as a spring," Bruce observes lightly.
Batman grunts but offers nothing more.
Bruce sighs. Well, he can't quite access the thought patterns that are distinctly Batman with them separated as they are, but he still has some idea of what the final conclusions tend to be. There's a chance he can mitigate one or two of his counterpart's worst discomforts without backing out of the arrangement entirely. It's worth attempting, at least.
"Let's try this."
Bruce keeps his movements slow and steady so as not to spook his counterpart. He grabs Batman's arm and gently coaxes the other into rolling with him until they're effectively spooning. If possible, Batman seems even more stiff and uncomfortable than he had been before. Bruce elects to ignore that for the next several minutes in case all the man needs to relax is some time. He tucks Batman's arm around his waist and settles, doing his level best to push down his own misgivings about the undeniable intimacy of the position. (If they can't trust each other, who can they trust? They were the same person less than twenty-four hours ago.) They're used to sleeping on their back, but Bruce thinks they can probably adapt to this arrangement easily enough.
"You get an advantageous grappling position," Bruce explains with a shrug, "I get some additional warmth. That's fair enough, isn't it?"
Batman stays painfully still for seventeen breath-cycles by Bruce's count (the two of them slightly out-of-sync but falling back on identical patterns nonetheless) before his counterpart relents and accepts the situation for what it is. Batman shuffles a bit closer and pulls Bruce back more securely into his hold, a second arm winding around Bruce to keep him in place.
"It's summer. You're not after 'warmth,'" Batman states but his voice is lowered in deference to the proximity of his mouth to Bruce's ears, "There's even odds we'll wake up with the covers kicked down around our knees to dispel the extra heat."
Bruce hums, unconcerned, and squeezes one of Batman's wrists. "Claiming a desire for warmth seemed safest. Every other comment that came to mind felt too honest." And because that feels too honest, he adds a quip of, "Or else was outright flirtatious, and I thought that might scare you off this early."
"Hrm. Narcissus could only dream of such a fate as ours," Batman deadpans.
Bruce snorts and hurriedly slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle the laughter as he shakes in Batman's arms. Even of the few people who know Bruce Wayne is -- was? -- Batman, only Alfred and his Robins have spent enough time around both personas to pick up on the self-deprecating undercurrent that often spans from Bruce's more ostentatious flirting through some of Batman's drier observations. Bruce blames Alfred for their dreadful sense of humor, not that he will ever say that to the older man's face.
"Hrm," Batman hums, self-satisfied and finally, finally allowing himself to surrender some small measure of his ready tension.
Bruce comes down from his amusement eventually. Now that they're both a little more relaxed, it feels safer to admit aloud what they both already know. Softly, he says, "The manor has felt empty and hollow since the night our parents died. Having someone trustworthy nearby... helps... with the loneliness."
"...I don't think I could trust my back to someone like this," Batman says, voice gentled in his own late-night confession, "Superman, Nightwing, Robin. They've all saved my life multiple times, but I don't think I could give away that sort of control without my skin crawling. I don't understand how you can do this."
Jason's absence from Batman's short list is glaring, but, well... Even with so many memories of their second son rendered indistinct in Bruce's mind, he can see how broken and messy the relationship has become. It makes his heart ache. Bruce lets it go for the time being. Trying to hash out that tangle of problems now won't achieve anything positive.
"I choose to trust you every time we go out to protect Gotham, don't I? Besides, I could make the argument you've saved my life more times than anyone else."
Batman scoffs through his nose, the sound not quite ugly enough to be considered a snort but undeniably derisive. Bruce doesn't think the scorn is directed at him, though.
"By that logic, I've also endangered your life more than anyone," Batman says.
Bruce shrugs. "I trust you anyhow."
Batman's arms tighten and his forehead comes to rest against the nape of Bruce's neck. "Go to sleep, Bruce."
If that isn't a clear attempt to run away from a conversation, Bruce doesn't know what is. It's late. They actually do need sleep. He chooses not to press the matter.
"Goodnight, Batman."
"...Goodnight, Bruce."
His leading hypothesis is that he and Bruce are either different mindsets, or else facets of their originator's personality. There are some other possibilities he hasn't completely ruled out yet, but Occam's Razor suggests that he and Bruce are indeed the two halves of a single person that they seem to be after preliminary questioning. Not that he has any ready solutions for undoing their separation.
The laboratory he'd failed to secure in time is a nightmarish hodgepodge of alien tech and equally foreign magic. Green Lantern is working with the planet's local authorities to further investigate the scene, but he has yet to report back any of their findings. As frustrating as it is to wait on the efforts of others, he knows he's not the expert he needs to be on either magic or the planet's technologies to be useful there.
That doesn't mean he's been idle, however. He's run a few tests of his own on himself and Bruce. Basic brain scans had come back wildly different, but the DNA sequence had turned up identical -- as was expected. He's still waiting on some other test results as well, and he'd compiled a list of terrestrial magic users in the League's network that he'll have to consider bringing in as consultants for the case if Green Lantern's investigation doesn't provide the answers they need.
Bruce shifts in his sleep before settling again.
Batman frowns. He doesn't understand the other man's trust. He doesn't understand how they could have been split off from the same man and be as different as they are.
Bruce reminds him more of Nightwing than himself. The easy, charming smiles. The careful considerations that are nonetheless driven more by instinct than any mental calculation. The persistent attempt to manage Batman's mood and stress level, as if that is somehow a responsibility that belongs to anyone outside of himself. The ease with physical proximity. The willingness to yield control to him...
Actually, Bruce doesn't remind him of Nightwing as his son is today so much as his first Robin, just as the role began to chafe under the boy's growing desire for independence.
Batman releases his next breath slowly.
Nightwing is more patient and forgiving than the average person by far, and Batman had nearly succeeded in pushing the young man out of his life entirely at one point. It's only a matter of time before he similarly burns through Bruce's patience with his controlling nature and blows up this new, odd relationship just like he has every other important relationship in his life, save Alfred.
He needs to find a way to reunify them before that happens. He doesn't know what it would do to their rejoined psyche if he doesn't.
Sleep is a long time in coming, but his anxieties do eventually succumb under the weight of his exhaustion.
Chapter 2: Separation Anxieties
Notes:
This fic has no set release schedule. Please do not expect regular chapters.
Chapter Text
Bruce wakes slowly. It's a good thing, too, because it gives him time to groggily remember who it is behind him before he becomes fully aware of the restraining hold he finds himself wrapped up in.
They've shifted some in their sleep, Bruce further down in the bed and Batman crowded toward the headboard. One of Batman's arms is wrapped tight across Bruce's chest while the other is coiled under and over a shoulder, half-way into becoming some kind of joint lock. There's a bent knee pinning Bruce's hip in place, as well.
It's not the least comfortable position he's ever woken up in, but there's no graceful way to sneak away from his bed partner as they are, either. It would probably have been a poor idea to try, regardless. If Batman is carrying the bulk of their paranoia and anxiety as Bruce suspects, then the other man is a light sleeper too likely to dislocate a limb before he wakes enough to process the lack of threat.
...This is going to be an ongoing issue for as long as they share a bed rather than a body, isn't it? (Bruce doesn't bother with trying to lie to himself. If it means not sleeping alone, if it can banish that knot of loneliness in his chest, he's quite willing to risk collecting the occasional bruise or dislocation. He's used to coming up with cover stories for minor injuries, anyway.)
"Batman?" Bruce squeezes the wrist of the arm barred over his chest and swipes a thumb slowly across the back of the man's hand. "Come on, Chum. You need to let me up, now."
Batman tenses behind him and Bruce grunts as his shoulder strains under the sudden pull.
"It's alright, Chum," he reassures, "It's just me. You're alright."
"...Bruce?" Batman half-grumbles, half-slurs. The hold loosens, but it doesn't release.
"That's right." Bruce squeezes Batman's wrist again. "Think you can let me up? You can go back to sleep after. It sounds like you need it."
Batman grunts and restraining limbs finally relent, freeing Bruce to wander according to his own whims.
"Thank you," Bruce says as he wriggles free and pushes himself upright.
No answer.
Bruce looks over his shoulder to confirm. Batman has already fallen back asleep. He must be exhausted. How many hours has he actually managed to sleep thus far? Is it so few that it would be more helpful to count the minutes instead?
Bruce frowns. No wonder Alfred is always nagging them about sleeping more.
Well, Batman had said all the early tests suggest they're stable, and he shouldn't have any serious injuries that require monitoring. It should be okay to leave him alone for a short while. Bruce will check in on him in an hour or two if he doesn't come down for breakfast.
Bruce doesn't bother pulling the covers up from where they've been crushed and piled against the footboard. Batman had been right. They produce enough warmth between them that the covers are a thoroughly unwelcome addition, to say nothing of how the heat of a summer day is already beginning to affect the temperature of the room.
Bruce leaves Batman behind with the sleeping man's face half-buried in a pillow, determined to ignore the weak morning sunshine creeping in through the slit in the curtains.
"Good morning, Alfred," Bruce greets as he settles in his chair at the head of the dining table.
"Good morning, Master Bruce. I trust you were able to finish your business at the Watchtower?"
"We're waiting on further reports to come in," Bruce says as Alfred places breakfast on the table with his typical precision and grace, "but everything seems to be stable enough for the moment. There's nothing so urgent that it can't wait until after breakfast, at any rate."
"I see. A pleasant change of pace from last night, then," Alfred quips.
Bruce frowns. "We hadn't finished the tests yet."
"They must have been quite important. I'm afraid I chose to retire before you made it home at... ?"
"Three twenty-two, or so." Bruce doesn't let himself flinch under Alfred's pointed stare.
"And you actually retired for the morning at... ?"
Bruce scowls. Alfred isn't letting up today.
"Roughly three fifty, four. Watching the clock isn't generally helpful when trying to fall asleep."
"Truly?" Alfred blinks in surprise. "I'd expected you'd be hunched over that computer until the bats notified you of the coming dawn."
"I know Batman can be difficult to coax away from the computer mid-report, Alfred, but I do try."
The butler raises an eyebrow but refrains from comment as Tim shuffles into the dining room.
"Morning," the boy yawns.
"Good morning, Tim," Bruce says, not bothering to fight the fond smile that takes over his face.
"Good morning, Master Timothy," Alfred greets as he returns from his brief departure for the kitchen and sets another prepared plate down in front of Tim.
"Oh! Before I forget, Alfred," Bruce says as he pretends not to notice Tim stealing a sip of his coffee despite Alfred's disapproving stare, "I invited Wally to join us for dinner while Dick is here." He gently reclaims his mug from Tim without looking. He doesn't mind letting Tim have a taste, but more than a sip or two risks Alfred's wrath for feeding the insomniac teenager's coffee addiction.
"Very good, Master Bruce," Alfred says even as his expression remains irked, seamlessly keeping two separate conversations going regardless of only one being verbalized, "I'll be sure to account for Master Wallace's dietary requirements this Saturday."
Bruce shrugs. He's only had official custody of Tim as his foster son for a little over a month. Weaning the boy off his caffeine dependence rather than insisting on the cold turkey approach is more reasonable, all things considered. The boy needs to be able to keep up with his schooling as Tim Drake and patrol as Robin, after all. Allowing a little chemical stimulus that most of the country also indulges in doesn't strike him as a worse alternative than letting his foster son and Batman's junior partner crash from the withdrawal.
"You invited Wally?" Batman asks, sounding less awake than Tim. Even dead on his feet, the man moves silently over the manor's floorboards, every footfall placed to avoid creating any telltale creaks.
Alfred and Tim both startle violently.
Batman drops into the chair at the foot of the table and buries his head in his arms, completely ignoring the pistol in Alfred's hands aimed at his person and the way Tim is now perched half on the table with a knife ready to throw. Granted, the silver butter knife isn't exactly intimidating and is, at best, only useful as an opening distraction that would require immediate follow up.
Bruce exhales slowly and says, "You didn't tell them." He slowly reaches out to lower Alfred's arms and gestures for Tim to stand down.
Batman grunts and doesn't bother to look up.
"Bruce!" Tim flails an arm to indicate the general form of the man slumped over the end of their dining table as he speaks, "Who is th--"
Bruce doesn't bother waiting for the boy to finish asking the obvious question. "Batman." He sighs and does his best to diffuse the confusion and its resulting tension quickly, "There was a slight complication with our last Justice League mission. In short, I'm Bruce. He's Batman."
"Gracious!" Alfred mutters, reholstering his gun and righting his suit jacket.
"What?" Tim squeaks.
"That's the working hypothesis based on preliminary testing," Batman contributes, still hiding behind his crossed arms, "I'm waiting on the results from further tests, and there are more I won't be able to start without consulting with experts or confirming the results of previous tests first."
"Is there a reason you didn't notify Alfred and Tim of our situation when you came home to deal with the gala burglary?" Bruce asks, mindful not to let his tone slip into anything accusatory. He wants information, not a pointless argument.
Batman shifts just enough to peer at him with one bloodshot eye. "There was a chance John would have had a solution for us before we needed to return. By the time it became clear that wasn't going to happen, Alfred and Tim would have both gone to bed for the night. This isn't an emergency. I judged it best not to disturb their sleep."
"In the future, Master Br-- Batman?" Alfred raises an eyebrow and gets a confirming grunt in response. The butler sighs, making no secret of his despair over his once-ward's lacking manners. "I shall appreciate advanced notice of any matter affecting the persons calling Wayne Manor home, including sudden doubling."
"Yes, Alfred," Batman grumbles.
"Very good, sir," Alfred snipes and disappears into the kitchen.
Tim's wide eyes bounce back and forth between Bruce and Batman but the boy doesn't say a word. No doubt there will be a string of careful questions later. Tim still can't quite make himself believe that he's wanted. It's not uncommon in neglect cases. It makes Bruce want to punch Jack and scream at Janet, but that behaviour would help precisely no one, so Bruce swallows his fury and pretends nothing is wrong. Tim will ask his questions if allowed a bit of time.
Bruce smoothly pulls the coffee mug out of Alfred's hand as the man is passing by. Alfred stops and watches as Bruce takes a sip and sets it down next to the mug he's nearly drained already. "He'll have water," Bruce explains, belatedly starting in on his own breakfast.
Batman lifts his head to glare at Bruce. "You don't get to make that decision." His expression softens some as Alfred sets his plate before him. "Thank you, Alfred."
"Of course, sir."
"You should sleep after breakfast," Bruce says, ignoring his counterpart's objection, "You clearly need more than you managed to get last night, and you have all day."
"I have reports to finish. More tests to run," Batman argues.
"And they'll not have suffered for waiting a while longer. We're never satisfied with our work when we're sleep deprived," Bruce dismisses, "It's likely too late to meet any short-term deadlines and anything long-term would include enough time for you to rest. Take a few hours. At least try."
Batman glowers.
Bruce eats his meal.
Tim continues to watch them like a tennis match and Alfred keeps his own counsel behind a considering stare.
"Fine," Batman growls, "Water."
"An excellent decision, Master Batman," Alfred says. He even smiles a little as he leaves to fetch the requested beverage.
"Thank you," Bruce returns mildly and Batman grunts. "Tim, eat your breakfast before it gets cold."
"Oh! Uh, right." Tim shovels food into his mouth in a more distracted and teenage-typical manner than he usually would. A few minutes later, he swallows his latest bite and asks, "Will you both go out? Tonight, I mean."
"No," Batman says, voice immediate and almost forbidding.
"I don't really belong in the batsuit," Bruce admits.
"He failed to get out of a rear wrist lock last night, and his memories of operational protocols are compromised," Batman says, "He isn't field ready."
Bruce frowns. "I chose not to fight it," he corrects, "but you're right. I didn't remember how to break the hold and I'd be a liability out there. Maybe I'll help Alfred around the cave, or catch up on paperwork we shouldn't be pushing off on Lucius."
Batman grunts an approval.
Bruce finishes up the last of his breakfast and rises to get ready for the office. He ruffles Tim's hair as he stands. Tim blinks in surprise before offering a shy smile in return. "I know this is more interesting than anything your teachers will have for you, but try to pay attention in school today."
"Sure, Bruce."
He stops to rest a hand on Batman's shoulder as he exits the room. Batman immediately tenses before relaxing again and raising an eyebrow. Bruce knows for a fact that just a day ago, neither of them had realized how much they mirrored Alfred in that single gesture. Now that he's seen it, he'll never be able to forget the similarities in the facial expression, for all that the two faces in question share precious few similarities in and of themselves. It's a thought for later, however.
"Sleep," Bruce insists.
Batman huffs and returns to his breakfast. "No promises."
"But... ?"
Batman rolls his eyes, swallows, and says, "But I'll try. You should get going if you don't want to be late."
"I could be, you know," Bruce muses, "We've built the reputation for it."
"Go," Batman says firmly, shooting him an unamused glance.
Bruce chuckles, squeezes his counterpart's shoulder, and goes.
He is small, and scared, and cold. There's a broad hand grasping his shoulder, and slim fingers curled in his hair, and a palm pressed to his own, squeezing tight.
Three gunshots ring out.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The hands fall away in quick succession, one after another.
Frozen in place, he watches the mugger flee down the shadowed alley and turn the corner, disappearing into the foggy Gotham night.
He's unharmed. He's unharmed, but he doesn't want to turn and see. He doesn't want to watch them bleed out. He doesn't want to be left alone again.
"B-Batman!"
His breath freezes in his chest.
...Three gunshots?
There shouldn't have been three shots.
That's not what happened.
That's not how this memory --
A sob interrupts his spiralling thoughts, high and young.
Batman spins, lacking both cape and mask, exposed and tiny. Too small to help, too weak to do any--
Bruce lays in a puddle of his own blood, blue eyes clouded in pain but his hand reaches for Batman despite that.
"No!" Batman gasps, voice a perfect match for his twin. Of course it is. They're identical.
One gloved hand goes to put pressure on the wound. The other flies to search his belt for something useful but it is empty, empty, empty --
Bruce squeezes his wrist. Too weak. Losing too much blood. And Batman can't stop it. Bruce is going to die, and it will be his fault for --
"It's alright," Bruce says, choked and hurting but without an ounce of doubt, "You'll save me. You always do."
But he can't!
Why does Bruce trust him?
He shouldn't!
Batman doesn't understand.
He doesn't understand.
He doesn't understand!
He doesn't --
Batman wakes from his nightmare like a near-drowning victim breaking the surface of the harbor. Ugly, desperate gasps choke him as they trip over themselves. His lungs burn until he can force the panic down and impose a new rhythm over his flailing instincts.
Inhale.
Hold.
...And exhale.
Repeat.
Batman stares up at the ceiling of Bruce's bedroom and longs for his batsuit. He feels incomplete without it. Naked and vulnerable and useless. For all that he remembers every inch of the manor, he doesn't belong in it. This is Bruce's domain, not his. He belongs under it, in the cave, or out stalking Gotham's rooftops, protecting its citizenry from crime and broken families.
Batman shudders.
His parents' deaths are an old, familiar nightmare by now. It hardly ever changes. There have been maybe a handful of times that he'd dreamt Alfred had accompanied them that night. Even in his nightmares, Alfred is always ready and pulls a firearm from some hidden holster or other on the mugger, but it never matters. The shadowed, faceless man of his nightmares inevitably proves himself to be faster, or invulnerable, or some other completely mad factor reveals itself to allow the thug to triumph over the butler's MI6 training. And then Alfred dies and leaves him, too.
And now he's watching Bruce die behind his eyelids.
He's never had that particular nightmare about one of the boys. None of them have ever bled out next to his parents in that alleyway.
But Bruce fits there in a way none of his sons ever could, doesn't he? A twin he's either never or always had, who witnessed the same horrible event and carries the same grief. Regardless of complications or twisted interpretations, Bruce had been there that night. He belongs in that nightmare. He'd shared in it.
But he wasn't supposed to die there.
If his subconscious is already portraying Bruce as a separate entity from himself, someone he can lose, it isn't a good sign for their chances of a seamless reintegration.
He wants to call Bruce. He wants to reassure himself that the man is still breathing and whole.
Batman grimaces and checks the bedside alarm clock.
Two hours. He's only managed an additional two hours of sleep. Neither Bruce nor Alfred would be satisfied with that, but Batman had only promised to try, not succeed, and he certainly won't be sleeping now.
Batman sneaks down to the cave and into the batsuit. It's rare to spot Batman haunting Gotham during the daylight hours but it's not entirely unheard of. He doesn't plan to be seen, anyway.
He just needs to know, and then he'll come back to do those reports and start some tests. A quick trip out and back, just to settle his nerves. Nothing should come of a brief scouting excursion around the Wayne Enterprises office building.
Batman promptly realizes he is operating at a suboptimal level due to several factors and blatantly attempting to minimize his own well-earned expectations regarding Gotham's propensity to kick a man while he's down.
Batman grits his teeth.
Something is going to go wrong.
The near certainty of unpleasant consequences isn't enough to dissuade him, but he forces himself to take the time to check over his suit and all the equipment in his utility belt. He makes a point of going over his grappling gun and its line thrice just because Nightwing doesn't need that particular trauma stirred up. Finally assured that whatever happens, it won't be due to an equipment malfunction that he should have detected beforehand, Batman slides behind the wheel of his armored car and drives into the city.
Chapter 3: The Prodigal Father
Chapter Text
The Bat isn't often spotted during the day. Of course, the Bat also usually has better sense than to take the Batmobile into Gotham before nightfall.
Jason Todd stares at the car parked in the alley and almost feels nostalgic. Mostly, though, he feels pissed off. What the hell is Bruce doing, and why hadn't he given Jason a heads up about it? They're supposed to be communicating more these days. Openly, even, instead of just bugging each other at every other meeting like a pair of mutually burned, passive-aggressive spies.
Jason scowls and glances around before ducking into the alley. The engine is still warm. The Bat can't be too far afield just yet.
He doesn't have his armor or his helmet on him, and going back to his apartment would take too long. He doesn't have any nearby safehouses in this part of Gotham, either. (An oversight he will be correcting within the week even if he has to deplete his funds to do it.) What he does have are three guns, all smaller in both caliber and capacity than he prefers, and a slimmed down utility belt tucked under his shirt. The jacket he's wearing isn't the Red Hood's jacket, but it's similar enough. He can make this work.
Jason presses his red domino mask onto his face and grapples up to the rooftops. It doesn't take him long to find the Bat from there, not when he knows the man like he does. (He's still Robin-trained, for all that those memories now ache like an injury that never healed quite right.) Jason invites himself to crouch next to the man as he tries to discern what exactly has grabbed the man's attention urgently enough to justify a daytime excursion into the city.
"Hey, Old Man," Jason snarks, trying to follow Batman's line of sight and bitterly regretting that there isn't room for his own set of binoculars in his civvie belt. Seriously, why is the Bat staring at the Wayne Enterprises building? Is something fishy happening in the family's official business? If so, no wonder the man is pissed enough to investigate while the sun is still shining. But why isn't he doing it as Bruce or some undercover persona? Why risk the Bat for this? "What's pulled you out of your crypt so early?"
"Hood," Batman grunts, which, acknowledgement, so not the worst mood Bats could be in, but still a far cry from an actual answer.
Jason waits and feels his patience quickly draining from his body not unlike blood from a fatal injury. It hadn't been his strongest virtue before the Lazarus Pit and it certainly isn't now, but he's trying, dammit!
Jason shifts and growls softly in agitation.
Finally, Batman lowers his binoculars and looks at him. "It's nothing you need to worry about."
Jason rolls his eyes. He makes sure to do it with enough exaggeration that the action reads clearly despite his mask's whiteout lenses. "Great. I'm already here and it won't cost you anything to loop me in. So spill!"
Batman stares Jason down for a few more seconds before relenting. "The last Justice League mission resulted in some unanticipated complications. I'm still running tests to confirm the situation's status and discover possible solutions."
Well, that tells him nothing.
"What's that got to do with WE headquarters?" Jason asks, jerking a thumb in the direction of the building.
"This isn't the place to discuss it," Batman says.
"Yeah? Pity, 'cause I'm not leaving without answers."
Batman fuckin' hesitates.
Jason feels his brows lift incredulously. Just what the hell are these 'complications' that have the Bat so out of sorts?
Batman sighs and hands over his binoculars. Jason takes them even as he shoots the older vigilante a questioning and very disgruntled look. Would it be so difficult to just explain something for once?
"Second floor from the top, north-east corner," Batman directs.
"Isn't that your office?" Jason asks.
Batman grunts. "Bruce Wayne's."
Jason would roll his eyes again if he wasn't busy searching out his target. The correction seems less pedantic when he spots the man leaning back in the chair behind the desk, animatedly talking on the phone. The late morning sun casts odd shadows over his features from Jason's viewing angle, but he knows that broad-shouldered silhouette better than he knows most people's faces.
So, then, that begs the question: who is the imposter?
This Batman seems authentic, but Jason hasn't had a chance to evaluate the Bruce above them and he can think of multiple power sets offhand that would make impersonating Batman simple enough even to close allies. More importantly, Jason has stupidly placed himself in reciprocal striking range and possibly risked civilian identities because he was sloppy and careless.
He doesn't let himself tense up for a fight the way his body wants to. Instead, he asks casually, "And he is... ?"
"Exactly who he appears to be," Batman says, "and no more."
Very reassuring. Now what is that cryptic-ass bullshit supposed to mean?
"Then why are you watching him?" Jason asks, taking the opportunity to lower the binoculars and train his eyes on the possible fake at his side.
"Like I said, complications," Batman says, which isn't an answer in the slightest, "We should both be stable."
A confession? Fishing? The implication that the two are in cahoots somehow is unexpected, but proves nothing without the other man here to collaborate the claim.
"Uh-huh," Jason drawls, standing with a languid stretch and taking a single step back to create at least some space between them, "...And you are?"
Batman also stands, tucking his reclaimed binoculars back in his utility belt. "Exactly who I appear to be, and no more," he says.
Because that answered all his questions the first time Batman said it. Jason feels his blood pressure spiking. "You wanna expand on that? Because I'm starting to feel trigger-happy."
"This isn't the place," Batman reiterates.
"I'm not sure I care," Jason growls.
Batman considers him with a drawn out stare before speaking again. "...You could meet him. Us. Together. You could come to dinner if you have time before patrol?" he offers, awkward as the real deal he may or may not be, "He'd want to see you. And Agent A is always pleased when you visit."
Jason already has a standing invitation to dinner -- or any other time, for that matter -- at the manor. He never goes. Jason tries to avoid Bruce's fancy house and the cave under it whenever he can. Too many memories that ache and twist in his chest. Too much residual tension between who he is and who Bruce wishes he was. He doesn't like the unspoken, often unconscious expectations that come with returning to the home he hadn't gotten to keep.
It looks like he's going to have to suck it up if he wants answers, and Jason dearly wants answers.
"I might take you up on that," Jason says. He tilts his head to indicate the office high above them. "I assume he won't be out with you tonight?"
"No," Batman rumbles, quick and forceful. It's damn near the injured Robin tone: angry, protective, and just a little too possessive for anyone's good.
...Interesting.
"Got it. Dinner still at seven?"
"Hrm."
Jason grunts back. "See you then," he says before walking to the edge of the roof and jumping off. He grapples a few buildings away before finding a decent spot to descend.
He hadn't been expecting an interruption in his day anywhere near this scale when he'd left his apartment this morning. (Not that he has a strict schedule he needs to stick to for today.) At least he has the promise of dinner and a show to look forward to. Still, he was in this part of the city for a reason. Stumbling over Batman hasn't distracted him so badly as to make him forget what he came for.
Jason picks the lock to the back door of a WE storage unit. He salutes the closest security camera before shooting it and proceeds to help himself to some of Wayne Tech's lesser advertised toys.
Bruce might not be willing to use his parent's company to manufacture guns, but Wayne Enterprises does have its fair share of government contracts. Smoke grenades, flashbangs, kevlar vests, other bullet-proof products, aerial drones, rappel cables, taser technologies, some really nice knives made with batarang-grade steel... The list went on, and Bruce skimmed materials from every inbound shipment to be repurposed for Batman's use.
Usually Bruce hid it under the guise of quality control and product testing. Honestly, when the unofficial research and development branch of WE was Batman's field work, it wasn't even much of a lie. It certainly helped Bruce's company stay ahead of any competitors. If Batman couldn't break or improve something, then no one could. (Well, no base-line human at any rate.)
Jason grabs what he needs to restock his own Red Hood supplies and clears out in under five minutes, easily under GCPD's standard response time for the facility Bruce pretends not to know is Jason's favorite to loot. The return trip to his apartment to sort through his quasi-stolen goods is uneventful. (Is it really stealing when it's so obvious that Bruce wants him to take what he needs? Jason leans toward 'no.')
Once he's satisfied with where he's stashed every piece, he digs out the phone he makes a point of not using from under the floorboards in his bathroom. He needs to make some calls, whether he wants to or not.
"Hey, Little Bird," Jason says as soon as the call connects, "I need some information."
"Jason," Tim says, voice wary. That's fair. Jason did introduce himself by beating the kid half to death and they aren't exactly chummy now, either. He'd like to blame it all on lingering pit rage, but the truth is that he still kind of resents Timothy Drake for taking his place. Not as much as he used to, but... Well, it is what it is, and no one's really happy with what it is, Jason included. "What do you need?"
"I ran into Batman about an hour ago," Jason says, "and, lo and behold, he was spying on Bruce Wayne! You know anything about that?"
"Jason, I'm at school. Do you have an actual emergency, or do you just want to get me in trouble?"
Jason's eyes narrow. "You don't sound very surprised by the news, Little Bird."
Tim hisses. "Because I'm not! Listen, the situation is stable but I can't talk about it here. Class is about to change and the halls will be flooded with students."
"Then save your bullies the time and throw yourself into the janitor's closet," he snaps, "I need info!"
Tim groans but it doesn't drown out the sound of a door latching. It's probably not the door to the janitor's closet. Probably. Jason still grins. That's a good Robin.
"I don't know much," Tim tells him, "All they said was that something went amiss on their League mission, the split is stable, and Batman is working on a solution."
"He's really both of them, then? No imposters?" Jason presses.
"Not that either Alfred or I clocked at breakfast, anyway," Tim says.
"Holy split personality, Batman," Jason breathes. He doesn't know how to feel about this.
"It was kind of weird," Tim muses, "They argued a bit. Batman glared at Bruce across the table for stealing his coffee. He was supposed to be catching up on lost sleep this morning, by the way."
Jason smothers a scoff but not his eye roll. "Yeah, Replacement, the coffee theft is what makes this weird," he says. Tim only hums. "You said this happened on a Justice League mission?"
Come to think of it, that might have been the single detail about this whole situation that Batman hadn't been deliberately vague over during their earlier conversation.
"That's what Bruce said, and it lines up with his schedule for yesterday."
So, Batman and Bruce are telling the same story at least that far.
"Interesting... I'll call you back if Superman fails to collaborate the story. Otherwise, I'll see you at dinner, Timmy."
"What? You're actually com--"
He hangs up on Tim's startled questions.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Clark. It's Jason."
"Oh. Jason." If Timmy-Boy is wary, Clark Kent is downright awkward. It's only to be expected when one of Superman's godkids comes back from the dead and decides to become a crime lord. And a successful one, at that! If it weren't for Bruce's stubborn 'no outsiders in Gotham' rule, Jason would probably have been scooped up and dropped in a cell somewhere like it was a damn time-out playpen for misbehaving toddlers. "How are you? I didn't realize you had this number."
"Back in the present tense rather than the past tense, so better than I was," Jason says. He can practically see Clark wince. "And I stole it off B."
"Stole it? From Batman?" Clark asks doubtfully. He must be in uniform wherever he is, if he chose to say 'Batman' rather than 'Bruce.'
"Yeah, the same way I stole my last three armor replacements from the same storage unit he owns."
"Ah. I see."
"Hm. I got the rest of the League's numbers in my back pocket, too. Anyway, I'm calling 'cause I hear you were there when the family spontaneously grew."
The odd delay that's plagued the call since it connected (Distance, if he had to guess. Superman's regular heroics span the entire globe by this point. The big guy is probably on the other side of the world right now.) drags out long enough for Jason to be fairly certain Superman is what's lagging rather than the technology facilitating their uneasy conversation. Clark sounds pained as he asks, "You're not going to... use this against him... are you?"
"Relax, Big Blue. I'm just fishing for information because our usual paranoid detective is compromised, and someone needs to double-check the facts," Jason says, "You know, make sure it's actually him and not some imposter alien or parasite or whatever."
"No, no! We're sure it's -- they're -- him, or we wouldn't have let them go home last night. The DNA sequence checked out for both of them. J'onn confirmed Batman's mental shields, and there weren't any red flags with Br-- ...his twin?" Clark clears his throat. "Regardless. There wasn't anything to suggest any mental traps or malicious triggers had been planted. The cognitive testing had some interesting disparities and overlaps, but at least one of them always had an answer. Well, until Flash started throwing in trick questions. That glare was the most synchronized they were the entire time they were on the Watchtower." Clark sounds a little haunted.
Jason whistles. "A double Bat-glare? Flash is lucky B isn't the one with the heat vision."
Superman ignores the quip, sounding thoughtful as he says, "I was expecting them to trip over each other, or attempt to wrest control from each other, or be difficult to tell apart, and they just... weren't any of those things. They danced around each other like they'd always been two people. Maybe there was a stumble here and there, but... If I had met them for the first time yesterday, I would have thought them brothers or friends who grew up together. I wouldn't have suspected there was anything odd about them -- outside of their identical appearance, of course."
"Huh." Jason turns that thought over. It's not what he would have expected from Bruce, either. And yet, that moment on the rooftop when Batman seemed a second away from treating his counterpart like a benched Robin nags at Jason's thoughts. There might be something to Superman's odd 'brothers' assessment. "Anything else?"
"Green Lantern forwarded the results of his investigation to Batman about half-an-hour ago. I imagine he's already read through it by now and is working through his next steps. From what I heard before heading out, the explosion that caused this was mostly magic-based. Some of the tech in the lab was poorly installed and triggered a chain reaction. Ironically enough, it disabled the bomb that was meant to take out the lab. Green Lantern managed to identify the activated magic with help from the local authorities, but it didn't sound like they had any ready way to undo it, or even a theory to offer direction. ...This might be permanent."
"The Bat isn't going to throw in the towel just because one set of experts says it can't be done."
"No, but magic is one of the few fields in which he doesn't have any expertise to speak of," Superman says grimly, "and most sorcerers I've met are reluctant to mix magic systems for fear of unpredictable and often disastrous commingling. Considering that they appear to be stable and we've noticed no signs of degeneration in them, it will likely be difficult if not impossible to find a sorcerer willing to assist in reversing the separation." Jason can hear the other man's grimace as he adds, "A trustworthy one, at any rate."
"Any idea if he's desperate enough to do something that stupid?" Jason would like to think it isn't a possibility, but he has no idea what a Bruce Wayne split in uneven halves might be willing to do.
"Not yet, but I know Batman is intent on finding a solution. I couldn't begin to guess at how far he is or isn't willing to go to that end."
Great. Just great.
"Guess I'll have to do some investigating of my own, then," Jason says, with false cheer he adds, "Good talk, Uncle Clark! We'll have to do this again sometime!"
Jason disconnects the call before the Man of Steel can fumble his way through a returned farewell.
He has a dinner to prepare for.
Jason sneaks into the manor almost an hour and a half ahead of when anyone should be expecting him.
It isn't early enough.
"Jaylad!" Bruce exclaims with a wide grin, holding out a hand to help pull Jason the rest of the way through the second story window at the end of the narrow blind spot in the manor's security. Has Bruce finally fixed that hole in the monitoring system (if not the deterrent net) or has Bruce been lying in wait to ambush him?
Doesn't matter. That stupid grin on Bruce's face is far more concerning than Jason's preferred entrance point maybe getting rigged up for surveillance.
"Oh God," Jason groans, frozen in place as he stares at the older man in dread, "Are you stuck in full fop-mode?" He'd thought he'd left this shit behind when he'd died.
"Only about eighty percent," Bruce responds with a cheery wink.
The man gives up on waiting for Jason to willingly take his hand and instead grabs Jason's, forcing the completion of the halted (but practically invited) breaking and entering. Bruce seamlessly twirls to take the arm Jason hadn't offered like he's the freaking belle of the nonexistent ball, never mind that Bruce is a grown man who has about twenty years, two inches, and forty pounds of muscle over Jason. But then, drama and a general disregard for social norms should be expected of a man who spends his free time jumping rooftops in a cape and practicing vigilante justice. (Never mind that Jason spent just enough time being drilled in high society manners to thoughtlessly fall into an escort role -- The hoity-toity Bristol kind, not the Crime Alley kind. -- and go along with Bruce's nonsense.)
"We have a bit of time before dinner," Bruce says, setting an easy pace as he tugs Jason forward, "The garden is lovely this time of year, if you'll indulge me in taking a stroll."
Jason scowls even as he lets himself be led through the manor's halls toward the nearest back exit. "I've seen you handle enough ditzy socialites and stuck-up assholes to recognize when you're doing it to me. Cut the shit, Bruce. What do you want?"
"I --" Bruce falters, smile slipping and brows creasing. The man's hand tightens minutely at Jason's elbow before just as quickly relaxing again. "I don't know what else to do. You've kept a stubborn distance since you -- you came back to Gotham. We've hardly seen you as Jason, almost all of our encounters with you have been as Red Hood, and I -- Those memories are difficult for me to reach. I know you've been angry. With us. But we -- Batman and I -- we haven't had a chance to compare notes on everything yet, and I'm a bit fuzzy on the details. I... I don't know who you've become, who you've grown to be, but... I'd like to, if you'll let me have another chance."
Well, fuck. That actually sounded honest.
Bruce doesn't leave a pause long enough for Jason to scrape together a response.
"That said, I thought it would be best to lay some ground rules before dinner," Bruce says, face firming from tentative sincerity into something determined and steely-eyed. By this point, Bruce has successfully routed them out to the manor's back lawn and the garden blooms vibrantly off to their right. That doesn't stop the sudden oppressive feeling from looming over Jason's head. "Tim came home... anxious after your phone call. From what I recall of his recovery after the way you chose to introduce yourself to your brother, the reaction was... understandable."
Jason stiffens. There are a lot of implications packed into that one sentence that make Jason want to scream and cause his knuckles to itch, but one word in particular rings in his ears. "'Brother?' The fuck is that supposed to mean?" he demands, "Doesn't the Replacement have parents? I know they pay jack squat attention to Tiny Tim, but you can't just steal the neighbors' kid, Bruce!"
"The Drakes are rarely stateside, and often unreachable for long stretches of time," Bruce says calmly, "When I brought this concern to their attention and how it might affect Tim during an emergency, the Drakes agreed to sign over custody provided they kept visitation rights. The paperwork officially recognizing Tim as my foster son went through in late May."
No doubt the actual means of wresting the Drake's custody of their son from them had been a lot messier than the sanitized picture Bruce is attempting to paint with his brief summary. Jason doesn't care.
"Ha! Unbelievable!" Jason's bark of laughter is bitter on his tongue. "It wasn't enough to replace me as Robin? You went and made him my replacement as your son, too? What's next? Are you going to give him my room? How about --"
"Jason Wayne!" Bruce snarls, loud and angry and cutting Jason's words off as surely as if his throat had been sliced open. Jason still forgets, sometimes, that his name had been legally changed with his adoption. He forgets that the family name he'd never quite grown used to bearing is the one written on his death certificate. Jason has never used 'Wayne' with any regularity, but it had meant the world when Bruce had offered to share it. It means something even now to hear Bruce use a name that ties them together, and never mind the rage behind the man's tone.
Bruce drops his arm and Jason hates himself for the instant he mourns the loss of contact. It doesn't last longer than an instant, though, because Bruce captures Jason's hand and presses it flat to his chest.
"Your name is carved on my heart! You are my son!" Bruce pronounces, no less angry than he was a moment ago and Jason stares with wide eyes, suddenly feeling very small under his father's gaze. He's never seen Bruce like this before. He hadn't realized Bruce could be this raw and intent at the same time. It's actually a little frightening. Jason would do just about anything to always have Bruce's attention focussed on him like this. "You can be mad at me. You can hate me. I'm sure I have made more than enough mistakes to have earned both. But I have reached my limit, and I will no longer tolerate your persistent implication that I care so little as to consider any of my family members replaceable. Alfred did not replace my parents. You did not replace Dick. And Tim has not, will not, cannot replace you. I have and do love you with all that I am, insufficient though it has proven to be. Do not imply otherwise again. Am I understood?"
Jason's eyes sting as he nods. His lungs burn. When had he last remembered to take a breath?
"Y-yeah. Yeah, okay," Jason chokes out.
Bruce nods back, a sharp, jerky motion. "Good." And then Jason finds himself enveloped in a hug before he can understand how he got there, one hand in his hair encouraging Jason to rest his head on Bruce's shoulder. "You are mine, Jaylad. Always," Bruce promises fiercely.
Jason bites back the sob trying to escape his throat and hides his face in Bruce's overpriced suit. "I don't need your coddling, Old Man," he manages to rasp. Even to his own ears, it's a weak objection.
"I haven't had a chance to hold you in two years, Jaylad," Bruce says, "Let me coddle."
"Okay," Jason whispers and fists both hands in Bruce's coat. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and refuses to cry, but he can't quite suppress the shaking.
Bruce has enough sense not to comment on it.
Bruce's ground rules are simple enough, once he finally gets around to listing them.
One, Jason's problems with Bruce stay his problems with Bruce. Or Batman. Either way, Tim is not to be dragged into them again.
Two, Jason's old room is open for his use (or a guest room, if he prefers) but the offer is contingent on Jason's ability to behave civilly with all of the manor's other residents. Otherwise, Bruce has offered to either set Jason up in the penthouse at WE, or buy him a different property altogether. (Jason isn't about to accept any offer that puts him back under the Bat's thumb, but the offer lingers alongside what remains unspoken, like easily-picked doors on storage units and surveillance bugs tagging his Red Hood outfit.)
Three, any Red Hood paraphernalia stays in the Batcave just like the vigilante gear does.
Four, Jason has to hug Batman before he leaves tonight.
"You're kidding," Jason grumbles in disbelief, eyes still swollen and hot despite his best efforts.
"Not in the least," Bruce says easily, hand tucked neatly in the crook of Jason's elbow again as they wander the garden, "He hasn't gotten to hold you in years, either."
Jason snorts, the sound sticky with congestion he is dead set on ignoring. "Batman doesn't do hugs. You might not be quite what I was expecting, but Batman behaves exactly like the Bat always has."
"Hm," Bruce hums, inspecting a large, bright red blossom Jason can't currently recall the name of. Alfred would know, but Alfred is busy preparing dinner right now. "When we lost you... We buried ourself in Batman. It hurt too much to do anything else. My memories of that year are... jumbled and indistinct. I doubt anyone would be able to coax much out of Batman regarding that timeframe, either. But, from what I do remember..." Bruce turns to hold Jason's gaze and says, "You should ask Tim why he became Robin."
Jason recoils, not that he can get far while Bruce maintains a grip on his arm. "What? Fuck no!"
"Jason," Bruce says seriously, "He's the best source of information left for a story you need to hear. It doesn't have to be tonight, but you should ask him. Tim has the distance necessary to see the events following your death the clearest.
"In the meantime, don't rend a heart in two just because you can't see it breaking. There is nothing Batman fears more than losing a Robin. Nothing. ...And then it happened. Let your father reassure himself that his Robin lives again, that the miracle is real, warm and solid in his arms."
"I'm not Robin anymore," Jason mutters, surly and with a lingering bitterness, "You gave Robin to Tim, remember?"
"We'll always see Robin first when we look at you," Bruce refutes, "and perhaps that isn't fair, now that you and Dick have both outgrown the role and are forging paths of your own separate from Batman... But it is true."
Jason doesn't know what to do with that. 'Robin' sounds dangerously close to something like 'son' the way Bruce is using the codename, and Jason had taken on Robin almost as soon as Batman had kidnapped him from that alley. On the other hand, it had been over a year later, almost two, before Bruce had wordlessly slid the paperwork across the breakfast table with the sticky note asking, 'Todd or Wayne?' stuck to the top page.
He's still feeling raw from earlier. Jason can't deal with this right now.
"Don't get all sappy on me, Old Man," Jason grumbles.
Bruce just smiles and slips easily back into host-mode -- though, thankfully, not full fop -- tugging Jason deeper through the garden paths and rambling on about harmless changes made to the manor over the past two years.
"Alfred shooed me out of the kitchen to wash up for dinner," Tim explains from his place at the table. The kid is practically vibrating with his nerves as he stares at Jason like he's a damn zoo exhibit. Jason sneers back and is satisfied when Tim quickly ducks his head to train his eyes on the table's polished surface instead.
Bruce hums an acknowledgement and finally releases Jason's arm. "I assume our resident bat is in his cave still?"
Tim peeks up at Bruce. "As far as I know. I haven't seen him at all since I got home from school."
"I suppose I should go collect him then. He's too likely to work through dinner if no one does." And then Bruce does something Jason wasn't expecting at all. In fact, Jason would probably have fingers left over if he ever cared to count how many times it had happened in the past (Seven. It had happened precisely seven times previously. This made the eighth.) almost every instance occuring during that year before his death when he'd officially and legally been Bruce's son. Bruce catches Jason's head in one large hand, gently cradled and held in place, and presses a kiss to his hairline. "Be nice to your brother," Bruce instructs and then leaves for the cave.
Jason flushes and immediately glares daggers at Tim. The younger boy's gaze is too considering, too calculating. "Not one word, Replacement," Jason warns.
"Jason!" Bruce's voice calls back from the hall.
"Not one word, Tim," Jason corrects with extra growl in his voice.
Bruce's answering sigh is as loud and performative as any gala act, though probably more genuine behind its flamboyance. "Better," the man allows.
Tim makes the mistake of opening his mouth despite the very literal repeated warning, but at least he waits for the sound of Bruce's office door closing.
"Does this mean you're staying?" Tim blurts.
Jason wants to punch him in the face. "Don't worry, Little Bird. I'll be gone after dinner."
Tim deflates. Still fidgety and carrying tension in his shoulders, but sagging in his chair like he hadn't gotten the answer he wanted. "Oh," the boy mumbles.
Jason's brow furrows. "You... want me to stay?" That makes no damn sense.
Tim shrugs in a twitchy little gesture. "You make Bruce happy. Alfred, too. And Batman, I guess, since they're separated right now."
"Kid, what the fuck? I beat you into a pile of broken bones and bruises. I am not someone you should want sleeping down the hall from you!"
"My therapy went well. You didn't break anything permanently," Tim dismisses and raises his head to look at Jason again. There is something seriously wrong with the third Robin. "More importantly, there's a consistent average drop of twelve percent in Batman injuries over the four day span following confirmed Red Hood sightings. If you stay, there might be a permanent drop in overall Batman injuries. Even if the permanent drop isn't the full twelve percent, it would be good for him." Tim's eyebrows pinch together as he adds, "I don't know how the separation may affect the numbers, though. I don't have any data to work off of yet."
Jason opens his mouth, closes it, and slumps into a chair two left from the head of the table. "There's something wrong with you, kid."
Tim hunches in on himself. "I know."
Jason hums. "Dick was kind of a shit older brother, too, and I guess I don't hate him anymore. He's definitely put in a better effort since I died, from what I've seen. I suppose I shouldn't let Dickiebird show me up too badly..." Jason reaches a hand across the table to Tim. "Truce?"
Tim's eyes go wide before the kid snatches Jason's offered hand in both of his own and shakes it with far too much enthusiasm. "Yes!" Tim gasps and just as breathlessly repeats his earlier question of, "Will you stay?"
Jason snorts as he reclaims his hand. "Hell no!"
Tim looks like Jason just shot his puppy.
"I got plenty wrong with me too, and it's a recipe for disaster in this house. But... You know. Maybe it's something to work up to." Jason shrugs, uncomfortable under Tim's searching eyes. "Anyway, I'll be around more often. We'll figure it out from there."
"Okay," Tim says slowly, clearly thinking it over as he nods along, "Yeah, that's -- It's good."
Tim's a weird kid. Looking at him now, perched in the chair that Jason used to occupy -- the chair directly to the right of Bruce's seat -- it doesn't fill him with the same level of resentment as it would have a week ago, or yesterday, or even this morning. Something has shifted and settled inside him, and it's changed Jason's perspective. Tim hasn't taken Jason's place so much as he's filled a space that Jason had left absent and was always going to outgrow eventually. But... There's still room for Jason in his father's home -- Literally, considering that Wayne Manor is about a half-step away from being a mansion. -- and it's okay that there's a new Robin because Jason wouldn't be able to step out of the Bat's shadow if he'd stayed Robin, anyway. It's... They're going to be okay.
"Hey, Tim?"
"Yes?"
"Wanna help me stuff Dick's room full of balloons filled with yogurt before he comes home on Saturday?"
Tim's stare turns into something both horrified and intrigued as he sputters over the prank idea. In the end, Tim doesn't say 'yes,' but he doesn't quite say 'no,' either. Jason is pretty sure he can convince Tim to join him in his merry mayhem making by the time he comes back to the manor with the supplies.
Chapter 4: Brucie
Chapter Text
Batman doesn't look away from the Batcomputer as Bruce approaches. That isn't surprising. Bruce folds his arms over the back of Batman's chair and lazily skims the information pulled up on the massive central monitor and its six auxiliary screens.
Three of the smaller monitors are cycling through the manor's exterior security camera's. Two more are currently empty and available to absorb overflow if required. The main screen is taken up by an active case: various equations, evidence and crime scene pictures, Batman's usual notes and theories, the rough draft for the report thus far, an outside report in an unfamiliar style, and two half-written Justice League notices -- one for the full league, and one just for the founding members (plus Wally, who quietly took up Barry's mantle) because they need to be better informed of the situation and they've earned some measure of Batman's (and Bruce's) trust over the years. The last auxiliary monitor plays a loop of Bruce's and Jason's talk in the backyard, though it lacks any audio. Batman's stare is transfixed on the sixth auxiliary monitor.
Bruce decides to allow Batman a bit longer to process the footage.
He focusses on the case Batman had been working on before becoming distracted. The act of it feels a little familiar, if he's honest, beyond what should translate from pouring over company earning numbers and product testing reports from Wayne Enterprises. He can't quite recall the details of any particular case, but he's certain he's done this before.
"On the left, third window down, fifth equation: you've transposed the digits of the fourth number," Bruce says.
Batman glances at the indicated section of the screen. "Hrm." There's a brief staccato of typing. The computer runs the numbers again. "Still within projected margins. No appreciable change."
"Hm. Is this our case?" It is. The odds of another case so similar to their own cropping up at the same time is infinitesimal, but there is nothing conclusive on the screen. Batman is trying to create an objective distance. Everything is phrased as 'subjects,' 'event,' and other emotionally sterile terms. Bruce doesn't particularly disapprove -- It's better that Batman be clear-eyed and objective than allowing personal desires to sway his perception and lead to damaging mistakes. -- but, well, they are the same person, or near enough. Bruce prefers to have confirmation whenever possible, too.
"Green Lantern's report arrived," Batman says and nods in the direction of the foreign document on screen, "The planet's experts shared what they discovered and theorized, but they're unwilling to assist in a reversal. I'm looking into alternative avenues. Requests have been sent to Zatanna and Constantine. No response from either party yet. I'm reluctant to contact the other sorcerers on the list."
"We're stable. Let's give them some more time to respond before we start looking at riskier options." Bruce drops a hand to Batman's shoulder. Batman tenses before relaxing under the touch. It can't be more than a steady weight through the armor. (Batman is wearing the full batsuit. Only the cowl is out of place, hanging behind Batman's neck like the world's most dramatic hoodie. Tim had mentioned that Jason found him out in the city this morning. Bruce will have to figure out a way to get his counterpart to actually sleep if this pattern persists, but that's a problem for another day.) "We aren't alone. Neither of us are alone."
Batman tips his head back to look at Bruce. "If the risks aren't acceptable? If this split is permanent?"
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Don't borrow trouble."
"I prefer having a plan."
"We're still gathering data on our options, and we have the luxury of time to avoid hasty decisions. Exercising a little patience will serve us best."
"Hrm."
Bruce skims the files on the monitor again. He wonders if Batman would find proofreading WE work over his shoulder similarly familiar. Bruce wouldn't be surprised if that were the case. They've rooted out considerable embezzlement, negligence, and waste from the company more than once. Batman would be good at that.
"Are you planning to add more to the league-wide notice? If not, you should scrap it and just send the founder's copy."
"The league's grown too large too fast. I don't trust the newer recruits to have enough discernment for more information."
"Then tell them nothing. What you have here is too vague to be helpful and will only lead to questions we prefer unanswered. It would be an unnecessary distraction to the league. Does anyone outside the founding members know anything yet? We did send J'onn back first to clear the Watchtower, and I'm sure you followed up his sweep."
"It's possible," Batman admits, "but unlikely."
"Hm."
The draft of the league-wide notice disappears from the screen, not wholly discarded, but dismissed for the moment.
Bruce stands back. Batman looks at Bruce over his shoulder and raises an inquiring eyebrow. Bruce lifts one of his own in response, the action driven by no small amount of humor and cheek.
Batman looks away as his lips twitch. "Are you mocking me?"
Bruce places a hand over his heart and swears, "Always."
Batman snorts, a laugh not quite contained in time.
"Anyway," Bruce says, "I came down to remind you that dinner is about to start. You should get changed."
Batman glances at the sixth auxiliary monitor again before switching the computer to standby. "...Hrm." Batman stands, stretches, and heads for the locker room. "I'll be up in ten."
"You didn't have to wait for me," Batman says, though he doesn't seem surprised by Bruce's continued presence. Dressed in slacks and a simple button-up shirt, he would almost look casual compared to Bruce, still in the full suit and tie he'd worn to the office today, if it weren't for the intent glare.
"Careful, or your face will stick that way," Bruce tells his counterpart.
Batman frowns, brow furrowing deeper in confusion.
"Lighten up," Bruce says as he uses a finger to rub at the space between his own eyebrows in demonstration, "You're home. Not everything needs to be analyzed and brooded over six ways to Sunday."
Batman stops, takes a breath, and very deliberately relaxes his facial muscles. "Better?"
"I think so," Bruce says, throwing an arm around the other man's shoulders and ignoring the momentary stiffening that he's begun to suspect is his counterpart's paranoia acting up. A moment later, Batman relaxes into the contact and Bruce sets an easy pace for the elevator.
How often is Batman touched without the intent to harm driving the action? Not often, if Bruce had to guess. Would Dick at least be an exception, or would Batman shy away from that contact as well? ...Should Bruce have held off on encouraging Jason to initiate physical affection with Batman? Bruce almost stumbles at the last thought.
"Something wrong?" Batman asks, brow again furrowed. Bruce might have to let that battle go.
"I... I asked Jason to hug you before leaving tonight, and I think he might actually humor me. Just, if he does, don't flinch?" Bruce fights not to cringe at his own request. "He wouldn't react well if he thinks he's not wanted."
Batman's brow pinches further. "Of course he's wanted. Why would he think otherwise?"
Bruce gives into the urge and smooths a thumb over the crease between Batman's eyebrows in an action reminiscent of their mother's fussing. He can practically hear her now, 'You'll get wrinkles, dear. Now, what has you so serious?' From the surprised blink and a moment's faraway gaze, Bruce guesses he's managed to remind more than just himself of their mother.
"You tend to tense up whenever I touch you, and I am you," Bruce says, "If you do that with Jason, he might take it as a rejection. If you pull away, even for a second, he definitely will."
"...I'll try."
"That's all I ask."
Bruce's chipper tones fill his ears through the elevator ride up from the cave as the man rambles about his day at the office. Batman's never thought of himself as chatty before, but Bruce's behavior makes him wonder if that penchant to babble might just be relegated to the memories currently beyond his grasp. He definitely doesn't do this in the suit -- the batsuit. ...He's fairly certain he'd spook the entire league into suspecting an imposter if he ever slipped into absent chatter on the Watchtower.
More baffling yet, Bruce seems to be happily invested in the dull, number-crunching, pencil-pushing busy work he's talking about. It's important, Batman knows. After far too much time and effort, it eventually leads to long-term benefits for the city. Wayne Enterprises employs approximately five percent of the city's population in positions ranging from world-class scientists to the everyman janitor. The Martha Wayne Foundation funds and oversees several charity programs. It's good work, meaningful work that provides a much-needed lifeline to many in Gotham. It's just that it's all so dreadfully slow.
Batman prefers punching things. He doesn't even particularly like detective work, although he's good at it and it's often a necessary step before he can punch whoever is responsible for whatever heinous crime he's investigating at the time. It's not the puzzle he enjoys, but the answer -- the solution -- and the opportunity to punch the predator of the innocent in the face. It doesn't have the same long-reaching effect on the city that WE or MWF work does -- not unless it's stopping one of the rogues' bigger plans -- but it's gratifying. Instantly, intensely gratifying.
It's also more effective at venting his boiling emotions than any therapy session Alfred had forced him through during his childhood. Is he angry? Punch a goon. Is he scared? Punch a goon. Is he feeling too strongly to identify the feeling in the first place? Punch ten goons. Is he facing the literal end of the world again? Punch every zombie in his way and pummel the mad magician trying to open the actual Hell portal in Gotham until the spell fails. Simple, widely applicable, and extremely satisfying. Unfortunately, 'widely' still doesn't cover everything, and there are some things that Batman recognizes can't be solved with punching.
Like his relationship with his second son.
Jason raises an eyebrow at them from where he's seated at the table, and Batman can't help how he tenses under the scrutiny before forcing his shoulders to relax again. Bruce doesn't react, either to Jason's and Tim's staring from the head of the dining table or Batman's swiftly repressed tension at his side, but there's no possibility that the man failed to notice the interplay between the room's other occupants.
"As promised," Bruce says amiably, "one bat dragged up from his cave!"
"Hrm."
"You two look... oddly chummy," Jason says with a squint, "It's weird seeing you get clingy outside of a gala. It's weird seeing you let someone be that clingy."
Bruce laughs like Jason had been making a joke. "If I can't trust myself, who can I trust?"
Alfred. Nightwing. Superman. He'd trust most of the Justice League's founding members before himself, in fact. -- Barring mind-altering events and other circumstances leading to actions taken under duress, anyway.
Regardless, Bruce is meant to be closer than is currently possible with their separated physicalities. The thought of rejecting Bruce's presence had barely crossed his mind before being summarily dismissed, even if the constant touching and contact remains jarring. Bruce belongs hovering in his periphery. Greater separation is... undesired, if periodically inevitable as they are.
"I guess," Jason says with a shrug, still squinting at them like they're an image just out of focus.
Tim doesn't say anything, but he watches, curious and attentive. It's too early to expect a comprehensive report from his third Robin, but Batman makes a mental note to ask about the boy's observations later.
Batman uncrosses his arms to pull out the chair at the foot of the table. Bruce intercepts him before he gets that far, arm sliding from his shoulders to instead catch his elbow and easily redirecting him further up the table to where their sons are already seated. Batman allows himself to be tugged along, but there's an itch between his shoulder blades that insists he should sit in the chair that allows him to be closest to the room's most likely entry points and the shortest route to the cave. Bruce deposits him at the space between the table's head and the chair Jason has claimed.
Batman hesitates. Surely Jason would prefer more space? But, of the two of them, Bruce seems to have some idea of how to read and handle people. Batman... doesn't. Not so well as he's sure he had before they'd been split apart. It grates a bit to realize that Bruce has kept such an important piece of his skillset when Batman can feel the lack of it hampering his own decision making. If he can't read a criminal's intentions quickly enough, it could lead to deaths he should have been able to prevent -- would have prevented if he were whole.
Batman shakes off the hypothetical scenario. He'll have to find a way to compensate, but Alfred will be displeased if he spends Jason's dinner home preoccupied with catastrophizing.
He settles in his assigned seat, a bit awkwardly. Jason's chair scrapes over the floorboards as he pushes his chair further from Batman's, though that might just be because Jason has grown quite broad-shouldered himself and a bit more space between them would be more comfortable physically. Batman still grimaces at the sound of tortured wood.
"Master Jason!" Alfred scolds as if on cue as he wheels in the serving trolley, "Please lift your chair when you move it. This floor suffers enough abuse without the willful negligence of manners I am certain I taught you."
"Sorry, Alfie," Jason says, ducking his head.
"Just so," Alfred sniffs. The butler serves the table with a well practiced hand and begins to wheel the cart back to the kitchen.
"Will you join us, Alfred?" Tim suddenly speaks up.
"It is a special occasion," Bruce says, tipping his head to indicate Jason's presence, "for the family."
"C'mon, Alfie, don't leave me alone with these three!" Jason wheedles, "I need backup!"
"Well..." Alfred dithers, forever caught between the duties of steadfast butler and once-guardian of the household's official head.
"Please," Batman adds his own request while staring determinedly at his plate and with hands folded neatly in his lap. He would genuinely appreciate some backup, even if Jason's request for the same had been made in jest.
Alfred sighs. Batman glances up in time to watch the set of his shoulders loosens slightly as he comes to his decision. "It would seem I am thoroughly outnumbered," he concedes with a wry smirk, "Very well. I shall return promptly with my own plate."
Batman suppresses an answering sigh and the desire to slump in relief. Around the table, beaming smiles over the butler's acquiescence abound. It's good to see, even if he still feels out of place joining them at the manor's dining table.
Batman draws in a deep breath and releases it slowly. He can survive a family dinner. Surely.
Batman is bored out of his mind and struggling not to fidget too often in his chair. It's good to see most of his family safe and content around the table and sharing a meal together. It is. That doesn't change the fact that Batman would rather be down in the cave doing something productive.
Jason hadn't wanted to answer any questions, up to and including fairly standard small talk primers. Alfred, on the other hand, had been willing and quietly pleased to recount his day, but Batman leaves the majority of such tasks to Alfred precisely because Batman can't be bothered to tend to them and he trusts Alfred's judgement and diligence. Tim is now hesitantly narrating how his day had gone, but, other than Jason's call, it all revolves around classes he's already outgrown and peers Batman doesn't particularly care about unless they are either in danger or else become a danger. With only three years separating them by age, Jason pipes in a few times to commiserate about Gotham Academy's teaching roster and the upperclassmen that had once been Jason's peers. It's good to see two of his Robins trying to get along, especially after how long it had taken Nightwing to settle into the idea of there being a new Robin, but the conversation is otherwise --
Batman's right shoe is suddenly blocked in. Batman turns to look at Bruce. His counterpart glances at him, smirks, and returns his attention to encouraging Tim to keep talking with easy questions.
Batman frowns. He can feel the empty space in his mind that Bruce should be occupying rather than a seat beside him, the missing mindset that would allow Batman to set aside casework and turn the useless chatter around him into light conversation with his family worth indulging in.
Batman attempts to move his foot and almost loses his shoe as Bruce shifts and applies leverage. Batman glances at Bruce again, but Bruce gives no indication that his attention is anywhere but on Tim's plans for this year's science fair. Regardless of appearances, there is an impatient tap against the toe of his shoe followed by a short tug sideways toward Bruce. Baffled, Batman lifts his heel higher and the shoe is immediately whisked off his foot before Bruce's own socked foot lands on top of his. There's too much pressure for the contact to be incidental, but not enough to become painful.
After a moment, Bruce's foot taps twice over his and flicks sideways to kick the front of Batman's ankle before returning to its previous position. Batman takes advantage of socked feet and polished floorboards to slip out from under Bruce's foot. Less than a second later, Bruce's foot is back and... pinning Batman's to the floor. Is that really what's happening right now? Batman pivots on his heel sideways and then back around to pin Bruce's foot in retaliation.
Bruce glances at him again, eyes alight with silent mischief and challenge before once more pretending to ignore Batman. Bruce's foot kicks backward and then returns to pin Batman again.
Batman ducks his head and focusses on his next bite of steak to hide the grin threatening to break out across his face. On principle, Batman absolutely refuses to lose a wrestling match, no matter how ridiculous or limited, against what amounts to his civilian identity. Batman gives no warning before beginning his assault on Bruce in earnest.
Dinner is going better than Bruce would have dared to dream when Tim had first returned home flustered, anxious, and hopeful over Jason's phone call. Alfred has even agreed to dine with the rest of the family, a rare treat. True, Jason is reluctant to talk about himself and what he's been up to recently, but he's making an effort to converse with both Alfred and Tim, which is both promising and a bit disconcerting with how quickly the change in attitude happened. So long as it isn't just as quick to revert, Bruce will choose gratitude over looking that particular gift horse in the mouth. Batman had clearly felt out of place, awkward, uncomfortable, and -- if Bruce were to guess -- likely longing for the familiarity of the cave.
Admittedly, Bruce's solution to keeping his counterpart present and entertained -- to stave off the temptation to flee in the middle of dinner and inadvertently send all the wrong unspoken signals to the rest of the family -- is a bit unorthodox. Bruce is getting utterly decimated in their impromptu game, and has since Batman caught on to the implied goal. That hardly matters, though. What matters is that Bruce provides enough of a challenge to keep Batman engaged in the here and now, rather than counting down the seconds to his escape from the dinner table. Furthermore, Batman has almost finished his plate. Bruce has enough memories left of glimpsing cold, neglected meals left abandoned on their way back up to the manor at the end of a long night to suspect it's become something of a habit for them. He doesn't think it's a purposeful decision so much as, well, they get distracted with casework, and then the food goes ignored. At any rate, Bruce is fairly certain he isn't imagining the pleased look on Alfred's face or that its source is Batman eating a full meal.
Batman hooks his ankle behind Bruce's heel in his latest pin to prevent an easy retreat. That's new, but it should be simple enough to get out of if Bruce twists and yanks --
BANG!
The entire table jolts and the dishes rattle. Bruce immediately suppresses his wince, determinately holding his easy smile even as his knee makes its objections to the abuse known. It's an overcorrection. Everyone else at the table starts at the unexpected disturbance and Bruce's lack of reaction will almost certainly be noted by all the overtrained detectives in the room.
This is what he gets for forgetting that tables are generally supported by legs at their corners. There is definitely going to be bruising on more than his knee for this blunder.
Bruce holds on to his smile stubbornly as Alfred's face takes on a decidedly peeved expression.
"Masters Wayne!" Alfred says, "Might I ask why you have decided to assault your antique Victorian dining table? Dutifully maintained and preserved since its purchase in the late eighteen-hundreds by your great grandfather, Maxwell Wayne, for the use and enjoyment of yourselves and your descendants?"
"Alfred? I haven't the faintest idea what you're referring to," Bruce lies. If he claims ignorance with enough persistence, Alfred usually gives up on lecturing him over the destruction of his own property. The key word being 'usually,' but Bruce is intent on trying his luck. "The table is perfectly fine. Solid." More solid than Bruce's knee, as recently proven.
"Is that so?" Alfred asks, tone witheringly dry, and looks pointedly to Bruce's left.
Bruce follows the cue to look over and --
Oh.
Oh, dear.
Bruce bites the inside of his cheek. He shouldn't laugh. That would be very poor host behavior, and terribly unfair when Bruce was responsible both for instigating and failing to maintain discretion, and...
And Bruce hadn't known their face could get that red. Batman's shoulders are halfway to the man's crimson-hued ears. The wide-eyed stare at Alfred would be enough to broadcast guilt all on its own.
Well, so much for bald-faced bluffing their way out of trouble. It only works if the bit can be stuck to despite being caught, after all, and Batman clearly isn't up to the attempt right now.
Bruce gives up on all his pretenses as a chuckle escapes him.
"Oh, Chum," he says, laughter bubbling up regardless of any intentions to be gentle with his mortified counterpart, "Have you forgotten every acting class Alfred forced us through during our school years?"
Jason's laughter, once the shock breaks, is a bit meaner. "The look on your face!" the teenager crows in delight.
Batman groans in resigned dismay and buries his face in his hands.
"It was my fault, Alfred. He's not guilty of anything more than following my whims," Bruce says, utterly failing to contain his smile, "It won't happen again."
"See that it does not, Master Bruce."
"...piece that gets me in trouble," Batman mutters into his hands so quietly that Bruce almost misses the words. But he doesn't, and that slander cannot be allowed to stand.
"I'm the piece that reminds us to have fun now and again," Bruce corrects.
Batman drops his hands to glare at Bruce, face no less red than it was a moment ago, and gestures at Alfred in wordless frustration.
Bruce considers the argument briefly and concedes, "...Sometimes it ends in a little trouble."
"What were you two even doing?" Jason asks, "You -- Wait a minute." Jason peeks under the table in an impressive show of flexibility for his large frame, and, well, Bruce hadn't thought to sneak Batman's shoe back to him or slip back into his own. Too late now.
Bruce waggles his socked foot on its heel at Jason in something approximating a wave.
"Oh my god!" Jason laughs hard as he resurfaces. "Were you two playing footsie?"
"Well, more like its unfortunate cousin who happens to also be step-siblings with thumb war, but..." Bruce trails off an unrepentant shrug.
Jason laughs harder, nearly collapsing over the table. "Footsie! With yourself!" he wheezes.
It's nice to see Jason laughing.
Bruce leans forward, chin coming to rest in his palm. "Don't be silly, Jaylad," he says and offers a sleazy gala grin, "Real footsie requires a prettier partner, preferably one wearing a flouncy skirt that provides cover and allows ac--"
A hand clamps firmly over his mouth.
Bruce glances up at the looming Batman in surprise.
"No," Batman growls, face still flushed pink but gradually fading.
Bruce pulls back. "What?" he asks, honestly puzzled.
Batman stares at him incredulously. "He's my son and a minor!"
Bruce rolls his eyes. "He's seventeen. We'd heard worse locker room talk before we left Gotham Prep, let alone the year after."
"Not from Alfred, I didn't," Batman bites out, "and Tim is fourteen."
Bruce pauses. They'd heard worse at fourteen, too. The upperclassmen certainly hadn't cared what the younger boys overheard during any overlap of shared spaces in their schedules, to say nothing of their more precocious classmates, but... That doesn't seem to be the point. Not really.
He glances around the table. Neither boy seems particularly distressed, though Jason looks a bit gobsmacked. Alfred's disapproval is written in every line of his body. It is probably only the technicality that Bruce is already correcting himself that is sparing them Alfred's lecture on propriety.
He wants to defend himself. He wants to say that the boys have seen them behave worse, except he's not sure that's true, now that he's stopped to think about it. The boys know of Bruce Wayne's reputation -- Everyone in Gotham knows of Bruce Wayne's reputation, good and ill. -- but seldom have any of their sons been present to personally witness the sort of actions that build the worst side of that reputation. Ever since they took in Dick, they've tried to tamp down on the act during galas that their sons have likewise attended. Despite earlier complaints, Jason has rarely, if ever, encountered 'full fop-mode,' as he puts it.
Bruce clears his throat. They've never been any good at this, but it's clear that he needs to try. "I apologize. I... I should have realized that this audience is inappropriate for my behavior."
"Your behavior was inappropriate for the audience," Batman corrects angrily.
Bruce nods in acceptance of the critique, not that he's completely sure why the distinction matters.
Batman scrubs a hand over his face. "You're shameless," he grumbles.
"We'd need an entirely different strategy for galas if I weren't," Bruce notes.
"Maybe it's time to reconsider tactics."
"Oh, not this again," Bruce huffs, "Brucie is still working fine."
"I'm getting older. The playboy act isn't so good a fit as it once was."
"That's been an argument since we hit thirty," Bruce says and rolls his eyes.
Batman scowls back. "It's a fact that only grows more relevant as I age, and it would be best to phase it out slowly. Lead up time will be necessary."
"And who are we replacing Brucie with?" he challenges, arms crossed, "We don't have another persona prepared for the gala role. Do you really want me to build a replacement while we're split like this?"
Batman grimaces and admits, "No."
"Then it will at least have to wait until that long."
Batman sighs and nods.
"Hey, Timmy?" Jason says without taking his eyes off Bruce and Batman, "You were right. Watching them interact is way weirder than just knowing there's two of them."
Tim hums a knowing agreement, too-clever eyes seeing more than Bruce probably wants to know.
"Okay, first question," Jason says, "What do you mean 'again?' Is B usually -- Are you two always around even when you're one-person-shaped? Do you two regularly argue?"
Bruce blinks and shares a glance with Batman. As clumsily as the question has been delivered, perhaps they should have been expecting it.
"Well, yes and no. ...'Wayne?'" Bruce waits for Batman's agreeing grunt before continuing, "Wayne doesn't have a conscious divide between us. We're there in the sense that we're pieces of him, but there isn't normally... cognizance of us as separate entities from each other."
"There weren't separate entities to be cognizant of before the magic split us," Batman corrects, "Wayne's mind was cohesive, no psychiatric schisms that would cleanly explain how we fractured or why. The irregular overlap in memories and discrepancies in the brain scans suggest that the greatest difference between us as we are now is in how we rank our priorities, not in what the priorities themselves are. Like the difference between a spar and a fight for your life. Many of the skills applied and the general goal to overpower your opponent are the same. However, in the former scenario, ensuring your own survival is hardly a thought in your mind, so long as you trust your sparring partner. In the latter, it becomes a significantly higher priority, if not your greatest concern."
"Hm. There has to be more to it, but that does seem to account for most of our differences," Bruce says, "As for 'again,' the thought to retire or at least mellow Brucie crosses our mind every few months or so. It's becoming a more common thought, so we'll likely go through with it before too much longer. We just haven't wanted to spend the time figuring out what his replacement should act like and we've been putting it off." Bruce shrugs. "Brucie is still effective for his purpose. There's no rush."
"And that's question two," Jason says, "You named the fop 'Brucie?' Really?"
"Well, we needed a name for the character, even if we didn't use it aloud," Bruce says, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, "He's not real. We weren't going to refer to him as 'Bruce Wayne' in our own head as if there was no distinction between who we really are and the drunken fool we play to throw suspicion off Batman."
"Not 'real,' he says." Jason snorts. "Don't look now, Bruce, but there's been a lot of the fop in how you've been acting today."
Bruce opens his mouth to object before his memory catches up with him, and... Well. Bruce flushes. Lightly. Nowhere near the deep red hue his counterpart had reached. Some of his behavior had been intentional choices, but some of it... "You might be right," Bruce admits with a chagrin-edged smile, "It's habit to fall back on certain patterns in social situations. Without Batman to..." Bruce frowns and turns to his counterpart. "I think you might have gotten the bulk of our restraint."
Batman scowls and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Trouble."
This time, Bruce shrugs instead of arguing. He's a bit worried about it, too.
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