Chapter Text
The second night he spent in the mansion was horrible, detestable, and above all, violating. His side might have been stitched up, no longer bleeding, but the flu that followed left him begging to be returned to the grave he had crawled out of.
Bruce didn't seem to find the joke funny; his face made that pained expression.
It was like a dream, a memory. He would open his eyes and see Bruce sitting beside him, sometimes reading a report or a book. Sometimes it was Alfie, and he always brought food and convinced him to eat, even though Jason felt he could throw everything back up.
Then there were the nightmares.
They were always nightmares. The Joker laughing, chasing him, attacking him. Sometimes it was Willis yelling at him, scolding him, hitting him, or burning him with cigarettes, with the laughter of his mocking friends and the overwhelming smell of alcoholic breath proving to him that he had never overcome anything. He was still that scared little boy.
That's why he ran. He ran and ran through the hallways that turned into a maze, finally giving up against a wall after knocking over a vase that shattered on the floor. He jumped on instinct; the feeling of being watched only made him more paranoid. He searched with his eyes until he found a small figure watching him silently from a doorway.
Their eyes met for a few seconds, until understanding began to dawn.
Damian.
"Jason," Bruce called, almost running, squatting down in front of him.
Jason looked at him slightly lost.
What is Bruce doing here?
"Todd is a mess," the boy blurted out, with Bruce telling him "Be kind to your brother" without looking at him, focused on covering Jason with a blanket, trying to move the broken fragments of the vase away. And finally, reality caught up with him.
Of course. He was in the mansion. He would be staying here until Christmas.
Snorting, Damian let out a "He is not my brother," and Bruce gave him a look but seemed to decide that conversation would be had another time. Taking Jason by the arm, he tried to push him up to get him on his feet, but Jason wanted none of that.
"No, leave me," he replied, trying to pull away.
Damian looked at him, frustrated.
"Don't be a baby, Todd," he said, as if he were the adult and Jason the small child.
A green tinge began to creep into the edges of his vision with impending irritation. Bruce seemed to sense it because he pushed Damian back slightly, shielding him with his body.
Yes, just like a real father.
Because he's the demon's father, of course he wouldn't bother wanting Jason as a son. He never wanted him; he only used him.
"Jay…" he called, trying to reach him. Jason pressed himself impossibly closer to the wall, hissing, "No, don't fucking touch me." Bruce's brow furrowed; he told him he was sick. And yes, of course, that was easy. It's easy to disguise his feelings as a consequence, as if they weren't real.
Determined, Bruce leaned forward; his hand touched Jason's arm. And Jason was quick; he took advantage of Bruce's movement, the distraction, to grab a piece of the vase. In one movement, Bruce jerked back with a hiss, his arm pulled back, covering his bicep with his other hand where a superficial cut was bleeding.
"I TOLD YOU. NOT TO COME NEAR ME," he growled, trying to get to his feet. Damian tried to lunge at him, a fruitless move since Bruce grabbed him and pushed him back again, ordering him to return to his room.
Footsteps caught everyone's attention; it was Alfred.
"Alfred, please take Damian to his room," Bruce requested, maintaining his distance.
Ignoring the "But Father!" neither Alfred nor Bruce paid him any mind, pushing him toward his room, which turned out not to be the one Jason had seen him standing in.
Watching attentively, not taking his eyes off them for a second, he saw them leave with his heart racing and the sensation that at any moment, Bruce—who had done the same, not taking his eyes off him—would attack him. He gripped the piece of porcelain in his hand; the edge slowly dug into his skin. The sting of pain and the reduction in the number of people around him made his anxiety drop slightly.
"Jay, son, are you with me?" Bruce asked in a cautious yet soft tone.
Jason bit his tongue.
Bruce took a step forward.
Jason pointed the piece of vase at him. Bruce kept advancing. Slowly, he wrapped his hand around Jason's wrist, which trembled. A few drops of blood from the cut fell to the floor. With some sure movements, Bruce convinced his hand to release the fragment, tossing it almost two meters away before securing the blanket he had put on Jason's shoulders.
"Let's get you to bed, Jay." And Jason nodded, trembling, allowing himself to lean on him this time.
The fever broke the next morning, but he still felt more dead than alive, blinking dazedly, feeling disgusting. He turned his head, looking at Bruce asleep in a chair with his head hanging down; he would definitely have a neck ache when he woke up. As he moved, Bruce almost jumped from his place, and Jason froze in response.
They looked at each other from across the room.
"You're awake," Bruce said. Jason looked at him, tired.
"Have you been there the whole time, old man?"
Something akin to regret passed over his face. Letting out a "No, I'm afraid I stepped out for a moment to say goodnight to Damian," he admitted. Jason blinked, confused. Brief flashes of the night passed before his eyes. He looked at his hand.
There was a bandage there.
He remembered the pain of the cut.
"I'm sorry," he blurted out.
Now Bruce looked confused, though a bit more alarmed, asking if he remembered what happened. Jason found the sheets particularly interesting.
He was a mess.
"I'm a mess. Damian is right. Don't tell him I said that," he added the last part quickly. Bruce gave him a sad smile.
"You have problems, Jaylad. We all do. What's important is that we'll solve them together," he promised.
Jason didn't believe a word of it. He means, there was a time when Bruce could have told him he would turn off the sun, and Jason would have believed him one hundred percent. But that was before a psychopath beat him with a crowbar and then blew him up.
Returning to the mansion was like walking in a dark forest. Sometimes he stumbled over a root and fell face-first, breaking his nose. Other times... he could stop and look at the scenery, hypnotized by the fireflies. He didn't know what he would see at the next turn, upon opening a door or crossing a certain hallway. However, little by little and with great relief, he began to familiarize himself with it again, as if his instinct still remembered the mansion's map.
When Jason had first arrived at this place, still paranoid and suspicious of Bruce Wayne and his butler, he had made an effort to memorize every possible route to escape later. Then, when it became his permanent home, it just made it easier for him to get around.
Tired of wearing clothes that weren't his, he borrowed Bruce's least flashy car (even though a Ferrari was winking at him) to go fetch some of his belongings from his safe houses. He texted his friends to let them know where they could find him in case they were looking.
Of course. Here is the translation of the second part of the text:
Roy: Great, let me know if you need a rescue ;)
Roy: I'm working with Dinah! That brute Oli is still hanging around here, I have no fucking clue what he wants.
Jason: A kick in the balls, that's what he wants.
He pretended not to see the concern (on Bruce's face) and the offense (on Alfred's) when he only showed up with a duffel bag of clothes (the other bag had some tools or pellet guns).
"Hey! Not all of us here are rich!" he complained to B, who looked at him with emotional constipation, reminding him that Jason had been adopted by him and therefore had access to his "trust fund." Jason rolled his eyes. "Right, let me just go to the bank and oh—no, wait, I think I'm legally dead," he shot back sarcastically.
Stirring the coffee with cream that Alfred had made for him, Bruce took a slow sip before saying, "That can be fixed."
A shiver ran down Jason's spine.
"No," he said flatly, seeing the excited glint in Bruce's eyes. He immediately dropped his tone to a pitiful one. "No, Bruce, I don't want to be alive. I like being dead.
Don't do this to me," he whined, sounding fifteen again, watching as Alfred took his "luggage," opened it, and let out a sigh.
Looking at Bruce, Alfred informed him, "I will clear your schedule for some shopping." Wayne nodded, asking if the demon had gotten up for breakfast yet, as he would be late for school otherwise.
Jason didn't care about that.
"Shopping?!" he exclaimed, starting to argue with Alfred that he was fine, that he didn't need things. But as expected, the old man placed a hand on his shoulder and said, with far too much sincerity, that he feared everything in the bag would disintegrate after the third wash. "It's NOT that bad!"
Thank heaven the demon appeared, frowning just like Thalia when she didn't like something. He looked Jason up and down and asked what he was still doing here."Jason will be staying at the manor, Damian," Bruce replied, to which Jason muttered a "For now," a silent promise that he would leave at some point.
Telling him not to be so dramatic (look who's talking), Bruce greeted Damian, asking if he had everything for school. The demon nodded, informing him that Teacher Makensin said they needed to bring a rock collection for history class next week for a project. Jason let out an "Aww," but intercepted a silver fork that was heading straight for his head.
Letting out a "Damian!" Bruce scolded the boy, who made a face and flinched slightly.
Alfred looked down at him from his height. "Master Damian, must I remind you that the silverware is not a weapon?" he pointed out. The boy let out a "No, Pennyworth." Jason's eyebrows rose at the use of the surname.
"Yeah, kid, you're too slow to be a threat," Jason mocked, spinning the fork between his fingers. He lifted his foot the next second, planting it directly on Damian's face, stopping his advance and holding him at a safe distance while the child flailed his arms ridiculously, trying to reach him.
Now Bruce growled a "Jason" in a warning tone.
"Can't wait for you to go back to your dump, Todd!" the boy yelled when he had to leave, following Alfred toward the exit where the car was already parked. Saying goodbye to Bruce with a "Father," he didn't even bother to address a word to Jason before getting into the car like the rich kid he was.
Just out of spite, Jason made a mocking face at Damian when the boy looked through the rear window; the little brat gestured back from inside the car.
God, making fun of the kid was way too much fun.
Behind him, Bruce sighed. Asking Jason to please follow him, they both went down to the cave, where Bruce explained that he needed to get some blood samples, stating that if the Pit had brought him back to life, its impact and consequences must have been profound enough to affect his DNA.
Jason blinked for a few seconds before letting out an "Uh…" realizing Bruce seemed to be confusing everything.
"You're wrong. The Pit didn't revive me; it just healed me," he corrected. Now it was Bruce's turn to blink in confusion.
Lowering the needle, Bruce said, "I'm afraid I don't understand." Jason braced himself.
Pulling his arm away, he sat up straighter in the chair, taking a breath, though he almost murmured, "I… I woke up in the coffin." His eyes were drawn to his hands as he heard Bruce inhale sharply.
Silence took control, not that it mattered, because he could almost feel it all again. The darkness, the warm breath, the sound of the pounding… and it all vanished in a blink that left him swaying when Bruce grabbed his hands in his own.
Because he had been picking at the side of his nail again, a bad habit he'd had since childhood. Dr. Thomkins had told him it was anxiety, which Jason had mocked—not because it was funny, but because deep down he was terrified of seeming like a damaged object on a mental level. That's why he had worked so hard to stop doing it, because Robin had to be perfect, and he always feared Bruce would throw him out for it, comparing himself to Dick at every opportunity.
Well, it's not like he ever really stopped.
Looking up, he found Bruce extremely pale, so much so that Jason asked if he wouldn't rather sit down. But the man wasn't listening.
"You woke up in your grave?" he breathed out, before remembering Jason's comment when he had a fever and confessing he thought he had been joking.
Thinking Bruce might faint, Jason was already raising his hands, expecting Bruce to fall over or something, so he just pushed him into the chair beside him while answering sarcastically, "Where did you think I came from?"
Bruce stood back up because of that.
"I don't know! Maybe from somewhere that didn't mean you were buried under six feet of dirt!" he replied, visibly distraught.
It didn't help when Jason said it was only three. Bruce just looked at him with wide eyes, making Jason exclaim that he didn't see the drama because it was all in the past, he was here, and he had bigger problems.
Too bad Batman was never good at leaving things half-done.
"My God, Jay… How did you get out of there? Training doesn't cover those things," he asked, stopping him and stirring everything up even more, saying it was his fault, that he should have put cameras in the cemetery, kept watch, made sure he was really dead (even though, in theory, Jason had had an autopsy and everything).
It all just seemed like too much.
"Alright, alright, enough already, damn it, stop obsessing over it. I don't care. Do you think it's fun to think about all this?" he snapped, annoyed.
Tensing up, Bruce let out a "You know that's not my intention."
"Yeah! Because your intention is to say 'Oh, I could have done so many things!'" Jason deepened his voice even more, and Jesus, it was uncomfortable, though not more so than Bruce looked. "If you're going to martyr yourself, do it where I can't see you, because I'm sick of it! Are you going to take my blood or not?!" he demanded, shaking his arm angrily, his heart rate beginning to spike. Bruce seemed to be learning to pick up on things, because he immediately took a step back, giving him space while telling him it was okay, he shouldn't worry, he wouldn't bring it up for now, and to concentrate on his breathing exercises. He left him for a few seconds while Jason regained control over himself.
Feeling overly observed, he tried not to pay attention to Bruce, who seemed to be thinking something over or considering whether to tell him something. In the end, it was the latter, because he told Jason, "Your eyes… your eyes turn green when the Pit starts affecting you." It was like a bucket of cold water had been dumped on him. Ironically, it pulled him out of his head and back to earth with an "Oh, yeah?" Bruce nodded.
A silence fell over the cave.
"Not literally green, but they take on a certain hue. Last night in the dark, they seemed to glow a little," he explained. Jason made a face, murmuring that now he knew when to run in the opposite direction.
He didn't like the look of pity he got.
Seeming to come back to himself, Bruce took a needle and connected it to Jason's arm, extracting at least three vials of blood, which left Jason asking why he needed so much.
"I'll take one to Leslie. Although we have state-of-the-art analysis here, she is still the expert in medicine and genetics. One is for the cave, and another…" he cut off suddenly. Jason raised an eyebrow at his silence.
Bruce cleared his throat. "...is to be analyzed in the Watchtower."
"I thought the Watchtower had the same servers as the cave," Jason said, something whispering to him that he wasn't being told everything.
"Yes, but lately Green Lantern has been bringing in cutting-edge technology on a galactic level," Bruce informed him, calming him down a bit. So Jason let out a
"Cool," removing the band-aid to stop the bleeding and tossing it in the trash while Bruce put everything away.
According to his explanation, the cave's analysis should be ready in about two days; Leslie's would take about a week if they were lucky and nothing major kept her busy; while the Watchtower's analysis could take almost half a month or a full month. Jason made a face at that timeline.
Yeah, just in time for Christmas and for him to get the hell out of here.
Coming out of the cave, he saw Alfie coming in. The butler explained to Bruce that he had run into a certain Marlene, who apparently was related to Damian's class, and that she had said something about a bake sale. To Jason, it all sounded ridiculous. Just imagining Bruce selling pastries almost made him snort. But it all went down the drain when Alfred looked at him and asked if they were ready to go.
"Go where?"
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People were talking left and right; some very rude women shoved him with their huge bags. Other girls, a blonde and a brunette, clearly rich, smiled at him flirtatiously from the side, much to his horror. He couldn't understand them. He was dressed almost like a hobo compared to the quality of the place, though he supposed it could be that 'bad boy' stigma that current literature had made stupidly popular. Jason ignored them, or tried to, giving up and paying attention to Bruce, who was looking at some white shirts and asking him his size.
"I already said I don't need anything," he complained, shoving his hands into his pants pockets and looking around as the sound of a voice approached. He'd turned around a few times—it wasn't good. All he got was an empty space, obvious proof that the voices had been in his head the whole time, and Bruce's obvious attention on him wasn't helping.
"If we don't come back with something, Alfred will buy it for you anyway," Bruce said, as if the fortune were actually Alfred's and not his own. But then again, Jason always thought that was excellent, considering that without the butler, Bruce would surely have died at the tender age of nine from food poisoning.
Shrugging, Jason picked a size by eye. Bruce pulled it out, looked at it, looked back at Jason, who gave him a "Stop looking at me, it's embarrassing" look, only for Bruce to say it wouldn't fit. And since Jason wasn't making it easy for him...
"You try going from fifteen to twenty-one in the blink of an eye and see if you remember your sizes," he growled at Bruce, annoyed. Bruce froze for an instant before sighing tiredly.
Fine, irritated, Jason decided he was officially on the bench while he watched Bruce start piling clothes for him and then handing them over for him to try on in the fitting rooms over there. He resisted making a sound of exasperation because he wasn't a teenager, but that didn't stop him from rolling his eyes when he heard a woman in a two-piece suit and a Rolex tell Bruce that her son was the same, trying to strike up a conversation.
Inside the fitting room is horrible. The space is way too small. He doesn't like it. He tries to ignore it, but when he tries to put on the first shirt, he bumps into everything. His elbows don't appreciate the impact, and he lets out a "shit," ignoring the "Everything okay in there, Jay?"
He takes another deep breath.
He can do this. It's just a fucking changing room. He psyches himself up, setting the t-shirts aside—that shit's impossible to try on here. He grabs a shirt instead and moves this time as controlled as he can, trying not to take up too much space.
One little bird, two little birds… The Joker's voice arrives in his ears, and he turns around so fast he gets tangled in his own feet, falling against a tiny stool. Thank God it doesn't break.
"Jay?" Bruce asks loudly, and Jesus, does he not remember he's legally dead?
Quickly exiting the changing room, he tells Bruce to keep his voice down, that the walls have ears, shooting a look at a woman who seems one step away from walking over to them. Her eyes shine like any gold-digger's when she sees Bruce Wayne.
Looking him up and down, Bruce's expression becomes relaxed and disgustingly soft. He ignores Jason's request and starts straightening the collar of his shirt with a small smile, saying that he is indeed broader than Dick, but less so than himself.
Jason looks at him, even more irritated, but his eyes are drawn to the growing number of people starting to stare. He can feel them; his skin itches, and he finds himself saying they need to leave because they're drawing too much attention, looking around uncomfortable and paranoid.
Too bad Bruce has other plans.
"Alright, let's go with the shoes," he announces, and Jason complains with a grunt, "You're not listening to me, Bruce." The other man blinks, lets out a sigh, and looks at Jason as if he can't understand him. And that always happens between them; communication is shit. Jason shifts restlessly. "Son," Bruce says, with far too much ease but no less weight, "You will always be my son, dead or not. Actually, the 'dead' part won't last much longer."
Making an irritated sound, Jason asks why he's so hung up on the "not dead" thing. Bruce looks at him like he's stupid.
"Because I want you here, Jay. With me. Without us worrying about what people will say." Jason can only agree with the last part because the guy in the corner probably thinks he's some rich man's toy, and not in a good way.
So he stops complaining and tries to make everything faster, like ripping off a band-aid. By the end of the day, he ends up with some simple t-shirts, sweatpants and formal pants, some white, blue, and red shirts, socks, underwear, hoodies, sweaters. Thank God they don't buy formal suits; he's not sure he could handle that, nor what he'll do with all the clothes once he leaves.
With a sigh, he looks for a few seconds at the delicious plate of food placed before him and Bruce, who is drinking his own peach juice while Jason's is pineapple. He can still feel the eyes on him; it's impossible not to when you're out with Bruce Wayne and you're not one of his "official" sons.
A couple of meters away, cars and pedestrians pass by. He's sure more than one person took a picture. Bruce had asked if he wouldn't rather eat inside, but Jason felt he couldn't spend more time in an enclosed space without losing his mind. Eating on the terrace was the best decision; the air at least refreshed him.
"I suppose you have it all figured out," he accused. Bruce took a bite of his food with a "Huh?"
Jason looked at him, irritated.
Bruce sighed in front of him now.
"I've written to my lawyer. We're drafting the statement."
"And what's the 'explanation' for my non-death?" he asked, taking a bite of steak and potatoes. Although it was delicious, nothing compared to Alfie's food.
Giving him a "Does it have to be now?" expression, Jason shrugs. It's obvious Bruce doesn't want to talk about it, not now, but if Jason is uncomfortable, then he will be too.
"Medical error," Bruce says. "Apparently, you had an accident, but the hospital mixed you up and gave us another person who was buried. We're lucky in that sense, since the funeral we held was closed-casket and most of the people who attended are trustworthy for us."
"And all this time?"
"You were in a coma for a year. Then you woke up but were unwell and couldn't remember what happened. You were in therapy for a year, and then, confused, you left Gotham to travel the world," he explained.
Giving him credit, Jason thinks a bit about that cover story. It all seemed simple; the best lies were like that, letting people fill in the blanks with their own rumors.
"Excuse me?" a voice asks, pulling him out of his thoughts.
They both look up to where a waitress stands, uncomfortable and embarrassed. Her eyes are on Jason, though they travel to Bruce with regret. She calms down when he gives her his Playboy smile and asks what's wrong.
The girl blushes.
"Um..." she says, pulling out some napkins and handing them to Jason. "The girls over there sent you this. They said to ask if you want a drink," she informs him, almost trembling, pointing to a side of the restaurant.
In shock, Jason looks at the napkin containing three phone numbers. He makes the grave mistake of looking towards the place where a group of blonde girls make flirty gestures, blowing him a kiss and inviting him to come over or call them.
To his complete mortification, he feels the blood rush to his head and his tongue freeze. If this is the moment the earth opens up and swallows him back, he would accept it with total pleasure, while also battling the indignation that he has killed people, fought drug dealers and psychotic maniacs, but is now completely embarrassed by some girls and by the imbecile Bruce, who is smiling proudly and putting the napkins in his pocket.
He can't handle this.
"Why the fuck are you keeping those?!" he shrieks at his adoptive father, who blinks innocently at him.
"Well, Jay, they are quite pretty and nice, and they're your age," he points out, just as one of them yells "Father-in-law!"
The stupid Bruce waves back at them.
This can't be happening. Jason is sure the replacement shouldn't have to put up with this stuff.