Archive of Our Own

He shouldn’t be here. He’s risking everything- everything he worked for, everything he trained to do, everything he planned so carefully. But he can’t resist. 

His approach is flawless. The sky is dark and overcast, nature working in his favor as it cloaks the moon in swathes of thick, puffy, clouds. Sticking to the shadows of the building, working around the intricate security measures that seem to have been vastly upgraded since the last time he was here- it goes about as smoothly as he could hope for. If his information is correct, there should be no one at the residence, and anyone in the basement will be too preoccupied to notice him. As long as he can make it in without tripping any alarms, he should be scot-free. 

Five minutes and a snapped branch of a prized rose bush later, Jason slips in the side door of Wayne Manor, heart racing from far more than the adrenaline of his entry. He hesitated at the door for a second, but the whipping wind buffeted him inside the open doorway before he could reconsider for a fourth time. 

The kitchen is sparkling clean, like Alfred always left it before he headed downstairs to help the vigilantes maneuver their nighttime activities. The barstools sit innocently beneath the countertop, round leather cushion still smooth and supple under Jason’s hand. He pulls one of them out; he thinks he can almost still see the imprint of his knees, where he used to perch on the stool to watch Alfred cook before he was allowed to actually help. 

Jason drops onto the barstool, leaning against the counter on his forearms. If he breathes in, slow and deep, Jason can smell the fresh bread that must be proving in the oven. 

-

“Now Master Jason, cooking is an art. You measure with your heart and taste as you go- the food will tell you what it needs. But baking? Baking is a science. We must be precise and exact and follow the rules exactly.”

Jason scoots closer on his stool, rocking precariously before Alfred grabs a leg to stabilize him, and gives him a stern look. 

“So if you want to help me-”

“I do, I do!”

“Then you will be very careful, agreed?”

Nodding his head so enthusiastically he nearly falls off again, Jason grins widely at Alfred. 

There’s a soft, indulgent look on Alfred’s face, and he smiles back at Jason.

“Alright, the first thing we’re going to do is activate our yeast…”

-

Curiosity gets the better of him, and Jason pushes away from the counter, leaving his stool strewn aside as he heads for the cabinet above the oven, the one that gets warm with gentle, off-hand heat. 

Opening the cupboard, Jason pulls out the largest jar. Across the front is a label, handmade by a 14-year-old and a butler, to track the feedings of the sourdough starter housed inside. Jason fingers the label, restored and reinforced by layers of strong, clear tape. It’s evident how often the jar has been handled since, by the filled-out label across the front and the healthy, thriving sourdough starter inside; some part of Jason smarts at the remembrance that this was something that he and Alfred had meant to do together. 

But Jason glances at the dough in the oven, and the well-loved jar, and realizes that he’s had a part in every loaf of dough Alfred had made since- since he’d gone. Alfred, a man well-known for his assiduous decluttering, still kept the now-useless label on the jar- presumably because it had been the work of Jason. 

The idea throws a bit of water on the roaring flame of something wild and angry inside him. 

-

He leaves the kitchen behind, moving through the dining room-

“If you don’t sit down and eat your meal without attacking your brother, both of you are benched.” Bruce sighs, setting down his knife and fork as he watches Jason struggle out of Dick’s hold. 

“You can’t bench me, old man, I don’t even live here anymore.” Dick, very maturely sticking his tongue out at the man, says. 

Jason throws an arm out, trying to grab for Dick’s excessively long hair that he’s definitely not jealous of. “Yeah, you can’t control me, I’m my own man.” A furious yowl directly in his ear lets him know when he’s hit his target and Jason smirks as he’s finally released.

“You’re thirteen, you’re a baby.”

“I am not!”

-he passes through the room, trailing an arm over the chair that he once couldn’t bring himself to even sit in. When Bruce had guided him into the dining room the first time, Jason had shied away from opulent furniture and gilded dishes. 

But as Alfred had started bringing out the food, even Jason couldn’t hold out for too long, and he had slowly crept his way closer and closer to the table, before finally climbing into the chair that Bruce had pulled out for him. 

It had been one of the most memorable nights of Jason’s life- even now, he could still remember the way Alfred had silently slid over dishes Jason had been to hesitant to reach for himself, the way Bruce hadn’t even blinked an eye when Jason had pocketed a few rolls before finally breaking one into pieces and dunking it in the stew before he bit into it ravenously. 

Jason stares at the chair, considering it for a second longer before pulling it away from the table. He drops to his hands and knees, feeling under the table for the mark he had scratched into the thick oak table years ago. It takes a second for him to find it, and he has to feel around for a while, but eventually, he can trace the rough shape of the ‘J’ and the ‘T’, and the ‘W’ that had been added in later. 

It’s closer to the edge of the table than he remembers, but maybe that has something to do with the fact that his arm is much longer than the last time he had absentmindedly traced the letters while sitting at the dinner table.

-

Jason keeps his eyes on the end of the hallway as he passes through the gallery of framed family photographs on the walls. He doesn’t know which would be worse: seeing pictures of himself from before, or seeing that they’re all gone.

The door to the library is open as he passes it, and even now, Jason is helpless to pass it by. He steps into the room, nostalgia and familiarity enveloping him in a wave of emotions that Jason isn’t ready to wade through. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be.

There’s a worn-in armchair next to the window, a basket of books against its side. One of the shelves is organized half by the color of their spines, and the rest is still in the original order. 

-

“It just looks better this way, B.” Jason insists, pulling all the red-spined books from the first shelf and starting at the top. 

Bruce watches him struggle with his unwieldy armful and shakes his head as he gets up from his place by the fire to help hold the books while Jason slots them into place. “And how are we ever going to find something we’re looking for ever again?” he questions amusedly. 

Jason stops his work and raises an eyebrow at Bruce, “Are you trying to tell me that you’re gonna look for a book to read in the library?” he waits for Bruce’s non-response for a second before snorting, “ I know where all the books are, and that’s good enough.”

Bruce laughs at Jason’s arrogant confidence, but his fond smile reveals his real feelings about Jason’s undertaking. 

“Alright, alright. I leave the library in your capable hands, bookmaster. Just- make sure you actually finish this project, huh?”

-

The library door slams shut behind him, and Jason stalks out of the room, more rattled than he’d expected to be affected by anything in this stupidly huge house. 

He walks without purpose now, opening doors at whim, trying to gauge if he can remember every one. It’s easier than he thought it would be, familiar doors opening on instinct. Jason feels like he’s playing a giant game of ‘Find The Differences’ as he passes through each room, spotting new rugs or window coverings or furniture. 

Eventually, he finds himself meandering into the family wing. 

If he remembers correctly- and he probably does all too well- Dick’s door is nearest the staircase. Once, Dick had told him that he used to sleep in the room that was right next to Bruce’s, but as he grew up, it turned out it was easier to sneak in and out of the Manor when he wasn’t one wall away from his father figure. 

Bruce’s room is at the end of the hall; the master suite with its double french doors and giant ensuite and a bed big enough for three whole people. Jason had been afraid of that room once; of the bed and what its size meant for Jason and what went on behind the double doors. He thinks the scared street kid that had skirted past the door every night would be shocked at the kid that had willfully pounced onto the king bed later. 

-

Jason throws open the double doors, letting them slam carelessly against the wall with matching thuds. 

Bruce sits up like he’s been shocked at the arresting noise, but when he spots Jason grinning at the entrance, he groans and falls back to the mattress. 

“Please, Jaylad, not today.”

But Bruce’s pleas fall on deaf ears as Jason ramps a running start to launch himself onto the mattress with a flip, executing a perfect front tuck inches away from Bruce’s sensitive, squishy organs. 

“Yes, today! You promised we would go to the amusement park in Metropolis and we have to get there before the lines get really long so you have to get up so we can leave now.” Peeling Bruce’s eyelids open with his fingers, Jason kneels over Bruce’s face, reminding him of the passionate promise Bruce had made him one night when Jason had off-handedly mentioned never having been. 

He loves Jason, but he also loves his sleep, and Bruce hadn’t known that he would have to sacrifice one for the other when he had made the promise. 

Bruce groans, rolling over quickly and trapping Jason under him in a single move. Jason laughs and squirms, trying to kick himself free, but it’s useless. 

“If I promise you I’ll get all the fast passes for the rides, can I get another hour of sleep, please? I don’t even think it’s eight am yet.”

Jason stops wriggling to consider and then nods up at Bruce. 

“Okay, deal. Now get off, you big boob. I’m about to be a pancake over here, and I never agreed to get you breakfast in bed.”

-

His hand hovers over the doorknob, and Jason ignores the way that it shakes. It’s the adrenaline, the anger, that’s vibrating through him. Nothing more. 

A steadying breath chokes its way past the knot in his throat before Jason shakes his head, trying to clear away memories even as they flood in, and turns the handle, shoving the door wide and sending it to bang against the wall. 

Except it doesn’t.

A discreet foam stopper halts the momentum of the heavy door, silencing its opening.

A solution to a problem that no longer exists. 

-

Inside Bruce’s bedroom, Jason doesn’t know what he’s doing there. Really, he doesn’t know what he’s doing here at the Manor at all. It hadn’t been a part of his initial plan and he hadn’t had any intention of being back here ever again. 

But as he had re-entered Gotham, every part of him had suddenly yearned to be here, to be back, to be home- and Jason had been almost paralyzed as he’d watched his body, his instincts, taking over to bring him here. 

The desperate pull had eased as he’d slipped onto the grounds of Wayne Manor and settled further as Jason entered the home itself, and now, drained of all emotion and adrenaline, all he wants to do is curl up somewhere dark and quiet. He doesn’t have the emotional energy to make the trek back through the house, to re-experience all the revelations that seemed to have enlightened themselves upon him. Jason doesn’t want to do any of it anymore, and he’s not quite sure how much of everything that encompasses yet. 

It’s dark inside the room, like it often was when Jason would silently crawl under the covers with Bruce, afraid and trembling after a nightmare. Bruce never questioned his motives or made him doubt his welcome, and he would get tucked under a heavy, warm, arm without another word. 

A chill passes over him, and suddenly, Jason is very cold, and very tired. 

Light flashes in the window, and he flinches, dropping to the ground on instinct. A few seconds pass and then a roll of thunder, loud and strong, echoes through the hills of Bristol, reverberating against the windows of the Manor like a heavy drum beat. 

The rain starts up its own rhythm a few minutes later, and Jason is still lying on the floor, eyes still entranced out the windows. Unmoving, he watches the droplets start to gather on the glass before they begin their trailing dance down the pane, moving faster and faster to the symphony of the storm, backlit by the perfectly timed flashes of lightning. 

Jason blinks as the lightning flares again, and realization strikes him just as the thunder does outside. 

It’s raining. 

No, it’s more than that. 

It’s storming outside. 

Gotham’s nightlife does not do well in the rain. 

He looks down at his wrist instinctively, but there’s no watch there, and he has no idea how long he’s been zoning out. The bat and his brood could be back at any minute, and Jason is still deep inside the Manor with no way of escaping undetected. 

The routes he had planned out are compromised now, with no idea of where the Bats are and where they could appear. His bike is hidden, tucked away behind a copse of trees too thick to be found unless you know it’s there, but Jason has no way of getting out that far without exposing himself to the cameras that will no doubt be swiveling as the vigilantes re-enter the cave, on the lookout for any tails that might have been missed.

He’s trapped. 

Suddenly, all he can hear is rain, all he can see is the wash of water over the windows, the smell of petrichor burning his nostrils. He’s blinded by the storm, and there’s no way out of this for him. 

Jason stumbles forward, blood-pumping-breath-racing-heart-thudding; there is no logic left in him. He wonders if there ever was- whatever reason he had to put himself in this situation in the first place might have made sense then, but now it was just the reason that he would be forced to confront the Bats unarmed and unprepared. 

A door knob rattles in his palm, and Jason grips it and flings it open, throwing himself into the space in front of him. It isn’t the wide walls and long expanse of the hallway that greets him, however; it’s a dark enclosed space, quiet and still and soft, and Jason finds himself falling to his knees. 

He shoves himself into a corner, trying to hide from whatever, whoever is coming after him again, but there’s a brush of fabric over his head that he ducks to avoid, but it doesn’t leave. Jason growls, more tired than angry, more scared than frustrated, and the fabric comes down on him. 

He shoves it away, but it feels familiar under his hands. He turns it over and over, balling it up and bringing it close to his chest, but he’s stopped as he hears the muffled sound of crinkling paper within. 

The quiet in the room is calming, and Jason’s breaths even, and his mind starts to settle the longer he sits in the dark space, knees pulled close and tight. 

Time passes silently, save for his steady breathing, and logic returns to Jason. He can’t sit here forever; even if these moments have been the most peaceful he’s had in a long time. 

He’s not ready yet, to face them, to face the reality that he was pulled ruthlessly out of and then thrust back into. He needs more time.

Unfortunately, that’s the one thing he doesn’t have. 

Eventually, he decides he’s ready to emerge from wherever he holed himself up in and make his way out of the Manor- however he has to do it. Jason used to sneak out of here all the time, he can do it again if he has to. 

Climbing to his knees with a groan- he’s not built to sit in these shapes on the ground anymore, Jason lets the fabric in his hands drop as he climbs to stand. His eyes have long adjusted to the darkness, and as he looks around properly for the first time, Jason recognizes the room that he’s in. Well- it might be the size of a room, but it’s Bruce’s closet. Suits in a rainbow of shades of gray and blue and black line the walls, crisply ironed shirts in a uniform row, and ties sorted according to pattern and color. 

There should be a switch just under the-

Light floods the walk-in, and Jason squints away from the brightness for a second, but he smiles victoriously at his success. He looks around, and his eye catches on the fabric that had fallen on him earlier. It’s a suit jacket, one that Jason doesn’t recognize. 

He’s not saying that he knew every one of Bruce’s outfits, but this one was a solid black, which wouldn’t be out of place, except that Bruce had told Jason a million times that no one wore solid black suits except waitstaff and mourners-

Oh. 

Oh.

Suddenly, the room is ten degrees colder- his hands are shaking as he reaches for the jacket, pulling it close to his chest. 

This must be the jacket that- that Bruce wore to his funeral.

When Bruce left Jason buried six feet under, all alone.

The fabric clenches in his hand, under the pressure of his hands curling into tense fists as the possibilities whir through his brain, coming up with scenarios and possibilities that he had been trying not to think about for the past two years. 

It hadn’t been his first thought after he’d been returned to his senses- that had been a whirlpool of anger and bloodlust and rage- but eventually, as he’d calmed, Jason had wondered how his memory had been laid to rest.

He never thought about it too long, though. It usually made him sick. 

Jason turns the jacket over, running his fingers over the collar, across the shoulders, down the lapel. 

-

“Are you gonna help me get dressed?” Bruce asks, smiling at Jason in the mirror as combs his hair into a perfectly tousled mess. 

Jason’s watching him with wide eyes, trying to copy the brush strokes exactly.

“I better- we need you looking your best so you make the most money for the Children’s Hospital. The prettier you look, the more the old ladies will shell out.” Jason says simply, and Bruce snorts in response. 

“I don’t love your logic on that, but… you’re not wrong, Jaylad. Pretty me up.” Bruce laughs, shaking his head with a smile.

Jason scrambles off to get the rolling hanger, pushing it carefully into place next to Bruce. He climbs onto the chaise to reach Bruce’s shoulders, spinning him around so he can help Bruce into his shirt. Bruce instinctively reaches for the buttons, but Jason smacks his hand with an angry noise, spinning him back around. 

“Sorry, sorry!” He apologizes, letting Jason carefully button every single pearl piece into place, tongue stuck out in concentration. 

He pulls the jacket off the hanger behind Jason, who is still lost in his buttoning work and manages to slide an arm into it before Jason notices. 

“Hey! Come onnnn, B!” Crossing his arms petulantly, Jason pouts up at Bruce, who is pulling his cuffs out of his jacket sleeves before Jason can stop him. 

“I’m just trying to help! The faster I get dressed, the faster I can get down there and juice money out of people.”

Jason considers the point for a moment before finally conceding, “Fine.”

Bruce tucks in his cufflinks under Jason’s careful guidance and lets the boy spray him with cologne. 

After washing the taste of his perfume out of his mouth, Bruce stands back for his final check.

“All good?”

“Perfect!”

Bruce ruffles Jason’s hair, and tucks a notecard into his inside pocket before adjusting a few strands of his hair into some specific order.

“What’s that?” Jason asks, peering out from under Bruce’s arm where he’s back to watching him.

Bruce pulls out the card, showing the writing on it to Jason. “It’s what I’m gonna say for today’s speech. I always keep the important notes for an event right here, that way I can’t lose them.”

Jason reads over the little script and nods, and then digs around in his pockets, fishing out a tiny pencil. He holds out his hand, and Bruce hands over the notecard agreeably.

Flipping it over, Jason carefully writes out something on the back, before climbing up onto the counter to tuck it into Bruce’s pocket himself. 

“There, that’s my important note for you.”

-

The crinkling noise of paper comes from the inside pocket, and Jason flips the jacket open to pull out whatever is stuffed in there. 

It’s not a notecard. It’s a sheath of papers, handwritten and folded over on themselves. Each page is different stationery, and the paper is almost soft with use. Deep creases mar the pages, folds opened and reopened again and again. 

Jason’s holding in his hands the notes that Bruce kept from his funeral. It’s one of the most foreboding things he’s ever held; the things that Bruce said about him in the aftermath of his death. 

The temptation to open them is strong. To reveal what Bruce really thought of Jason, but he knows that’s not what you say at a funeral. You say nice, fake things that make everything think the person that died was perfect and that you loved them. 

Jason knows that’s not how he ended it with Bruce.

-

He finds himself back under the suit racks, this time on purpose. The space beneath the hangers is just big enough for him to curl up, and he doesn’t want to open these pages without some semblance of protection, however flimsy it is. He would be lying to himself if he said he was ready, but Jason took a deep breath, and flipped it open, revealing the handwritten notes. 

Bruce, I'm going to Africa.

I need to find out where I really am from. I'm sorry. I didn't do it. I swear.

Alfred says you'll get over it, but I don't want to wait. 

If you really forgive me, can we talk when I get back?

Catch you later,

Jason Todd Wayne

This, decidedly, is not the note from Jason’s funeral. 

This is the letter Jason had left in the Batcave before sneaking off to Ethiopia with the misguided understanding that his birth mother might want him. 

-

He remembers writing the letter. Nervous and twitchy and looking over his shoulder for Alfred the whole time, but not Bruce, who had benched Robin before he’d gone out on patrol. Jason had thought that it would only be a quick trip, that it would end in a joyful reunion, that he would come back to Gotham with his mother, and that Bruce would finally be ready to talk.

Well… at least he came back with his mother. 

Jason shuffles the papers, slipping his first note behind the stack. He has an inkling he knows what these papers really are now. 

Bruce,

I'm leaving this message at the front desk so you know where I'm going

because I know you're weird like that.

There's an aid camp in the desert, It's only like 2 hours away.

Please don't come after me. I need to do this myself.

-Jason

That one, Jason had written leaning over the counter at the hotel, under the watchful eye of the concierge. When Jason had asked for a ride out to his destination, the man had been immediately suspicious, and it had taken a lot of sweet-talking to convince the man that he was meant to be out there. Eventually, it had taken agreeing to leave behind a message for the man to let him go. 

Jason huffed out a wry laugh. He would have been better off listening to that poor front-desk man after all. 

But Jason knew himself, and when he made up his mind to do something, he would do anything to get it done. Nothing could have stopped Jason from going out into the desert that day. 

-

The next page isn’t in Jason’s handwriting.

It’s the sloppy cursive that Bruce left in all of Jason’s birthday cards, on his A+ test results, on his field trip forms, on his adoption papers… on his death certificate. 

Jason I’m sorry, I’m so sorry

Please come back 

My boy, my baby, my son.

Please, please p l e a s e

give him back.

Give him back

Give HIM BACK

The last line scrawls off into a messy slash of angry lines across the rest of the page. Each word is barely legible, the handwriting shaky and off-kilter, the lines unsteady and sprawling. It feels like Jason is soaking up Bruce’s grief just as he holds the page in his hand. It's crumpled and creased and the ink is slightly faded, but Jason can see the pain written in every word nonetheless. 

It drops from his hands, fluttering to the floor like a butterfly. When it lands on his foot, Jason jerks it away like it's burned him. 

-

The next page is wrinkled with water damage. Not all over, like it was doused in a spill, but more in spots, like the water was sprinkled over the paper. Like the writer was crying as he wrote, and didn’t bother to wipe the tears away on a letter the recipient was never going to read. 

Jason, my son.

Leslie says I need therapy, to talk to someone. I can’t.

I have so much to say, but only to you, Jason. 

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted you. I love you more than anything. I would give up anything in the world to see you again. 

Forgive me, Jason. I should have known, I should have found you soon, I should have made sure you were safe.

Somedays, I wish I could follow you wherever you’ve gone. The darkness of this city consumes me without your light. 

I miss you Jason. 

Love,

Dad
   Bruce

Jason’s hands shake as he holds the letter. The words swim in front of his eyes as he reads them over and over. 

It’s everything he wanted to hear. Everything he thought he would never hear again. The words that rang through his ears at night as he lay in the compound at Nanda Parbat, that he imagined Bruce whispering in his ears. 

The page blurs, and Jason’s teardrops join the marks of Bruce’s on the letter. 

There are more letters in his hands, but Jason can’t read anymore. He sets them all aside and takes up the jacket again, burying his face in it, letting it soak up the rest of his tears. 

Sobs tear out of him, furious and devastated and fulfilled and yearning, and Jason lets them flow for the first time. He lets himself mourn his death and his life and his relationship with Bruce, his father, and everything he never got to do- to live , because of one stupid misunderstanding. Jason just lets himself fall apart, curled into a ball in the corner of Bruce’s closet. 

-

A door bangs open, in the distance, and Jason can hear footsteps echo through the halls. A part of him is aware that this is a cause for concern, but reality is distant and hazy right now, and Jason can’t be arsed to consider the consequences of his actions right now. 

Doors are slamming closer and closer to his location, but Jason is unmoving. He can hear someone running into Bruce’s room now, but only by the thud of footsteps, not the door. 

The door of the walk-in closet is cracked open, and there’s a quick intake of air before someone walks up to Jason, and crouches down next to him. 

A hand falls on his shoulder, and Jason turns to face whoever has found him. 

Instinct pulls the words out of him before Jason can try to hold himself back.

“Dad?”

Bruce rears back, eyes widening in shock and he looks like he’s seen a ghost- well, probably because he has.

“Jay- Jason?”

Jason doesn’t respond, doesn’t give Bruce a chance to process, and just launches himself forward, pushing Bruce back with his momentum and landing on top of him, sprawled together on the floor. 

Beneath him, Bruce is stiff, like any well-trained vigilante would be when seemingly attacked by a specter of their dead son, but as Jason presses his face to Bruce’s chest, kneeling over him with his head bent low, Bruce unravels slowly. 

A hand caresses through Jason’s hair, shaky and delicate, like he’s a house of cards that will topple at any moment, like he’s a mirage to blow away with a puff. 

“Are- Is this real?” Bruce asks, and his voice is a kind of heartbreaking hope that Jason has never heard from him before, and it rattles a part of Jason that he doesn’t want to identify.

Jason lifts his head and locks gazes with Bruce, green bloodshot eyes staring into dark blue ones. The space around them goes silent, the world still for the few moments it takes for the both of them to soak up the other’s presence. It lasts for what seems like an eternity, Bruce’s eyes desperately tracing over Jason’s face, Jason watching the expression crumple further and further on Bruce’s face, until finally, they break. 

Letting out a rough cry of Jason’s name, Bruce pulls Jason back towards himself, wrapping his strong arms around Jason and squeezing tight enough to deflate all the anger and fear and frustration bubbling inside Jason, and he crumples to his father’s chest, his tears resuming their freefall.

“My boy, my Jason, oh you’re alive, Jason, you’re back, sweetheart-” He’s rambling , Jason thinks as he lets himself rest against Bruce’s chest, listening to his heartbeat thud steadily underneath him. Jason can’t remember the last time Bruce had lost control of his words, of himself like this; he wonders morbidly if Bruce had reacted similarly the last time he’d found him- dead in that warehouse. 

But Jason knows Bruce better than that. He knows that grief makes Bruce shut down; cold and hard and unwavering. 

This?

This is something else.

“I’m- I’m not who I used to be,” Jason admits quietly, after enough time has passed that his tongue sticks when he tries to speak again. The words are spoken lightly, almost casually, but subconsciously, he knows that this is a test for Bruce, “The boy that you loved? The one you wrote all those letters for? He’s dead.”

Bruce’s face doesn’t change as he speaks, even as Jason watches for every little twitch of a tell that he’d once mapped out.

“I am what crawled out of that grave.” That does hit, Jason can tell in the way Bruce’s eyes go slightly pinched at the corners. “I am what wandered the streets of Gotham for weeks. I am what was dipped into the Lazarus Pit and dragged out kicking and screaming. I am what the League of Assassins trained me to be. I am what I am now, not what I was before.”

Jason is panting slightly in the aftermath as the words he’s been stewing on for so long escape him almost without permission. His eyes dart away from Bruce, unable to bear the pain of watching him shut down, watching him push Jason away as he realizes what he’s become. 

Unwilling to let it happen to him, Jason tries to back away from Bruce, but the arms around him only tighten. There is only a single spark of fear that bursts through him before he gives up resistance, and Bruce pushes them both up to sitting without letting go.

“ Who you are now is still my son. You are who I love. You are who I will always love, no matter what, Jason.”

Peering directly into Bruce’s eyes, Jason watches him for any sign of discomfort or deception, but as far as Jason can see into the depths of Bruce’s soul, there is nothing but love and a promise of home, and finally, Jason takes in a shuddering breath and slowly lets it go. 

He buries his face back into Bruce’s neck, arms wrapping under his hands under Bruce’s shoulders and breathing in deeply. He still smells like the Gotham night, wet and damp with a tinge of the chemically smog that never quite leaves the aroma of anyone who ventures out into the city. It’s familiar and comforting and decidedly like home. 

This is not the last that they’ll talk of this, Jason knows. There is so much conversation and resolution that needs to happen; Bruce will apologize to Jason all over again, Jason will make his case to Bruce about his vengeance, and Jason’s pretty sure that he’s going to have to abandon all the other plans he had made, but-

For now, this is enough.