Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason’s been Robin for two months. Two months of Batman hovering anxiously through patrols and stakeouts and fights. Two months of skinned knees, scrapes, and bruises. Two months of sarcastic quips and teasing grins and soft, flitting gazes when Batman ruffles his hair or offers carefully constructed praise on the way back to the cave. Two months of keeping Jason safe. 

Until now. 

Suddenly, Bruce is years younger, hovering over nine-year-old Dick after an ill-fated dodge sent him careening off a roof and onto a busted ankle. Bruce remembers the sour press of fear that came with Dick's first injury. He remembers shaking, bundling Dick into his arms, walking him to the Batmobile. He remembers Dick digging his head into Bruce’s neck as he cried. He remembers the familiarity that came with each ensuing injury, the instinct to pull Dick close and let him coast out the upset. Over the years, Bruce has gotten comfortable ruffling hair and squeezing arms. Brushing away tears. 

But now…Jason isn’t crying.

His eyes are red but dry, his lips bloodless in the crush of clenched teeth. He sits, sprawled on the ground, hand hovering uselessly over the awkwardly twisted mess of his shoulder, toes digging into the dirt as his muscles flex uselessly against pain. 

He doesn't scramble into Bruce's arms like they were crafted to hold him. 

He's...not Dick. 

It's Jason who's here, who's hurt. And Jason needs something different—something Bruce needs to give. Something Bruce needs to learn.

Bruce gulps down a swallow of nerves, pushing aside his own uncertainly, and drops to Jason's side. "Robin," he says quietly. 

Instantly, Jason pulls back. His eyes cut to Batman, twisting so his body shields his injured shoulder. Something small and fleeting floods his eyes. Something Bruce hasn’t seen since Jason accidentally dropped a plate his first month at the manor—his small, child toes surrounded by pointed shards as he stumbled away from the mess. From Bruce. 

“I-I’m fine,” Jason says, staggering onto his feet, a cry of pain caged between his teeth. His throat works, he blinks rapidly. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Bruce says immediately, staying crouched as Jason tilts back, catching himself against a brick wall. His chest rises and falls and the boy— Bruce’s boy —winces as the movement jostles his injury. Jason slides down, curling against the wall.

“I should have seen him,” Jason says, every word and fearful flick of his gaze misguided and painful. Bruce wants to yank Jason into his head, to show him the things he sees. The things that need to happen and the correct concerns to have—because Bruce isn’t mad at Jason, he’s not going to do anything to Jason. He’s mad at the unconscious man sprawled, bloody, on the ground behind them. He wants to wrap Jason in painkillers and warm blankets and carry him into an hour ago, before Batman failed to protect Robin once again. 

“It’s okay,” Bruce says instead, again, because that’s what he can do. “Can I see?” 

Jason gulps. His breaths are still coming too quick, the paleness in his cheeks flooding down his neck. 

"I'm sorry," he says. 

“I want to help,” Bruce reminds him. “I'm here to help."

Jason's tongue flicks out over white, chapped lips. His eyes dart. His good arm curls around his hiked legs, stowing them against the safety of his middle. "I know," he mumbles with a sniff.

"Chum," Bruce says, the word aching. "Take some deep breaths."

That finally gets a new reaction—Jason bristles at the order. The insinuation, that he needs to be coached through control. "'M fine," he says.

"You will be." Bruce's voice remains steady, unchanged. "We just have to...get you fixed up. And then I'll get you home—"

“Fix it,” Jason interrupts, grimacing. But he doesn’t pull back, even though he’s well aware what 'fixing' means.

Bruce takes it as a sign to shuffle closer.

“I’ll be careful,” Bruce promises. He holds up a hand. 

“Wait,” Jason says. “Wait, wait, wait—”

Bruce stops. “I want to help,” he coaxes.

The sight of Jason's arm, twisted and jutted awkwardly behind the dirt-smeared expanse of Robin’s colors is making him nauseous himself, and he doesn’t want to imagine the pain Jason is in. If this was Dick, he would have trusted Bruce to jerk the limb into correction instantly. But, Bruce reminds himself, rushing into this could do more than good. 

So he rests back on his heels, palm up, and waits. 

Jason sucks harsh breaths between ground teeth and squirms in vivid anxiety. Sweat and grime clings to his hair, his skin, his uniform. Bruce forces his gaze away from the kid, dragging over their surrounds. The box of Gotham street—smoggy air and wet, dirt-packed asphalt. Bruce has a keen awareness of slack bodies, serial muggers, tied up and waiting for Gotham PD's pick-up just an alleyway over. Soon, Bruce will need to make a move, to take Jason away from here no matter his condition. Bruce is growing restless, trying to hide his own concerns. 

And then.

“B,” Jason says.

And then he’s gritting his teeth and sucking in a terrified, pained breath as he nods sharply. Bruce's hands fall into position. The shoulder has popped forward—Bruce knows what to do. He takes a steadying breath of his own, and then, he doesn’t bother to count. 

The sickening, organic clenching and grinding of moved bone, paired with the sharp cry that bursts from Jason’s throat, has Bruce grimacing, his stomach squeezing. “All done,” he says quickly. Slowly, movements orchestrated, he drags Jason to stand at his side.

He’s so little, he’s so small. Jason barely comes up to his chest. Bruce folds his arms around his son, and they stay like that for a long moment. He would stay longer, nose tickled by the hair under his chin, but they've stayed here too long. They're too vulnerable.

“Robin,” Bruce mumbles, too soon. “We need to return to the cave.” 

Jason keeps his good arm wrapped around Bruce. He shakes his head.

“I want Agent A to take a look at your shoulder,” Bruce says.

Jason shakes his head again, sagging against him. Bruce feels something stir. Tonight’s been one event after another, remembering Robin, Dick’s Robin. Even having worked through Jason's instead, Bruce is prompted into old, muscle memory. He moves, acclimated to physical affection by a baby acrobat in a way Jason hasn’t allowed yet, but that he doesn’t resist now. 

Bruce scoops him up. He’s too old to sit on Bruce’s hip, but he fits right in his arms. In a practiced move he doesn’t think twice about, Bruce slips his cape around the boy, tucking fabric around him.

“B…” Jason says, voice shy. Bruce is relieved to hear it, tentativity replacing panic. 

“It’ll be okay now,” Bruce says, walking them to the car. “You’re safe.” 

Jason doesn’t speak again as Bruce opens the Batmobile door, settling him into the passenger’s side. The most he moves is to flinch when Bruce goes to buckle him. Bruce mumbles something comforting and tries again, slowly, carefully, as Jason’s hands clench around his cape, eyes squeezing. Bruce detaches the curtain of black fabric in one fluid movement, tucking it around Jason’s waist before slipping into his own seat and starting the ride back to the cave. Jason nibbles on his bruising lip. 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Bruce chides. 

Jason nods and stretches the cape around nervous fingers instead. 

There’s a brief conversation with Alfred over the coms, mentioning the injury, explaining why their trackers show them heading back so early. Bruce barely hears it though. His eyes cut a well-worn path back and forth to Jason, scanning him. 

Logically, Bruce knows he’s okay. A dislocated shoulder is a drop in the bucket compared to the pain and injuries of most vigilantes and heroes. Logically, Bruce knows he, and Dick, have had worse. That eventually, despite the raging heat behind his ribcage that says he won’t allow it to happen, Jason will be injured again. Logically, Bruce knows he shouldn’t be worried. 

But he is. 

Bruce drives them back to the cave, the remnant warmth of Jason curling close, small, breakable, burrowing into him. Far from the first time, he regrets it. Letting Dick become Robin. Letting Jason follow in his footsteps. 

Letting his sons face this kind of danger. 

Bruce mentally sighs, fingers curling tight around the inanimate cold of the Batmobile’s wheel. He glances again at Jason, eyes red, hands wrung, still shaking. Hurt. 

For a moment, Bruce pushes aside logic. 

I won’t let it happen, he decides, heart hammering. I won’t let him get hurt again. 

Bruce turns into the cave, parking the Batmobile, twisting to help Jason with the seatbelt before he can reach for it himself. His thumb finds a speck of dirt smudged carelessly across Jason’s cheekbone, rubbing it away, so gentle that Jason can only pause, surprised. 

Bruce sighs softly, and makes himself a promise. 

I’ll do better for you.

Chapter Text

Bruce dives to the side, avoiding a wild, desperate swing of an ax. The man wielding the weapon falters at the sight of Batman unharmed. He takes a step back, hands fidgeting on the handle of the weapon, arms twitching as he rears back for another go—

Bruce delivers an undercut that sends him sprawling. 

The rest of the fight goes the same—he weaves in and out of untrained forms and thoughtless attacks. Most of the thugs go down with one hit, or two. He puts more work into pulling his punches if anything, more occupied on keeping an eye on Robin. 

It’s Jason’s first night out in weeks—recovering from a nasty fall. Bruce knows Jason has experience as a crime fighter now. Has been Robin for years. But for some reason, Bruce feels almost as protective as his first patrol all over again.

Clearly, Jason doesn’t have the same hesitance. 

Robin is a blur of bright colors in the darkness of the old junkyard. He flips off abused and rusting cars, diving between the legs of surprised gunmen—a whirl of energy and smart-mouth and clever fighting. Dirty fighting. He aims between the legs, steps on toes, pulls long hair. His efficiency as Robin has improved over the years. He's different from the flashy acrobatics Dick showed off, but just as effective. And, as it’s quickly proven, in just as much danger. 

One moment Bruce’s attention is flitting away, focusing on disarming a gunman as bullets thud and scatter across mudded earth. And then, comes the cry. 

Pain. Surprise. Fear. 

Jason. 

Bruce doesn’t bother with care—he delivers a savage kick to his current opponent, ignoring the way the woman goes sprawling across the ground, limp. He dives across the clearing. The modulation warps his shout into something furious. “Robin!”

And every criminal in the vicinity freezes—but not Jason. Jason whirls into motion, a flash of green and red and wide eyes that goes barreling into Bruce’s direction at the order.

They come together in synchrony. Jason dives into Bruce’s side, Bruce’s arm outstretches, gripping him tight and yanking him closer, half behind him. Jason's half curled into Bruce’s cape, face pale.

“Robin,” Bruce breathes. 

His instincts roll over. He has to subdue these people, he has to keep Jason safe. But he’s reluctant to separate from Robin when he’s injured. So he pulls out Bat-A-Rangs and medium-range gadgets. 

Some of the criminals flee, few get away, and in moments most are sprawled on the ground from a mix of viciously aimed Bat-A-Rangs and well-placed rounds of knock-out gas. As soon as those who remain lay unconscious, Bruce turns his attention back to his son. 

Jason’s retracted his rebreather and sucks deep breaths from it. Bruce wastes no time, ducking to enclose him in his arms. He carries him away from the remains of fighting, and any lingering traces of gas. 

Jason fights him—of course he does, dammit—and Bruce reluctantly puts him down at what he gauges a safe distance. Immediately, Bruce is placing his hands on Jason’s shoulders—still so narrow, too narrow—and pulling him to arms length to scan him. 

An awful mix of relief and worry flood him. The injury isn’t mortal, but it’s ugly. 

“Ow!” Jason hisses, as Bruce’s fingers prod gently at his collarbone, tracing the terrible lurch in bone and flesh and skin that sticks out against the colorful expanse of his uniform. 

“Sorry,” Bruce says immediately, pressure sliding alone, feeling, his mind tracking the damage. He categorizes the injury, listing the risks in his head, but the background of his mind skids with splashes of red alarm and bright, blurring fear. “Where else?” Bruce asks. 

Jason shakes his head. His lip is caught between his teeth, his eyebrows worry together. A sheen of sweat is highlighted on his pale forehead in the glaring spotlight of an idling, abandoned car. He sucks sharp inhales, grimacing with each. “Fine,” Jason spits.

“Robin,” Bruce says, hiding a helpless tone. His hand hovers over the injury. “Any difficulty breathing?”

Jason shakes his head, even as his shoulders spawn up and down with the pain each respiration causes. “Ribs are okay,” he gasps. 

Bruce almost wouldn’t believe him, but they were quick to stamp out any of Jason’s inclination to hide injuries when he was training to be Robin. And over the last couple of years, that lesson has been hammered home more than once. He knows better than to lie to Bruce about something important like a chest injury. 

“Alright,” Bruce says, already calling the Batmobile to their location. He runs a hand down Jason’s arm on his uninjured side, squeezing. “We’ll get you home, chum.” 

Jason lists into his side. 

And bursts into silent tears. 

“Shh,” Bruce murmurs, pulling him into his arms, rubbing up and down his back. His cape gets thrown over both of them, curled around Jason like a cocoon. “I’ve got you. Agent A’ll take a look in a little while—just hold on.” 

Jason sniffs, and there’s a ripple of movement under the cape as he digs his nose into Bruce’s side. “Sorry,” Jason tells his shoulder. 

“You’re alright,” Bruce tells him. “Not your fault.” 

Jason makes a noncommittal noise. Then, sharply, he mumbles, “Hurts.”

“I know, chum,” Bruce whispers back. “I know.” 

Soon, the Batmobile will be back. They’ll take it to the cave, and Alfred will examine the injury and take x-rays and determine if a visit with Dr. Leslie is necessary. Soon, Bruce will have Jason home, will have medical treatment for him, and food, and water, and warm blankets, and whatever book or movie he wants. Bruce will move the moon for his comfort tonight. 

But for now—Bruce pulls his boy close, as close as he can, and tucks his cape in, closing gaps with night air. There’s a realization when Bruce does it, an understanding about the way Jason’s grown. He doesn’t fit into the crook of Bruce’s side the way he used to. But he does fit. For a little while longer, at least, Bruce will keep him underwing. 

Rocking Jason gently back and forth, Bruce mumbles comforting things while he still can. 

“I have you,” Bruce says. “I have you.”

Chapter Text

“You should go back to the cave,” Batman says, not for the first time. 

Robin’s crossed arms pull tighter. “I’m fine.” 

Batman disagrees. But, deciding the back and forth has gone on long enough, he offers up the carrot. “Agent A will have hot chocolate made.”

“B,” Robin says, shooting him a look of disgust. “That won’t work on me—I’m not twelve.” 

Batman’s lip twitches. “I didn’t realize you could outgrow the cold.” 

Robin looks away, cape swishing around his thighs where he’s rolled himself in its confines. Not that it’s helping much—he’s practically vibrating with cold. Batman can even see a concerning tinge of pale white, almost blue, on the tips of his ears. “I did,” Robin mumbles, to be contrary, Batman’s sure. 

And then Robin shivers again, violently. His hands are squeezed into the space between his arms and chest. His body is bowed over slightly. Batman can hear the connection of uncontrolled teeth. 

“Robin,” Batman tries again. “You’ve been out here for hours—there won’t be any criminal activity in this cold. Go warm up.” 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Robin says.

Batman sighs.

He misses the preteen who couldn’t wait to curl up in the Batmobile. Robin would chat his ear off on their way back to the cave, where Alfred would be waiting with hot drinks—coffee for Bruce, hot chocolate for Jason—to sip on while they cleaned up and went upstairs for a late night movie. Bruce misses the way Jason would giggle when he pretended to take his drink. How he would beg Bruce to watch some kind of romantic drama, and then turn red and sheepish when Bruce made him close his eyes. How he’d lean into Bruce’s arm when the night finally tuckered him, and fall asleep like that. How he’d pretend to stay asleep when Bruce scooped him into his arms and brought him to bed.

These days? That Jason is rare. It feels like for the last few months, he’s had more surly nights than not. His striving for independence isn’t as extreme as Dick’s was—but the teenage angst is there, nonetheless. 

“I’m asking you,” Batman offers, for peace. He’s not asking.

Robin shakes his head. “I can stay.” 

“Robin,” Batman says firmly. “You’re not even in your thermal uniform.” 

“Torn,” Robin mumbles in explanation, but hunkers over himself at the well-landed point.

Batman appraises him. The way he stomps his feet every few minutes, fingers staying clenched in the folds of his arms and torso, nose running and red from angry wrist-swipes against the fragile skin. And his poor ears—practically blue. 

It’s not a question—Batman needs to get his partner warmed up. And clearly, it’ll be a battle to get Robin home anytime soon. Which…it is early, to send Robin in. Especially on a weekend, when he’s more likely to put up a fuss. 

Batman sighs. He calls the Batmobile to their location, crosses to crouch below a wind-breaking gargoyle, and pats the rooftop at his side. “C’mere.” 

“W-what?” Robin says, teeth chattering. 

Batman withholds another sigh—a couple of years prior, and Robin would have run over, practicing one of Dick’s passed-along acrobatics, skidding to an eager stop at Batman’s side, possibly bowling into him in the process. 

His youngest, growing up. 

It was painful enough the first time. 

“Come,” Batman says again, voice edged with the tone that calls Robins from unexpected explosions, ambushes, sudden gas attacks. It’s uncompromising. 

Robin comes. 

He settles onto the rooftop at Batman’s side, slow-going and battling stiff limbs. He groans as he sits on the inanimate freeze of the rooftop concrete. “Now what?”

But actions speak louder than words. Batman doesn’t give Robin a chance to argue, reaching out to grab him around the shoulder and pull him closer. On uncertain, numb limbs, Robin practically tumbles into his side. 

“B!” Robin objects. 

But Batman ignores his scrambling to regain his balance, just dragging Robin as close as he can without pulling his son into his lap—he knows not to push his luck so far. Batman’s cape gets looped around, coils of heavy-duty fabric, heat-lined for the weather. With Robin underwing, Batman searches the compartments on his belt, pulling out some heat packs. Robin’s shoes are too tight, custom to his feet, to fit shoe warmers. But they get strapped over the top, a second pair thrusted into his hands. 

Robin, of course, grumbles. “I don’t need any of this. We should be watching the street.”

“Gotham is quiet,” Batman reasons back. And besides, Alfred is on guard, monitoring the police scanners, and their own surveillance, for criminal activity. Should Batman and Robin be needed, they’ll come to call. But for now, it appears the criminal element has a similar reluctance to brave the chill. Their presence on the streets tonight is to placate Robin, if anything. 

“I was okay though,” Robin makes a point to announce, as Batman goes on tucking the cape around his feet, pulling it up to his chin. Batman uses a hand to pull Robin into his side more fully, intending to guard his ears, only more blue, but Robin resists this. “I’m fine, B.” 

“Hm.” 

“I’m not a kid,” Robin doubles down. 

You are though, Batman thinks. You’re mine. 

“You don’t outgrow the cold,” he repeats, instead. Even as a bullheaded teenager. 

Robin rolls his eyes, but lets his head curl closer, glancing with the cover of Batman’s cape. “Fine,” he grumbles. “Only for a minute. Like, two minutes.”

“For a minute,” Batman agrees. The Batmobile should be there by then—ready to bring them home, to Alfred, to his hot chocolate. The thought settles comfortably. Maybe, Bruce thinks tentatively, Jason will even be up for a movie. There’s a new one out, a period piece, based on a novel Bruce spied kicking around Jason’s bedside table. 

“Hey B,” Robin says. 

“Hn?”

Robin’s face is flushed red, cold. His hands are balled up into gloved paws that he presses between Batman’s kevlar and Robin’s ‘R’. His mouth is open, on the cusp of saying something, only to close. A moment later, Robin mumbles something else, something that sounds less intended. “You’re hogging the cape.” 

But Bruce hears what Jason doesn’t say, with the way his hair tickles under-chin and his weight slumps marginally closer.

Bruce huffs a small laugh. “Take all you need.”

Chapter Text

The numbness crawls into place. Where the flat of his knees press against ashes and debris. Where his lungs flex against smoke-soaked air. Where his heart pumps leaden blood, crystallized and heavy in his chest, turning to the cold press of stone. Bruce’s fingers clutch the torn remnants of Robin Red. His thighs are damp with cool blood. He can’t move. 

Bruce sits there, static spreading up his limbs, from his midline, eating and chewing up his body like frosted lava, for an eternity. For minutes. Forever. For seconds. 

Silted ash lands on his eyelashes. He blinks, involuntary, the first twitch. He swallows next. The grit of dust and taste of dimes  in the hollows of his mouth, sticking down his throat. His spine crawls, sweat cooling on his skin as the exertion drains away. He knows this part—this feeling. As the explosion gives to hungry swells of flame that lap away building husk, the smoke will signal. The first responders will trickle in. And at that time, Batman should be gone. Returned to the shadows. To the city. 

But Bruce isn’t in his city. 

He’s in Ethiopia, skyline burning and drenched in smoke. Knees in mud and debris and puddled gore. He’s in Ethiopia, senses capsized, inundated, drowning. 

But not lost.  

Because a part of him, every part of him. Knows. 

Bruce takes in a breath, a painful, shaking inhale. It catches. It threatens to crumble. He threatens to crumble. No—not yet. Bruce’s grip tightens, fabric between fingers. Robin Red. Too much of it. His knuckles pop, the dust between his glove digits cakes and squeezes. Wreckage shifts around him, arching, crumbling. His knees pop. Bent under limp weight he hasn’t held on his lap for so long. And never like this. 

Like this. 

Like….

Bruce’s world crashed down, ceiling splitting open like how glass shatters, clouds plucked from the sky, sun ballooning to expand and crush and white out—

Jason is dead. 

Bruce’s hand shifts, the first of his voluntary movements. It hovers over Jason, moving to where his head is pillowed against Bruce’s knee. His neck is tilted. Bruce runs a hand through his hair, gently repositioning his head. He’ll wake up with kinks otherwise. 

Like a record, catching, stuttering, the thought rewinds and reworks. Waking up. Opening his eyes. It’ll never happen again. 

Gone, gone, gone. 

Like metal spokes splintering his bone, like needle-teeth piercing his body. 

Bruce’s hand makes another pass. 

Jason’s skin is already cold, his blood starting to stick. The things that made him alive, made him move, talk, think, live…. gone. 

The things that made him a bottomless pit at 2 a.m. chili dog runs. Things that made him curl up on the library sofa, traces of baby fat still in his cheeks, puddled against the paper edges of classic titles and blanket coils. Bruce sees Jason stirring a pot with Alfred. Pictured him hiding behind ajar doors, jumping out to give Bruce a heart attack, doubled-over with infectious giggles when he succeeded. Wrestling Dick for a last slice of pepperoni pizza. Blushing scarlet his first trip to the Watchtower, when Diana hoisted him into her arms for an exuberant hug. Whooping as Clark flew him higher than he ever soared. Grinning as he took the Drake’s little boy by the shoulder and tugged him out of a keen-eyed, encroaching crowd. 

Jason, hair curling around his ears, red sweater cuffs folded around his wrists, a chip on his lateral incisor before Bruce dragged him to the dentists to get it filled. Holding Jason’s hand as he looked beseechingly from the exam chair. Jason….

His son. 

Still, dead, gone.

In the wreckage of warehouse, in the gravel of a gored out ground. Sprawled, broken, ruined. 

—there’s a distant part of Bruce. A piece that screams, clawing at his insides, scraping him raw. A part that sees red lips stretched and bleeding around yellow teeth, poised in mirth. Gloves, white, holding knives, holding tire irons, curled into fists. Standing over tied limbs and curled hair, and taking from Bruce something irreparable. It’s a part of Bruce that roars for justice, revenge, for whatever you want to call a return of one-tenth his pain. But that piece pales. That piece gets wrapped up, staked into a corner of his mind. For later—

Bruce runs a hand through bloody strands of hair one more time, the fingerpads of his gloves ghosting over curled ear tips and eyelashes, some singed, some clumped scarlet. One more time. One last time. 

And then, Bruce lifts. 

He doesn’t feel the movements, but he knows which muscle to tense, which bone to shift. He puppets sinew and skin and then he has the limp, empty body of his son curled into his chest, head propped against armored chest plates. His arms wind under the flat of Jason’s back and the crook of his knees. They stand. 

Jason’s head lists, his arm hangs, sways, his feet in open air. 

“Shh,” Bruce says without thinking, all gritty syllable that stuffs up any further words. He could be carrying Jason from the Batmobile, or the couch. Up to bed. School tomorrow. 

But he isn’t. 

Bruce moves a foot, he shifts his weight. Step. Tightens his grip. Step again. They walk, smoking wood and seared metal underfoot. The heat of the warehouse husk billows, hot breath, caustic and encompassing. And Jason, asleep—

Rewind, reword. 

Bruce makes another involuntary move, instincts guiding his touch. The cape is pulled around from Bruce’s shoulders, laid flat around Jason, hooked in the fingers splayed under his back. It shields bruised, split skin. Hides the misshapen curves of snapped bone. It protects Jason, from the singe of castaway sparks. 

It’s not thoughts, that guide Bruce. But hivebrain needs. Urging him here, there. Dragging himself free of a nightmare that doesn’t end, swells of warmth and snatches of cold, sharp edges, torn everything. Bruce keeps walking. Keeps carrying. 

The cape starts to slip—Bruce tucks it closer, dragging it to hide the fragile crease of Jason’s neck as the world comes down around them. 

Home, whispers the hivebrain.

Bruce carries him there.