Archive of Our Own ^beta

Green Arrow did not like Batman very much. It wasn’t an ego thing, really, it wasn’t. The man was insufferable. He always thought he was right, and didn’t work well with others, and was so bullheaded and stubborn and capable, and he set an impossible standard for the rest of the baseline human league members. Okay, so maybe it was a little bit of an ego thing. But seriously how was he, Green Arrow, supposed to compare with Batman . For example right now, Batman was in the thick of battle while Green Arrow provided support off of a nearby roof. Support was an important role! Oliver was a long range combatant! You’d think the fact that he and Batman occupied such different roles on the team would keep the constant comparisons at bay. It did not. 

Arrow adjusted his scope and fired a specialty flash grenade into a crowd of combatants facing off with Diana. He was scanning for his next target, when he saw the big man himself go down in a burst of glowing magenta smoke. Arrow’s heart stuttered. He may not like Batman, but the guy was still a teammate. He kept the scope trained on the spot, watching to see if the Bat got back up. When the smoke cleared though, it wasn’t the Batman’s familiar six foot two frame that emerged. Instead a tiny dark haired boy with impossibly big blue eyes stood blinking in the middle of an active battlefield. If Oliver’s heart had stuttered earlier, now it straight up stopped. He knew that face. He knew that face. He’d never seen it in person, not at that age. By the time he’d met the owner of that face, those eyes had narrowed above high cheekbones. That hair had been firmly corralled, gelled within an inch of its life. Oliver’s boarding school roommate, a teen with piercing blue eyes, and perfectly gelled hair, had a family portrait from before his parents died that lived on his nightstand. Oliver had seen that face staring out from his roommate’s nightstand every day for almost two years. 

That was Bruce Wayne, eight years old. 

Green Arrow flew into action, leaping off the roof and snatching up the child. Bruce couldn’t defend himself like this, and Oliver doubted their opponents would balk at killing a child. And besides that, they had to run from the others too. Diana, and the Flash, their teammates. Because Batman would not appreciate his carefully maintained secret identity being blown. He was going to be mad enough about Oliver figuring it out, there was no need to let it spread further. So Green Arrow scooped the child up, and ran for it. 

The kid was fighting hard to get away from Ollie, so they stopped on a rooftop a mere block or two away from the action. Oliver held baby Bruce out in front of him with both arms. If he put the kid down, he was pretty sure the child was going to bolt, and who knew whether Green Arrow would be able to find him again.  Usually Oliver would say yes, but this was Batman they were talking about. Even at this age, Oliver suspected Batman could pull a decent vanishing act. And even if Arrow did find Bruce, there was no guarantee he’d find the kid first.  

“Bruce! Stop squirming!” Oliver winced at the annoyance he couldn’t keep out of his tone. He was never the best at dealing with kids. “Bruce, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you okay?”

 He took a deep breath and tried to think what the others did to calm down terrified children. Batman himself was actually really good at it, but there was no way that Batman’s brand of menacing comfort was going to work for Green arrow. Honestly he wasn’t sure how it worked for Batman, but it did. Hmm. There was this thing Arsenal had done once, back when he was Speedy. Green Arrow had scolded him for it at the time, but it had worked, and adult Bruce already knew his identity. 

Green Arrow carefully peeled his mask off his face. Bruce stilled. “Robert? Robert Queen? Of Queen industries?” 

Oliver winced. He should have known baby Bruce would know of his father. Teen Bruce had a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of who was who in the business world, and would have needed to start learning early for that kind of acumen. It made sense that Bruce would have recognized Oliver’s father, even so young. But.. Oliver knew he took after his father. He wasn’t blind. Most people just had more courtesy than to comment on the resemblance. Oliver’s feelings on his father were… complicated. 

They had been complicated before, when he thought his father was a hard man who had sacrificed his life for his son’s sake. His feelings had not been simplified upon learning Robert had faked his death. That Robert had absconded to run around with Shado, looking for some mysterious green arrow artifact.

 Oliver bit his lip, and then committed. “That’s right Bruce. I’m Robert Queen. We were both kidnapped by those men from before, but we managed to escape. You were drugged, so you might not remember. It’s okay though, I’m going to take you home, to Alfred. Does that sound like a plan kiddo?” Bruce immediately relaxed into Oliver’s grasp, and Oliver tucked the kid back up against his side

. “Okay, so, I’m going to a-” safehouse “-apartment I have nearby, and change into normal clothes real quick. I was at a costume party when they snatched me, and I bet I look pretty silly huh?” 

Baby Bruce giggled and nodded into Oliver's shoulder. “You do! And a little scary too. I was a little scared at first, when you grabbed me.” 

Tendrils of guilt writhe in Oliver's stomach, along with a seeping sadness. Because Batman would never, ever admit to having been afraid. Neither would teen Bruce. Nor would either version snuggle into a stranger’s shoulder the way that Baby Bruce is doing right now. Which means that in all likelihood, Oliver is dealing with pre-his parents death Bruce. And Oliver hates that thought. Hates it with a passion. It feels invasive, almost sacrilegious, to see this open trusting child, still fierce, still brave but also soft and vulnerable. To see this bright core of who Bruce is, a core long since buried in loss and scar tissue. 

Oliver abandoned the rooftops in favor of the streets. He needed to maintain his cover as a rich man in a costume, rather than a costumed vigilante, and running along rooftops wouldn’t help. Bruce sat warm and heavy in Oliver’s arms, wide eyes taking in every detail of their surroundings as they ran down abandoned streets and dark alleys. It didn’t take long to reach the safehouse, a nondescript little place with low ceilings, but brightly lit at least. Hopefully that would help keep baby Bruce from panicking. 

Oliver set Bruce on the couch and produced a fuzzy blanket from a drawer set into the base of said couch. Bruce eagerly accepted the blanket and drew it about himself, until only his eyes peek out from above its fluffy edge. Oliver smirks a little at the sight. He’s man enough to admit it’s cute. But too much his father’s son, his father’s sort of man to be soft about the realization. Too much the sort of man who collects vulnerability like ammunition. 

Part of him wishes he could just treasure this moment, a baby version of his friend. Be someone else’s son for a change. But he’s not. So he buries the affection beneath self satisfaction, and goes to change out of his suit. 

Oliver dials Zatanna, and sticks the phone in between his shoulder and his ear so that he can pull his shoes on while the phone rings. “Oliver? To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

His voice is smooth and a little condescending as he responds. “I need your help Zatara. We have a de-aging situation on our hands. It’s Batman. Can you meet me in the Batcave?” 

Zatanna hesitated. “You can’t Zeta there, not with Bruce like that. I suppose you could bundle him up, give him a mask, but he’d still draw quite a bit of attention.”

 “Yeah, about that.” Oliver ran a hand sheepishly through his hair. “I think I can make my way to the batcave, er, unassisted.” 

Zatanna is silent for a moment. “You figured him out then.” 

It isn’t a question, but he answers anyway. “Yes.” 

“Wow. He’s going to be furious when he gets back to normal.” Zatanna almost sounded impressed. 

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m going to be pretty furious myself.” He doesn’t mean to say it. Has barely let himself think it. He can’t afford to be angry with this tiny, trusting version of Bruce. 

But Oliver is angry. Because Bruce knew, he knew Oliver was the Green Arrow. Everyone knew Oliver was the Green Arrow. The entire league, plus the Arrow team, plus any junior teams his sidekicks were on. Bruce knew, and he could have told Oliver, could have trusted Oliver, and instead he’d staged that stupid fake accident, and given himself that stupid fake traumatic brain injury.

 So Oliver Queen had spent the last twenty years of his life thinking his erstwhile best friend was functionally dead. His personality permanently altered, Bruce the whip smart, calculating, heavily traumatized, compassionate, loyal young man Oliver had met in boarding school replaced by a ditzy but affable socialite, more interested in wine and women than problems and puzzles. 

Oliver had mourned his friend for fifteen years because Bruce couldn’t extend him a modicum of trust. He wasn’t even asking for Bruce to have told him about  Batman. Just not to have gone that far to hide it. 

The silence drags. Zatanna clearly doesn’t know what to say to that. Eventually Oliver clears his throat. “So I’ll meet you at the Batcave?”

There’s shuffling on the other end of the line. “Yeah okay. It’s going to be a while on my end though. I’m in the middle of some stuff, and this isn’t urgent.” 

Oliver tensed at the comment, but she isn’t technically wrong, so he doesn’t argue. Instead he finishes tying his shoes and heads to the kitchen. He doesn’t know when the Bat last ate, doesn’t know when baby Bruce last ate, doesn’t know if the magic stripped Bruce of calories to fuel the spell. In light of all the unknowns, feeding the kid is probably a good idea. 

Oliver stares at the contents of his safehouse fridge. Energy drinks, those caffeinated honey snack packs, plain, sour as all heck Greek yogurt, and a pack of expired nicotine gum Roy had left in there while he was working on quitting smoking. Why he’d thought the fridge was the best place to store the gum was beyond Oliver, but then again, so were most of Roy’s decisions. He tried the pantry next, but the only things in there were a tub of unflavored protein powder and these positively revolting, but very nutritious protein-fiber bars.

All in all, half of this stuff wouldn’t even be safe for a child to eat, and none of it would be appealing. Maybe he can sneak out the window and stop by a gas station really quickly? Can he leave the kid unattended? Oliver bit his lip. No, leaving the kid wasn’t a good idea. But like Zatanna said, it wasn’t urgent. They could stop somewhere on their way out of Central city.

Luckily the safehouse’s vehicle has a carseat in the trunk, just in case Oliver needed to drive Lian somewhere unexpectedly. Not that he got many chances to drive his sort-of-granddaughter around. But he’d rather be prepared on the off chance he might need to. In an emergency or something. 

The plan is to go to a drive through, get a burger and maybe some fries and take it from there. It goes wrong almost immediately, when baby Bruce flat out refuses to eat a hamburger with his hands. Apparently the only correct way to eat a hamburger is with a knife and fork, and that to eat it with his hands would be the height of degeneracy. Oliver had encountered Bruce’s insistence on eating hamburgers that way back at boarding school, but he hadn’t expected it to have started so early on.

 They end up buying creamy tomato soup from a whole other restaurant, and Bruce drinks it from a twenty four ounce soda cup, through a straw. This is somehow deemed the more dignified option. 

Bruce is fairly calm for the first few hours, longer than most kids his age would be. But it can’t last forever, even if Oliver kind of expects it to. Batman never seemed to mind waiting. They’d once been stranded together on a faraway planet, weeks out from earth even as the lanterns traveled. Bruce had worked tirelessly to contact earth, to find a way back, but once they had made contact, once the lanterns had sent a team to get them, he just, waited. 

They’d gathered enough food to sustain themselves, and Bruce just sat down on the floor, cross legged, and waited. He got up every few hours to eat, to exercise, to run through katas, to use the restroom, and then he sat right back down. He didn’t speak a word, not unless Oliver specifically asked him something, and even then his responses were shorter than usual, an impressive feat for someone as taciturn as Batman. He did not at any point seem bored, or restless, and when the lanterns finally did arrive, he was not particularly excited. His calm never broke, not until right before he zetad back to the batcave, when the merest shadow of a relieved smile flashed across his face. 

For some inane reason, Oliver had expected baby Bruce to be the same. Practically unaffected by the flow of time. And the kid was unusually patient. But not to the superhuman degree grown Bruce was. So yeah, a few hours into the journey, and incandescent howling the likes which Oliver has never heard is coming from the backseat. Wait, actually, he had heard similar screaming, lower pitched, and with a murderous edge. The newest Robin screamed like that.

 The thought made Oliver shiver. The newest Robin was scary, and he hated Oliver. Admittedly, this was not a trait unique to the Green Arrow. The newest Robin also had a pretty healthy hatred for Hal. Barry too, although that was tempered by Nightwing’s camaraderie with Wally. Robin cared about Nightwing, who cared about Wally, who cared about Barry. A bitterness crept up his throat at the thought. Bruce hadn’t done the same for him. Were they even still friends? Had they ever been friends? He’d thought they were. 

Eventually Oliver managed to pacify baby Bruce, mostly by handing over his phone for the boy’s amusement. He wasn’t confident how usable the phone would be, if he even got it back. He was lucky he was rich. 

Several hours later they arrived in Gotham. It was nudging toward dawn, and a few brave rays of sunshine had managed to break through the perpetual smog and cloud cover hovering over the city. Bruce practically squeals at the sight of his city, and Oliver's heart ached. Batman and teen Bruce alike loved Gotham. All versions of his friend, even the fake party boy version, held the city in their heart. But that love was thorny, was complicated by blood and loss, and grief. This Bruce doesn’t have that baggage, that first loss, that first wound still just on the horizon. It can’t be that far off, not with how old Bruce looks, but for now his love is still pure and total. It hurts to see.

Still Oliver knows better than to trust the mean streets of Gotham, and he bundles the kid back up in his arms. Bruce protests naturally, but Oliver isn’t taking any chances. Not in Gotham. 

He’s been to Wayne manor only a few times before. He’d once stayed there over spring break, when he hadn’t felt like going home. His parents had been fighting, and he hadn't understood why, they’d been careful to keep it from him, but even as they tried to project a united front for his sake, he could feel the rage simmering between them, and he hated it. He now realized his mother must have discovered Robert's affair with Shado. He didn’t think that either of them knew about Emiko, at least not at the time. Oliver’s mother would have either taken the girl in as her own, or cut Robert loose for good. Moira Queen had not tolerated divided loyalties, and while a mistress could be renounced, a daughter could not. 

The other visits had been short, and took place after Bruce’s supposed brain injury. So suffice it to say he felt pretty nervous about this whole thing. His current plan was to hope Alfred was the one to open the door, and then  try and get baby Bruce to the cave as soon as possible so that the kid couldn’t figure out how much his house had changed. 

Unfortunately his plan was immediately stymied when a man Oliver didn’t recognize yanked the door open and growled. “What do you want, Arrow.” The man is tall, almost as tall as Batman, and burly. 

Oliver proffers the kid. “I told Bruce I’d bring him to Alfred. The man in the doorway freezes. “That’s Bruce?” Bruce for his part, poke his head and growled. “Mr Wayne to you! And that’s my house!” The man dragged his hand down his face and muttered “I can’t believe this is happening.” And then in a louder friendlier voice, “Okay kiddo. I’m a friend of Alfred see? I like to cook, and we’re in this little cooking club, yeah? We were having a meeting, and he got word that you got lost, and he’s been out trying to find you. He wanted me to stay here in case you came back” 

Bruce’s lip trembled. “Are my parents looking for me too? Mr Queen said we got kidnapped!” The man’s eyes shot to Oliver’s, alarmed. Oliver gave a quiet nod to confirm. For a split second the man’s face twists in horror at the notion that Bruce doesn't know , and then it's gone, subsumed before baby Bruce can see it. “Yep. And Mr Queen is right about the kidnapping thing, so we’re going to hide you from them so they can’t find you. Luckily this house is really old! And do you know what old houses sometimes have that are really good for hiding?” Bruce’s eyes go wide and round. “Secret rooms?” The man grins back. “You got it kiddo.” 

The man holds his arms out, and Bruce crawls into them. “But remember, it's a secret, okay? So why don’t you close your eyes while we walk there? I know you would keep it a secret, but you’d have to tell Tommy,” the man winced almost imperceptibly at the name, “because he’s your best friend, and those are the best friend rules. And he can’t keep a secret nearly as well as you can.” Bruce nodded solemnly, and buried his face in the man’s shoulder. “I’m not looking!” 

Oliver followed the man into the house, impressed at how deftly he’d resolved that little situation. He’s also pretty dang curious about how to get into the Batcave. He’s been to the Batcave. Not often mind, only on the rarest of occasions, when Bruce didn’t have any good alternatives, and the visits had been brief. He tails the man to the study past the grandfather clock, into the just barely familiar batcave, and into a small room off of the main cave.

 It's got brightly painted yellow walls, and green house plants and bean bags. There's a gaming console hooked to one wall, and a flat screen tv hooked to the other. In one corner, there’s a wicker basket with stuffed animals and other toys in it. The opposite corner has a wide range of coloring books, from those made for toddlers, to the kind made for adults. The man settles baby Bruce on a beanbag in front of the flat screen. “I’ll put on an episode of Grey Ghost okay? Does that sound good?” 

The boy, Bruce, nods eagerly, stars in his eyes. He tugs the man down to whisper loudly in his ear, “I love Grey Ghost! It’s my favorite!” Then Bruce leaned back, scrutinized the man, and accused, “Alfred told you, didn’t he!” The man chuckles. “He sure did kiddo. Okay so me and Mr Queen are gonna go talk in the hall while you watch the movie okay?” Bruce nodded absently, already absorbed by the show’s opening sequence.

Out in the hallway, Oliver finally gets a chance to ask who in the heck this guy is. The man laughs, thoroughly amused. “Aw uncle Ollie, you don’t recognize me? You even came to my funeral and everything.” Oliver sucked in a breath. “Jason.” Rage pooled in his gut.  “He lied, about you dying? ” He would have sworn Bruce’s grief over the loss of his second son was real. He would have staked his life on it if it came to that. And to find out that this of all things, was a lie ? Jason rolled his eyes. “No you idiot. The second Robin died and came back a crime lord, remember? Everybody knows that.”

 Everybody did not in fact know that. Actually Batman had gone to a great deal of trouble to ensure that most non- Gothamite capes did not know. They knew Red wasn’t quite a bat, but Batman considered him to be under his protection. They knew that he was more unpredictable and dangerous than most Gotham vigilantes. And they knew that he was generally considered to be on the side of the angels. Other than that, Bats kept the details sparse.

“What is that room anyway? I wouldn't have thought the batcave would have a room like that.” 

Jason scrubs a hand through his hair. “Technically speaking, it's a containment cell. B built it after this rogue named Ace practically died in his arms. She was like, fourteen. Classic government experiment, kind of like Kon, and her powers gave her an aneurysm. One of the last things she said was that she got cheated out of her childhood. Bruce was a wreck for weeks after, and he didn’t get better until he thought up that room. Classic Bruce. Can’t just feel his emotions, he has to come up with a project to fix them. Anyway he made the room so if he ever has to contain another kid like her, he can do it while still letting them be a child, to some extent at least.” 

Jason shrugged, “It’s imperfect. But he tries, and we do have occasion to entertain children every once in a while. Comes in handy then. Heck I think Lian has the high score on tetris. Enough about other kids, why is Bruce a kid?”  

Oliver runs through the whole story. Jason groans. “I seriously have the worst luck. It couldn’t have been anybody else home right now. It just had to be me. Fine, whatever. I’m gonna go watch Grey Ghost with my dad. Get me when Zatanna shows up, and in the meantime, don't touch anything.” 

Fortunately it doesn’t take long for Zatanna to make her appearance. She’s a little rumpled, and clearly in a bit of a rush, but she’s here. “Okay where’s the kid?” Oliver shows her to the room, and they enter to find Jason sitting on beanbag just as engrossed in the episode as baby Bruce is. He growls at the sight of Zatanna, hissing “I told you to get me, not to bring her in here.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed. “Bruce? Can you come over here? This lady is a doctor and she’s going to look you over to make sure that whatever the kidnappers drugged you with is working its way out of your system okay.” 

 Bruce makes a face, and Jason smiles sympathetically. “I know. I’ll be right here the whole time though.” “Fine.” Bruce acquiesces, but he looks unhappy the whole examination, and when Zatanna is done, he hides behind Jason’s legs. Jason coos and scoops him up, mouthing, ‘text it to me’ over the kid’s shoulder. Then he settled back in to watch the show. 

Out in the hallway Zatanna groaned, annoyed at all the delays. “Okay, the spell is pretty simple, and I can definitely undo it. Problem is, I’m going to need a sample of the kid’s blood,  and I don’t know how happy his protector is going to be about that.” 

Oliver winced, he would not be at all happy. Jason’s dislike of needles was legendary back in the day. And letting a magic user have your blood, even a friendly one, was a risky proposition. No Bat would undertake such a thing lightly. “That’s gonna be a hard sell.” Zatanna shrugged. “I don’t really care. He can give me the blood or he can wait it out. The spell will wear off on its own. In a few months.” Oliver made a face. They definitely weren't going to be able to keep up the facade that Bruce wasn’t about thirty years younger than he should be for that long. He had to get the kid’s blood. 

As predicted, Jason wasn’t easy to convince. He came around though, and managed to keep Bruce fairly calm during the blood draw. He does bundle the kid away as soon as it's done, only pausing to promise Zatanna that if she abuses her access to Bruce’s blood she’ll live to regret it. 

Zatanna rolled her eyes, and sighed. “I’m not going to hurt him.” Oliver clapped her on the shoulder. “I know. But if they weren’t paranoid, they wouldn’t be bats.” She softened a little at that and replied ruefully. “True. Okay well, it’ll be easier to undo this at my base, and since I have this,” she taps the vial with Bruce’s blood, “I don’t actually need proximity. So I’m going to head out. Should take me about twenty minutes to break the spell. If it’s been more than an hour and nothing has changed, call me.” Oliver nodded, and headed back to the containment cell. 

Jason was curled around baby Bruce watching the show. Baby Bruce looked tired, his hand fisted in Jason's shirt. Oliver smiled at the sight, and then settled into one of the other beanbags. Grey Ghost was a surprisingly engaging show, and he soon found himself almost as absorbed in it as baby Bruce clearly was. 

As promised, about twenty minutes later, right as the Grey Ghost finally finds the pivotal piece of evidence, and is about to crack the whole case wide open, Bruce turns back. Jason is shoved off of the beanbag by Bruce’s increased mass, and lands on the ground in a rather undignified heap. He still manages to leap back to his feat, and turn the t.v off. Bruce is clutching his head with both hands, and Jason hovers clearly unsure what to do. 

“Jay.” Bruce ground out the name, his voice halting and even rougher than usual. “You did…well, keeping…me, my younger self…calm. I-I,I am. I am- grateful. You. You did well.” 

Jason put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t hurt yerself old man. How ‘bout I take Ollie here upstairs, an’ you can take some time.” Bruce, his hands still covering his eyes, fingers clawing at his skull, nodded. “I would… appreciate, that.” 

Jason grabbed Oliver and hauled him out the door calling over his shoulder, “I’ll get a pot of hot chocolate going. Come up when you’re ready.”  Bruce didn’t respond, and it didn’t seem like Jason expected him to. 

Oliver is yanked out of the room, up the stairs, and into the manor proper, where Jason summarily starts in on preparing the promised hot chocolate. Oliver frowned. “What was that? I’ve never seen him like that, ever.” Jason dumped the chocolate he’d just finished chopping into the pot of boiling water. Oliver has seen Bruce be dipped in water just like that, and not make a sound when he came out, skin blistered and peeling, and still not a sound. 

It had been torture. The two of them were captured while on a mission. Their captor had wanted information, and while neither of them were meant to die, it had been an excruciating experience. Through it all, Bruce’s composure had not broken once. So to see him the way he’d been in the cave, barely hanging on to the last threads of his self possession? It had been disconcerting. 

Finally Jason broke the silence. “You ever been de-aged?” Oliver nodded. “Yeah, once.” “Did’ja remember it after?” This time Oliver shook his head. “No. It was like, I blinked in one place, and opened my eyes in another. I had dreams about it for a while, but whether that was me remembering subconsciously, or just amalgams of what the others told me happened, I couldn’t say.”

 Jason pulled cinnamon and nutmeg from the spice rack, shaking generous amounts of each into the pot, along with a pinch of salt. “I remembered when it happened to me. I don’t know if it’s like that for everyone, but for me…” He closed his eyes. “It was like I was still the child I was and the man I became, and every iteration in between all at once. All of us, all of me, believing and feeling and thinking different things. I felt like my brain was shredding itself apart as it tried to grow from boy to man all at once.” 

Jason stirred the hot chocolate, tasted it, turned the stovetop down to a simmer, and started in on the dishes. “You'd think it would be remembering all the trauma that was the worst. And don’t get me wrong, that sucked. But the worst part was the way it tears apart your sense of self. I don’t know, maybe it’s not so bad for… for people who aren’t us. Aren’t Waynes. But we hold ourselves together with self image. Stitch up our wounds with convictions, cover our scars with hobbies and color schemes, and we’ve all spent so much time polishing and sculpting and shaping who we are, and how we act. And it feels… safe. Secure. Like we’re in control of ourselves if nothing else. We’re in control. Being de-aged robs us of all of that. We aren’t finely honed weapons anymore. We’re just children. All of us, at the core of our being, are just scared, hurting children.” 

Jason mechanically wipes down the last of the dishes, the cutting board and the knife, and pulls out two mugs. Then he squints at Oliver and grabs a third. An old one with a crack in it. “And no matter how much we shape, and train, and mold that child, you can never protect them. Not really. And it. I don’t know how to describe it Queen. It’s like… like you were stripped of your cold weather things, your coat and gloves and boots, but it was so cold, you went numb right away and didn’t notice. And then all at once they came back and you started to warm up, and it hurts . Your defenses were gone, and you didn’t even notice until they were back and you started to feel safe again. It’ll be particularly bad for Bruce, because he went back to before he realized he needed defenses. I. I always knew. It was less jarring. Not fun, but I’ve had worse. So has he.” 

Jason wiped down the counters and examined the spotless kitchen, the hot chocolate bubbling softly on the stove, the mugs ready and waiting, one with a wonder woman insignia on it, one with a bat symbol, and the cracked one for Oliver. He hums in satisfaction. “Bruce just needs a bit to put himself back together. He’ll be up soon.” 

Jason was proved correct a few minutes later, when Bruce finally made his way up from the cave. He was back to his old self, and ladled out the hot chocolate simmering on the stove.  He handed Oliver the cracked mug, and passed the Wonder Woman one to his son. Jason took it, and Bruce laid a grateful hand  on his shoulder. Jason gave a quick smile in return, and Bruce’s eyes crinkled for just a moment as he took his seat. 

For a while they all sat and sipped their hot chocolate. Finally, Oliver couldn’t take it anymore. “So, car accident that resulted in a TBI huh?” Bruce doesn’t react, but Jason winces. “Is that what he told you? Man that’s cold.” Bruce’s lips twitched. “He had enough of the pieces, he probably could have figured me out. I took steps to prevent that.” Jason rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.” Bruce shrugged. Jason groaned, and picked up his mug.“I’mma get outta yer hair. This seems like a one on one convo.” He strode out of the room, leaving Bruce and Oliver. 

“Why!” Oliver burst out. “What did I do that made me so untrustworthy as to be deserving of that? You know I’m a hero too, It’s not like you’d be pulling in a civilian. I can defend myself if that’s what you were worried about, and you knew that. So what then!” Oliver tugs at his hair in frustration. “What did I do to make you think you needed to lie to me like that? Or are you just too broken, too paranoid, too, Batman to trust anyone anymore? Is that it?” 

 “ Is it paranoia? Or is it just basic pattern recognition? My friend Ethan turns into Clayface, and then I reconnect with Harvey, and he turns into Two-Face, and then my childhood friend Tommy shows up as Hush, and my friend Harleen from med school comes out of the woodwork as Harley Quinn. And then there’s the whole complicated mess with Talia .” “Like, your girlfriend from boarding school Talia? Our friend Talia?”

 “No.” Bruce replied sharply. “I mean second in command of the league of assassins Talia. The mother of my youngest son Talia. The woman I love and hate in equal measure Talia. But yes I admit we first met when she was cosplaying as a foreign exchange student at Saint Felix’s preparatory academy.” 

Oliver threw up his hands. “Okay? What does any of that have to do with me?”  Bruce scowled “You’re the only one of the friends I made as a civilian who isn’t a supervillain. What do you think is more likely Oliver? That you’re an exception? Or that it’s just a matter of time before you follow suit.” 

Oliver groaned. “Bruce. You hear how insane that sounds right?” 

Bruce raised one eyebrow. “Can you name a single other commonality? Harleen was solidly middle class. Tommy and Harvey were wealthy. Ethan grew up toeing the poverty line. Talia was born into a murder cult headed by an immortal maniac who was also her father. Ethan was a cop, Harvey was a lawyer, Harleen was a psychologist, Tommy was independently wealthy, and Talia was an assassin princess. Tommy, Harvey, and Harleen were white, Ethan was black, and Talia is middle eastern. Harvey’s father was abusive, Ethan’s parents are amazing people who had a good relationship with him, Harleen was raised by a single mom, Talia was raised by a single dad, and Tommy tried to murder his parents in order to inherit their fortune. They had different professions, upbringing, socioeconomic status, ethnicities, even different moral codes. The only commonality? They were friends with Bruce Wayne.”

Oliver shook his head. “Three of them worked jobs dealing with very dangerous people in Gotham city , and the other two were just always crazy. That's not your fault Bruce.” 

Bruce gritted his teeth. “Tommy was not ‘always crazy’. He might have been a little cold, sure. But he wouldn’t have killed his parents. Not at the beginning of our association. No. He made choices, and they were bad ones, and he went down a dark, dark path. But I refuse to believe he was just destined to end up like that. He had a choice okay? He didn’t have to. He had a choice. And maybe I, I poisoned him somehow, made him more likely to go down that path, but even if I did, he still made that choice. He was my friend. He’s a monster. Both are true. I’ve made my peace with that. Honestly at this point? Loving the monsters is easier than loving normal people. How much of me is monstrous? How long have I been looking into the void? How long has it been staring back? I didn’t lie to you, not really. Your friend is gone. The fact that he died of a wound to the soul rather than the head seems irrelevant.”

 Oliver groaned. Because really? Really ? “You’re an idiot Bruce. I don’t understand how someone so smart can be so dumb, I really don’t. You think any of this is a surprise to me? You think you weren’t the exact same egotistical, brooding, temperamental son of a gun back then? Let me set you straight, you were. In fact I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that time has mellowed you. You think you’ve got rage simmering under the surface now? You think you’re monstrous now? You should have seen yourself back then. Back before you sealed and chained yourself into shape. Before you locked it underneath your skin, and never let it out again. You were scary back then, and I chose to be your friend anyway. You think, just because you were young, you must have been innocent. Before today, I would have said that you were never innocent. But I’ve met that version of you now, and I get why you’d trick yourself into thinking you were him longer than you really were. But you weren’t. Your edges were jagged and sharp long before I met you.” 

Bruce stayed stone faced as he responded, “Maybe. Doesn’t change the fact that the odds you go evil are eighty three to seventeen. I’m not in the habit of taking unnecessary risks.” Oliver rolled his eyes. “Well guess what. Being my friend isn’t an unnecessary risk anymore. Now it's bonafide risk management. I know. You can’t kill me, J’onn won’t remove my memory, and you won’t imprison me.” Bruce raised an eyebrow, and Oliver scoffed. “You won’t. It would be wrong and you know it. Plus Clark and the others would notice, and you’d have to lie to his face about it, and Dinah would ask for your help, Bruce and Batman both, and you’d have to lie to her too. You could maybe justify locking me away, but not all the things you’d have to do to cover it up.” A tiny, rueful smile played at Bruce’s lips. “Perhaps.” Oliver scowled, “Therefore, your best bet to keep your secret is for me to be properly in on it. A partner in crime so to speak. Or more realistically, an ‘old friend you call up for a particularly finicky part of a heist you don’t specialize in’, in crime.”

 Again the corner of Bruce’s mouth turned up, just a little. “Fine. Friendship officially reinstated.” Oliver couldn’t suppress his instinct to cheer at the statement. “Yes! Okay, so now that we’re friends again, you do realize that you’re going to have to spend the next few months making this up to me right? At least.” “Hrn.” Batman grunted. It wasn’t a ‘no’ grunt.” Oliver sighed, the high emotions of the last… how long had it been now? At least a day. The emotions finally subsiding, leaving him bone tired.  “You really are the worst Bruce. You know that?” “Yes.” Batman replied simply, “I care about you as well.” “Best civilian friend I ever had, and you go and keep something like this from me.” “I don’t know what you expected.” Bruce replied, amused. “As you said, I was much the same back then.” “Nah.” Oliver dismissed the statement. “You were too angry to be secretive. Didn’t talk much, but not sharing something and deliberately hiding it are not the same.” 

“I suppose not.” Bruce allowed. He sipped his hot chocolate. ‘I suppose. I suppose I am, glad, that you know now. There are no others who knew me then, and know me now, save Alfred of course. And he is. Well. He cares about me too much like a parent to recall clearly.” “Yeah.” Oliver agreed. “Same. The continuity of my life is split. Not down the middle, not anymore. More years on this side, than on the other. But there’s a definite divide. Before and after. And I don’t have anyone else from before.” Bruce hummed, and they sat together in the manor kitchen drinking hot chocolate. Just like they had so many years before, when Oliver’s parents had been fighting, and he’d sought refuge in his friend’s home.