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Tim stood atop the Batcomputer’s spinny chair, one foot on the backrest and the other on the chair cushion. He wheeled through the Batcave on it, holding a batarang to his lips as a mock microphone.
“Tonight!” He announced, catching the attention of the Bats around him. “We are to participate in a sacred event!”
Bruce frowned at him as he whizzed past. “Tim, get off that chair! It’s not safe.”
Jason snorted, leaning against the wall as he polished his helmet. “Like jumping off buildings with a rope is plenty safe.”
Bruce sighed.
Tim ignored them, continuing to travel through the space on the chair. Jason watched in amusement.
“Tonight is time to prove ourselves, fellow Bats and Birds!”
He rushed past where Damian was stapling his printed patrol report for yesterday. The rush of wind ruffled the pages, causing them to slip from Damian’s hands. He ignored that too.
“Drake, what are you doing?” came the kid’s indignant shout.
Tim pulled out a party popper from his pocket and skidded to a stop in front of the vehicles’ parking space.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you… The tournament for the best Bat-child!”
He popped the party popper and confetti flew around him. Simultaneously, the overhead lights blinked on and a whole banner rolled out, spelling ‘Tournament for Best Bat-child (Dick)’ in sloppy red paint. Steph and Dick ran in from either side, popping their own confetti poppers over Tim.
The Batcave was silent, except for Cass and Duke’s excited clapping.
“What is this?” Bruce finally asked, pulling off his cowl.
“Didn’t you hear, old man?” Jason put his helmet down, walking to stand next to Tim, hands on his hips. “It’s a competition to settle once and for all who the favorite child is.”
“I don’t have a favorite chi—”
“This,” Dick interrupted, “is precisely why we’re having the competition.”
“Every six months, when Alfred bakes his rare cinnamon cookies, he always makes an odd number. And we always end up arguing who gets the last one,” Tim explained. “So this tournament is to settle the debate once and for all.”
“Tt.” Damian came, holding his stapled report. “Everyone knows I am Father’s favorite.”
Duke shook his head, coming to stand beside him. “Just because we gave you the cookie last time, because you broke your arm after your asshole grandfather attacked the Manor doesn’t mean you have the right to it every time.”
“Agreed.” Cass ruffled his hair.
“Tt.” Damian handed the report to Bruce.
Bruce turned to Steph. “Steph, you’re not even adopted by me.”
She raised a finger, and shushed him harshly. “For the sake of the cookie,” she said, “I am not only your child, I am your best child.”
“And I already know I’m not your favorite,” Jason inputted. “But for the sake of the cookie, I am willing to be.”
“But… I didn’t say you weren’t my—” Bruce sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Nevermind. Let’s just go to patrol.”
Everyone snickered, Jason included. Bruce’s look of exasperation never got old. Only because it differed from his look of actual disappointment. If the two had been the same… Well, Jason wouldn’t be able to look at the man’s face ever, that was all.
Faces reminded Jason that his own was currently bare, so he called, “Wait, up, idiot,” to Tim—his patrol buddy, God help him—and jogged back to the lockers for his helmet.
As he came back, he caught a glint of shining red, and whipped to track it before realizing it was only the red chrome’s reflection in glass. And then he realized what piece of glass had caught the shine.
His lips drew down into a flat, thin line as his eyes traced the display. The suit looked tiny, and not in the way Dick’s old suit was tiny. It had covered everything, including Jason’s shape. No one could have told just how spindly and short Robin really was under all that armor. He wondered, sometimes, if Batman himself had forgotten. If he’d started to see no more than the suit and the mask, the bravado behind it, the weapons it wielded. If that was why he was remembered like this, like A Good Soldier. Not a child nobody had protected from his demons.
Maybe he’d never been a child in the first place. Not Bruce’s, anyway.
“I’m here!” Tim declared as he jogged up to him. “Could we swing by that ice-cream place during—” He stopped.
“Mm? What?” Jason blinked, turning his head to see Tim frowning at him. “Uh, sure, child.”
Tim opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking at Jason with a pinched face that made him annoyed on principle.
“Are you gonna impersonate a fish, or are we going on patrol?”
Tim blinked, and then his expression became impossibly softer and more infuriating.
“He couldn’t cope, Jay,” he said quietly. “I don’t mean he coped badly, I mean he couldn’t cope.”
“Uh huh.”
Jason jammed his helmet on his head and began stalking towards their bikes. Tim tripped over his boots for second before catching up, jogging at Jason’s side no matter how much he lengthened his stride to outpace him.
“Jason. Listen.” Tim grabbed his hand and Jason stopped, staring flatly ahead, though Tim couldn’t see that. “Bruce not coping after you… were gone… It shows how much he did love you. Does. If… if you shift the focus from the mistakes he made then to how happy he is now that you’re back—”
“Yeah, because criticizing and dictating everything I do is so happy.”
Tim glared. “Now you’re being difficult on purpose. Every time he looks at you, Jay, it’s like someone just taught him how to breathe. He loves you. We all do.”
Tim’s face drooped a bit, putting Jason in mind of shelter puppies and kittens that looked at visitors with betrayal every time they were set back in their crates. He sighed heavily, causing a burst of static through the modulator, and ruffled Tim’s hair.
“Yeah, I know, kid. Let a Creature brood every now and then, ok? It’s enrichment.”
Tim batted his hand away, which of course made Jason grin and grab him into a headlock to ruffle his hair into even greater disarray.
“I thought you were a zombie, what the fuck is a Creature?”
Jason stopped ruffling and let Tim escape, staring in shock.
“Dude. Have you seriously never read Frankenstein?”
“Hell no, Austen is your dead crush.”
“FRANKENSTEIN WAS BY MARY SHELLEY YOU NIMROD!”
Tim threw the first punch, but naturally Jason wasn’t going to stand for this kind of insult, so before he knew it the both of them were on the ground in a tangle of limbs, much swearing and insulting volleying between them until a very light, delicate kick tapped Jason’s arm.
He froze, one hand still yanking Tim’s head away by the hair so he couldn’t sink his teeth into Jason’s throat, the other pinned to the ground by Tim’s staff. Cass stood above them, blinking impassively.
“Sorry,” Jason muttered, releasing his illiterate shrimp of a baby brother.
“Yeah, sorry, we’re going,” Tim grumbled, getting up.
Cass merely giggled, patting both their heads and skipping away.
“Truce?” Tim asked, holding his hand out.
Jason sighed, picking up the helmet Tim had accidentally kicked off. “For now.”
When they shook hands and let go, Tim bit his bottom lip, hesitating. He glanced back at Jason and stated, earnestly, “He’s happy you’re back, Jason. He really is. And… I’m happy that you’re back too.” A shy smile crossed his face. “It feels like we’re a real family.”
Jason ruffled his hair again. “We are a real family,” he said, even though the words didn’t feel as sure to him. He was willing to sound confident for Tim. “Just a weird one.”
Tim beamed at him.
And, because he was the big brother and duty compelled him, Jason licked his finger and stuck it in Tim’s ear before shooting off running towards the bikes.
“EW, JASON!”
----------------------------------
Jason wanted to blame the ice cream for his being awake and restless at 5am, but truth was, he was a lot more lactose tolerant than Tim, and Tim was (for once) sleeping just fine. Everyone was sleeping just fine except for Jason, even Alfred, who wouldn’t be up until 6.
It made him feel like a ghost, wandering the empty, greyscale house like this. Like he was haunting it, not living in it.
He hated that feeling.
From the library, where he’d picked up seven books, Frankenstein included, without getting more than a page in, Jason wandered to Bruce’s study. He turned the hands on the clock and started down the stairs, thinking maybe target practice or a simulation-spar would tire him out enough to crash on the cave couch.
He swore quietly when his bare feet hit the freezing stone floor and rose onto tiptoe, dashing towards the gear lockers to pull his boots on. On the way back his steps slowed unbidden, and he found himself right back in front of that goddamn glass box.
Bruce not coping shows how much he loves you. In Tim’s fucked up little brain, maybe that made sense. In Tim’s fucked up little brain, maybe even things like We all love you and We’re a real family made sense.
To be fair, the kid wasn’t entirely wrong. At the very least, most of the bats were a real family, and most of them at least tolerated him. Many were even affectionate. He supposed the littles (Tim, Duke, Damian) could be said to actually love him, if only because they were too naive to know better. But A Good Soldier, set at the feet of a stitched-up pile of bloody ribbons that had never washed clean? At best it was a grim warning. At worst, a spit in the face.
Are you really going to trust the implications of a half-empty glass cube? There’s counterevidence too.
Warm words, warm gestures, warm looks. Even I love you's.
When Jason behaved himself.
He shook his head and turned away, resisting the urge to shove the damn case over, to take a crowbar to it. He’d left because he’d learned at fifteen Bruce’s love was conditional, contingent on being that good soldier, and at twenty-two it was no different. Why Bruce wanted to remember Jason for what he’d ceased to be was his problem.
Jason didn’t give a shit anymore.
______________________________________
*one week later*
_______________________________________
Jason, STOP!
The memory bounced in his head, the voices ricocheting painfully.
Jason didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. He kept striking, pounding his fist over and over until every blow was agony. He had to die, he didn’t deserve a second chance, he would never change, he had to die before he hurt anyone else.
He heard a sickening crack and cried out, toppling onto his side and curling around himself, cradling his hand. Next to him the ground was spattered with blood.
Somewhere out there, Maroni was no longer bleeding. Somewhere out in that fucked-up, karma-less city, he was in an ambulance, maybe even a hospital, where they would stitch him up and spend seven hours running bypasses, waste thousands of dollars to save the life of a rapist mob boss.
Thanks to perfect little goddamn Dickie Golden Grayson, Bruce’s favorite, perfect, obedient little soldier-son.
Hood, stop, Hood, back off, Hood, you’re going to kill him, JASON, STOP!
Damn Dick for being stronger than Jason. For being better. More good. More naive. Idealistic. Like Bruce.
Jason kept sobbing, curled in a defensive ball on the Cave floor, striking weakly at his knees and forehead until a hand caught his wrist.
He startled, grabbing for his gun until he looked up and saw a hulking figure, all black, and finally registered the voice calling him by name.
“Why?” Jason croaked, wrenching free of Bruce and pushing himself up.
The shadow-thing only sat back on its haunches, watching. “Why what?”
“Why do you let demons like that live?”
Bruce clenched his jaw. “Everyone deserves a ch—”
“Oh, don’t fuck with me with that bullshit.anger. “Do you know what’s going to happen now? Do you know what he’s going to do now? It sure as hell isn’t going to be learning the error of his ways.”
“That’s not for us to deci—”
“THEN WHO WILL?” Jason screamed. “That fucker is going to go right the fuck back to selling to kids and forcing women to his bed and no one’s going to do jack shit.”
Bruce’s face hardened. “It’s why we are here. To stop him—”
“Temporarily,” Jason ended his sentence. “To stop him temporarily, giving him a nice little holiday in a rich room in the hospital, then send him back on his way.”
“It’s better than taking his life,” Bruce yelled, stepping forward.
“FUCK YOU.” Jason shoved him hard, pushing him to the ground. “You’ll never understand, will you?” he gasped, chuckling darkly through tears. “You’re never going to give up that stupid ‘rule’ of yours and see things the way they are. You’re too lost in your fantasy. A fantasy where everyone’s perfect and Joker becomes rehabilitated and your child soldiers become properly obedient and follow your every command without question.”
Bruce’s eyes widened. “Jason, what—”
“I’m done, Bruce.” He fisted his palms tightly, quivering with the effort to keep from throwing a punch. “I’m done with this conversation.”
He walked past Bruce, refusing to turn around. He let his feet guide him to the vehicle bay, started his bike, and left the Cave.
___________________________________
Jason had fucking had it. It was the sixth time he’d passed that fucking sarcophagus in half as many days, and the mocking plaque was going to drive him insane if he didn’t do something.
A Good Soldier. It was one more piece of Bruce’s fantasy, and if Jason had to shatter that shit literally, then damn it, he would.
His fingers tightened around the crowbar as he lifted it over his shoulder to swing.
He lifted it, but didn’t move. He couldn’t move.
He stared at the torn, bloodied suit in the case. His reflection on the glass made it look like Robin was holding a crowbar, poised and ready to hit. Jason couldn’t move.
“Are you going to destroy it?”
He honest-to-God nearly jumped out of his skin.
“What the hell?” He whirled around, dropping the crowbar. “Warn a guy, will you?” He glared at Bruce.
Bruce looked back at him, expression… not blank, but also not angry.
Jason picked up the crowbar again, hands trembling. Was Bruce going to stop him? Was he mad? Was he going to yell or even fight? If he was, then why wasn’t he tearing him a new one now? Why was he just standing there silently?
Bruce looked at the crowbar in his hand.
“Are you going to stop me?” Jason asked, keeping his voice from quivering.
Bruce tilted his head up at him. “If it will bring you peace,” he said, “Then no.”
Jason blinked in surprise. That wasn’t the answer he was expecting.
“Jason…” the man sighed. His fingers twitched by his side, and he curled his fists and crossed his arms, head down in something like… shame. “Jason, I’m sorry.”
Jason.exe stopped working.
He brought a hand up and rubbed his eyes. He blinked and rubbed his eyes again. Was he dreaming? Or had he somehow been put into another universe where Bruce “Batman” Wayne was actually able to apologize?
“I’m sorry for making you think that I blamed you, especially while you were clearly having a panic attack. I was wrong. I should have helped you instead of arguing with you.”
Jason scowled. “Did Dick or Alfred put you up to this?”
Bruce looked hurt at that statement. Actually hurt. “No,” he said. “This is all me. I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn’t mean to.”
Jason was really out of his depth here. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. He was supposed to cause trouble, Bruce was supposed to yell, he was supposed to yell back, then the two would fight, sometimes physically, until someone else broke them apart or something interrupted and they parted ways and didn’t talk to each other until days or weeks later. Why was Bruce suddenly upturning their routine?
Did he want something from Jason? Was this a new method of manipulation he was trying?
“If you really are sorry…” Jason tested, “then explain this.”
He pointed at the glass case. More specifically, the plaque at the bottom.
“‘A good soldier’,” he read, feeling how his tongue automatically coated those words with venom. He watched for Bruce’s expressions, his reactions. “I get the memorial case, but ‘a good soldier’> Explain that. Explain how you say you’re sorry and how Tim says you miss your son, but evidence only points that you look at me only as a child soldier. That you look at your other kids as child soldiers. Fucking explain that.”
The crowbar was clutched tight in his hand, the metal biting into his skin and his knuckles white at the grip.
He was itching to know. Had been waiting for a real answer ever since he came back.
Bruce stared at the engraved plaque, something flashing in his eyes. He looked up at Jason, expression hardening into one full of seriousness, and asked him, “What is the bravest profession that you know? A profession that has people honoring them every year, hosting celebrations and treating them with the highest respect for their work and sacrifice?”
Jason frowned. Where was he going with this?
“Jason…” Bruce sighed, dropping his arms to his sides. “Son, despite being a kid, you had the heart of a soldier. With the way you stood for justice and wanted to fight for people, the way you gritted your teeth and charged out into the field, the way you managed to smile and laugh despite the horrors which you’ve seen and suffered…
“I wanted to give you the highest level of honor and respect. And thus… ‘A good soldier.’”
Jason… was surprised. To say the least. Out of all the answers he was expecting, that… that definitely wasn’t one.
“In hindsight…” Bruce scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, “since you’re alive now, the title does seem terribly misplaced. But back then, when I was lost in grief and thinking about how to preserve the memory of you, it made sense. I had the best of intentions, I did. I don’t think of you and Dick and Tim and the others are pawns or child soldiers, you all are my entire world. Jason, you and your siblings are the kings of my chessboard, the pieces I want to protect the most.”
Jason’s nose tingled and his eyes itched as tears welled up in them.
“More than this city,” Bruce said, “more than anything else, I want to—need to—protect you the most. I could barely handle losing you. My entire world was crashing and collapsing around me. If it wasn’t for Tim and Dick and, Cass and Steph’s presence, I would have been completely lost.” He brushed his eyes with his hand roughly. “When I saw you in the Batcave that day, covered in blood, I got scared. I flashed back to your body in that warehouse remains and… I might have closed myself off and become confrontational to handle it. I have my reasons for why I forbade you to take a life; it breaks something inside you, and I hate to see any of you broken. But… it wasn’t the time. That wasn’t the time.”
Bruce looked down at the floor, brushing his hand over his eyes again to hide his tears. “I can’t handle losing anyone else again… I’m sorry.”
“I…”Jason swallowed. “I can’t handle it either,” he said softly.
He didn’t mean death. Well, he did, but it wasn’t what he was thinking when he spoke. Jason couldn’t handle everything that Bruce had just told him— dumped on him. He needed time to process, to sift and sort and turn over everything. But for now… for now the apology was a balm on a wound so old it would take tearing open again to truly heal.
“I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t love you,” Bruce said, voice wobbling. “I’m sorry you only ever felt like my soldier and not my son. I never meant it that way. Never.”
“I… Someday, maybe,” Jason mumbled, “I can tell you I know that.”
“I’ll wait,” Bruce said softly. “I’ll wait as long as you need.”
Jason nodded stiffly. He swallowed down a lump, and cast about for anything to take away the slowly lengthening silence. Recalling an old memory, with easy laughter and sneaky sweet treats, he blurted to fill the silence, “If we made cookies and ate the whole batch, no one would ever know.”
Bruce smiled. “This is a family of detectives, Jay.”
“If we made cookies in a safehouse they don’t have listed in their systems and ate the whole batch, no one would ever know.”
Bruce laughed. “I’ll take that bet, son.”
Jason found a little, tiny smile tugging at his lips. “You’re on.”