Work Text:
Bruce doesn’t understand why Jason flinches.
He thought he did, at first. After all, Jason had spent years on the streets, years having to fend for himself and avoiding all the violence, rapes, muggings, and murders on Crime Alley. Though Jason was still alive and breathing and bold (with a fire in his eyes that would never go out), Bruce wasn’t so naïve to think he managed to avoid everything else.
But he was still a child when Batman found him jacking his car tires.
And who would steal from a child?
Who would hurt a child?
It takes Bruce a while to realize that plenty of people hurt children in Crime Alley. It takes even longer to admit that there are still children being hurt. It takes longer still for him to realize that, no matter how many criminals he lands in prison, he can’t fix everything.
Least of all what’s already been done.
Though he realizes it in the end, he never accepts it. Not really. Not where it counts.
“What happened to you as a child… The terrors, the pain, the horrors— But that secret was the one neither of us should have kept. You needed repair, and instead I gave you an outlet to act out on. For that, I apologize.
“But it’s not too late for you to get the proper healing you never received. It’s not too late for me to help you.”
Jason doesn’t flinch at physical violence.
If he flinched at the threat of being punched, Batman would never have let him become Robin. Because flinching meant hesitation, and hesitation might mean death, and Bruce can’t have Jason’s death on his conscience.
Because Bruce would have been happy enough if Jason never became Robin—if Jason had just been his son—and Batman probably would have managed just fine even without a Robin.
But Jason doesn’t flinch. And Jason becomes Robin.
And Robin still ends up dead.
Years later, Jason’s death becomes his greatest failure. But that doesn’t mean there weren’t failures before. There were oversights, mistakes, things Batman—Bruce—wishes he would have done differently. Things he will always wish he had handled better.
Because Jason doesn’t flinch at physical violence.
But he flinches all the same.
Like when Jason was thirteen, and—
(“Good job, Jaylad,” Bruce says, because he’s trying, damn it all, and even if he knows he’ll never get this parenting thing right, he’s doing his best.
And for a minute, Jason looks like the happiest person in the world, because his hard work has paid off, and he’s being given encouragement, and support—
And then, as Jason is sitting down with an icepack on his head (because being told ‘good job’ doesn’t make his concussion magically disappear), Bruce sits next to him and gives his knee a squeeze. And for a second—just for a second, had he blinked he would have missed it—Jason freezes. His knee jerks away reflexively, and that’s what Bruce thinks it is, a reflex, but a reflex doesn’t explain the sickened look on Jason’s face or the hitch in his breath.
But Bruce doesn’t realize the severity of that reaction. Not yet.
“Did you hurt your knee?” Bruce asks, because that’s the only thing he can think. “I’ll ask Alfred for another ice pack.”)
Or when Jason was fifteen, and—
(“Jason,” Batman says, watching Jason return to the cave after gathering intel from prostitutes. (He should have known from Jason’s hesitation about taking this assignment, should have known from how easily he gained information while dressed as a civilian, as if he’d known them—) “What did you find out?”
“Freeze hasn’t been on that side of town—not that any of ‘em know,” he says, but he’s avoiding eye-contact. “But, um. Joker’s kind of—they’ve heard his name a few times.”
If Batman—if Bruce—had been a better man, he would have asked right then. But he wasn’t, and he still isn’t, so he doesn’t. Didn’t. So he says “Alright,” and that’s that.
Except it’s not, and his fingers brush Jason’s shoulder in a usual, half-hearted attempt at a ‘job well done, you may go now,’ touch.
Jason flinches.
Bruce puts it out of his mind because there’s work to be done, and he’s half-sure he imagined it, anyways. But it doesn’t change the security footage when he reviews it later, and it doesn’t stop Jason from keeping himself at arms’ length for the next three weeks.)
Or, when Jason was sixteen, and—
(“Batman,” Jason says, and it’s with enough pain that Bruce feels bad for ignoring him. But the cut on Jason’s upper thigh won’t fix itself, and Jason’s never been the best with sewing up wounds. But Jason’s not finished yet. “B,” he says, and when that doesn’t get a response, he says, voice lower, just in case, “Bruce.”
Bruce snaps his eyes up to him, a lecture already on his lips, but Jason cuts him off by putting a hand between his thigh and Batman’s hand.
“It can wait ‘till we’re home, can’t it?”
And he should have asked, then. Should have put it all together and signed him up for counseling, for therapy, for something, but instead, he says, “No.”
Years and years later, all Bruce can think is that the Jason didn’t lose nearly enough blood to have such a grey pallor to his face. The tidy, even scar on Jason’s upper thigh will never be worth the boy’s panicked heart-rate and the anxiety attack he swore he didn’t have.)
Batman still doesn’t know all the details. Never paid enough attention to figure out what warrants an anxiety attack and what warrants weeks of isolation and what warrants a flinch.
But Batman does know this:
Jason doesn’t flinch when Batman stops him from beating a child molester half to death. And he doesn’t flinch when he decks a reporter for implying ulterior motives for Jason’s adoption. And he doesn’t flinch when Felipe Garzonas falls to his death.
And years later, after Jason is alive and angry and Red Hood, and Bruce is on speaking terms with Talia again, he’s not surprised to hear about Jason murdering an ex-mentor. Jason has been a killer for years by then, and even if Bruce is uncomfortable with it, there’s no surprise anymore. Just grief. But Talia speaks of it proudly, as if it’s a good thing that Jason had become an assassin, as if it’s a good thing that she’s trained two of his sons to kill.
But the thing is, it’s his first kill, and the first thing he seemed passionate about outside of killing Batman, and—
“I remember, Bruce, how angry he was. But for the first time since he was resurrected, it was—it was something. He had a righteous anger. His mentor had been selling children into prostitution, and suddenly Jason had something to fight for again. Something to drive him, other than just wanting revenge on you.”
Bruce wonders if Jason flinched while murdering his ex-mentor, or if his vengeance blinded him to everything else.
(It was poison, Talia says, but all Bruce can think of is an angry Jason; beating a punching-bag till his fists are bloody, overtraining, using Robin as an outlet. He can’t imagine Jason not having righteous anger. Can’t imagine Jason not taking children’s sexual assault personally.)
And even though Bruce will never agree with killing,
And Bruce will never say it aloud,
He can be compassionate. He can try to understand.
And truthfully, he can empathize. He does understand why Jason flinches.
Because at the heart of it, it all comes back to Talia.
A drugged drink. A night he can only remember a few flashes of.
And they’ve accused Bruce Wayne of being a playboy for years, accused him of all kinds of things, but now he understands why Alfred was so angry at the idea of Bruce taking advantage of women, because—
Because this is what being taken advantage of is.
This is what it feels like to have the word “no” taken from his vocabulary.
And if the drugs hadn’t removed it from his lips, he would have tried to say it, would have at least urged her to use protection, would have urged her to let him control his own body—
At the next gala, a woman sidles up to Brucie and lets her hand wander down his lower back ‘til it’s resting just above his backside.
Bruce flinches.
And it’s not something they should have in common.
But there’s nothing they can do about it now. Because Bruce had ignorantly, selfishly, thought that the only thing Dick had been struggling with was Blockbuster’s death—
But that didn’t explain why he flinched.
It was a little thing. Dick was older, better at hiding it than Jason had been, and better at putting on a cheerful face and switching gears if attention was brought to it. After all, Dick was responsible, the oldest of all Bruce’s children. He’d always been good at stepping up and filling whatever role he needed to fill. Whether he was Dick Grayson the acrobat, or Robin, or Nightwing—or later, Agent 37—he was a performer.
He was excellent at putting on a mask.
But even masks had their cracks.
Nightwing is injured in the aftermath of another Arkham breakout, and Red Robin stays behind to help him. It isn’t the worst injury Dick had ever received—a few bad cuts, a few cracked ribs, a concussion—but it’s enough to knock him temporarily unconscious.
Bruce is on his way before he really knows where he’s going.
Things may have been rough between them recently, but Dick will always be his ward. His protégé. His son.
And like it or not, Bruce is always going to care about him.
So he hurries to the location Red Robin sends him.
When Dick finally comes to, Red Robin is still sitting beside him, and Batman is just arriving. But there’s something wrong and Bruce knows it and Tim knows it and Dick really knows it, because he’s what’s wrong with the situation.
And the moment Dick registers Tim’s hands on his shoulders, he panics.
It’s not more than a, “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, get away.” Not much more than scrambling backwards before his cracked ribs and cuts and concussion hinder him. But it’s enough to tip Tim off, to tip Bruce off.
Nightwing doesn’t get far after that.
Batman calls the Batplane, and they call it a night because the day’s work has already been done and dawn isn’t far away anyways.
But Bruce knows, now.
They shouldn’t have this in common.
But they do. Dick and Bruce and Jason.
They don’t plan to, but one night they all turn up at a bar together. Maybe it’s ‘cause Jason has to be pried off of a sexually abusive father before he breaks his three month streak of no killing. Maybe it’s ‘cause Bruce doesn’t want to be at a gala where he’ll be offered drinks from any number of women and he’s too stressed to handle that on top of everything else going wrong in his life. Maybe it’s ‘cause Tarantula recently reached out to Dick and he had an anxiety attack that left him shaky and nauseous for the rest of the day.
Bruce orders the drinks. Dick keeps his baggy hoodie on. Jason glares down anyone who tries to approach them.
The bartender mentions something about what three handsome men are doing without dates.
They don’t say a thing. But somehow, there’s an understanding after that.
A song comes out about not long afterwards. Something about making love to fix someone who’s broken. Dick’s face might be impassive, but there’s a tiny quirk of a frown as he turns the radio off with a definitive click.
And an advertisement shows off a new roofie-detecting nail polish. No one says a word when Bruce buys the patent, modifies the structure, and manufactures it into a clear polish.
And when a lawyer tries to pretend a twelve year old girl as guilty of her own rape, that reporter is found beaten within an inch of his life not twelve hours later.
It doesn’t bring them closer together. It should, but it doesn’t. But it’s still something they have in common, and they can’t ignore it, either.
Especially when it comes to the others.
So when Bruce is half across the world on a mission, and Dick is in Bludhaven, Jason isn’t shy about stepping up. He patrols Gotham, shadows Damian, partners with Tim, and keeps tabs on Steph, on Cass, on Babs.
They’ve never needed it, not yet, and it’s the yet that keeps Jason coming back.
When Dick or Bruce returns, Jason can leave, but not a moment before. Because even if the eldest three are fucked up beyond belief, there’s not a chance in hell that they’ll let the younger ones suffer the same fate.