#strong language

You'd always had a sharp tongue, but this time you even surprised yourself. Turning away from his now wide eyes, you descended the stairs to get the next box from the truck - silently kicking yourself for letting your frustration out on your new neighbor.

The sound of your boyfriend still on the phone greeted you when you stepped out of the building and into the parking lot. He claimed it was a work call, but his tone said otherwise. Rolling your eyes, you grabbed another box, and turned to look at the current pain in your ass again.

"Are you gonna help or not?" You tried to be firm, but your voice came out more miserable than you intended – not that he noticed.

"Okay okay, yes I understand. I'm on my way," he turned back to you with an apologetic smile. "Sorry babe, I gotta head to the office. It's an emergency."

"You said you took the day off to help though? Can't they handle one day without you?"

Someone cleared their throat behind you. Heat rushed to your face when you turned around to see your new neighbor standing there looking a little lost with a scowl on his face and his arms crossed.

"Oh great! Looks like you've got help hun. I gotta go!"

Before you had a chance to reply, he leaned in to give you a quick kiss on the cheek and left.

"The hell was that?" 

Letting out a sigh, you addressed your new neighbor, "My useless boyfriend. Look, I'm sorry I snapped. You don't need to help me, I've got this."

"Tch, 'm already here. Might's well help," you watched his massive shoulders shrug before he grabbed the next box without another word.

Thoughts and frustrations clouded your mind for the next hour or so as you and the neighbor worked to move your life into the apartment. It was only after you'd hauled in the last box and thanked him for his help that you realized exactly who you'd snapped at earlier. Embarrassment flashed through you when you took in the spikey blond hair and ruby eyes of one of the top Pro Heroes of Japan. 

You'd somehow convinced the Bakugo Katsuki to help you move into your apartment.

That was two years ago. The pair of you became fast friends - since you could make your own schedule, it became an unconscious habit to listen for him to return after a long day of protecting the city. It settled something restless in your chest knowing he got home safely.

Initially you'd simply bump into each other in the hall or elevator and make small talk, which then turned into inviting the other along on a grocery run or to grab a cup of coffee. Soon, the two of you were hanging out a couple nights a week just to chat or watch whatever trashy tv show captured the other's attention. Sometimes he’d show up after a rough shift, gear scuffed and broken, asking if you could get it working again.

Then there were the nights you and your boyfriend would get into it, raised voices echoing past the closed door to your apartment. You weren't trying to argue, you just wanted to know why he had to work so late, or who the woman was that sat next to him at a client lunch his company posted pictures of. But he always managed to twist it back on you - claiming you were being controlling and jealous. 

You really did try to defend yourself, but you'd been together since high school, and he knew exactly what buttons to push to make you doubt everything.

Katsuki hated listening to the two of you argue. It set his nerves on end and never failed to make him wish he could knock the fucker out the window. But he didn't, because he knew that would only hurt you more. He'd tried so. many. times. to convince you that you deserved better than some guy who was clearly fucking a coworker. Though, he never actually said that last part. You were already hurting, why would he want to make it worse?

Instead, he'd wait until the jackass left, listening for his steps to disappear into the elevator before he'd approach your door and knock firmly. Three short raps. Always the same - so you knew it was him.

It always started the same: first he'd make sure you were alright, keen eyes scanning you for any physical injury. Then he'd ask you to explain what happened (this time) and he'd listen, staying mostly quiet, while you'd throw your hands up and pace; sometimes with tears running down your face, other times with a mask of cold anger. 

By the end you were always exhausted; so, he'd lead you to your couch and shove a bottle of water in your hands, demanding you 'drink before you pass out from dehydration.' After you took your first few sips he would plop down beside you, making the couch groan under his weight. You'd press yourself into his side or lay your head in his lap while he would gently run his fingers through your hair.

Selfishly, Bakugo loved it when you guys fought because it was one of the few times, he got to hold you like this and not feel that familiar ache of guilt and jealousy. He'd fallen for you that first day. No hint of recognition on your face when you snapped at him, just a fire he knew matched his own.

Tonight was different, Katsuki could tell the moment he stepped out the elevator. There was a heaviness to the air he couldn't place. The building was quiet, most of the other tenants already in bed considering the late hour. Even your apartment was dark, no light showing under the door when he got to his own. 

He'd barely set his gauntlets down in the doorway, the heavy bag he always took to the agency still pulled on his shoulder when he heard faint voices. It wasn't like when you were arguing next door, it was quieter, but it was still distinctly you. A scowl creased his forehead when he prowled to the window in his room, glancing down to the front of the building to see you standing out front clearly arguing with your deadweight partner.

You were too far away for him to hear what was being said, but when your boyfriend took a step in your direction, he didn't wait.

Still in his hero costume, dirt and ash smudged on his face and arms, Bakugo leapt down the stairwell of the building. He didn't bother with his Quirk, just using the practiced control he had over himself to elegantly fall from landing to landing - making it to the main level in record time.

The automatic doors of the building slid open in front of him as he marched forward. The weight of his steps seemed to echo off the buildings around him - mingling with the argument now slicing through the evening air.

"How could you do that?! You made me look like a fool!" The hurt in your voice only strengthened the fury boiling in his chest.

"Oh, please! Like you actually care?! So what! Yeah, I fucked her! It was great, she doesn't bitch at me constantly like you do!"

He was almost to you, fists clenched tight at his sides, when he heard a choked sob leave you. He'd heard you cry before. Held you while you sobbed over shit the prick said. This was different. It was full of so much heartbreak, that his mind almost blanked out.

Until he heard the fucker's next words.

"What?" He let out a sadistic laugh, "It's not like you haven't cheated either, whore. I see the way Dynamight looks at you! How many times have you let him in your pathetic, used up cu-"

You hadn't even heard him coming. One second you were trying to hold the broken pieces of your shattered heart together while the person you loved insulted not just your relationship, but your character. The next, he was flying to the side, nearly airborne from the force of the punch Katsuki landed square against his jaw.

Shock kept you frozen in place as you watched your best friend prowl forward and grip the front of your boyfriend's... ex-boyfriend's shirt, hauling him into the air. You'd never noticed how much larger Katsuki was than your ex, his impressive stature and anger had never been directed at you.

Now he stood, holding your ex off the ground with one hand, the other clenched so tight at his side you could see a slight tremble.

Blood pounded in your ears, muffling the sounds of the city around you. You could see the tension in Bakugo's jaw while he spoke, not quite catching the words, only registering the low growl of his voice. He only lowered your ex to the ground when the wide-eyed, terrified man quickly nodded after something Katsuki said. 

Sound was slowly filtering back in as his feet hit the cement, letting you catch the tail-end of the blonds fearsome snarl, "-better not see your fuckin' face ever again. Got it?!"

"O-of course," you'd never seen your ex look like this - almost like the confrontation with Bakugo let the real him shine through. Everything still hurt: your pride, your head, your heart. But seeing your best friend step in to defend you? You felt like maybe a couple pieces of your broken heart were stitched back together.

Once Bakugo released his shirt, your ex scrambled back a few steps. He shot one more poisonous glare at you - provoking Katsuki to take a single step forward - before he took off. Hurried footsteps faded into the night air.

Tears were starting to dry on your cheeks, the cold wind sending a shiver down your spine, when you finally broke the silence.

"Thank you. You didn't have to do that."

"The hell I didn't," the blond looked at you with a raised brow, the anger already fading to something softer. "C'mon, yer gonna get sick if ya keep standin' out here."

He led you upstairs, keeping one arm around your shoulders or at the small of your back the whole time. When you tried to turn into your own apartment, he shook his head, pulling you through the open door into his.

"Not gonna let ya be alone t'night."

A plush towel was shoved into your hands when he directed you to the shower. You drifted, still in a daze at the sudden and brutal end of your relationship. The sound of water rushing finally pulled you from your head and into the present.

"’Tsuki, I can go home. I don't need to take up more of your time."

"Tch, dumbass. Just take a shower, I'll be back with some clothes."

There was no fight left to push him, so you nodded and let him close the door. You're not sure how long you stood under the hot water, letting it soothe the ache in your chest. By the time you finished, the bathroom was foggy and warm. When Katsuki said he'd get you clothes, you assumed that meant he'd use the key you gave him to get your own. Instead, neatly folded and sitting on the counter near the door, was a pair of his shorts and a sweatshirt.

A little smile tugged at your lips when you touched the soft fabric.

Eventually you dressed, the sweatshirt so large it nearly covered the shorts completely, and left the bathroom to find Katsuki lounging on his couch, hair still damp from a shower of his own. His eyes met yours the moment you stepped into the room, ruby irises dancing in the light. Beckoning you over, he patted the couch beside him. Once you sat down, he threw an arm over your shoulder and pulled you into him.

Bakugo wasn't much of a cuddler... but he knew you were.

Asks are open!

---

Bruce wakes up slowly and then all at once. His brain, a little addled from the sucker punch (it's been a while since someone got the drop on him like that), is still sharper than most. Sharp enough, anyway, to remember that he just got knocked over the head by some type of clone of his dead son and that said clone wants to steal his currently disoriented and aggressive son from the Cave. From Bruce's protection.

That's all Bruce really needs to remember. He's sprinting before he realizes he even stood up.

There's screaming from the containment cell. Angry, frenetic words barely coherent, if at all. And then there's a much clearer voice shouting, “Dick, stop it! I’m right here! The Joker’s not here!”

Oh god. It's exactly as Bruce feared. Something happened. Dick snapped, reverting back to whatever frenzied, uncharacteristic state led him to attack the Joker.

Jason - not his Jason, but another Jason, and that distinction is imperative - sees Bruce's approach, but rather than attack again, he runs to the cell’s control panel. “Bruce, what's the code to the cell?”

Bruce takes a better look at said cell and, more importantly, its occupant.

Dick is leaning against a wall with one hand and punching with the other. He's not putting a dent in the ballistic glass, but the glass is certainly leaving a dent in him. His hand is swollen and bruised with blood bubbling up on his knuckles. Even so, he doesn't seem to notice, almost robotically attacking the wall, even as his blood smears across it and his bones make audible cracks.

“24-16-81,” Bruce replies, rushing over to the control panel himself. But Jason - other Jason - has input the code before Bruce can do so himself.

“Get out of here, Jay!” Dick yells again, never letting up. If that wall was the Joker, he’d definitely be dead by now.

Jason hits confirm and watches as the cell doesn’t open up like he expects it to. Instead, there’s a soft hissing. He turns to Bruce. “It’s stuck. What’s your backup plan?”

“It’s not stuck,” Bruce replies, and that soft, dismissive tone makes Jason’s jaw tighten.

“Well then what-?”

Thud.

Jason spins around to see Dick collapsed on the floor. He fusses desperately with the panel, but it seems frozen on the green “ACTIVATING” screen.

“It’s definitely stuck!” Jason spits back, trying not to panic.

Bruce, however, looks as calm as ever.

Jason wants to shoot him. In the face. More than once. “What the fuck??” he shrieks. “Help me! He could be fucking dead, and you’re-!”

“He’s not dead,” Bruce insists.

Inside the cell, there’s a loud whoosh of air and then nothing at all. Dick doesn’t flinch, still unresponsive on the ground.

The puzzle pieces click in Jason’s mind, and then anger beyond any anger before swells in his chest. “You gassed him???” He has to hold his wrist to keep from grabbing his gun.

“No,” Bruce counters. “You did.” He takes a step closer, starting to crowd Jason (or the Jason look-alike, perhaps) away from the control panel.

“You gave me the code to gas him!”

“He was a danger to himself already. If you opened the door, he might’ve hurt you too.” Bruce settles the intruder with a glare. “Now, tell me who you really are, because Jason Todd is dead.”

Jason considers clocking Bruce again, if only to escape the question, but then he remembers that he still doesn’t have the code to the cell. He needs Bruce awake if he wants to get Dick out of this. (And he does want to help Dick, because… Well, he really did kill the Joker. He really was going to do it again. He clearly gives a shit about Jason, even if he’s a little unhinged about the whole thing.) There’s really only one option, no matter how much Jason may hate it.

“Talia al Ghul brought me back. Lazarus Pit.”

Bruce looks thoroughly unconvinced. And he is, indeed, thoroughly unconvinced. “I had sensors on the casket. I would have known if she took his body.”

“Yeah, if she had opened the casket. But I busted through it while it was shut. And then, y’know, dug myself out of my own grave.”

And if Bruce was thoroughly unconvinced before (and he was), now he’s entirely unconvinced. “She resurrected you while you were still inside the casket?” He arches an eyebrow, and Jason winces, because things are never good when Bruce decides to use a facial expression other than apathy, anger, or disappointment.

“No. I…” Jason shakes his head, stepping away. “Why are you making me explain myself? I’m fucking here, aren’t I? And I sure as hell wouldn’t be talking to you if I didn’t have to.”

It’s a mystery. Jason Todd, back from the dead, via the Lazarus Pit. Kind of.

It’s possible. Certainly, it’s possible. But Bruce can’t trust someone who can’t explain themself. Especially this guy, who looks like Jason, sounds like Jason, and acts like the complete opposite of Jason. His little boy never held such disdain, wouldn’t hate him with such ferocity.

… right?

Bruce takes a breath and does something he’s never done before: ignores his instincts. (“Danger! Danger! Danger!” they shriek. Bruce shoves them in a mental filing cabinet.) “Why do you hate me, Jason?” he asks softly, allowing himself to feel the pain he’d been suppressing for four years now. “Because I didn’t save you?”

Jason needs a moment to process that Bruce isn’t grilling him anymore. He’s asking patiently, watching with a vulnerability Jason has never seen on the man before. There’s no trick to his question. If anything, he sounds hurt.

“I…” Jason has been working hard to build up the Red Hood persona. He’s been planning his dramatic reveal for weeks. He’s been imagining Bruce’s face when he realizes, when he finally decides that Joker’s victims are far more important than any moral code. He’s furious that this - this pathetic attempt at a jailbreak - is how he actually reveals himself. He gets angry at Dick and then Bruce again, remembering that maybe Dick is the reason he’s here, but Bruce is the reason Dick had to go after the Joker again. Bruce is the reason there’s still a Joker for Dick to kill again.

“You let the Joker live,” Jason says simply, wishing he had a speech prepared. This all could have been so much more dramatic. It would have been beautiful. Poetic, even. “And you brought him back after your favorite son killed him.” He laughs dryly. “Or is the new kid your favorite now? You know, what with Dick breaking your precious ‘no killing’ rule?”

Bruce takes a step forward, but Jason steps back in tandem. With a sigh, Bruce backs off. “You’re mad I didn’t avenge you?”

“No.” Because it’s not that simple, and it never has been. “I’m mad because that fucker is still killing people, and you not only won’t stop him, but you brought him back! I’m mad because somewhere out there, another father lost his son to that bastard. I’m mad because you didn’t let me be the last.”

Bruce considers the boy - the man - in front of him. He’s so much taller than before. He’d always been a little short, what with malnutrition slowing his growth, but now his height rivals Bruce’s. His eyes are the same blue, nose has the same curve to it. The same dark hair frames his face, but there’s a shock of white, right where his bangs used to curl against his forehead. The scar on his left ear, the one on his chin, the one on his right hand - they’re all gone, but those same freckles still dust his skin.

Jason certainly looks the part. He knew the code to get in. No alarms have triggered, alerting Bruce to extradimensional material, so the odds of Jason being from another universe are low. Even the story about Talia lines up; she’d been in Nanda Parabat with her father for months and then dropped off the radar a few weeks ago. The League of Assassins has been abnormally active ever since. Ra’s has made it clear in the past that the Lazarus baths are exclusive to himself, so if Talia put Jason in one… Well, it stands to reason that Talia could be hiding from Ra's’ wrath.

“If you really are Jason” - and Bruce has the sinking feeling that this is true - “you know better than that. I don’t play God.”

“It’s not playing God! It’s doing your damn job! It’s-!” Jason cuts himself off with a wave of the hand. “Forget it. You know I’m not a fake. Open the damn door already.”

“Jason,” Bruce says, and it’s that this-is-an-order-do-not-question-me voice he always did back when Jason was Robin. It makes him straighten his posture and clench his fists on instinct. “Did you ask Dick to kill the Joker?”

If Bruce wasn’t holding Dick hostage, Jason probably would have shot the bastard for that. “No! He wigged out because you clearly did a shit job of helping him process his grief. You know he was hallucinating? He thought I was a goddamn voice in his head, Bruce. Good fucking job.”

Bruce refuses to take the bait, tempting though it might be. “Why were you at Arkham, then?”

“I was stopping him from killing the Joker. You’re welcome, by the way.”

It makes no sense. Jason just went on a huge rant about how the Joker’s death would be beneficial for society. Now he’s claiming to do exactly what he accused Bruce of: saving the Joker.

“Why?”

Jason pushes past Bruce, returning to the control panel. In the cell, Dick seems to have regained some sense of consciousness, but he’s doing a lot more drooling and staring than any conscious person really should be. “Doesn’t matter; your precious clown is alive and well.” Or… maybe not well, but alive, at least. “Now open the door already.”

“He’s dangerous.”

“He’s drooling,” Jason emphasizes.

Bruce reassesses the situation. There really is little risk in checking on Dick now. The biggest concern, really, is that Jason is going to grab him and run off. “66-18-94,” he says, approaching the cell wall.

“What will that do? Fill the cell with water?”

“Just do it,” Bruce hisses.

Jason grumbles. If anything happens other than the cell opening, he’s not going to hold himself back from shooting Bruce this time. Fortunately for all involved parties, one cell wall retreats into the floor. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Dick,” Bruce calls, kneeling beside the boy - man, whatever, he’s just a kid - and taking a better look at his hands. The left hand looks okay, maybe a little scraped up, maybe a little bruised. The right hand, by comparison, looks like an abstract sculpture. Someone's nightmare version of a hand, where the number of fingers is constantly changing and the skin is purple, green, and red. Knuckles are bent out of place. The thumb is missing its nail (a consequence of poor punching technique, which means Dick definitely wasn't with it when he tried to put a fist through the wall).

Dick hums, gaze oh-so slowly drifting to Bruce. “Mm. Hey, B.”

“Okay,” Jason says abruptly, kneeling down beside them. “Good talk, Bruce. We’re leaving now.”

“No!” Bruce doesn’t mean to shout. Or sound so desperate. In fact, he isn’t sure why he spoke at all. “I… Alfred should look at Dick’s hand. And you probably need a few hours of sleep. Adrenaline crash.”

Jason sizes Bruce up, eyes narrowed, glare unwavering. “... hypocrite,” he finally says. Then he nods slowly and stands up again. “Just until his hand is wrapped.”

They’re definitely not leaving that soon. Bruce doesn’t say this, of course, but his thoughts feel like cannon booms. Fortunately, Jason must have his earplugs in. He doesn’t call out the lie or even indicate that he noticed it.

Fine with Bruce.

---

“... Bruce…?” Dick’s voice sounds like rocks in a blender. His throat feels like rocks in a blender in a trash compactor.

“Still here.” It's Bruce's familiar rumble, softer than usual and, as always, gruffer than necessary.

“What… what happened?” Dick sits up slowly, noting the cast on his right hand and the IV in his left.

Bruce sighs, leaning back in his chair. “You don't remember?”

“I… don’t remember what?”

“You dropped off the grid, and a week later, I get news that you’re in Arkham, beating the Joker to death.” Bruce’s face remains unwaveringly stoic. This is his default, but it’s also his way of coping with extreme emotions. Dick gets the sense that this is an I-am-so-angry-I-don’t-know-how-to-process-it expression and not a typical apathetic expression.

Dick’s eyes trail to his hands. Somehow, stoicism is worse than wrath. “I’m sorry. I… I’ve been seeing things. And I’ve been trying to ignore them, but Jason tackled me, and I couldn’t get him to move without talking to him, and it’s just been a nightmare ever since.” The words tumble from his lips like sand in an hourglass.

“Hn.”

“I’m sorry, Bruce. I am.” Dick looks up, frustrated tears stinging his eyes. He just feels so… out of control. He’s always had an acute sense of his body, his actions, every tiny movement and twitch. He had to as an acrobat. That went doubly for vigilante work. But now…

Now he can barely tell truth from reality. How can he react properly if he doesn’t even know where he is, what’s happening?

“I know you are,” Bruce says absently, fingers massaging a temple. “I know. I’m getting you help.”

Dick glances up. There’s a cheap drop-down ceiling above them, crumbling from the force of the air vents. He realizes, suddenly, that they’re not in the Cave. “Where are we?”

Another sigh. Bruce won’t meet Dick’s gaze. “Arkham medical wing.”

“Oh. Oh. So we aren't… I’m still…?”

“You killed the Joker. What should I have done, Dick?”

The air freezes. Time slows to a crawl. Dick’s ears ring. He blinks once, twice. “Wait, I killed him?”

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes tightly. He looks almost annoyed to answer the question. (Has Dick asked him the question already?) “He died in the hospital two hours ago. Kidney failure and severe blood loss.”

“Oh.” Dick had assumed that Jason stopped him before he could actually kill the Joker. But he hadn’t, apparently. “Fuck.”

Bruce finally looks at Dick, expression almost bored. “Yeah. ‘Fuck.’”

“I…” Dick doesn’t know what to say. He wants to beg for forgiveness, plead for Bruce to set him free, promise to never kill again, but it’s far too late. He killed. He deserves to be here.

“You can plead insanity. That’s what happened. I hope.”

Dick frowns. “You think I might kill him in my right mind?”

Bruce laughs dryly. It’s robotic and sends chills down Dick’s spine. There is something very wrong here. “These days? Yeah. You already did it once, didn’t you? Why wouldn’t you try again? I was stupid for not reporting you back then.”

“You… what?”

Bruce stands and leans a little too close for Bruce “Personal Space” Wayne. “I should have sent you to Arkham a year ago. At least then the Joker would be alive. At least then, I wouldn’t have to try to explain to Jim Gordon why my former protege, the one who was supposed to be the best, went on a bloodthirsty killing spree. The city doesn’t trust the vigilantes anymore. You ruined everything.”

“Bruce, I… God, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so-”

Then Bruce explodes into confetti and viscera. Blood and glitter paint coat the walls. Gory balloons floats to the ceiling. Dick tries to jump up, but he can’t move, suddenly tied to the bed. He fights and he struggles, and people are grabbing him, trying to hurt him, and he just wants things to go back to normal. He wants Jason to be alive. He wants Bruce to be normal again. He-

“Wake up!”

Dick wakes with a start, accidentally jarring his still-broken hand and cursing softly as a million knives stab his fingers.

“Relax, dude. Take a second.” Tim keeps his hand on Dick’s shoulder, undeterred by the wild look in Dick’s eyes. (God, how long have they looked like that? Wide and bloodshot and darting every which way?) “Breathe slow.”

“I’m sorry, Timmy,” Dick says, eyes unfocused and looking in the exact wrong direction if he’s trying to talk to Tim. “I put you in danger. I let you become Robin.”

Is he hallucinating? Tim can’t be sure. He certainly looks like he’s speaking to a fake Tim.

“Hey, I’m right here.” Tim waves a hand in Dick’s face, and Dick glares at him, leaning away.

“I know where you are,” Dick grouses. He does. He’s just… “Where are we? And… where’s Jason?”

“The Cave,” Tim answers. Then he points just to Dick’s left. “Your grumpy bodyguard won’t let you out of his sight. And wants to pretend I don’t exist, apparently.”

Jason growls, folding his arms and shifting in his seat. “Yeah, you’d know a lot about pretending, wouldn’t you, Robin?”

Tim’s upper lip curls, but he doesn’t grace that with a response.

Dick looks back and forth at the two. “He’s actually there?”

Jason tries to summon some patience, but he ran out of it hours ago. He stretches to reach Dick’s good hand, currently cuffed to the bed railing, and pinches it.

Dick tries to pull away and the cuff bites into his wrist. “Shit,” he mutters. “Yeah, okay, okay. Don’t need to be such an ass about it.”

“Trust me; that was completely necessary.”

“How are you feeling?” Tim asks cautiously, watching Dick with a bizarre mix of sympathy and unease.

“Oh. Um. Hand hurts like hell. Must’a hit something pretty tough.” A spike of panic shoots through Dick’s stomach. He remembers exactly what - or perhaps, who - he hit. Who he… killed? Or was that a dream? Or-?

“A wall,” Jason clarifies. “You looked like an idiot.”

“You mean I didn’t… kill the Joker?”

Jason’s expression sours. He leans back in his chair and looks away.

Dick’s heart rate picks up. Thud, thud, thud, thud.

“No,” Tim assures him. “The Commissioner called a few minutes ago. The Joker lives on.”

“Fuckin’ bitch,” Jason mutters.

“Didn’t you stop Dick from killing him?” Tim accuses, narrowing his eyes.

“Don’t fucking talk to me,” Jason growls.

“Guys, cut it out,” Dick orders, shocking even himself with how sane he sounds. He is most definitely not sane and honestly barely knows what’s happening anymore. He shakes his head and looks over at Tim. “Where’s B?”

“Avoiding Jason, probably,” Tim replies, earning himself a middle finger from Jason and a confused frown from Dick.

“He’s… not glad to see him?” He shoots Jason a pointed look. “He’s not glad to see you?”

“We’re not discussing this.” Jason’s voice leaves no room for argument.

“I need to talk to him,” Dick tells Tim. “Could you find him for me?”

Tim pauses. He really shouldn’t leave Dick with Jason. Bruce made that very clear. Jason has been wanting to leave since he arrived, and apparently, he plans on taking Dick with him. (To do what, Tim’s not sure. For all his bitterness and cursing, he’s weirdly protective of Dick, so probably nothing that would endanger him.)

Dick smiles teasingly at Tim’s hesitation. “You can have my dessert for a week.”

Tim chews his lip. According to Bruce, a single second unsupervised would be enough time for them to run away. Tim seriously doubts that, though. The cuff would take at least fifteen seconds (at least) to unlock, and Jason won’t leave without Dick. “Two weeks.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dick replies lightly. “Get out of here.”

Jason, of course, saw the entire exchange, and now he’s feeling something akin to heartburn. He’d blame it on the pizza if he got any. But he didn’t, so he’s forced to face the nagging thoughts swirling around in his brain:

Dick and Tim really do act like brothers. How long have they been working together? Longer than I was Robin, probably. The Pretender really took my life: my name, my uniform, my brother-

“Jay,” Dick calls, and there’s something sad about his eyes and the purse of his lips. He looks pretty pathetic in that med bay cot, one hand hidden by finger splints and a blue cast, the other hand dangling from a pair of handcuffs. The circles under his eyes are dark, and his face looks a bit thin.

“Yeah?”

Alone with Dick, Jason feels infinitely more comfortable, even if he’s in the last place he wants to be. Anything is better than sitting next to Tim. He just doesn’t know how to mind his own business, constantly staring, eyes squinting slightly, gears shifting in his brain.

“Are you okay?” Dick asks, oddly sincere. “I know you didn’t want to see B.”

Jason grunts. “I’ll be better once we’re out of here.”

Everything about the Cave makes Jason want to puke. He’s hit with memories of flinging Batarangs at targets and hiding in the giant dinosaur’s mouth to get out of a dentist appointment. He remembers pain, joy, sweat, tears, blood. He remembers some of the happiest years of his life.

And he hates it. He hates being reminded of what he lost.

Dick raises an eyebrow. “You really think he’ll let me leave?”

“Eh, good point. All the more reason to leave now. Think you can slip that cuff off, or do I need to jimmy it?”

“I… think I should stay. We’re not… I don't know how to fix this.”

Jason sighs and folds his arms. Before, he was okay with Dick going to Bruce, but before, Bruce hadn't drugged, kidnapped, and imprisoned his own son. “I don't know. We call a crisis line. Talk to that psychiatrist, Sasha-”

“Sarah.”

“Yeah, her.”

Dick rolls his shoulders and looks away. “Is that enough? I mean, I tried to kill the Joker.”

Jason stands suddenly. “Oh my god. That's what this is about? You don't want help; you want to be punished.”

“I- no! No, I’m saying I’m dangerous.”

Jason narrows his eyes and paces closer. “How many times have you tried to kill me since you lost your mind? Or Bruce? The Pretender?”

“Tim.”

“Potayto-potahto.”

“I didn't know I was punching a wall, Jay!” Dick insists. “If I wasn't locked up, that could've been you!”

“You wouldn't hurt me, and you definitely couldn't have like that. You were dazed. Strong, but slow. Clumsy. Trust me; you don't need that cuff.” He nods at the handcuff digging into Dick’s wrist. “What you need is someone to actually fucking work with you rather than throw you in a cell to rot.”

“Jason, you don't realize how terrifying it is, not knowing where you are or what's happening or even what you're doing. I feel so out of control. At least in a cell-”

“-you can't hurt anyone,” Jason finishes for him. “Yeah, whatever. But you only hurt one person, and he had it coming. You're hardly the danger you say you are. We can work this out, but you getting shivved by your cellmate in Arkham won't fix things. And then who’ll watch Blüdhaven?”

“You’d do it for me, wouldn't you?” Dick is serious, and both of them know it. His puppy dog eyes are the rotten cherry on top of this shit sundae.

“Fuck you,” Jason growls. “No. You’re not a lost cause, and you can’t keep thinking of yourself as one!”

“Dick. Jason.” Bruce says the second name like his tongue is a thousand pounds. It’s barely anything resembling Jason’s name, but they all know who he’s addressing. What he’s trying (and failing, Batman is failing) to say.

“B,” Dick replies, wary at best and terrified at worst. The unspoken question hangs heavily in the air, its leaden hands pressing down on the men’s shoulders, constricting their chests.

Bruce sighs and settles in Tim’s vacated chair. He takes his sweet time studying Dick and Jason. The loss in his eyes, that desperate spark of something that almost was, overpowers any anger or bravado he attempts to wear.

“I smoothed things over with Gordon,” Bruce finally says. “As far as he knows, Clayface broke out of his cell, took on Nightwing’s appearance, and tried to kill the Joker over a disagreement in the cafeteria.”

A morally gray (at best) decision on Bruce’s part. Jason would be proud of the guy if it didn’t send an aching reminder that Bruce will break his moral code for those he truly loves.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Dick chews the inside of his cheek, brow furrowed. “I thought… I thought you were-”

“Institutionalizing you? Turning you in?” Bruce exhales heavily, avoiding his sons’ eyes. “No. I talked to Leslie and Alfred and… It wouldn’t work.” He looks up at Dick, expression severe. “I need you to be honest with me from now on. Completely. No running away. No covering things up. If you’re seeing people that don’t exist, I need to know.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Bruce and Jason raise eyebrows in unison. Jason notices and quickly drops the expression, scowling instead. Bruce remains oblivious to this.

“I’m serious,” Bruce presses. “I need to know. How many people are in the room right now? Ghosts included.”

Dick blows out a frustrated puff of breath. “Just you and Jason.” It’s technically true. He sees Bruce and Jason. There’s also a younger Jason dangling from a noose tied to the dinosaur. But it’s still Jason.

“How many of me?” Jason counters.

Dick really doesn’t appreciate the sudden team-up. “Fine. Two, or whatever. I know the kid’s not real.”

“‘s what I thought.”

Cautiously, Bruce reaches over and unlocks the handcuffs. “Leslie is reaching out to some contacts. And I’m sure Dinah would be happy to assist.” He smiles weakly. “We’ll figure this out, okay?”

Dick tips his head in uncertainty. “And I know you won’t change your mind and ship me back to Arkham because…?”

“Because I’ll beat his ass,” Jason promises. He glares at Bruce. “I swear on my grave.”

---

In the next hour, Sarah has been contacted, Dick’s prescription has been updated, and said man is passed out in his old bedroom in the manor, sleep deprivation and antipsychotic side effects making the siren song of a comfortable pillow and blanket far too alluring to ignore. Jason doesn’t leave his side, though Alfred dropped off a small mountain of books for Jason to keep himself entertained. (Alfred also snuck in a hug, and Jason isn’t too macho to say he missed the guy.)

Bruce walks past Dick’s room frequently, pausing just long enough to spot the dark head of hair sticking out from under the sheets. He doesn’t peer close enough to see if Jason is still standing guard. He did it the first time, and Jason kicked him out with a furious, “He’s not going to Arkham, asshole!” 

It isn’t until the evening that Bruce dares to check for Jason again. He’s mellowed out a bit, quietly paging through a novel resting on his lap. It’s painfully reminiscent of Jason when he was thirteen, curled up in the library with yet another Austen (collector’s hardbacks; a gift from Alfred for Jason’s birthday) in his hands. He would always hold the book a little too close to his face, and his expression would shift slightly, as if attempting to visualize exactly how each character was emoting.

“Bruce,” Jason says when Bruce lingers in the doorway. He keeps his eyes on the book. “Don’t stare. It’s weird.”

“You’re… still here?” Bruce doesn’t know why he expected Jason to simply disappear after a few hours. He’s clearly not moving until Dick does.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jason grunts, gently closing his leather-bound book. “I’m just here to keep you in line.”

A ray of hope peers out from behind Jason’s shadowed threats. Bruce sees it, not because he’s an optimist (something he never has been and never will be) but because he’s an estranged father. He’ll take any opportunity to see Jason again, even if it’s in a negative context.

“Should I ask Alfred to prepare your room? It won’t take long; he’s been keeping it… ready for you, I suppose.”

Jason isn’t sure whether to be confused or flattered. “He thought you buried me alive?”

“No,” Bruce says absently, gaze flickering to the garden beyond the window. “No. He just missed you.”

“And you couldn’t look at my room.” It’s not a guess. Jason knows Bruce well enough to know his chronic inability to deal with his own emotions.

“In a sense,” Bruce settles with, because it’s a less direct way of admitting he cares. The stoic bastard.

“Yeah,” Jason replies with a shrug. “Guess a night on the best mattress money can buy wouldn’t hurt.”

Bruce lingers still, growing awkward and uncertain. “Jason? I’m sorry. About… you know.”

“I know.” Jason opens his book again. He knows Bruce is sorry, but in words only. He isn’t sorry enough to do something about it.

And then, twenty-two seconds later, Bruce is still lingering when he gets words out. Easier words but still plenty important. “Thank you, Jason. For keeping him safe. Even from me.”

“Yeah,” Jason hums, glancing over at the drooling mess in the bed. He kicks his feet up, resting his ankles on Dick’s legs. Dick doesn’t flinch.