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It’s been a long night in a string of long nights. Hours of rounding up Scarecrow’s victims, admitting the affected into Gotham General’s care. Cordoning off the parts of the city still plagued by the cloud of sickly purple gas. And now, a bedside vigil as Jason curls on the sheets, medical bracelet cutting into his hand where it’s fisted in the sheets.
Bruce is beginning to think this is a blessing in disguise, getting to spend the time with his estranged son without Jason leaping out the nearest window. The thought makes him laugh, the sound choked and bitter, and Bruce feels worse in its wake.
He’s shucked the cowl, but not the suit, squeezed into a vinyl chair next to the single bed. Leslie will be around eventually to check on his progress now that the antidote has been administered and the worst of the symptoms have left Jason. But there’s an entire ward that needs her attention, so Bruce settles in for the wait.
There’s no better sentry, especially considering Jason’s rampant paranoia, amplified by the effects of the drug. Some unholy combination of Joker venom and fear toxin, concocted into an aerosol that had spread through the Narrows like a plague. Jason had been one of the first into the cloud, snarling a retort at Bruce’s order to hang back and wait for reinforcements. Too concerned with rescuing whatever stragglers needing their help remained to wait til the worst of the aerosol dissipated.
His helmet’s filter had done most of the work, but Jason still needed to breathe, and even microdoses of the drug add up when you’re dragging people to safety for over an hour.
Bruce had found him in Crime Alley, curled over near a dumpster, one bare hand pressed to the coarse brick. It wasn’t the alley, but in these parts of town, they all start to look the same. He’d approached warily, conscious of spooking Jason when he’d called his name.
The tittering had stopped at Bruce’s call, choked off abruptly as Jason had turned to stare up at him, all the colour draining from his face. Pupils blown wide, black chewing through that green-blue.
He’d thought it had been the cowl that had terrified him, originally. Bruce had been half-correct. It wasn’t the imposing shadow of the Batman that had sent Jason into hysterical, terror-filled cackling; it was Bruce.
He hadn’t noticed at the time, too concerned with bundling Jason up and getting him into the Batmobile. Strapping him into the passenger seat despite his thrashing. The laughter had made it all the worse, a horrific counter to the stench of fear on the man, the petrified look in his eyes.
Bruce is grateful for the quiet of the hospital, broken only by Jason’s occasional chuckle. He’s laid on one side, chin tucked to his chest and knees lifted in a mock embrace. It makes him look small, despite his stature. Childish. Young, in a way that leaves a pang in Bruce’s chest.
He leans forward to brush a strand of hair back, cataloguing the way Jason’s eyes dart to Bruce’s advancing fingers and then back down to fix on the sheets. He’s been laughing for hours, the fatigue evident in every line of his body, even though it’s subsided.
“How’re you doing, chum?” Bruce murmurs gently. He pitches his voice low, soothing. The way he used to speak when he’d comfort Jason after a nightmare, back when the boy would sleep under his roof without coercion.
Jason twitches a little at the contact, but doesn’t pull away.
“Remember that time on Amusement Mile?” Jason snickers, curled on the bed with the force of his giggling. He looks tired, the contractions painful as he jolts through each laugh.
Bruce is about to remind him they’ve had many missions in the waterfront theme park, he can’t know which Jason’s referring to, when Jason continues, “You cut open my throat.”
Ice seeps up from the pit of Bruce’s stomach, the dregs of guilt stirring in his gut at the recollection. He remembers, better than Jason probably realises. The rage, the betrayal, a batarang in his palm and then in Jason’s throat before he could control himself. He remembers the aftermath too, grip too-tight on the wheel of the Batmobile, a maniac in the backseat when it should have been his son there instead—
Bruce swallows, squeezing his eyes shut before he reopens them. They’ve spent too long avoiding this subject. Now isn’t the time for an emotionally charged discussion — not when Jason still fighting off the last on the venom’s effects — but Bruce is tired of running from it.
“I did,” he admits quietly, and watches Jason digest that slowly. There’s no confusion there, no accusation. Just an all-permeating fear, the horror of a fraught past painted on the man’s features. “I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Why did you?”
Bruce’s hand trembles, when he circles the shell of Jason’s ear, throat tight. “I was scared. And angry. At myself, at you. I didn’t know who you were. I didn’t realise you were my— I want you back, so badly, Jason.”
Those blue-green eyes blink up at him, so wide in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Bruce feels his own prickling, and fights back the urge to cry.
“For so long after you were gone, I wanted you back. It was all I thought about, all I dreamt about. Day and night, for months. I just wanted my boy, back in my arms. I just wanted you.”
His inhalation is harsh, rough and raw in the quiet of the room.
“And then I got what I wanted. Can you believe that?” He laughs, sharply, Jason echoing the sound with a cackle that sounds more like a yelp. Bruce looks down at his face, at the lines of fear there. “I got my son back.”
Jason makes a choked little sound, but Bruce can’t bring himself to meet that gaze again. “But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t my boy. I didn’t think I’d— You weren’t who I thought you were, who I wanted you to be. And I was so blinded by my loss that I took for granted what I had in front of me.”
“You left me there,” Jason whimpers, and Bruce doesn’t think they’re talking about Amusement Mile anymore.
He sighs, eyes sliding shut. His shoulders feel heavier, some great weight settling over them as the silence drips by. “I wanted to go back. I wanted to— I wanted to kill him,” Bruce snarls, harsh and hoarse. He feels Jason flinch on the bedsheets, eyes cracking open as he runs a soft hand through the man’s dark hair. “I nearly did. I came so close.”
Bruce’s voice cracks on the words, and he swallows heavily, composing himself with effort.
“I wanted to, but I didn’t. I couldn’t let myself become that man. Not in your name. I couldn’t let my memory of you be tarnished with revenge. You deserved— you deserve better, Jason. Better than anything I could give you. Better than me.”
Bruce’s cheeks feel wet, and he swipes at them, glancing away.
“Get some rest, chum. I’ll stay and watch over you, I promise. I won’t leave you this time.”
Jason nods after a moment, curling tighter in the mess of sheets when Bruce tucks them up to his chin. The sleep he falls into is fitful, brow creased with nightmares or dreams, but Bruce couldn’t be more grateful for the sign of movement, the promise of life in Jason’s tossing and turning. The reminder of his boy, brought back into his arms.
Bruce will take his blessings where he can, these days.
