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The car park is empty when Bruce arrives, save for a battered red sedan which waits in the far corner. A broad silhouette leans against its side, haloed by the light streaming from its windows. A dull red ember glows between the figures fingers, and Bruce berates himself internally once again.
It was foolish to come, given just how late he is. Of course there’s nothing left to see but a dark building. But equally: of course Jason is here waiting. Of course his son, his brave, smart, miracle of a boy, was stubborn enough to wait for his arrival.
Bruce had promised to be there. Jason had waited for him until it was far too late. It echoed in his mind in a way that he didn’t like.
“Sup, old man?” Jason greets when he steps out of his car, its paint looking twice as shiny and perfect next to the peeling coat of Jason’s civilian vehicle. “Show started at 7.”
He knows it did. He’s had the date written on his calendar for weeks, making triply sure that everyone at Wayne Enterprises knew he’d be leaving at four on the dot just to be safe. He’d been fully dressed and ready to go at five, fielding rolled eyes from Alfred who had sensibly awaited until ten to six to begin his preparations. And then, the emergency signal had sounded. And he hadn’t wanted to go, but there hadn’t been a choice. Not really.
“Jaylad, I’m so sorry,” he says, and his voice is hoarse from more than shouting. His son shrugs, and brings the cigarette to his lips, staring at him for a long moment before he speaks.
“Course you are. What was it this time? A mugging? Kidnapping? A heist?”
Bruce looks away, he can’t help it. Jason’s disappointment has always been hard to take, and become particularly barbed since his return from the dead. His tone is mild, lacking in the poison he wields so well, but Bruce can feel its weight nonetheless.
“The Riddler,” he states, hands clenching as he remembers the terrified faces of the victims he’d freed. “He took hostages and wired them to explode if the solution wasn’t found in time. I had no choice.”
Jason only hums noncommittally, and Bruce forces himself to look back at his son and give his apology properly. It’s nothing less than his boy deserves.
“I’m so sorry Jason.”
“Why?”
A test. It’s always a test these days. The time of innocent questions from a wide-eyed little boy is long gone. He wants Bruce to grovel.
“I should have been here. I promised I would be, and I’m so, so sorry I wasn’t able to be. You kids are the most important thing in my life and–”
“Bullshit,” Jason cuts him off mid sentence, crossing his arms and glaring at him with a ferocity he has earned over and over.
“Jason—” he pleads, trailing off when he can’t find the words. His son shakes his head, face dark with anger.
“No Bruce, I call bullshit,” he snaps. “If we were the most important part of your life, you would always be there for us and you would never miss a performance. I know you missed Tim’s award ceremony and Cass’ recital a few weeks ago too, so don’t try it.”
He can’t deny it. He’s let all of his children down over the past few years, enough that the media has begun to make sly comments. He tries to be there for them in other ways but… “Jay, I–”
Jason exhales a stream of smoke into the night air, eyes staring up at the ever-smoggy Gotham sky as if searching for a star.
“We’re not the most important thing to you, and we fucking shouldn’t be,” his son says, and Bruce is caught off balance, blinking at him with confusion. It’s an unusual feeling for him given the endless contingencies he makes and planning that he does, but somehow Jason has become an expert at acting in ways Bruce cannot predict.
“What?” he asks eloquently, and Jason lets out a snort of amusement, glancing in his direction with a faint smile playing across his lips. His temper is gone as quickly as it had bloomed, leaving Bruce wrong-footed.
“A play ain’t more important than saving lives,” he says, as easy and open as if he isn’t disappointed at all. “Even opening night is nothin’ compared to making sure those people made it home. We ain’t the most important thing, and we shouldn’t be.”
Bruce… Bruce has no words for what he wants to say. He swallows hard against the lump in his throat and freezes when Jason sighs, stubbing out the cigarette and dragging Bruce close with an arm around his shoulders. He’s warm against his side, warm and alive and there. It soothes a part of him that has never stopped aching, that fear that he might wake up to find his son is gone forever.
“I’m still sorry I missed it,” he admits and Jason shrugs again, running a hand through his hair and grimacing as it clings to his fingers. Bruce had vaguely noticed that he seemed to be partially in costume still, but his mind had been on other things. He still can’t quite believe that Jason is being so forgiving.
“Yeah, well. Me too,” his son says, looking at him intently. “Will you come another night?”
Warmth blooms in Bruce’s chest and Jason ducks his head when he smiles widely. “Are there still tickets available for other dates?”
“Ha! Are you kidding?” Jason goads, pulling away and elbowing him in the ribs as he unlocks the door of his car. Escaping, as he is wont to do in situations like this. “It’s community theatre, there are tickets available every fuckin’ night.”
It might be long-past midnight, but Bruce feels as though he is bathed in sunlight.
“Then I’ll be there, I swear.” There’s something else he wants to say but he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. Then again… maybe this is the perfect time to say it given the uncharacteristic openness between them. He might never get a better chance.
“I’m proud of you, Jason,” he says, leaning through the open window to drag his son into a brief hug. “I can’t wait to see it.”
Jason looks as stunned as Bruce had felt earlier, but he recovers admirably, coughing into his fist to hide the flush of his cheeks.
“Yeah, well. Thanks.”
The red sedan is long gone by the time Bruce circles his car and reaches into his pocket for his keys. He laughs to find them gone, leaning against the door with exhausted humour, and shakes his head.
“Only you, Jaylad. Only you.”
Alfred would grouse about picking him up at this hour, he thinks, but there should be at least three helpful young vigilantes roaming the rooftops by now. It might be nice to see them after such a busy evening… and maybe he can buy them a Batburger as thanks. He might not be able to be there for them when he wants to be, but he can carve out moments like this in between disasters. It will have to be enough.