Archive of Our Own

Jason is beyond fucked.

There is very little to be done when you're zapped mid-fight by a crazy scientist who has accidentally discovered Flash-level universe travelling (subsequently becoming a crazy evil scientist), only to blink and wake up in the middle of another fight. He didn't even start this one, which is very clear by the very confused faces of the people stood around him.

To them, he must have just showed up in a cloud of smoke like a low budget magic act. Strangely enough, he's guessing he's still in Gotham by the lack of true horror anyone displays because of his sudden appearance. Stranger things have definitely happened in this city.

"Oh, hey fellas," Jason greets, the modulated voice taking a few rough looking guys by surprise (as if the bright red helmet wasn't worrying enough for them), "Mind telling me what year it is?"

The crazy evil scientist, who might have been called Kevin, had said something about if you dare disregard me in this universe, I'll send you to another! while waving around a scrappy looking gun-shaped thing that occasionally crackled with blue electricity. That could mean anything from dimension travelling, overdramatically described time travel or other related issues.

Jason had been shot with it right in the centre of his red Bat-symbol, and while it hadn't hurt or left any lasting damage to his ballistic armour, there's a faint and phantom weight pushing against his chest. He brushes his fingers against it mindlessly. The last thing he remembers seeing was Batman's arm reaching to push him out of the way, Robin lunging in the other direction to knock the gun off course.

Neither had been fast enough, evidently.

"Uhm," one of the men next to him starts, breaking the odd silence. He looks over to another man, who's holding a metal bat, the two of them shrugging in uncertainty at eachother.

Jason counts at least seventeen people around him, in what looks like the parking lot to an abandoned, or under construction, apartment complex. There's stray scaffolding and building material around the place, some of which is being wielded as weapons by the men.

"Just another night in Gotham," Jason scoffs, gesturing to himself, once he's successfully pinpointed the easiest exit point, even if the path to it is a little crowded.

A couple of the men nod understandingly at him for that, confirming his suspicions. Still in Gotham, then.

He thinks this might be one of the rare occasions where he could talk himself out of a situation and escape relatively unscathed to get to one of the extraction points to wait for another Bat to come find him, when one of the goons just has to look down at his legs — undoubtedly noticing the very many guns and knives strapped to him. The price of Red Hood's style of combat is that it doesn't leave much to the imagination, and so he is almost always going to be perceived as a threat, unfortunately. 

"He's armed!" The guy shouts, and there's a moment of panic where everyone ruffles their metaphorical feathers at him — only for the attention to be immediately removed from him and back to the guy who had shouted in the first place;

Because someone dressed in all black just fell from the sky and has very skillfully crushes him beneath their huge boots.

Jason is just as impressed as he is horrified, since he hadn't felt the person's presence approaching them at all. It's been a long time since someone's snuck up on him like that.

Perhaps that is why he isn't all that surprised when some of the men next to him seem to freeze in terror, shakily pointing at the shadowy figure and stuttering incomprehensible cries of, "It's Batman!"

Is it? Jason is half tempted to ask, because he's seen a lot of Batmans (Batmen?) and this guy just doesn't really fit the bill. Sure, he's got the height and the broad shoulders Bruce seems to have always had since the day they met, and he's wearing all black to go with the theme. There is even a geometric silver bat symbol across his chest, but there's no cape, most obviously, and the gear itself looks more tactical than theatrical. Gadgets are important, sure, but half of Batman's method to subdue criminals is in the act.

There's a lot of belts and pockets, undoubtedly hiding the inconceivable number of Bat-gadgets Batman is known for carrying around. Even if he is quick on his feet, it reminds him more of a Talia al Ghul sort of way as opposed to a Bruce Wayne one.

Or that is until 'Batman' turns on his heel and lands a sickening punch across the face of the poor guy who was standing close enough to become the victim to it, a crunch echoing through the area as the man spins before tumbling to the ground, out cold. Everyone jumps, and even Jason winces at the odd angle the guys passed out in.

So yeah, nevermind. That's a Batman punch if he's ever seen one.

Chaos starts immediately, and Jason is entirely unimpressed when the men next to him start swinging at him. They must have only just noticed the large red bat across his chest, or it's simply the adrenaline of a fight that makes them start going for the only other guy they don't recognise.

Jason works quickly and heavily, tempted to turn and catch a glimpse at all the cracks and pained whines he hears taking place behind him, but focuses on his own fight for the moment. He narrowly dodges a metal bat to the knees.

The men don't prove to be all that difficult, all things considered, which means this isn't the heavy hitters Batman usually focuses on. Probably some extra back up, goons of goons, having a meeting or waiting to be called in. It's a little strange then, that Batman is the one handling it and not passing it on for the GCPD to handle, but a fights a fight.

Unfamiliar Batman means alternate universe and not time travel. Given that spy-gear-Batman hasn't tried to tranquillise, or immediately kill Jason, it rules out any evil world ending versions of Batman. That being said, Jason doesn't lower his guard.

After all, the lack of any Robins isn't lost to him.

When the dust settles, Jason turns away from the men he was dealing with — all laying on the ground and rolling around in ways that tell him they are not getting up to try him again — to the absolute massacre Bruce has been dealing with. There were almost three times the amount of bodies on the ground than on Jason's side, and Bruce was dragging the last one by the collar of his shirt, before unceremoniously dropping him onto a pile of other groaning men.

Jason's stomach stirs sourly at the sight. It unsettles him. There is something not quite right about this scene before him even though he knows what Bruce is capable of.

If there was any confusion about whether or not this tactical gear wearing Batman was Bruce, it is all gone the moment the man kneels down to the dazed men holding their bloody noses and broken jaws, skin purple and blue with blooming bruises.

"Your boss has been dealt with," Bruce grumbles, in a voice that is somehow darker and deeper than Jason's own Batman has ever sounded, "This is your final warning. Next time you will join him."

The threat has its decided effect, since the man tries to scramble away, but ultimately fails due to his broken arms. Jason watches the other men all try, and fail, to stand up, watching as some even start to crawl away.

The men Jason had fought with are in much better shape in comparison, and they keep their distance from him and an even wider distance from Batman to try and help the others to their feet. Batman stands undisturbed and unaffected by the tears and blood and other fluids that lay on the ground around him, dripping from his gloves.

Instead, he's staring straight at Jason. Jason finally realises that there is no cowl, and it wasn't a shadow covering Batman's face earlier.

Batman doesn't have a face.

It is a full face covering mask. He's got a black hood over his head, leaving wisps of dark hair peeking through around the mask, but other than that, there is nothing recognisable about Batman at all.

A chill rushes over his skin as Bruce studies him critically, unable to see any emotion on his face at all. Jason looks back at the darkness facing him and it's only because he is staring right at him, does Jason see the slightest flick of his head in the direction of the exit.

He's gesturing for Jason to follow him out.

Keeping a distance, Jason complies.

He probably shouldn't, and should instead be focusing on getting to one of the many extraction points around Gotham and wait for someone to come collect him. The public library, the statue in front of the Mayor's office, the deli off Burnstone, Leslie's clinic, the cave —

If time works the same here as it does back in his own world, then he's looking at a couple hours of waiting. The night is still young, after all.

Therefore, interacting with this weird, cryptic Batman is probably a mistake.

But Jason stares at the trail of blood Bruce leaves behind, dripping from his gloved hands, and knows something is wrong. Not with him, for once, but with this… Bruce.

He follows a few steps behind. Curiosity eats away at him.

Bruce leads him through an empty street, surrounded by what looks like more buildings under construction. Must be a new area completely under renovation, or an abandoned project, as many buildings in Gotham end up becoming. Jason follows just as quietly, and somewhere in the few short minutes of sneaking through the shadows, Jason starts to mimic Bruce's light and quick steps.

It is strange. Following Batman but not hearing him move at all — a sentiment that is usually reserved for the moments before an attack.

Finally, they come to an alley between two buildings, one decidedly more put together than the other. There are crates of building supplies and trash littering the gravelly ground, with the only light being the faint shine of the moon that bleeds through the evening fog, and a stray lamp-post around the corner.

"Well," Jason breathes a sigh of relief when Bruce comes to a stop, turning back to him expectantly, "I never thought I would ever say this, but I am actually glad to see you."

Bruce doesn't move a muscle when his voice passes through the mask, asking, "Who sent you?"

Okay. So this lack of recognition could mean a great deal of many things; Jason Todd never existed in the first place, Jason Todd never met Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd never died — or if he did die, he stayed dead. If he didn't stay dead, he's not back in Gotham, yet. Either way, Red Hood is not someone recognisable to this version of Batman at this point in time.

(Jason sincerely hopes it's a case of the first two, for both their sake.)

"Oh you know, Mr Brownlow. Sent me out to return some books," Jason replies with an air of casualness.

It's a code, as terrible in taste as it is. Jason was the one to come up with it, much to Bruce's dismay on the context, if it was any consolation. He had been twelve and obsessed with the very few books he was capable of reading in the Wayne Manor library. Bruce needed a phrase that only the two of them would recognise if he had ever been compromised. It's not far-fetched to assume it's a sentiment that transcends dimensions.

Batman tilts his head to the side in confusion, "Oliver Twist?"

Jason suppresses a sigh of relief. This Bruce Wayne has, probably, never met Jason Todd. It will make it easier to explain the situation.

(But again, it is just Batman, which is disconcerting. Sure, this Bruce doesn't have a Jason, but there is still no sign of any Robin either, or some other form of backup for that matter.)

"Sure, whatever," Jason mumbles, unlocking the back of his helmet and putting it under his arm in a show of familiarity and vulnerability, two of the most appealing ways to convince a Batman to trust you, "Listen man, there's been a Code Orange. I need to move for extraction, preferably pronto."

Code Orange, Dimension Anomaly. Standard Batman code, one that predates even Dick's Robin.

Except;

Bruce doesn't react like he normally would. There is no sudden understanding or realisation of what is happening. Instead, He watches Jason steadily, turning his head slightly to really focus on his face. There's no exasperated sighing or rolling of his eyes at Jason's poor professionalism in the face of doom, even if it would have been hard to see through his covered face. Even his shoulders remain rigid and pulled back. Bruce remains on guard.

Jason realises with a start that Bruce is very evidently waiting for a fight.

He also realises that Bruce doesn't recognise simple codes that were made back during his first year as Batman.

An awkward, and rather threatening silence starts to stretch, and Jason clears his throat, thumbing his gun holster absently as he begins to think of his escape. He needs a distraction, "So, uh, what'd you do with the boss? You said you dealt with him to those guys from before."

If Bruce is surprised by Jason's sudden conversation change, he doesnt let it show. His head is now angled down at the many weapons Jason has strapped to him, "He is no longer a concern."

Jason hadn't heard any sirens, or any indication that the GCPD were there at all for an arrest that would warrant such a sure answer, "Alright…"

Bruce takes a step forward, still looking down at Jason's guns and blades. It's a strange change, from the way his Bruce would all but pretend he couldn't see any of Jason's weapons, even if they were just blades most of the time. It was an unspoken agreement of theirs, to avoid the very obvious thing that'll only blow up in their faces, amongst other things.

This Bruce however, is very much bringing as much attention to them as he can. He takes another step forward, footsteps eerily quiet even against the gravel beneath them. Jason frowns.

"What are you…?" Jason mumbles in — what he is horrified to admit — growing panic, wondering if maybe he was mistaken.

Even if this Batman hasn't taken off his full-face covering mask, Jason knows it's Bruce. He's not sure how to explain it, but without seeing, he just knows. It's the same sort of way he can recognise someone's footsteps, or who's coughing in the other room. There's an indicator, somewhere, in the lines of Bruce's shoulders or the shape of his torso or the way he carries himself instinctively into the shadows.

Jason takes a step back when Bruce steps forward again, this time spreading a palm across one of his blades strapped to his thigh, and without thinking he whispers a harsh, "Bruce, cut it out. You're being creepier than usual."

This was, however, the worst thing he could have said it seems — because Bruce visibly recoils as if struck, before he's moving towards Jason again at a much faster and violent pace. He reaches behind him, a cape missing but replaced with pockets and belts and straps, pulling forward a —

"Is that a gun?" Jason manages to cry out before Bruce brings the back of the gun hard against the side of his head.

It's no surprise when he feels the rush of tension pull his entire being back into unconsciousness, everything becomes dim and scrambled quickly. That being said, he holds himself afloat for long enough to realise Bruce doesn't even reach out to catch him as he falls. The helmet slips out of his grasp and rolls forward, knocking against the other man's foot.

Bruce stands over him as Jason crumbles into a heap on the ground, face empty and unfamiliar, gun in hand and pointed right at him as the world goes dark.

Jason wakes up gradually to the aggravating slicing sound of metal on metal. It pulls him back and forth in a strange haze of wakefulness, blinking awake with confusion when the world is just as dark with his eyes closed than when they are open.

Once it processes in his mind that the familiar sound is someone sharpening knives Jason wakes up all at once, the slow breath of air knocked out of his lungs as he gasps. His gut instinct is to raise his fists, prepare for the attack after a knock out, but all he feels is a sharp pain pull at his shoulders.

Jason tries to raise his arms again, struggling against the ropes around his wrists tied behind the back of the chair. And ankles. And across his entire abdomen.

He was tied to a chair. Whoever had done it made sure that unless Jason was willing to test the durability of the chair and ram himself into a wall to escape, he would not be going anywhere.

It's almost tempting to try, until he looks forward at the only other person in the room, squinting at the shining of the blades organised on the table in front of him. There's a couple of guns and pieces of a rifle on one side.

Batman sits behind them all, sharpening a curled blade. His face is still entirely covered.

"Your gear," Bruce grumbles, still in the Batman voice, "Who supplies you?"

Jason can faintly make out what looks like his grapple, also pulled apart and meticulously tinkered with in his sleep it seems, "You do, genius."

Bruce seems to know that, since he doesn't seem surprised by the answer. Given he had found out how to deconstruct the grapple, it shows that this Bruce's style of equipment engineering isn't too different from Jason's own Bruce.

"Who sent you here?" Batman then asks, putting down his blade.

Jason watches as the man picks up the handgun barrel and a rag, and begins to wipe down the weapon, "A crazy scientist who worked out how to harness dimension travelling through a glue gun."

That makes Bruce pause for a moment, maybe in thought, or annoyance, maybe even bemusement, Jason's not sure, but he goes back to wiping down the gun a second later, "How long until you are retrieved?"

"How long have I been knocked out?" How long since you hit me in the head with the back of a fucking gun, asshole.

"Fifty six minutes," Batman tells him indifferently.

Jason suppresses a scowl, pulling at his arms, feeling the burn of rope around his wrists, "Three or four hours then," hopefully, he doesn't add.

It's the standard assumed waiting time for issues like this. Since they know what machinery sent him here, it shouldn't take too long for them to work out how to get him back.

But things could always go wrong. Jason could end up being stranded for days, weeks, if unavoidable or unfixable problems occur. Jason doesn't doubt someone won't come to get him, but he's not foolish enough to think it would be easy.

The version of Bruce in front of him must follow the same train of thought following Jason's silence, nodding once in understanding. He puts down the gun and gets to his feet.

Jason fiddles with the rope, trying to find any loose points or folds he could pick away at or manipulate, but it all seems pointless when Bruce steps forward with purpose. Jason's been placed in the centre of the living room, a single sofa under a window and a coffee table pushed to the side being the only other things he can see around him.

"Last question," Bruce states, kneeling down in front of him.

Jason feels a gust of air tickle his face when Bruce bends down, and with a startle, he realises he's not wearing his domino mask anymore. Bruce had managed to take it off without triggering the failsafe. A large expanse of darkness regards him coolly, the faintest flecks of dark hair peeking out from around the face mask and the hood pulled over his head.

It feels eerily similar to being watched — judged — by Cassandra.

Jason bites his tongue and waits.

"What are you to Bruce Wayne?" Batman asks.

The name sounds strange coming out of his mouth, even if it is his own. Jason finds it sounds as if it's been pushed out angrily, almost guttural. Batman doesn't move away, or rush him for an answer, but Jason imagines an invisible timer above his head, and the closer it gets to zero, the more likely Batman's going to stab him through the chest.

"He's my dad," Jason replies quietly, furious at the entire situation he's found himself in. Angry he's been put in a situation where he has to say something like that, even if it is the truth, in some way.

This time, Jason can tell what's happening behind Batman's mask. His face shifts downward just a little, hinting that Bruce is looking at the red bat on Jason's chest in a new light, and then back up at his face.

Family.

Jason barely has any time to react when Bruce moves fast, stabbing a needle into the side of his neck. The man pulls away and moves back to the table of weapons all in one movement, while Jason lets out a long line of curses.

Whatever it is, it works fast. His hands go numb first, before dark spots form around his vision, the retreating form of Bruce coming in and out of focus. He's saying something, though Jason's mouth seems to be babbling all on its own, since he can't control much of it at all. Something about fuck you and wait till I get out of here and your wallpaper sucks ass.

The last thing he hears before he's once again swamped in darkness is a confession;

"I killed the boss," Bruce tells him clearly, and Jason's blurry mind reminds him of his question from before, in the alley, "Dumped his body in the harbour. Sent two of his fingers to his associates. They are next."

Great, is all Jason can think exasperatedly before he's out cold.

Jason is totally unsurprised when he wakes up still tied to a chair, but at least this room is homier in comparison to the last one. The ropes that were across his chest have been removed, and now it's only his arms and legs that are bound.

It's a futile attempt at 'you trust me, i'll trust you' from a Batman who just confessed to murder. Jason appreciates the breathing access, however, not that he's going to announce that.

The wallpaper is a warmer shade of yellow this time, with an open kitchen as opposed to a separate room in the last apartment. There are even two windows, though only one sofa and still no other proof of life. Not even a TV. Figures that murderous Batman wouldn't watch cable.

Speaking of murderous Batman, Bruce is sitting on a chair about two feet in front of him, just watching him.

Who knows how long he's just sat there, staring at Jason until he woke up? It makes his skin itch.

"What, more questions?" Jason scoffs, throat sore and dry from dehydration and disuse, "I got one. How the hell did you move us to another building? I'm taller and bigger than you. Is no one in the city concerned about Batman lugging around a body — wait, no, don't answer that."

Bruce ignores him, "You've been asleep for six hours. Help has not arrived to extract you."

Ah shit, "Fuck you," Jason manages pathetically; really hoping the disappointment and worry isn't evident on his face. Though, given his helmet is nowhere in sight and Bruce has managed to remove his domino mask, it's a little harder to control his expression.

The drug hasn't completely freed him of drowsiness either, since his head spins when Bruce leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees to stare at Jason quizzically.

"Are you certain someone will come for you?" Bruce asks. Jason knows he's about to pass out again, because this Batman actually sounds like he feels bad for asking.

"Yes," Jason slurs out, eyes drooping, "Bruce will… come find me."

It's not something he would have believed wholeheartedly years ago, but the two of them had been through too much to feel distrustful about these sort of catastrophes. Bruce might not see him the same way he did all those years ago, and Jason certainly can't handle pretending nothing has changed —

But he'll come. Bruce will come save him. Or at the very least, he wouldn't stop trying.

(Let's just hope he's not too late this time, a voice says in the back of his head, followed by a sickening laughter. Jason digs his nails into his palms. Some drug this must be.)

Batman nods stiffly, "Alright. Sleep, child."

Jason scowls at the order, and at the disgust of being regarded as a child, but he's unconscious before he can tell Batman to eat shit.

It's only due to his training that the third time Jason wakes up, he does so without showing any indication of it. He doesn't even open his eyes, ignoring the pain in his neck from the way his heads been facing down for however many hours he's been out this time.

A simple test of barely perceptible muscle contractions tells him his legs aren't tied to the chair legs anymore, which leaves only his hands tied behind him and to the back of the chair. The drugs have lost most of their power now, since Jason's spatial awareness is far better than the last time he woke up.

He opens his eyes just a sliver, and it's enough to make out a new floorboard. The first house had been grey wood, the one before was a warmer brown. This floor was a dark mahogany, shining under the dim light bulb hanging in the middle of the room. They've moved to, what Jason assumes, another safehouse.

In front of him, he sees the telltale combat boots of this universe's Batman.

Jason watches through his barely open eyes for any indication of movement. It's entirely plausible Batman's fallen asleep, since it's almost been twelve hours at this point, at best — and not even his Bruce could resist a few seconds to recharge. There's not a single flinch or twist, or even the gentle movement of breathing.

This might be his only chance, either if this Bruce is asleep or, at the very least, relaxed enough to be caught off guard.

In one movement, using all the momentum he can muster from being sat down for so long, Jason kicks forward. He's close enough that it should be enough to reach Bruce's head, or at least his neck and knock him down, then while the man's down Jason can work on getting his arms free by —

Except, none of that happens. At all.

Bruce was very much awake, waiting it seems, since he grabs Jason's foot with one hand, holding it mere inches away from his head.

Bruce is also not wearing the face mask.

Jason's going to pretend it's the shock of being caught that makes him go slack, and not the deeply unsettling horror that renders him motionless at seeing Bruce's face. It's Bruce, it is, with the same jawline and curved nose bridge. His sharp cheekbones are ever present, though even more scarred than the little his Bruce manages to hide with concealer when he's facing the paparazzi.

His hair isn't as grey at the front as Jason's own Bruce's is. It's cut short, almost militaristically, obviously done by himself, a mirror and kitchen scissors — and the dark circles seem permanently coloured under his eyes, hollowing his face and making him seem even pointier and paler than healthy.

This Bruce's eyes are a startling shade of pale blue. They're dimmer than what seems familiar, specks of grey around the pupil standing out more than Jason remembers.

Bruce tilts his head to the side, an almost animalistic gesture he seems to be fond of. It is somehow even more terrifying now that Jason can see his unblinking stare. In turn, he twists Jason's foot in the opposite direction, and the sudden pain that shoots up his leg shakes him out of his stillness.

"Get off!" Jason shouts, trying to follow the turning of his foot so Batman doesn't snap his ankle in half, pushing down to try and slip out of the vice grip. Batman seems unperturbed as he gives Jason's foot one harsh shove.

It throws him off balance, and the chair tips over backwards as Jason falls back, landing hard on the hardwood floor. His shoulders break the fall enough that he doesn't hit his head, but his shoulder blades burn.

The fall is enough to disorientate him so he doesn't realise Bruce is up and moving, all but jumping over him to grab him by the head. He kneels down on one of Jason's throbbing shoulders, bringing both hands to hold him in a headlock.

You've got to be kidding me, this escape attempt has gone all kinds of wrong very quickly. He gasps and coughs for air he doesn't have.

"I thought I would have trained my son better than this." Bruce mumbles to himself, close enough to Jason's ear that the disappointment is painfully evident.

This has to be in the top ten most mortifying experiences Jason has ever been in. He's on the bigger side of the usual vigilante build, so it is very rare he's in a position where he's in the headlock as opposed to the one demonstrating it. In fact, he can count on one hand the amount of times he's been in this exact position.

He wonders if he should count this as the second time Bruce has held him in a headlock, given they're technically two different Batmans.

"Try to break out," Bruce instructs, "You need your hands. Use the fact that I am using both my arms to incapacitate you to your advantage. Or you will pass out again."

"No… shit…" Jason gasps, choking when Bruce tightens his arms in response.

"Don't talk, just focus on the escape," Bruce scolds. Jason grits his teeth. Since when did this become an impromptu training session?

He can't, he realises with shame.

Something in his body must shift, because instead of choking him until he's knocked out from the lack of oxygen, which in theory is a long but the least deadly effect of a Batman headlock, Bruce quickly lets him go. Instead of dropping Jason back onto the floor to further irritate his shoulder, Bruce gently pushes the chair back up, with Jason still on it. He doesn't even strain.

(This Bruce doesn't have the same back complications as Jason's Bruce.)

"You will get yourself killed if you can not escape a simple trap like this," Bruce states firmly, moving away once Jason's back to sitting upright and gasping for air, "I have given you ample opportunity to do so."

"You did?" Jason wheezes, coughing profusely, "Didn't notice. You know, since I was unconscious for most of it."

To his horror, Bruce's mouth twitches in amusement, it looks wrong, "I assumed you would have built a tolerance to most obtainable sedatives."

Yeah, because that is an entirely normal thing to be able to do. What's worse is Jason is sure his Bruce has built a good tolerance for most drugs in general, given Alfred is forced to give him enough painkillers to knock out a small elephant in the rare occasions he does require bed rest.

His Bruce has never implied his children should follow in that example however.

"That being said, it was supposed to keep an average person of your weight down for twelve hours," Bruce hums, picking up his own chair that had toppled over in the scrimmage, "You woke up after six the first time. Four hours the second time. The place where I injected you is already healed over."

Jason feels that spot on his neck grow itchy, but his hands are still tied behind him. He opts for rubbing his chin into his collarbone for a lack of much else to do.

"What about it?" Jason grumbles.

Bruce arches a brow at him. It's so similar to how Jason's Bruce might regard him that it makes him hesitate for a moment, before he remembers where he is, who he's with. Somehow, Jason has a feeling Bruce already has suspicions related to his quick metabolism and enhanced healing.

Nodding to himself, Bruce stands up again (and Jason doesn't brace for impact, he doesn't), moving to the dining table behind him. It's another open kitchen, a pale green wallpaper all over the walls. This one looks decidedly more lived in than the other homes, with what looks like a rice cooker and a kettle over the stove.

It's a sad sight. The dining table only has one chair.

"What's your name, child?" Bruce asks as he grabs the leather gloves placed on the table.

Jason grimaces, watching the movement like a hawk, "I'm twenty two."

That makes Bruce pause, only for a moment, before he shrugs and continues to tighten his wrist bands, "Name?"

The request is asked with a little less leniency the second time around, so Jason picks his battles, since he's not sure how many more of those he'll have, "Jason."

Bruce doesn't seem particularly interested in the answer, even if he had asked for it in the first place. He goes to check his pockets, and Jason experiences such a strange feeling of mild hysteria when the man wearing Bruce's face pulls a gun out from the holster at his side, checking its cartridges before turning the safety back on.

He almost laughs when Bruce goes to put the mask back on, tightening it at the back of the head with what looks like velcro. Jason can't remember the last time he had seen velcro used in any of the Bat's gear aside from Dick's first ever Robin suit.

"This is what I imagine Batman would be like during the apocalypse," Jason laughs, feeling like he's only slightly losing his mind, "Is that what happened? A world ending apocalypse? Also, do you live here?"

Bruce turns his back to him, the action would normally make Jason scoff, if it didn't give him a clear view of all the weapons Bruce had strapped to his back, "I have business to attend to," he says, voice slightly muffled by the mask, "Feel free to try and escape, but I won't be gone long. I will warn you, my security will hurt badly if you attempt to leave without disabling the traps. I suggest you stay put until I'm back."

Jason's almost tempted to ask what this business is just to sedate the morbid curiosity in him, but again, pick your battles, "Alright, I'll keep out of trouble. Can you at least untie me before you go?"

Bruce moves to the front door, flicking open what looks like a false lightswitch and punching in a code onto an empty keypad. He doesn't cover it, letting Jason see exactly what he's typing in, even if the code takes twenty two seconds to complete.

It really annoys Jason how he can hear Bruce smile when he says, "Use this time to work on your escape techniques. I will be back in under an hour."

He shuts the door behind him before Jason can say anything else.

Thirty four minutes later, Jason is finally free and comes to multiple conclusions about his current situations.

First of all, it's just his luck that he'd get zapped into the universe where Bruce is a Batman who kills. It doesn't make it any better that he's not living in some spaceship filled with trophies of his crimes, or raising an army of evil bloodthirsty Robins. The lack of the infamous Batman cowl shouldn't be as odd as it is, but this Batman just very evidently doesn't have the facilities to accommodate for such gear.

This Bruce, for all intents and purposes, is startlingly similar to Jason's own. Except for the… obvious differences.

It's worse this way. Jason would have preferred if killer Batman was universe-ending insane instead of normal-insane, if that's even a thing.

Secondly, he's free from the chair, sure, but there's no way to actually escape the apartment itself. Jason spends seven minutes trying to crack the code to the front door when trying to ram through it didn't so much as budge the hinges. He punched in the exact same code Bruce had done before leaving, but all it did was flash red at him and stay locked.

"Bastard," Jason grumbles, staring at the smoking sausage on the table in front of him.

The sausage Jason had found in the fridge, which is also the sausage he had used to try and slip through the bathroom window. The sausage that, upon touching the window frame, got electrocuted with enough volts to start cooking.

Now, with the room smelling of burnt pork and a bruised ego, Jason has no choice but to shelve the desire for escape and move on to the next Batman recommended steps for unplanned interdimensional travel.

Reconnaissance. Snooping.

Which proves alarmingly difficult given there is nothing in the apartment at all.

The fridge is scarcely stocked, with one single carton of milk and many bottles of water. There's three packs of sausages and other raw meat on the shelves, same in the freezer. The kitchen cabinets all remain empty aside from one that contains a couple plastic bottles of random spices, as well as a half finished box of instant coffee.

There's no actual cutlery, but there is a bin bag full of plastic plates and utensils hidden under the sink, along with a single frying pan.

It's all, honestly, quite depressing. Jason is intimately familiar with living life on the run, but even his temporary safe houses had been better stocked than this.

It becomes even more depressing when Jason moves on from the bathroom (also empty of anything but a couple rolls of toilet paper and travel sized toiletries in a plastic bag next to the sink) to the bedroom.

The bed itself looks, finally, like someone actually uses it. Jason assumes the sheets are the same one that came when this universe's Bruce purchased, or stole, the safehouse — given they look like they might have been hospital curtains in a past life.

"Is that a blood stain?" Jason grimaces in disgust, looking away from the bed and towards the small dresser, "Of course it is. Why am I surprised? Evil Batman sleeps in a pool of his own blood, very on brand."

Ignoring the fact that the bedsheets have definitely not been washed ever, Jason brings his attention to the dresser properly.

He feels his heart stutter at the slight clutter on the old and damaged wood. It's the first real show of personality in the whole damn house.

There's an old watch placed in the middle, a very familiar watch to Jason. It's Thomas Wayne's. The watch Jason had fixed for Bruce's fortieth birthday, all those years ago, back when he was Robin and eager to shower his dad in the same love he was given. Alfred had helped him with it.

The watch on the dresser is still broken, perpetually stuck at nine past eleven. Jason doesn't touch it.

To his surprise, next to the watch and pushed against the wall, is a stack of thin and fraying books. All paperback and secondhand from the look of them, with the covers and pages barely holding on at all. It speaks of age more than negligence.

The book on the top of the pile is a worn copy of Oliver Twist. Jason scoffs at the coincidence. Guess that's why Bruce was so quick to catch the reference.

Opening the dresser brings back an air of unsettling disconnection. Half the things in there don't look like they've actually ever been worn, while another pile of folded shirts and cargos look like they're ready to fall apart. Everything is some shade of black or brown, a few greys dotted around in the form of socks and shirts.

It's far too normal looking.

Jason rolls his eyes, reaching in between the clothes and feeling for the bottom of the drawer.

"Bingo," he mumbles, pushing down on the slight indent he finds in the corner of it, hearing a small click. A second, hidden compartment unlocks beneath the unused pile of blue jeans.

To his surprise, all Jason finds in the small space is an old looking wallet. He pulls it out carefully, frowning at the surprising weight.

Inside is way too many bank cards, all with different names but relatively new and unused looking. Jason assumes this is the many accounts Bruce has open to pay for the weapons and safehouses. There are also a couple hundred dollar notes, a handful of fifties and twenties folded together. No change.

In the small plastic sleeve is a photo. Jason's hand tightens around the wallet as he recognises it.

"Alfred Pennyworth," a voice says from the doorway, and Jason's entire body freezes like a deer in headlights, goosebumps travelling up his arm, "But I guess you already knew that."

Jason hadn't even heard the front door open.

Slowly, he turns around, not bothering to hide the wallet or the fact that he was snooping around. Bruce is standing in the doorway to the bedroom, without his mask, but still strapped with weapons and his leather gloves. It's hard to see from the darkness of the material, but Jason startled when he realises Bruce is covered in blood.

"What the hell happened to you?" Jason asks, a mixture of disgust and apprehension.

Bruce watches him for a moment, seemingly surprised by the concern, "It is not my blood."

"No shit," Jason scoffs in disbelief, eyeing the dried blood across the bat symbol critically. He feels like he's on a poorly planned prank show. The entire room seems to be shifting an inch to the left, leaving him unbalanced and wrongfooted.

"My problem has been dealt with," Bruce continues cryptically, walking into the room while undoing his wrist straps, pulling off the blood covered gloves, "There has also been no sign of anyone arriving to retrieve you."

"Way to rub it in," Jason grumbles, thumbing at the wallet again. He didn't have enough time to think it through before Bruce showed up literally from nowhere, but this isn't a bad sign. Jason just needed something, anything to prove that this version of Batman wasn't the threat he was definitely supposed to be seen as.

A faded picture of Alfred, smiling kindly and politely in the only way Jason thinks he knows how. Jason has seen this exact photo on Bruce's desk at the manor, a small and well kept photograph in a small old frame. It's of the two of them, back when Bruce was about Damian's age when he first came to the manor, posing in front of what looks to be the famous Wayne Manor rose bush.

The photo slipped into the wallet is just of Alfred. Jason wonders if he takes it out, will the picture of a young Bruce, bright and smiling shyly, be folded behind, or cut off completely.

"Is he…" Jason risks, waving the wallet in Bruce's direction.

Bruce drops his bloody gloves right onto the bed (Jason holds back a grimace), "Alfred is well, last I checked."

Jason's brows furrow at the wording, "And when was that?"

Bruce seems less inclined to offer this information, but does so with eerie calmness, "Six months ago."

"Six —" Jason sputters in surprise, "Well, where is he?"

There's no way Alfred is anywhere close by, since Bruce is actively covering his filthy bedsheets with more filth. The smell of drying blood is becoming slightly more unavoidable, even if it is one Jason is intimately familiar with. He imagines this is a safehouse hidden from Alfred, or at best, purposefully avoided by the butler.

"Tarporley, Cheshire," Bruce offers, staring absently at his scarred hands now that the gloves are off, "It's where he's been living for the last seventeen years, unless he's moved in the last few months. Though that is unlikely."

England, Jason registers in surprise. Things are starting to become painfully obvious about why this Bruce is the way he is.

"Alfred would have never abandoned you," Jason finds himself whispering before he can stop himself, oddly offended by the mere implication of it. It must stun Bruce as much as it does Jason, because the man turns to him with wide eyes.

Hurt flashes across Bruce's face, in a way that is so unnaturally clear, "He did not abandon me."

That tells Jason nothing. Absolutely nothing. There's no Robin in this universe, no Alfred. Bruce is living in less than sanitary conditions and he's got plastic cutlery.

The questioning about Alfred seems to be a breaking point of some sort, since Bruce glares at Jason, approaching the dresser with purpose. Jason moves out of the way instinctively, clutching the wallet as Bruce pulls out some clothes haphazardly, not even closing the drawer before he's stomping out the room.

He stops just before the doorway, turning to Jason abruptly. Jason watches as Bruce fiddles with one of his many pockets, pulling out a small black device. The only reason Jason catches it when Bruce throws it across the room is because Jason is far too hyper aware whenever Bruce's hands move close to his impressive weapons arsenal.

"You have until I finish making dinner," Bruce tells him, as if the sun isn't starting to rise, before he's moving away with strangely heavy footsteps in what Jason can only assume is for a shower.

Dinner at four in the morning sounded great. Bruce not covered in blood also sounded fantastic.

Slowly, Jason looks down to the device he had been given, surprised when he realises it's a phone. A touchscreen, but a cheap and replaceable one. Probably one of the many Bruce has.

He spares one final look at the open wallet, committing the photo of a smiling Alfred to memory before he closes it harshly. It takes more time to put it away in its secret compartment than it did finding it, only because Jason moves slowly with it.

He looks back down at the phone in his hand.

Twenty years after the incident that shocked Gotham: Bruce Wayne dead at twenty six after a freak car crash off the Trigate Bridge.

Jason frowns at the most recent article that pops up when you search Bruce Wayne on the internet. It doesn't make any more sense than the last three times he'd read it. The cheap phone's screen quality is beginning to make his head hurt from all the small writing.

Bruce Wayne is very evidently alive and well (or as well as he can be, assumedly) in front of him, cooking shredded chicken and sausage in a too small pan with a plastic fork. He's wearing joggers and a black sweater, blood finally washed out of his hair, which is sort of terrifying at this moment, but still armed to the teeth. He's got his gun holster around his waist.

Jason was stripped of his weapons hours ago. He hadn't found them in his search around the house earlier either.

Bruce Wayne had last been seen at the exclusive VIP club Westbury Forest, where it seems he must have had far too much to drink, as later that evening, his car was fished out of the Gotham River. Witnesses at the scene said the car spiralled out of control before crashing through the barrier and plummeting into the waters below. Police still say there was no foul play.

So Bruce had faked his death around the same time Jason's Bruce properly became Batman. It seems while the original Bruce had decided to separate Batman from Bruce Wayne by becoming Brucie — this Bruce decided removing Bruce Wayne from the equation entirely was a better alternative.

A couple more online searches tell him that the entirety of Wayne Enterprise's was passed down to Lucius Fox, who has since kept it afloat and far more successful than Jason was expecting. Wayne Foundations and related charities were also under Lucius Fox's impressive effort, with many articles singing praise to its movements.

Although a body was not found, forensics say Wayne died on impact from the wreckage recovered. Gotham mourns the death of yet another and the final Wayne.

Alfred Pennyworth remains one of the large shareholders of Wayne Industries, a clear benefit left to him through Thomas, Martha and Bruce Wayne's wills, and was last reported to have been at the annual Wayne Memorial Gala six months ago. The last time Bruce had seen him in Gotham, judging by the time frame.

Even seventeen years later, Alfred is yet to have missed a single memorial gala.

Meaning after Bruce faked his death, he did not inform Alfred that it was, in fact, fake.

("He did not abandon me," Bruce had said earlier. It had been the other way around.)

Good grief, Jason rubs his temples. As if things couldn't possibly get more depressing.

Bruce turns the gas stove off, but continues to stir his pathetic meat stir fry around with the flimsy plastic fork. Jason would continue to watch, only because it was becoming an increasingly amusing sight in the midst of all this horror, but he knows when Bruce is done making the meal, so will Jason's chance to get a clearer look at the world he's found himself in.

He quickly types in the first couple names that pop into his head.

Salvatore Vincent Maroni: deceased. Assumed to be killed by Batman.

Penguin: Missing. Assumed to be in hiding.

There are no results for the name Two Face. Beloved District Attorney Harvey Dent however, just had a hand in a successful drug bust some three weeks ago. Six months before, he too was seen at the Wayne Memorial Gala, shaking hands with Alfred Pennyworth.

Poison Ivy hasn't been active for seven months, the last of her large-scale damages being when she blew up a plastic bottle factory and infected the nearby drinking water with phthalates and caused a city wide panic. Batman wasn't mentioned anywhere in that report.

Scarecrow: deceased. Assumed to be killed by Batman.

Harley Quinn is also a name that doesn't come up. Jason does however, come across a link to Dr Harleen Quinzel's website, in which you can book an appointment at her private clinic. She too, was at the Wayne Memorial Gala, in which she offered a word to the press about how she 'knew Bruce from college' and 'misses him deeply'.

Jason's blood rushed cold at that.

If she's still a civilian…

He's not sure why it wasn't the first thing he searched up. It would make more sense that he'd feel an overwhelming sensation to know how Batman would have dealt with it here. But even when Bruce moves away from the counter, holding two plastic plates of food, Jason finds his entire body rendered still.

Bruce pulls back his chair and places a plastic plate in front of him just as Jason types in a name, barely feeling his fingers move across the screen.

"Enough, eat." Bruce tells him.

Jason shuts the phone off and doesn't bother deleting his search history before he's sliding the phone across the table with trembling hands. Bruce catches it before it falls off the side without even looking, shovelling down the plate of cooked meat and nothing else in large mouthfuls.

Jason picks up the plastic fork that Bruce had stabbed into a large piece of chicken breast for him, staring down at his plate in a strange daze. He doesn't feel like he's quite there anymore, at the table, sitting opposite an alien-like version of his father. It almost feels as though he's watching from the corner of the room, judging the entire scene from ten feet away.

Joker: deceased. Assumed to be killed by Batman.

Jason feels his entire body shiver.

"Jason," Bruce, who isn't Bruce, not at all, quietly says, his painfully familiar voice pulling Jason back into his own body, "Eat."

Without further prompting, raising a shaky hand to his mouth, Jason eats. His eyes are burning.

After a silent dinner where Jason tried to not throw up his insides (and Bruce's slightly overcooked sausage and chicken… thing) all over the table, Bruce immediately gets to work.

He unpacks his belts and knives, laying them all in perfectly placed intervals from each other. There seems to be some sort of order and pattern, not that Jason's figured it out yet, but Bruce places every blade with meticulous ease that has him trying to figure it out. Knowing Bruce, there probably isn't even an actual pattern that anyone other than him can follow.

Jason is very much not tied to a chair anymore, and well within the reach of practically any weapon. But he knows, Bruce knows, Jason isn't going to grab anything. Jason knows there would be no point at all.

Instead, Jason leans back into his chair, incidentally the same one he was tied to for a majority of the day, settling in for a discussion they're both probably going to hate.

"Why'd you fake your death?" He asks casually.

Bruce doesn't seem surprised at all by the question. He takes his time preparing an answer, flicking through multiple rags before picking one to polish the long dagger on his right, "I couldn't have any distractions. If I wanted Gotham to change, people to change, nothing could get in the way of that."

"So you decided destroying your identity was the best way to do that?" Jason grimaces.

Bruce's eye flickers to Jason's for a moment, before he's focused back on his blade, "Bruce Wayne doesn't mean anything in the grand scheme of things. He was only getting in the way."

"Dude," Jason sighs, "That is so fucked up."

He's not sure if he's referring to the nonchalance in which Bruce talks about his kind-of-death, or the fact that Bruce is referring to himself in the third person.

Bruce shrugs, placing down the dagger and rummaging through his pocket for a handful of smaller throwing knives. Jason has no idea where he's getting them from.

"Who was the first person Batman killed?" Jason says once the silence settles.

There must be a start to this all. From the articles Jason had read, Batman didn't become a concrete figure people would recognise or come to fear by name until this decade. But Bruce Wayne had died almost twenty years ago now.

(So there was more that was left undocumented. Mysterious deaths or disappearances that would all amount to the man sitting in front of Jason.

There was a beginning and —)

"Tony Zucco. Killed the Flying Graysons when they were passing through Gotham. They were good people. So I killed him." Bruce confesses with indifference, as if his answer doesn't shake the very foundation of Jason's entire world. As if he isn't talking about murder.

( — the beginning always leads to an end.)

Jason swallows, feeling like he's running to catch up, "Why did you —"

"Their death left behind a boy, he was given to the state," Bruce continues, his tone almost relaxed for once, recalling a memory from so many years ago with grace, "Richard Grayson. He's a gymnastics teacher in Metropolis now. Briefly competed in the Olympics before he got injured a few years ago."

Jason mentally does the maths. Almost eight months after the Flying Graysons died, Bruce Wayne died in a car accident.

So is that it? Dick Grayson was the anomaly that sent this Bruce so far off course? Instead of feeling pity, or responsibility— or even empathy — Bruce saw eight year old little Dick Grayson weeping over his parents bodies and felt vengeance?

Only that doesn't seem too right. In fact, it seems too easy.

Maybe Bruce has just always had it in him, an insatiable itch for getting the job done. Somewhere in him he's just always known what he could do, what he should do. All it took was for a wake up call, or a reminder, or maybe it was just a coincidence that it was Dick Grayson who would end up drastically changing Bruce in this universe too.

A cruel, cruel coincidence. The universe is funny like that (Jason knows).

"I have a question," Bruce interjects before Jason can get any of his thoughts in order, "What is it that separates the Batman you know and me? We are the same person, after all."

Bruce asks with genuine curiosity, actually looking at Jason for a response as opposed to just staring down at his weaponry.

Jason had hoped he was doing a good job at hiding his agitation for the way everything about this place is wrong, or his unnervingly restless horror (put simply) at the man who claims to be Bruce. This Bruce, who killed Bruce Wayne to keep Batman alive, who continues to kill — the man who is wearing his father's face but couldn't be anything from familiar.

Evidently, Jason had not been good enough to hide his disquietness. Bruce has noticed. He wants an answer.

Ah what the hell, Jason thinks with a burst of clarity.

"Batman doesn't kill," Jason says with petulance, mimicking someone, feeling slightly sick with himself.

He tries to imagine himself standing up for Bruce's narrow minded rules of morality like he is now in any other situation, and wants to laugh at the absurdity of the thought. It feels like betrayal, though he's not entirely sure who for exactly.

Bruce however, doesn't rise to the bait. He doesn't seem offended at all. In fact, he looks almost pensive when he says, "But you do?"

Jason could pretend to play innocent. He could try to manipulate what little leverage he can accumulate here, try to play the lost and scared son of a Batman from a different world and avoid the oncoming confrontation. This Bruce kills, but he's very evidently not cruel. He might even let Jason get away with it.

But Jason couldn't fake it if he tried. For one, Bruce had confiscated all his weapons, many of which are well used and well looked after; a way of an assassin and a killer, so he must know Jason's fights are lethal. Red Hood's warpath is a little less gory as it was a couple years ago, but he's not entirely aligned with the Bat when he's not in his line of sight in Gotham.

The idea of pretending also fills him with white hot anger.

You don't know anything about me, or him, or us, Jason wants to say, "Yeah, I do. Someone has to," is what comes out instead.

Bruce stares absently at the new weapon he was polishing in his hand for a great few moments and it's enough to falsely convince Jason he's saved from the conversation. He's wrong, of course, because Bruce seems to come to an ultimatum, humming contemplatively as he resumes his weapon polishing.

"I kill so others don't have to," Bruce states firmly and clearly. Jason realises Bruce is agreeing with him, in a strange sinking pull of lucidity. This entire situation didn't seem like it could get any more bizarre — what with Bruce sitting in the dark and polishing guns, but somehow it just has, "However, while you are here, you will not kill."

Jason's throat is scratchy and dry with confused terror, but the insatiable feeling of being talked over and disregarded is a fresh wound. He can't back down from this if he tried, "I've killed. I still kill. Who the fuck do you think you are to stop me?"

For a moment, earlier in the evening, Jason genuinely felt that even with his obvious setbacks, he could beat this strange, darker, murder-inclined Bruce Wayne in a fight, only due to how ridiculous that entire premise sounded. In some roundabout way, Jason wonders if all his training in the League and with Talia's handpicked villains was in preparation for beating someone like this. Beating a Batman who is darker, less forgiving, unpredictable. Only for a moment does he entertain this possibility, however.

Because then, Bruce gently sets down his gun, and picks up the blade beside him with practised ease. Jason's blood runs cold when the man wearing his father's face says, "You will die by my hand if you try."

That wasn't a threat. It was a promise.

"Bathroom," Jason coughs out when his heart rattles against his ribcage painfully, tightening and tightening until the available space in his lungs is practically nonexistent. He realises he is genuinely scared, and while logically, he knows there's no use for this Bruce to kill him, the entire situation seems similar to sitting across from a snake. Waiting for it to strike.

It might not. Probably won't. It still seems rather stupid to sit here though.

It's pure instinct and adrenaline in him when Jason rushes to the bathroom without looking back at all. Every second his back is turned to Bruce, the itching against his skin grows.

Jason returns from the bathroom after washing his face and scrubbing at his hands until his skin is raw, feeling only slightly on edge. It's a true testament to his compartmentalising skills that he doesn't feel anything when Bruce spares him a brief look as he re-enters the room. A degree of separation to soften the blows, both physical and emotional. Jason is prepared for either.

Despite that, he still does hesitate when he steps into the living room, feet rooting themselves into one spot when he remembers where he'll need to sit down. Across from who.

Fortunately though, Bruce must have taken pity on him. Or at the very least, is offering a silent apology for his threat from earlier. On the coffee table in front of the sofa is the stack of books from Bruce's dresser, placed right in the centre.

Jason takes the olive branch and immediately sits down on the sofa, far away from the table in the kitchen, reaching for the first book on the pile and opening it onto the contents without even reading the cover. The words fly past him, not really settling anywhere for him to process more than the first couple letters.

The blessed silence doesn't last for long;

"You're adopted," Bruce states indifferently.

"Yes," Jason confirms, even if it wasn't phrased like a question. It's not hard to calculate that Jason would've been too old not to come into Bruce's life already grown. Jason's also fairly certain he's called his father by his name: Bruce.

The man nods to himself, "How many of you are there?"

"A few," Jason grumbles, unwilling to specify. He had expected Bruce to ask what happened to his biological parents (also something he is very unwilling to specify).

Bruce must agree it's probably for the best that Jason doesn't elaborate, stopping his trail of interferences here.

"Do you have any kids?" Jason feels compelled to ask, somewhat bitterly. He's read the first line of the first chapter twice now, but not a single word has been seared in his mind. He doesn't even know the title of the story.

He half expects Bruce to throw a knife right into the centre of his head for a question like that, where the answer is obvious. Or at the very least, ignore his question entirely. Jason knows the answer is no.

"Talia," Bruce waits for Jason's reaction (his eyes widen just a fraction), and when he deduces Jason knows enough about her to continue, he does, "Has been keeping our son secret from me. She thinks I do not know of his existence."

"You know?" Jason asks with visible confusion, snapping the book shut in an instant, "But — why would — why isn't he here?"

"Here?" Bruce asks with equal confusion.

Jason frowns, "I don't understand. You know Damian exists, but you don't care?"

"I didn't say that," Bruce states venomously.

Jason is unperturbed, filled with misplaced anger for a boy who he has only known to have massive respect for his father, a large proportion of it entirely unearned. Damian would crumble knowing there's a world where Bruce knew about him before, and didn't care enough to claim him. Didn't care enough to show up.

"You're a piece of work," Jason spits, "What is wrong with you?"

The anger that was slowly forming onto Bruce's face freezes for a moment, and in an instant, immediately fades into one of indifference. Bruce looks away from Jason, his blue eyes almost a sharp grey in the dim lighting of the room, and he picks at his gear absently, "I am not the Bruce you know, child. Imagine your brother, here, with me —"

Bruce looks up again, pupils sharp and the skin around his eyes hard in a glare that has Jason holding his breath, "Would you leave him here? To follow my rules, to live this life? You would burden him with me as a father?"

Revelations come crashing down onto him rather quickly, with the anger Jason had felt on Damian's behalf immediately becoming an overwhelming protectiveness over the boy. Perhaps this too, is misplaced. Jason has no right to care this much for a kid he barely knows outside of their ties to Bruce Wayne.

And yet;

Hell no, is all Jason can think, anger clawing at his chest as he rips his eyes away from Bruce to stare at the ground instead. Absolutely not. Damian deserves so much better than this. We all do.

His blood feels like it is about to burst from under his skin, Jason places the book down onto the pile harshly. The force of it shakes the coffee table.

Bruce takes Jason's silence, and explosive response, as an answer.

Jason is entirely unprepared and underqualified to deal with all these revelations. The point of reconnaissance is to work up a report of useful information that will eventually help a strategic attack or escape. Except, the more Jason learns, the more he's told — the less it feels like there'll be a fight at the end of it all.

Jason watches Bruce carefully, frustration still flickering in his chest at the unreadable expression on his face. He's still wiping away at yet another blade, moving carefully and purposefully with every wipe. Jason wants to be so mad, a part of him wants to lunge across the room and grab the nearest weapon and add another scar to Bruce's aggravating face of indifference.

(The cathartic trepidation he feels at the thought of stabbing a man wearing Bruce's face is something Jason is going to ignore, entirely.)

But a much stronger, much younger part of him feels displaced. Bruce has literally killed himself to achieve this seclusion and it leaves…

This.

What's the point in trying to figure out a way to hurt a man who's entire existence seems to be based on self punishment. Jason being here is probably enough.

He breathes in harshly through his nose, ignoring the way it makes Bruce twitch. Jason holds his breath for a few seconds, before he exhales.

It's many moments later, when Jason has finally decided he's sedated the burning anger in his fingertips, that he picks up the book from the stack again (Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky — funny). At the same time, he hears the man shift. Jason pretends he doesn't tense at the movement, and pointedly ignores the way Bruce stands to his feet and walks towards the bedroom.

He leaves every weapon, every blade, on the table. Leaves it completely unguarded and open for Jason to take.

Jason doesn't so much as move an inch.

Bruce stops in the doorway, "Damian…" He says quietly, and Jason's head snaps up at the softly spoken name of his brother.

"I didn't know Talia had given him such a beautiful name," Bruce whispers in finality, sinking into the shadows and leaving Jason alone in the living room.

With a heavy heart, Jason tries to read the book and not let his thoughts spiral when faced with the tragedy that is a Bruce Wayne who died twenty years ago, clawing to escape the body of the Batman he's trapped in.

It's around midday when Jason finally starts to grow drowsy, which is a normal time for a night-time vigilante to start falling asleep. A part of him immediately wonders if Bruce had drugged his terrible chicken and sausage prison food, but then remembers it's been two days since he's slept properly.

He's been in this strange universe for almost an entire day now, but it feels like much longer. Bruce had stepped out of his bedroom after doing who knows what in there for forty minutes only to retake his seat at the dining table, back to polishing his blades silently. This is his third round of cleaning, from the looks of it.

Jason gets halfway through his book before he feels his mind try to claw its way out his ears. There's faint sounds of Gotham's daytime filtering through the windows, cars and mumbling of passersby on the streets below, of which they are four floors away from, but inside the apartment is stuffy.

Bruce seems no more inclined to offer any more facts about himself than Jason is tempted to ask. He fears if he learns anything else he might be tempted to grab one of Bruce's guns and put them both out of this misery.

Despite the growing discomfort that comes with the tenacious silence, Jason had not expected Bruce to speak to him again until someone (hopefully superman, if the universe would be so kind, for once) broke through the ceiling to save him. Except, after staring at the words 'the man who has a conscience suffers whilst acknowledging his sin. That is his punishment,' on old and faded paper for far too long, Jason is put on edge again by Bruce calling to him.

"Jason."

He frowns. Hearing his name said with Bruce's voice, from Bruce's face, but not by Bruce hasn't become any less jarring, "What?"

Bruce raises a small handheld dagger from his perfectly ordered collection, and for a moment, Jason thinks this is where it ends for him. Evil Bruce is suddenly going to announce how he's got some material-warping powers and embed the dagger into Jason's sternum from across the room.

However, Bruce just waits with an arched brow, and tentatively, Jason places the book on the space beside him and stands to his feet.

"Is this another training moment?" Jason asks, in what he hopes is a tone that passes for exasperation and not reservation.

Bruce stands as well, meeting Jason halfway into the living room, the dagger outstretched between them, looking slightly amused, "Would you like it to be?"

Jason scoffs instead of answering, secretly glad he's not going to be forced into sparring with a Batman whose skills are as hidden as his past, before taking the dagger by the handle. He bounces it in his hand experimentally, getting a feel for its balance. Strangely, the style of weapon feels familiar.

"What's this for then?" Jason mumbles, before narrowing his eyes, getting a firmer grasp on the blade, "Not afraid I'll try to stab you in the back?"

Bruce doesn't look particularly worried when he turns back around to walk to his table of weapons, "You are welcome to try."

I quite like that my hands are still attached to my body, thanks, Jason glares at Bruce's back, watching the way he rolls his shoulders uncomfortably after being slouched over polishing his knives. It's a strangely recognisable quirk, one his own Bruce would do after working on the computer for hours.

Jason's glare grows colder, "So why give this to me?" He repeats, growing more and more nervous. Bruce might use this as a moment to test his blade skills.

It's only after Bruce sits down in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back with a sigh, does he answer, "To sleep."

Jason scowls at the lack of a logical answer. For a moment, he's really, truly tempted to throw the dagger at Bruce and see what follows. Or maybe, he could try and break open the security pad next to the front door before Bruce can intervene and tie him to a chair again.

Only, escaping would lead him nowhere. Chances are if no one comes to collect him within the six hour grace period, it's going to take a while until they can work out a way to get him. Out there in the world with one blade and no safe houses in an unfamiliar Gotham leaves him exposed and vulnerable.

For the first time since he woke up here, Jason realises the safest place to be is with a Batman who kills.

"Do you ever make any sense?" Jason grumbles, stomping back to the sofa, dagger in hand.

Bruce doesn't seem perturbed by the jab, looking perfectly content with sitting in his seat and staring off into space, "You haven't slept. Now you can sleep."

Another line of insults almost leave Jason's mouth until he stops, just before the sofa, the weight of the dagger settling more comfortably into the palm of his hand. The weapon has been adapted to fit perfectly for Bruce, he's sure, but Jason finds the shape of the handle is perfect for his own hands as well.

Bruce, who kills, who doesn't want to have anything to do with the children that come into his life — gave Jason one of his weapons so he would feel safer sleeping.

"This is so fucked up," Jason mumbles to himself, sounding far more exhausted at the effort than the anger he should probably be feeling.

He drops himself down onto the sofa with a giant exhale, surprised when it's far more comfortable than he had initially expected it to be. The book he was reading is wedged somewhere beneath him, but the mental and physical strain of the last few hours drops onto him all at once. He feels tired all the way through to his bones.

He's facing the kitchen as he's lying down, where Bruce is still sitting, staring off at the window. He doesn't look like he'll be moving anytime soon. Jason moves his hands so they're curled at his chest, the dagger clasped tightly in his hands and resting against the armoured Bat-symbol on his chest.

"Try anything when I'm asleep and I'll gouge your eyes out," Jason grumbles, eyelids heavy.

He misses the way Bruce's gaze flickers to him for a moment, looking oddly proud, "Good."

More often than not, Jason sleeps with nothing but an all encompassing darkness for company.

There's no lights or sounds, or anything that he can remember when he wakes up after willing himself to sleep for at least a short few hours. Simply emptiness, void of all that might be familiar. Perhaps he's lucky for it. He knows there are others who are not as blessed with the sweet mercy of a dreamless sleep.

However, in order to make up for his apparent luck, sometimes there are nights where Jason is stuck in his own mind, clawing at the walls until his hands bleed.

It's a strange spot of lucidity and unconsciousness. Realistically, he knows he's awake, he knows he's not in the body of a too-small, too-young boy with broken bones and a crushed heart. But then comes a sickening crunch of bone snapping when hit with the force of metal, or the disgusting warmth of laughter against his skin.

Very quickly, Jason forgets the horrors of his life now and instead finds himself reliving the horror of a life once lived.

There's dirt under his nails as he tries to crawl away, only to feel two hands grip his ankles and drag him back, their skin burning him like acid. Jason can't hear the words, but he can feel them, pressed into his pores as he gasps for air he can't keep, mouth full of bile and blood.

He can never tell for certain what he says or does when he's unable to wake himself up. Who he's calling for, or what he's crying and sobbing for. Maybe he's as still as the corpse he once was, the world completely unbeknownst to the hell that's in his blood and bones.

No ones ever been there for him during these nights for Jason to ask what they see on the outside.

It always ends before the bomb goes off. If he's lucky, he wakes up in his bed, drenched in sweat and unable to close his eyes again in fear of what might try to reach for him in the darkness. The shadows around him seem to dance and jump more after these nights, but maybe he's just paranoid.

If he's unlucky, he wakes up in a dark coffin, ready to dig his way up to the surface as his lungs burn.

This time, when Jason forces himself to wake up against the sound of a ticking bomb reaching zero, he does so to the new sound of someone calling for him. That usually doesn't happen.

"Jason," he hears in the corner of his mind, loud and buried under the weight of green and red, "Jason, wake up. Wake up, child. Jason."

Bruce?

"Wake up Jason."

So Jason wakes up with a gasp, the chill of the room making him shiver as his body is lined with sweat. He hasn't moved from his position, still facing the kitchen, hands tight around the dagger against his chest.

It's harder to make out what's in front of him now, since the afternoon light that had filled the room before he went to sleep has darkened considerably. It seems Jason's been asleep for a lot longer than he had planned for, given the evening blue hues that rest against the walls of the room.

Bruce is still sitting on the chair at the table. Instead of staring out the window, he's looking right down at Jason, something unreadable on his face.

If Jason pretends, he thinks it might look like concern. Though, it's probably disappointment. To a man like this Batman, who kills and doesn't even blink, watching his supposed son tremble because of the monsters in his mind is due to leave him unimpressed.

"The fuck are you looking at?" Jason spits before he can let the tight feeling of shame grow in his chest, turning so he's facing the back of the sofa instead of the creepy lookout spot Bruce has occupied.

He can feel the burning sensation of eyes on his back, watching him, and for a long time that follows the nightmare of green liquid and excruciating pain, Jason stays painfully awake and aware of it. The only sound in the room is his own ragged breathing.

"The person who haunts you," Bruce grumbles, voice low from hours of being unused, "Are they dead?"

Jason doesn't answer. To his absolute horror, and then some, he realises he's embarrassed to answer. He can't find it in him to tell this Bruce, who kills unforgivingly but vengefully, who killed the Joker over ten years ago, that Jason has not killed him. That Jason's justice was never served.

"No," Jason says, curling into himself on the sofa, unable to turn around and face the man, "But I wish everyday that he was."

Bruce doesn't reply immediately. Somehow this is worse.

"The man who killed my parents," he says after the silence grows warm, and it sends a chill spiralling through the room, "He's dead."

Jason realises with a start that he has no idea what the equivalent to this is in his world. Bruce bringing up his parents death, much less his parents murderer is not a conversation that is had often, at least between the two of them. It's been over thirty years since the Wayne's were killed in the alley — whoever it was, might be well and truly dead simply due to time.

"Did it help?" Jason asks quietly, turning so he's facing Bruce again.

Bruce regards him for a moment, the frown on his face loosening until he's back to his usual expression of indifference. He looks like he feels nothing for this conversation at all, "My parents are still dead, Jason."

Jason inhales sharply, still laying down with the dagger held tightly in his hands, "But so is he."

They share an unspoken understanding here. Jason finds he doesn't want to look into it too much, doesn't want to try and work out what sort of code this Batman operates on, and whether or not the man who ruined his life was killed for Gotham or for an eight year old boy who felt a piece of him die in the same alley as his parents.

"He is." Is all Bruce says.

A few minutes into a strangely thoughtful silence, Jason hears Bruce move around the kitchen. He hears the cabinets open, and then the fridge.

Jason decides he is not going to eat whatever contraption Bruce decides to make right now, already feeling sick from his nightmare, so with a groan he turns to the man in hopes he'll feel bad enough to spare them of any more chicken and sausage stir fry.

Instead of frozen meat packets however, Bruce is pouring milk into a small measuring jug, the box of instant coffee out on the counter beside him.

"You're making coffee?" Jason asks suspiciously.

Bruce grunts, not bothering to turn around to meet Jason's stunned expression, "I… remember Alfred used to make me tea after I had nightmares when I was a child. While it isn't tea… I assumed…"

Jason swallows. What an awful, awful place this is.

Vaguely, from what little memories the world let him keep after destroying and rebuilding his brain twice over, Jason can recall Bruce bringing him glasses of hot milk when his room at the manor was simply too big to feel safe in. It had taken a while for Jason to realise Bruce didn't mind comforting him in the middle of the night, but once he did, a glass of milk before bed became the usual post-patrol cool down.

Jason never considered where such a comforting tradition would have started from. It seems silly now, not to realise it's something from Bruce's own childhood. Something Alfred had done for him on equally as scary nights alone in a far too lonely manor.

(Something Alfred still probably does for him.)

He wonders if Bruce still does that with Damian and Tim. Glasses of warm milk before bed. Or if they had come to him too old and hardened for gentle and trivial moments such as those.

"Do you have any sugar?" Jason asks tentatively.

Bruce scoffs, like it's a ridiculous question. He opens a cabinet above his head and pulls out a small opened bag of sugar, one that Jason had found earlier that day.

Bruce doesn't seem to be quite finished with his awkward attempts at comforting, since after he puts the milk into the microwave and starts assembling two cups of coffee grains and sugar, he clears his throat to ask, "Are you the eldest out of your siblings?"

Jason is rather surprised. He hadn't expected Bruce to want to talk about his not-children. Not to mention how even now, Jason's not entirely sure he wants to tell him about them.

"Something like that," he settles with, but curiosity eats at him, "What makes you think I'm the eldest?"

"You are very protective over them," Bruce grumbles offhandedly, like whatever he's saying isn't ruining Jason's life, just a little, "It is obvious you care for them because you feel responsible for their wellbeing."

Jason clears his throat, scoffing in an unconvincing attempt to prove he isn't affected by this conversation at all, "I didn't ask for a soul reading, thanks."

Bruce actually laughs at that, taking the hot milk from the microwave while shooting Jason an amused look over his shoulder, "No. You asked why I think you are the eldest, and I said it's because you care about your siblings."

Jason wonders what this Bruce would think if he told him the state of their so-called family at any point in time. If there isn't someone otherwise dead (temporarily) or indisposed (faking their death also counts here), then another world-ending catastrophe has them on different corners of the earth. He wonders what Bruce would think if he told him that was actually a desired outcome of their family.

But then again, it isn't always like that, no matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise. 

Jason huffs, sitting up when Bruce is just about done mixing everything together into one mug and one paper cup (good grief), "Well, you're wrong. I'm not the eldest."

And thank fuck for that, he doesn't say when Bruce arches a brow at him. He doesn't look like he believes him all that much.

"That doesn't change what I said," Bruce shrugs, placing the mug in front of him before briskly walking back to his seat at the dining table. Jason is secretly very glad for it, still too restless to sit anywhere near Bruce without anticipating an attack of some sort.

Jason looks down at the coffee table where beside the stack of books, Bruce has left the steaming hot mug of coffee for Jason.

Across the room, Bruce takes a scalding sip from the paper cup.

Shakily, Jason takes the mug into his hands, just letting the heat seep into his palms, grounding him to the present. The coffee itself has way too much milk in it, judging by the colour.

For a second, this all feels painfully familiar. The strangest case of deja vu he's ever had. It's especially odd since he knows there's no way this has happened to him before, nor will it ever happen again.

Jason swallows thickly, "He — you — you have a pretty big family. Loads of kids you'd probably call your own," he starts, staring down at the milky coffee, "Is that… do you want that too? To have a big family?"

He doesn't trust himself to look up and see what kind of expression Bruce has on his face. Jason takes a small sip of coffee.

It has too much milk in it.

"I've always wanted to have a daughter," Bruce states quietly, taking another sip of his own coffee, not offering much else.

Later, when Bruce comes to collect Jason's empty mug, Jason finally looks up.

"Her name is Cassandra," he whispers.

Bruce watches him carefully, expression never shifting as he finds himself lost in thought. Then, he nods, walking away to wash the mug in the sink.

He might be smiling, but Jason looks away before he can make sure.

There's one single clock in the entire room, hung right next to the fridge. It's only when the time hits half eight in the evening, does Jason come to the realisation that Bruce isn't going on patrol today.

He also realises he hadn't eaten since this morning . Bruce's strange protein plate of just chicken and sausages was oddly filling, it seems, but not any less mortifying of a meal. At least the coffee had been nice.

"Please tell me you're going to feed me something that isn't coming out of your fridge," Jason groans, sitting up further on the sofa with lethargic movements.

The man stops, looking caught off guard and just a tad bashful when he very obviously removes his hand from the fridge handle, "What was wrong with the meal last time?"

"There's no way you eat that shit everyday," Jason scoffs, but when Bruce just looks away, very focused on the floorboards next to the stove, Jason's eyes widen, "Seriously?"

"Of course not," Bruce grumbles unconvincingly, reaching into one of his pockets to pull out a phone, a different one to the one Jason had used earlier that day. He types away at something for a short moment, before putting it against his ear.

Jason bites back a grin, "You're ordering takeout?"

Bruce frowns down at him, "Why is everything I do so surprising to you?"

"I don't know what's weirder. You eating prison food or something that comes out of a plastic takeaway box." Jason tells him honestly, which does nothing but make Bruce scowl further.

"I'm ordering Indian," is all Bruce says, not phrasing it like a question at all. He doesn't even ask Jason for any dietary requirements, which might have been a problem if he wasn't also ordering practically everything on the menu.

It's a little harder to make fun of him for it when the name he gives for the order is Thomas.

"They said there would be an hour wait," Bruce states once he was finished ordering, taking his spot back at the table opposite Jason.

With the dagger Bruce had given him safely tucked into his belt, Jason makes his way over to the dining table. Bruce hadn't asked for it back, and Jason was not about to let go of it without a fight (that he would probably lose, but it's the principle of the matter), "That's weird. What day is it?"

Bruce looks at him pensively, "Friday."

Shrugging, Jason sits down opposite Bruce, noticing all the blades and other weapons are gone, "Makes sense then. Friday night, people order in and watch movies, or something."

Bruce looks amused by this deduction, "Or something."

"Okay wise guy," Jason jeers, "What do you usually do on a Friday night?"

"Patrol," Bruce states rather frankly, like Jason is the fool for thinking otherwise.

Jason suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, because he's not sure what else he expected. His Bruce would have answered the exact same way, "Of course. What about in general? In your free time. You know, when you're not removing fingers and throwing bodies into the river."

Bruce looks like he wants to argue with that, but sighs instead, "Read."

"Really? Would have never guessed by your one word answers to everything," Jason mumbles, which actually seems to make Bruce's eye twitch, "What do you read?"

"Why are you asking so many questions?" Bruce counters, sounding slightly irritated by the reverse interrogation.

Jason leans back in his seat, crossing his arms so he and Bruce sit like reflections of each other. He's not sure where this sudden burst of sociability has come from, or why it seems easier to face this Bruce now than it did before he took a nap on the man's sofa.

"I'm feeling magnanimous," Jason settles on saying, not breaking eye contact, "So, what do you read?"

Bruce meets his look with an equally as challenging one, "The pile I gave you."

Jason raises a brow. He'd had a feeling they were well loved, but given those five or so thin copies were all Bruce deemed a hobby, it's no surprise they look like they've seen better days. For a moment, Jason wants to ask if that was all he reads, and maybe tell him to get better hobbies — but Bruce looks oddly exposed after that confession. His jaw is tight and locked as he glares down into the table, blinking quickly.

It doesn't seem right to poke fun about this, "What's your favourite book in the pile?"

The questions sound ridiculous even to him. Just a few hours ago this Bruce had threatened to kill him if he stepped out of line, not to mention that, technically speaking, he's been kidnapped and is being held hostage here. Jason should be asking questions about code to the door, or find a way to incapacitate Batman in order to escape.

Even Bruce looks at him suspiciously. As if an innocent question about literature would somehow leave him at a disadvantage.

"Frankenstein," is what Bruce goes with, sounding completely genuine, and maybe Jason had that coming.

Jason tries to think back to a time he ever saw his own Bruce read, and can only conjure mental images of the man surrounded by paperwork or casefiles. He thinks he can remember Bruce sitting in the large armchair in the Manor library, in front of the fire Jason was also sitting next to, reading tattered old books together.

Though, he can't be sure those aren't just something out of a desperate child's imagination.

Maybe it's the slowly growing realisation of being abandoned in such a surreal situation that makes Jason's walls crack a little further with every revelation.

"I died," Jason confesses suddenly, not really surprised it's come to this.

If Bruce had been expecting it, he doesn't let it show. He doesn't let anything show, in fact. He continues to stare down at the table, almost like he's trying to measure the indents with his mind alone. Like this is a completely normal and usual conversation had in his lonely home.

Bruce doesn't reply, and Jason can't seem to stop the words from flooding out of him now that he's started, "My own mother sold me out to a monster. He beat me half dead. Then locked me in a building that exploded on top of me. I died minutes before you came to save me."

It should feel unfair to pin it all on a Bruce who is a stranger in all the ways that matter. But the man doesn't even flinch. He does look up from the table to Jason, meeting blazing green eyes with steel blue.

He looks furious. Jason finds he doesn't really care if Bruce loses his cool and tries to kill him for this.

"Maybe I'm just unlucky, because then I woke up in my coffin, dug my way out. Next stop, Ra's al Ghul's personal Lazarus Pit," Jason laughs self deprecatingly, just short of something hysterical, "You can only imagine how that went. So you see, I'm not like you, you're like this because you are."

Jason takes a shuddering breath in, not sure where all of this is coming from, or why Bruce is staring so intensely at him but not saying a single thing, "I do what I do now because I have to. God knows you'll never pull your head out your ass. But I was never — I used to be —"

He stops, choked up. His mouth feels like it's filled with itchy cotton, thick grief rubbing at the back of his throat and making his head spin.

"You used to be what?" Bruce asks quietly. For a second, he sounds so much like the Bruce Jason knows better than anyone else, that he forgets where he is, and who he's really with.

"I used to be good." Jason stresses, like he desperately needs someone to believe him. I am. I am still good, dad. I promise.

A terse silence befalls the table, and they're close enough to the kitchen that Jason can hear the gentle clicking of the clock next to the fridge. It's a familiar rhythm against the inside of his head, louder than what is probably necessary.

Jason feels spent. Like someone's come along and pull his organs out of him, leaving behind just an envelope of skin that doesn't feel like it's his own most of the time. There's no bittersweet comfort that comes with confessing all of this, especially when he's confessing it to someone who looks exactly like the man who failed Jason.

A man who Jason has done nothing but fail.

"I'm sorry," Bruce finally says.

The nauseating sensation of emptiness is immediately replaced with a bursting pressure as anger pops every blood vessel under Jason's skin instantaneously, "You're sorry I was dunked in the Pit? Sorry that I came out to be like all the pieces of shit you kill? Sorry?"

There is no reason to take his years worth of frustration out on a Bruce who hardly knows why Jason's carrying guns and blades, let alone why he's saying all of this. But he doesn't stop him, in fact, Bruce seems perfectly inclined to sit there and take every word spat with vitriol like it's his guilt and his mistakes to be apologetic about. Jason moves to grip the blade in his hands hard, the handle leaving a burning indent into his palm.

It doesn't feel healing. Or even freeing. Instead, Jason feels like this is just another thing he's done to earn a shackle around his leg, another interaction with his father that will keep him up at night. Bruce just watches him resolutely as Jason continues shouting.

The idea of fighting with a guy who's not hitting back makes Jason stop, breathing in and out heavily, rage curling in his stomach. He loosens his hold on the blade.

"I'm sorry the choice to heal was taken from you," Bruce reiterates when he's sure Jason isn't going to throw the gifted blade at his neck, "I chose to die. You didn't. I choose not to come back. You didn't get a choice," Bruce's face hardens, looking stern, "You deserve to be angry, Jason. So be angry."

Jason's crying before he realises he's on his feet, aiming a punch straight at Bruce's face.

"You should've dodged," Jason grumbles, holding a frozen package of chicken onto his bruised knuckles.

Bruce is holding a similar packet of frozen sausages against his jaw, looking unimpressed, "You were allowed one hit. It won't happen again."

Jason snorts, "Fuck you, old man."

Not yours, a voice reminds him, making the smile that was growing on his face fall into a straight line, this is not your Bruce.

"Your right hook is not too bad," Bruce offers with a hum, sounding slightly pleased.

Not yours —

Ah, screw it.

"My right hook is fucking great, thank you very much," Jason grins in response, to which Bruce rolls his eyes, eyebrows furrowing when the action irrates the bruise on his face, which only makes Jason smile harder.

If the entire day was the calm before the storm that had just occured, then this is the calm that follows the storm. There's still an insatiable itch around him that Jason has never been able to get, but it feels slightly more tolerable now. Even when Bruce stands to try to stretch his shoulders, Jason isn't following his movements like he's afraid Bruce is going to change paths and strike him instead.

It should be worrisome, how settled he feels after all of that. Though, Jason's far too exhausted to care.

It's a familiar kind of exhaustion. One that no amount of sleep will fix. It weighs him down and for once, this brief moment of banter after pouring his heart and soul out to a stranger, is the closest thing he'll get to peace.

"I ordered our food to another safehouse, three blocks away," Bruce tells him as he turns to put his meat-ice-pack back into the freezer, "I'll go collect it now."

Jason rolls his eyes, "Of course you did. Because the takeaway driver definitely would have worked out that you've kidnapped me when delivering our food."

Bruce makes a sound that is almost a chuckle as he grabs a jumper from a hook by the door, slipping into it and pulling the hood right over his face. It does well to hide most of what might make him recognisable, but at nine pm on a Friday night in Gotham, he'd just look like any other guy. Suspicious, sure, but rightfully so.

"I turned the security traps off while you were asleep," Bruce tells him as he opens the door, not even touching the code pad on the side, "You could've escaped any time. Feel free to do so now, but know I will eat your portion of the lamb tikka."

He closes the door before Jason can jokingly throw the frozen meat package at the door. He doesn't even lock it behind him.

Jason waits five minutes before he stands to put the meat package away.

Testing the door, it does indeed open and not electrocute him like it might have done earlier that day. The hallway outside the apartment is entirely empty, with just a couple other identical doors lining both sides. There's the faint thumping of feet and music above him. Someone appears to be throwing a party.

Jason stands in the doorway for a long while, listening to the unrecognisable murmuring of music, a hand still on the door. He could very easily walk out, leave behind the stuffy apartment and find his way to the extraction points, where he'll wait for someone.

It was too easy. In fact, Jason has a feeling it's what Bruce — both of them — would want him to do.

He tells himself it's out of spite, or the fact that he doesn't have ways of defending himself out in the open, and that he's fucking starving, when he turns back into the apartment, closing the door behind him. 

Jason drops himself onto the sofa, ignoring the slightly discomforting tingling in his hand as he shuffles through the pile of books. He's fairly certain he's sitting on Crime and Punishment, snorting when he chances upon Oliver Twist. Wide Sargasso Sea, The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer, White Fang —

At the bottom of the pile is the book that has definitely been with Bruce the longest. While mostly intact, the paperback cover is faded and weak with age, brittle under his fingers as he traces the lines of the title.

Frankenstein.

Jason opens to the first page, gentle with how thin the paper feels. He's surprised to see a block of curly writing on the inside cover, some of it unreadable from where the ink has started to bleed off, but most of it still seen. Jason's heart beats steady as he reads, fingers gently swiping over the words like they're about to dissappear right before his eyes.

Happy thirteenth birthday, my dear boy.

I do believe it is about time you were gifted your first Shelley piece, to which there is no greater beginning than with Frankenstein. I hope you will find something to cherish in the pages of this book, regardless of how you may perceive the tale.

Yours,

With love,

Alfred P.

Jason finds himself smiling down at the note, somehow hearing the old man's voice in every cursive curl. No wonder it's Bruce's favourite.

(The notion that this old book, along with that old photograph in his wallet, is all this Bruce has left of his Alfred makes his heart strangely heavy.)

While Jason is flicking through the other books for any missed notes (There is a faded from Harvey D in the back of The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer) when the front door clicks open. He's busy inspecting a strange ink stain on chapter four of White Fang, that he doesn't look up immediately.

"You're back quick," he jokes, tracing his eyes away from the book to the door, "Did you run all the way to —"

The words fall short. Standing at the door is Bruce.

"Jay," he whispers in relief.

His Bruce.

"You—" Jason starts, standing so abruptly that the books on his lap slip onto the floor, not that he notices. He's too busy trying to work out if he's finally gone mad.

"Jason," Bruce repeats, stepping quickly towards him, his black cape flying up behind him, "Are you alright?"

Jason finds his throats gone dry, swallowing thickly as he nods. What's more startling is that once Bruce is close enough, he doesn't hesitate at all before he pulls Jason into his arms, holding the back of his head against his shoulder. It takes a second for Jason's brain to catch up with it, and he gently brings his hands up to hold onto Bruce's cape.

(He wonders when the last time Bruce had hugged him like this was.)

Over his shoulder, Jason makes eye contact with the other Bruce, the hood still pulled over his head. His hands are noticeably empty as he crosses his arms over his chest, watching the exchange critically.

"When did you…" Jason says, fists digging deeper into the capes soft material, unwilling to let go. Bruce doesn't seem any more eager to pull away from the hug.

Everything seems delayed by just a second. Bruce's weight is heavy and all-encompassing in his arms, but everytime he shifts to bring Jason closer, Jason's brain seems to process it faster than it's actually happening. His hands don't feel like his own. But Bruce is holding him, so Jason stands frozen in place, just so he can be held, for a moment longer.

"He appeared in front of me the same way you did," the Other Bruce informs him, voice unreadable.

"We had trouble reversing the machine's calibration so it would send us to where you were," Bruce starts, finally moving back but keeping his hands firmly placed on Jason's arms, "We reprogrammed it to instead send me to wherever I was in this universe. Decided we could work back from there."

Jason is barely paying attention, instead, he's unable to look anywhere but Bruce's face. Half of it is hidden by the cowl, which looks more ridiculous than usual. He had, to his horror, become so used to seeing Bruce's bare face that the Batman suit is unnerving. Bruce's pure white eye lenses blink at him in similar intensity, looking him over for any outward injuries.

"You came alone?" Jason asks quietly, not trusting himself to speak any louder.

Bruce nods, reaching into one of his many utility belt pockets to pull out two small blue discs. They're about the size of his thumb, but when Jason takes one, he finds it's much heavier than anticipated.

"When we're ready to go, you press down on it for a few seconds and it'll take us back to where the main component is, back in our universe," Bruce informs him stiffly, the brief moment of worry in his voice hardening into a familiar Batman growl as the mission at hand becomes prevalent again.

But then, Bruce's eyes catch on the redness of his knuckles as he holds the blue disc. His white eyes narrow in concern, "Are you hurt?"

Jason blinks out of his moment of unfocus, eyes instinctively floating back over Batman's shoulders to Bruce standing by the door.

Batman puts it together then, the red knuckles and the bruise on his counterpart's face, "Red Hood, Report."

The command grates against his skin uncomfortably. There's that itch again, eating away at his insides. He'd thought a lot of it had been spared when he told the other Bruce everything but now — but here —

Jason realises his Bruce knows nothing.

It's unfair, the anger he feels for it. It's not like his Bruce can control the fact that Jason wants to talk to an alternate universe version of his father simply because he doesn't care if the man hates him for it. It's not his fault he wasn't here.

So, realistically, Jason shouldn't be as cruel about it as he is, "You want a report? Fine, I'll give you a report. You're a killer in this world. You killed Tony Zucco. You killed Maroni and — and Crane. You —"

Jason takes a shuddering breath in, "You killed the Joker ten years ago."

The force of the words hit Batman harder than Jason could have ever envisioned himself being capable of. He watches as the man takes a staggering step back, but when Jason tries to do the same, his knees knock onto the back of the sofa.

"Jason," Batman, his Bruce, breathes out, hands balled into fists at his side, "I —"

Batman had lost what little resolve he tried to display after their hug. Now, even with the cowl on, Jason can clearly see a million and one thoughts spiralling through him. Batman blinks profusely, jaw tight with tension.

Bruce watches from the doorway impassively.

It's a little strange. To think, just an hour ago, they were sitting across from each other talking about reading and rising from the undead.

But then again, a couple hours before that, Jason had been tied to a chair and drugged. It's not all that surprising that Bruce is standing destitutely, five feet away, like if there's enough space between them, he can pretend he's not a version of Jason's father.

Batman is still at a loss of what to say, or do, the blue disc in his hand shaking dangerously. Jason wonders what the plan is if these discs don't work. There's definitely not enough food in this apartment to feed two Bruce's. There's no saying Bruce might not try to kill Batman, on the account of just because he can.

Finally, when trying to and failing to meet eyes with Jason becomes too much and, predictably, Bruce turns his back to Jason. The cape flows to a still around him, making a silhouette of darkness where his father once stood.

Jason stares into the darkness of Batman's back. Batman stares challengingly at the version of himself in the shadows of the room.

"It's fascinating," Bruce says from the doorway now that he can't avoid the confrontation, making the two of them visibly tense, "How the difference between us could be nothing more than a moment of chemical difference in our brains."

"What?" Batman growls, shoulders tense.

"When you think back to the day in that alley, you're afraid. Your palms are sweaty and your chest is tight because you are scared to be back there. You are young and scared and you fear to see them die again." Bruce says clearly, almost with rehearsed ease.

Jason's eyes are about to pop right out of his skull. Batman's expression is hidden in the darkness of the room, but Jason eyes the way the line of his shoulders is rigid and unmoving. His lack of annoyance is almost as worrying as if he had expressed anything.

"I am not afraid," Bruce whispers harshly when Batman does not respond, voice breaking under the pressure, "I am angry."

A chill runs up Jason's spine.

(You deserve to be angry, Jason. So be angry.)

"You think I'm not angry?" Batman asks, voice levelled. Jason blinks in surprise. He's been completely cut from the conversation between the universe's cruellest mirror, wherein the reflections are fighting for escape.

Bruce meets Batman's glare headstrong, "Not angry enough."

It was one thing for Jason to meet a version of Bruce he never deemed possible. It was another thing for Jason to start to understand this strange Bruce.

It's an entirely different thing for his Bruce to meet a version of him that is so horribly similar, but different in the only way that matters. All things considered, Batman hasn't pulled back into silent glares and misdirection. He's facing his monster head on.

It makes Jason wonder if the possibility of this Bruce isn't something as far fetched as he had initially thought.

"Is that what you want from me?" Batman whispers, sounding so tired, "To be like you? Be angry? Forever?"

Jason feels an overwhelming urge to grab the blade by his belt, just so he has something to defend himself with. It's less the physical aspect of it and more of the emotional need to have some power over the situation. Batman isn't talking to him, he doesn't even seem to realise Jason's standing right behind him, heart trembling — instead he is entirely focused on the Bruce Wayne in front of him.

Batman's asking himself if this is what he wishes he would become.

But to Jason, it feels like an accusation. Is this what you want me to become, Jason? To be like you?

The truth of the matter is Jason is so much like Bruce that it's almost disgusting. They both have this unending responsibility to a city that has hurt them in unimaginable ways, and they're probably the only two that will die wearing their masks and end a legacy with them. But they're different in the only way that seems to be important in a world like theirs.

Bruce is never going to do what needs to be done. Jason has no choice but to be at odds with his father, constantly. He needs to be the change that Batman's mission can't reach.

Is this what you want from me, Jason?

"No," Bruce finally says, "You can't afford to be like me when you have a family."

Batman hadn't been expecting that, clearly by the way his shoulders tense up for a moment, before they slowly uncoil. Jason's not sure what he expected either.

Bruce inhales sharply, uncrossing his arms so he's standing at level with Batman, "You've got too many people counting on Bruce Wayne to let Batman completely consume you."

"Is that what it's done to you?" Batman asks with less irritation, sounding more pensive, thoughtful, "Consume you?"

"Whatever it has done to me, it won't happen to you," Bruce continues, catching Jason's eye over Batman's shoulder, "There seem to be more important things to live for."

Batman, who Jason is now realising had been acting as a wall between the other Bruce, comes to a standstill at that. The reminder makes him turn slightly, to where Jason stands unmovingly behind him, watching the exchange with uncertainty.

Batman's eyes flicker to Jason's belt, where somewhere during the conversation, Jason's hand has moved to rest against the blade. His jaw ticks.

"Jay?" Batman asks, without really asking anything.

Is this what you want me to become?

Jason takes a deep breath in, lowering his hand, "I'd like to get the fuck out of here now."

Batman — Bruce watches him for a moment longer. He then nods stiffly, turning so they're facing each other again.

He holds his own blue disc in front of him, "Hold onto the button in the centre. Do it first."

Jason tries to smirk, though it probably falls short and weak given the heaviness in his chest, "What, scared I won't come back with you, old man?"

Judging by Bruce's lack of exasperated grunts or eye rolls, that was indeed something he was worried about. For a second, Jason feels as though it should make him mad.

All it does is make him inexplicably sad.

He exhales sharply through his nose, gently thumbing over the blue disc between his fingers. Jason steps to the side, narrowly missing stepping on one of the books that have slipped onto the ground, just so he can see the man in the shadows, "Hey, Bruce."

It's obvious Jason's calling for the other Bruce, who has not moved from his spot by the door. He's still watching the display in front of him indifferently, but Jason sees the way his arms, now uncrossed, tremble minutely at his side.

Bruce tilts his head in question.

"It's not too late, you know," Jason tells him vaguely.

Bruce, at the end of the day, is still a version of his Bruce, so Jason sees the brief moment of vulnerability that flashes across the man's face. It's barely perceptible, but Jason knows the expression like the back of his hand. There had been a time where all he wanted was to see the look of anguish on Bruce, faced with his failures and his mistakes.

He can't say he feels the same way now.

"For what?" Bruce replies, a fake air of casualness, but there is a hint of desperation in his words. For instructions. For a hint. Something to help him tackle what he's known deep down all along.

Find Alfred. Find your son. Read books that aren't tied to people in your past. Find something important to live for. Be Bruce Wayne.

Jason shrugs, heart beating erratically and probably loud enough for everyone to hear, "It's never too late," he repeats.

For the few seconds that follow him pressing down onto the blue disc, Jason meets the other Bruce's glare with one of his own. It's at this point, he decides, that this Bruce is nothing but a stranger to him again. It's easier to compartmentalise this part of his life as just another journey of failures and mistakes.

His eyes flicker to the side, Batman watches him with a contemplative gaze. It's the last thing he sees before he feels himself be pulled back into static and ice.

Going from one place and appearing in a completely new one is no less unsettling than the first time. At least this time, Jason isn't at risk of losing a fight, unless he's willing to piss off Nightwing.

Though, it might already look like someone's done that. Once Jason's head stops spinning and he's got his bearings in check, he realises he's lying down in a bed. They've saved him the embarrassment by not tucking him in, though, Dick is sitting next to the med-bay bed, staring at him critically.

There's the general murmuring and buzz of equipment around him. If Jason weren't so tired, mentally and physically, he might have put up a fuss about being strapped down in the batcave.

"You've been out for a couple minutes," Dick tells him, sounding somewhat angry, for some reason, "It might take a second for you to —"

Jason doesn't wait around for permission to use his legs, immediately sitting up, even if it is a little sore for his back, ripping out the IV drip they've put him on as well. Little do they know, he's probably burning through whatever it is they're injecting in him anyway.

"Yeah, thanks doc, but I'm good," Jason grumbles, setting his feet down. He frowns when he meets the cold tile of the cave's floor.

His boots. He forgot his boots.

Dick stands the same time Jason does, arms out in case Jason lets the drumming in his head win and collapses backwards, still dressed in his Nightwing suit, "You've been gone for almost two days, Jay. Where the hell were you?"

Jason frowns, "Uh hello, evil scientist with dimension-travel-gun ring any bells? Take a wild guess on where that would have landed me."

If possible, Dick's frown becomes a deeper scowl, perhaps comforted by the fact that Jason isn't displaying any traumatised reactions and thus takes it as an opportunity to interrogate him, "Bruce hasn't said a single thing since you both got back. You're not wearing your boots or your jacket and all your weapons are gone."

Right. It wasn't just his boots that Jason had forgotten. Knowing the other Bruce, all his things were probably swimming at the bottom of Gotham Harbour by now. He wonders if he at least kept the helmet.

Bruce hasn't said a single thing since you both got back.

Jason shrugs, trying and probably failing to be indifferent about this whole thing, "Well, if he's not going to talk about it, neither am I. Have any extra shoes my size lying about? I really want to get out of here."

He doesn't, not really. But when choosing whether or not he wants to stay in the Batcave and risk breaking down in front of everyone, or breaking down all on his own on the side of some random Bristol street — the answer comes surprisingly easily.

Of course, just as Dick looks like he might try to tackle Jason for an answer, the familiar clacking of Oxford Brogues approaches from behind. Jason's not sure when he could tell his family apart from the sound of their shoes alone.

"Master Jason, nice to see that you're up," Alfred muses, sounding genuinely glad regardless of his simple and polite wording, "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

There's a lump in his throat when Jason turns to meet the old man, eyes burning just a little. He's not sure at all why he's feeling a relief like no other.

Alfred, who is far wiser than he ever lets off, notices the change in demeanour immediately. He sets down the silver tray of bandages and plasters on a nearby bench and briskly walks over to Jason, taking the spot in which Dick had once stood. His older brother easily steps out of the way, eyes softening in concern.

Jason watches Alfred move towards him with wide eyes, not missing a single thing.

Alfred's voice is soft when he rests a hand on Jason's shoulder, "Well, my boy, it has been quite a journey, hasn't it? What you need is a warm cup of tea and an actual bed."

Jason laughs wetly, heart heavy as he lets himself trace Alfred's deeply engraved smile lines with his eyes, "I don't think —"

The commotion of Jason being awake has finally travelled through the cave, with a small crowd forming around him. Cassandra appears behind Dick, a similar frown of uncertainty on her face. She, too, is still dressed in uniform, just without her mask. Distantly, Jason is beyond relieved for it, not sure what sort of reaction he would've had if she'd looked at him with her expressionless mask. He's not sure he wants to find out any time soon, either.

Behind her trails Damian, who looks unimpressed, as usual.

"I told you he was fine, Grayson," Damian huffs, though he's unable to look away from Jason for too long.

Thankfully, the group stops there. Jason can feel them all around him, suffocating with their open expressions and worried glances. He continues to look down at Alfred's shoes, detailing the small indents on the leather.

Jason rarely comes to the cave as it is. The rare times he does find himself here are few and far in between, and even then it is limited to very few interactions with people. A bat or two was manageable. It's when they start to group up, instinctively standing back to back and taking watch is when it becomes uncomfortable to find a place to settle in.

Then, Bruce walks into view. He's still dressed as Batman, though Jason is too busy familiarising himself with the pressure of Alfred's hand against his arm to notice much else.

It's to everyone's surprise when Damian suddenly comes to stand in front of him, right next to Bruce, dressed in what appears to be a training suit instead of the usual Robin uniform. Though he hadn't expected a warm welcome from the youngest bat, Jason was a little stunned by the intensity of the boy's stare.

More specifically, the way Damian is glaring at his blade. The blade the other Bruce had given him. It seems no one thought to take it off him when he was unconscious.

"Todd," Damian frowns, "Why do you have my mother's blade?"

In that moment, a rush of guilt hits him square in the chest. He's sure if Alfred's arm wasn't still firmly placed on his shoulder, he might have swayed backwards.

In another universe, a place similar enough to the one Jason knows as home, there's a Bruce Wayne who reads the same five books from thirty years ago, and carries a photo of someone who presumes him to be dead. He's got blood on his hands and in his bedsheets and Alfred would probably weep if he saw the state of the man's fridge.

That Bruce Wayne's probably not had an actual conversation with someone in a long, long time until Jason showed up. He has a son, somewhere, who he'll run away from if it meant he'd stay away for his own good. He has no other sons. Or daughters. There's no backup for the Batman who kills.

He carries a blade given to him by a once lover, which he gave away to a son who isn't his. He has one photograph left of a life once lived. He reads books he probably has memorised just for the notes in the inside covers.

(There is a Bruce, who is far too good at pretending he likes being alone — that he's almost fooled himself.)

Jason clears his throat, willing the burning in his eyes not to overflow, swallowing thickly when he realises there are lots of eyes burning into the side of his face. He doesn't dare look over, in fear of falling prey to one of Cassandra's all knowing looks or Dick's all assuming ones.

He does look up in front of him, where Bruce stands. The man's taken his cowl off, and for a moment, Jason thinks he's back in that dark and lonely apartment with only one chair at a dining table.

He blinks again and Bruce has stepped forward, apprehensive, but clearly concerned by Jason's silence, "Are you alright?"

Are you? Is what Jason might've asked if he didn't already know the answer.

Instead, he turns to Alfred, who's a familiar island in a sea of unfamiliarity, "Is there still time to accept that offer for tea?"

It's been a long time since Jason found himself in the Wayne Manor library.

It hadn't been his first stop, initially.

After Alfred had forced the others away, most of them unwilling to leave his side but knowing better than to crowd him, they took their leave to go patrol. Jason hadn't said anything about his own patrol tonight, but judging by the way Alfred wordlessly drags him up into the manor, he doesn't think he would have had a choice to leave.

(Jason wouldn't have left either way.)

The tea Alfred made him was warm and familiar. He'd put just the right amount of water and sugar.

Jason asks for milk. Alfred doesn't comment on how this is the first time Jason's taking milk in his tea.

Somewhere between the second and third cup of tea, Alfred makes an entire pot of it. For the first time in a long time, Alfred sits down next to Jason on the kitchen island, his own small cup of tea as he meets Jason's tired expression with one of comfort and understanding. He doesn't ask why Jason's looking at him like he's never seen him before. He doesn't ask who Jason is mourning.

They just sit and drink their tea.

Duke comes in at some point, looking tired and blinking in surprise when he stumbles upon their impromptu tea party. The kid laughs happily, voice a little scratchy from sleep, but not any less bright, getting a cup of water from the fridge.

(There's no clock next to the fridge. No sound to focus on beside Alfred's breathing.)

Hey man, glad to see you're back okay, Duke had said before he left for bed again, Bruce was tearing his hair out trying to find a way to you. Dick was close behind. I would have stayed awake to help, but Alfred threatened to knock me out if I didn't go to bed.

He laughs when Alfred sighs ('I did no such thing, young sir'), urging him back to bed because he has to be up early for a school event tomorrow. Jason manages a grin.

A little while later, Alfred proves once again that he is far greater than any of them deserve, "Would you like to spend some time in the library while I prepare a bedroom for you?"

Jason is not teary when he replies, "You don't need to do that for me, Alfie."

"Nonsense," Alfred tuts, already up and moving the tea pot and Jason's empty cup onto a silver tray, "Off you go now. I trust you still remember the way there."

He does. It's less about actually remembering the way and instead, letting himself walk down the corridors of a place he once called home and re-familiarise himself with it all.

Jason stops first at Bruce's study, glad the man's on patrol and not around to become paranoid on why Jason's snooping around at his desk for the first time in years. It's been a long time since Jason's stepped foot into a room that was once proof of a guardian, with Bruce's hankering frame sat behind the large mahogany table surrounded by papers being a familiar sight.

The picture frame he was looking for has not changed — the one of Alfred and Bruce, stood side by side in front of a bush of roses.

Next to it is a photo of Tim and Bruce at some sort of event, a smaller one of Damian and one of his many pet cats right next to it. Much to Jason's surprise, and amusement, there's a photobooth strip of Stephanie and Bruce leaning against the photo of Tim, in which Stephanie looks more than happy to be there and Bruce a little less so. The newest addition is a polaroid of Cass and Duke, twin grins on their faces as Bruce is sprawled asleep in the background.

The largest, and oldest, one is an all too familiar frame of Bruce, Dick and Jason. It was taken for Jason's fourteenth birthday. They're all wearing matching suits and ties in it, Bruce's arm placed on his shoulder as Dick stands beside him, smiling brightly.

Jason's hand itches to turn the photo facing down. Instead, he turns on his heel for the door. He's seen enough. Not entirely sure what he was looking for in the first place.

It's just by chance that his eye catches on a specific shelf of the many bookshelves around the room. Jason is sure Bruce told him years ago that most of the books were for decoration, so he doesn't read them at all aside from when he needs to look busy — but there, beside a painting of the English countryside, is a shelf of tattered book spines.

Jason's heart is in his throat when his eyes trail across the stories, landing on one at the very end.

He takes it with him to the library, not bothering to close the door to hide proof of his entry. The library is just the corridor after Bruce's study. Jason remembers running between the two rooms when he was younger.

In the library, the fireplace roars steadily with a warm flame. In front of the sofa on the coffee table, is a silver tray, with a fresh pot and cup of steaming tea.

It's a long time before anyone else stumbles upon Jason, curled on the sofa in front of the fire, reading an old book that isn't his.

"I haven't seen that in a long time," a voice rumbles quietly behind him.

Jason had heard him approach well before he spoke, but neither seemed ready to breach this new area of conversation. Jason being here, in the manor, in the library, is confusing enough.

"He said it was his favourite book," Jason replies.

Bruce walks into his view, sitting on the armchair opposite the sofa, next to the fireplace. He lowers himself with a huff, exhaling sharply when he finally leans back into the seat, face pinched in discomfort as he tries to settle into the too soft cushions. Jason tries not to stare.

"Was the note in there too?" Bruce asks with a sigh, his head tipped back and eyes closed. He looks older than Jason remembers.

Jason swallows thickly, "Yeah."

"It's my favourite too," Bruce continues, smiling slightly, but with his eyes closed and head back, he looks like he's having a comforting dream, "I used to read it all the time just to see Alfred's note."

Jason doesn't say anything in reply to that, too busy looking down at the book in question. Frankenstein is near identical to the book in the other universe, if a little less damaged with constant use. The ink has bled exactly the same, the paper just as thin and old. A loving note on the inside front cover wishing a thirteen year old boy a happy birthday.

"Are we going to talk about him?" Jason asks.

Bruce lifts his head, meeting Jason with a haggard expression, "What is there to talk about?"

There is a slight undercurrent of annoyance there, not so much at Jason, but at the topic of conversation. It's not surprising at all given just who they're talking about, an amalgamation of what makes Batman cruel forming one lonely and disturbed individual. Jason had half expected more outrage at this being brought up.

Oddly enough, Jason feels defensive, "Well, since he's you, do you think he'll take my advice for once?" The bitterness of the words lessen slightly, and Jason brings his knees closer to himself, the book held carefully in his hands, "Do you think he'll… change?"

Bruce regards him for a moment, deep in thought again. He does that a lot. Thinking about what he wants to say instead of saying them out loud. Maybe there's mercy for Jason in that.

"I don't know the entire situation," Bruce confesses, and Jason would scoff in any other situation at how pained Bruce looks to admit such a thing, "But what you said to him, at the end. It didn't seem like he disagreed."

It's not too late. Jason nods, it's never too late.

With a sigh, Jason leans back, watching the fire, "Have you always wanted a big family like this?"

Bruce evidently tries very hard not to react to the fact that Jason just referred to them all as family, "Well, I've always wanted a daughter. Maybe two. That would have been nice."

Jason turns his gaze onto Bruce, who looks somewhat sheepish after saying that. He blinks, stunned at the resemblance of something he can't quite name, before he sputters out a small laugh.

"Yeah, well, sorry you got a lot more than you wished for," He jokes.

Bruce looks entirely too fond when he says, "I don't mind."

They lapse into what Jason can only say is a silence that feels sort of like someone else's memory. Bruce has grabbed one of the stray books left on the coffee table, something about the structure of language in the middle-east, thumbing through it with interest as Jason sips his tea. It's probably well past the time Batman should probably be asleep, given he's just returned from patrol, but Bruce doesn't move.

Jason makes no indication of leaving either. Not until he's finished this entire pot of tea, at least. He feels irrationally protective over this feeling of peace, unwilling to let it go just yet.

It's many moments into this not-silence of turning pages and flickering fire does Bruce take a deep breath in, preparing himself for something. Jason eyes flick to him with interest. He waits.

"I'm glad… you're here, son," Bruce tells him out of the blue, looking intensely over his book and into the fire.

Jason stares right at Bruce's unwaveringly genuine expression, chest warm, "Me too."