Chapter Twenty Five: Rule #25 – Be Open to New Things
It takes Jason a while to wake up.
He can feel it.
There's an ache in the delay between when he becomes aware of the fact that he's not quite awake and when he sinks into reality enough to do something about it.
The first thing that comes back to him is a tingling itch of pure sensation that's spread almost evenly through every single one of his muscles – a bit like pins and needles, but a tick more subdued and a ton more throby… like his entire muscular system has become a single, giant bruise or some shit.
The second thing that comes is the sensation of temperature. His body's internal temperature is edging towards overly cool – not quite to the point of truly cold, he's spent too long on Gotham's snowy streets during the worst months of winter without any means of a respite to consider the vague chill he feels now any kind of significant cold.
That kind of cold is unique. Terrible and familiar.
A bit like the cold in his hand, but that one… that's a different kind of familiar.
It's an IV, he realizes after a moment spent puzzling through the sensation – an IV pumping him up with hydration fluids, electrolytes, and probably pain killers. It feels cold because it's room temperature fluid dripping directly into his 98° veins – probably from a colder than average room, as well… a hospital bed is cumbersome and stiff in a way that's hard to forget and the rooms that hold hospital beds always run rather frigid, even the expensive ones.
It takes another few seconds to remember that he's probably in the Cave, which explains why he's edging significantly more towards cold than comfortable. Even the shittiest hospital would be a warm room to wake in than the med bay built four stories underground.
Except for the hand that's not icy cold…
The hand without the IV presumably stuck into the top of it is… warm.
Very warm.
Almost unbearably so.
It's not a burning, like he's stuck it on a lit burner or against the metal side of an oil drum with a street fire blazing, but it's still trapped in a sensation of definitely too warm that makes him want to yank the limb away.
He manages a twitch, but nothing more.
It's just a quick little jolt of the muscles in his fingers and somehow that tiny movement is so exhausting Jason has to fight hard to make it happen again.
The second time he makes his muscles kind of work makes other things change, too – makes things happen. Abruptly and completely enough to make Jason almost regret going to the stupid effort of moving at all.
The too warm hand feels a squeeze, a tense wrap of pressure – gentle, but still a shock to his system as he's still pulsing with that aching throb of pins and needles.
Heat appears around his face, cupped against his cheek with another touch of pressure.
A hand, he realizes.
Two hands. One on his cheek and one around his own hand.
Gentle, ginger, but still too present to be truly comfortable.
"Jason?"
The voice that says his name is deep.
Warm and rumbly in a way that both puts Jason on his guard and makes his throat swell up with some knot of emotion like relief.
A thumb strokes across his cheek bone.
"You're home, Jason," the voice says – not Bruce, Jason realizes, Dick. "You're safe."
Home. Safe.
Foreign words that Jason can't quite trust, but that he wants to more than anything.
Doesn't think he could believe it even if Bruce himself were the one making promises.
There's a brief kerfuffle of noise – an assault of sound and rustling movement. The hand on his cheek vanishes and then is back again before Jason can lament the realization that – as uncomfortable as it is to have the hand there – he missed it when it was gone.
There's a low murmur.
Not Dick's voice – higher, warmer… female.
That must be Babs.
With a fightfully grueling push of effort, Jason cracks an eye.
And then the other.
The Cave is dim.
Jason can't tell if it's because all the lights have been turned off or if his little corner of the infirmary has just been very thoroughly cordoned off. Besides, the Cave has never been the brightest lit room in the world, so it's difficult to tell definitively…
Either way, without windows or an easily identifiable clock hanging within his immediate eyeline, Jason can't begin to attempt estimating the time… or even the date.
Dick's face is suddenly taking up his entire field of vision.
It's pale, gaunt in a way Jason doesn't recognize, and smiling with that obnoxious Dick Grayson signature grin of pure joy. A fucking blast of glaring sunshine, on demand.
"Hey, there, Little Wing," Dick whispers, his big blue puppy dog eyes already flooded with a bizarre rush of tears, "Welcome back."
The greeting makes Jason blink – would've made him frown with a snarky retort on his tongue if he had that much control over his muscles. He doesn't remember going anywhere.
He doesn't really remember getting hurt at all, honestly.
Jason would probably find that thought a lot more alarming if he were on any less than what seemed to be a fuck ton of pain killers – and it's the good shit, too, clearly – but as things currently are, he can barely hold onto the idea long enough to think he should probably care.
He's quickly distracted by the feel of fingers on his arm – slimmer and far cooler to the touch than Dick's, pressing gently on his bicep.
Babs.
Jason fights to turn his head towards her.
All he manages to get is a brief glimpse of red hair, pale skin, and teary green eyes framed by those thick black plastic frames of the glasses she uses when she spends an unexpected weekend at the Manor.
Before he can do more, there's another loud shuffle of movement.
"Jason?"
The knot of apprehension redoubles in Jason's gut at the sound of Bruce's voice.
It's graveled and rough in the kind of exhausted way Jason knows to read as upset.
Hearing it makes Jason's heart rate spike – a thing he's embarrassed and frustrated to realize is being broadcast to everyone present through the increased frequency of sharp beeps on the machine set up to monitor his pulse.
Dick's hand pulls away from Jason's cheek and his face slips out of Jason's view – his hand stays on Jason's hand, though, giving a supportive squeeze that Jason finds, inexplicably, that he deeply appreciates.
When Jason's eyes manage to focus in the absence of Dick's face from right in front of his own, he spots Bruce at the foot of his bed – with the welcome addition of Alfred's stoically relieved face hovering just over his broad shoulder.
Jason tries to contract the muscles in his throat.
To force himself to swallow – to speak.
It doesn't quite work well enough to let him get a word out.
It barely works to let him groan.
"Just a moment, Master Jason," Alfred chides lightly, zipping off to the side of Jason's bed too quickly for Jason to track the motion. "Perhaps it's best to wait to speak until you've had a little drink of water."
Bruce remains at the foot of Jason's bed, hands coming to rest visibly on the handles meant to guide the gurney structure rather than dipping down to brush at Jason's feet.
Before Jason can wonder why he seems to care about that miniscule degree of physical distancing, Dick slides back into view.
Dick's hand has left Jason's and now settles on his far shoulder to stabilize him as Dick lifts the back end of the bed to prop Jason up into an acceptably upright-ish position.
A straw appears at his mouth, nudging at his lip as Alfred holds the cup of room temperature water from beside his hip – close enough to feel the warmth of his presence, but not so close that it feels crowding.
Jason wraps his tongue around the straw and draws it into his mouth. He gingerly sucks down a sip – but quickly loses control of his self restraint and starts to guzzle down the liquid.
"Now, now, Master Jason," Alfred chastises, drawing the cup down until the straw loses contact with the surface and starts sucking up air. "You know better. Little sips."
The water returns and Jason slows himself down.
Takes his time with draining the small cup.
Feels immeasurably better when he's finished – still pretty damn awful, but better.
He settles back against the pillows with a sleepy sigh before his gaze sweeps back across the room to snag on Bruce – still standing like stone at the foot of his bed.
Jason is still only about halfway awake, and he has a worrisome spread of blank spots in his memory of the events leading up to whatever landed him here in this hospital bed, but he does remember enough of the night prior to the start of his memory patchiness to know that this conversation is unlikely to be pleasant.
Having been nothing but a screw up since this whole Tolovi case got started – and that on accident, no less – he's pretty sure that having openly defied Batman's orders, directly and consciously, is not going to go over very well with the B-man.
Benching Robin for life is not out of the range of possibilities, neither is simply barring Jason from the Robin mantle forever… maybe even getting someone else to fill the role… Jason's not the only street rat around, after all.
Alfred's insistence, and probably a little support from Dickie bird, will possibly ensure that Jason gets to stay in the Manor – until he's got himself all healed up, at least – but beyond that… Jason stoically builds up a mental wall to keep himself from reacting too terribly to any unpleasant revelations about the status of his future.
The yelling is gonna make his already aching head scream, and he's in no shape to actually run away from any of it. He's just gonna have to sit here and take it.
On the up side – or really, on the slightly less down side – he's only got a rather tenuous hold on being conscious at all, right now, so he's probably gonna pass out pretty quick once this shit gets started.
B's got a pretty intense stare goin' already, but it's not quite anger – though, that assessment might just be Jason's vision getting' screwy with all the drugs and shit in his system.
"It's good to see your eyes open, son," Bruce comments. "How do you feel?"
"I'll be fine," Jason promises. "How long was I out?"
"A few days," Bruce replies, measured and careful. "Today is Saturday."
Jason nods slowly, digesting the information and fighting down the leap to worry that's suddenly clogging up his chest so it doesn't filter into his voice as he asks, "And Tim?"
"Is fine," Barbara promises, giving his bicep a reassuring squeeze. "I've been monitoring him very carefully since he got home safely at 3am on Thursday."
Jason nods again, this time feeling nothing but relief.
If Babs says Tim is alright, then he's definitely fine.
There's an awkward pasue after that.
It's not quite hesitation to make the transition into Bat Mode interrogation, but it's something odd. Jason simply doesn't have the attention or energy to analyze it beyond his observation that it's there.
"Jason," Bruce says – his voice soft, but growing heavy with the Bat's pressuring insistence on giving honest information, "What happened?"
With a slow, deep breath to steel him, Jason admits, "I dunno. I don't remember a lot of it… I remember noticing that Tim skipped out of school halfway through the day, and I remember having dinner, and helping Alfie with the dishes, and then… it's just a blur, mostly… I've got like flashes of stuff, but nothing that makes much sense."
Bruce nods. His eyes are narrowed, but his piercing gaze isn't unduly suspicious.
Which just makes Jason feel even more guilty and inadequate.
He makes a terrible Robin.
"B… I – I'm sorry… I know I screwed – "
Bruce moves one hand from where it rests on the bar at the end of Jason's bed to the lump of his foot under the blanket. Jason can feel the weight of it, and his whole leg starts to tingle as Bruce gives a squeeze. He fights the urge to yank his foot out of reach.
"Later, Jay-lad," Bruce says quietly. "We'll discuss everything that happened, later. The important thing right now is that you are alright. You need to rest, first, son."
Jason bites back a protest.
Bruce clearly doesn't disagree that he screwed this whole thing up – obviously, seeing as Jason did royally fuck this shit over sideways – but he's willing to table the issue for the moment and no matter how much Jason would like to just get it over with, he's not really in any kind of shape to push his luck. He needs to take the reprive he can get.
As Bruce rubs the top of his foot in an almost soothing gesture, Jason forces himself to give a stilted nod. Bruce nods back, and then looks over to Alfred.
"Alright, Master Jason," the old butler says brightly, "I believe that this has been quite enough excitement for one morning. I'm going to administer a sedative now, just enough to help you get a little sleep. Is that agreeable?"
Jason nods – knowing with complete and wonderful certainty that Alfred won't give him anything if he doesn't overtly, actively consent to it.
The trickle of an extra something in the creeping cold of his IV hits him almost immediately and his vision starts to swim – not that it had really been all that stable to start with… He hears a comforting instruction from Bruce to sleep well and then is utterly lost to the swirl of starry blackness behind his eyelids.
His dreams are filled with Cheshire Cat smiles and the sweet smells of leather and some sort of fancy polish or cologne.
Jason doesn't quite remember anything concrete about Catwoman's little protégé, just that Stray was there, and that he'd been something special… unique and alluring in a way that didn't let Jason have the half second needed to even pretend at questioning his sexuality.
It probably should have been unsettling, but like a lot of things that had crossed his mind the in last hour or so… Jason couldn't summon up the effort or energy to make himself care before the idea that he should flits quietly away.
He sleeps well, all things considered, and the hazy dreams are pleasant.
Jason is much more coherent the next time he wakes up – feels much more human, and like he's actually still pretty much firm in standing on the alive side of the line.
His recall is better too, memory more clear and crystalized.
Everything between dinner and the minute he got Tim out of Obscura and into Dickie bird's finally useful, overly protective hands is stuck fast in his brain and perfectly able to be recalled with every bit of the clarity expected of a Bat brat.
There's still a lot missing, but he remembers the deal he struck with Rwen Tolovi now – remembers the first drink, and the second, and enough of the feeling from after to know he should actively ensure that he has no idea how to get hold of any more samples of that shit.
Jason shakes himself to get passed the memory of the feeling – to refocus on skimming through the splotchy bursts of his recall from that fight night.
He remembers Stray.
Only vaguely, still, but now with enough detail to be sufficiently mortified by it all and to make bringing up the baby Cat something he wants to avoid at just about any cost.
Even more vaguely, he remembers Batman trying to bargain with his life – doesn't quite remember the words or circumstances, but something warm curls up in his chest in a way that doesn't feel like anger. Jason wants to roll with it – just accept the niceness of the feeling without digging deeper to examine why it's there.
He also remembers Batman proactively deciding to let Jason go through with the fight exactly as Jason had set it up – Batman had accepted that Jason had made the best possible choice and then allowed him to follow through on executing it.
The thought makes the warm feeling in his chest curl tighter, digging in with roots and claws and the painful kind of unacknowledged hope that Jason is determined to ignore.
The only way to push his thoughts off course is to open his eyes more fully and expend the limits of his narrow span of attention on looking around him at the Cave.
There's still no clock or calendar in easy view, but Jason doesn't get much beyond noting that tidbit when he realizes the chair at his bedside is not unoccupied.
Bruce is sitting there.
He has a file full of what looks like spreadsheets with the Wayne Enterprises logo on them, so his presence is unobtrusive and doesn't feel nearly as creeptastic as it could, but it still makes the skin on the back of Jason's neck and shoulders itch uncomfortably.
"It's good to see you awake again," Bruce mentions quietly without looking up from his WE documents. His whisper is rough like his voice hasn't been used much lately.
"Hmn," Jason responded, noncommittal and wary. "How long've I been out?"
"Just about fourteen hours," Bruce assures him, "It's 2am."
Jason's eyes narrow. "You're not patrolling?"
"Nightwing and Batgirl have things handled for tonight," Bruce soothes simply.
Jason does not relax and a tight pause developes in the conversation.
After a moment of tension and silence, Bruce closes up the folder – carefully shuffling the documents spread across his lap into a neatly ordered stack within the file. He sets the folder aside with a deliberate motion and looks up to meet Jason's rather cagey gaze with the same meditative calm and carefully broadcast movements.
"How are you feeling, Jason?"
Jason wants to bite out a sharp 'fine', but Batman's self-assement training has been too thorough and too carefully enforced for mild suspiscion to override it.
"Better than the last time I woke up," Jason admits, cautiously adding, "My memory of what happened still has a lot of holes in it, but the parts I do remember are almost clear."
Bruce gives a slow nod.
Then, instead of jumping into the interrogation Jason's expecting and still kind of waiting for, Bruce asks, "And how about your body? Muslces, bones, joints?"
Still deeply cautious, Jason answered, "None of the joints feel tight or gritty, though I haven't really tried moving any of them yet. Bones feel stable, nothing broken or anything. And all the muscles feel really sore, but the pins and needles thing from earlier – the, uh, 'general parethesia' – is pretty much gone… it's just localized to my neck and shoulders, mostly. A little bit around my ribs, still."
Bruce nods and reaches for the chart resting on the table on the opposite side of him as the one where he set the Wayne Enterprises work file. He takes a quiet minute to make a few notations on the medical record – a file far more accurate, detailed, and comprehensive than any hospital's record keeping bureau could possibly manage.
Concerned despite his brave front, Jason can't quite fight down the urge to ask, "Is the tingling shit not a good sign?"
"We believe that the paresthesia is directly related to the Serum that Rwen Tolovi introduced into your bloodstream," Bruce explains as he finishes up with detailing his notes on Jason's updated condition. "You sustained significant injury during the brawl with Shankar Tolovi and Alistair Blake – injuries that would normally have been fatal. The Serum granted a considerable boost to your body's natural healing capabilities. There seem to be a few lingering effects still persisting, though it is unclear as to whether the drug has entirely left your system yet or not. These effects could merely be residual."
"Or?"
"Or they may be a sign of a permanent change to your blood chemistry that we will have to carefully monitor," Bruce explains, adding, "It may feel like the change is positive, but it is unlikely that your system will be able to sustain such a dramatic biochemical alteration without any detrimental side effects."
Jason had to admit the idea of rapid healing super powers sounded pretty cool, but he knew enough about how biochemical components could break down inside a body and degrade the otherwise perfectly healthy aspects beyond repair.
Another hush in the conversation has descended, and though this one is much less strained than the previous pause, there is still an unspoken hum of tension in the silence.
"I'm not sorry I went after Tim," Jason blurts abrasively, wanting to just get this part over with and preferring to be ready and on the offensive rather than getting blind sided when it inevitably comes up later. "And I'm not sorry I made the deal I did."
There's a sharp twitch in the muscles of Bruce's face – a pinch around his eyes and mouth, and a twinge of something by his temple as his jaw clenches tight around the biting words of his natural and Jason-anticipated reaction.
The pause is filled with Bruce's careful huff.
And then he says with a lightness and disregard that suggests a forcibly achieved neutral tone of voice, "We'll discuss this later. Your recklessness will have consequences, but for right now, the important thing is that you are home and you are safe. No matter how problematic it is that you disobeyed me as your father, and no matter how your irresponsibility has risked the security of Robin's identity in the Crusade, you are home and you are safe."
Jason's antagonistic gaze – which had been sort of softening as Bruce had spoken – snaps into a full-on glare at the distinct curl of suspicion that he was being lied to directly.
Bruce called himself Jason's 'father'.
Bruce never called himself that.
Even Alfred only cautiously contributed to conversations regarding Bruce as Jason's guardian, referring to their relationship gingerly with the moniker of 'adoptive father'.
Jason kicked down the stupid kid's desperate desire to take the words as they were given – to take them without a single grain of salt and seal them up inside of him, to trust in them implicitly and rely on the warmth of all their implications as the unadulterated Truth.
Jason was way too smart for that shit.
Even if Bruce had never before said anything exclusively to say what Jason wanted to hear, he knew that Brucie Wayne was a master of it from even his limited experience at Society galas… and he knew what it felt like when other people tried to manipulate him like that.
His lip curled up involuntarily as bile rose in his throat at the idea of Bruce just letting go of the façade he had stupidly let himself believe in like a little kid had faith in Santa Clause.
So what if Bruce proved not to be a creeptastic pedophile?
So what if he'd spent more money on making Jason comfortable in the last three weeks than Jason had spent on staying alive in the past ten years prior to coming to the Manor?
So what if Bruce had trained him, had given him the role of Robin, had made him feel like he could really contribute to the Crusade – to the safety of the city as a whole?
Jason was still a screw-up, and Bruce could only put up with it for so long, could only keep up a realistic pretense for so long… eventually it would've had to break down into something more routine and painfully formulaic.
Bruce is not Jason's father, obviously. And he doesn't ever pretend to be… and the only reason Jason can think of for Bruce to be sitting here, trying to convince Jason of his fatherly regard and whatever love and attachment and shit that comes with it, is that Bruce is just too tired of Jason's fuckery to put up a more believable front to keep him calm.
Obviously, Bruce notices Jason's deepening glower.
"I'm not… I know I'm not your father, Jason, your real father, and I do not want you to think I'm trying to replace him or ignore your history," Bruce says slowly, speaking quietly with an uncharacteristic… almost hesitation… as he goes on, "But I still think of you as my son, in every possible regard. And while I am disappointed in some of the choices you have made, I want to make sure you understand that you are and always will be Family. Nothing about your behavior will ever call into question whether or not Wayne Manor is your home."
Jason's teeth grind together.
It's pathetic how easy it is for Bruce to make him want to believe that bull shit.
The soft sound of a sigh from the medical bay's doorway breaks the building tension of the continuing moment – so suddenly that even with the clear gentleness in the sound, both Jason and Bruce stiffen with an instinctive transition towards fight readiness.
And an equally instinctive leap to cowed restraint.
"What Master Bruce is trying to say, my dear boy, is that he loves you, Jason, as do the rest of us within the Family," Alfred explains with no room left in his warm authority for any wrinkle of doubt. "And we are all very greatly relieved that you are recovering."
The boiling fury that had flared in Jason at Bruce's words settles down under Alfred's unwavering stare. It quickly fizzles out entirely and Jason's gaze drops to his knees.
The quiet stretches for a moment in a slow transition.
Alfred hadn't come here simply to chastise Bruce.
He'd primarily come to inform Batman of a development occurring with Batgirl and Nightwing, who were still out around town on the evening's patrol.
"Miss Barbara and Master Richard have encountered a quiet evening out in the city have have decided to retire a tad early," Alfred explains plainly. "In the interest of easing out of the stress over the last few weeks and months of casework, they have elected to spend the night at a safe house in the center of down town. I believe a direly overdue rematch at 'Super Smash Bros' was mentioned. I gave them our full support in the endeavor."
The perfunctory authority with which Alfred informed Bruce of decisions he would have clearly far preferred to personally control – and likely reject – nearly drew a snicker through Jason's nose and he barely managed to suppress the satisfied smirk as Bruce fought down the glower of his own instinctive reaction. But nobody messed with Alfed.
"I highly suggest that the both of you also retire rather early, as well," Alfred comments.
"Will do, Alfie," Jason replies as Bruce gives a firm nod.
"I've taken the liberty of preparing Master Jason's bedroom to host the IV stand and vitals monitors, if you think you're feeling up to the transition," Alfred mentions casually, busying himself with switching out his nearly empty hydration sack with a brand new one.
Jason considers the possibility for a moment.
It's not a question of physically getting up there. The Cave has a freight elevator for access to the Manor – meant to allow gurneys potentially laden with unconscious victims injured above ground down into the Cave's medical facilities without jarring them, and to allow those injured and treated below ground up into the brighter, homier environment of the Manor if their recovery called for it.
The question of whether Jason is up for it was aimed at the psychological state required for the transition. Sometimes, if the injured party returned to something that felt too normal before they were able to behave as if everything were normal, they would push themselves too hard and disrupt the progress of their recovery.
Jason is certainly prone to doing just that – though, in context of who else in the Family is up for consideration, he is not particularly or especially prone to it. Just averagely prone.
And he misses his bed.
Looking to Alfred, Jason nods. "Yeah, that sounds great."
He feel's Bruce's doubtful stare boring into his shoulder, but the pressure only lasts a moment before the medical bay is swallowed up by the flurry of activity required to get Jason upstairs. They wheel him up on the hospital bed he's already settled in and transfer him carefully to his own once they arrive to make the process as easy on him as possible.
The trip is still exhausting.
Jason's half asleep as Alfred wheels the gurney away and Bruce secures his IV.
He's only sort of aware of the sensation of Bruce carefully tucking him beneath the covers, and is pretty sure he dreamed up the light kiss being pressed to his temple just before the lights go out. The other dreams he wades through that night are just as pleasant and confusing.
That Stray kitten makes an appearance or two.
And Wonder Woman.
And Bruce, along with a strange sensation of certainty that Bruce is worried for him and also just a little bit proud of him.
The next time Jason wakes, he's sore.
Not like 'spent too long in the gym' kind of sore, and not like 'fell off a roof' or 'got hit by Harley's hammer' or anything… but like 'Day 9 of being sick with the flu' kind of sore.
He's groggy and achey and life is just generally unpleasant.
A cool hand appears on his forehead as he groans.
"You took a turn on us, Master Jason," Alfred mentions quietly, a pretense of chastisement. "A fever spiked a few hours ago as the last of that vile serum left your system, and the remains of your healing injuries were recognized by your immune system, but it seems to be settling now. I still insist on absolute bed rest today, however."
Jason nods, wholly accepting of the decree because even he's not stubborn enough to force himself to do much when he's feeling like this.
Greivous bodily injury is one thing, but there's a different kind of miserable behind being sick like this that claws at Jason's worries from before he'd come to the Manor… When home was a drafty room on the second floor of a condemned apartment building with stairs so ricktey and broken that even Jason could scarely get up them safely and 'bed' was a pile of whatever blankets he could scrounge up… when getting sick meant uncertain survival and he couldn't risk making it worse by over doing it.
He can take another day in bed if it means letting this sickly soreness run its course.
Jason must drift off as Alfred fusses.
The next thing Jason knows, he's waking up again.
This time, it's Bruce that approaches his bedside as he sitrs.
"I didn't mean to wake you," Bruce says, his deep voice hushed and warm. "Alfred sent me up with some food in case you were hungry – his special cinnamon and mixed-berry pancakes, lots of carbs and vitamins to help you recover. I can come back later, though."
"Food sounds great," Jason manages, mouth watering.
Bruce helps maneuver him upright, propping him up with pillows – sitting propper on the side of his bed with his knees curled over the edge and his tray set on a table that curled over his lap from the floor. Alfred didn't like traditional breakfast in bed tray sets, he said that they positively ruined one's posture while dining and that in turn upset digestion most disasterously.
Jason doesn't mind. It takes a lot more doing to get settled, but this way he doesn't feel quite as much like an invalid as he could've while stuck in bed and still hooked up to all this health monitoring equipment – and whenever he had a real injury, something truly side-lining like a few broken ribs or some shit, eating like this always made him feel a little more like a person instead of just a patient.
Besides, from this angle, he could see the TV head on – which turns out to be pretty stellar because the moment he flicks the thing on he stumbles into a good old fashioned Harry Potter marathon. The remote gets set on his tray with the buttons face down as he settles in for the long haul – turning his attention to the steaming deliciousness of his pancakes as the third years gingerly hold their hands out to Hagrid's flock of Hippogriffs.
Bruce hovers nearby, sitting on his own prop of pillows beside Jason to ensure that he doesn't start to list or slide off his own support – an uncomfortably crucial thing when broken ribs were in play, but really more of a helicopter parent kind of reaction when he's in bed with what currently feels more like a cold than anything.
That thought strikes him hard and fast – with nearly enough force to make him choke on his pancakes. He's never, even internally, referred to Bruce as his parent before… 'Guardian', sure… 'adoptive' or 'pseudo' parent, maybe… possibly even as a 'father figure'…
But never genuinely as his parent, helicopter parent or otherwise.
… But Bruce is his parent… honest to sin, Bruce has done more fucking parenting to him in the last two years than Willis or Catherine ever really managed.
It's weird thinking of Bruce as his parent… as his… dad… maybe.
He doesn't quite trust the feeling.
But Alfred always said that even good things, if they're new or being viewed in a new light, can be uncomfortable until you adjust to them… and this is definitely new.
Bruce has noticed his little stutter in his attempt to swallow and a muscled arm has migrated to rest around his shoulders, supporting him in case he does actually begin to choke.
Jason gets himself under control and subtly shrugs out of Bruce's hold.
It just feels a bit too close and intimate and present to let him keep eating in relative peace. Bruce doesn't seem hurt by Jason's shrug away from him, but Batman and all, so Jason's not entirely confident in the assessment… And the arm doesn't retreat entirely, it just moves back to rest on the layer pillows two back from Jason's shoulders – far enough that he can't feel the heat, but close enough for him to still feel the slightest edge of it's weight.
It makes the back of his shoulders itch slightly, but also makes a warm buble of something fill up the space behind his lungs.
Jason decides not to look too deeply into it and simply finishes his pancakes.
By the time he's cleared his plate of every last berry bit and every crumb of pancake, he's just about snoozing into his syrup. He's only vaguely aware of his fingers being worked off of the silver ware – of the light clinks the knife and fork make when they're set on his empty plate.
He's aware of Bruce shifting around him – his weight making the bed shift – but he's only belatedly conscious of the fact that his hand whips out to latch onto Bruce's shirt to keep him from moving entirely away.
Jason doesn't want him to go – genuinely. The feel of Bruce beside him is … comforting in a way that Jason can't quantify. He's warm and safe and solid and… Jason wants to let himself cave into the strange ease of the sensation.
If he were more awake he'd be embarrassed, ashamed of how weak he's being.
He's a terrible Robin, but he is still Robin, and Robin should be better than this… but he can't deny the wave of relief that strikes him as Bruce settles back down.
And he can't stop himself from letting his head tip over onto Bruce's warm shoulder.
He's more or less asleep after that.
He regains a bit of awareness whenever one of Hermione's epic one-liners makes his subconscious snicker forcefully enough to make his upper consciousness remember that it kinda wants to be awake for some of this.
At some point, Alfred's low voice filters into his brain – probably removing the plates from Jason's… breakfast? Lunch? Meal…
Then some time significantly later, during the mortifying moment of the many Harrys, the door opens again and the voices of Dick and Babs greet Bruce in low tones.
Jason wakes up slightly as Dick climbs over his bed to put a cool hand on his forehead, whispering, "Heya, Little Wing, I hear you're still feelin' pretty out of it."
" 'm fine," Jason protests, "Jus' sleepy."
Dick chuckles.
The sound is low and warm and deeply comforting.
"There's still a few more movies in this marathon," Dick mentions, scooting around so he's sitting beside Jason, "Mind if Babs and I join the cuddle pile to watch 'em roll?"
"Whatever floats your boat, dickhead," Jason shoots back.
He feels Bruce frown, feels Dick chuckle again, hears Babs just sigh warmly.
Jason's eyes are already closed again.
More pillows appear, and blankets, and Jason lets himself enjoy it.
Forces himself to push down the worry and embarrassment at his obvious weakness, so he can engrave this moment on his memory. Tomorrow will be business as usual, probably. He thinks he'll be able to function normally – the exhaustion and such is usually the last thing to hit right before he's better enough to get back to work, after all.
One last round of sleep through anything and he'll be good to go.
Dick ends up throwing his legs over Jason and Bruce, lays his head in Barbara's lap. Babs ends up laying her head on her arms across Jason's pillows, one hand on his shoulder. Bruce has Jason's head against his shoulder, his arm is around Jason's shoulders, with one hand on Barbara's upper arm and another on Dick's knee.
Bruce is the only one awake as the magic moves across the pond and backwards in time to greet Newt Scamander in New York – and he's far more content than he can ever remember being elsewise, but the Bat is getting antsy.
"All three of them are missing at least twelve hours of important rest this week," Alfred chastises before Bruce even consciously considers moving. "They will notice if you leave. They will wake and be hardly any better off for their scant moments here. Gotham is having a quiet night, no alerts on any active cases have pinged on the Cave's system, and you have an 8am board meeting with the directors at Wayne Enterprises. The Family needs this moment, Sir."
So don't you dare move.
A threat veiled in polite, seemingly unrelated statements.
No one defies Alfred when he truly sets himself to wrangling a result.
Not Bruce, not Batman… Probably not even the Rogues – though, thankfully, that hypothesis has never been proactively tested.
Bruce exhales.
It's a deep breath that shakes something loose inside his chest.
Jason vaguely feels a kiss being pressed into his hair, but even in his mostly sleeping state he thinks he should probably dismiss the feeling as some sort of tactile hallucination… he doesn't, though, and he's clearly riding the last of a pain killer high because he lets himself hum contentedly at the warm feeling it gives him.
For a moment, everything is okay.