dreamsanddisasters | Age Reversal AU (For Batfam)

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Age Reversal AU (For Batfam)

[ His father is dead, and he's still reeling from the shock. Alfred and Tim both know he's barely keeping it together, for all his standoffish composure. Years of preparing for this moment--

(steeling himself, to watch his father be laid to rest next to his grandparents)

--have done little to offset the grief. He wouldn't be seen at all if it weren't for his brother; if Tim hadn't coerced him out of his room in the hours following the funeral, hadn't confessed his worries for Cass (retreated, to the attic of all places), Jason (god, Jason, Damian's own cunning little húlí, he'd adored the man), and his father's newest stray, Richard. Dick. His father's Robin.

His Robin, now. As strange as the thought is. But the cowl is his, and so is Robin.

His Robin, who Alfred has informed him is currently making his roost up in the ballroom's chandeliers. Refusing to come down.

Damian, briefly, contemplates leaving him up there in favor of finishing reviewing this case file.

('He'll come down when he gets hungry,' he tells Alfred.

'He's in mourning, Master Damian,' Alfred points out, with all the dry chastisement his stiff upper lip can give.

'I'll get the broom.')

And here he is. He finds himself squinting in irritation up at the boy monkeying around on the fragile, expensive crystal. ]

Richard. [ Prim, clipped tones. Damian hardly raises his voice unless his fuse is blown; usually only when he's locked in a shouting match with Tim or with his father.

He doesn't know Richard that well. The boy is a relatively fresh arrival, and the past few months he's been here have seen Damian on longer missions; international and galactic trips alike. Before Bruce's death, they had maybe spent only a few hours in each other's company, and the boy was clearly not overly fond of him. ]

What are you doing?

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[ The boy doesn't even struggle. He just curls up in Damian's lap and sobs, tired in a way that seems to reach all the way into his bones but too wired, too hyped up on adrenaline to even relax for a single moment. If anything, the comfort that he knows he doesn't deserve, the whispered endearments meant to console him; they only make it worse. Damian doesn't know what he did, what he's come close to doing again. Bruce had told him before that he needed to watch his anger, needed to control it, but all it seemed to do right now was control him.

He always lead with his heart instead of his head. (And isn't that what got him here in the first place?)

Desperate, he hides his eyes in the dip of Damian's neck where it meets his shoulder, pressing hard enough to almost hurt himself. His hands, desperate for anything to do, hold onto the fabric of his shirt with an iron grip. Any pain he feels is distant in the face of his stress. ]

No-- [ He speaks, not understanding sarcasm or the comforting intent. ] Don't. I'm not-- I'm not worth fighting over. [ Jason shakes his head against that shoulder, grinding sweaty skin and hair against kevlar. ]

Don't be dumb.

[ He shudders and shakes, cold and hot and alive and weary. Jason is so tired and so sad and happy all at once, it feels like his body is at war with himself. ]

Dumb?

[ Jay's wound up tight, but all Damian can do is rub a heavy hand up and down his back, pressing circles into the thin shoulder blades and letting Jason huddle close and shake apart. He's got a sedative in the belt at his brother's waist if he really needs to use it.

(He can count the ribs bumping against his palm as he runs his hand back and forth, and on the up-run Damian cups the back of his neck, brushes his fingers through sweaty hair.) ]

I would fight for you and more. And I have. Losing you--

[ He can't even finish, words scattering. There was never any way for him to say how it had felt. Instead, he squeezes him, desperation lining his own strength, and breathes in hard. Damian's always relied on his five senses, more so than others, and the familiar smell of Jay's hair -- sweaty as it is -- is reassuring. Alive. Not like the empty, fading scents in Jason's room (where Timothy had so often found him, curled up like a child at the bedside after a difficult night, furious at everything again like he hadn't been since he was eleven).

His little brother. His family. One of the precious few people on this earth that Damian Wayne, once a boy who didn't even understand the very concept of family, loves.

Fiercely. Viciously. Selfishly.

(Never has he come so close to falling back into al Ghul ways as when his younger siblings came along. Sometimes he thinks that if half the world has to burn to see them safe, it's no price to pay at all.) ]

You've no idea, Jaybird. You have always been worth everything.

No-- [ He groans, fever-hot and hurting, practically shivering as he curls in tighter on his brother. ] --No I’m—Bruce won’t even want me back.

[ Jason lifts his head, eyes bright and fearful, looking for condolence and condemnation all in one instant. He pulls himself back, too shaky to fully escape Damian’s grip, but setting an arms length worth of difference between their faces. It feels like miles. ]

Damian, I-- [ He gulps, looking down, looking to the side before pulling himself back up again, awkward and fearful. ] I. I broke some guy’s neck. One—one of the soldiers, I—I didn’t mean to it was just—

It’s all just so much.[ And here, here he is angry. Lazarus rage peeking through his shattered exterior. ] It was right there and it was so easy, it was too easy, I can’t believe—

[ Jason looks away again, feeling small under his brothers gaze. He wants to jump out of the plane. It would hurt less. ]

Bruce won’t want me.

[ And that would probably break him. ]

Jay -- Jason, listen to me. [ He catches his brother's chin, commands his attention back, tone brooking no argument. Damian's surprised, and his heart is breaking for his brother. Jason -- Jason should have never had to deal with that weight. The weight of taking someone's life. Of being that angry, that furious, that tempted. Jason won't find condolences, or condemnation in Damian's stare, but familiarity, even empathy. His lips purse, frowning. ]

Bruce loves you. [ Losing Jason broke his father. Bruce had never been the same afterwards -- none of them had been the same. ] Whatever you've done, whoever you've killed, he'll be goddamn overjoyed just to have you back.

[ He huffs in a breath through his nose, leaning his head back against the metal, and no, he won't ever be ashamed of how he was raised, but this may be the closest he's gotten to it. ]

Father kept me, after all. And baby bird, my ledgers run red.

[ This. This he has never, ever discussed with Jason. Never even remotely hinted to anything like it. Jason knows Talia al Ghul is his mother, but for all intents and purposes, he (and Dick) have had no reason to think that Damian had been raised as anything but a Wayne from day one.

He might have done Jason a disservice by not discussing it with him earlier. Because Jay shouldn't be this afraid, not of Bruce rejecting him. ]

[ Damian’s words give him pause, freezing his body in this second. ]

You’ve—You’ve killed before?

[ If—If Damian had done it then—then maybe it wasn’t too bad? His mind made illogical leaps, pulling itself from point A to point B in flashes of thought. That—that wasn’t to say he should kill everyone who’s ever done bad things but—truly evil people? There was only one person Jason could think of off the top of his head that he really, really wanted dead. One evil, terrible, foul human being. He pushes the thought away. He didn’t want to think about him. But-- Maybe.

Maybe. ]

But he—he can’t send you away. You’re his son.

[ Jason’s his charity case. ]

You're his son, too.

[ Jason needs to understand this. Understand that Damian may have been Bruce's blood son, but that meant very little. Perhaps the greatest achievement in Damian's career as a young vigilante was somehow teaching Bruce empathy for even the most fucked up of children; to accept and love his sons and daughter when they make terrible mistakes, when they fall short of his ideals. His father taught him how to live, and Damian taught Bruce how to forgive. ]

I was ten when I first met Father, and he first learned of my existence. Before that, I had been raised by Mother in the League of Assassins -- in the very halls of the place we just came from, actually.

[ He smirks, arrogance muted but not gone. ]

I brought him the head of a small-time criminal, to demonstrate my loyalty. Imagine how he felt. Batman, learning he had a bastard son who killed as easily as breathing. He sent me back twice, and wanted nothing to do with me.

[ He snorts at that. From this perspective, years later, he knows how horrified Bruce had been. His father had rejected him with everything in him; even had nightmares that Damian would be the one to burn Gotham to the ground if he ever became Batman, and used that to justify abandoning him. ]

It wasn't until Mother disowned me and put me on the League hit list for declaring my ultimate allegiance to him that he let me stay. Otherwise I would have ended up dead, or as another rogue vigilante in Arkham.

[ A frown -- he doesn't like to think of what would have become of him otherwise. The odds had been stacked against him, but somehow he'd pulled a lucky card. ]

But even after becoming Blackhawk I didn't stop, Jay. We fought a lot over it. I killed Morgan Ducard, right in front of him, because he was a threat to Father. Zsasz -- you were young then, but you might remember him, from when the children began disappearing off the streets, hijacked into that fighting ring he ran. And then, when you--

[ He snaps his mouth shut, shaking his head, even as grief and fury snap like a wave across his face, breaking the composure; and his hands seek out Jason's shoulders as if he means to drag him back in. But only squeezing, restraining himself. ]

What I'm saying is -- Father's going to be furious, because no, we don't kill. Breaking that rule, no matter the cause, is always going to be hard with him. But he loves you, no matter how angry. He won't send you away, won't ever send any of you away. You're his son, no matter how badly you screw up.

[ Of course he remembers Zsasz. He remembers people weeping, children missing, cops doing nothing like always. His mother had kept him so close it smothered him, but he stayed anyway, too scared to mind his lack of room to breathe. (At the time, he had almost reveled in the attention, in the focus his mother put on him, too happy that she was around and sober to care that he couldn’t go out and play.) To hear that Damian killed him? That was—

His brother killed him. Zsasz was vile and his brother ended that. He ended that reign of terror.

His brother was a hero.

“And then, when you—“

All that wasn’t said there spoke so much louder than everything else Damian said after. Jason wasn’t a fool. He wasn’t dumb, he knew what people were saying when they weren’t saying anything. People said so much when they said nothing at all. ]

You killed…you killed the Joker. [ He said, dumbfounded, shocked, and-- happy. ] He’s gone. He’s. H-He’s—

[ Jason felt terrible for smiling, but he couldn’t help himself. It was all broken, all rough around the edges as he felt himself getting close to crying again, but for the first time since his brother initially found him he felt actual relief instead of the gut-wrenching stress of it all. ]

[ Damian had been convinced he'd done the right thing at the time, each and every time. He still regrets nothing, even now, still feels satisfied that those men are dead and gone. Ducard, a hole through his head and sunk to the bottom of the bay; Zsasz, sword through his back, found dead in the waters when they dragged his carcass up from the fishing nets; the Joker, broken to pieces before dying with a bomb stuffed in his mouth.

He does what he has to in order to protect his family, even if it means breaking his father's creed, even if it meant his father would never see him as the inheritor to his name and station. Damian had given up on that desire nearly a decade ago; with Tim, and Cass, and Jason, he'd found something more worthwhile than just becoming Batman and inheriting the Wayne name. He does what his father can't, to keep them safe.

But he can't look at Jason now, and so doesn't see the smile. Timothy had pulled off silent judgment and horror so well, and even Cass had argued he shouldn't, as if there was ever any other option he could choose. So he lets the chill of metal at his back sink in through his suit, takes comfort in Jason's weight upon his legs and how solid and warm he is beneath his hands, as if Jason is likely to evaporate into nothing if he lets go. ]

He took you from us. From Bruce, from me. [ Quiet, but no less furious, and it's entirely Damian al Ghul speaking; selfish, possessive, lethal, and raging that anyone would dare. ] My brother. He signed his own death warrant.

[ And now it was Jason’s turn. Pulling himself up, he flings himself forward, all possible finesse fleeing his body the moment he entered the plane. He pulls his brother in for a hug, burying himself once again in that space beneath his jawline, smiling with relief and gratification. ]

Thank you, thank you, thank you-- [ He mumbles over and over again, too far gone for coherency, just here for this moment, this feeling, this bundle of emotion that he could let go of before it strapped itself to him and flung him in the river to sink with all of his rage. ] Thank you, thank you, thank you—

[ It’s all he can manage and really, nothing more he could say could really display how he feels at this moment. Nothing. ]

[ Surprise flits across Damian's face before the scowl softens at hearing the chant, unexpectedly relieved at Jason's response even as he tucks his over-grown teenager back underneath his chin. No, killing the Joker at the time hadn't accomplished anything - it hadn't brought Jay back, and it was nothing but pure, wrathful revenge, and Bruce had been so angry that he'd broken the rule after nearly a decade of no killing and had taken the decision right out of his hands, but in this moment he's even gladder.

Whatever demons his baby brother has had to wrestle with since the trick of fate that brought him back, the Joker isn't one of them anymore. No longer a threat. ]

I got you, Jay. I got you. [ Thanks are wholly unnecessary. Avenging him, walking into a trap to save him after he's been brought back from the dead - it's part and parcel of being in the family. It's what they do. ]

Hey-- [ Rubbing Jason's back, he reminds himself that he is going to make sure Alfred stuffs the boy full of food. (Damian will regret this vow once Jason really starts bulking up and somehow ends up bigger than him.) ] --it's been a long day for you. Want to try getting some rest before we get there?

[ As his brother talks, Jason finds himself quieting, letting his fevered thank you's fly away from his lips, some of the strain in his muscles finally easing out of his system. He snorts against Damian's collar, curling back up in the frame of Damian's arms.

Things weren't okay. But they were slightly better. And he was going to take that for all it was worth. ]

I couldn't sleep if I tried. [ Every time he closed his eyes, flashes of horrors flickered across his mind's eye. It didn't take a genius to know what awaited him if he decided to even try. ] But good try, bro.

Edited 2014-08-28 22:53 (UTC)

[ He scoffs right back, because Jason will have to sleep sometime. He himself struggles with sleeping -- Damian had, and still does, finds himself trapped in sleep with little ability to escape his own horrors, but the body wins out in the end. ]

Well then, let me know when you want to try. There's options. [ Muscle relaxers, sedatives - undoubtedly some combination will do the trick. It won't work forever, but it'll be something.

Idly, he brushes Jason's bangs back, working his fingers through his mussed hair in a gesture that's part meant to relax and part meant to neaten him up some, thumb scuffing lightly over the occasional scrape and bruise. ]

I should give Timothy a heads' up. [ Give him a chance to pull himself together so maybe he won't start crying like he's twelve again at the sight of Jaybird. ] What do you say? Take pity and simply text him, or 'pics or it didn't happen'?

[ Instagram. Best way to give Tim a heart-attack. ]

Edited 2014-08-29 02:41 (UTC)

...I want real sleep. Not-- not that phony bullshit.

[ Though it might be at least marginally restful, sedatives just didn't do it right. It wasn't real sleep, satisfying in a way that sits in your limbs and makes waking up a pleasure instead of a hassle. Jason had only had maybe a handful of nights of real sleep in his life, too strung out on the stress and pain of it all, but right now it was the only kind of sleep he wanted.

(And he knew he couldn't have it. That's never stopped him from wanting things before, though.)

Uncurling a little, Jason stares up at his brother, a tad incredulous. Damian, you’re going to give Tim a heart attack one day. Jason can’t even be properly surprised. ]

Text is….fine. [ More than fine. Jason knows he looks rough right now, no need to send Tim into overdrive early. ] Preferred, really.

The 'phony bullshit' -- [ How do curse words sound so prim and proper coming from him? Is this an effect of being essentially raised by Alfred? ] -- still helps. Makes the nights go easier than going without.

[ But Damian knows what Jason means, his tone a shade or two gentler than his usual chastisement. He's had the unique experience of waking late in the morning, close to noon, content and warm and pleasantly, unguardedly muzzy, after falling asleep one December night in front of a dying fire to the sounds of the TV going; with Timothy pressed to his side and Cassandra using his chest as a pillow, and Jason sprawled every which way atop all three of them. Even Titus had been warming his heels. ]

Text it is, then.

[ Even though it's easy to see how tempting it is to give Tim his little daily dosage of grief. Some things haven't changed much in the years Jason's been gone, and Tim and Damian's strange, supportive, but entirely passive-aggressive relationship is one of them. Damian remains shameless as ever about how much he enjoys needling the second son, fending off Jason's stare with a click of his tongue, even as he fishes his cell phone from one of the pockets of the belt still clipped around the teenager's waist.

(It always drives Bruce to distraction whenever Damian starts playing with it during patrol. The eldest Wayne boy is surgically attached to his smart device.)

His message is brief and to the point: ]

OMW. ETA 3 hours. J says hi.

[ And then sets it aside, blithely ignoring the way it's suddenly blowing up with messages, screen flickering brightly with rapid-fire text.

(Acknowledged. Will alert B and A and prep for incoming. Status? ... D, what's the sit-rep? Is he okay? ... D, you asshole--)

He has to needle Tim a little. ]

[ Thankfully for Tim, Jason is less inclined to give his brother grief right now. Rolling his eyes and scoffing, he reaches over to pick up Damian’s phone, staring at it for a moment as messages flick across the screen. This thing is—much more advanced than Jason remembered. The last phone he’d had was a flip phone, with a numbered keyboard. This thing didn’t seem to have one of those.

But, since he’d seen Damian tapping away at it, it wasn’t too hard to figure out.

With shaking fingers (the edges still scraped and raw), he taps out a quick message to his brother, a condolence for Damian’s impressive assholery. ]

im ok. will c u soon. –j

[ He’s not entirely satisfied with his meager message, but the phone is beginning to weird him out in a way he wasn’t fully expecting. If a phone could change that much in a few years, what else has? And even more than that, his hands are beginning to kind of hurt. Looks like he won’t be typing up reports any time soon.

Setting it back down in its place, he resettles himself against his brother. ]

Tim is gonna smack you later and I’m gonna laugh.

[ The message, meager as it is, is enough - the phone falls blessedly silent afterwards, and Damian can picture Tim's response with near-perfect mental clarity: he'd be re-reading the message, over and over, a hand covering his mouth but eyebrows drawn down, trying to keep composure. Maybe trying to think of a reply, but deciding to leave it at that, because everything he wants to say can't be done over text. So he'll focus on breaking the news to Alfred and Bruce, then Cassandra and Stephanie, then Dick; and afterwards, he'll turn to the practical side of things, and start sorting out Jason's paperwork. Because Jason Todd is no longer legally dead, and that comes with its own technicalities and paper trail.

He laughs under his breath. Tim is a force to be reckoned with, just as much as Damian. ]

And when he starts getting weepy on you I'm going to laugh.

[ Timothy had been such a crybaby, even as he'd put on a brave face. Ten years hasn't changed that.

But Damian is digging around in the belt again, pulling out a small medical kit -- not much gets by him, and he'd been watching Jason type. ]

Alright, give me your hands. Let's at least try and look like we can take care of ourselves before he and Alfred get the chance to us both out for showing up looking like this--

Not sure what you can do--

[ But he offers his hands up anyway, too tired at his point to protest his brother's help. He watches Damian's actions lazily, eyelids never drooping, but breathing slowing slightly as he rests, lucid and awake but relaxed, more at peace. This is a good place.

He wouldn't mind staying here for a while. ]

...You think B's gonna be okay?

You'd be surprised. We've had some useful new medicals developed at Wayne Enterprises.

[ Damian's never been the best at field dressings, too impatient with himself to do more than slap some pressure on and call it good, ready to jump back in the fray, but he's more careful with the injuries of his brood. Jason's raw, ragged fingers are inspected for a moment, before the older man's hands press against his palms and wrists to hold them steady while he applies a sterilization gel over the worst damage at the tips; touch easily ghosting across with light precision, like how he works with the delicate, small parts of his latest mechanical project.

The gel itself is cooling, with a topical numbing agent of considerable strength, and Damian takes the time to bandage each of the fingers in turn; Alfred will probably put medical mitts on Jason later, but this is what they have on hand.

His stare only flicks up occasionally from his work, though he hums at the question, brow furrowing as he thinks over his response. ]

...Yeah. I think he will be. You'll have to be patient with him. Father has never been the best at dealing with emotion, and losing you--

[ A press, to his wrist; a quick reassurance to himself, maybe. ]

--it changed everything. He wasn't the same. None of us were, but him especially.

[ Darker, angrier, Bruce had shut himself up tight, thrown the doors closed, even as money flooded into the military tech division and their suits saw constant upgrades in defense. Damian tried his hardest to make sure he alone bore the brunt of it, made sure that Bruce damn well knew he couldn't close himself off from Tim or Cass, and they'd fought, constantly. Sometimes physically.

He'd been so close to leaving, so many times. But Damian had dug his heels in hard for his right to be a Wayne, to stay with his father, and he wasn't about to let himself be turned out so easily; not when he had others to protect. ]

But he is going to be so happy. [ The eldest brother is sure of this, confident. He adds, wryly: ] He may even smile. Prepare yourself.

--I didn’t think B could.

[ Which is a bold faced lie. Jason had seen him smile often. At himself, at Damian, at Tim—but always when he thought their backs were turned, when they weren’t looking. He’d always found that to be a dumb way to show affection, but a very B way. The man couldn’t help himself. He just had to be complicated.

When Damian finishes fussing with his hands, he crosses them across his chest, tucking them against his rib cage. He was cold, but Damian made it better. He was warm to a fault. (Anyone who thought his brother was cold, emotionally or otherwise, was blind—his brother ran bright, ran red in a way that no one else could. Passion was fire). ]

...I hope I make it better. Y'know, instead of worse.

[ He had a habit of doing the latter. It scared him. ]

You made it better the first time you walked into the Manor. I can't imagine this time will be any different.

[ But Jason's honestly worried, and Damian knows all the reassurances in the world won't assuage his fears until the very moment he sees for himself. Always doubting his own worth, his place in their strange little family. Like he expects the people around him to leave if he doesn't measure up, or to tire of him eventually.

It's a feeling he's all too familiar with. There's a reason he and Jason got along better than he and Tim, or even Cass.

Snorting, he ruffles the teen's hair. ]

You've got me in your corner, kid. Whatever happens, we're family.

[ Though Bruce is, without a doubt, the most important person in Jason's world. Damian will fight tooth and nail to make sure that doesn't change, even if the man--

(his hurting, angry father, stubborn and ridiculous when it comes to it)

--doesn't want to cooperate. Damian will be there to make sure Bruce doesn't fuck up, not this time, not when it's this important. ]

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Age Reversal AU (For Batfam)

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