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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[ Jason is scared. Jason is also blindingly angry, confused, sad, and hurt. But he is notably afraid. Jason has faced fear every single day of his life; the fear of a father, the fear of losing a mother, the fear of a strangers touch, the fear of things he has forced himself to forget forget forget, the fear of disappointing a father, a brother, a mentor, and even the fear of death.

But now he is afraid because he’s back and he shouldn’t be. He is afraid because he is wrong.

(More wrong.)

Curled up in the cot he was given in the room he has destroyed in a fit of green anger, Jason is afraid of what comes next. He is afraid of the future because he is the past and they are supposed to be separate and not together.

“Jason!”

Jason’s eyes—once blue, now nearly green—fly open as he looks wildly towards the locked (solid, locked, with a glossy finish ruined by a chair, a lamp, and some fists). ]

D-- [ He swallows, voice small, fragile with hope and raspy from disuse. ] --Damian?

[ “Jason!” ]

Damian! [ This time, he practically screams it, rolling off the cot and running towards the door, clawing at it with ruined fingernails and banging on it with splintered hands. ]

[ Hope gutters for a fragile, long moment, sprinting slowing to a jog as he reaches the end of the hall, only three sets of doors left. His mother -- was it all a ruse? She had sounded so confident, so smug in her claims. So willing to lord it over him, that she had come to acquire something precious to him that had been lost.

The grave had been empty. But he'd seen no proof. Nothing but that calm, superior satisfaction on her face.

There's blood stinging his eyes, the cut on his brow gained from some lucky swipe. And there's fury, a slow and steady burn, because if the Supers could come back, why not his brother? Why not his lively, devil-may-care bruiser of a boy?

(His father had argued the damage was too great to risk the Pit. Damian had hated that he was right, just as much as he hated himself for even thinking of putting Jason through that special hell.)

He wrathfully shoves open of the side doors, revealing another empty room, but he stops mid-step at the scream -- muffled, desperate, familiar -- that rises up from the heavy door behind him, banging echoing the yell.

His heart stops, time hanging, as he stares at it. Almost not daring to believe, despite the faith that had driven him here.

Jason.

Damian kicks into a flurry of motion then, striding across the hall. The door is locked, of course, but he's in no mind to give a damn, bringing up one heavily booted heel to kick next to the lock. The wood splinters, frame warping, and he kicks again, and again, until he's able to throw his shoulder against it and force it open.

He's not sure of what he'll find, but what it is is -- more. So much more than he expected, that he's brought to a halt in the doorway, because there, there he is, different, older, changed, but him. ]

Jason. [ His voice has gone rusty; fierce, rare gladness roughening his tone. ] I found you.

[ Damian. His head chants the name over and over again, halfway disbelieving as this all actually happens to him. His brother came for him. Talia—she had said that he’d been gone. Dead. No one knew he was here. No one would come.

But someone had and that—

That gave him hope. A small seedling, planted in ill-tended soil.

He backs away from the door, still scared, still hurting, but almost smiling in fragile joy. And once he sees him, that hope now brought to actual fruition, Jason can’t even manage actual words.

A whine crawls up his throat and his eyes cloud over with tears. ]

You came. [ The voice is small and broken, wet with emotion.

He resists the urge to latch on to Damian like a child. It takes every single ounce of his willpower to just stand there and cry instead. ]

[ Jason has more restraint than Damian. If the sight of his lost brother -- torn up, looking like hell, but so alive -- didn't move him, the gulping sobs would. He moves forward then, tugging his hood and cape off to sweep it over Jason's shoulders.

The eldest has always been sparing with handing out his physical affection, unused to the mechanics of giving comfort (unless it is foisted upon him, or asked of him), but he gives into the urge now, pulling Jason into a hard hug, as mindful of the boy's injuries as he can be. ]

Of course I did. As if the displeasure of Mother's company would have kept me away.

[ Dead is dead, he used to say. The last time he held Jason, his blood had long since run cold. This time, it's warm. And Jason is taller, too; it used to be he could easily bundle the boy against his collarbone during movie nights when they would inevitably pass out on the couch, but now his nose is pressed to the curling hair at his temple, where a shock of white springs from.

They don't have long. He doesn't doubt that his mother is mustering what remains of her forces, might already be marching on her way here, knowing where he was bee-lining for. His ears are pricked, straining to hear their approach, and it's only grudgingly that he loosens his hold long enough to curl a hand around the nape of Jason's neck, giving a reassuring squeeze. ]

I'm taking you home, Jason. We're leaving. Now.

[ Jason might not be small, but he feels it—Damian’s cape hangs long on his shoulders and his arms are a large comfort around his body. He grips tightly to Damian’s uniform despite the state of his hands, uncaring as he finally feels human for a few moments. It helps him forget, even just momentarily, all the wrong that’s happening. He’s safe. His brother is here and he’s safe.

--or safer, anyway. Jason doubts he will ever again be truly safe.

As Damian backs up slightly, Jason doesn’t let go quite yet, closing his eyes and taking shuddering, bracing breaths. ]

You’re right, we gotta—we gotta get out.

[ He swallows harshly and looks up at his brothers familiar eyes, a kind of haunted determination lining his own. He needed to get out of here. Back to the Manor, back to Tim and Alfred, back to Bruce. ]

Where to?

[ Jason could focus on being traumatized later. For now, he had a city to get back to. ]

[ They're going to have to go back the way he came. None of the rooms in this hall have windows to outside, but if they can get back to the main room Damian can get them out. His mother made a fatal mistake in picking the home of his youth; he knows the winding pathways, knows the routes the servants take, has run up and down these halls a hundred times. Even the ghosts of his memory are enough to lead him.

Damian gives one last reassuring squeeze, letting Jason release him on his own time. If there's one thing his brothers can always take comfort in (or, in some cases, be worried by), it's the unbending steel in his own stare and his, frankly, vicious drive to complete his mission; there's very little that can stand between him and his goals, and right now, his only objective is to see Jason safe, alive, and headed home. ]

We just need to get to open space. The Batwing is waiting offshore.

[ Damian stole it, partly because it was the ideal mode of transport, and partly so that Batman couldn't follow so easily to stop what he'd said was a suicide mission. The last time Damian and his mother had met, he'd nearly died at her hands for refusing to return to the League once more.

Same old, same old.

He looks Jason up and down, hands catching his wrists (careful of the damage, he recognizes from the broken nails how Jason must have tried to escape). His lips quirk, proud - the third has always been a fighter. He knows Jason wasn't an easy captive for Talia to keep caged. ]

Reynard-- [ Volpe, tilki, zorro, his clever and quick and tricky fox of a brother. ] --how fast can you run?

As fast I need to.

[ The determination in Jason’s eyes is cold and focused; he’d do whatever it took to get out. Whatever it took. He’s not really sure what limits and boundaries are right now, but he knows he doesn’t want them. They’d just slow him down. ]

We need to find stairs; if we can get to a roof, we have a better chance. [ Open spaces were a bats best friend. And since Jason’s fairly certain the Batwing still has an autopilot function, that should make the actual escaping bit easier if they could make a running leap.

Hesitantly, he lets go of Damian and latches on more firmly to the edges of the cape around his shoulders. Distantly, he thinks he can hear the footfalls of Talia’s crazy ninja army; but he’s not sure what’s fact and fiction right now, so really, he’s not the best judge. ]

Let’s go. I wanna make it home in time for breakfast.

[ At least, he’s pretty sure it’s night. He can’t really tell with this lack of windows. ]

Good. There's a set of stairs that go up through the servants' quarters, just outside of the main room. Second floor has windows that open up directly onto the first-floor rooftops. We'll call the Batwing when we hit the main, and it should be there by the time we get to the roof.

[ The older man unclips the utility belt from around his waist, securing it around Jason's instead. He doesn't have any weapons aside from the Batarangs to arm Jason with (Damian has always favored fists and feet and the blunt sword at his back and little else), but Jason can have access to everything he'll need to survive otherwise. Smoke bombs, stunners, a rebreather, grappling hook, and more; and of course the remote caller for the Batwing. If anything happens to him, Jason will still be able to make it out. That, combined with the nearly bulletproof and bombproof para-cape -- Damian is risking nothing. ]

A good plan. Alfred will be disappointed if we're late for Sunday breakfast.

[ He smirks, the expression as fierce and sharp-toothed as ever, turning to briskly step back out the door. Sharp ears can hear the pounding of the approaching forces, and it's a slow breath out before the eldest sets their clip back down the hall, making sure Jason is keeping pace.

Back into the fray.

Talia will soon realize there's no fury quite like a pissed off older brother protecting his younger sibling; ninja don't stand much of a chance against him. ]

[ He does his best to smile in return, but even Jason can tell that it is an ill-fit on his face. Probably more of a grimace than anything joyful. With slightly trembling fingers, he pulls a couple of batarangs out and follows his brother, doing his best to keep pace despite his exhaustion. That initial spike of adrenaline is still working, still keeping his limbs moving, but he doesn’t know for how much longer. Just another thing he doesn’t know, he supposes.

The moment he sees ninjas, Jason’s blood is boiling. Any trace of tiredness replaced with green fury and a sure fire aim. He’s throwing things and dodging projectiles before he even realizes it.

Jason can’t say that he’s in his body right now, not really. Instead he feels much more out of body, like someone watching from the sidelines. The boy taking out kneecaps and breaking collarbones might look like him, but these are someone else’s hands, someone else’s fists. He’s just temporarily using them.

However, when he takes some poor man’s head and twists--

The crunch of bone under those fingers feels very, very real.

Eyes wide as he’s suddenly snapped back into himself, Jason takes stumbling steps back as the man falls limp and dead in front of him. Vision tilting wildly, he swings around for the sight of his brother in all of this mess, the blood on his hands more than metaphorical right now. And—there. Grabbing a handful of smoke pellets from the belt, he throws them to the ground, diving under and over to latch on to his brothers arm and pull, getting them away from all the bloodshed and his own crimes. ]

Damian, come on, hurry--!

[ Twenty-six years of life, twenty-three of those spent in near-constant training, have made him a precision machine in battle, able to square off even against Bruce. Damian's a master at chaining together attacks, knocking out opponents one by one with smooth, fluid movements and brutal strength.

And, always, he makes sure the flap of the cape is in his peripheral, listens for the sound of Jason fighting alongside him; he keeps the bulk of the forces at bay in the narrow corridor so the boy doesn't get overwhelmed. And from the glimpses he sees, Jason is as much a force to be reckoned with as ever - some nervous part of him, the part that is just as much brother as it is soldier, is reassured that he's in good enough condition to fight.

Of course, that says nothing about his mental health. Jason's distress hasn't gone unnoticed, and he's lacking the usual quips and yells, nearly silent save for the angry noises Damian can hear over the wet, heavy sounds of men going down.

Damian's rage is a white-hot thing by now; has been, since the moment he dug up the grave and found it empty. What did Talia do to him?

He enjoys fracturing the hand of the next one that comes at him. And breaking the next, and the next, and the next after that.

He's pulled away by Jason's hands on his arm, attention snapping to the boy (teenager, he corrects, belatedly, teenager), following the tugging away from the battle with quick, loping strides. There's the stairs at the back of the room, luckily cleared for just the moment, and he picks up his pace, making sure Jason's ahead of him with a firm hand against his back. The stairwell itself is narrow, fit for only one person at a time. ]

Signal the Batwing if you haven't. We may need to jump straight to it if there's archers.

[ There's always archers. His mother hid an entire goddamn army in this place. ]

[ Jason kept his eyes down, focusing on moving and keeping himself from tripping up the stairs and on the edge of the cape. Damian's hand felt hot like a brand against his back, comforting and condemning all at once. He almost stumbles as Damian reminds him of the Batwing, pulling out the remote with trembling fingers. He can't believe he just-- did he really just--

He gulps and represses the urge to vomit. He killed that man. He really did. Bruce wouldn't even want him back. (The size of the stairwell, the pressing walls and lack of space, well; they certainly aren't helping the situation.)

Before he even knows it, they've reached another door and Jason practically flings himself through it, desperate for the windows Damian had mentioned. They just had to get out on the roof, then they could be gone and then he'd-- he'd figure out what he'd do next.

A familiar black shape emerges out of the darkness, almost invisible as it blends so seamlessly with its surroundings. ]

There--!

Just in time. [ The Batwing is an inky black mass, hovering close, but they'll have to cross open air first to get into it when they jump out the windows. That's the riskiest part. Damian slams the door closed behind them, drags one of the chairs in the room and hooks it beneath the doorknob. It'll buy them a few moments, at least. He slides past Jason to the window, checking for a potential ambush outside before he throws it open. It's just big enough for them to squeak through. Although Damian will have to do a little more wriggling than Jason will; he'll always have a lean figure, always be lithe and smaller compared to his father's barrel-chested physique, but he's put on much more bulk in his shoulders and chest in the past few years. ]

Keep the cape wrapped close. We get hit with arrows, it'll be decent armor.

[ Time for the jump, run, jump. The roof is right below them; tiled, slippery, but it's what they have to work with. The Batwing's as close as it's going to be able to get. Turning back to Jason, he reaches out to roughly muss his hair with one gloved hand, tipping his chin toward the window. Going, now. ]

You first. Careful on the tiles, and don't stop running - I'll be right behind you.

And what's gonna protect you, your sheer goddamn will--

[ He mumbles this, knowing instinctively that it's really pointless. Damian, much like his father before him, always gets his way. That's just how the world works. Gathering up the edges of the cape, he knows he's not steady enough to use the gliding capability. Better to just hit it hard and keep going. With another bracing breath, he nods and squeezes his way through the window before leaping.

He hits the roof with a roll, up on his feet in an instant and immediately hearing the whistle of arrows on his trail. Jason hopes their aim stays on him rather than Damian; he's the easier target right now, maybe they will. But it's not too likely. The tiles are slippery under his toes, the sweat and stress making this particularly treacherous, but through some stroke of luck, he manages to keep going. Just 20 more feet, that's all he needs to go--

Jason feels something catch the end of the cape, pinning it to the roof. Desperate, only missing maybe a half of a beat, he manages to undo the clasp and start running before getting completely choked out. And then-- the leap.

(This is the part where he'd make a joke, some kind of terrible quip like 'Mind the gap!' but it's dead in his throat. Nothing is funny right now.)

The moment he lands, Jason begins to feel like he might actually be okay.

--Of course, the arrows embedding themselves in the upholstery around him were alarming. He immediately ducks his head, keeping himself behind the console, and prays that Damian gets his ass in this plane as soon as humanly possible. ]

[ He barks out a laugh, as sharp and gruff as ever, over-confident smirk curling his lips as he swats Jason on his way to the window. ]

More like sheer goddamn skill. Also, the suit. [ Thick kevlar catches a lot of the punch. ] Go.

[ And then Jason is out, Damian sliding through the window after him half a beat later as soon as he hears him hitting the roof. There's the rattle of arrows pinging off the tiles, and -- for the brief moment that he's caught in the small window frame, hunching his shoulders inwards to to get through -- one whistles irritatingly close to his stomach.

Then he's through, too, hitting the tiles with a roll of his own to absorb the shock of the fall, rolling right to his feet as he goes. Damian has the advantage of having spent his childhood training in this locale, of bounding across tile in the midst of a fight, and he keeps his balance. One gauntlet's covering his head - better an arrow stick his arm than his skull. But he doesn't make for an easy target, sprinting across the roof, taking sharp zig-zags to avoid the incoming fire.

His heart catches in his throat when he sees an arrow pin Jay's cape down, but the boy's quick to escape, and soon enough he's made it into the Batwing. Good, god, good.

(He thinks, behind him, he can hear his mother shouting out orders. But he doesn't look back.)

He reaches the Batwing only a dozen or so seconds after Jason, bounding across the distance into it and slamming the cockpit door down closed after him, just in time for the hail of arrows to splinter and bounce off the reinforced glass. Autopilot pre-engaged, the plane hovers for only a moment more before rising into the air.

They're out. They're out. He thunks his head back against the glass, adrenaline running through him, and he laughs again - relieved. Amazed. In disbelief. He's taking Jason home. ]

I think that was the most civil reunion I've had with her yet.

[ Internal organs intact and everything. ]

Any injuries? [ He's peering carefully at Jason, having already peeled off the mask and shucked his gloves, stare sweeping over him for anything that needs medical attention. ]

[ Jason laughs-- a little surprised he is at all to be quite honest-- slightly high and nervous. God. They're out. They're out. There's a moment where he doesn't know what's happening. He's laughing his ass off, more than a little hysterical, practically clutching his stomach because ow, it hurts, god he's out--

And the next minute he's sobbing his eyes out, face curled into the juncture of his knees. ]

I'm-- I'm okay-- [ He says, despite his sobs, despite his sobs. ] I'm not hurt--

[ Except all those ways that can't be seen. ]

[ When laughter turns to hiccuped sobs, he breathes out, heavy through his nose.

No, Jason is not physically hurt. But there's no ignoring the glow to his eyes or the shock of white hair mixed in with his bangs. Damian knows the effects of the Pit, knows the consequences. Knows whatever Jason has gone through has left its marks in his soul.

He slides down to sit next to Jason, the metal of the carriage cool against his neck and his legs crossed, and with some insistent tugging pulls the boy into a secure hug, protectively tucking his chin atop Jay's head; bundled in his lap, just like when he'd been smaller and it'd been a rough night out on the streets.

(When he'd been an only child, he'd never thought he'd be in this position one day. Never thought he'd be wrapping a child up in his arms and hushing the tears away, never thought he'd be this soft, but Jason had changed that. Damian and Timothy had been too close in age, both too young, and it was Bruce that Timothy really took to. And then Jaybird came in swinging, and Cassandra soon followed, and Damian learned, willingly or not, what it meant to truly be an older brother.)

It may look ridiculous now with this overgrown, thin teenager spilling out of his bounds, but Damian doesn't much care, gripping him tight as if he means to hold him together at the seams by determination alone; muttering reassuring nonsense into the curling, messy hair of his charge, code-switching from one language to another like he does when English consistently fails to convey what he wants to say. Eventually he settles back into (mostly) English. ]

I've got you, habibi.

[ He hasn't called Jay that since the boy got a little older and began to get finicky about terms of endearment, but it's everything he can express in this moment. His youngest brother was fiercely, wretchedly missed. ]

And I'm not letting go. Timothy will have to fight me if he wants a moment with you.

[ Tim. He'll have to let him know that they're coming back - the both of them. In just a moment, however. Damian's priorities lay elsewhere right now. ]

[ 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. ]

Age Reversal AU (For Batfam)

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