Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Wayne family graveyard was water logged. Especially the fresh earth turned up before the unfamiliar marble headstone. Rain continued to fall hard enough to wash the mud off Jason’s boots. He’d been churning up earth on his long procession from the property line. Jason stood at last at the foot of the grave and pushed hair out of his eyes. He judged the monument ostentatious for the man but it was handsomely cut.

Alfred Pennyworth. Beloved Father.

Jason’s face was very wet.

Before he was done, a small figure manifested on the far perimeter of the cemetery. The sentry only approached when Jason straightened wearily. She made up the distance without getting mud on her boots. Cass put a palm on Jason’s forearm, an alien gesture from her that was more comforting for it’s irregularity. “You came,” she said, barely audible over the torrent. Jason looked at little Cass and considered the impressions of age in the drawn corners of her mouth and the edges of her eyes. Did he look so different to her too?

“I— I didn’t know,” choked Jason. Cass bent into Jason’s side, head curled into the space between his helplessly hung arms and shuddering chest. Jason was not done after all. He wept more. “No one told me.” She wound an arm around Jason’s waist and held him tightly enough, that as they made for the manor, Jason didn’t fall when he stumbled. Her boots got as muddy as Jason’s. They barely made the doors before the first jagged lightning strike lit up the fallen night.

Inside the doors Cass put out her hands expectantly, a poor imitation of Alfred’s gracious valeting. Jason shrugged out of his coat and fumbled with his mucky shoelaces so Cass could stow it all in the closet. The coat was hung shoddily by Alfred’s standards and Alfred would not have let the one boot fall over like that. Cass shut the door on the coat closet. Jason cleared his throat and cast his gaze over the foyer. How many asses had polished the curving stair rail? How many boys had skipped two steps up the whole damn thing just so he could get out of the tuxedo faster? Jason rubbed his chin, remembering the ache there after missing a step once or twice. 

“Is Bruce home?” 

“He is here,” said Cass. Jason moved toward the grand staircase, but Cass caught him by the damp sleeve. “Here,” she repeated. She let go of Jason and led a short path to the grand library. It had been done up into something of a suite. The bookshelves still lined the walls but the smell was all wrong. There was a different couch and a bed where there used to be a desk. Alfred’s spare and classic taste shown in the choice of curtain and furniture. Even the carpet was the warm shade of cream he’d once chosen for his own room. It covered up the wood floors upon which Jason and Bruce had competed fiercely for sock sliding bragging rights. 

“Bruce,” said Cass softly. She knelt beside an armchair pulled up to the west-facing window. Jason could see the Gotham city lights from across the room battling for dominance with the lightning. Bruce seemed reluctant to look away too, because she repeated his name louder. “Jason is here,” she added. “He’s come to see you.” 

Thunder rolled low. Jason’s gut twisted but he didn’t know why.

“Jason,” said Cass to Bruce again, louder, more articulately. The man in the chair made a noise Bruce had never made. Cass straightened and looked expectantly at Jason who was still rooted in the doorway.

“Come,” she said to Jason.

Jason shook his head and back-peddled.

“He wants to see you.”

Moisture pooled in Jason’s raw eyes. He didn’t realize there had been any left after Alfred. “No,” he said. 

“Jason. Please.”

Jason covered his mouth. The gesture felt unusual because people did it when they were shocked or horrified or were trying not to scream. Hot tears coursed down his chilled cheeks and pooled in the press of his fingers until the wells filled and the tears were trailing down his hand too. The man in Bruce's chair made the same horrible sound again and then a different one, unnerving because it sounded so much like Jason. Jason grit his teeth, wiped his damp hands on his damp jeans and steeled himself.

It was Bruce. Somewhere deep, deep under the pallid, sunken face. The vague meandering eyes were the same color if they were no longer bright with curiosity and cleverness. His hands were unsteady, but one of them clung furiously to a batarang. His broad toned shoulders were soft and slumped. His clean, angled jaw was slack and stubbly. Cass stepped back and Jason knelt in her place. Bruce was in a plush robe and sheepskin slippers, of the like Jason had never seen Bruce lower himself to wear. Except ironically to outsiders.

“Hi Bruce,” said Jason, to the side of Bruce’s face. He was staring out the window again. “I just came to say... hi.” Jason looked at Cass pleadingly. 

“Bruce,” she said. Bruce looked at Cass with effort. “Look, Bruce, it is Jason.”

His eyes brightened or they only caught the pulse of lightning when he moved. Bruce’s mouth opened around a jay sound but he never made it through the word. It had turned into a clumsy, bewildered smile.

“Yeah,” said Jason, trying to smile too except he was fighting back sobs. “It’s me, Jason.”

Bruce let go of the batarang in his one hand. It fell out of his lap because he was trying to lean forward, maybe to cup Jason’s cheek. Jason took his hand where it started to lose momentum and just held it against his face gently. Jason didn’t know what to say, not to Bruce. Nor to himself. There was no comfort to be had. Eventually Bruce’s eyelids began to droop. Cass took the space Jason vacated and draped a thick blanket over his lap, picked up the batarang from the floor and tucked it back into his one hand. His fingers curled gently around the blade.

When she was done she found Jason against the wall outside the library fumbling with a lighter and a cigarette. Cass closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall next to Jason. “God,” said Jason. “I didn’t—” He didn’t want to say he didn’t know. He should have known. The way Bruce had looked the last time Jason saw him, strung up by tubes and sensors in the hospital.

“Fragments never came out.” She took the unlit cigarette and lighter right out of Jason’s clumsy hands. “Hemorrhaging. Swelling. Brain damage. A miracle he lives. They say.”

“Or a fucking curse.”

 Cass shrugged. “He remembered you. That is something.”

 “He was— he never..." Jason flexed his hand, the one that had held Bruce’s hand. “He," Jason clenched his hand into a fist, "always got better. Nothing ever stopped him. It’s been four damn years. Why didn't any of you do anything?”

“Where were you? Hiding.” Cass pushed off the wall and looked at Jason properly, just out of reach of his right hook. 

“Bitch.”

“Coward.”

Jason dug out another cigarette from his pocket and put out an impatient hand. Cass returned the lighter Jason was finally able to work properly. She leaned in with Jason’s first cigarette imploringly. Jason lit it for Cass. “Tim is not here,” she said.

“When does he get off work?”

She drew on her cigarette with more composure than Jason would have expected. “It is just me now.”

The chasm in Jason’s heart yawned. “He’s not— is he—?" 

Cass shook her head. “In the city now.”

 Jason inhaled aggressively and exhaled through the edge of his deep frown. “Dick?”

“Penthouse.”

“I couldn’t hail Oracle. A while back, I mean. I tried once.”

“Watchtower,” she said simply. And walked away without further explanation. Jason caught up with her in the kitchen. She’d doused her cigarette in the sink. Jason wanted to clean it out. Alfred would have cleaned it out.

“The Brown girl? Steph?"

“Boston.” 

“Brat?”

“Penthouse. Sometimes.”

 Jason combed his hair nervously. “It’s not supposed to be like this. What the hell?” Cass offered Jason a mug. “Not unless you’re putting vodka in it.”

She hefted a tin down from one of the shelves and dug inside a mixed selection of cheap, bagged tea. Alfred would have been horrified. Apparently she found what she wanted in spite of the chaos and tore the tea bag open. “Tim has some vodka for you. I am sure.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“See for yourself.” She raised one eyebrow at Jason. That alone did resemble Alfred’s. As did her mildly ironic tone. “It is your fault, after all.”

Chapter Text

When Jason asked Cass with a smirk, “so are you the new Alfred now?” she kicked the stool out from under him. It wouldn’t have been so bad except they were drinking coffee at the breakfast nook and Jason’s cup was upended into his lap. He called her a very crude name— for which he apologized right after— so she still brought him an icepack. He’d dragged himself to the parlor that for the first time had a fine layer of dust. Like some damn mausoleum. Jason iced his sorely offended thighs and Cass watched him wince and groan. “I am not Alfred,” she said unnecessarily, settling gracefully on the arm of the chaise.

“Yeah, no shit.”

Cass stroked a hand on the back of the seat and rubbed the dust between her fingers. “I miss him.”

Then, Jason said again, but this time reverentially, “yeah. No shit.” Jason leaned his head back into the cushion, sighing deeply. His feet smoothed over the rug he was once so small his feet didn’t touch. “Was he— did he suffer? Was it quick?”

“I do not know. He was alone. With Bruce.” Cass slid down the arm of the chaise into the gap between it and Jason. “It was not his first stroke. I was out there.” She gestured to the west-facing wall. “In a cape. I should have been here.” She pulled her legs up onto the seat, knees to her chin.

“It wasn’t your fault. He was very old, Cass.” It did not seem to console her even a little. Nor did it comfort Jason. She stared at the wall with a sense of deep betrayal and Jason had the impression she was not looking at the painting. “So, how long has this been going on? You sticking around here, I mean. I thought you were kicking ass and taking names in Hong Kong.”

Cass shrugged heavily. “Three years. Alfred needed help with Bruce after. Dick… could not.” Cass rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand and Jason did not comment on the smudged tear. “Damian, he would not. And,” she smiled weakly. “There should always be a Bat in the cave.”

Jason snorted. “Hell yes. You’re the real Batman here. Dick is a punk bitch.” He glanced down at Cass at his side, hunched in on herself. “You don’t look very happy though. You’re not exactly the nursemaid type. You’ve got to get out of here more than just at night.”

“I cannot,” she said dully. “Not since Alfred died. I do not leave. He needs me. He cannot be alone.”

Jason gaped, sat bolt upright and it didn’t matter that it displaced his icepack. “What the hell? You don’t leave? Why aren’t Dick and Damian helping? What about— I mean— where’s— what’s Tim up to? Can’t he watch Bruce sometimes? It’s not only your responsibility.” It occurred to Jason he probably owed it to Bruce to take his turn but he didn’t want to give the idea to Cass. She might actually expect Jason to be alone in that godforsaken room with that broken man. 

“I do not mind the quiet," she said.

He snorted. "You're pretty damn chatty for a mute." Jason thought, not for the first time, she’d said more in the last twelve hours than he’d heard from her in years.

Cass looked at Jason shrewdly. “If it bothers you, talk to him. I have his number.”

“Whose number?” Jason knew whose number she meant.

“Tim’s.”

“Oh,” said Jason dully. “Yeah. Him.”

“Call him.”

“Maybe later. I have a lot of business to take care of.”

Cass rolled her eyes as dramatically as Damian at the height of puberty. Jason wondered if the little monster still did childish shit like that. How old was he now? Had Tim changed much? Jason turned the ice pack over hoping for a cooler position. “I am sorry,” said Cass after a protracted silence. “I did not mean to spill coffee on you.”

“No shit, Cain. You’re losing your touch,” said Jason with perhaps too much sarcasm for the occasion. Or, too much sarcasm for Cass generally. She didn’t suffer it like everyone else. Jason should have remembered that. It earned him a very sour glare.

“I am not that sorry,” she said icily.

Jason slouched in his seat and felt rather contrite. He squeezed the ice pack between nervous hands. It wasn’t helping anyway. “Listen, Cass. I have to go. But I’ll be back. Gotta do. Some. Shit. You know?”

She looked at him like she didn’t know, but wasn’t going to say that. “Say good bye to Bruce.”

I’d rather jump off Gotham Tower. “Sure.” Since Cass dogged him from the parlor to the kitchen and into the foyer, he miserably turned off the main path to the library. She would clearly hold him to his word. Jason hovered in front of the closed door. He wondered whether he ought to knock. If he didn’t, maybe Bruce would be asleep and Jason would not wake him. It might be easier to face him sleeping. Or maybe he would look even more hollow lying there.

Jason bit his lip and knocked softly to announce himself before quietly pushing the door in. Cass had already gotten Bruce up and into what Jason understood to be his solitary post at the window in that old chair. The sun was rising over the city casting light into the dark corners of its ugliness. How many times had Batman watched the view from the shadow of a gargoyle on his way home? Or Bruce thrown the velvet curtains on it trying to fall asleep? It seemed a strange thing that Bruce Wayne was waking with the sun. There really was very little left of Batman, wasn’t there? And it was held in Bruce’s frail hand.

Seeing the batarang stirred up a dusty memory. Jason had deeply treasured a real batarang he’d pinched from a crime scene when the cops weren’t looking. None of the other kids had seen one up close and few believed what Jason had was genuine. Benny did and had tried to take it from Jason. Who defended his prize with so much spite Benny wound up on the ground with a weeping cut on his arm. It would prove to hardly scar the slice was so fine, but Benny had carried on like he was dying. Jason was sorely punished but no one could find the batarang to pry from him. Jason slept with it for years, even after moving into the Manor. Under his pillow, but on the worst nights, gently cupped in his hand.

Just the same as Bruce did.

His heart thumped in his raw throat. Jason knelt by Bruce who barely acknowledged him, even when Jason laid a timid hand on Bruce’s robed arm. Even through the flannel, he was cool to the touch like a well-preserved corpse that blinked slowly and regulated airflow.

“Um. Morning, Bruce,” said Jason. “It was good to see you. I’ve got shit to take care of. So I’m going to go for a bit. I think— I mean, I will be back. Just wanted to let you know.” Jason bit his lip and tried not to feel hopeful so his heart didn’t break. The animated, if mortifying, greeting from the night before appeared to be singular. Bruce did look at Jason but only with passing curiosity. Jason tried to smile. “Well. Bye.”

Cass stood apart, watching them and nodded when Jason looked at her for approval. She followed Jason back to the main doors and retrieved his jacket and shoes from before. Still a little damp. Jason pulled on his boots and shrugged into the jacket anyway. It was all he had here anymore. He didn’t dare paw through the rooms for anything else. It felt too much like looting graves. He would make an exception however, for some wheels. “There any bikes downstairs?”

“The Ducati is mine.” Cass crossed her arms because Jason had begun to protest. “Take the Dodge.”

Jason’s heart skipped two beats. “Dodge Tomahawk?”

“More or less. Tim worked on it some. Smoother now.”

Jason scraped his nails through his hair. “Oh god. Pinch me.”

Cass pinched Jason.

“Damn, Cass.”

She pressed a piece of paper on Jason who accepted it, if only to avoid another cruel pinch. “Call him.”