Archive of Our Own ^beta

Silence captured the cave. Only white noise existed; the occasional rustle of resting bats, water dripping from the cavernous ceiling, and the stressed pacing from Bruce. The pacing was like being on a boat —the ocean unsteady—going back and forth. 

Blood dripped down Jason’s arm like the water from the ceiling, he winced as Alfred sewed another suture. His entire arm was engulfed in heat, as well as his leg, and side (in three places). His head throbbed and his throat was dry. A delectable combination. 

The only ones left in the cave were Dick, Tim, and Cass. Damian was asleep—through explicit bribing from Dick and Bruce—Stephanie went back home, Barbara was tying the loose ends up with Arkham Asylum, and Duke was using the showers after being sprayed with a fire extinguisher. He refused to elaborate how. Everyone was exhausted, all slumped over and doing something menial to pass the time. 

Except Bruce. He was still pacing. 

Back and forth. Bruce’s feet must’ve been sore. His cowl was off, gray was streaked in the hair at his temples. Back and forth. Jason followed him with his eyes, back and forth, and had to squeeze them shut after a few moments. It made him nauseous. Everyone else was used to it though. The pacing. They watched with keen eyes while Bruce did it and they ignored the slight tremors in his hands with a practiced mercy. Maybe it should’ve been obvious to Jason, from the days when he was young and Bruce always watched him with nervous eyes. But there was too much to sift through now—too many words and clenched fists to overanalyze—and so he forgot how bad it could be. How bad it is, now. 

Alfred was almost done. “Bruce,” He croaked, throat still dry, “I’m fine. Calm down.”

Not much else could be said. What happened was unfortunate, but it could’ve been worse. This was the wrong thing to say. Everyone in the room tensed, he was left out of the unspoken agreement to not bother Bruce when he was stressed. Worried. They all knew not to speak, to let him pace until he had blisters and let his hands shake endlessly. 

 Bruce snapped his head to him. His face was blank. “I know.”

“Then stop pacing.” 

He continued to pace, his eyes on the ground. “Bruce.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Bruce.”

“Dude, just leave it.” Tim hissed. 

No. They might have mercy for him, but Jason’s never really engaged with that virtue. “Fuck off. Hey, Bruce.”

Back and forth, back and forth. 

“Bruce.”

“Bruce!”

Bruce threw his hands up in the air, shouting. “What!” 

“I’m. Fine.” He said, slow and enunciated. 

All at once Bruce deflated, trudging to his chair in front of large monitors and collapsing into it. He ran a hand through his hair. “You stress me out, all of you. I think I’m going grayer by the day.”

Dick cracked a grin. “You and Jason match.” 

Everyone smiled at the joke, except Jason. He looked at Dick in horror. “Why would you say that.” 

“Because it’s true.” 

His horror must’ve been amusing, because now even Alfred was smirking. Jason was dizzy. It was probably the blood loss, but it was mostly the horrible realization that he and Bruce shared something. Even if it was as simple as gray hair. 

It couldn’t stand. 

*

Every Wednesday Jason went to the Manor and read for a couple of hours in the library. Those days always brought him back to the beginning, when Alfred would bring in tea and Jason, Bruce, and Dick would all exist together in quiet. Peace, even. 

He’d still pull out the knitted blanket from the iron studded chest that lay next to the couch, wrap himself up in it, and read whatever he could find that was intriguing. Recently he’d been reading a large book of astronomy, a general overview of the basics. He was on the chapter regarding stars. 

On days like this he had a foot in the past and the present was no longer a weight on him. He allowed himself to relax in the warm colors and oak wood, to let himself breathe; exist in the space like he used to. 

Sometimes, Bruce would join. 

They never said anything when he did. Jason wouldn’t look up from his book as Bruce plucked a worn copy of The Secret Garden or some mystery-horror novella that he’d never heard of. He wouldn’t move when he sat on the couch next to him, a considerable distance away, but close enough that Jason could still smell his cologne (it was woodsy, Bruce had been wearing it for all that he knew him).

They’d simply sit. Coexist. 

Bruce was sitting next to him now, reading a small paperback book with a half-naked cowboy on the cover. He was annotating it too. Jason could hear the scratch of a pencil every few moments.

“So,” Bruce began, “You’ve dyed your hair.”

He grinned. “Looks like we don’t match anymore.”

“Hm.”

The conversation ended there and it was quiet once more. Jason liked to believe it was like being in space, and they were stars. 

*

Jason was in his apartment when it happened. Toast was toasting, coffee was brewing, the sun shone through the single window in his apartment and it stretched a column of light across his room, where he would stand in to soak up the heat. Classical music lulled throughout the apartment in waves, he breathed along to the violin. He was scrolling through the Gotham Gazette app and the articles when he saw it. 

‘Brucie Wayne Seen Out And About With Fiery Red Hair’

It was a gossip piece going over a brief history of Bruce’s various fashion choices, and then showed the paparazzi pictures of him walking on the street with a smile, dressed in his usual suit, with a crimson scarf and bright red streaks in his hair where the gray used to be. 

Just like Jason’s. 

Bruce picked up the phone after three rings. “Hello Jason.” 

“Why the fuck did you copy my hair?” 

“I have no idea what you mean. You must’ve seen my new hair though, what do you think?”

“I hate you.” 

Jason could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m sure you do, Jay. See you on Friday. We’re having Ziti.”

Hanging up Jason fought down a smile, and began to search for new hair dye. 

*

Varying brands of hair dye lined the shelf in the aisle, all of the different colors clashing. Jason crossed his arms. He needed to get a color different from Bruce’s and one he would have no desire to wear. He pulled out his phone and took a picture of three different dyes, sending it to the one person who liked pissing Bruce off as much as him. 

Jay: Which one should I get.

*Steph liked an image* 

Steph: this one, obviously. send pics when ur done i wanna see

Jay: 👍

*

A week later Jason was in the Manor’s kitchen. He was sitting at the island, watching Alfred cook dinner and waiting for Dick; they were supposed to be ‘going out’ as Dick said, which probably meant they’d go to the movies and get fast food on the way home. 

The air was fragrant—as it always was when Alfred cooked—and there was light sizzling from three frying pans that held the same food. Shrimp. It wasn’t far off to how much he used to cook for him, Bruce, and Dick. 

Dick was late, unsurprisingly. With the savory smells and comfortable company though (and the flowing conversation, Alfred was still one of the easiest to talk to), he found he didn’t mind too  much. 

Alfred and him were discussing the recent performances at Gotham’s opera and the reviews from various critics when Bruce walked in. Jason didn’t notice at first, he wasn’t paying attention until it was right in front of his eyes. Dark purple streaks were in Bruce’s hair, replacing the previous red. 

Just like Jason’s. 

He scowled. “How did you do this?”

Bruce turned to him, he was making a protein shake. “Hm? Oh, the hair.” He said, smiling innocently. “Stephanie helped me with it, actually.”

Traitor. Except not surprising, he should’ve taken into account her potential betrayal; she was a harbinger of chaos. Bruce turned back around and began shaking his drink and Jason was positive he was smiling. Alfred certainly was. Bruce eventually came around the counter to stand next to him, joining the conversation. He kept up a steady glare towards him, but his mouth still twitched and he felt inexplicably light. All of this, the last year or so, had been so monotonously good. It was all he ever wanted. 

Dick bursted into the kitchen. His sweatshirt and pants were wrinkled, he had helmet hair. “Sorry! Sorry, I was—” He paused, looking at him and Bruce. A feral grin broke out on his face. “Oh this is good.” He said with a laugh, pulling out his phone and taking a picture of them. “This is perfect .”

Jason shot up and went for the phone. “Delete that dickhead!” 

“Nope!” 

Everytime he grabbed at the phone Dick moved his hand, and it continued for a few minutes until Alfred called them down, citing that they were being ‘childish’. Dick chatted with Bruce and Alfred for a few minutes before they said their goodbyes. 

Dick turned to him with a wide smile. “Alright Jaybird, let’s roll.”

Jason flipped him off. 

*

*Dick sent a picture* 

Dick: Jason and Bruce are matching!

Timmy: LMAOOOOOOO 

Duke: ajsdhskfhskf oh my god

Steph: you are an ANGEL for capturing my work dickie <3

*Barbara loved Dick’s image*

Damian Wayne: They look ridiculous

*Timmy liked Damian Wayne’s message*

Cass: Wow 🤭

Jason: I hate this fucking family

*

Jason was reading in bed when three knocks rang throughout his apartment. He ignored them. There were another three knocks. And another. He groaned and left his bedroom, dodging the various stacks of books on the floor (he hadn’t had the chance to assemble his bookshelf, it’d been there in the box for months) and opened the door. 

It was Tim and Duke, both standing with tight grins. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Tim rolled his eyes. “To visit our favorite brother, obviously.”

They were up to something. “Shouldn’t you be at Dick’s then?” He asked sardonically. 

“Oh Jason,” Duke started, “Dick isn’t nearly as cool as you! He’s all dad jokes and old people humor—he’s what, thirty? You’re like…um…scary and young. Yeah. The perfect combo.” 

Jason glared at them, feeling like he was witnessing an inside joke he wasn’t a part of. They just stood there, straight as boards, clearly resolved to whatever they were going to pull. He sighed. “Fine.”

They both stepped in, Tim making a beeline for the bathroom and Duke looking around, taking in the small space. 

“You want anything to drink?” He asked, because he had some manners. 

“Water would be great.” Duke said, eyes fixed on all of Jason’s books. 

He fixed him a glass of water and leaned against the kitchen counter. Neither of them spoke, in a slightly awkward way where the air was stiff and words were lost to reside in his mind, his throat. They didn’t interact like this often, one on one. It was always in a group setting, with other people and stronger relationships present. Duke’s situation was complicated—as all of theirs were or are—and their relationships as siblings wasn’t as solid as Jason’s with Dick’s or Duke’s with Cass. 

Duke cleared his throat. “I like the hair, the color’s nice.”

“Thanks.” The streak was blue now. 

“You like poetry, right? I saw Emily Dickinson over there.”

Jason grinned. “Love her. I can relate to a lot of the subjects she writes about. Death and trying to grasp it I guess.”

“Yeah,” Duke said, frowning, “I can too.”

It was quiet again, and they sat together solemnly. A moment of solidarity. 

“I actually write poetry.” Duke said. “I could send you some stuff maybe?”

It was an invitation, a chance to connect. He smiled. “I’d like that.”

Tim came out of the bathroom in a hurry, speed walking straight to the door. “Well looks like we gotta go, we were supposed to meet Steph and Cass a while ago.” 

“Oh yeah, the meeting!” Duke agreed. He turned to Jason. “Great convo. Sorry for leaving so soon—” Duke followed Tim, opening the door and turning to look at him. “You were a great host!” 

The door slammed shut, leaving just him. They were up to something, a prank or scheme—but they were here, and even if it was nefarious it was something family would do. He couldn’t help but smile. 

*

It was one of the nights when Jason would go back to the cave with everyone and hang out for a little bit, either to watch a movie and decompress from patrol or catch up with whoever he hadn’t seen in a bit. 

He had just gotten out of the showers, the floor of the cave was cold against his feet and there was a slight draft. He should’ve worn a hoodie instead of a t-shirt. 

Bruce was hunched over, still in his suit, typing away at the computer. The fluorescent glow of the computer highlighted his hair, and the bright blue streaks in his hair. 

“Are you fucking kidding me!” 

“Hello, Jason.” 

“Oh no. Uh uh. This shit isn’t funny anymore Bruce, how’d you even—”

His bathroom had the dye box. 

“Tim!” He yelled. “Duke!” 

He turned back to Bruce. “What did you offer them?”

“I’ll never say.”

*

“The press has really been liking the green.” Bruce said.

“I’m putting nair in your shampoo.”

*

Jason dyed it hot pink next. 

A week later Bruce and Cass wore matching outfits at a gala. Cass was in a hot pink satin dress and Bruce had matching streaks in his hair. Everyone went insane over it, multiple articles coming out about it. The article Jason read was called ‘Daddy Daughter Duo of the Night? Wayne Continues to Color Hair’

He groaned at his phone and threw it on the couch. He’d have to step up the game, challenge Bruce to dye it his least favorite color. He pulled out his phone. 

Jason: I’m dyeing my hair orange next

Bruce: Okay. 

*

The next time he saw him was on Friday, the family dinner night. Bruce was in the kitchen helping Alfred cut vegetables. He stepped up to the counter, grabbed a knife, and began slicing the onion. 

“So,” Jason began, “You didn’t dye your hair.” 

“No.” He replied. “I couldn’t keep dyeing it anyway. At the rate I was going, it was going to fry it off.”

Jason frowned, feeling disappointed. This had become their thing over the months, it was fun even. And now it was over. 

“I was wondering if you wanted to read this book with me.” Bruce said.  “It’s nothing too long—contemporary fiction, I thought you’d like it.” 

He smiled, small. “Sounds good.” 

There was a small smile on Bruce’s face too, and they continued chopping the food. It was nice to coexist. To have a family again. He couldn’t help but be excited for what was to come, to revel in his blessings.