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Jason keeps having these I want my Mom moments, but he knows that he could spend an entire weekend with her and by the end of it he’d still be left with that same gaping wound.
He didn’t heal right, if he had at all. Like skin grown over a splinter he knows he needs to open it back up to relieve the perpetual pain, that it’ll finally be fixed if he sucks it up and pulls back the layers of tissue— but he can’t stop crying enough to do much of anything. He refrains from blinking for as long as he can, knowing that every time he closes his eyes that it’ll just release the next cascade of tears. If he cried dye he’d be stained all over, soaked through and begging for it all to stop.
He stares at the ceiling, hiccuping through the sobs. Learning how to cry quietly was a skill ingrained in him at such a young age. There’s no reason for him to be struggling so terribly now.
A whimper escapes his clenched teeth and he hates himself for the sound. He reaches a hand up, the other wrapped tight around his belly, and pulls at his hair. It doesn’t sting as much as put pressure on something already ready to burst.
Jason is going to burst.
He knows he could. It would be so easy. Another sob, a scream, a wail, it wouldn’t even matter. With Alfred in the kitchen and Bruce still glued to the Batcomputer, this is the best chance he has to let it out.
A whole life full of bitten tongues and noose-tight lungs does not make for a gentle descent.
Whimpers are easy, blubbering to himself as if he actually believes in an afterlife his Mom could hear him from. “Mommy,” he cries, as if he’s a decade younger than he is, “Mommy, please.”
He tries to imagine what his Mom would do if she were actually here. He doesn’t even have a grave to visit, unable to afford something he didn’t know he had to pay for. There was a grant, the funeral people had said, allowing them to cremate her free of charge. What they hadn’t informed him of was that he wouldn’t get to keep what little of her he had left. He didn’t know it was time to say goodbye when they went on and on about how generous this fucking opportunity was.
Jason didn’t care. He just wanted his Mommy back.
Two years and he knows what they say about memories and yet every time he falls apart it’s the same name gasping out of his lips. “Mommy, please, please,” he begs. As if she would have done anything differently. He cries the same now as he did then. Only now, he’s not scolded for the noise. “I can’t- I can’t do it. Please, Mommy, I can’t-”
He keens, high and loud and sounding much more akin to a beaten dog than to the hero he’s supposed to be. No matter how many fights he loses he never sounds smaller than when he’s curled up in his own bed.
There’s a knock at the door and immediately he knows it’s Bruce simply by the rhythm of the tap.
“Jaylad, can I come in?”
He could say no, and he knows that Bruce would listen. Despite no doubt hearing his cries through the door, all Jason has to say is no and his space will be respected. He knows that, and some sick part of him wants to scream. To snap at him to leave him alone, to stop patronizing him. Because Bruce isn’t who he wants. Bruce isn’t his Mom, and he never will be. They’re not even similar, their only tangible thing in common being their shared love for Jason. But he’s here, and he’s offering. And Jason can’t stop crying.
It won’t be her arms around him, but at least he won’t have to sit here alone anymore.
“Please,” he sobs, gasping in a futile attempt to catch his breath. “Please, Dad.”
Bruce doesn’t have to be asked twice. He opens the door slowly, long since having learned the consequences of slamming it. “Hey there, sweetheart. Can I join you on the bed?”
Jason nods, wiping at his face like it’ll do anything to prevent Bruce from seeing the tears. He smears it around, knowing his sleeves are too damp to do much good anyway. His Dad grabs a tissue off the nightstand before sitting down. The mattress dips with his weight, Jason’s body shifting close enough to press against his side.
He whines, fully aware of how pathetic it is, but simultaneously knowing that if Bruce were going to judge him that he wouldn’t be here in the first place.
Bruce already knows. He always does.
“Come here, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, so gentle that it aches like when you press on a healing bruise. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, Jay.” He wraps an arm around him, wiping his nose for him like he’s still that sickly twelve year old he found on the streets, and leaning him against his side. Jason wriggles closer, too needy to be embarrassed with the clinginess. He hiccups, only able to get a decent amount of oxygen in his lungs when he’s halfway in his Dad’s lap.
Bruce takes him in stride, cradling him so that he’s pillowed against his chest, his head pressed where he can hear Bruce’s heartbeat the loudest. He whines, a pitiful thing, aware that his Dad is taking exaggerated breaths but unable to replicate. His chest is heaving so harshly that it agitates his ribs. His lungs flutter against the cage of his bones and he feels as if the fractured bits are being pumped through his veins, making micro-cuts against his flesh like he rolled around in sand sized pieces of glass.
“I’m here for you. Take your time, I’m not going to leave.”
It bursts out of him before he can think through the implications of his words. “I miss my Mommy.”
Bruce takes an audible breath, voice ever so gentle as he says, “I know, sweetheart. You’re allowed to miss her.”
He doesn’t scold him for the ungratefulness, nor does he make fun of him for talking like a baby when he’s almost old enough to drive. He simply holds him close, cradled in his arms like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
Now that he’s started, he can’t stop. The words spill out of him as rapidly and pathetic as his tears, “I miss- god I miss her. And I know, I know she wouldn’t be. She isn’t, wasn’t, who I need but Dad, I miss her.”
Bruce swallows, the sound louder with him so close, and he speaks just as tenderly. “You’re still allowed to miss her, even if she might not have been the person you needed.”
“She loved me,” he cries, desperate. He needs Bruce to know. Jason isn’t foolish enough to think that his Mom didn’t love him. He knows she did. He knows. She didn’t always love all of him, or even the real him, but she loved him as much as she could. She had this idea of him, her perfect little Jason, and she had a whole-hearted adoration towards that version of him. That wasn’t all of Jason, barely even a tangible part of him, but it was there. The love was there.
Jason’s mom didn’t give him all of the love that he needed or deserved, but she loved him in the capacity that she could. That has to be enough. It’s all he has left of her.
He knows what they say about rose-tinted glasses and he still leans in. He wants his Mom to have loved him right and he’ll cling with both hands to the idea.
“She did,” Bruce agrees without hesitation. Jason shouldn’t even be surprised. Bruce has always been careful not to say anything cruel about his birth parents. He may gently remind Jason of the quality of life he is deserving of, but he’s intentional not to judge.
She loved him as much as she could. That’s supposed to be enough.
Jason keeps babbling, tearful and trembling, as if his Dad has never granted him a listening ear, “I know she fucked up. I know she wouldn’t- She tried. She did and it wasn’t enough. And now ‘m not cold anymore. ‘M not hungry anymore and I don’t miss that. I don’t miss being so scared, I just, I miss being with her. It’s like being hungry is the only way to remember her.”
He’s not sure how coherent he’s being when he can hardly see past the surplus of tears but Bruce holds him all the same. “Oh, my baby, I’m here. I’m here.”
It doesn’t fix it. It’s not a solution. But it helps him take a deeper breath, his lungs eager for the air.
“‘M sorry,” he whines, caught between guilt and greediness.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Bruce soothes. He begins running his fingers through his hair, reminiscent of the way Jason had pulled at his own strands earlier. He’s so gentle with him, finger-combing out the strands even when it would be easier to just yank at them until they pull loose. “I’m not upset with you. It’s okay to have contradicting thoughts and feelings.”
“I don’t even miss her,” he admits, muffled against Bruce’s shirt. “I miss something that wasn’t real. I want my Mommy but that wasn’t her. That wasn’t the actual Catherine.” He sobs, so loud that it makes his head throb. He hopes he doesn’t give Bruce a headache. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.
And yet he can’t fucking stop already. “If she was here, she wouldn’t be who I need or even who I want. She wouldn’t hold me like this.” He can’t stop shaking and Bruce doesn’t lose patience, doesn’t push him away or even stop petting his hair. He leans into the touch like a goddamn cat, knowing he won’t be told off for the childishness. “You’re not my mom and make me feel more loved than she did. You don’t love me like an obligation. And it hurts, Dad it fucking hurts.”
He wails, high pitched and loud and wasting all the oxygen in his body. It’s so babyish and he doesn’t know how Bruce could bear staying so close to him when it’s nothing but ear piercing. He only cradles him closer, applying just the right amount of pressure to signal to his body that he’s safe. Jason shudders, another loud cry billowing out of his chest. Every sob tears at his throat and he still feels as if bone fragments are tearing him apart in a hundred little splinter-like wounds, but Bruce doesn’t let go. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t even sigh when all his efforts are wasted on someone crying for their dead parent over the one right here, ready and wanting to comfort him.
He doesn’t know how long he falls apart for before he finds more words to spill out. More confessions to whine about, as if any of it mattered at all. “‘Dad, I was so scared, so fucking scared all the time that I’d mess it up and lose what love I had.” He doesn’t know how to articulate it, that his Mom did love him and it still wasn’t enough. He doesn’t know how to justify the greediness. “But every time I get sad it’s always my Mommy I cry for when it’s your love that ‘m thinking of. It’s not fair. It’s not fair!” He wails.
“I don’t want to be like this. I don’t- I don’t wanna be like this anymore. I don’t know how to stop, please. Make it stop, Dad, please-”
Bruce readjusts his hold, and for one horrifying moment he thinks this is it. This is the breaking point. He finally admitted enough to get his Dad to give up on him.
Only, Bruce doesn’t put him down. He shifts Jason even further into his lap, fully cradled, similar to the way someone would hold a toddler. His body still hasn’t gotten that big growth spurt other teenagers already had so he’s sure he looks none too dissimilar to a small child.
He shushes him, though Jason knows it’s not in the shutting up sort of way but instead a bone-deep soothing sort of sound. Jason hiccups against his chest, nuzzling the fabric of his shirt with a desperate sort of clinginess. “I wish I had the words to properly describe how much I love you. I know I could never replace your Mom, and I’m not trying to. You’re allowed to have both loves. Both feelings can coexist.”
Jason doesn’t have the words. He tries to, he opens his mouth but all that comes out is another worthless whimper. His Dad doesn’t lose patience even when he has every reason to, beginning to rock him in his arms in a way that’s unrightfully comforting. His chest heaves as he fervently attempts to catch his breath, whole body aching with need.
There’s so much more he could say, but it feels a lot nicer to be held. He’ll have time later, if he needs to. His Dad said he wasn’t going anywhere and he thinks that he meant it. This isn’t his only chance to let it out. He can cry all he wants later, for now, he relishes in the embrace.
“My sweet boy, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
His eyes drag shut, exhaustion threatening to overtake now that he’s not busy hyperventilating. He doesn’t fall asleep right away, but Bruce doesn’t stop rocking him. A simple sway of the arms, his body a steady presence to lean against. Jason lets out a shaky exhale, wriggling like he could get any closer.
It’s not until Bruce begins humming, a song he recognizes but can’t currently recall the words to, that his body finally gives in.
/
Jason is whining even before his brain catches up to awakening consciousness. A hand immediately threads through his hair, a soft voice hushing his sleepy whimpers.
“Go back to sleep, Jaylad. You’re safe. I’m here. I’ve got you, you can rest, sweetheart.”
Jason opens sleep-bleary eyes to reveal his Dad underneath him, acting as a full body pillow while he slumbered. He’s not sure how long he napped for but it was long enough for his dried tears to turn into little crusties in his eyes. He doesn’t bother wiping them away yet, too tired for even minimal movement. He relaxes back into his Dad’s embrace, familiar in this sort of trust. His eyes drift shut, sleep finding him easier the second time around.