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infinitycircuit · 3 years

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despite everything, it's still you. | mm epilogue

It doesn’t take long to shut TAP down. The place was designed to be pulled apart anyway, so it’s only a week or so before the last gold plated toilet is boxed up and shipped to a clueless eBay seller. The train- shining jewel of human ingenuity, unknowing venue of a million killing games, overall tacky piece of shit- is carefully dismantled and scrapped for parts, although the whereabouts of the actual time machine components is a secret known to Lindsay alone. …Well, maybe not just Lindsay. One of the low-level employees saw Employee 001 grab a stack of notes and walk off muttering something about an “infinite wife timeloop”, but they didn’t give it that much thought.

Three days after the Hunt for Red- er, the Yoshioka Expr- er, the Hell Train to Fucksville rolls to its final stop, MEATCOPTER69 springs back to life on all social media. Sorry for the absence, meatlings, but guess what? That’s right- there’s a volcanic island in the middle of the Pacific and it’s about to host the grandest, stupidest influencer tournament ever. The Meatlympics are Manifesting.

Fourteen days after that, the entity known as “MEATCOPTER69”, or Lindsay Tsai, tragically- but, like, kind of awesomely- perishes in a massive explosion at the closing ceremony. It runs on the news for weeks. All of Lindsay’s social media accounts are set to ‘archived’. Long-suffering roommate Akihiko Yamada makes a mint selling most of Lindsay’s belongings to crazed fans. He’s fine with it, after all. “Lindsay Tsai” is dead, but someone else lives on.

(Somewhere, among the countless articles covering the Meatlympics Tragedy, a fascinating op/ed is published in the Taipei Times by one Emily Tsai which recounts the troubled past of her now-dead younger sibling. By the time it gets translated and spread among the English meatling fanbase, however, many of them have already made peace with the fact their idol probably wasn’t that great of a person.)

Over the next few weeks and months the anonymous backers of the Tsaimeline Alteration Project begin to reap their rewards. A copy of Citizen Kane with them in the background. A realistic prehistoric echidna fursuit. The full, 60-edition run of Sex Thanos. What looks to be, for all intents and purposes, THE original Red Octobers. How these things came to pass, who knows? Forgeries, perhaps? Or did someone shove the time machine into the back of a Honda Civic to get the job done? It doesn’t matter. Time rolls on, and the final threads are tied up.

So, at some point…

At some point there’s a nice little apartment in a place far removed from the hellhole of Los Angeles. There’s a careful assortment of plants on the balcony that aren’t too hard to care for. A collection of weird shit on the mantelpiece, juxtaposed with expensive furniture and two purebred pomeranians waddling about the living room. A scorched pan left to soak in the sink after a cooking attempt gone wrong; novelty-print toilet paper in the bathroom, because at the end of the day, you can’t truly scrub ironic shitposting out of your soul.

And there’s a woman. Short and slim, black hair in loose curls, orange eyes gleaming with delight. She’s draped over the arm of the couch, ordering takeaway as one of her two dogs tries to chew on her foot. Tonight, probably Thai food. Tomorrow, Koyo and Guy are in town, so she’s taking them out to dinner. The day after that is raid night, but more importantly, she’s got wedding plans to discuss. And the week after that… Well, they’re long overdue to visit Ume, so she’ll need to find someone to dog-sit. It couldn’t be a more mundane, normal existence if you tried.

But that’s fine by her. As long as she has one thing, nothing else matters. And that one thing-

- “Saya?”

She lifts her head. A voice calls from the bedroom, where they still need to finish unpacking all their furniture.

“Huh? What?”

- “Did you figure out what we’re having?”

“Oh- yeah, sure, red curry. What do you want to watch while we eat? I have seven different insipid reality competition shows for you to choose from, babe.”

There’s a bit of choked laughter from the other room.

- “Christ. It’s your choice, then.”

“Okay!”

She smirks and orders food.

It arrives in due time, by which point she and her fiancé are already curled up on the couch. One dog is asleep between them while the other one is begging for curry far too spicy for it to eat. Project Runway (season 11) is blasting on the TV; Saya, who watched this a million times in the background when she was trying to perfect time travel half a decade ago, knows all the dramatic twists by heart. But that’s fine too. It’s another cozy night in. It’s another normal night for a normal couple, living their normal lives.

In time, she will get married, and she’s going to hurl the bouquet directly at Koyo’s head. In time, the confused looks she gets on the street, the people asking if she’s related to ‘that influencer who exploded on an island’ will fade away. In time she will grow old, and her husband will grow old, too.

Hibayashi Saya will be the rich aunt to her classmate’s children, the eccentric patron keeping many Vriska fan artists Patreons afloat, bankroller of whatever weird and wacky pursuits her classmates want to pursue over the years. In ten more years she will host another reunion that isn’t on a train, and Ume’s kid will find her Chanel lipstick in her purse and eat the whole tube, and she’ll just smile and nod.

In time, nobody will ever remember tragic and poisonous Lindsay Tsai. But they will remember Saya. Not for inventing time travel, or for generating an unfathomable amount of clout, or for successfully putting a hit out on Andrew Hussie. But for being a good friend, for being happy, and- most of all- for being in love, love, love, the only thing she ever wanted in the first place.

(And in time, she is eventually going to wake up and see Takako at her front door holding a ten foot crab from three hundred million years ago, but that’s a problem for another day.)

#meatcopter69 #epilogue #:)

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audreycritter · 7 years

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Hullo there, Bruce & Jason family bonding. A fic request response for @mylittleangelxxx set in Cor Et Cerebrum continuity.

Gen Rated T for language

The leaves from the puny, withered decorative landscaping tree in the crumbling plaza are tinged red with early autumn. The cracked parking lot with faded yellow lines is not the sort of place one might expect to find Bruce Wayne on a Tuesday afternoon, but he is there nevertheless, sitting in a nondescript car chosen for the occasion, waiting.

After five minutes pass, the low roar of a motorcycle engine grows closer. A figure in a full mask helmet takes a swooping right into the plaza and pulls up next to the car, almost too close to the driver door. The bike shuts off and Jason Todd takes his helmet off and hangs it on the handlebars.

He's parked so close that Bruce can barely open his door enough to climb out. He frowns at the bike and twists sideways to fit through the narrow opening. Jason makes no effort to move the motorcycle but grins crookedly at him.

“Hiya, Dad,” he says, and Bruce almost shuts the corner of his jacket in the door when he starts.

“You do that on purpose,” he says, only mildly irritated and mostly, secretly, pleased. He means, vaguely, Jason’s tendency to only pull out the familial name when he's either genuinely distressed or hopes to startle or otherwise jolt Bruce.

“What?” Jason asks, a hand over his chest. “‘Me? Call you father? The nerve.”

Despite the offended tone, Bruce is relieved that Jason seems to be in a good mood. He's been the most temperamental of their patchwork family unit for some time, but the past year has had the lemons-and-sugar effect of drawing the kid closer to family and rattling him physically and emotionally all at the same time.

As if Jay, of all people, needed more of that.

Instead of answering Jason’s mock outrage, Bruce tousles the boy’s hair hard enough to make him duck his head and swat at the side of Bruce’s face in retaliation. The blow cuffs Bruce’s cheekbone and even Jason looks surprised at how solidly it landed.

“Ow,” Bruce says, putting a hand to his face. “I probably deserved that.”

“You crybaby,” Jason shoots back, heading across the lot for the small store that is their intended destination. “It was frickin’ nothing,” he calls out behind him.

Bruce follows and quickens his pace to be walking alongside Jason, whose shoulders are hunched while his hands are jammed into his pockets.

“Jay,” Bruce says, as they step up on the curb in tandem. “Don't worry about it.��

Something in Bruce’s tone must convince Jason, because instead of tightening toward explosion, the young man visibly relaxes. The door bell chimes as Bruce pulls on the metal handle and they go from the bright autumn light into the dim interior.

The inside of the musty, crowded shop smells of ink and old paper and Bruce inhales deeply. Jason has pulled his hands out of his pockets and is already picking up clothbound books on the new arrivals shelf, turning them over as he studies the spines.

“Hullo,” a voice calls from the back of the bookstore. “Be right with you!”

The towering wooden and metal shelves are so closely spaced, it’s hard to see very far from the front counter. The shelving doesn’t match and Bruce has always guessed it was picked up piecemeal from library auctions, but he isn’t certain. The layout of the store is older than him, by maybe a decade or more.

Jason’s already tucked a book under his arm before turning for the taller stacks. Bruce catches a glimpse of it as he walks by-- it’s a worn Tom Swift.

“Are we looking for something?” Jason asks, scanning the shelves. They’re a mix in this aisle of more recent used books, none older than twenty or thirty years. Some of them have intact dustjackets with faded or folded edges.

“I haven’t stopped by in a while,” Bruce says, crouching in the narrow space to study a shelf of densely packed paperbacks. He makes a quick study of the vertical names, searching for Allingham or Sayers or anything missing from Alfred’s worn collection.

“You needed a babysitter?” Jason asks, amused, without looking down. There’s a tenseness in his voice when Bruce stands and Jason glances over, doing a single sweep with his eyes of the fluid motion. “You’re not nursing broken ribs or a fucking concussion, are you?”

“No,” Bruce says, letting the slight sting of the assumption wash over him and choosing to let it fade away. “Just thought you’d enjoy it. It’s been a busy few weeks.”

“Frick, but it has,” Jason sighs, pulling a book out to look at the cover. He makes a face and nods to it.

Bruce looks. It’s a painting of a vampire in a black cape with shining silver teeth, embracing a woman with blonde, curling locks and a sheathed knife strapped to her bare back.

“It’s you and Selina,” Jason says with a smirk, sliding the book back.

“Stop,” Bruce says, attempting sternness but failing miserably to his own ears. “Selina would never carry a dagger that impractical.”

In response, Jason snorts and then takes the book all the way off the shelf and holds it against his side along with the Tom Swift volume.

“I think I need this one,” he says, turning the corner around the aisle.

“Sorry about that,” the voice from the back of the store says, drawing close to them. “Was in the middle of glueing a spine.”

An elderly man with a stooped back emerges from a back room, just at the corner they’re approaching. There’s a flicker of recognition and then he smiles warmly.

“Mr. Wayne!” he exclaims. “I was starting to get worried I’d lost my bread and butter.”

“We’ve been busy, Mr. Murphy,” Bruce says easily and Jason gives a slight wave and resumes looking over a high row of much older books, with maroon or mustard or navy cloth bindings and embossed titles and curved spines. “We were overdue for a visit.”

“I’d say,” Murphy agrees. “And this boy of yours. I haven’t seen him in over a year.”

“I’ve been out of town,” Jason says, tearing his eyes away from the shelf. Bruce can’t tell if the older man’s attention is making Jason feel welcome or uneasy, the boy’s face is so impassive.

“Ah, well,” Murphy gestures a ‘what-can-you-do’ with his hands. “I have some things I’ve been waiting to show you, Mr. Wayne.”

“Lead the way,” Bruce agrees amiably, letting himself be drawn away from the $1 and $2 volumes lining the shelves of the aisle they’re in. They approach the front again, drawing close to the glass case near the register. Jason trails after them and then joins Bruce in leaning over the glass.

Murphy pulls a small keyring out of his pocket and unlocks the case from behind.

“This, this one I got from a German fellow,” he says, reverently lifting a gray and tan book. “Goethe’s Faust, a Harrap printing for London. One of a thousand in the first run.” He opens the book and holds the pages spread for them and Bruce scans the German verse without touching the book.

“Faust creeps me out,” Jason says, with clear admiration in his eyes.

“You prefer Marlowe?” Murphy asks, raising an eyebrow.

“If you sell your soul to the devil, doesn’t matter if it’s in English or German,” Jason says.

“Eh,” Murphy says. “Probably true.”

“I’ll take it,” Bruce says, eyeing Jason sidelong. The younger man, for all his protests, still hasn’t taken his gaze off the dark lines of text. “What else do you have?”

“You don’t have a Faust?” Jason asks, finally looking away as Murphy closes the book and sets it aside. “No. I know you have a Faust. At least four, actually. I remember moving them.”

“And now you do,” Bruce says casually, turning his attention back to the contents of the case.

Beside him, Jason freezes and makes a small noise of protest.

“You’re not going to buy me a ton of shit,” Jason says. Bruce thinks he sounds more pleased than annoyed.

“No,” Bruce agrees. “Which is why I had to get that one in before you were on your guard. Help me find something for Damian.”

“Is that a Narnia set?” Jason asks, peering down, distracted.

“It is,” Murphy agrees. “First American printing. Got it just yesterday, actually. Condition isn’t great but it’s not bad, either. Wanna see it?”

“Yes,” Jason says quickly.

“For Damian?” Bruce asks, guessing this to not be the case for a reason he can’t quite put his finger on. For knowing himself to be an intelligent man, it irritates him how often he feels dense.

“Damian doesn’t like Narnia,” Jason says, taking the offered box set in his hands and looking it over. Apparently, Murphy is unbothered by either of them holding these without a commitment. Or maybe he’s already assumed the sale from Jason’s initial reaction.

“He doesn’t?” Bruce asks. It doesn’t especially surprise him that his youngest isn’t as enraptured by fantasy, but he’s curious about Jason knowing this.

“The Calormen,” Jason says, looking up at Bruce with a crease of his brow.

“Oh,” Bruce says, understanding slamming into him like a careening steam engine. If he’d had a vague sense of feeling dense before, it fully floods him now. “Hm.”

If Murphy is intrigued by this exchange, he doesn’t show it or ask questions. He never has. Bruce isn’t even entirely sure the man is aware that Jason died or if his easy acceptance of Jason’s return is wrapped up in a mute, elderly wisdom of the contradictions of Gotham, even out here in the limping suburbs.

“I’ll take ‘em,” Jason says, surrendering them reluctantly.

Bruce considers, very briefly, telling Murphy to add them to his own tab, but suspects if he does so, Jason won’t show obvious interest in anything else. He decides to just keep track of how much Jason spends and then let Alfred sort it out somehow.

“I’m guessing this is a duplicate for you, too,” Murphy says, with an understanding smile.

“Yeah, you know,” Jason shrugs. “Might have kids someday. Gotta stock up.”

Bruce pretends to be engrossed in a bookbinding, partly so Jason doesn’t see his reaction to this casual statement and partly because he can’t actually figure out quite how he feels about it to hide it very well.

With a casual observer, he might actually be successful, but Jason nudges him in the side with an elbow when Murphy turns to wrap the set in brown paper.

“Oh, shoot,” Murphy says. “I've left the tape in the other room. I'll be right back.”

He leaves the counter, seemingly unworried about leaving them with the open case.

“Don't panic, old timer,” Jason says. “Dickie and I have a pact not to have any until we're sure you're done taking in strays. The family can only handle so much drama.”

“I'm done,” Bruce says resolutely. “And I don't take in strays. You aren't cats.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Jason says smugly. “I'm waiting til Damian hits sixteen, just in case. It seems to be the cut-off. I'm not in a hurry.”

Despite his outward irritation, the slight glare he turns on his second son, something in Bruce is deeply relieved to hear Jason talk so openly and calmly about his younger siblings. It soothes concerns that Jason, even now, regards their presence as a kind of insult or intrusion.

“Alfred would throw me out of the house,” Bruce says mildly, instead of arguing.

“You could come stay with me,” Jason grins. “It'll be fun. Me, you, a salty teenager, a tiny apartment. Maybe we can get that reality show your PR guy keeps trying to talk you into.”

Bruce chuckles and asks, “Tim?”

“He thought you were considering it, you know,” Jason says. “He called me in a hot panic.”

“What'd you say?” Bruce asks, thinking suddenly of Tim and the fact that he should take the kid out for coffee or something soon.

“I told him it's be good acting practice,” Jason says. “That you sounded excited and we shouldn't take it from you. And that I was going back to stay with the Kents.”

“Jay,” Bruce says, trying to muster the ire to sound reproving.

“B?” Jason asks. Their eyes meet, Jason’s glinting with amusement that Bruce finds himself unable to not match. After a second, something in Jason’s expression shifts, his features more solemn though not troubled. “Shit,” he says plainly. “I've missed you.”

When Jason ducks his head, Bruce puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

“It's been too quiet without you,” Bruce says. “You sure about staying in Gotham this year, though? Clark said Martha already thinks the house feels too empty.”

Jason nods and leans closer to a book.

“Yeah,” he says. “I already got stuff set up at Gotham U. It's time to just fricking get over it and be home. Damian would like that.”

It takes Bruce a moment to realize the last sentence was directed toward the book, and not connected to sentiments about Jason’s physical location.

“What is it?” he asks, twisting his neck trying to make out the faint title.

“Want to see another one? Ah, yes. The Histories.” Murphy asks, returning with an old tape dispenser. When he sets it on the counter, Bruce can hear the sand inside the false wood veneer shifting and settling. “I wasn't joking, you know. Not to pressure you, but I live for a month on your visits.”

“You're just appealing to my sense of pity,” Bruce accuses with a slight smile.

“I own a stinking used book store in a dying plaza,” Murphy says. “Rent is cheap but ebooks are cheaper. I'm not above honest begging to support my paper habit. Can't say no to a pretty book.”

“We are cut from the same cloth,” Jason says a little forlornly. “You want my advice?”

Murphy’s lips twitch, as if he's prepared to be amused, and he lifts the book out without them needing to specify.

“What's your advice, young Xenophon?”

“Find a rich guy to adopt you,” Jason says glibly, carefully holding the book and then handing it to Bruce.

Bruce intentionally and with some effort keeps his face carefully neutral.

“Huh,” Murphy says. “You in the market, Mr. Wayne? Don't know anybody else anymore.”

“No,” Bruce says, “but I'll take the Herodotus.”

“Give him three years,” Jason advises.

“I think we're done,” Bruce says and Jason sets the Tom Swift and paranormal romance on the counter. “Unless you wanted to browse some more.”

“Nah,” Jason says. “I gotta go get my rat from Dev before he gets too attached.”

Murphy begins ringing up the purchases and he pauses when he reaches for the Tom Swift.

“Separate bills?” he asks.

“Hell, no,” Jason says. “I'm broke.”

Bruce’s heart warms a little at this allowance, knowing that Jason both has money and is letting this one fall to Bruce on purpose.

“How long has Dev had the rat?” he asks, pulling out his wallet.

“Since last Thanksgiving,” Jason says.

“Jay,” Bruce says with a crooked smile, “I don't think it's your rat anymore.”

“Come help me liberate him,” Jason invites, a little pleading. “I can't face Dev crying all by myself.”

Murphy’s demeanor betrays no emotion besides mild good humor as he swipes Bruce’s card for the few-thousand dollar charge. Most of it is the Faust.

“I don't even like the rat,” Bruce says. “I told Cass it was a bad idea the first day.”

“Cass didn't listen to you about something?” Jason exclaims, taking the offered brown bag from Murphy. He staggers back in exaggerated and false shock. “The perfect child ignored your fricking wishes? Yours?”

“It is the only mark ever against her,” Bruce says dryly. “Thank you, Mr. Murphy.”

“Come back again,” Murphy says. “Soon.”

Jason nods and they step out of the shop together.

“How are you getting the rat home on a motorcycle?” Bruce asks, unlocking his car. Jason had paused to take the book for Damian out of the bag and he freezes, suddenly, and gives the motorcycle an angry look.

“I don't know,” he says stiffly.

“I'll give you a ride,” Bruce says. “We can swing back for the bike later.”

He waits a moment to see if Jason will argue or resist, either for actual reasons or just to be contrary.

“You sure?” Jason says instead, one hand on the passenger door. “I mean, jiminy cricket, aren't you busy or something?”

“My whole afternoon is yours,” Bruce says. He decides to push a little. “And dinner, if you want it.”

He wasn't lying when he said he had missed Jason. Even if there had been interludes where the family was together, or that week that Jason had surgery and it was just the two of them, it has been a long ten months. It is the sort of thing he felt himself more and more capable of noticing or acknowledging recently, as he is less totally consumed by work. He often finds himself forced to pay attention, by activity in the house and the transition of sullen teens into noisy, bolder young adults.

“Food’s my love language,” Jason says when Bruce joins him in the car. “Did Martha Kent tell you?”

“Alfred could have told me,” Bruce says, guiding the car out of the parking lot.

Jason falls silent and when Bruce looks over, he's perusing the Tom Swift book. Bruce is content to let the silence, which feels more comfortable than tense, settle over them for a while. He drives without forcing effort into maintaining conversation even though a question is nagging the back of his mind, something he's danced around and not directly asked Jason in the few weeks he's been back in Gotham.

It feels more pressing the longer they're on the road until the silence tips from casual to anticipatory. Jason closes the book and looks out the window at the bay as they drive over a bridge.

Bruce clears his throat and for all his usual decisive action, finds the words stuck there.

“So,” Jason says, almost as a prompt. “I think my course load is gonna be pretty heavy this year.”

There are methods of finesse and diplomacy that Bruce finds it easy to wield in the boardroom, when the subject is one he is easily detached from and can be analytical about. But the closer things move up from the work of his fingers to the beating of his heart, the more that tact falls away and he mentally resigns himself to bluntness.

“Are you going to patrol again?”

Jason doesn't look startled by the question but he does, briefly, look very torn. He opens his mouth, swallows, licks his lips and presses them together.

“I don't know,” he says after a long pause. “It feels like a waste not to. What do you think?”

A year ago, six months ago even, this might have felt or even actually been a challenge.

But right now, Bruce just hears an earnest and troubled question.

“I think you should do what's best for you,” he says, knowing this isn't much of an answer but feeling compelled anyway. Jason scoffs and turns back to the window.

“Sure,” he says, bitterly. “Fuck.”

“Jay,” Bruce says, slowing to a stop at a red light. He watches Jason watch the girls in the car stopped next to them.

“What,” Jason says flatly.

“This is hard for me to answer,” Bruce says frankly, thinking of conversations he's had recently with Selina. He wishes he'd talked this through with her, too. She's always been better at nuance. “If I tell you not to go out, I think you'll read it as doubt in your abilities. If I tell you to patrol with us, I'm worried you’ll feel obligated or avoid me.”

“That,” Jason says, looking down at the book on his lap, running a thumb across the cover, “is probably true.”

“So, what do you want? You've had a while off. Do you miss it?”

“I miss feeling like I was making a difference,” Jason says. His thumb traces the curve of a massive, wired contraption in the cover illustration. “But no. I don't miss it. I feel like I should and I don't. And I don't want to decide.”

“Then don't,” Bruce says. “Don't make anything final. Just be Jason for a while. There isn't a deadline.”

“I'm glad I was Robin,” Jason says suddenly, a little fiercely. “I don't regret it.”

“I know,” Bruce agrees quietly. “But you don't have to prove that by never moving on to something else. You can be a Wayne and not have the usual nightlife.”

Jason pulled his hand back from the book and cupped it around his ear, relaxing into a cheeky grin.

“Sorry, I'm a little hard of hearing. All those guns and not enough ear protection. Can you say that again?”

Bruce isn't quite ready to make it into a joke yet.

“I'm serious, Jay. It's my fault I've made it seem mandatory but it was never supposed to be.”

“Okay,” Jason says, lowering his hand. “I'll think about it.”

“And besides, Alfred would throw a party if he thought one of us had enough sense to get out,” Bruce adds, pulling into the parking lot.

“I might pretend to be sure, then, just to get a cake out of it,” Jason says, and the stress in the car seems to have melted away.

“He'd make one for you if you'd just ask,” Bruce says, turning the car off.

“That's not any fun,” Jason says.

They climb the interior stairs together and stop outside the door. Bruce has made the trek to this rarely visited apartment alone before; he realizes he has no idea how often Jason’s done the same. He knocks and there's the sound of movement inside.

“You can't sodding have him!” Dev yells through the door, without even answering. “You fucking abandoned him!”

“Algernon’s mine,” Jason yells back, pounding on the door again. “We had a deal!”

There's a long pause.

“He died!” Dev says vehemently. “Dames’ bloody cat ate him.”

“Alfred’s never hunted anything in his life,” Jason retorts. “He's too lazy.”

“The rat gave himself up,” Dev answers, sounding closer to the door now. “Get a new one if you bloody care so much.”

“I'm not paying for that,” Bruce says firmly.

“You're a fucking liar!” Jason yells.

“Sod off!” Dev yells back.

A door down the hall opens and a sleepy-looking woman leans out and glares at them, then slams her door shut.

The door to Dev’s apartment swings open and Dev is standing there, scowling. The rat cage is visible behind him on a low table, the supplies already gathered into a bag next to it.

“Hullo, Wayne,” Dev says. “Your son’s an absentee parent.”

“He came to see his grandrat,” Jason says fiercely, pushing his way past Dev into the apartment.

“I did not and never say that again,” Bruce says, going in after him when Dev steps back and gestures a welcome with a flourish.

“You've been back for weeks,” Dev says, a final and feeble protest.

“I was settling some stuff,” Jason argues. “Get your own rat. This was respite care and you fricking knew it. And only ‘cause Martha’s got a stiffer backbone than Bruce.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow at this but he doesn't put energy into challenging it.

“Yeah,” Dev says with a sigh. “Take care of him.”

“You're not really pissed are you?” Jason asks, turning a little in his crouch, where he's been petting the rat through the cage grating with a finger.

“Nah, mate,” Dev says. “I’m not home enough anyway. He's better off with you.”

“Of course he fucking is,” Jason says. “He's mine.”

“How've you been?” Dev asks, turning to Bruce when Jason leans forward to talk to the rat.

“Good,” Bruce says. “I'm wondering how much of this attachment to rodents is my fault.”

“Probably all of it,” Dev says cheerfully. “How’ve your ribs been, then?”

“Better,” Bruce says.

“They've been better or they are better?” Dev asks, pointedly. Jason looks up from the rat to shoot an accusing look at Bruce, his white bang flopped in front of his eyes. He brushes it aside irritatedly.

“You told me you weren’t hurt,” he says.

“They are better,” Bruce clarifies. “It was just two cracked ribs, Jay.”

“‘It was just two cracked ribs, Jay,’” Jason tells the rat in a mocking tone. “My body’s just broken but I’m fine.”

Dev doesn’t even look slightly remorseful for bringing it up.

“I hate to rush you,” he says, “but I’ve a night shift at the hospital.”

“Weren’t you at the manor for tea this morning? When do you sleep?” Bruce asks.

“I can’t even take that seriously, coming from you,” Dev says, without answering. “Out. I need to mourn the loss of my rat before work.”

“You coming to the thing?” Jason asks vaguely, standing.

“As always,” Dev nods, and Jason picks up the rat cage. Bruce takes the bag next to it without being asked. “Don’t have any sodding emergencies while I’m working,” Dev warns when they leave. “I’ll leave you to bleed out, just out of spite.”

“Noted,” Bruce says wryly. “Have a good night.”

The door closes behind them and it is only then that it occurs, fully, to Bruce that this means transporting a rat in the back of his car. He sighs.

“What thing?” he asks, while they go down the stairs.

“Oh, hell if I know,” Jason says. “We always pretend to have plans. I don’t remember how it started. Sometimes, we talk about shit we never did, just to drive Tim crazy.”

“I don’t have an older brother,” Bruce says pointlessly, knowing this is stating the obvious, “but I don’t think I would have handled one well.”

“That is literally the fricking understatement of the century,” Jason acknowledges. “But Tim’s usually pretty chill about it. We should actually grab him for dinner or he’ll probably just eat crappy ramen. I’ll text him.”

Bruce waits in the gathering autumn dusk, the slight chill of the air blowing over him, while Jason finagles the rat’s cage into the backseat. And though he usually dislikes being left out of making plans, he honestly appreciates that Jason didn’t need to check with him or study his response before committing to the text he is already typing to Tim, while he half-kneels in the backseat.

When he stands, his eyes still on his phone, Bruce puts the bag in the backseat and closes the door.

“Hey,” Jason says, without looking up from typing. “It’s been like, two years.”

Bruce looks at the low moon, rising slow and waxing full on the east horizon, just barely visible in the narrow window that opens between the buildings and the bay beyond.

“Yeah. It has been.”

“Huh. Thanks for not dying,” Jason says, attention still seemingly on his phone. “And thanks for calling today.”

“You’re welcome,” Bruce says. “One of those things was more my doing than the other.”

“Alfred made you call?” Jason asks, finally looking up and quirking an eyebrow. He grins. “Figures.”

“Get in the car,” Bruce says gruffly, a smile tugging on his lips. “Let’s go get Tim.”

#cor et cerebrum series #fic blogging #batman #batfic #jason todd #bruce wayne #minor appearances by #kiran devabhaktuni #and #algernon the rat

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