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Jason calls Bucky again, and his phone goes right to voicemail. Clint’s phone rings, but he doesn’t pick up. Clint hasn’t responded to his earpiece, either, but Jason’s not sure he would’ve had it with his spare suit anyway.
Shit, shit, and shit.
It’s not that he doubts Bucky or Clint’s ability to take care of themselves in a fight. But he isn’t used to fighting without them.
The three of them had been scattered all over the city when the mutated super-sized bugs started to appear. Bucky had been all the way down near City Hall, at the farmer’s market, but he carries a spare mask in his bike, and he’s not exactly dependent on body armor for safety. Clint, though, had been volunteering at the animal shelter after his morning shift at the school, and he’d had to sprint to the nearest safe house to grab his gear. He’d just sent Jason and Bucky a quick text to verify he was joining in and that they’d rendezvous back at home when the dust settled.
Jason has a comm line to the Bats, but he has staunchly resisted any suggestion that he give his second-in-commands Oracle-issued earpieces. He doesn’t want Bruce being able to drag them into shit.
Fuck.
“Does anybody have eyes on Ronin or the Soldier?” he says into the comm line now.
“Soldier’s a couple blocks away from me,” says Tim. “Helping with a collapsed subway tunnel.” That explains the lack of service, then.
“I last saw Ronin in Burnley, on the north side of the bridge,” says Steph. She sounds out of breath. “He said he had to take care of an injury.”
Jason’s blood runs cold. He switches to a private line, because Bruce and Damian don’t actually know Ronin’s identity yet — or his real relationship with Jason — and asks, “What kind of injury?”
“He said he was fine,” Steph reassures him. Jason’s not reassured; he knows how Clint is. “Just that he needed to get out of the fight and patch himself up. He said you had a place just over the river?”
“If I give you an address, can you check on him?”
“Uh, that’s a negative. I’m a little bit pinned down right now. Literally, I’m under a giant dead centipede. Today is the worst. What D-list dipshit thought meta bugs were a good idea?”
Jason winces. “Farmer Brown, apparently. You need help?”
“Batgirl’s gonna get on it but she’s still cleaning up the last of a swarm of ants.”
“Shit,” Jason says.
“I’m sure he’s fine, though, he was walking and stuff.”
“Uh-huh.” He connects to Oracle directly and asks, “Who’s closest to Coventry?”
“B’s nearby, he was helping at Arkham,” Oracle says, a moment later.
Jason curses. “Anybody else?”
“Robin, but he’s a good bit further out.”
It’s like a choice between death by crowbar or death by batarang.
He’s not that far out. He could make it there within ten minutes.
But Clint, the self-sacrificing idiot that he is, has a tendency to keep going well past when he should, as if he never learned you’re supposed to quit before the injury is life-threatening. Jason’s seen him try to walk off five bullets. One time he insisted that a machete wound was “basically a papercut.”
A couple minutes could make all the difference.
After a moment of hesitation he says, “Patch me through to B?”
“On it.”
“Red Hood.”
Jason is already jogging to the edge of the roof, grappler gun in hand. “I need you to go to 3rd and North Ash. Across from the cathedral.”
There’s a pause. “What’s there?”
Another tally for the burned safehouses. At least they hadn’t gotten too attached to this one. Jason jumps as his grapple connects to the building across the way. “A safehouse. Ronin is injured.”
Batman’s voice, when he responds, is as monotone as ever, even though Jason is sure he’s shocked as fuck that Jason is actually volunteering information. “I’m two minutes out from the location.”
“Second floor, west side corner apartment. Window’s probably open.”
“I know you trust them, but do you really think it’s wise to give your men access to personal safehouses?”
Jason grits his teeth so hard it hurts. “Just. Go. Make sure he didn’t bleed out.” He vaults over an air conditioning unit, launching himself off the edge of the building two steps later. “I’ll be there soon.”
“Understood.”
Jason’s sprinting across another roof when his phone starts ringing, and he curses, skidding to a stop to answer. “That you?”
“Yeah, sorry. All good here. You?”
“Clint’s injured. Not sure his status. He told Spoiler he was heading to the Coventry place, and he was on his feet at the time, but —” He trails off grimly.
“Shit,” Bucky says. “Okay. I’m about to get on my bike, I’ll be right behind you.”
As Jason hits the next rooftop in a roll, he wonders if maybe he should have figured out a way to introduce Bruce to his partners before now.
Jason comes flying through the window a little too quickly and immediately takes stock of the situation, pulling off his helmet. Clint is sprawled out on the sofa, hood and mask off but the rest of his gear still on. His nose looks broken and there’s dried blood crusted around his temple, but Jason can’t see any immediate injuries. Clint’s clutching something to his stomach, but again, no visible blood, and he doesn’t have the suture kit out.
He’s also definitely awake enough to be coherent.
“I mean, you can’t honestly tell me you think short-shorts were the right call there,” Clint is half-shouting at Bruce, who is standing in front of the couch stiffly. “I don’t give a flying fuck what Dick said about mobility! You were the adult in the room! If you’re gonna give a kid a couple karate lessons and yeet him onto the front lines dressed like a traffic light, at least give him some fuckin’ body armor!”
Jason chokes on his laugh. Bruce shakes his head as though Clint’s rant isn’t worth responding to and turns to address Jason.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me right now!” Clint growls, struggling up to a sitting position and pointing at Bruce with one threatening… sausage?
Oh, shit.
Jason suddenly remembers a story Natasha told them about Clint making Steve cry, one time — and his utter disbelief when she shared a few choice quotes, because he had never heard Clint get mean like that.
“It’s an entirely different thing from the Barton Injury Scale I gave you,” she explained. “It’s not a matter of pain or blood loss. If he’s unable to fight, and in a decent amount of pain but not actually in life-threatening danger, he gets mean. Especially if he’s at that level of sleep-deprived where he usually starts oversharing in the cute way.”
Well, patrol was a bitch last night, and then Clint was covering somebody’s morning shift at school, so — sleep-deprived? Definitely. Also, apparently, the “something” he was cradling to his chest were his actual hands, swollen to the point that they’re barely recognizable, let alone capable of shooting a bow or swinging a sword.
“Hey,” Jason says. “What happened to your fingers?”
“Fucking… bees!” Clint hisses. “I need a goddamn antihistamine, or twenty, and I can’t get the stingers out myself, and this shit hurts!”
Bruce turns to Jason, mouth thin under the cowl. “Would you mind telling me why one of your enforcers knows the identities of the first two Robins?”
“Oh, no, no fuckin’ way, you don’t get to blame him for this, Brucie,” Clint says viciously. He points one chunky finger at Bruce in admonition. “Jesus, you’re so goddamn controlling it’s a wonder you can unclench long enough to take a shit.”
“Beg your pardon?” Bruce says flatly.
“Oops, I forgot, rich people don’t do that, do they? Too fuckin’ loaded to do anything as crude as take a dump. Or talk about your feelings, for that matter! Do you have any idea how much work Jason has put into developing healthy communication skills since we got together? Not that I’m a shining fuckin’ beacon of stable attachment patterns myself, but god damn, would it kill you to express a little motherfucking affection?”
“I’m sorry?” Bruce says, Bat-growl going borderline squeaky with his disbelief.
“Hey, I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” Clint retorts. He goes to cross his arms over his chest, then winces when he doesn’t adjust for his ballooned hands, promptly stabbing himself in the armpits.
“You two are… together,” Bruce says.
“Yeah, and I’m still not sure what he’s doing with me, but holy shit am I a lucky sonofabitch. Jay is the most thoughtful, romantic, goddamn selfless partner a guy could ask for, not to mention the fact that he’s a fuckin’ beast in the sack.” Jason covers his face with both hands and mentally wills himself to phase through the floor. Clint continues, undaunted: “You don’t even know what kinda person Jason is in general, though, do you? Because I could go on all day about how good he is to me, but that doesn’t begin to touch how much good he does for the rest of this godforsaken city. I mean —”
That’s when Bucky comes through the open window, landing panther-light on his feet. He took off the mask before arriving, and he’s just in his skinny jeans and leather jacket; it probably says something about Jason’s life choices that Bruce doesn’t even blink an eye about a random hipster guy somersaulting into Jason’s apartment.
Jason shoots Bucky a wide-eyed, panicky look.
“He’s conscious?” Bucky asks under his breath. “That’s good.”
“Debatable,” Jason mutters. “Remember the story Natasha told us? The ‘Aryan Dream Barbie’ incident?”
Bucky’s eyes go wide and he nods, giving a low whistle. Jason’s pretty sure that line is seared in all their minds.
“ — while you’re sitting in a fuckin’ cave with a stalagmite — tite? With a stalag-whatever up your ass, in your weird little bat furry suit, jerking off with a hundred-dollar bill —” Clint raves, making Bucky snort. “While you’re busy doing billionaire bullshit, Jason is out there changing things! And for the right reasons, too, because of the two of you, he is the one who actually knows what the effects of systematic poverty do to a person!”
“Okay,” Jason sighs. He’s peripherally aware of Bucky tiptoeing away, which is not great, because he could really use backup right now, but he understands the impulse. Bruce’s jaw looks tight enough to crack nuts.
“I mean, so what if you were orphaned? Big fuckin’ deal, join the club, dipshit! If you weren’t so busy with your fancy toys and your invasive-as-fuck surveillance bullshit —”
“If you’re implying that this is some sort of vanity project —” Bruce starts stiffly.
“Okay!” Jason says. He steps closer, holding up a hand to Clint in a pacifying sort of gesture like he’s taming a velociraptor.
“I’m not implying shit!” Clint huffs. “I’m saying, pretty fuckin’ clearly, that you were too much of an emotionally repressed asshole to deal with your fuckin’ trauma, and so instead of going to fuckin’ therapy like a normal goddamn human —”
“Clint, baby, c’mere,” Bucky says, slipping past Jason and darting over to the couch. “Maybe you should do something better with your mouth right now, huh?” He leans in for a kiss, muffling Clint’s interested noise.
“What,” Bruce says, with absolutely no intonation.
Jason sees the syringe hidden behind Bucky’s back a split-second before he stabs Clint with it.
“Aw, sedative, no,” Clint whines. “You learned that from Nat, did-nnnnngh, guh.” He slumps back and passes out.
“No, honey, Natasha learned that from me,” Bucky replies fondly.
“Who the hell are you?” Bruce asks.
“His other boyfriend,” Bucky says, with an ice-cold look, just daring him to comment. He pulls a pair of tweezers out of his pocket and settles on the couch next to Clint to work on the bee stings.
“That man… is dating both of you,” Bruce says, staring at Clint, who’s starting to drool a little bit.
“Well,” Jason says, and makes a stiff gesture that sort of encompasses the three of them.
Bruce’s head rotates slowly between Bucky and Clint on the couch and Jason. His voice, when he finally speaks, is quiet. Deceptively calm. “You three. Are. Together.”
It only takes four words and Jason is instantly fifteen again, the urge to defend his actions, his thoughts, and his choices ripping up his throat at the slightest hint of Bruce’s judgment. He can feel his face heat, something dark and angry clenching in his chest as he takes a jerky step forward.
“And here I thought I was supposed to be the old-fashioned one,” Bucky says, interrupting before the vitriol can whip out of Jason’s mouth. He crosses one leg over the other, settling back into the couch as he stares at Bruce. “I was born a hundred fuckin’ years ago, pal, but even I know what polyamory is.”
“You’re the Winter Soldier,” Bruce says slowly.
“Bitch, I might be,” Bucky deadpans. He glances at Jason with a barely-there smile. “Gendered insults, I know, sorry.”
“I’ll allow it,” Jason manages, swallowing a hysterical bark of laughter.
“Which brings me back to my point,” Bucky says. His body language is all calm and relaxed, but the dead-eyed glare he turns on Bruce is pure Winter Soldier. “If somebody who grew up in the Forties can learn not to be a homophobic asshat, so can you. Stick your judgment where the sun don’t shine.”
“I’m not judging,” Bruce says stiffly.
“Bullshit,” Jason snaps. “You judge literally everything I do, all the goddamn time.”
Bucky adds, “I spent half a century in cryo-freeze and even I think the way you treat Jason is cold.”
“I don’t — I’m surprised, is all.”
“Yeah, I know it’s shocking to you that one person likes being around me, let alone two,” Jason snarls.
A long moment of unbearably tense silence passes. Jason focuses very hard on a scuff on the wall just over Clint’s head.
“Jason,” Bruce says, in a quiet, sad way.
There’s a clatter at the window, then a blur of red, green, black, and silver comes flying through. Jason steps out of the way just in time to avoid the slash of the katana the silver solidifies into.
“Fuck’s sake,” Jason says, as Damian springs out of his diving roll. “What, brat?”
“I am here to assist,” Damian tells Bruce solemnly, brandishing the sword in the direction of the couch.
Bucky leans forward, grabs the blade, and pulls it from Damian’s hand with a slow, toothy smile. “Children shouldn’t play with knives.”
Damian does a double take at the metal hand, apparently realizing who he just threatened. He turns white as a sheet, then beet-red.
If it were anybody else, he’d attack immediately, but they’ve learned he has a bit of hero-worship going on when it comes to the Soldier. Jason gets it; what young assassin doesn’t dream of growing up to be the crowning jewel of the FBI’s Most Wanted list?
“I think we’re done here, Robin,” Bruce says, still in that same strange subdued tone. “Give me a moment, please.”
Damian wavers for the briefest of moments, clearly torn between proving his worth as Batman’s perfect, order-following sidekick and demanding he be allowed to stay. In the end he narrows his eyes behind his mask and lifts his chin. “Five minutes,” he says imperiously, taking the sword Bucky offers hilt-first, then slips through the window.
“Does anyone else know?” Bruce asks Jason.
“Everybody except Damian,” he says sullenly.
“Oh.” He shifts his weight minutely, a tiny tell that’s the Bruce equivalent of a dramatic shudder. Good; he should be uncomfortable. “This was clearly a matter of poor timing, but if you’re open to it, I’d appreciate a chance to get to know both of you better. Outside of, ah. Work.”
Bucky tilts his head, cool as ever, and raises one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug.
“Well, I should get back. To… work.” Bruce gives Jason a nod. He hesitates like he wants to say something else, but then he just twitches the cape around himself and slides through the window.
“Do you people even know what a door is?” Bucky says.
Jason’s still blinking in the direction of the window. He lets out a heavy sigh and runs a hand through his hair, trying to pull himself together — trying to remind himself that he is a goddamn grown-up who doesn’t need Bruce’s approval. He’s not sure why he’s all choked up.
Fuck. This is stupid.
“We should probably go help with clean-up,” he mumbles. “Check on the crew. Take stock of the damage in Crime Alley.”
Bucky shrugs, eyes flicking down to Clint. “I’d say we’ve got enough clean-up to handle right here.”
“I could —”
“Jay,” Bucky says. He lifts Clint’s legs, adjusting them so there’s space on the couch for Jason. “Call in later. Right now you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
“But —”
“No.” Bucky stands up and shepherds him gently over to the couch, not paying any attention whatsoever to Jason’s half-hearted protests. “Rest now. We’ll deal with it later. Together.”
Jason caves, mostly because he knows that running off to bury himself in work because he’s afraid of feeling his feelings is what Bruce is doing right now. He presses his knee to Clint’s, tilts his head onto Bucky’s shoulder, and takes a deep breath.
He already feels better, just sitting here between the two of them. No matter what they’re up against — mutant bugs, demon brats, even goddamn Bats — he knows they can handle it together.
He’s trying to figure out a non-cheesy way of saying that when Bucky says, “If you want to draw a mustache on Clint, there’s a Sharpie in my pocket.”
“I love you so fucking much,” Jason says, and pulls out the marker.