@hollanovhaunting happy WIP Wednesday, have a snippet of what your prompt and all our Troy meta has wrought:
"Let me get this straight - shut up, Ilya - you're sorry because you didn't want to spend time with the guy who's considered the biggest buzzkill in the league? You're apologizing for not...liking me? Nobody likes me, that's not new."
"What the fuck are you talking about - " Ilya starts, but Holmberg cuts him off.
"But we do like you! That's why we're apologizing! We jumped to conclusions and we've been dicks about it but you're actually really nice and you've given us so many tips and still helped us out even when we were so shitty to you!"
"I really didn't think these pain meds were that strong," Shane mutters, "But I'm still confused. You know we're teammates, not friends, right?"
The whole team winces. Shane glances at the rookies, who look like kicked puppies, and at Ilya, who looks somewhere between devastated and murderous.
"And that's on us, Hollzy, we rea-"
Shane holds up a hand. "I'm a fucking professional, I don't need you to braid my hair as long as your fucking passes connect. If your wrister needs work I'm going to tell you because I want to fucking win. You think we need to like each other for that? Montreal hated me but we didn't run into actual problems until they didn't trust me on the ice anymore. Hell, Barrett and I can't stand each other but that doesn't mean we can't be on a line together."
Silence follows this. Out of the corner of his eye Shane can see Ilya's wide-eyed expression. A small bitter part of him wants to roll his eyes - even after all this time, he still doesn't get it.
"Wait, what do you mean we can't stand each other?" Troy finally speaks up. Shane swivels his head to look at him.
"Not all of us dealt with the closet by throwing slurs at every other player on the ice," Shane says drily, and Troy flinches.
Somewhere there is a world where Ilya says "you wouldn't even choose me," and instead of turning it around on Ilya, Shane says "No, I wouldn't."
And Ilya simultaneously feels vindicated and gutted because he realizes deep down he didn't actually think Shane would say that, but now it's out there and oh God what has he done.
And Shane is furious suddenly, because Ilya has been passive aggressive and taciturn in turns for months, and this feels like another fucking test that he's incapable of passing because there's no real way to pass, so he says no. He says, "I wouldn't choose anyone who made me choose between parts of myself."
He says "The whole point of having the fucking plan is so we don't have to choose. You agreed to the plan because you didn't want to choose either, but somehow I'm the bad guy for still giving a shit about my career."
He says, "I don't know why you don't care anymore. I don't know what I keep doing wrong. I don't know why you would do that to me, when I would never ask that of you."
But now Ilya is furious again, because "I already chose you, Hollander," and in another world Shane feels that hit like a blow but in this one he's already angry instead of confused, so he doesn't take the hit, he says "I didn't make you move to Ottawa!"
"You should go," Ilya says, because he doesn't want to say any of the terrible things trapped on his tongue.
Shane is angry enough to be relieved, because he's scared if they keep going they won't be able to find their way back together, and if they break up now what was even the point of any of it?
So he goes, and at the door he has enough energy to say "If you were so miserable why not just tell me, instead of punishing me for it?" And Ilya doesn't respond so he leaves but Ilya doesn't respond because he's frozen, torn between hating that Shane is leaving and being relieved and terrified that he won't come back, and also slowly realizing that in trying to hide his sadness from Shane he has only hurt him differently.
Shane drives back to Montreal and he feels tremendously guilty that he never pushed all those times he asked if Ilya was okay, but he's just hurt enough not to let it swallow him. Because if Ilya would make him choose, did he ever actually understand him at all? Shane's always been scared deep down that he'll always have to edit himself for other people, that he'll never be enough. He thought Ilya was the one person who took him exactly as he was and loved him for it, but if he's missed how miserable Ilya is in Ottawa, maybe he's also missed Ilya wishing he was different.
He still texts Ilya when he gets in, still tells him he loves him and wants to talk when Ilya is ready, because maybe his fears are wrong. Maybe he's just spiraling.
Ilya doesn't see the text until the next morning. He'd collapsed on the couch and not moved for hours. It reminded him uncomfortably of another home Shane fled, leaving Ilya a mess on the couch, except this time he's afraid his own fear is what caused it. He feels trapped and alone in this boring city and losing team and he's surviving on scraps of Shane's attention and it's never enough, and maybe he's been greedy. He's always been afraid of needing too much, being too much. He's always felt like Shane sees the best in him, in ways he hasn't always deserved but always wants to, but maybe this time he's shown too much, been too much.
So he doesn't answer Shane's text, because he keeps hearing "I wouldn't choose you" and he can't bear to hear Shane tell him it's over.
And Shane sends a few more texts, feeling increasingly desperate as Ilya dodges him, because this can't be the end of them, it can't, and then -
And then Ilya is scrambling to open Instagram because there is fire out the window and he can't die without Shane knowing how much he loves him, because Shane thinks he'd make him choose, would make him give up the thing that makes him come alive, and Ilya doesn't want that, he just wants Shane -
And then Shane is hearing "The Centaurs' plane made an emergency landing" and reading Ilya's last words and fuck, what if he'd died, what if Ilya had fucking died thinking hockey was more important to Shane than Ilya himself and of course Ilya is more important, all Shane wants is his career and the man he loves -
- because the issue was never about whether Ilya was more important than hockey - the issue was always about how unfair it was that it felt like they had to pick.
So Ilya comes home and they hold each other and cry and they find a way to be a team again, center and wing, co-captains of the relationship. They figure out the play to make sure they can have a life that works for both of them, because they shouldn't have to choose but they shouldn't feel left behind, either, but unlike square pegs and round holes, that's a problem you can fix with love and patience and compromise.
Maybe there's still a reflection caught in a window and an asshole name Brad who wants to go viral, or maybe there's just a slow relaxing of vigilance (and a team of lawyers with a plan in place for expedited PR status just in case).
Maybe there's still a wedding in July with no chairs - or maybe not. Maybe there's a different proposal, or the same proposal on a different timeline. Maybe there's an unforeseen divot in the ice and an edge catches, or maybe with a little less panic and a little more sleep the stride is long enough to miss it and no one trips. Maybe the puck finds the net anyway, maybe the goalie is less focused on who his teammate fucks and makes the save. So many maybes, but so much easier to navigate as a team, with lessons learned by both partners about speaking up instead of bottling up, about being a team rather than opponents.
But maybe that's understandable, after so many years of such..............heated rivalry.
Shane puts his head down, focuses on his edgework. He doesn't let himself linger on the thought that's been echoing in his head since he got to the rink this morning.
I want to go home
The ice doesn't feel right under his skates. The lighting is just a fraction off. The air smells different. He's not sure if the rink is wrong or he is. He swallows around the ache in the back of his throat.
I want to go home
Coach blows the whistle and he flinches, tries to focus. He knows what he's doing. He's the top of the league for a reason. If he's one thing, it's good at his damn job. He's not going to be a letdown today of all days. He's got this. He can do it.
He runs the drill, shoots, scores. Textbook.
I want to go home...but I can't
He thinks about what would happen if he said it out loud. Thinks about picking up the phone and dialing a number and a familiar voice on the other end, a voice he's heard echoing across rinks and when he's so tired he can't think straight and every boring average day in between.
He pictures it, then: giving in, voice thick, asking, "Can I come home?"
The voice laughs. The voice says you made your choice. The voice says you think you get to come back? Here? Now? You think you're welcome here?
Or maybe the voice says of course you can. You can come home. It will be exactly like it was, nothing will be different. It will be like nothing has changed.
It's a promise and a threat; everything has changed.
The scrape of skates, an arm thrown around his shoulders, a helmet bonked gently against his own.
"What, you too good for passing drills now?"
Shane shakes himself, pastes a smile on his face, gives his husband a grin. "Just waiting for you to catch up, Rozanov," he chirps.
Ilya responds with exaggerated offense, leading Shane back to the drill setup where Wiebe and the other assistant coaches are clustered.
"First day with your new team and already sassing your captain! Bood! Bood! Come defend me from Hollander!" Ilya is crowing, animated and joyful and beautiful. Shane lets himself be herded.
Shane knows he had to leave. Even if the playoffs had turned out differently, the locker room had turned toxic. He would have been miserable if he'd stayed. Getting to play with Ilya, getting to live with Ilya, it's a dream come true.
I've been playing with some Boxing Day fight variations lately, so have Shane coming to a realization about Montreal a few months early:
“That’s not what I—” Shane throws his hands up. “Could you please explain what the fuck is happening? Because last I checked we didn’t go to each other’s team parties. Or tell anyone about our relationship.”
“No. I don’t tell anyone about our relationship. You tell Hayden, and Jackie, and Rose, and your parents, and who the fuck knows who else.”
“That’s literally everyone! You know that.”
“It is five more people than I have told,” Ilya says.
"And I didn't choose to tell half of those people," Shane replies through gritted teeth.
Ilya scoffs. "You wouldn't have told anyone, would you? If you'd had the choice, you'd just keep me a secret forever."
"Because it's not safe!" Shane shouts. He and Ilya both freeze. It's quiet for a moment, then -
"Oh, fuck, Ilya, it's not safe," Shane chokes out, falling into a squat.
Ilya stares, still frozen across the room. Shane looks up at him, brown eyes swimming with tears.
"I'm not safe," he says, and it's immediately apparent from the horror in his tone that he's admitting it for the first time. Ilya watches, lost, as Shane collapses into himself, clutching his head in his hands and clearly trying not to hyperventilate.
Ilya wants to go to him, but he knows sometimes Shane is particular about touch when he's feeling overwhelmed, and honestly he's still reeling from the fight, so he stays put, watching helplessly as Shane works through his thoughts from his place crouched on the floor. It reminds Ilya of how Shane had reacted to David walking in on them, all those years ago. His literal nightmare, Shane had called it. It hadn't felt like a slight at the time.
Finally Shane drags in a loud breath and forces himself to his feet, leaning on the back of the couch for balance. He looks over at Ilya, and the devastation on his face makes Ilya want to brace himself for something awful.
He doesn't know what's running through Shane's head and he's terrified Shane is about to tell him this is it, he's done; that it's not safe to be with him and he can't do it anymore. Shane opens his mouth, and Ilya steels himself for his world to end.
"I have to leave Montreal," Shane says, and it's so far from what Ilya was expecting he doesn't react immediately, just blinks stupidly at Shane.
"Well I guess we know who's winning the Rocket Richard this year," one of the Admirals says, and Shane freezes, running through stats he knows by heart. They're tied for goals again.
Okay. Okay. Enough.
--
In the wake of tragedy, a choice.
Notes/Additional content warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, Long Game spoilers, Long Game Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Past Character Death, Grief/Mourning, DEAD ILYA
I sobbed writing this, sorry y'all
Word Count: 1648
AO3
---
The goal horn blares with just under six minutes left in the period and Shane feels nothing; he barely even flinches when his linemates slam into him in celebration.
Beyond the pile of bodies he catches Hayden's eye. He gives him a small smile, but Shane can't bring himself to return it.
Two of the Admirals forwards skate by as the celly breaks up, just close enough for Shane to hear their conversation.
"Well I guess we know who's winning the Rocket Richard this year," one of them says, and Shane freezes, running through stats he knows by heart.
They're tied for goals again.
Ilya had been ahead of him, after the Cens' great game in Carolina and Montreal's lackluster performance against DC. Now with Shane's goal starting off the game against New York they're back to neck and neck in points.
Around him, the teams are milling around while the Admirals' coach challenges the goal. Shane doesn't bother to listen to the justification; he knows it was clean. He glances at the scoreboard to see if they've updated it yet and his attention is snagged by the clock.
Oh, he thinks. He feels something settle in his chest. Okay. Enough.
Nobody pays any mind to him as he glides over to center ice and turns a slow circle, taking in the packed Bell Center. He looks up at the rafters where the three Stanley Cup banners hang, at the stands filled with fans decked out in blue and red, at the center faceoff dot. For a moment he sees a black uniform hunched over the dot, blond curls plastered with sweat and eyes dancing with challenge. He blinks, and the image vanishes.
Hunter drifts over; the coaches and refs are still arguing. Shane's glad it's him, if it had to be anyone. It feels fitting. Hunter nods in greeting but stays quiet.
"I never said thank you, not properly," Shane says. Hunter looks confused.
"For what?" he asks.
"I know my email was pretty vague, but," Shane exhales heavily. "I spent seven years dancing around the love of my life until you gave us hope. I got four real years with him because you decided to be brave. I'll never be able to repay you for that."
Hunter stares at him. "You...?"
Shane chuckles. "Guess he was right," he muses to himself. He sees Hunter's confusion and explains. "I was so sure you knew about us. Ilya always insisted you had no idea. He always said you were too old to see what was in front of you," he finishes with a snort.
He watches the realization dawn on Hunter's face.
"Il- you and - seven-"
In other circumstances, watching Hunter splutter in disbelief would be hilarious. As it is, it only takes another moment for the rest of the realization to crash down on him.
"Hollander, Shane, oh my God," Hunter starts, horror overtaking the confusion.
Shane nods once, lips pressed tightly together. He flicks his eyes back to the scoreboard, the stopped clock.
He nods again, then holds out a hand. Scott takes it on autopilot, visibly still processing.
"It's been an honor, Scott. Kiss your husband when you get home."
"Yeah, yeah of course, wait - what -"
Shane doesn't answer, just drops Scott's hand and turns away, skating off towards the tunnel. Behind him the teams are moving to reset, the goal having been declared legal. He pauses right before he leaves the ice and turns back. The clock hasn't changed.
Distantly he knows that photos of this moment will follow him for the rest of his life.
He steps off the ice.
Enough.
The coaching staff has somehow not noticed him yet, too distracted with the goal challenge. He heads back to the locker room and sits down at his stall. He takes a moment to sit in silence, then starts to take his gear off.
He's out of his sweater and starting on his pads by the time the first assistant coach comes barrelling into the locker room.
"Hollander, what the fuck are you doing?"
"I'm done," he says calmly. He bends down to unlace his skates.
"Are you hurt? Sick? Unless you're actively dying I don't care what's wrong with you, you'll either get dressed again or you're benched for the next three games!"
Shane looks up and shakes his head. "I said I'm done. I quit, or I retire, or however you want to spin this, but I'm not going out there again."
The assistant coach stares at him in disbelief before turning back out of the locker room, probably to go get backup. Shane shakes his head again and moves on to his other skate.
He reaches for his phone once he's down to his undershirt. He ignores his notifications, and thinks for a moment before beginning to type.
He reads it over then saves it to his drafts. He'll find a picture to go with it later. For now, he peels off the rest of his gear and takes a quick rinse in the showers before throwing his walk-in suit back on. He takes care to detangle the gold chain around his neck from the top buttons of his shirt but doesn't bother with his tie or jacket.
He's just about finished cleaning out his locker when he hears the horn signal the end of the period and the team starts filing back in with the coaching staff.
Hayden takes one look at him and his shoulders drop, but he ruffles his hair as he passes anyway. JJ tosses him a confused look as he settles on his other side but bumps their shoulders together all the same.
"Hollander, explain yourself." Thériault barks.
"I'm done."
The room erupts, the rest of the team shouting questions and the coaches demanding explanations.
Shane doesn't react.
"What the fuck does that mean?" Thériault demands.
"It means I'm done playing. I won't go back on the ice."
"Hollander, if you don't get dressed again for the next period, forget benched, forget fined, we'll put you on fucking waivers and send you down the fucking minors!"
Shane stares at him, expressionless.
"The love of my life died two months ago. The last time I saw him we fought and I didn't even kiss him goodbye before I walked out the door. I have to live with that for the rest of my life, and I deserve it for being a fucking coward. There is literally nothing you could do that would be worse punishment than that."
There's silence for a moment before the room explodes again. Shane ignores all of it, just zips up his bag and stands.
"I'm done," he says over the din, and walks out of the locker room.
In the hallway he pulls out his phone and decides he doesn't need a photo. The statement is enough.
They were supposed to retire together, supposed to be each other's dates to the Hall of Fame inductions. They were supposed to get to grow old together, get married, be the Hollander-Rozanovs, never one without the other.
If Shane can't have that, the least he can do is ensure they will always be linked this way. In highlights, in best-of compilations, in stats and leaderboards, there will never be Hollander without Rozanov.
He glances at his watch and is startled into laughter. If it's slightly wet, there's no one around to see.
Shane hits post and walks out of the Bell Center for the last time.
---
Shane Hollander
When I was 17 years old, I introduced myself to the star centre for the Russian national team at World Juniors. Already the narrative was taking shape around two kids who wanted to play hockey and be the best of the best.
I have been lucky enough to have had the kind of career I could have only dreamed about in that parking lot in Regina, but I have never been alone at the top. I know now I was never supposed to be.
Tonight I played my last shift as a Metro and as an MLH player. To the fans and the city of Montreal, thank you for your endless support and enthusiasm. To my team, it's been my honour to lead you as your captain these past ten years. To my friends and family, you have been my rock.
To my Lily: Loving you is the best thing I've ever done, and being loved by you is the greatest privilege of my life. Safe in my heart, vsegda. Obeshchayu. Love, your Montreal Jane.
Posted at 8:10pm
BREAKING: Shane Hollander walks off ice, announces retirement mid-game
MONTREAL - Shane Hollander, Captain and first-line center for the Montreal Metros, announced his retirement tonight via Instagram during the first intermission of the Montreal-New York matchup.
Hollander, who has led the Metros to three Stanley Cups, scored the first goal of the game at 14:10 in the first period before leaving the ice and reportedly refusing to return.
The game marked Hollander and the Metros' return to the ice after the season was paused out of respect for the fatal plane crash that claimed the lives of the Ottawa Centaurs team and coaching staff. It was the final of three away games for the New York Admirals, who return to New York tonight ahead of a series of home games.
Hollander was seen shaking hands with Admirals Captain Scott Hunter in the moments before he left the ice. Hunter refused to comment on their conversation in post-game press, although New York Head Coach Murdock expressed his shock at Hollander's abrupt exit.
The Montreal Metros front office has yet to put out an official statement...READ MORE
RELATED: Ottawa Centaurs plane crashes en route to Tampa
RELATED: 'Nobody could have survived that' - FAA Investigation ongoing into Ottawa Centaurs fatal plane crash
RELATED: MLH holds memorial for Ottawa Centaurs
@the-darkdragonfly for your birthday I present to you: 1,300 words of the subdrop fic. Enjoy!
"Fuck off, Hazy," Shane shoots back. "But yeah, definitely don't be stupid like I was - I once dropped so bad I thought I had the flu for like three days. Eventually I did some googling and figured it out." He shrugs like it's not a big deal, but beneath him, Ilya has gone tense.
"Dropped for days?" he demands, suddenly serious. "Who the fuck fucked you up so bad you dropped for multiple days? Rose Landry? The guy in Mexico?"
Shane stills, realizing too late what he's admitted. "Shit," he mutters. "Can we talk about this at home?" he asks, turning to face his husband.
Ilya stares at him, searching his face before nodding, but he keeps a tight hold on his waist as the conversation moves on.
They're both quiet on the way home. Ilya drives in deference to Shane's alcohol tolerance, but Shane feels fully sober by the time they pull into their driveway.
They get out and greet Anya, Ilya going to fill her water bowl while Shane locks up the house. He makes his way to the bedroom to find Ilya sitting on the edge of the bed staring into space.
"Hey," he says softly. Ilya blinks up at him.
"Are you going to tell me about it now?" Ilya asks, matching his tone.
Shane climbs into Ilya's lap and brings his hands up to cup his face, needing to hold him because he knows this won't end well.
"It was uh. After Vegas," he says.
"Vegas?" Ilya parrots.
"When - when you won MVP," Shane says as softly as possible, as if speaking it more quietly will soften the blow. "The year you won the Cup."
Ilya freezes.
"I did that to you?" he asks, devastated. Shane bites his lip and nods.
"For days?"
"Ilya, it's okay, I'm okay, we're past that," Shane says, because he can see Ilya starting to self-flagellate.
"And you let me touch you again?" Ilya demands, clearly not hearing him. His hands, which had settled on Shane's hips earlier, fly away to hover over Shane's face but don't make contact.
"Hey, hey, listen to me, it's okay," Shane tries, but Ilya is shaking his head and leaning away.
"I hurt you," he says, voice cracking. "How can you even -"
"Hey, no, enough," Shane cuts him off firmly, refusing to move from Ilya's lap or let him spiral. He grabs Ilya's chin, demanding his attention.
"We both messed up. Yes, I dropped, and it was awful, but we barely knew what we were doing. I don't think there's anything to forgive but if you need to hear it, I forgive you, okay? Besides, I can't imagine you felt great afterwards either."
"I think maybe I also dropped," he admits softly. Shane's grip tightens and his expression falls.
"I hate that you felt that way," he says. "I hate that we hurt each other like that. But we know better now."
"Yes, of course," Ilya replies, nodding sharply. "Will not ever happen again, I promise."
Shane stares down at him. There's an undercurrent of tension he can still feel running through Ilya, but it's late and they're both tired. Hopefully it's nothing they can't wait to address when things are a little less raw, so Shane nods.
"I know. I trust you," he says. Ilya swallows harshly, searching Shane's face; he does his best to show he means it.
Shane climbs off Ilya's lap and gets ready for bed; when he gets in he plasters himself to Ilya's side.
"We're okay, I promise," he whispers. Ilya doesn't respond, but Shane feels him press a kiss to his hair. They'll be fine, he thinks as he drifts off.
The next morning things are still a little off. Ilya is quiet in a way that Shane has come to learn means he's stuck in his head. He'd passed out quickly last night, but the yawn Ilya tries to hide tells him Ilya had a much harder time falling asleep. He makes coffee while Ilya feeds Anya, then pulls Ilya over to the couch.
"No run this morning?" Ilya asks.
"I can go later - I was hoping you might come with me," Shane says. It's a small joy of being out, getting to go for runs with Ilya without worrying about being seen. Of course, they're well-known figures in Ottawa so there's always a risk of some attention, but either the city is more polite than the rabid hockey enthusiasts in Montreal or they're too used to ignoring politicians to bother local athletes too much. Shane has found that he likes it.
Ilya shrugs noncommittally but doesn't speak. They sip their coffee in silence for a while longer. There's an odd tension to the air that Shane can't put his finger on, but it reminds him they didn't finish their conversation about Vegas.
They finish their coffees and make an easy breakfast; once Ilya looks more awake, Shane finally broaches it.
"Can we uh, can we finish talking about Vegas?"
"What is there to talk about? I hurt you, you hurt me, we are sorry, it's done now, yes?" Ilya says, looking away.
"I just - it was really hot," Shane rushes to say. "The sex, it was really hot."
Ilya smirks. "Yes, I know you like showing off for me, moy ispolnitel'."
Shane scrunches his face. "Performer?" Ilya nods. "It was after - I know now, that asking about Russia - I know it was hard for you. I just - I realized after I left that we didn't even kiss, and that made me feel awful."
Ilya flinches. "I did not kiss you on purpose," he says.
"Why not?"
"Because I knew if I kissed you I would not be able to stop. I would want more with you than I could have, and I had to go back to Russia."
Shane leans back. He supposes he should be more surprised, but he knows better now. He'd spent years going over Vegas in his mind
"What - what was it like for you? After?" Ilya asks.
Shane grimaces; he doesn't want to answer, because he knows Ilya will beat himself up about it, but he knows better than to lie.
"I felt really shaky right after, like adrenaline crash? And when I got back to my room I was so cold even after I showered. I just curled up in bed and couldn't sleep, so then the next day I was sad and exhausted, and I just felt like, hollow, you know?"
Shane glances to the side but Ilya won't meet his gaze.
"I was pretty jumpy for a day or two and I just wasn't hungry at all, which is probably why I was so cold because I wasn't eating enough. And I kept spiraling about everything, about how easily I caved for you in the bathroom and then the way you just kicked me out - it wasn't fun," he finishes softly.
Ilya still won't look at him. Shane watches a muscle jump in his jaw as he swallows harshly.
"Hey," he tries, to no avail. He gets up and comes around to stand in front of Ilya, bringing his hands up to cradle his face again. Ilya tries to look away but Shane forces him to look at him.
"I know you didn't mean to. It's not your fault. I'm okay. And it's never happened again," he says firmly. Ilya scans his face then nods once sharply. Shane bends down and presses a short kiss to Ilya's forehead, then his cheeks, then his lips. It's usually a surefire way to get Ilya to smile, but today it only earns him a half smile, there and gone almost immediately.
"I love you," he says, a little desperately.
"Ya tozhe," Ilya replies after a moment. Shane holds onto it.
It's a Tuesday when Bruce realizes he hasn't seen Jason smile since he came back to life.
He's seen him smirk plenty, he's seen the hard bitter curve of lips that Bruce won't call a smile because it never reaches his eyes, the one normally paired with a kind of righteous resignation that never fails to make Bruce ache. He's seen Jason's face twisted in fear and rage and disappointment, has had to guess at which one he was showing under his helmet. Even now, after an uneasy ceasefire that turned into a tentative truce and is now easing into a brittle alliance, Bruce has yet to see Jason smile.
It's not the sort of thing he tends to dwell on, given the magnitude of all the other things he hasn't gotten to do with him, and he might have continued for months more without realizing if he hadn't come down to the cave at the right moment to hear Jason let out a bark of laughter to a story Steph is telling with great relish, and Bruce's first thought is, "that's not what his laugh sounded like," immediately followed by "I haven't heard him laugh since before he died," and then, most damningly, "I haven't seen him smile since before he died."
It would take a lesser man out at the knees, he knows, but Batman has better control than that, so he continues down without his knees buckling or his chest caving in, for all that the part of him that never got up from holding his baby's body under the Ethiopian sun is screaming.
His footsteps echo on the floor as he makes his way over to where Jason is seated with Steph, Tim, and Dick, and the laughter cuts off abruptly. When he looks up, Jason's face is as inscrutable as the mask he wears, and for one insane moment he thinks he'd do anything at all just to make his boy smile.
"What are you doing here?" He asks gruffly, and Jason's face twists briefly before smoothing back out into indifference.
"Don't worry, I'm getting out of your hair, Bats," he says, standing from where he was slouched against the desk and snatching his helmet up.
Bruce sighs, and Jason's shoulders twitch.
"You don't have to -"
"Yes I do," Jason cuts him off. "Blondie, text me about the thing, I want to hear how this ends."
"You got it, Red," Steph chirps with a salute.
The barest corner of Jason's mouth quirks up, but it falls once he glances back over at Bruce.
Bruce wants to ask about the story, wants to beg him to stay, wants to bundle him upstairs with hot chocolate and a period movie and watch as his grin lights up his whole face, wants to know if his real smile still makes his eyes scrunch or his nose wrinkle, wants him to -
"Later, losers," he says, striding over to where his bike is parked.
