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Bruce woke up in the body of his second son, much bigger than he normally was, with an aching body and a bruised ego. Magic.
Stupid magicians. One hit him with a spell last night and this was, evidently, the result of that. He dragged his body up, forcing Jason’s body to stumble to the bathroom and stitch up the wound in his side.
Bruce did not like this.
He did not like the fact that he was invading his son’s privacy like this.
Even if Jason rarely spoke to him, rarely visited, never confided in him, never thought of him like a father,he was his son, and Bruce wouldn't hurt their fragile relationship even more by doing anything he thought was too much.
So, he stitched himself up, iced the bruises on his side, helped in any way he could, without feeling like an intruder in his son’s body.
he didn't change out of the long sleeved shirt Jason had worn to bed, hitch was, obviously, a mistake, after he spilled boiling water on his right arm. Hastily, he pulled the shirt off, and rushed to the sink to put his arm under cold water, and then froze.
Long, straight lines ran across his arms, obviously self-inflicted, obviously healed over, but still.
How hadn't he known? How had he missed it? How had his son been struggling, and he hadn't even known?
How long ago was this? Before his death? After the Lazarus pit? When he was Robin? Had he done this because of Bruce? Had someone hurt him?
Bruce stared at his arm for much longer than he should have, especially since the scald was still very prominent and very painful.
He dropped to his knees and continued staring.
He didn't even realise he was crying.