Bruce is used to looking for the small details that no one thinks to mention. In his line of work if he didn't pay attention to the almost unnoticeable things he would have been dead before the age of 30. When it comes to his children Bruce is especially alert for those small details: Tim's red eyes and twitching hands from too much caffeine, Cass' switch back to her native tongue when she's stressed, the way Dick pauses halfway through a motion and the flash of pain across his features from a hidden wound, Damian's quietness when he's rattled, the hitch in Jason's voice when he's scared… All of his children are different except in the fact that they try to hide things from him. They'll work themselves to death if he doesn't keep an eye on them. It's easier now that they're all under the same roof again, if only briefly.

The bang that goes off is sudden, like a firecracker exploding, so sudden that Bruce thinks he must have imagined it at first. That is until the uproar of voices and pounding feet bursts forth just as loud in a second wave of noise. Bruce is sprinting up the stairs of the cave before the first voice yells for him— it's Tim's voice, he realizes a second later.

He crests the first floor landing, skirting around a dropped tea tray, cups and saucers lying smashed into pieces on the carpet and forgotten instantly. The sight of the chaos is not far from the stairs leading up to the second landing. Whatever happened must have started in Jason's bedroom and spilled out into the hallway. He spots Tim and Alfred first, crouched on the ground over Dick. Tim's hands are slick with blood, pressing hard over a wound on Dick's shoulder to stop the floor. Alfred is quick to replace Tim's hands with a hand towel, taking up Tim's position.

"Cass," Tim gestures furiously with red hands. "Get Damian out of here. Now."

Bruce doesn't know how he didn't hear his youngest son shouting death threats, but suddenly Cass has Damian around the middle, her strong arms pinioning his smaller ones to his sides. She starts dragging him, still kicking and screaming, towards the servants staircase on the other side of the hall. Bruce looks towards the target of Damian's aggression.

Jason.

Jason's eyes don't focus on him completely, switching between Dick's prone form and Bruce's presence at the top of the stairs. When he catches Bruce staring at him, he reacts as if he's the one that's been shot. Like he's not the one with the gun in his hand.

Bruce has so many questions that he wants to ask at once that they're tumbling over themselves in his mouth for the right to come first. He doesn't ask any of them though, clenching his teeth shut so tight that he fears for the condition of his jaw. How could he ask any of them when his son looks like he is a second away from breaking? He watches Jason stumble back into the doorway, shoulderblades jamming into the grooved trim as he lets the surface take his weight. The gun clutched loosely in his hand, almost like an afterthought or an extension of his arm, shakes through a series of tremors. His legs are quick to follow.

Bruce steps forward, doing what is natural for him as a father— ready to catch his son if his legs give out.

His movement draws Jason's alarmed gaze, head jerking around to stare at him. Bruce doesn't miss the way the gun in his hand spasms, arm attempting to rise and aim— an instinct that has been ingrained into Jason's limbs through hard learned lessons full of blood and pain. Bruce witnesses the effort it takes Jason to pry his fingers off the gun's grip and let it clatter to the floor.

Jason shudders. "I— I didn't mean to—"

In that moment he looks like the boy Bruce took into his home so many years ago. Dirty hands and defiant eyes, yet still a young boy who retreated at the figure of the Bat looming over him in a dark alley. A boy who built a wall around himself to defend him from the world. A wall with broken bricks where the bad things still found a way to slither in, eating away at his defenses until one solid, unexpected, blow sent it all crumbling down around him.

"Jason, what happened?" He asked.

"I didn't know it was him… I thought I was still dreaming…"

Was this the moment, Bruce wondered. It was years in the making and Bruce would be lying if he said he hadn't expected it to come earlier. So many terrible things had happened to Jason in the past. Perhaps Jason was conditioned to accept the bad things happening to him, but he never foresaw himself being on the other end of it. Jason lived most of his second life with blood staining his hands, but it had never been unjustifiable before.

"We need to get him down to the cave," Said Tim. "Jason, I'm going to need you to help me carry him. Alfred will keep pressure on the wound."

That was Tim— always the person with a plan and a clear head when it mattered.

Jason nodded and then just as quickly shook his head, skirting around the group crouched on the floor. He rubbed at his face. "I'm sorry— I can't— I need to go."

"Jason, wait." Dick's voice was hoarse with pain. He lifted a hand from the floor and reached for the only part of Jason accessible to him, his ankle. Jason stumbled away from his reaching fingers and took the stairs down two at a time, heedless of Bruce calling after him.

Bruce wanted to chase after him and make sure he was safe, but Tim's calm voice stopped him, prioritizing his tasks based on criticality. Dick needed to be seen to first, he told himself. Once Dick was in a stable condition Bruce would go and find Jason. One son at a time, he reminded himself. He wouldn't be any good to anyone if his thoughts were skewed in two different directions.

He helped Tim carry Dick's weight down the stairs and into the cave as Alfred walked alongside them keeping pressure on the wound. They got down there in time to see Jason's bike headlight cut an arc of light across the cave walls at he sped out into the night. Bruce's eyes stared up the drive, his worry gnawing at his insides.

They laid Dick out on the medical table. Dick caught Bruce's elbow before he could retreat too far. "It wasn't his fault, Bruce. He was dreaming. It sounded awful. I should have known better than to try and wake him."

Dick's eyes were watering and Bruce wasn't sure if it was from pain or grief. Bruce nodded. "I know. You don't need to convince me."

Dick shook his head. "Tell Jason. Tell him I don't blame him for it. Convince him that he isn't a bad person, that he's not becoming the thing he sees in his nightmares."

Bruce understood what he wanted him to do, even if he didn't understand all of the things Dick said. For Bruce didn't understand Jason in the way that Dick did. He could never have that kind of a relationships with him. Their decisions and mistakes in the past wouldn't allow it. The words that Dick wanted Bruce to repeat were formed from late night conversations when his sons had bared those dark parts of themselves to each other. Still, the meaning was clear even if Bruce spoke it in different words. They wanted Jason to come back. It had taken them so long to get Jason to open up to them and come back to the manor. Something like this would set them back to the start, possibly even farther.

Convincing Damian to live and let go would be just as great a challenge. Jason had shot Damian's mentor and while Damian might be convinced to move past it with some considerable effort, he would never forget it. Bruce met Tim's eyes across the exam table.

Tim grimaced, knowing what he was asking without him having to say it. "After we fix Dick up you work on Jason. Cass and I will work on Damian."

Bruce nodded.

"He'll listen to me." Dick croaked, eyes getting heavier by the minute.

"Not if you're unconscious," Countered Tim. "and if you don't shut up and let Alfred stop you from bleeding out you will be."

Dick didn't grace that with a response. Instead he released Bruce's elbow for him to step back and let Alfred take his place and start working. Bruce stayed until Dick's wound was dressed and Alfred started the process of disinfecting the medical instruments. As he was heading towards the car park he heard Dick's voice called out across the cave, "Damian, come here. We need to talk about something."

Quickly followed by Tim's not so hushed exclamation of, "Oh, thank God. I did not want to be the one to have that conversation."

Bruce smiled, knowing that he was leaving things in good hands here.

Bruce found Jason in the fourth safehouse he tried, a rundown ramshackle place. It looked like Jason didn't spend much time here except to stitch himself up and catch a few hours of sleep. The living room was bare except for a unsteady table and a stripped down mattress lying on the ground.

Bruce couldn't see much in the darkness of the room, but he could clearly see Jason's form sprawled flat on his back on top of the mattress. At that moment, Jason pulled a packet of cigarettes off the table next to him and shook one free. Jason craned his neck up to light the cigarette held between his lips and in the flickering glow of Jason's lighter Bruce caught sight of his red eyes. The tears that trailed down his cheeks gleamed in the light.

Jason sucked in a long drag and if it weren't for the tears staining his cheeks Bruce might have considered him fine and left. He had to make sure he was alright, though, so he stayed rooted to the spot in a dark corner of the room. It didn't take long after that for Jason to succumb to his emotions, no matter the calming effect his cigarettes had on his nerves.

His form shook through the sobs, his hand quaking as it snatched the cigarette up before he choked on the smoke with his ragged breaths. His arms came up, bracketing his head, a jagged cry working it's way forth from his throat.

"Jason." Bruce couldn't stand staying silent any longer. He stepped out of the shadows and came towards the mattress.

Jason turned his bleary-eyed gaze on him. His expression was anxious when he asked, "Is he alright?"

Bruce couldn't help stating, "If you had stayed you would know."

Though as much as he resented Jason for running away before, he wasn't cruel enough to keep the answer from him when Jason was gazing at him like that.

"He's fine. Awake and probably waiting up to talk to you. Understandably, he's worried."

Jason was silent for a long while. Eventually Bruce said, "He doesn't blame you for what you did, you know. He wanted you to know that you aren't bad… that you're not turning into your nightmare."

The noise that Jason made was a mixture of derision and mental anguish. "He's wrong. I already am that person. I think I always was."

Bruce crouched down beside the mattress, arms braced on his knees.

"What was the dream about, Jason?" He prompted. "When did all of this start?"

Jason huffed a laugh. "I honestly couldn't tell you. I've had nightmares ever since I came back. But the villains in those were always known to me. This one, though… faceless. A man with a black void for a face. At first I was just a bystander watching behind him as he killed people remorseless and silent."

"A week ago that changed. He saw me." Jason looked sickened by the reminder of it. "Then I was the one being killed no matter if I tried to fight him or run the other way. I woke up with the ghosts of fatal wounds on my body. I wondered if this was what people saw when I patrolled. A killer… I was so rattled by it, I did the only thing that ever made me feel in control— started sleeping with a gun under my pillow even though you ordered me not to while I was under your roof."

He had given that order. He should have seen that something was wrong with Jason. He should have known the low possibility of Jason listening to him and done a sweep of Jason's room. But he hadn't been paying attention and now one of his son's was injured and the other was pulling away from his family. This was his fault.

"It's my fault," muttered Jason, rubbing angrily at his face. "I told Dick about the dreams but I didn't tell him about the gun. I was too worried that it would make me look paranoid that I didn't think about that paranoia getting him hurt."

"What happened has already happened. There's nothing you can do to change that so just come back to the manor with me, Jason. You don't have to sleep if you don't want to. We can talk or we can just sit together."

Jason shook his head. "I'm not going back. Not if I'm going to keep hurting people."

Bruce touched his arm. "I know you won't like what I'm about to say, but there is a way of dealing with this. I can call Leslie and schedule a counseling session."

Jason opened his mouth, looking like he was ready to spit out a fast rebuke about therapists, but then paused. He spun his lighter around in his fingers a few times before clutching it tightly in one fist. "I owe it to Dick to try."

Bruce smiled a soft smile. "I don't think you have to worry about any of your fears, Jason. What you just did— feeling guilt, admitting your weaknesses, getting help— that's what makes me sure you're going to be okay. As long as you keep in touch with what's important to you you won't turn into the man in your nightmare."

He rose to his feet and offered Jason his hand. "Let's go home. There's someone there that wants to talk to you."