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It's not really Jason's usual style, this kind of low-stakes undercover stuff, but Black Mask has been fortifying his base like crazy lately, and that means the fucker's planning something nasty. Shittily, heightened security means that Jason can't just do his usual (chuck on a bad wig and a worse Bostonian accent to sign up as a freelance goon). No, when Roman's feeling paranoid he's right up there with the best of 'em, and getting to him directly would be a pain.
Way way way easier to infiltrate and eavesdrop on his current suite of goons, people he already holds close and trusts. (Un)luckily, despite how much Roman counts on 'em, he still treats his people like absolute shit. Comes with being a villain, sure, but also comes with being rich (these two things are often the same). It hadn't taken long to discover that a cool 35% of his semi-inner circle take GoTA, busses and metros filled with men who've killed (henchmen, bankers) tucked in tight with grandmas out to get groceries and kids on their way to school. It's pretty trivial to get a job as a bus driver under Gotham's Transport Authority, and he's warmed to know that GoTA staff are fully unionised; benefits are great and everyone learns stunt driving for Gotham-style emergencies.
There're even all sorts of Fancy Drinks in the driver's lounge at Corazon, the hub closest to the docks, and he indulges in hot apple cider (from a packet) even though he's only here on a short-term contract (full benefits!!) to sub for a driver on maternity leave (paid!!). The timing's perfect; three junior lieutenants take the bus he's driving to get to the Red Line so's they can commute up to the shitty mansion Black Mask keeps up north in the richer part of town, and they clearly schedule themselves so's they can travel together and not miss the last bus.
When it's gone midnight and it's pissing with frigid rain outside and you're 33 minutes away from home, lips get real, real loose. Jason's careful during the start of his shift to make little adjustments so that the seats closest to his are the warmest, so it takes about 3 weeks before Mizzel, Stevenson, and Bazalar have basically emptied out their hearts within hearing distance, underpaid and overworked and shitty and tired.
Jason would feel bad for them, but he knows the parts they're happily playing for the Mask too well to give too much of a shit what might happen to them. He does, however, care about doing his duty to Gotham, so even though he absolutely can quit the ruse at this point, he's keeping up with his shifts. The concept of leaving GoTA in a lurch, of fucking up the commute for the hundreds of people that depend on him and the new mom who'll come back to whatever he leaves her in a month, it's fucking unacceptable.
So he keeps on keeping on, snooping on the guys but also on everyone else, making sure that he's alert to everyone and everything. It's kind of satisfying, to be able to help both as a driver (more than one grandma's called him a sweetheart for rolling to super smooth stops and kneeling the bus before they gotta ask for it) and as himself (marked decrease in robberies and assaults near bus stops around the time Jay Peterson gets off shift, of course, but also there's a lot of kindnesses you can offer when yours is the face they see at 2:30 AM after a too-long shift at work, and Jason tries to be a good face to see).
It also helps he's got such a soft soft spot for Carlotta, she with her 20 yard turning circle and her love of jumping curbs. He's genuinely considering getting a bus for his own menagerie at this point, and he's half-worried he'll just steal her (though of course he wouldn't, couldn't bear to steal her from Gotham).
This particular night he's an hour out from the end of his shift, distantly thinking about quitting vigilantism and instead trying help Gotham from within GoTA; a half dozen of his regulars, sweetheart ladies young and old cradling sweetheart toddlers in their best finery have given him snacks, delicious flaky confections to celebrate Eid with him, and Jason doesn't get loved on like this as the Hood so he's seriously considering career change (again).
He's idly wondering about what would count as festival dress for him when he pulls up to Meatyard Mouth for the lone guy waiting at the stop. MM's near the end of the industrial park here by the docks, and it's a busy stop during the day. Night-time riders in the area however tend to be unsavoury and/or unloved, but it's not like Jason's got to worry about his personal safety. He pulls to a stop, pops the door open, and
swallows his heart back down his throat because it's fucking Bruce(!).
Battered and bruised and he's got 3 pounds of sfx make up on, at least, but his eyes are clear and Jason has known and known and known this man at his best and at his worst and it's the body it's the back it's the eyes it's the thing that's under latex and under skin and under bone, in through the marrow and and and and-
Jason reclines a little more in his seat. "Quiet night," he says mildly, because he's under deep cover and he's got doe brown eyes and Bruce would've known him when he was Robin from a hundred thousand miles away by some sixth sense alone, but Bruce doesn't know Jason as he is, and it's a tragedy and it's a saving grace and it's too too many feelings too too late at night.
Bruce smiles a tired smile, climbing on and tapping his card, recognition nowhere near (god fucking damn him). "Didn't even know the bus ran this late," he says, and he must be fucking decimated because he hasn't even put on a blue collar east Gotham accent, sounds more like himself than anything else (and how unnatural is that?). "You doing all right?"
And Jason Feels It, that penetrating once-over (is anything bleeding is anything hurting is anything in need of fixing is anything anything anything wrong) that's so familiar because this is the man that taught him how to do it, so familiar because he does it 600 times a day with all the unbearably beautiful people of Gotham that come in through his doors.
Jason wants to run out the bus screaming, but this is the chance of a lifetime; he's observing Bruce in the wild, a Bruce who thinks himself unobserved. Yeah, it's making his skin want to crawl up and off his body, but he doesn't think anyone else in the family, not even Alfred, has ever ever seen this. So he tells his skin to stay stuck to sinew, and snorts a little. "Man, it's so late at night I feel my eye lids sticking to my eye balls. Last loop of the night, though. You heading home?" He levers the doors shut, and carefully gets them on their way. If Bruce wanted to, he could just nod and head on to the back of the bus, but instead he leans against the raised platform over the wheel arch, facing Jason but looking out the big front windows.
"Not quite yet," Bruce says. "One more thing to finish up before I can crawl into bed, but I'll be with you till you end up back at C-zon."
Jason can't think of any pressing cases that would necessitate Bruce being undercover as Some Guy running 'round this late at night, and he's a little curious about that but not even a tiny fraction as curious as he is about what Bruce is like when he thinks no one he knows is looking. "I know it's funny coming from the guy who gets off shift at 3 AM, but it's not good for you to be working so hard so late at night." He gets a low, warm chuckle in response, Bruce melting into a heavier lean against the platform. "No, like, seriously, man. What are you, 50? Think of the grandkids."
"Don't have any. Hands pretty full with just my kids, to be honest."
Jackpot. "Yeah?" Jason comes to a full stop at a stop sign even though it's quiet and empty because he's a licensed and disciplined bus driver, thanks. "What, they still living at home? This economy, right?"
That gets Bruce chuckling again, and WHAT does it mean that he shows amusement so easily when he thinks it's just him and some strange stranger? "I wish," Bruce says, surprisingly earnest. "No, most of them are big and grown, busy with their own lives. Wish they'd visit more, if anything." Bruce glances at him wryly. "Think you're a few years away from worrying about your kids growing away from you yet."
And how's Jason meant to resist that opening? "Can imagine it from the other side, though. Don't got the best relationship with my dad, though I'm pretty sure he'd be okay if I said I needed to move back home."
Bruce winces, because of course it hits like a personal attack (it is). "Sorry to hear that. I hope you get as much or as little contact with him as you want." He mulls over something internally for a bit, lips a little twisted eyes a little down. "Do you... You don't have to tell me, of course. But you're okay? I mean. I want my children to be around more but I know they don't feel the same, so I try and make sure they don't have to see me if they don't want to. You're not, ah, running out of options or anything?"
It's almost sweet and it's a lot pathetic for one of the world's most strategic and terse motherfuckers to be brung low at the pretense of a bus driver mildly going through it. You gotta wonder, for all his tendency towards quietness and reservedness, if this 1000-miles-an-hour frenzied panic isn't more representative of what B's got going on when he doesn't have a world-ending calamity on the mind. Jason throws up a thumbs-up. "I'm a union man and I make $45 an hour, bud, I promise you not even my dad can make me do anything I don't want to."
Bruce nods at that, satisfied, before they settle into a slightly awkward silence for a good 15 minutes, no other passengers to pick up. It's only broken by Bruce yawning like he's trying to unhinge his jaw.
"Whoa, man. And you say you got one more thing to do before you get home? Better not be operating any heavy machinery."
Bruce moves to respond, but then has another snake-swallowing-prey-ass yawn. "No, nothing serious. Just need to clock off at the office before I go home, my shift manager's waiting." And it feels like they're about to go quiet again, and still Bruce stands by him instead of heading back to take a seat when he looks dead on his feet, and Jason is thinking guess this is the closest we're ever gonna get to a dad helicoptering on the side while their kid learns how to drive huh when there's an Almighty BANG! and ahhhh shit gets wacky.
The steering wheel jerks violently, so Jason's guessing it's a blown tyre. No amount of vehicular violence can get past him and his guns (biceps and double-barrels both), so from when the shock hit to him safely navigating them to a halt by the curb it took a bare handful of seconds. He might bruise a little where the seatbelt dug in tight, and the row of bunched-together houses might think someone's gotten shot (again), but all in all it's no biggie. With it being so late and dark out they'd been going at a leisurely crawl anyways, so really, it's all so so fine.
What is a Biggie though is how maybe 2 seconds in his vision had been obscured, on account of Bruce having very purposefully thrown himself across the way to shield Jason like a bare back could take a bullet. It's a miracle that Jason hadn't driven them into a storm drain, but where the sudden loud sound had been a shock, Bruce's body-blocking had made immediate sense to his hindbrain, echoing the 10,000 times where Bruce had covered him via arm and cape and back in an effort to keep him safe from harm. It'd worked all those times (bar one) all those years ago, so it sure seemed like his instincts chose to be extremely chill about this extremely un-chill behaviour.
The bus is at a standstill and still Bruce doesn't detach, and Jason figures it's because he's still worried about gunfire. He lets the hug(?) go on for a little while more (just a little little while) before patting Bruce's arm. "Thanks for the cover, big guy, but I think we just blew a tyre. I'm good, promise. You hurt any?"
Bruce pulls back, reluctantly and carefully like he's worried about causing whiplash. "I'm fine," he says, before clearing his throat and brushing down the front of his shirt like he's trying to neaten a tux instead of a somewhat ragged set of overalls. "I work in this area and it's really not that bad, but it can get rough. Didn't mean to throw myself at you."
The hell he didn't. It's more a miracle that Bruce hadn't just climbed into the cab with him. Jason waves him off, opening the little partition separating the driver from their masses after pulling up the brakes. "Nah, it's gotta be the dad in you, right? The protective mom-arm coming from whoever's riding shotgun?" He pulls the lever to manually get the doors open and steps out into the chilly night. Hello, moon, hello, Venus, hello, lady in the low apartment building right by them with her head out the window huffing on a cigarette, lit end like the top of a radio tower. She waves at him, he waves right back.
Bruce follows after him. "Still. It was rude."
They both walk 'round to the other side, beholding together the blown out front left tyre. "Would've been super polite if I was getting shot at, so I think we can call it a draw." Jason kicks the sad-looking chunk of exploded rubber; it flops back in return. "Ah, shit. Can't get back to C-zon like this, they're gonna have to send out a guy." Jason looks at his watch. "We're only a couple of miles out, if you're in a hurry."
Fun and excruciating though this secret interrogation has been going, Jason imagines that Bruce's definition of a little side quest probably involves saving at least 4 orphans, perhaps even some unusual magical creature that's mildly endangered. They would've had another fifteen, maybe twenty minutes of idle talking, but same for bats as it is for GoTA employees; Gotham always comes first.
Bruce looks at the tyre and looks at him. "Do you have to wait for a mechanic? A towtruck?"
Jason looks at his watch. "I'll call it in, but I really doubt anyone's gonna come out for at least another half hour. Dunno if you noticed it, bud, but it's a pretty quiet time. You should go on ahead."
Bruce looks around, a quick careful sweep of the surrounding area, and frowns like he's got a mouth full of lemons. He looks at his watch too. "Call it in. I have a bit of time, I'll keep you company."
"You sure?" Jason says with genuine surprise.
Bruce looks at him with eye-watering intensity and absolutely zero recognition. "Yes."
-
They end up sitting on the curb, the body of the bus blocking the worst of the wind, the hazard lights going click click click loud enough to hear even from the outside.
In many ways, it's not that different to stakeouts on windswept rooftops; lots of silence that's softened by the sounds of a restless city, Bruce stiller than a stone statue, Jason mildly bored out of his mind, someone playing music just a little too softly to make out the words somewhere just out of view.
Well. There is one difference though.
Jason pulls out his pack of cigarettes and lights up. "Want one?" he offers, inhaling deep and feeling pleasantly self-destructive.
Bruce shakes his head, looking away from the bus towards where Corazon would be. "No, thanks. My youngest has asthma, so I've been trying to stop."
Jason didn't know that about Damian, huh. He makes an effort to blow the smoke away from Bruce, but with how hard the wind's whipping by 'em the little devil should be fine. "Yeah? Good man. I tried to swap to vaping, but there's something, like, unspeakably humiliating 'bout being a grown man blowing out bubble gum smoke. Nicotine and unmentionables, that's the way to go."
"I'd drink to that," Bruce says like it's a keenly felt feeling.
"Brother, say no more." Jason reaches for his right ankle first, before remembering that that's his gun ankle, and reaches for his left instead. He tugs the little flask off its little strap. "It's shitty whiskey. And no, I don't drink while I'm driving, but I've got a flask for the same reason I've got spare socks and aspirin. You never know who's gonna need what." He knows he's being defensive, but the prospect of being thought of as someone who didn't take to fucking heart his responsibility to safely ferry people from place to place is Unacceptable.
Bruce unexpectedly accepts the flask without too much fuss. "You were a careful driver," is all he says before taking a gulp and making a face; yes yes, it's the amazing acrid flavours of 6-month-old Jimmy Walks, a classic Gotham brand (est. 1997). "And you really never know who's going to need what." Bruce reaches into a deep deep pocket and pulls out a protein bar (white chocolate and cranberries). "Split this with me?"
Jason thinks if he tastes this thing he'd eaten a thousand times on a thousand rooftops a thousand lifetimes ago he Will cry, but not taking it and tasting it is unimaginable, so he says thanks and snaps a half of the bar off for Bruce. Jesus, the sweet jammy smell alone... "Don't suppose you got hot coffee on you too?"
Bruce just reaches into a deep pocket on his leg, and out comes a little thermos. "Half left and it's strong, but be my guest."
"Lifesaver," Jason says gustily, downing one massive gulp. For all that Bruce is a master of undercover work, able to fit in almost anywhere as almost anything, the man does enjoy the finer things in life; the fucking thermos must be made using goddamn extraterrestrial metal because it's still so hot it almost boils on the way down. "God, that sure hit the spot. Shit like this makes life worth living."
This is not an uncommon thing to say 'bout the little pleasures in life, but Bruce gets this haunted look like he thinks Jason's being for real for real. The same as how the Bat gets in front of a crying 6-year-old, the man starts emptying himself out, secret pockets and hidden compartments and what Jason damn well suspects is the Bat utility belt disguised as a gentle middle-aged-man's soft belly. Within moments Jason's got a selection of more protein bars and some gum and a lollipop and a travel toothbrush and what is very clearly a 100 dollar bill tucked badly into a twisted-up bright green scrunchie. Jason looks at his lap of treasures, and he really really can't keep down a grin. "My guy, what the hell is this?"
Bruce isn't looking at him, on account of fervently patting himself down for more knick-knacks (that aren't Bat weapons). "Little things that, ah, make life worth living." He makes a satisfied little sound, and drops 2 fortune cookies and little packets of soy sauce onto Jason's lap. "Unfortunately I don't have my bag on me," he says very mournfully.
What on earth is there left to give??? Jason gestures at his hoard. "I think this is plenty. Did you, like, want to be Santa Claus or something when you were a kid???"
That has Bruce huff out a laugh. "We weren't a Santa Claus kind of household, so no. No, my father was a doctor, so I thought I might be one too." And this is not good cover-building etiquette, being an older guy whose father was a doctor but he'd somehow ended up being a blue-collar man slogging through work at 2 in the morning can snag just a touch too much attention, but the protocol's for keeping you safe in the field and evidently Bruce feels safe enough right now to do without (jesus christ). "My bedside manner is terrible, though, and I prefer getting my hands dirty anyways, so." He smiles, lines in his cheeks under layers of latex still so terribly deep. "Did have a moment where I wanted to be a train driver, though. Seemed nice, you know? Good honest work that helps people, but every day the path's the same as the last." He laughs very very quietly, like he's got his own little joke, and Jason can Imagine.
A train driver's the same as a bus driver's the same as a Bat; it's about a life of service for Gotham's wonderful fucking weirdos no matter how many people call you a slur or smoke weed in your face or try to stab you. And Bruce is a lines and angles kind of guy, a know the limits (of yourself and everyone you've ever known) kind of guy, a one thousand and one plans kind of guy, a guy who is so committed to keeping this steam engine on fire (Greater Gotham Metropolitan Area) on the rails, chugging towards where she ought to go. Man would love the inexorable pre-planned nature of train routes.
Then there's that other thing. Uhm. Jason reckons he'd be bored as hell driving a train; no curbs to jump, no stopping traffic in the middle of the road a mile away from the nearest stop because someone very apologetically says they really need to get off here, no winking every time someone comes on without tapping their card. A train's a box that runs on tracks, and the tracks don't change suddenly, and there is a little room with a little door and there you are; and locked away on the other side is every single person you're serving/you've ever served. Jason suspects he's reading a lot into this (but perhaps not too much); what does it mean that they converge on a burning desire to help people get to where they need to be and then diverge in how close they get to be with the people they'd die (have died) for?
Jason doesn't think Bruce ever gets sweet aunties giving him little fruit jam tarts for Eid. And here they are, two of Gotham's too-few legion of workers working to keep her running, and only one of them's awash in bits and bobs of care and confections. Lord, god. He's got to blink his eyes dry. "Think you'd be a pretty good bus driver, probably." He clears his throat. "Great instincts, y'know, responding to emergencies and all that."
Horrifically, Bruce seems legitimately pleased by this, a little preening, chest a little puffed. "I have been told I'm a pretty good driver," he says, which is categorically untrue because all of them have a tendency to drive like demons outta hell and there's a reason Ra's is so so obsessed with Bruce. "Still have a pretty terrible bedside manner, though, so I don't know how happy the public would be to tap in and see me." And he laughs again, like it's a little joke, like he's a little joke.
Jason kind of wants to be run over by a bus right now. He's trying to keep a calm face on so hard it's giving him a migraine. "Hey, now. You don't make the worst first impression." This, too, is categorically untrue, because the first time they'd met Jason had tried to kneecap Bruce with a tyre iron. For good and valid reasons, and his life would be a whole lot different if Bruce had given up on him all those years ago, is the thing.
Different, yeah. Not necessarily better. Jason puts out his cigarette, and effortlessly flings the butt into a trashcan nearby. He takes another swig of coffee, and grabs a fortune cookie for him, and returns one to Bruce. "I don't know, man. You're handling shit going wrong real gracefully right now, and I'm, uhm, happy to see you, so there's that?"
God. Bruce smiles so much when he thinks no one he knows is watching. "I'll take it. And maybe I'll take you up on trying out a career change, too. Getting a little old to be running 'round warehouses in the night."
If this is some sort of unexpected insight into Bruce's retirement plans, Jason will drive off into the sunset with Carlotta (he doesn't want to imagine this!!). "There's a brochure behind the cab, tells you 'bout how to sign up for bus driving school 'n all that." And he finds that he means it, a little. That Bruce should consider getting folded into the GoTA metro bus system, not hidden away by cowls and doors from the people he's constantly almost-dying for. "Think about it."
Maybe Bruce would've seriously considered it as a post-cowl plan, maybe in another life he would've laughed again and grabbed the flyer and given GoTA a call in the morning, go through driver training like he's doing it for the fun of it and then falling in love with it anyways.
In another life, maybe. In this one, before Bruce can reply there's a hideous BOOM! and a fireball mushrooming up and up and up, in the general direction of C-zon. For a moment, both of them are bathed in a merry red-orange glow, and then Bruce is sighing and getting to his feet. "That'll be me," he says mildly, pulling out his phone and tapping away. "Sorry I couldn't wait with you till help arrived, but I need to get this squared away first." Bruce rolls his shoulders, twists a little till his back gives a Bane-like crack, rocks on his feet like he's warming up. He looks down at Jason. "You'll be okay?"
Jason gets up too, his little gifts in his arms. "I'll be okay. Don't forget your thermos, Mr. Mysterious."
Bruce gently rests Jason's flask on top of everything else. "Keep it. Think of it as thanks for being one of Gotham's finest." And he looks at Jason, looks at him long and hard and it's almost like he's figured it out, but he hasn't, because he's smirking, waving around the little slip of paper of his fortune cookie. "Says 'Good company will find you when you least expect it', which is shockingly accurate. Get home safe, all right?"
Jason looks down where his little paper is clenched in his fist. "Hey, imagine that, we got the same fortune. Now go, man, before some other shit catches on fire. See you 'round Meat Mouth again sometime, maybe? Thanks for the coffee, anyways."
And Bruce smiles (again again again). "Maybe. You have yourself a good night." And like a switch being flipped, this mild chill guy dissolves into this grim-faced tall tall tall man who breaks into a run so quick and quiet that Bruce'll get to Corazon station before the ash has all settled, probably.
Jason blows out a heavy, heavy breath. It's almost definitely some sort of controlled demolition, because if fucking around shooting the breeze was enough to result in catastrophic damages not even Bruce could've kept himself from showing it on his face. Besides, Jason's emergency comms haven't gone off either, so Red Hood really doesn't need to haul ass. So Jason climbs back inside the bus because it's getting chilly out when there isn't a giant wall of a man sheltering you from the winds, and he puts away item by item while trying not to think too hard about why he's feeling more like an out-of-sorts kid than when he had been a kid and met Bruce for the first time. He's still staring at his little fortune when there's a smart rap on the window by the open doors.
He looks up, expecting to see one of the mechanics he's halfway acquainted with, and instead it's uhhhh fucking Tim. "Jesus fucking Christ," Jason says, with feeling.
"Almost as good. It's me, Red Robin. I, uh, saw your stranded vehicle while I was walking by, and this part of town can get pretty dangerous, so I'll just hang around with you till help comes."
God, why is Tim so bad at low-stakes lying? Easy enough to guess that Bruce had texted and asked someone to keep Jason company, and easy enough to tell that much like his mentor, despite being so so so damn smart Tim sure as shit doesn't know that it's Jason he's looking straight at. God aloud. Jason eyes Tim up and down and sighs. "You can come inside, I guess, get out of the wind. Want some coffee?"
Tim visibly brightens up. "Man, I'm two hours over when I wanted to wrap up patrol, thank you for saving my life."
"Yeah, yeah," Jason says, passing along Bruce's thing of hot coffee. And while Tim indulges, Jason unfurls his little fortune slip. You are needed more than you know, and it's so fucking trite and it's so fucking on point that he's half-wondering if Bruce had maybe actually known and this is some sort of elaborate ploy, but then he remembers the sheer number of times Bruce had smiled so deeply his face might've creaked and has to come to terms with the fact that this is just his life now. "Hey, kid, I got some pastries and shit, you want some?"
The noise Tim makes is extremely embarrassing, and Jason has to pinch the bridge of his nose to fight off a headache and a smile.
(He's going to drop a brochure for the GoTA driving school programme on the fucking Bat Computer and if Bruce has anything to say about this goddamn revelation he can square up at Meatyard Mouth (again)).