logsinthenight

Entry tags:

closed

characters: Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd, Riku, Vanitas
location: The museum + the church
date/time: Post Sandman event- from the point that the dreamers wake +4days
content: Jason tips his hand and some complicated truths are revealed + Bruce goes to the church to wait for familiar faces to be resurrected
warnings: violence, gore, character death

museum | jason todd
[He's dreaming until he isn't. It's a difficult thing to describe as dreaming in the first place when Bruce doesn't remember falling asleep. They're before and after images- he had been there, at the dinner. And then he'd been looking up at the church, squinting through barely remembered sunlight.

His body feels stiff and that's perhaps the first sensation to occur to him. The muscle in his stomach and arms is tight from disuse, his back feels like one solid shape that's been locked together. Everything is dark and cold. Bruce tries to flex his toes but he isn't sure if it follows through- if it's an idea of if it actually carries. He tries his fingers. And slowly he becomes aware of his face- the muscle around his mouth and the space between his brows. There's no corona behind his closed eyes and Bruce is sure he must be back where he started, but he isn't vertical anymore. Everything around him feels strange and muted- as if his hands are over his ears.

A small noise comes out of him, not quiet a grunt, but more than a breath. And slowly Bruce is able to open his eyes for the first time in two weeks.]

church | riku + vanitas
[Jason leaves. This is not unexpected because in the time they've known each other, if it could be called that, Jason leaving has become a sort of constant. Their paths intersect from time to time, and then they are forcibly diverted. Bruce doesn't blame him; he suspects that Jason would have fled while he was still smouldering if he could. It was necessity that had kept them together, reversed their positions.

But alone in the museum once more Bruce hears his tablet respond, an incoming message. It's reassuring to see that Riku is present and accounted for, that he's already trying to get on top of things, to organize. Bruce understands this reaction because it's one that they share.

And that changes as soon as the tablet chimes again. The bulletin.

If he is honest (and Bruce tries to be honest) he isn't take aback to find Vanitas's name on the obituaries. He has been listed before, but there is a chaotic recklessness in him that Bruce has long since been aware of. A kind of fearlessness in regards to his own limits, to whatever pain his actions might incur. There is a moment where he considers how this might change his demeanor and what Bruce might be able to learn about his motivation. But that moment is subsumed by Jim Gordon's name on the list. It strikes Bruce like a glancing shot- that makes his ears ring and makes his body feel hot with urgency and nausea.

The James Gordon he knows has always been part of the GCPD and by extension his life has always been close to danger. Sometimes that danger is more present than others, sometimes it's more personal. He has been targeted more than once and Bruce has lost sleep for worry before. He has has practice clamping the lid down on what might have happened, on his worst fears. He tries to remind himself of this now, as he climbs to his feet and tears out the door without bothering for a jacket or even his shoes. The dead do not stay dead here. He knows this to be fact, he has seen it, Vanitas himself is a testament.

But the fear persists.

Bruce races to the church like a man possessed, along dirt trails and through trees, until the building looms ahead of him- a strange twin to the place he'd just woken from.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[The bandages won't help. They'll protect against infection, but supplies in Beacon are so limited that there isn't enough for the inevitability of changing them, using fresh material as his skin heals. Jason's eyes go to his hands, a part of him that's more shape than recognizable substance- and Bruce pauses just long enough to watch his face, to see his lucidity. Perhaps it's an unfair moment to take, after all, it's clear that Jason has been here for some time, forcing himself to remain present and aware. To stay on alert.

To protect Bruce.]

I'm coming back.

[It sounds too much like a promise, but then the brutal force of his honesty has never been convenient. There are times it lands like a battering ram. Maybe Jason doesn't need to hear it, but Bruce needs to say it.

A battering ram that swings both ways.

Bruce stands abruptly and tears off down the hall; his normally quiet gait made trackable by dulled nerve endings and clumsy joints. He slides once and catches himself against a wall. It doesn't slow him down. He stumbles a second time when he reaches the stair and begins prying it up from the far edge, jaw clenched and brows drawn together until it yields. When Bruce comes back it's with a bag slung over one shoulder (one of his first aid kits) and a strap slung over the other (a canteen.) They come off of him in a single, lopsided jerk as he sinks to one knee again.

The priority is to open his kit, one of four that he'd been carefully collecting supplies for since he'd arrived, one of four that he'd hidden through the town. The rise and fall of his chest is quick with urgency, but not wild enough to suggest panic or exhaustion. The canteen's lid comes away and he lifts it.]

Drink.

[He knows that the request for water had been largely for his hands, to drop his body temperature, to clean the wounds out. But Bruce raises the lip of the canteen to Jason's mouth instead and waits. Waits until Jason has begun to drink. Waits until he has drunk.

And then he uses the last of his ketamine, a small pinprick in Jason's thigh.]

[ was bruce counting on him being too tired to protest? probably. he was a good gamble. he didn't want the drink-- though he knew there was a decent chance that he was dehydrated. but in terms of priorities, this wasn't the top concern for him. he may be in a lot of pain, but there's no hiding the suspicion in his eyes. the unsaid question of "what are you doing?" because for the life of him, he could not convince himself this was naïveté on Bruce's part.

Bruce was a lot of things, but naive was not one of them. everything was with a purpose, a feeling Jason related with far too much. but he drinks, and starts to say something, and then he feels the pinprick, feels the immediate sluggishness spreading from there. ]

I knew you were up to something.

[ he starts to stand, but his body already felt heavy, but now he felt rooted to the spot. and he immediately falls back. he'd been doing the mental calculations in his head: how far can he get like this? how quickly can he escape? is he going to pass out? and he finds those calculations impossible to finish, as he found it impossible to even stand up, his mind slowing. and the environment around him blurring. He should still stand up, but he doesn't think he could, and he tilts his head back against the wall again.

at least, he feels the pain numbing just as well as he feels darkness enclosing on the edge of his vision. he's exhausted. it takes only a few minutes for darkness to take him. to sink in to nothingness.

at least... it was Bruce this time, and not the Joker. Bruce has done some shitty things to him, but at least it was him. At least this was the sort of weakness he could tolerate, even only nominally. ignoring how his hands-- even where it should have been impossible for skin to regrow- were already quickly stitching themselves back together at a rate no human should be able to do. ]

[Jason says something as the canteen lowers from his mouth, but only part of the sentence makes sense. I knew you were up t- The rest begins to lose it's shape as he tries to stand.

Is it fear that drives him now? Is it the primal, instinctive need to seek safety in the face of vulnerability- or is it a manifestation of anger? Bruce sets the needle aside in a single sweeping motion and follows him, half a step behind so that he's there, beneath Jason's arm when his weight begins to buckle and his knees refuse to hold him any longer. He has considerable muscle mass and the advantage of both height and weight- but Bruce is tenacious and perhaps Jason's match in sheer stubbornness.

There was nothing in his kit for the pain- nothing that would be strong enough to matter. The misdirection, the lie, and the darkness that follows are the kindest things that Bruce has to offer and he knows it. Had known it, from the moment he'd laid eyes on him. The burns are too significant. That Jason hadn't succumbed to shock is, he suspects, owed to his character, but the greatest risk facing him now is infection. The rise and fall of his own chest still comes too quickly, but he's catching up, even with Jason's not inconsiderable mass resting on him. His head lifts and his face turns down the hall.

At the very least, it won't be his first time navigating an unconscious body through the museum.]

----

[He sets up a bed with the cleanest blankets he can find, creates an incline of pillows and carefully maneuvers Jason's body onto it. He needs medical attention urgently and Bruce knows that the lessons he's had are not enough- he isn't a trained professional, he can make some considerations but there are things he won't be able to anticipate. Riku sends him a message a short time later and it only reinforces their isolation. If spirits had been observing the network, he couldn't call publicly and risk the fallout- and he isn't willing to leave Jason's side. Not now. Not right away.

So he takes advantage of his unconsciousness while he can and uses the time to clean up the worst of the wounds- to locate sterile dressings and fresh water. Bruce handles him carefully and thinks, at first blush, that maybe he'd overestimated the sight in his panic after waking. Maybe he'd reacted too quickly, read the scene wrong.

But as he begins to wrap the burns he can see it for himself. Skin that shouldn't exist at all, beginning to stitch itself back together. For a long moment he freezes, and watches. It doesn't repair all at once, he isn't shiny and new in a matter of moments or even a matter of hours, the way Ra's al Ghul had once appeared to him. But the recovery is significant enough that in time Bruce is cleaning dried blood, the ghost of gore from him, more than he is cooling fresh burns.

When Jason finally does rouse, he'll find himself settled in a strange bed- in fresh clothes and fresh bandages. With Bruce seated quietly by his side.]

[ when he does finally come to, it's slower than he wants. he can feel how tired his entire body is, and the unnaturalness of the sleep weighs on his limbs, as well as any binding that Bruce could have put on. He hates it. Hates it so much, how slow his brain is to process, and how the darkness makes it even more tempting to just fall back asleep. but it's the dull throbbing of his palms, his arms, all the burns lacing up his chest and to his neck, that really brings him back to the present moment, as dark and quiet as it is.

and so, he recognizes that he is in a bed. on his back. even his clothes don't feel the same. they're whole, in a way that he distinctly remembers being impossible in the wake of the last monster attack. he thinks he can hear the faint sound of breathing beside him, but a quick glance confirms that there's a second lantern there, even if he can't focus on the image and the shape to place it.

he moves his arm upwards, with some effort-- and it draws attention to the fresh bandages. ]

... Bruce?

[ there's something soft in his tone. but he finally focuses his eyes, looking for the shape of the person next to his bed, letting his arm drop for a second. he needs a couple more minutes, let it really wear off. he isn't sure what he used, but whatever it was, was good. And whatever it was, he has to think that it spared him a couple of hours of excruciating pain. pain he hoped that would have mostly healed over by now.

well, completely would have been nice, but he wasn't holding his breath after everything he'd heard in this place. still, he should count himself so lucky. ]

[He doesn't keep track of the time. Bruce had made a sort of clock some months prior- a counter to mark off the passage of hours and by extension, days. It has not been anywhere near his list of priorities. When he does leave Jason's side it's for a matter of minutes at a piece- to find one of his stores of rations or to get fresh water. New bandages are something he needs less and less and Bruce turns over what he knows, lines it up against what he can conjecture. There are enough clues there for context to begin filling itself in, a border around the picture.

Maybe Jason will beat me to this. Riku told him. To say he's protective of you is putting it lightly.

It's strange until it isn't, to find himself at someone else's bedside. For the air to smell antiseptic, to be punctuated by the rhythmic sounds of breathing. For Bruce himself to be the cause. He looks at Jason's face, at the smooth space between his brows and at his slack mouth and he wonders how many people he'll bury in his lifetime. How many more are going to pay this price- like Alfred had, like Selina. He wonders if Jason made the choice at all or if it was something honed in him, more reflex than desire.

And then one hour is different from the others.

There's a tension that manifests in Jason's limbs and it signals the approach to consciousness before anything else. His throat constricts and his head moves on the pillow, a small jerk in the direction of the lanterns. It's smart. Bruce has the thought and then thinks that he shouldn't, but like so many times before, he doesn't know how to unthink it. He doesn't know how to be something else. Jason's arm lifts. He says his name, and Bruce's lungs press against his ribcage, contort horribly. It's a soft, and very human sound. Bruce doesn't need it as a reason to be here, he doesn't need Jason's vulnerability or gentleness to justify his own investment. His own compassion. But weeks from now, when he curls onto his side and squeezes his eyes shut so tight that they hurt- he'll think about that sound.

Instead of saying anything else at all, instead of a low-pitched reply and in the face of the animosity that's punctuated their conversations before now- Bruce reaches out in turn. Catching Jason's fingers in a warm, steady band. Wordless or not the sentiment is clear.

I'm here.]

[ if there was a remaining question, the reaction is enough to confirm the unspoken part of his question. And he thinks back to the last time that he and Bruce has been okay. It felt like forever ago, but the scene was disconcertingly familiar. And there’s a part of him that hates that, and a part of him that is just grateful for this moment. Those halves are always at war, always shouting each other down in his head.

Too often, he doesn’t reach a conclusion and leaves the choice in Bruce’s hands over which way their relationship will tilt that day. And for so long, it’s been decidedly negative. Decidedly bipolar. Which, whatever, he was a mental case himself. If he could decide, that’d be about where they ended up.

He exhales. Shit, he was getting distracted, thinking about something he can’t have. Instinctively, he wants to squeeze his hand back, knowing which side of their relationship he’d like to land on for this brief moment. But the faint stinging in his fingers reminds him of all the injuries he had slept through.

A warning. ]

Is it too late to pretend this isn’t personal?

[ he closes his eyes for a moment. That was giving away the game, and he would be mad at himself for the indiscretion later but for this moment, he didn’t care. ]

Fuck.

[People have conversations all the time, but they're at their most honest he finds, when they aren't using words. The body talks. Bruce knows that whatever he might have said has been eclipsed by the need to reach out and connect- that there was a truer, clearer intention in the way he'd folded his fingers into Jason's palm than there could have been in stringing a sentence together. He knows that he hurts the people closest to him. That he does it incidentally and intentionally in equal measures, that it won't stop. And here lies Jason Todd, near casualty to the cause.

For what it's worth Bruce is sorry. He can't walk away from it, from this path he's started down years ago, from the things it's cost. From what it will still cost. It's impossible not to wonder how much Jason has paid. If that's the reason his body is stitching itself back together now. His fingers twitch, a barely-there movement and Bruce reads the desire to squeeze back but also the desire to pull away. His eyes close.

Bruce doesn't withdraw. If, when, that happens- it will be Jason's decision to make.
Instead he asks-]

Did I do it?

[He doesn't even sound horrified by the idea- there's no revulsion and terror at the thought of using the Lazarus Pool not because it isn't horrifying. But because Bruce has already done it. Because he already knows what his selfishness makes him capable of.]

Did I use the water?

No.

[ that answer comes readily. neither of them need to clarify what "the water" is, and Jason's too tired to play mind games. they require a certain level of awareness, awareness that has been completely sapped from him as the drugs wear off. he feels strength slowly returning to his limbs and pulls his hand back, giving him a chance to assess the damage. a chance to figure out what to expect.

it's with a bit of sluggishness that he also realizes the lack of horror. when he'd first come back, it was all he could notice. that bruce was stunned, dismayed to see him back from the dead. but this, this almost sounds blasé. something worth noting, a difference between the bruce before him and the bruce he knows. finally, he focuses on him, on steely-ness in his expression.

he's so damn tired. ]

But, you're a lot less stunned about the idea than you were the first time we saw each other after it. Great. So I don't need to explain.

[ it's dick. all over again. except jason has way less complicated feelings about dick, and non-stop complicated feelings about bruce. and it's one of those moments where he has to remind himself to shut up. while also wondering, what use is there in pretending? ]

[Bruce has been waiting for confirmation for a long time- confirmation that only Jason could give him, context that he could only guess at. They've both been pretending, holding their roles in a charade that was never going to last, but that needed to be maintained. He doesn't know what Jason was protecting. He doesn't know if he's decided that he no longer needs to, or if he's simply too tired to find his way back into that place. It sounds that way.

Tired.

When he finally turns to look, Bruce is there waiting for him- and there's something that rises up in him at the sight. To find Jason steely-eyed and aware, to see him watchful and studious, despite the state of his body.

His eyes track back and forth while the small crease between his brows begins to loosen. Bruce has always taken to unnatural stillness, even as a boy, and it's not different now. Only his gaze lowers- coming to rest on their hands. It's... it's something he hasn't, felt. Had. In a very long time.

His voice is quiet, the way it should be when conjuring ghosts.]

My father once told me- you can't have both happiness, and the truth.

[ well. that's a statement, one he fully would believe that Thomas Wayne would tell a young Bruce. Because it carries through in so many ways Bruce carries himself. it carries through in the lives that all of the wayward children he's collected have lived, even the one that's only 13. but there's a certain coldness to it, one that he doesn't fully buy bruce as accepting. it is what it is. he's observing him, knowing that he's watching him for some sort of reaction.

one Jason knows he could refuse to give. would refuse to give on a normal day, but he's reminded in this moment that bruce is a kid. who doesn't deserve this shit. ]

Sounds like the truth to me. At least your dad cared enough to leave good advice.

My dad was just some two-bit henchman, before he got himself killed and left me and my mom behind. Then she got in hoc to-- let's just call this guy the bane of my existence. Probably one half of the reason why I am the way I am.

[ he can sit up properly, if slowly. he can move his arms and fingers in careful, thought out movements. but he's aware of how each moment of greater control brings back the searing pain from before. being burned sucked, and he'd greatly like for the lazarus pool to work faster. it's not fair to have all the negatives, but for the positives of that mess to take so long to work their magic. ]

So, I was on my own-- until I decided to steal the tires off the wrong car.

[Whoever Jason Todd is, Bruce is certain that their paths cross further into his future. He's been unwilling to place the mantle of his frustrations on Bruce's shoulders and they'd both acknowledged the invisible line: things he's done, but hasn't done yet. And while he's asked for the details, opened himself up to the burden he would ultimately carry, he hasn't needed them to consider the grudge justifiable.

Bruce has seen who he really is. He knows it has a monstrous shape and he knows that destiny is someone that already lives within his skin. It can't be outrun, and in broad strokes he's already started to embody it. How many times has he let himself be consumed by his own rage or his own fear? How many times has he lashed out and struck anyone near enough to be struck?

Who is he to Jason? Does it matter? Maybe he's the man that his mother owed a debt to. Maybe he's the one with the tires to the wrong car. Is there a difference? Like a mother and father, Bruce has found that some people are born from a collision of tragedies. Which side he belongs to is irrelevant.

His gaze lifts from their linked hands to Jason's face and he's struck for the hundredth time by their similarities. Not just his eyes and his hair, the shape of his jaw, but by the way he takes stock of a room- who is inside it, where the exits are. The way he reads a person, a situation- that he comes prepared. He's had training. Extensive training. Of the caliber and variety that Bruce-

He stops. And the whole world becomes very quiet around them.]

[ he watches something dawn on bruce's face. whether it's the right thing, he isn't entirely certain. and it seems to dawn right as he reaches where he had planned on stopping. if he was betting, he would guess that there's some sort of recognition going on. maybe he's finally noting the training. maybe it's something else. but he doesn't need to say it to make it obvious. he doesn't need to be a smartass about it.

he's considering, because if he says anything else, there's no going back. if there was any going back at all. the frustration shows just slightly in the way his brows knit together. ]

You must have realized something. Maybe recognized something else.

[ as he trails off, he pulls back completely, and shifts his legs over the edge of the bed-- if they're going to do this, it's going to be as equals. it's going to be standing face to face. he didn't even get the chance to thank him, before all of this came out. since, his idea would have just been "punch." that was kinder. too bad he couldn't fucking help himself, much to his annoyance. ]

Made some sort of break in the case.

Please don't- [It comes too slow and too soft as he extends both hands, an attempt to keep Jason from pushing himself out of his prone position. It isn't rooted in a fear that he'll do irreversible damage to himself because how can he at this point? The effects of the Lazarus Pit had begun to do their work hours ago, slowly rebuilding him until he isn't whole, just what he was. He wants to stop him solely because he knows the movement will be painful. Because he doesn't want him to hurt.

The effort fails regardless, but then Bruce feels like that about many things. His life has been a series of vignettes, too little too late- all the growth and knowledge and strength in the world have never been enough to allow him to backtrack, to undo history. If he'd known that their physical positions would be so important to him, Bruce would have kneeled. He would have gotten on the floor. It doesn't occur to him that Jason is seeking equality because from where he's standing, they have always been on even ground.

But none of it, not the urgency or the punch of breath, not the crease between Jason's brows or the sight of his bare feet off the edge of the bed lessens the blow. Bruce is afraid of the things he wants so he tries to keep them small- he tries to press the number down and make it quiet, make it impossible, put it in a dark place where his eyes can slide over it. He doesn't sit in his father's study and think about what it would be like to be part of a family again. To have brothers or sisters, to have a partner, to have children. He doesn't know what that would look like when his very existence puts the people close to him in danger. It's broken Alfred's back- it's stabbed him and beaten him and killed him once. It's crippled Selina- it's turned her mother against her, it's put her in cuffs, it's left her bleeding out on his floor. It's abducted Dr Thompkins and lost her child, broken her engagement, run her from the city, killed her once too. It's turned a gun on Jim Gordon a thousand times over.

And it's too easy to hurt a child.

But here's the evidence; Jason Todd, who looks his age, who is too much like Bruce in all of the worst ways, who carries the weight of a grudge he refuses to share. Bruce feels the horror turn over inside him. The bone deep terror of every worst fear come to life. Ra's had promised, hadn't he? He'd promised that Bruce's children would be punished for his failures.

And he hates the place inside him that knows, sees all of these things- and feels hopeful anyway. That wants to reach back for it and take this in both hands. A family. His family.]

I let you die.

[ that.

again. there's a flash of annoyance that he can't help, when he hears the blame. It's exactly what bruce had said the first time, exactly what they'd fought over. And it never, ever stopped being a fundamental misunderstanding between them. Bruce was caught up in the experience of the failure-- a failure that had been Jason's fault. he wasn't dumb enough to deny that if he'd just listened to Bruce, he would have lived. His mother would be alive, though still a huge risk, and the Joker would never be able to taunt him about being the death that got away.

but it was never the reason that he was angry. it was never the source of his grudge, even if it was what Bruce felt guilty over.]

It's a hell of a lot more complicated than that.

[ it's his backstory. it's something he has to live with-- when most people wouldn't even get to live again. which is the most annoying part of it, to come back and to see that the way his family had dealt with the grief was to just erase his entire existence, something he'd only just started to claim back. it also confirms that he was right. he was right to keep that off of Bruce's shoulders.

absolution couldn't, and wouldn't, ever come. the best either of them could do was put whatever was between them aside. Jason had tried to just put aside the whole relationship, but that had been a stunning failure. ]

But close enough, I guess.

[ was there anything else they could even discuss? that he'd be willing to? talking about it was like digging a knife deeper into his back. painful, and not desirable. he pushes away from the bed, and stands, ignoring the pain from his hands, and the tightness of his skin. ]

[This too is something they share. Bruce knows that he has a tendency to keep things close to his chest. He knows that he's become an adept liar, that he plays a shell game with the truth, with his heart. And he also knows that there are times he isn't quick enough. There are times he's seen.

Jason gives himself away with tension- as if his body is a cable wound too tight for too long, and as if Bruce is here turning the crank, pushing for just a little more. He's angry, frustrated perhaps, and it isn't with the responsibility for his death because instead of finding his eyes, flinty and dangerous- Jason gets to his feet. He looks like he wants to run. Bruce wonders when that started. If he's ever been able to run far enough, or instead- if it's like his own feelings for Gotham. There's only so much rope. He always comes back.

His hand falls and they settle quietly in Bruce's lap. He doesn't stand up to follow him and there's an unspoken offer in that as well, his willingness to surrender the high ground, his willingness to let Jason dictate how much space they'll have.]

What did I miss?

[Close enough would never satisfy him. Surely Jason must know that.]

What have I gotten wrong?

You don’t “let” me do anything. I make my own decisions. [ he always had. He’d been headstrong his whole life. And it was why he died. ] I died, yeah.

That was right.

[ though as he says it, his tone calms and the annoyance fades. Bruce is still just a dumb teenager. An exceptionally smart one but... he hated when the adults dragged kids into their stupid playtime. Their stupid vanity projects, while the kids that got dragged were more than eager to prove their worth. Prove their ability to keep up with the adults. So, he would be remiss to do this to Bruce.

Just because he could. And though it’s difficult, he exhales and has to admit frankly, ]

This isn’t between you and me. I didn’t want you obsessing over things you haven’t done— and maybe wouldn’t even do. Who knows.

[It's strange even now to hear the cavalier shape of the words- how easily he says I died when Bruce himself is still reeling with that it means to have something in the first place, let alone to know that he'll lose it. Jason has a point, after all. He hasn't done any of these things, lived the history that Jason is carrying for them both. He might not do them at all. But Bruce has never been able to make his peace with What If; his entire life has been an attempt to control the uncontrollable- to plan for every possible outcome.

He can't deny the possibility within himself, that he might find a boy outside one of his cars. That he might choose to take him in. How many times has Alfred admonished him about his fondness for strays?

But instead of snapping his jaws shut, or worse, electing to get as far from the museum as possible, Jason continues to speak. It has to be the longest, most honest conversation they've had. Bruce's head lifts and he follows the movement- the shape of his face as each thought changes his expression, as he tries to reason with himself.]

It is between you and me.

[Bruce isn't incapable of defiance, he's certainly modeled it a worrying number of times already- but that isn't the nerve he finds here. He has always been soft-hearted. However much he arms and armors himself, it's easy to find points of similarity between him and others- more veil than wall. Jason is not exception. But this isn't entirely about kindness. This isn't an entirely selfless act. And transparency is the least he can offer.]

I'm not the man [He hesitates over the word father. He's not sure he's able to imagine it yet, to say it without thinking of his own. He's not sure if Jason could stand to hear it.] you know. Whatever it is you want from him, I know I can't give it to you.

-But I still want to know.

I'm not asking you to hold me accountable for it all. But if I'm going to do those things, if I might be that man one day, I want to do it better.

Do you even realize what you're asking? [ a brief pause ] Of course you don't.

[ of course he'd want to try and make something better, before the real complexities settle in. Jason remembers too much of that attitude, and how long gone it feels, complicated by the weight of what Gotham is, and of what being a vigilante has really ended up meaning to Bruce. But there's a part of him that would like to hope that maybe if he reasoned with Bruce, told him ahead of time, he'd understand. Before his opinions had a chance to harden.

Before any of this had a chance to happen. It was something Peter had asked, after all, if he was willing to make things better for some other Jason Todd, where ever he was. But how could he do that, when so much of this was predicated on what happened after he came back.

when he viewed it as an eventuality-- that he had two options in life: fall into the abyss and come out a worse person, or die, and become what he was. as dark as that was. it was Bruce's defiance vs. what he already knew about himself. About Bruce. And not sure if he wanted to reconcile that, after everything. ]

It's not that simple. You're asking me to tell you everything that happens, so you can take sides against yourself? Or, worse, take sides against me? Like we haven't had this argument at least every time you meet?

[ but he knows he won't accept that. that another request will come, that there will be an inch by inch crawl towards the truth. So, if there was one thing he was willing to admit... ]

You want something to work on? Maybe work on not fucking overreacting in the future.

I'm asking you to talk to me.

[Bruce's fears are too intimately tied to his desires and in many ways that makes them easy to weaponize. Anyone that gets close enough to see underneath, to peel away the layers he covers himself in, will know exactly where to push, will know exactly how much pressure is required. But it also means that he isn't cowed by the reply leveled at him. He has no interest in defending the person that Jason knows, the person he may yet grow up to become.

But the experiences he's had, the place he's ended up, all of it- deserves to be heard. Bruce has never been very good at following advice or opening himself in the ways he's been asked to, especially for the people that worried for him most. He recognizes that Jason is maintaining a perimeter between them, checking the metaphorical bricks in the wall. He suspects it's been this way for a long time, that by extension, Jason can't hear that it is that simple.]

People deserve to be heard.

[He remains seated, watchful and still. Jason's gun remains beside him on the table, chamber loaded, safety off.]

Surely, sometimes the right way is also the ugly way.

The ugly way...

[ there is a small, bitter laugh that comes from the back of his throat before he can really help it. the ugly way was what he tried. look what that got him: disowned and teetering on the edge of Bruce personally throwing him out of Gotham. it had took a bit of a hail mary to stop that. And honestly?

every way Jason could think of to resolve anything was at the very least... pretty ugly. and maybe it's the pain, maybe it's just feeling that little hope. but it's comical. ]

Oh, that's funny. I could tell you what the ugly way looked like, but again. I don't think you get what you're asking. Talk is cheap, you know that.

And I could be a liar, you know.

[ or a con-man. like father, like son, right? everything Willis and Cathy Todd passed onto him. everything he'd learned on the street. he has a feeling Bruce thinks he has him pegged. that he could pick up the bread crumbs. but there was still a distinct information advantage. between the two of them, Bruce is way more curious about him than he is about Bruce. there are aspects of everything that could be different.

he suspects they're different.

but what advantage does he get from working things out with a Bruce that he'll never see again once this is over? some other Jason Todd might be less of a fuckup, might still get to survive and come out of this okay? Yeah, Jason's not willing to bet on himself in that case. he stands, looking for the things that shouldn't have been totally trashed, ignoring the tightness in his upper body. the pain searing along burn lines and hand prints, where total burns had only just become partial burns. ]

Every way is the ugly way with me, Bruce. It's the Jason Todd special.

I know what I'm asking.

[He gets to his feet slowly. It isn't the first time he's made a conscious effort to be trackable- for his movements to be clear and distinct, able to be followed and observed. It isn't even the first time he's done it for Jason. This isn't the only thing he's willing or able to offer, but he suspects it's the only thing Jason will accept. In this moment at least.

His legs are stiff, the muscle tight from disuse in the combination of weeks spent sleeping and hours crammed into a chair at the man's side. He doesn't make an effort to close the distance because while Bruce can acknowledge that he isn't socially adept, he knows how to read a body. He knows his approach with be unwelcome- that it may even feel like the tightening of a noose.

Bruce isn't swayed by ugliness. How can he be, when he knows how much of it lives inside him too? Jason has asked him almost nothing and while that absence of curiosity might be painful for someone else, it isn't something he can hold onto right now. This isn't about him. It speaks more largely to the conflict of ideologies Jason levels in his direction. He says that he doesn't want to hold him accountable for the actions of some other man, but he makes to effort to understand this one. He wants to maintain distance but circles back anyway, a wound he can't stop picking at. That won't heal.]

I can accept that you feel afraid. Maybe you're afraid of my reaction to it, or maybe you're afraid of what it'll mean for you to put into words. I know that the truth is often unkind.

If you want to keep it to yourself as a means of control, a kind of power advantage then I don't fault you for it. I think it's what I would do.

But if we're ever going to be more than that, it won't happen because of me.
It's a decision you'll have to make.

[He wonders if Jason regrets it all. If, given the chance, he would tell Bruce not to stop for the boy taking the tires. That he'd be better off.]

[ jason notices the deliberate way he's positioning himself, the way he's making sure there's nothing hidden. it's all unnecessary, but Jason brought this on himself. He's got a kid slow walking a conflict between them when realistically there shouldn't be one. because it's not like he knows. but there's a part of him that raises its hackles when he's accused of being afraid.

an immediate flood of defensiveness, and his eyes narrow.

he's died. he came back, he's lived through everything since then, only with the slightest nagging at the back of his mind that he probably shouldn't even be alive. that it would be better in a fuller sense if he weren't-- after all, the Lazarus Pool has brought its share of struggles. but it takes everything in him to fight that defensiveness, and the tight line it draws in his body. he doesn't want to lash out, but he knows he's going to. ]

I'm not afraid. [ he can't help the anger that trembles in his voice at that word ] I just have no expectations anymore. You think I haven't put it into words? That I didn't immediately try to figure out why you erased me, and then left the man who killed me alive?

That I didn't try to deal with being replaced, and then disowned? And when all of that fell through, that I tried to do things the "Batman" way, for all the good it fucking did me?

You don't know what you're asking.

[In some ways they are painfully similar. Bruce knows he's been clocked- that the details have been noticed, but he can't anticipate Jason's rage until it's on them. Until they're both in it. He doesn't roar, and perhaps that would have been easier to witness. Instead he hears only a cold tremor in the words and he hears Dr. Thompkins say there's a difference between anger and resentment, Bruce. Sees it as if he's outside of his own body.

What he'd meant by afraid was that he could understand what it meant to look at a box, sealed by every possible lock and to have someone asking to open it. But what he meant doesn't matter. You erased me, Jason says. And Bruce can't find it in himself to think it out of character- not when he's seen what he does to his own pain. Left the man who killed me alive. Bruce has killed two people already and destroyed everyone he loved in the process. This too he believes himself capable of.

Bruce watches him, and is lapsed profoundly into silence- a mute witness.]

[ the silence is deafening.

it threatens to oppress everything around them as fully as the darkness does, as Jason observes the pensiveness written on Bruce's face. the lack of reaction.

silence is assent. silence is an admission as loud as any protestations.

it leaves jason alone in all of the admissions he's just given. the information he didn't want to share, and the uncomfortable acknowledgement that he isn't over it. that he will never be over it. and that until the end of time, he's always going to be Sisyphus. He would never be able to move Bruce. and it can only be a second, a moment in time, but it feels like agony.

he looks away and as smoothly, grabs his gun. and makes to grab his boots.

he couldn't take it anymore. ]

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