Chapter Text
This time, it wasn't the pain in her arm or thirst that woke Jo. Instead it was the slimy feel of drool seeping from her mouth into Jason's blanket and smearing against her cheek. She sat up, slipping her hand from where it was still entwined with Jason's and swiping at her face with her sleeve. Thankfully, Jason was still asleep and didn't see her doing that-
Jo snorted softly. Yeah, Jo, she thought, worry about your boyfriend seeing you drool. Nevermind that you just had multiple people's blood splattered all over your face and hair.
Well, at least the Joker hadn't killed her sense of humor.
Pushing her hair out of her face (and maybe Jason should stay asleep a bit longer, because Jo was pretty certain she still had some blood in her hair), Jo glanced over to where the others had dogpiled on the floor. They were gone now, probably coaxed by Alfred (or ordered, more likely) into their respective beds to get a proper night's rest. Except, one figure was seated at the computer, chin in hand as he stared at whatever the screen showed. Even from here, Jo could see the frown carved into Mr. Wayne's face, illuminated by the soft blue glow of the computer. She pushed herself to her feet, brushed Jason's hand with her fingertips, and walked over to Mr. Wayne.
And then stuttered to a halt as the screen's contents came into view and-
(Blood pooling on the floor and dying her shoes a lurid red.)
(Her chest vibrating as the Joker patted her on the back, his laugh crackling through the air.)
(Bloodshot eyes turning toward her, the look in them shifting from surprise to cold, rational realization.)
(Those eyes were fixed on her now, and Jo couldn't look away, she was drowning in that acid and he was back she wouldn't escapeshewouldn'tbefree-)
The screen flickered to black, and the Joker's green eyes were replaced with Mr. Wayne's blue ones. "Jo, can you hear me?"
His hands were on her shoulders, holding her in place without digging in to her skin. Jo nodded.
"Breathe with me, Jo," Mr. Wayne said. "Match my breaths, in and out."
Breathing was easy, wasn't it? Jo had been doing it all her life; she shouldn't need help with it now. But her chest was tight, and her pulse was thrumming at her throat, and that small part of her (the part that every child of Gotham seemed to have, the part that said, "Batman is here, he'll make everything right") was urging her to obey, so she breathed.
Inoutinoutinout-
In out in out
In - out - in
Out
In
Out
And then the tightness in her chest loosened, and the concerned face of Mr. Wayne sharpened back into focus.
"Sorry," she shook her head before rubbing at her eyes. "Sorry, I'm okay now."
Mr. Wayne didn't smile, but the wrinkles around his eyes deepened in a way that made him seem older than he actually was. "He is gone, Jo. He can't hurt you anymore."
"Can't he?" Jo's lips twisted in a rueful smile, "He's always gonna be there, isn't he? Even though he's dead, people are going to look at me and they'll see his ghost because I'm the one who killed him. I'm not Jo Bailey anymore. I'm Jo Bailey, the girl who killed the Joker."
". . . not exactly."
"What?"
Mr. Wayne led Jo to the console chair before kneeling down in front of her. "While you were unconscious, I asked one of my colleagues to examine the crime scene before any law enforcement arrived. While we were able to eliminate any evidence of your involvement, the nature of Joker's injuries eliminate the possibility of their being self-inflicted. To compensate for this, and to divert any possible suspicion from you, we had to make a decision."
At some point he'd grabbed her hand with both of his, and Jo found she couldn't keep her fingernails from digging into his skin.
"Officially, the Joker was killed by David Gardner."
Jo could see it.
David, still alive next to her on the concrete floor of the warehouse, his fingers digging into her wrist as the Joker taunted them. The Joker would turn to the Red Hood, distracted by his helmet's screeching.
And then David would move, ratty coat flaring behind him, an impromptu cape for an unexpected hero. His arms would wrap around the clown's waist as David tackled him to the ground, leaving them to wrestle each other for the gun. David would win, ripping the weapon from the Joker's claws and staggering to his feet. The Joker would make it to his knees, eyes widening into the perfect target for David to level the barrel at.
But in the inhale between aiming and firing, the Joker would flick his wrist, and from up his sleeve a handgun would fall into his palm.
Two shots.
Two bodies would drop to the floor.
But of the two of them, David would be the one smiling.
The corners of Jo's mouth quirked upwards as the scene faded from before her eyes. "I think he would've liked that." A thought struck her, and her hands tightened on his again. "But, are you sure that's okay? Should you really lie to the police just to protect me?"
Mr. Wayne slipped one hand out of her grasp and rested it on her head. "Georgiana Elinor Bailey," his voice rumbled as he smoothed her dirty hair away from her face, "I dress up as a bat to protect Gotham. I'll do much more than that to protect my family."
And she wasn't sure, couldn't be sure with the moisture filling her eyes that she had to blink away, but Jo thought that Mr. Wayne's eyes looked a little damp as he bent forward and kissed her temple.
Bluurghegrhgrlll
Blood rushed to Jo's face as her stomach grumbled. Mr. Wayne pulled back to look at her, one eyebrow arched in a manner scarily reminiscent of Alfred. "Hungry?"
"Famished."
He glanced at the hand that had touched her hair. "The showers are over there," he nodded towards them as he wiped his hand on his sweatpants. "Alfred probably put everything you'd need in there already. I'll make you something to eat. Just come to the kitchen when you're done."
Jo blinked. "Kitchen? Like, the Manor kitchen?"
🦇 🦇 🦇
Mr. Wayne was right; Alfred had already put everything she'd need in the shower room, including product for her hair and a change of clothes. She'd taken her time in the shower, basking in the unending warmth until long after the water ran clear instead of brownish-red. When she'd stepped out into the main cave area, Jason's hoodie was waiting for her, already washed and folded atop the console chair.
(If Mr. Wayne could be Batman, couldn't Alfred be magic?)
By the time she'd made it up to the Manor (the Manor, which was connected to the Batcave by a staircase and yet no one was the wiser), Mr. Wayne had already burnt at least one grilled cheese, possibly two, and the tomato soup he placed in front of her was . . .
Jo started with the grilled cheese.
Mr. Wayne had continued his explanations while Jo nibbled on the salvageable bits of the sandwich.
"Alfred took the liberty of grabbing some things from your apartment," Mr. Wayne had said while trying to destroy the evidence of his cooking. "It would be best if you stayed here for the time being."
Which was just fine with Jo. Being in her apartment all alone was not something she wanted to deal with right now. But, Beowulf's Brews-
"Don't worry about work," he'd continued. "It's taken care of. You have as much time as you need to recover before going back, and trust me," his mouth had curved into a fond yet exasperated smile, "Alfred won't let you leave until he's certain you've fully recovered."
It was nice, having others to care about her.
It was nice, to be led up to her room (and it was her room, not a guest room, because no guest room would already be painted her favorite shade of green and have plants tucked into every corner, forming her own secret garden), to have a soft bed and a warm blanket and the promise that when she woke, everything would be all right.
Jo had barely finished the thought before she fell asleep.
🦇 🦇 🦇
When Jo woke up the next morning (had an entire day already passed since that awful night?), it was to Helena peeking through her door and the smell of breakfast wafting through the hallways. Jo thought about getting dressed but eventually decided it was too much work. After all, the Waynes had seen her splattered with blood, so pajamas and a bonnet surely wouldn't faze them. Almost everyone else had beaten her and Helena to the kitchen; Damian, Steph, and Cass had all commandeered the barstools and were indulging in the spread Alfred was laying out in front of them. Dick had chosen the window seat instead, which put him on eye level with Barbara. The only ones missing were Tim, Mr. Wayne, and Jason.
Helena tugged on Jo's sleeve. "Don't eat the waffles," she whispered before scampering off to perch on Barbara's lap.
Jo didn't actually have a choice in the matter. As all of the siblings greeted her with various levels of tired grunts, Alfred gave her with a warm smile and a prepared plate of food, including waffles. Taking the last barstool, Jo dug in.
Alfred was amazing. He really was. Jo loved him like she had loved her own grandfather. And it was only that thought (and copious amounts of syrup) that gave her the fortitude to somehow eat the entire waffle.
(She denied any seconds.)
And then, just as she'd placed her empty plate in the sink, Mr. Wayne walked in with-
"Jason!" Helena slid off Barbara's lap and barreled into her brother's legs. "You're upstairs!"
"Hey there, Princess," Jason said, careful not to bend over as he ran his fingers through her curls. Jo hurried over to his side.
"Jason," the word came out as almost a gasp, her mouth too busy smiling to worry about forming words correctly. Jason looked at her, his bright blue eyes finally open and aware, and Jo found her smile growing larger as she slipped her hand into his. She squeezed it, trying to communicate with her fingers and her eyes what she couldn't find the words to say.
He looked at her, and something in that look made Jo still, her smile freeze in place.
One heartbeat.
Two.
He blinked, his eyes tearing away from hers to look at Alfred.
Jason's hand pulled from hers.
"Any way I could get a Gatorade, Alfie?" He cleared his throat, but the roughness didn't go away. "I think I'm gonna rest in an actual bed for a bit before I eat."
"So long as you do eat lunch with us later today, Master Jason," Alfred said, handing him a blue bottle. "I assume since you're upstairs that you finished what I left for you, but that won't be sufficient for the entire day."
Jason took the bottle with a roll of his eyes. "Yeah, Alf, I'll come eat." He looked back at Mr. Wayne. "I don't need help up the stairs, old man. I'm injured, not decrepit."
"Hn." Mr. Wayne followed him anyway, his hand still resting on Jason's shoulder as it had been the entire time. As they left, Tim shuffled past them into the kitchen. He grabbed a mug that had been sitting on the counter and looked into it with a blank, sleepy stare.
"Coffee?" he said into the empty mug.
Jo blinked. "I'll make you coffee, Tim," she said, then made her way to the coffee nook. When she'd first visited the Manor, the little table had contained only a Keurig. Now it held almost every machine she could desire, every instrument she'd need to craft the perfect drink.
Jason had done that for her. Just to make her happy.
Her hand trembled as she pressed the button on the espresso machine.
Jason was okay. He was just tired; he needed rest.
But by the time she finished making Tim's drink (and Barbara's, and Steph's, and everyone else's), Jo didn't quite believe herself.
If only she could name that look in Jason's eye.
🦇 🦇 🦇
Lunch was even worse.
Jo had spent the whole morning trying to distract herself. She'd fed the animals with Damian (and spent a few minutes cuddling Bat-cow), tried to crochet with Helena (which ended with a tangle of yarn instead of anything profitable), and sat in the greenhouse with Barbara (who could name every flower and its meaning despite the greenhouse being filled with blooms). By the time Alfred called them all in for lunch, Jo felt . . . settled. Worried, yes, but without that lancing bolt of panic that had shot through her that morning.
And then Jason ignored her the entire meal.
He was right there (right next to her, the only seat that had been available to him because of course Jason would want to sit next to her, just as he always had whenever Jo had been over for a meal), and yet Jo could count on her fingers the amount of times that Jason talked to her, touched her, even looked at her. This couldn't be from his concussion, couldn't be from his injuries or from his exhaustion.
He left without saying goodbye.
The chill of panic was starting to return.
Jo excused herself from the table shortly afterwards, slipping out the back door and wandering about the grounds. After an hour or so, her feet led her towards the cliff that overlooked the river. It was one of her favorite parts of Wayne Manor; sometimes she and Jason would bring a blanket and a book out to the oak near the cliff and read to each other, the water providing a peaceful backdrop to the story their voices wove. The water was calm today, lazily floating along as the April sun drifted through the sky. I guess the weather didn't get the memo, Jo thought as she sat down under the oak, pressing her back against its rough bark. Today is definitely a 'dark and stormy' sort of day. The weather didn't care, though, so Jo closed her eyes and matched her breathing to the murmur of the river.
"Okay," she whispered, the wind whisking the words away. "Okay, Jo. What are you gonna do about this."
🦇 🦇 🦇
Though Persuasion was unequivocally Austen's best novel (a fact Jo and Jason had debated both seriously and teasingly since the beginning of their acquaintance), Jo had always had a soft spot in her heart for Mr. Darcy. She'd found her mother's battered copy of Pride and Prejudice high on the bookshelf as a teenager. It had taken only one Saturday, curled up on her bed with the window open and Gotham's busy streets below, for her to finish it. She'd detested Mr. Darcy, despised his rude behavior and ungentlemanlike manner, sneered at his tactless proposal and affronted words. She'd hated him right along with Lizzie and wished him good riddance as he quitted Hunsford parsonage.
And then he'd written the letter.
And in the margin, her mother had written a note.
Communication is a necessary part of love. A moment of discomfort leads to years of understanding and happiness.
Her mother had left other notes in her beautiful, swirling cursive, but that one had fixed itself in Jo's mind, giving her the courage to push past the awkwardness of confrontation time and time again.
As she stormed into Jason's room to find him reclining in the window seat, Jo repeated her mother's words in her head like a mantra.
"Get up," she said, holding out her hand. "We need to talk."
That look from before (Jo hated that look) etched itself onto Jason's face. "Jo-"
"Get up," her voice was quiet, firm, but not cold. "Please, Jason. Don't ignore me right now."
She could see him wince at the words before reaching out to ever so lightly take her hand. Jo threaded her fingers through his, tightening her grip so he couldn't pull away, and led him out of the room. Through the halls, up the stairs, onto a balcony that was just high enough for them to step out onto the roof. Jason hesitated as Jo stepped onto the balustrade.
"Jo, I don't think-"
"You know I'm afraid of heights without you. And besides, it's hard to climb with just one arm."
He hauled himself up onto the roof beside her.
Jo genuinely hated heights (which seemed ironic now, knowing her boyfriend's occupation). She'd been scared of them all her life, her mind going into overdrive thinking of all the ways things could go wrong from high up off the ground. The first time Jason had taken her to the roof for an impromptu picnic, Jo hadn't left his side. It was the first time since she was a child that anyone had handfed her (though when your arms are locked around someone's waist to prevent your imminent death, there's really no other option). Eventually something had clicked in her brain: heights are frightening, but Jason makes them safe.
That being said, the foot of space between Jo and Jason did almost as much to disquiet her as did his silence.
"Helena asked me if I hated you."
She heard him turn to look at her but kept her eyes on the sky, tracing the sun's arc down towards the horizon.
"What?"
"She said you'd think that I did," Jo tucked her knees up under her chin. "But the only part of you I could possibly hate is the part that's keeping you away from me."
". . . I think that part is all of me."
Jo turned then, almost falling over in her desperation to grab Jason's hand with hers. "You don't get to decide that." She shuffled closer, catching his gaze and holding it. "You don't get to decide which parts of you I love. I decide that."
That look from before was still in his eyes (Desperation? Fear? Exhaustion?), but something new was clawing its way out of his soul and reaching out to her. This was something Jo knew instantly.
Hope.
"Tell me," she whispered. "Tell me who you are, Jason."
He did.
Jo's hand went numb in his grip as the words stuttered out of his mouth. Some of it she knew already (A violent father and a loving, broken mother. Nights of hunger, fear, and grim determination on the streets. A new home and a new father and a new life that was different and sometimes difficult, but wonderful all the same). And then . . . then there were the other parts.
Laughing through the air in a blur of green and red.
"Robin is magic."
A warehouse and a crowbar and tick-tick-tick-
Dirt under fingernails.
Green. Nothing but acidic green.
Whispers of desertion and replacement and empty promises.
Seven heads in a duffel bag, blood as red as the hood he wore.
Tim. A tower.
Forgiveness. Family.
Regret.
When Jason, voice hoarse and quiet, finally ended his story, the sun was nearly to the horizon.
"That's me, Jo. Every ugly part of me."
He slipped his hand from hers.
She let him.
Only to collapse onto his chest, her arm thrown around his waist. Sobs shook her body, muffled by the soft material of his shirt.
His arm rested lightly on her back.
"How?" she gasped, pressing her head against his chest until his heartbeat was strong in ear.
"How what?"
"How are you still so kind?"
And then his arms were wrapped around her, and something wet began to fall on her hair.
"I love you," she whispered to his heart. "Every part. Every part of you."
As they sat there, the sun lazily drifted downwards. Bands of brilliant red, orange, and gold eased into vibrant shades of purples and pinks, all eventually giving way to the deep blue of night. No stars peeked through the clouds; only the moon, full and bright, shone with a soft glow where the clouds were too thin to cover it.
"I'm sorry," Jason murmured into her hair. "I was scared."
"Just don't do it again, please?" Jo pulled back to look at him. "I was worried. I needed you, and you weren't there."
His eyes widened. "Jo, I didn't-I thought-" He stuttered to a stop, then leaned forward to press a kiss against her forehead. "I'm sorry."
"We're learning. Both of us." She pecked his cheek, then turned back to the stars. "Let's just learn together."
A buzz came from Jo's pocket, and she pulled away from the hug to retrieve her phone.
Mr. Wayne: Everything all right?
Jason snorted as he read the text over her shoulder. "Paranoid old creep."
Jo rolled her eyes, nearly elbowing him in the ribs before remembering his injuries.
Jo Bailey: Just fine. We'll be down in a bit.
As they lay back down to gaze at the stars, Jo opened the music app on her phone and put it to the side where they could both hear it.
I don't think you have to leave
If to change is what you need
You can change right next to me
When you're high, I'll take the lows
You can ebb and I can flow
And we'll take it slow
And grow as we go
Grow as we go . . .