Chapter Text
Jason sat on a park bench, eating the most famous hot dog from a food cart in the Burnley District.
He bought two. For his appetite, it was more than enough. He could finish the first in big bites, then slowly savor the second in small bites.
But Jason was eating the first hot dog at a slower pace than usual.
The second one was placed beside him.
The wrapping paper, hastily folded by a vendor more concerned with speed than presentation, was crumpled into uneven folds. Grease had seeped through, spreading into dark, irregular stains.
It had the kind of cheap look that self-proclaimed discerning teenagers or respectable middle-class families would never spare a second glance.
None of that mattered. The warmth in his hands, the rich smell, the dense, satisfying fullness of the food had been Jason’s first choice when he returned to Gotham after coming back from the dead.
Despite how tightly it was bound to everything in his past, he would still choose it.
A man walked toward him. Jason did not meet his gaze, mechanically taking another bite of the hot dog.
The man sat at the other end of the bench.
He set down the paper bag he had been holding against his chest, placing it beside Jason’s second hot dog.
Jason glanced at the bag out of the corner of his eye. He recognized it. It was from an old burger place that had been on the street corner for decades.
The cheese was always melted into a complete mess, the pickles sour enough to make his throat feel like he had a bad cold, and when he ordered a double patty burger, it looked about the same as the single-patty burgers from chain restaurants. It always left him at a loss for words.
But it was a place Jason had been eating at since childhood.
He had not had one of their burgers in years.
The man opened the paper bag and took out two burgers. The smell was not particularly appealing, but familiar enough to draw Jason in.
He reached out and picked up the hot dog Jason had placed beside him. The movement was slow, almost testing.
Jason said nothing. He pushed the last bite of the hot dog into his mouth and crumpled the wrapping paper into a small ball.
The man unwrapped the hot dog. Jason then unwrapped the burger the man had brought.
It was cold overall, with only a faint trace of warmth left.
He took a bite. The patty was the same as always, slightly off-tasting and greasy.
"......When did it start?"
"A long time ago."
"All along?"
"No."
"I thought you didn’t know."
"I was wary."
"You didn’t......"
"I looked."
"......"
"I’m sorry. I couldn’t find you."
"......"
What was this supposed to be? Jason thought.
He had thought that their first conversation after laying down all their weapons would be filled with hatred, anger, resentment, disgust, emotions with nowhere to go, sharp enough to be thrown at each other like knives.
Not like this. Without any agreement, yet somehow each of them had brought something to eat, like a picnic on a sunny lawn between college students with nothing to do between classes.
Jason finally lifted his head and looked directly at the man beside him.
Bruce Wayne. Batman. Gotham’s billionaire. Gotham’s Dark Knight. He was wearing a simple black cotton short-sleeved shirt, eating a food cart hot dog completely out of place with his status.
On his exposed arms, aside from the old scars left behind by years of combat, there were several highly conspicuous marks that had not yet fully faded.
A bruise stretched across the outer side of his forearm, an unnatural purplish-black. Higher up, near the upper arm, there were two long, neat cuts, the surrounding skin faintly reddened.
Jason looked at the injuries on Bruce that did not belong to him.
How did he know—of course he knew.
Because a few days ago, he had suffered the exact same injuries, the exact same wounds that had yet to heal.
He had prepared ten thousand accusations. Now he did not want to say a single one.
All these years, this man had never been absent from any of Jason’s pain.
He began to understand why Batman’s gaze at the docks had been so calm.
Because for Bruce, bearing Jason’s pain had long since become instinct, as natural as breathing.
He had not been forgotten.
He had always been held, even in moments he did not know.
Jason thought of the countless nights he had muttered, "Why weren’t you there," the bitter ache nearly drowning him.
He had thought about it a great deal since that day.
He knew that coming to understand Bruce bore the same injuries would shake everything that had built up until now.
Give him a little more time. Although it was neither reconciliation nor forgiveness, the burning, violent loneliness in his soul would finally be able to subside completely.
The burger wrapper was crumpled into a small ball as well.
Bruce nudged the other burger slightly toward Jason.
"Alfred misses you."
"Then he can come see me," Jason said.
Bruce considered it for a moment. "That’s fine. I’ll let Alfred know."
He paused, lowering his voice slightly.
"Or, if you let us know in advance, only Alfred will be at the Manor. If you don’t mind, I think Dick would like to see you too."
But after it subsides?
He can no longer turn back.
"I am not the person you once knew."
I am no longer your good soldier.
I am no longer your son.
Because I have gone against your code, your beliefs.
"Why did you still come?"
I can no longer be Robin.
My death did not bring even a sliver of light to this benighted world, but it brought you endless pain.
And my return will only bring upon you suffering that will not cease until death.
"I will not give up revenge, Batman."
And you will come to stop me.
That would be for the best.
I do not want to be disappointed in you again.
And we can never return to the past.