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December 24th dawned—or didn’t dawn, rather—with an overcast, grey sky and a breeze that knifed through your clothes. Jason was too familiar with it. It was why he’d come outside prepared, with a long-sleeved tee shirt under a tee shirt under a hoodie under a jacket, with the insulated jeans that had shown up, tags still on, at his safehouse doorstep one frigid day. He’d stopped on a rooftop the night before to try to rub feeling back into his legs.
He wasn’t particularly sure what he was doing, sitting on an entirely different rooftop freezing his ass off the day before Christmas. He didn’t particularly feel like going back to his dark, cold apartment. He knew he could turn the heat up if he really wanted to—it would be a splurge, but he’d deal with it; he never used it normally—and it wasn’t like he lacked the money. It was just...the knowledge.
Christmas had a way of haunting Jason like an infuriating ghost that came in the guise of a whole heaping bunch of pretty lies while it held heartache and pain and wrong beneath. Sure, he could remember a time when he liked Christmas. When he was too dumb and too small to see what was right in front of his face. When his mom hadn’t been too far gone to try. He remembered her really buttering him up about Santa Clause. She’d helped him set up a little offering of half a pack of those cheap wafer cookies and a juice glass with milk in it. In the morning there’d been no cookies or milk—and three empty cans of beer—where “Santa” had come. Even then he’d known his dad had eaten the cookies. There were, however, presents. Only a few. A battered, dime-store copy of Ivanhoe, which Jason had adored. A close-to-new hooded sweatshirt, since he’d grown too gangly-limbed for the one he’d had. And a pocket knife. It looked old and he didn’t want to know where it came from.
There’d been lunch, too, but Jason had bailed on that when Dad threw his plate into the wall because his turkey was cold in the middle. He spent the rest of the afternoon holed up in a closet, reading Ivanhoe with a flashlight. He finished it by evening. It became his favorite story. He reread it so often he broke the binding within a couple years. After that, he just recited his favorite parts to himself once in a while. Asking for another copy was out of the question. Besides, he didn’t need a page to remember lines like, ‘I will tear this folly from my heart, though every fibre bleed as I rend it away!’
Really, he was sitting up on the roof trying to escape Christmas. A pointless attempt, seeing as the dark sky meant all the multicolored lights were still sparkling brightly beneath the hovering grey, and some asshole was playing Christmas music loud enough he could clearly make out the shrill screeching of Santa Baby from all the way down at street level.
He huffed out a breath, fogging the air and making his too-long bangs flick up sharply and fall right back down in his eyes. His stomach growled and he had the darndest hankering for something hot. Forget the visions of sugar plums; visions of chicken fried steak with gravy and crunchy fried onions atop starch-filled casseroles were what continually assaulted him.
Too bad his apartment was full of a lovely array of condiments and basically nothing else. For a moment, he considered trying to cook something out of a can of cranberry sauce, mustard, and a box of premade cornbread mix. Grudgingly, he admitted that he should just suck it up and go grocery shopping. It would be hellish, but he had no choice.
So, he climbed to his feet, took a few paces back and forth to try and restore feeling in his limbs, and made for the staircase to exit the rooftop like a normal person for once.
__
It was even colder driving his bike down to his old neighborhood and the battered discount grocery on the corner. Jason was glad his bike was beat to hell, or there was no way he could leave it outside while he shopped.
He was surveying the array of spices with more than a little exhausted disassociation when the familiar sound of a round chambering and a shrill scream of “nobody move!” made him tense, then immediately groan and roll his eyes.
He reluctantly trudged out of the aisleway and looked down towards the day-old bread pickings. Three guys—masked with balaclavas and panty hose—were standing none too confidently, the forefront of them being a dinky little dude brandishing a dinged-up beretta. The gun was weaving all over the place, but still pointed at the cashier. “Empty it out!”
The cashier, a woman who looked to be in her sixties, would have been glaring at the thug if her expression weren’t so flat. “I can’t. My boss has the key, not me.”
The gun weaved more. “Don’t bullshit me, lady! I’m not playing around!”
Jason sighed and meandered towards the checkout, with nothing but a box of stuffing mix, a little container of sage, and a half-gallon of unbearably sugary eggnog in his hands. He had to nudge past a few patrons who stood frozen in fear in the aisleways.
“I’m not playing around, either. You think I wanna get shot over thirty dollars in coins?” The lady drawled.
“T-there’s more than that,” the guy stammered. “There’s gotta be.”
“No, there really isn’t,” the lady said, raising her eyebrows as Jason stopped at the end of her conveyor and dropped his items unceremoniously.
The thug saw, too. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing!”
Jason shot him a look, and went back to scanning the gum selection.
“I’m... nobody comes close! This is a robbery!”
“Sure, pal,” Jason said flatly, snatching a pack of the tangerine gum and dropping it on the conveyor. That stuff was fuckin heavenly.
“Move the fuck away!” The guy’s voice squeaked as he turned the gun on Jason.
Before he’d even gotten his aim straight, Jason had taken two strides forward, broken his grip on the gun, taken it, and stepped back. He glanced at the two guys in the background, who looked mildly less shocked than their fearsome leader, who was just staring, not changing position, as if he were still brandishing an imaginary gun.
Jason rolled his eyes and examined the gun, flicking the safety back on effortlessly. “We gonna have a problem?” He asked, glancing up at the two in the back.
As one, they turned and pelted out the automated door, leaving a rush of cold air in their wake. The store was silent except for the whir of the conveyor belt and the beep of scanned items.
Jason looked over the gun again. “Eh. I’ll keep it,” he mumbled to himself, sticking it in the back of his jeans, tucked into his belt. He glanced back at the milling other shoppers. “Somebody called the cops yet?”
A sob made Jason glance back at the tiny leader guy, as he stood up by the cashier. At least he wasn’t still standing like he was brandishing a gun. He’d folded over, face in his hands.
“Oh God, I’m gonna go to jail for this!”
“Uh, yeah. S’what happens when you rob a place,” Jason said flatly, and the lady at the register hummed in agreement.
“I didn’t,” the guy was snot-sobbing, “I didn’t wanna do it! I-in the first place, but there was no Christmas money! What—what am I gonna tell my kids—“
“Oh for the love of hell,” Jason hissed out between his teeth. “Are you fuckin serious right now?”
The guy just looked at him, uncomprehending.
“Sorry, I’m sorry, but do you really think you’re gonna find some fuckin sympathy when you just threatened to shoot a woman over some cheap-ass plastic toys that’ll break within a week?” Jason wasn’t really aware how much his voice was raised until he noticed the cashier was staring at him, too. “You really think your kids care so much about not getting some shitty little thing that it’s worth you getting locked up and leaving them with nothing?”
“I—“ the guy looked like Jason had just kicked him. “I wasn’t gonna shoot her—!”
Jason strode forward, towering over the dude. “Listen here, pal.” He said, mock-sweetly with steel behind it. “If you’re not gonna shoot anyone, you don’t. fucking. point. a gun at them. Got that?”
He backed off a step. “Take it from me,” he said, suddenly exhausted. “If you give a shit about your kids, go home to them and just tell them you can’t afford it this year. They’ll get over it. And don’t pull anything like this again.”
The guy just stood there, still sniffling, and Jason felt something inside him snap.
“You know what? Fine,” he snarled, digging into his hoodie pocket and pulling out his wallet. He yanked out two tens and a battered five, and a handful of wadded-up ones and thrust them at the guy. “Take it. Fucking take it and go to Dollar Tree. Just get the fuck out of here and leave everyone alone, why don’t ya.”
Blinking in shock, the guy started to open his mouth.
“Don’t even try saying ‘thank you,’” Jason snapped. “Thank me by getting the hell out of here and leaving everyone alone from here on out.”
With that, the tiny would-be robber pivoted and fled the scene.
Jason sighed heavily as he went. He hoped sincerely that he had enough to pay for what he had.
The lady finished ringing him up. “That’ll be $7.50,” she said.
Jason had $6.28.
He shelled it out. He and the lady both stared at the pack of gum.
“Honey, just take it.” The lady sighed.
Jason obediently picked it up. “Thanks,” he said awkwardly.
“Same to you.” He and the lady exchanged glances. Jason nodded uncomfortably, his face burning.
The automatic door slid open and three GCPD officers ran in, guns at the ready. “Police!” One of them yelled.
Jason rolled his eyes harder than he had in the last ten minutes. He calmly grabbed his single plastic bag and walked past the cops into the cold.
__
His aimless driving on his bike took him into the industrial park. He didn’t want to go back to his apartment, but he didn’t really want to go anywhere else, either.
When he’d nearly lost motion in his fingers, the whizz of his bike took him around a familiar block, and when he saw St. Joseph’s, he couldn’t help but brake a bit and look over.
It had been over a year since his conversation with the priest, but something about the whole encounter still felt too close, too real. He’d tried so hard to shake off a lot of what Father had said, but he’d hung on the Purgatory explanation. He’d let himself cling to it, accept it, hoping beyond hope that maybe there was some reason he was alive. That he wasn’t rejected, alone in the dark. A mistake twice made.
Now, he glanced at the dark church, the stained glass melding with the dull stone from the dark grey that draped the whole city. He assumed there would be mass soon. Tonight. A glance at the sign and the few times plastered on it confirmed it.
He veered off onto another street. The truth had hovered in the back of his mind all day, but seeing the church had brought the remembered words to the forefront. Take the first step.
Maybe there was somewhere he could go, after all.
__
Wayne Manor was lit up, inside and out. The lights inside made the windows a diorama, snapshot pictures of the shapes of people bustling back and forth. The trees along the drive were strung with brightly colored lights, silver icicles draped around the molding on the face of the house.
Jason parked his bike in the open garage, alongside the crammed-in pile of vehicles of all shapes and sizes. He swung off and stuck his helmet on the seat after he’d retrieved his sad little bag of mishmash. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he wandered out of the garage and onto the pavement. The sky had cleared somehow as the sun went down, and the stars overhead sparkled sharp and bright, the occasional streak of an airplane interrupting the constellations.
He wasn’t sure what to expect when he silently opened the side door. What he got was a dark mudroom, lit up from a distance by the lights glowing from further inside the house. The faint sounds of animated voices drifted towards him, a long way away and terrifyingly close at once.
Jason gently shut the door behind him and wandered further inside. The west wing was noticeably empty as he went in. The further he went, the lights were gradually on and the awareness of not being alone grew more certain, but he had yet to encounter anyone.
When he reached the staircase outside the living room, he paused. The voices were loud and excited and close. Just around the corner were his siblings, probably their significant others if applicable, definitely Alfred, all cheerfully busy preparing for the Christmas celebrations.
Jason turned and toed his sneakers off, and quietly climbed the staircase.
The west library was at the far corner of the house from his old room, and it was blessedly empty and warm and completely unchanged. He couldn’t help smiling as he stepped in, relaxing. A fire crackled in the fireplace, and a tray of Alfred’s mouthwatering butter cookies sat on the ornate chest in the middle of the room.
Jason snatched three of the cookies as he went by and bit into one immediately, unable to stifle a slight grin as he passed through the huge mystery section. He wandered around towards the fantasy section—
And stopped dead when he turned the corner and came face to face with Bruce Wayne, who looked up at him from his overly-large leather recliner with a similar cowed, cornered expression, a napkin stacked with cookies in his lap and wool-socked toes peeking out from beneath a thick throw.
“Uh.” Jason said eloquently.
Bruce raised an eyebrow and said nothing more.
“I uh.” Jason glanced behind him, as if there were someone there he could shift blame onto. “I.”
“O, U, and sometimes Y.” Bruce said, voice completely toneless, and Jason stared.
“Did you. Did you just fucking. Quote a grammar rule at me?” He asked, dumbfounded.
Bruce shrugged very lightly, so as not to displace the mug sitting very precariously on the arm of the chair. “It was the first thing that came to mind,” he said, but there was something in the corners of his mouth that told Jason the truth.
“That was a joke, wasn’t it. You just…” Jason raked a hand through his hair, almost distraught. “That was your idea of a joke.”
The smirk at the corners of Bruce’s mouth transformed into a real smile. Self-deprecating, a little silly. “I never claimed to be good at them,” he said.
Jason just stood for a moment, taking that in.
Bruce nodded at the bag in his arm. “Stuffing? I’m sure Al wouldn’t mind if you threw it in the oven with the other fifteen casseroles.”
Something in his tone was mildly bitter, and Jason narrowed his eyes. “You’re not down there.”
Bruce pursed his lips and nodded in acknowledgement, taking a swallow from the mug.
“You’re not in the Cave, either.”
Bruce shrugged, dunking a cookie in the mug and nibbling off it, never taking his eyes off Jason.
“What exactly are you doing up here?” Jason asked, confused. “Why—“
Bruce shrugged, picking up the copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes that sat on the table beside him and thumbing through to the bookmark. “Christmas was never my favorite holiday either, Jay.”
“But you always did it before—“
Bruce shrugged again, uncomfortably, glancing up from his book. “I tried to. When you kids were younger. Didn’t want to. Ruin anything, I guess.” He hung his head just a bit, large fingers twitching over the paper. “They don’t need me to keep the day afloat anymore.”
Jason came closer at that, crouched down and glanced at the pages of the book. “Seems awfully sappy for you, old man,” he remarked, feeling a bit of familiar fondness stirring in his chest.
Bruce saw he was being genuine, and shrugged again, but with a small smile. “If the shoe fits,” he said.
Jason glanced over at the fantasy shelf behind Bruce. He scanned the titles and then smiled, pulling the leatherback copy of Ivanhoe from the shelf. A knight’s helmet and lance was etched onto the front cover, above the title.
“Mind if I join you?” Jason asked.
Bruce smiled up at him. “Be my guest.”
Jason sat down on the thickly carpeted floor and gently opened the front cover. He scanned the sketched knight’s helmet and coat of arms on the flyleaf, and then turned the page.
Across the top of the page before the title, neat handwriting scrawled. To Bruce. From Dad. Merry Christmas, 1973.
Jason traced the lines of ink with his eyes for a moment. Then he leaned back against the side of the chair. One of Bruce’s hands rested atop his head for a moment.
Jason lost track of time sitting there, engrossed in the book like he had been years ago. The only noise was Bruce occasionally shifting in the chair and humming to himself, and the crackling of the fire. He broke open the eggnog at some point and offered some to Bruce. He held down his mug and Jason poured him some before drinking straight from the bottle, himself.
Eventually, Jason glanced up when the clock chimed. His mind was still half in the book, and he was mulling over the line he’d just read. For he that does good, having the unlimited power to do evil, deserves praise not only for the good which he performs, but for the evil which he forbears.
It was 10:45.
“Hey, B?” He asked.
“Yes?” Bruce glanced down at him over his book.
“There’s something I wanna do.”
__
St. Joseph’s was crowded. Jason got there early and still gave up his seat for someone in one of the far back pews.
He didn’t bother to dress up, just came in his jacket and jeans. He knew that Christmas church services tended to be dress-up times for year-round, but he still saw plenty of shabby clothes on people around him. It was a mix. There were families filling up entire pews, dressed to the nines in name brands, but there were also plenty of people like him. Alone, crammed in a pew with a bunch of strangers, uncomfortably fumbling through the hymnal.
Jason leaned against the wall through the mass. He didn’t go up to communion. Just stood and watched the people, listened to the singing and the words. He didn’t mind. It was warm.
When mass ended, he made his way out among the throng, quietly dodging the knots of people as friends and family pulled together to talk excitedly.
He fully intended to slip out. Which was why he was unsurprised when he somehow wound up face to face with Father Keane only a few steps from the door.
The priest smiled at him and offered a hand. Jason shook it. “Evening, Jason,” he said, the easy phrase lilting with his accent. “Merry Christmas.”
Jason smiled back. “Merry Christmas, Father.” The words didn’t choke in his mouth.
“Hope you’ve been lookin’ after yourself.” Father told him.
“I have. Sort of.” Jason said, shrugging.
“Glad to hear it.” Father clapped him on the shoulder—a bit difficult, as he was a good head-and-a-half shorter than Jason. “I know Christmas can be hard for the kids like you. The adult kids, too.”
Jason nodded awkwardly. “Yeah.” He grinned ruefully. “I’m still not fond of it.”
Father shrugged. “The truth of the matter centers ‘round a shoddy animal’s shed and a family with nothin’ who deserved far better than what they got. I think there’s a place for the broken in it, too.”
Jason thought of a huge, dark, empty house and a little boy who hated Christmas from then on. “I guess,” he said.
A car horn honked, and he glanced down and couldn’t quite hide his grin when he saw Bruce’s pearl white Duesenberg pulled up to the curb.
“Your da, I take it?” Father asked, and Jason nodded sheepishly. Father only smiled and nodded, and waved down towards the car. “I wish a good Christmas to ya, Jason.”
“You too!” Jason called behind him as he ran down the steps and climbed in shotgun, shutting the door.
Bruce glanced over at him. “How was it?” He asked.
Jason shrugged. “It was alright.” Good. It was good.
Bruce nodded, taking the car out of park. His voice was warm when he said, “Al is happy you’re going to come home.”
Jason smiled to himself as he sat back in his seat. He was, too.