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It’s raining.
Jason figures it’s fitting, as he steps off his motorcycle and takes off his helmet. It’s kind of a warm rain at least, but it’s plastering his hair to his neck and forehead, just a little too hot. But, as he grabs the flowers from the saddlebags, he thinks you would have liked it.
It’s his first time visiting you since-
Since he woke up, he guesses. It’s nice here at least, the kind of place that Bruce wouldn’t have picked out (“not fuckin’ flashy enough for you, Bruce? Too worried about the celebrity gossip?”), but it screams you. So maybe Alfred chose it. Or Dick, or the new kid (Tim?) or- fuck, maybe B did pick it out, unless you had it in your will-
No. Fuck, don’t think about that yet.
The flowers are nice. They’re from a florist, because your garden is gone. Worse than gone. It’s just gray and dead and not even Alfred can bring the plants back, and Jay heard Bruce mumbling about hiring someone to tear it all out but Jason will kill him before he lets Bruce do that. That’s too much of- it’s too final. Somehow more final than this place, and the flowers, because- fuck, that was your place. It was where you’d take Jason after he had a bad day, and you’d put flowers in his hair and help him climb the willow tree and the air would smell like snapdragons and honeysuckle. Now it’s just ash.
It starts to rain harder.
The cemetery is really nice, at least. Jason takes care to stay on the path, not daring to tread over any of the other spots. It’s all grass here, plants and trees, none of that stately rich crap like marble walkways and huge mausoleums. You wouldn’t have stood for that anyway. There’s a few benches here and there, and even though this is a goddamn cemetery, it’s... nice. Feels like a park. There’s only one headstone in the entire thing, way at the back, and it’s yours. Because of course it is. It’s inevitable, but it’s still so... final.
Jason grips the flowers so hard his hand aches, but he presses forward. It’s only a few steps now anyway, and yet, he feels his knees lock up. Frozen. It’s- your gravestone isn’t looming, it isn’t scary. It’s not that. But it looks... it looks so much like you. This is all Bruce’s fault- it’s all his fault, of fucking course it is, because who else would’ve made a fucking statue of you draped over your own goddamn grave? Jason wants to laugh and he wants to cry and sob, and the latter wins out, just a little; rain obscures his vision with tears. God, if he squints, he can even pretend it is you. The statue looks like you’re just sleeping, laying against the gravestone, eyes closed. Jason’s voice hitches with a silent sob.
He sets the flowers down.
“He- hey, Ma,” he manages to keep his voice steady, but it’s so fucking hard. He can’t stand to look at the statue any longer, and so he squeezes his eyes shut. Takes a few steadying breaths. “It’s- been a while.”
You deserve the full story. Fuck, you deserve to- to be alive! And Jason wrenches his eyes open, staring at the text on your fucking tomb. ‘Died of a broken heart.’ It’s bullshit. It’s all fucking bullshit. You didn’t- you didn’t die a broken heart, you died because it was all Jason’s fault.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, and it’s happening, finally. Finally the tears are falling and they can’t stop. The sobs rip their way through his throat, and then he’s howling, wrapping his arms around himself and howling with wordless grief in the middle of a rainstorm. He’s alive; he’s alive, and you aren’t. He’s alive and you’re dead and you’re never coming back, and it’s all his fault. His fault that you killed the Joker. His fault that you died too. He thought- he thought this was what he wanted, but it’s not, it’s fucking not. He doesn’t care if the Joker lived or not- fuck, he wishes the Joker had lived, if only so you were alive too. Not like this; fuck, not like this.
“Come back!” Jason begs, on his knees now, looking at your statue. “Please- come back, come back, I’m so sorry- Mom, please don’t leave me, please-“
It devolves into formless, shaking sobs. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be- you taking him along to grocery stores and making bread at night and ruffling his hair. Not this. Not laying at the foot of your grave, begging you to come back. Begging for it to be him instead.
But you won’t come back. You never will. It’s just Jason now, crying and alone, as lilies and poppies curl around your grave.
Jason just wishes he could’ve said he loved you one last time.
It’s raining.