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The funeral felt surreal, to say the least. Big B’s gone, and there’s nothing changing that.
It’s deathly silent. There’s nothing other than the sound of the rain pattering against Jason’s umbrella. The air feels so fragile as if the rain would break this imaginary glass. He’s standing alone under his umbrella; Dick and Barbara share one, and Alfred has his own along with the eulogist. The eulogist is talking about Bruce, giving mighty praises, yet the twisted juxtaposition is he’s speaking solemnly, in a grim tone. Jason tunes him out, his eyes glued onto the gravestone, reading it.
Bruce Wayne.
His eyes scan over and over, not believing this headstone exists. That Batman is dead. It’s really just a slab of grey that proves it right now.
At least he’s put beside his parents. Martha and Thomas Wayne. That’s good.
There’s a hollowness that he has yet to face, and he’s afraid to. He’s afraid of the truth, or consequences when he digs into his heart, and pulls his strings. He oh so badly wants to manipulate them, like a puppet to a child. He wonders how long he could fiddle with them, harness them, and keep on pulling till they snap—
It hits Jason that realistically, the death of Bruce Wayne is the death of two.
Gotham just lost their Dark Knight, and kindest millionaire in one.
Jason feels it already, the plague that’s going to come. It’s going to spread, like wildfire, intoxicating Gotham far more than it has been already. He’s so sure Gotham has gone off its rails already but— without Bruce? He can’t articulate the words for it. But it’s a horrible, horrible thing.
The cold weather makes him feel numb, more numb than he should be. He can’t peel his eyes from the gravestone, and when he blinks, it begins raining even harder.
The distant preach of the eulogist is gone. Jason registers a slender, gentle hand on his shoulder. They’re warm. He looks up, broken out of the trance, and he’s met with Alfred; he has a smile, but Jason knows it’s one full of sorrow and pain.
“Master Jason, the ceremony is over. It has been, for quite some while.”
Jason wonders how long he’s been standing here, now. He’s not even sure what was running in his mind that whole time. He thinks he’s lost it, for sure now.
“Thanks for letting me know, Alfred. I’ll get going.”
It came out more hoarse than he intended, and why’s he so dehydrated, suddenly? His throat feels dry, like if he swallows again he may choke. His gaze wanders back to the headstone.
Bruce shouldn’t have died. Jason knows what it’s like to get your soul ripped out of you, gutted of a breath. But Bruce didn’t deserve it. If it meant Jason getting tortured, mangled, from that fucking wretched crowbar all over again, he’d do it in a heart beat if Bruce could protect Gotham.
So when he looks up, Alfred’s kind eyes are trained on him, and he hasn’t moved from his spot.
“I—“
Jason’s not even sure what he wanted to choke out, but it all falters, words suddenly crumble. He takes a shaky breath, and God, why does it feel like he’s falling apart?
He’s trying to regulate his breathing to a steady pace, but fuck— it’s only proving to get harder and harder, as his visions blurs. Everything besides him feels so distant, like he’s been put underwater and he’s drowning, and if someone doesn’t save him right now he thinks he might just collapse—
The gentle hand that was resting on his shoulder is now wrapping around him, a stiff side-hug. Someone takes away his umbrella, and for a second, rain falls on his face, caught on his eyelashes. He’s not sure if the water from his eyes is from rain, tears, or both. He recalls that rain isn’t salty, though.
Quickly, he’s placed under an umbrella, sharing it with someone — Alfred — he realizes, blinking away the tears, his vision restored.
“Sometimes, there are no words needed to be said, Master Jason,” Alfred’s gaze looks glassy, but a broken smile remains. Jason knows this is an invitation to listen, and he won’t be forced or compelled to respond.
“You have lost your father, as I have lost my son. We can only embark on a new path from onwards. Master Bruce has always believed in you, even in your darkest days. We always did,” Alfred pauses for a second, and looks at Jason in the eyes; they crinkle at the sides. Jason’s not sure if it’s due to his old age, or bittersweet expression. “Your father would want you to heal, Jaylad. He would not want this to become a source of pain ravaged for something else. Embrace your emotions, but you cannot let it hinder your control…Gotham still requires a protector.”
Alfred’s gaze shifts back onto the ground, in the very same ground in which Bruce is buried in now. The things that Jason wants to do, all directed at Bruce’s murderer—his eyes are gleaming green— but Alfred’s words ring in his head. He’s been read like a damn book, and Alfred just gave a review about it.
Alfred’s tender side-hug eases up; Jason’s at a loss for words. He knows that Alfred knows this, and doesn’t comment on it.
They stand there, together, as Alfred holds the umbrella under the both of them, rain drops sliding off. The patter of the sound grounds Jason, and he takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. He imagines a void— and it’s coming for him, the speed never changing, but.. maybe he can look the other way. Just maybe. Especially with people he cares about at his side.
“Thanks, Alf.”
He’s at the batcave, in the very same seat that Bruce would sit in. He’s got no place here. What is he doing here? This is a mistake. He should be at his shitty apartment that’s way overdue for rent; but he’s here. Where Bruce would investigate his cases— where he would be reading, watching, listening, solving, where Bruce was being Bruce. Suddenly, the seat feels a lot colder.
Jason rests his chin in his palm, his elbow on the seat. His dull eyes are glazing over the information stored in the batcomputer, motionless. He’s looking at case files, he wants to tell himself. In actuality, he knows he’s searching for more clues to his father’s death. Subconsciously.
He knows what happened. Joker killed him. But— why?
Hes a fucking maniac, Jason, he thinks. There’s no direct answer that can explain or be given to justify Joker’s actions. He’s mentally ill. He’s deranged. He’s killed. For fucks sake, he’s killed Jason.
But the two have been at it together for— for so long. Bruce is dead.
Jason represses all the memories of him tied up in that warehouse— the one that he wished he knew would get him killed the second he stepped foot in Ethiopia. He’s gotten murdered by the hands of the Joker. Bruce too, now. He just wished the difference between it was that Bruce got a second, morbid chance at living again like Jason did. It’s not fair— why did Jason, in all his twisted glory, get to live and not Bruce? Why did fate allow a murderer who was not even able to escape from his own death by himself get given another chance at life? Why—why is Jason even alive?—
He stood up abruptly, from his seat. He can’t do this. Not right now. Whispers fill his head, the Pit madness, chanting kill, kill, kill.
A sharp laugh erupts from him, and he wishes those feelings of killing could be warped onto himself. The things he can imagine to not be here. He knows where enough weapons are right now to end it.
He wildly runs a hand through his hair. He’s falling apart. He wants to leave, yet stay. He wants to leave Gotham and everything and everyone behind him. Yet he needs this city to fuel him. What’s the point? Maybe he should just take some of his inheritance money and leave. Get some nice little cabin in a middle of nowhere where lord knows nobody would find him and—
“Jason?” a familiar voice interrupts his thoughts. He could recognize his older brother from anywhere. The same one that can easily coax him into snapping out of his head.
He turns around, quick on his heels, and is greeted by Dick, leaning against the railing.
Dick’s usual appearance seems…messy. Maybe not messy for the average person; he’d look even great, but for Dick’s standard? He looks like shit. His hair is a bit tousled, and he’s wearing an old compression t-shirt and sweats. His knuckles are bruised, and he has a sheen of sweat covering his forehead.
It clicks, then, that Dick has been working out. Training, but without a specific goal in mind. He’s grieving. Jason knows his big brother may be great at comforting others, but his dumb sacrificial self never finds anyone to return the same. He bats an eye the other way, and finds some other way to deal with his own problems. Jason would say he’s the same— he doesn’t like being seen as vulnerable, but when softies like Alfred and Dick jump into his life, they make it hard for him.
“What’s up, Dick?” Jason asks, not in any specific tone. He’s picked up on that, recently. He can’t feel much of anything. Other than when the Lazarus Pit rage overtook his mind. When he’s anything but numb, he feels anger and longing brooding.
He’s glad his big brother found a way to deal with grief. Hopefully the dumbass doesn’t over-exert himself.
Dick shrugs, making his way towards where Jason was standing.
“Just wanted to get a warm-up before patrol. Also had a hunch someone was down here,” Dick smoothly replied. Dick glances at the bat computer, and Jason absentmindedly remembers that shit— he was looking at Joker’s file, and Bruce’s recent history.
Dick’s mouth is drawn in a thin line, before he softly sighs, his gaze shifting back onto Jason.
“Jay…” Dick starts, but he doesn’t wanna hear it.
“What? What, Dick?” Jason urges, accusatory.
Dick pauses, for just a mere second.
“Don’t— don’t go through this alone. I can tell what you’re thinking. What you want to do. I— trust me, I want to do something too.” Dick’s eyes shift to Joker’s face on the screen, and his eyes flash a brief look of anger, before softening to look back at Jason. “But— we can’t do anything that isn't calculated or thought-through. We— we lost Bruce. And as much as we want to avenge him, we have to make sur—“
“No— no— that’s where you’re wrong, Dickie,” Jason huffs out a laugh, and he may look a bit manic, with his arms in the air and eyes wide. “Do you think the Joker gave a fuck about killing B? About ‘ carefully thinking it through’ when he decided to end him? Because guess what, nobody gives two flying fucks about someone’s life in this city. I’m not here to act like some law abiding citizen, I don’t know who you have me thought as bu—“
“Jason-“ Dick interjects, “You can’t play judge, jury and executioner— that’s not how justice works.” Dick steps closer to him. “If you kill the Joker, you’re just as low as him. You— you can’t do that, Jay. This isn’t what Bruce would’ve wante—“
“Bruce is fucking dead, Dick. Nobody cares. Bruce can’t care. Gotham’s Dark Knight is gone. And there’s nothing that you, or I, can do to change that and—“ Jason’s voice cracks at the end; he internally cringes. He’s not sure what he wants to say after now. His ability to use words tumble away. How can Jason live with knowing the man who killed him now killed his father?
Thoughts run rampant in his mind. Why’s he even here, listening to this? Everything’s blurry again, and fuck, he’s crying again—
He suddenly feels warm, strong arms snake their way around his shoulders. The worst thing? He can’t will himself to push them away. He finds himself leaning into the touch, and God, it’s been so long since he’s had a proper hug like this. He’s so pathetic. His frame is still hacking and shaking from a silent sob, since he’s never learnt to cry normally after he died.
He registers Dick’s hand rubbing up and down his back, and swears he heard sniffles from above him, and he wonders if Dick is crying with him. If he is, he’s doing a great job of making it seem like he’s not.
Two birds grieve the death of their father.
Everything seems to go in a bit of a blur, after that. He remembers staying like that, for what felt like several hours, but in reality could’ve been a minute or ten. He’s slowly guided back to the manor’s upstairs with Dick, where the bedrooms are located. He ends up landing in his big brother’s room, collapsing tiredly on the bed. Warm, large hands cradle through his hair, softly, and Jason loses himself in sleep. He’s not sure how long it took him, but all he remembers is the endless warmth radiated that night.
Jason seemingly finds himself in front of Pauli’s Diner, for no specific reason. He’s wearing a regular grey button top and blue jeans. He’s not hungry; the place is going to close in half an hour. Recently, a lot of his decisions are made on a whim. He’s not really sure why. Or when it’ll stop. It’s been 5 months, though.
He enters, sits down at the front, and glances at the TV. On the news, the reporter rants about Batman busting down a meta-human or something. If only people knew that—
“ - isn’t Batman. It’s probably Nightwing, filling in for Bats.” Someone beside him says, not exactly sure who he’s talking to. Jason wished he tuned into what he was saying earlier, he could’ve sworn he mentioned fighting alongside with B.
A man in a long, slender brown jacket is speaking, staring at their coffee, creamer swirling. He has a hat that matches the colour of his coat.
“And you uh, just happened to know Batman?” Jason scrutinizes the odd man. The stranger’s face is tilted down, and Jason can’t get a good look at him.
“Knew him,” the man murmurs, calling a barista to add more creamer into his coffee. “He’s gone now. The old Boy Wonder knows to keep the bat legend flying. Otherwise, Gotham will explode with crime.”
“Interesting theory.” Jason pauses; his interest piqued. “You said you fought alongside him?”
The man seems almost— flattered? “Oh, I’m a new man now. Gotta new life,” he swirls sugar into his coffee dismissively, “Starting over fresh. At least, that’s what I write in my journal.” He puts the mixer down. “My therapist says that’ll help.” A pause, “Eventually.”
“Talking things out helps too, friend.” Jason iterates, his eyes focused on the man. “As it turns out, I happen to be a good listener.” A gentle smile follows.
“Yeah, sure thing. Y’know, this reminds me of a joke I told Bats once.”
Jason’s eyebrow goes up in attentiveness, listening.
“See, there were these two guys in a lunatic asylum, and one night they decided they don’t like living in an asylum anymore. They decide they’re going to escape—“ Jason’s smile has already fell, “They go onto the roof. And there, just across this narrow gap—“ his mind’s scrambling— he read these words in the files— fuck — which files were they? What joke is this?
“—They see the rooftops of the towns, stretching away in the moonlight, stretching away to freedom. Now, the first guy, he jumps straight across with no problem, but— his friend? They didn’t dare to make the leap. Y-you see, he’s afraid of falling—“ the man fully turns to Jason, and he’s met with crazed eyes and hand gestures—
The man continues to ramble, his voice teetering to insanity, and something shatters in Jason’s mind when the man finalizes. That crazed voice. The edge that it takes on.
Ethiopia– it’s all hurdling straight at Jason.
“It’s not the same joke without Batman here.“ The man groans, finishing.
Jason stares blankly at him, before his voice takes on a careful edge.
“Well next time I see him, I’ll tell the big man you said hello. “
The man’s eye widens, and he falters to take a sip of his coffee; his eyes turn to Jason.
He puts down his mug, craning his neck to fully turn to Jason; a grin begins to form on his face.
“ Boy…Wonder. ” They breathe in.
The man’s grin widens, more than it should be humanly possible to, before something fucking snaps in Jason—
His hand flies for the neatly displayed butter knife on the table, sitting up, and he swings it, straight into Joker’s fucking eye—
It sinks into his eyeball, like melted butter, and Joker laughs; his body shakes with deranged excitement, his chuckle echoing throughout the diner. He’s clutching his eye, as crimson red trickles down his face, into his mouth and chest, and he’s still fucking grinning—
The Joker laughs, and laughs, his fingers slipping over his face, and slides to remove something under his face— makeup— and reveals the pasty, white, familiar skin underneath it. The skin he’d never been able to escape from. Blood and makeup mix and drip onto the floor, his frame wracking with laughs.
Jason gazes at him with disgust, watching him, until slowly, the Joker ceases to laugh; he lays there, blood oozing from his eye, a grin frozen. The knife is still sticking out of his eye, and Joker’s arms fall to his side.
Jason’s so sure that maniacal laughter won’t leave his mind for a while now– it’ll probably haunt him to his second grave.
A hard set expression remains on Jason’s face, and he distantly registers the click of a gun’s safety being taken off behind him.
Multiple voices threaten him from behind— “ Get down!” “Hands behind your head!” “Step away!” “Don’t do anything stupid!”—
He hears them creeping onto him, and he immediately begins to go into a state of defense— he knocks them out— the police, he registers, one by one. He disarms one, and knocks two in the head with the metal hilt of the gun. Jason’s about to turn away, when one abruptly stands up, and rushes towards Jason— and he trains the gun on the police officer. They immediately halt, frozen. Their hands are up.
Jason takes one look at the gun, and one at the police officer, and decides to smash the gun on their head, and they pass out; Jason drops the gun.
Distantly in his mind, he can hear the police sirens from outside the building. Blaring sounds, blue and red lights, and copper– metallic, fill his senses. Everything seems underwater.
Jason chooses to close his eyes, and breathe.
He’s given a life sentence.
He doesn’t care, though.
He knows he’s failed Batman. The one thing– the only thing that Batman couldn’t do that Jason could, was kill. Batman could break every single bone in someone’s body, leave a psychotic piece of death-worshiping garbage thing that you call a human alive in a cast for 6 months, but can’t kill him. The same disgusting, sick pile of shit that killed his son, the graveyards he’s filled, the friends he’s paralyzed– no, that doesn’t allow for Batman’s twisted sense of morals to kill them. But for Jason?
He’ll always do the things that Batman could never do.
The shoes always fit too small on him, anyways.