Chapter Text
Jason didn’t know why they were doing this. It’s not as if it was planned. It’s not as if Bruce gave Jason a call every week and said, ‘Hey! We still good for Thursday night?’ They were technically still on non-speaking terms, as far as the rest of the family and Gotham was concerned anyways. It had only been a couple of months ago that he had taken over control of the Gotham crime rings, busted Joker out of Arkham to kill him, and fought with Batman.
No. They were most definitely not on “speaking terms.”
But every Thursday night, Bruce would track Jason down. And every Thursday night, Jason wouldn’t run. It was a new place every time, Gotham Park, the docks, sitting amongst the gargoyles that hung over the city. Secluded, quiet places where Jason would sit, and wait for Bruce to find him.
It was like it was a test. Not that Jason tried particularly hard to cover his tracks, or chose difficult locations… but simply by waiting, waiting for Bruce, it felt like deja vu. It felt, like Ethiopia. And every week, Jason felt the anxiety begin to build up within him as he waited. Every week he wondered if this was the week Bruce would give up on him. If this week, he would turn him in.
But that hadn’t happened yet.
One night, Jason had even waited on the roof of the GCPD, as if he were daring Bruce to do it. To betray him again, to stand there and watch as his second Robin, that cocky little street kid who got caught stealing Batman’s tires, was dragged away to Blackgate, or Arkham, or wherever the hell they would lock him up. But instead, they had ended up just sitting there for a whole hour, watching the police cars drive by as sirens cut through the cold stillness of night. And when the hour was up, Bruce had walked down to Commissioner Gordon’s office, and Jason had left. Angry.
Why had he been so angry?
It was as if he wanted Bruce to do it. To let him down, to give him a real and final reason to hate him completely. And it was as if Bruce knew, that was exactly what Jason expected from him, and he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
So tonight, Jason sat on a hill near Wayne Manor, overlooking the the luminous glow of Gotham City. It was one of the best views of her, different from the view you got when you were swinging above the buildings, different from the view looking up from the cesspools of Crime Alley. From here… Gotham actually looked peaceful.
Amazing what distance can do to a view, Jason thought bitterly as he sat there, waiting.
When he heard the batmobile drive up behind him, Jason didn’t turn around. He heard the soft footsteps approach him from behind, saw the black form sit down beside him, Jason’s red helmet positioned in between them. He kept his eyes fixed on that city, tense and brooding, the anger already reaching its peak.
‘You’re a bit closer to home today,’ Bruce spoke first, his voice level, cautious. Testing the waters as he always did on these nights.
‘For old time’s sake, I hope you brought something with you,’ Jason said, his voice edged with sarcasm. ‘And also, you’re late.’
To his surprise, he heard a rustle beside him as Batman held out a brown paper bag. Hesitating, Jason took it from him and opened it to find a burger, some fries and a drink. He felt his heart pounding, actually pounding in his chest from the simple fact that Bruce remembered. He remembered that night they had met, buying him a burger, sitting on the batmobile and eating it as they looked out over this same exact view.
‘I hope it doesn’t have mayo,’ he said instead, inspecting the burger suspiciously.
‘It doesn’t.’
‘Good.’
They sat there in silence as Jason bit into his burger, Bruce abstaining from eating this time. Instead he simply sat there, his cape blowing gently in the wind, his gaze fixed on the glow of the city.
There were some things they simply didn’t talk about. Some topics that couldn’t be broached without starting a fight. They couldn’t talk about guns, about ideals surrounding justice, about the fact that Jason was still killing criminals whom he felt deserved it, albeit less frequently. They couldn’t talk about the past, about their broken childhoods, about the “good old days” as Batman and Robin, about that one time everything went to shit and Jason died. It was a given that they couldn’t talk about the Joker. They couldn’t talk about that tumultuous time all those months ago when Jason had revealed that he was still alive.
But above all else, they could never, ever, talk about the first time they had met on a Thursday night. The reason they still did this, every week, without fail. They couldn’t talk about how Bruce had spent that whole week tracking him down. How he had finally found him that rainy night. How he had walked right up to Jason, ignoring the gun in his hand. How he had pulled his mask off, revealing his broken and tired face. (He had looked so tired.) How he had told Jason that he didn’t want to talk, he didn’t want to fight, he didn’t want to turn him in. He only wanted to acknowledge the fact that Jason was alive.
They could never talk about how Bruce had stepped forward slowly, how Jason had lowered his gun and let himself be pulled into a tight embrace. They could never talk about how Bruce had broken down in tears. Broken down. How they had fallen to their knees and Jason had felt the tears roll down his face in spite of himself, the gun dropping out of his limp hand.
Actually, now that he thought about it, they really didn’t have many things that they could talk about. Most nights were spent just like this, sitting together wordlessly. Because with words came pain and anger and fear. Bruce would lecture and Jason would punch him, and then it would never end.
Jason finished his burger and offered Bruce a fry, and he took one, glancing at him as he did.
Trying to read me, Jason thought, a bitter smile crossing his face. Not that I can talk. He had already read Bruce for tonight. It was going to be one of those nights, where Bruce would almost cross the line. He would ask him about what Jason hadbeen up to recently. How many people he had killed since the last time they’d met. Which would lead straight into the problem of killing in the first place, which would lead them both to argue about the “Joker Predicament,” as Jason had sarcastically named it.
‘Well, Bruce, we may as well just go ahead and get this over with,’ Jason said, his voice cold. He set down his coke and leaned back, staring up at the stars as he spoke, inconsequentially. ‘This week, I was tracking down the leader of a human-trafficking ring. Slippery bastard. Took me longer than it should have. When I finally found him, he had a whole horde of hired guns waiting for me. There were 38 women and children being shipped out that night.
‘And yes, I did kill the ringleader. He was using a kid as a human-shield. It was the kid or him, and I chose the kid. So, in summary, one morally-corrupt, depraved man dead, countless numbers of women and children alive, well, and free. But that last bit doesn’t matter, because the only things you’re going to take out of all of this information is the fact that I killedsomeone. The how, the why, the who… none of that matters to you.
‘So, go ahead. Tell me that, if it were you, you would have saved them all in spite of the odds and locked up the ring-leader for life. Tell me I’m wrong, that I’m wayward, that I’m a terrible person, that I should be locked up and “atone for my sins.” I dare you.’
Bruce said nothing in response, his expression dark. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, biting back words, biting back the instinctual reaction that had risen up inside his chest.
‘You got shot in the arm. The wound’s reopened.’
Jason glanced down at his arm in surprise to find Bruce was right. He swore under his breath as he peeled off his now blood-stained jacket. Gingerly, he removed the gauze that he had taped to his arm, and winced as he looked at the angry, open wound staring back up at him. Bruce stood and stalked back to the batmobile, returning with a first aid kit.
‘I can do it myself,’ Jason muttered, pulling back as Bruce reached out for his arm.
Suddenly they both turned away as memories of similar moments rushed into their minds. Batman stitching up a re-opened knife wound, Batman patching up minor cuts and bruises from a fall, and Robin complaining all throughout it.
‘Jason, please.’
Jason let out a heavy breath, but offered his arm to Bruce all the same, turning away and looking towards the city, stubborn till the last. He flinched when Bruce touched him, holding his arm in place as he flushed the wound out with antiseptic, wiping away the fresh and dried blood that had caked around the now undone stitches.
‘I thought I taught you how to do stitches well.’
‘I was in a rush today.’
Bruce looked up at him, realising that this had all happened today… tonight. That Jason had been shot in the arm only hours before. That he had killed a man within the past few hours. That he had rescued dozens of women and children from a smuggling ring, just an hour or two ago.
He pulled out the old stitches, and began to carefully sew up the wound again.
He wanted to smile and cry at the same time. To hug Jason and slap him. To tell him how proud he was and that he was disappointed in him. To… to tell him…
Thank God he’s alive.
Bruce took out some fresh bandages and wrapped them around Jason’s battered, muscular arm.
‘Ow,’ Jason said, throwing a glare at his old mentor.
‘Sorry,’ Bruce grimaced as he finished, tying the ends in a neat little knot. His hand lingered on Jason’s shoulder, the fact that he was able to do this, to wrap up Jason’s wounds, to sit beside him, to talk with him, to look into his eyes, the simple fact that he was alive once more washing over him.
Jason couldn’t take it. He looked away, miserable, running his hand through his hair in frustration. ‘Dammit, Bruce. You could at least say something.’
They were both so tired. Tired of always disagreeing. Tired of fighting over morality and justice and the past. Jason knew, deep down, that he didn’t have the energy to do it anymore. To always disagree with Bruce and rebel against his ideals and god-honest beliefs just for the sake of it. Already, he had stopped killing unless it seemed inevitable. Before, he had paid less attention to whom he had shot. He had cared less.
And Bruce. Bruce was tired of lecturing. Of always acting like he had the moral high ground, when in reality he just didn’t know anymore. He was tired of pushing his son away, of writing him off as lost, when he had come so far. When he had shown so much hope. When all he needed was to see that someone still cared.
He squeezed Jason’s shoulder once then stood up, looking back towards Gotham. ‘If you ever need any help, Jason. Call me.’
‘So you can be my moral babysitter you mean?’
Bruce gave him a look. ‘So that I can help. Two are better than one, you don’t have to go it alone.’ He paused, taking a shaky breath. The next words faltering on his lips even as he said them. ‘I’ll always be here for you, Jason. Always.’
Jason listened as his footsteps faded away, his body trembling as he hugged his knees to his chest. Should I be laughing or crying? Ah hell, why not both?
‘Batman,’ he forced himself to call out. Bruce stopped and turned back expectantly. ‘Don’t be late next week.’
Batman gave him a wry-smile. ‘Maybe if you told me where we were meeting ahead of time, I wouldn’t be late.’
Jason stood, fitting the red helmet over his head and tossed the empty fast-food bag at Batman, who caught it. ‘Where would the fun be in that?’ Then he was gone, leaping over the overlook and riding off on his motorbike.
Bruce followed it with his eyes for a moment, before looking up at the stars that Jason had been staring at so intently before. Somehow, it felt like a new start. Like the bridge had been rebuilt and there was hope for the two of them after all. He smiled and, throwing the paper bag in the passenger seat, drove off into the night for another long night in Gotham City.