Work Text:
"Just stop killing."
Bruce says it, in that serious-but-earnest way he gets sometimes. Usually with hurt kids, or adults who are about to screw up their lives. He stares at Jason, under the cowl, eyes hidden behind the white lenses, but Jason knows the look in Bruce's eyes. He's seen it before, and he knows it. Hates it.
"Just stop killing, and… and you can come home, Hood."
And Jason can't help it. Can't stop himself. He laughs. Loud, and long, even when Bruce's whole body tenses up. Goes stiff, all trace of emotion and earnestness gone.
"Hood -"
"Just stop killin', huh? It's that easy," Jason says, practically in tears from how hard he's laughing. "Like drugs: just say 'no', kiddos, and that's that!" He laughs some more.
"If you don't stop, Hood, I'll -"
"You'll what?" Jason interrupts. He knows it's creepy, how quickly he was able to stop laughing, how quickly he went from laughing to deadly serious. "You'll throw me in Arkham? Trust me, Bats, what they'd do to me in Arkham would be a goddamn vacation compared to what they'd do to me out here."
"What."
It's not a question, because Batman doesn't ask things. Batman demands things, expects things, but he doesn't ask. He never has.
But Jason decides to humor him. Decides to answer the thing that Batman didn't ask. "I'm a crime lord, Bats. I got there by killin' other crime lords. I took over the East End and made it mine. How do you think I did that, huh? You think that dufflebag was the only thing I did to claw my way to the top of the food chain? I painted Park Row red to chase everyone else out.
"And what do you think they'll do to me, if they know I can't get it up anymore? Huh? C'mon, you're some kinda genius, right? What happens when word gets out that the Big Bad Red Hood doesn't kill?"
He leans back against the wall, casual like, as if he doesn't give a shit about Bruce's response. As if he doesn't care about whatever conclusions Bruce draws.
"It wouldn't be quick. Definitely wouldn't be pretty. Depending on who got to me first, might even drag it out for weeks instead of days," he says conversationally, like it doesn't matter to him at all. And maybe it doesn't; he's never really cared about himself all that much. But it used to matter to Bruce.
"When they finally did kill me though -or, you know, I just die from shock or blood loss or whatever, whichever comes first -they'd need everybody to know. You'd know probably before anybody else. They'd put my fucked up, mutilated corpse somewhere everyone would see it. Maybe hang it from the Sprang Bridge. Or the Gotham Gazette. Hell… they get real inventive, maybe they'd hang it from the most well known building in Gotham… String my bloody, cut up corpse from the Wayne Enterprises building," he says, shrugging lazily.
"Hood -"
"But I mean… maybe that's okay; you already saw that once, right?" Jason continues, talking right over him. "Talia showed me my autopsy report, you know; saw all the pictures and everything. And shit, that was just a crowbar and a bomb; imagine what it'd look like after a few days, or a few weeks, of actual torture. The fuckin' clown was on a time limit; he knew you were coming eventually, so he was in a rush. Imagine what some of the worst minds in Gotham could do to a person, knowing that nobody was coming. Knowing that they needed to send a message."
He pushes off the wall, walking over towards the edge of the building. It's not the highest in Gotham, not by any means, but it's still a hundred foot drop to the street. Jason climbs up on the little parapet carelessly, meandering along the strip of concrete barrier like it's a path in a park.
"But you know… I get it doesn't mean that much to you, obviously," he says, waving his arms in a 'what can you do' motion. "Better a dead hero than a living disappointment, right? But it wouldn't stop with me, Bats. No… see, I'd just be the first.
"Thing is, Bats… I help a lot of people. I know you like to stick your head in the sand and pretend I don't… but I do. Workin' girls, single parents, homeless kids, people just trying to survive another day in this shithole of a city… I help 'em all, Bats. Got a lot of shit set up to help the people you never gave a damn about. Shelters, food pantries, or just the promise that Red Hood will make sure they're safe.
"What happens when I'm gone though?" Jason asks, waving his hand like his eighth grade history teacher used to do when he asked rhetorical questions. "What happens to all those people? The whores who stood up to their pimps, knowin' Red Hood was standin' right behind 'em? What happens when suddenly Hood's gone, and those pimps come back? The kids brave enough to run away from their abusive parents? What happens when Hood ain't takin' care of 'em anymore, and they get sent right back?"
He does a little twirl at the end of the building, turning himself around and walking back towards Bruce. "Then again… you never really did care about those people, did you? They never really mattered, after all. Because hey… people like the Joker? He can be redeemed; he doesn't deserve to die, because maybe, one day, he'll change his mind about being a mass murder, repent his sins, find God, and open a soup kitchen. But those nasty whores down in East End? Who cares if they die? They're never gonna mean anything even if they do… right?"
"That's not true," Bruce says, his voice ice and stone and gravel. "Batman tries to help everybody. But I can't save everyone. I can't be everywhere."
Jason snorts. "You can't save everyone, so you do your best to make sure no one can. That what it is then? Fuckin' ego gettin' in the way?"
"What? No, that's not -"
"'Cause the way I see it, Bats… You could save a fuck ton more people… if you were actually willin' to get your goddamn hands dirty," Jason cuts him off, jumping down from the parapet, and stalking closer. "See, you? You gotta get it right… every time. And if you don't… Poof," he says, miming a little explosion with one hand. "There's another dead teenager. Me? I kill that asshole pimp that wants to beat his whore half-to-death, and guess what? That's one less time I gotta get it right, 'cause he won't hurt anyone anymore.
"But you… you don't like that. You'd rather have a dead whore, and live fuckin' pimp, a pimp who's gonna do it to the next girl, and the one after that, than get your goddamn hands dirty. Than climb down off your little pedestal of moral superiority, and do what needs to be done," Jason says quietly, poking Bruce in the chest with one finger. "That's the difference between you and me, old man. You see every pimp as redeemable… I see every whore as someone who deserves to be safe. You see every drug lord as someone who can be 'turned'… I see every kid who's never gonna have to Narcan mommy or daddy again. You see every gang banger as someone who might turn their life around some day… I see a single mom who can walk home safe from her minimum wage, overnight job."
He lets his body lose some of the its manic energy, lets himself go deadly still as he leans in, close enough that he can smell Bruce's aftershave.
"You see a mass murderer who can maybe be saved someday," he whispers. "I see a teenager who didn't get beaten half to fuckin' death with a crowbar, then blown up."
He straightens out of his lean, taking a step back. Bruce is… frozen, his whole body absolutely and utterly still. Jason isn't even sure if Bruce is breathing.
At least… he isn't right up until Jason claps his hands together loudly. Bruce actually jolts a bit, and Jason takes a perverse pride in the fact that he finally made Batman startle.
"So all the way around… You say stop killing, and all I see, Bats? Is dead fuckin' kids. Dead fuckin' whores. Dead fuckin' parents. Dead fuckin' me."
He straightens his leather jacket out, then brushes some imaginary dust off his shoulder. "So, if it's all the same to you… I'll take my chances. Because after all… we both know you won't kill me to stop me. So I'm better off fightin' you every goddamn day of the week. And we both know I'm a stubborn little shit; I'll do it all day, every day, twice on Sundays. Because I know I've got nothin' to lose anymore, old man."
He turns away, giving Bruce his back; he's fairly positive Bruce won't attack him here, not out in the open like this, but if he does… Well, Jason's ready and willing to prove his point. So he turns his back on Bruce, on his offer of self-inflicted murder.
"You should get some sleep, B," he throws over his shoulder. "You got a busy night of saving all those pimps and dealers and murderers."