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All things considered, there is a chance that this was a wild idea, back when death was something irreversible, before the second in line of his many, many extinguished heart beats and choked, desperate breaths brought to a stop. There is a chance it still is now. Jason can admit he wasn't at the top of his game then, and he can admit that hasn't changed much, and he can admit a lot of other things too, as long as they have nothing to do with his feelings on the matter. None of this can do anything to lessen the number of nights he spent clutching a pillow tightly to his chest, staring at an arbitrary point on the nearest wall until the world blurred.
Vengeance is a flame as stubborn as he, it turns out, and so it refuses to be stifled. It only feeds on his anguish, claws on him until everything else becomes void of meaning. Unintentional as it may be—through it sure doesn't feel like it—Bruce keeps pouring gasoline all over until lack of retaliation feels like both the knife piercing through and the wound it left screaming to be closed. And Jason? Jason is petty.
He can't say he planned it. The thought has always been there, lurking in the parts of his mind worth the most judgement. It probably says more about him than he's willing to acknowledge. It doesn't matter now. He's finding it hard for things to matter lately. Nothing ever sticks when it comes to him anyway.
A part of him knows that this is cruel. That part is tiny, and quiet, and Jason pays it no mind, because if Bruce didn't want this to happen, he should've had a problem with him dying last time. It's only fair for consequences to catch up to him. Not like anyone would have believed Jason with no proof anyway.
They're on a roof. Different place, but close enough for the slight feeling of déjà vu to show up unprompted, regardless of how unlike the first time it all was. No Joker in sight, no explosives for the madman to trigger, no excuses Bruce can hide behind that he hasn't heard before. Lower stakes, he supposes, though he's likely the only one seeing it that way. The big man's not in on the plan. Nobody is.
Jason thinks it's poetic, the way he choose to do this. Maybe Bruce didn't care when he took his son's life because the blade made it all too methodical and detached. He threw it, but death didn't come right away. The explosion was a handy cover up too. If a bullet splits his skull open, short and final, there's little room for doubt. Someone might care enough to retrieve his body. Getting shot in Park Row was, as far as he's heard, a good way to make Bruce Wayne's life all about you.
"Hey, we're on a rooftop again!" He remarks with a smile, as if he wasn't the one to drag them here. He's glad he ditched the helmet today. Facial expressions are important to show, after all. "Makes this a proper fight, don't you think?"
"Drop the gun, Hood," Bruce jumps straight to the point, and it's funny, because he thinks he's the one the gun is for. Jason had been monologuing for a while on the burner he left for Bruce to find—he's repeating himself, he knows, but that sort of is the point—before he was rudely interrupted by the man's arrival, not that that's an issue. He doubts much of it made sense, considering he remembers none. The effect was there, though, just as desired. Bruce looked disturbed. Out of his depth. Jason has always been the best at getting a reaction out of him. To anyone else, Batman would look annoyed, maybe frustrated or angry. Jason is not anyone else. He is, despite everything, Bruce's son, or at least he was long enough to learn his tells. Upset is not even beginning to describe it.
"Nah," he responds, too cheerful for the situation. For what he intends to do. Still, there is a reason why so many write about death as of long, deep sleep. Peace. Jason thinks he finds it for a while every time, before he comes back. "I don't think I will. Makes things less fun, in my humble personal experience."
Jason keeps his aim on Batman. The gun is in his non-dominant hand. It looks like a power thing at the moment, most likely. Proving he doesn't need full effort to deal with the situation. That's not what he's doing, though. He can shoot pretty much equally good with both hands. With knives, he prefers the right one. Bruce takes a careful step towards him, ready to attempt outrunning the bullet if push comes to shove. It's useless, because Jason doesn't plan on firing at him, but it's annoying regardless. He refuses to let it show, and takes out what looks like a blade out into his right hand, gun never moving.
He knows Bruce remembers this one. It's the knife that cut through his belt and armor. It's the knife that cut the line of his grapple in one swift move. It's the knife that pierced Onyx straight through her left shoulder before she could feel a thing. It's...you get the point. It's a sharp fucking knife. A wavy dagger. He owns multiple, and loves them all to bits.
"I think it's better if you stay over there, Bruce."
Bruce doesn't listen. He starts approaching again. Jason is so tired of being spoken and acted over. He presses the blade gently against the wrist of the hand holding the gun. The curve of it sits right where one would reach to feel his pulse.
"It's on my radial. A cut for every step you take. Don't fucking move."
Bruce freezes. Batman fucking freezes in shock. It's exhilarating. Jason feels drunk on his oncoming victory. He very purposefully ignores every other feeling he might be having.
"Hood. Drop the blade. You'll hurt yourself."
"Well, yes. That's the fucking point, are you deaf?"
"Hood. You're not thinking clearly. Drop it."
Jason's right hand twitches. Bruce steps forward on instinct and curses himself for it. Jason drags the blade in a swift motion. Skin parts with skin to let liquid through. Blood drips onto concrete. It's not enough for him to bleed out yet.
"Jason!"
"Drop this, drop that. Orders, orders, orders." The urge to imitate Bruce's incessant yapping with a hand is strong, but both of his are occupied, so he'll have to do without that. A shame. He laughs, and wow. He's not opening that can of worms, because cutting himself open should not bring him this much joy. "What did I say about moving, Bruce?"
"Are you insane?!"
"I'm just keeping my word." It's a good feeling, finally being the calm one. He's come to rely on anger so much he expected to miss it. He probably would, if the situation was different, or if the thought of this lasting could ever be a rational one. The calm has no chance of sticking, but at the moment, he's quite enjoying the control it gives him. "All you have to do is stay still. Dogs can do that much."
Bruce doesn't listen, because when has he ever? He puts his hands where they're clearly visible, spreads fingers out to show there's no threat, and starts approaching Jason like one would a wounded animal, something placating ready on his lips. It's disgustingly out of character, and it doesn't fly. Jason cuts twice, deeper, a laceration for each step, and stops the man in his tracks.
"I'm curious, genuinely. Was I not clear? What the fuck made you think that was a good idea?" Stupidity in the actions of the supposed World's Greatest Detective is starting to get on his nerves, but Jason is an empathetic man. Very understanding, too. If he had a son who was threatening suicide for no apparent reason, he wouldn't know what to do either. The thing is, Bruce is no concerned father. Not to him. So, the aforementioned empathy might be running a bit low. A shame, truly. "Don't answer that, actually. I don't care. Employ all that competence you're so well known for and listen."
"Enough!" Bruce tries to take control of the situation. Typical. "Stops this, Jason! You've proven your point!"
"I've proven nothing," he states simply. "Yet. But I will."
"You're being irrational! What is this supposed to—"
To shut him up, Jason drags the dagger vertically upwards until it reaches his inner elbow. It's too easy. The steady outflow of dark red lets him know he nicked a vein. Oops.
Bruce screams. His feet stay firmly in place.
"See, you're learning. Good!" He should probably hurry up before blood loss starts to set in. Applying pressure would buy him time for sure, but it would ruin the performance entirely, so there's nothing that makes it worth it. "You could lose the cowl, while you're at it. This whole thing feels so impersonal with it on."
And just like that, Bruce does. His compliance is more than a little concerning, but it doesn't stop him from protesting. "You said you'd stop if I stopped moving." He's really toing the desperation territory. So much for the unbothered bringer of justice.
"No. I just said I'd do it if you kept going." It's true. Not his fault Bruce decided to fill out the implications on his own. Nothing was about implications with Jason since he came back. He should've known that. "And, in my defense—not that I need it—that was a vein. Cephalic unless I'm mistaken, which I'm not. There still time until we get to arterial bleeding, so try to relax a bit."
"Jason," Bruce calls out, pleading. "Stop it. Please."
"Why?" he asks, the question completely sincere. The manic triumph he felt up until now is wearing out quickly. It leaves nothing in its wake. He attempts to fill the void with anger, but it feels hollow. "An artery didn't stop you from aiming at my neck."
"I wasn't—"
"If you can aim at my carotid I can aim at my radial. They're my blood vessels, you know?"
"I get it, Jason. You know anatomy. Drop the damn blade."
It gets a laugh out of him, somehow. A short one, but a laugh nonetheless. He doesn't get a word in before Bruce continues.
"Please, Jay." It's honest. Raw in the way Batman never is with his cowl on. "I can't lose you again."
That's what makes him hesitate. Desperation, and the affection hidden beneath it. Why is it that Bruce only wants to hold onto him when he's leaving? That he only does it when a body is all that's left?
It's not that Jason doesn't want to come home. He'd die a thousand times over if it could bring him back the comfort of his early teenage years. It's not that he wants to make Bruce suffer either, at least not entirely. He just knows it wouldn't last. Couldn't last. The Manor has no place for a ghost, but that's all they see when they look at him.
"You all think I'm lashing out because I don't understand you. Because there's some grave error in my view of the world as a whole, and your role in it. I'm abhorrently self-centered, or insane, or too stubborn to listen to reason. Inherently evil is a classic. Real fucking classist too." This is where anger proves itself a reliable ally to fall back on. It turns his words a touch too bitter and makes them easier to spit out. "But you're all wrong. I'm like this because I know exactly who you are, Bruce. It's why I can call myself a better version of you. I know you." He goes on.
"I don't think you've ever tried being honest with me since I showed up here. Or with yourself. It's like you're allergic to accountability. The thing you want the most is for the Joker to be dead? Oh please, spare me. I might have believed it if you weren't the only fucking reason that lunatic is alive. You don't save people you want dead. Not out of kindness, not out of obligation, and not to hold the moral high ground. You simply don't. If you truly believe the things you say you do, and think him beyond redemption like you should, I don't understand how you sleep at night. How do you get up and look yourself in the mirror every morning, knowing that every death he commits is on you? That if you hadn't saved him all those times, so many children would be on their way to college instead of six feet underground?" He waves the gun around to express something, though he isn't sure what exactly. The dagger is still clenched tightly in his hand, but it left its place on his skin in favor of gesticulation. His fingers are white from the grip. Blood is dripping everywhere. "How do you live with it, Bruce? I don't get it."
Jason is too fired up to give him an opening for a response. He's dying soon, after all. He needs all the time he can get.
"And that thing about "crossing the line"? What complete and utter bullshit. It's a cop-out, plain and simple. You think that claiming a lack of self-control will make you sympathetic, but it's just pathetic, really. And untrue. It must have taken you a long time to make yourself believe you'd go on a murder spree, and I guess I can commend the effort, but is it really worth it to lie to yourself every fucking day? I don't care if you believe in inherent goodness of human beings. I don't care if you think every single nutjob in Arkham can get better by tomorrow! It's stupid, and really fucking delusional, but that's not my problem with you. You keep saying things you don't mean to hide from the evil you actively contribute to. Unshakable morals mean nothing when they're only for show. You don't get to kill one man who kills to save a murderer and keep at your sanctimonious bullshit. Where's the remorse? Cognitive dissonance? You stand for nothing."
"I didn't want you to ruin your life for me, Bruce. I still don't. But I wanted you to care enough to want to, regardless of what it means for you. I don't need your pain. But I need to be important enough for you to be—to—fuck." He's crying, isn't he? He's definitely crying again. Damn it, he wanted to keep his emotions in check this time. Great fucking job, moron. "You would have died for me, given the chance. I know that, and I would have done the same. It's easy to die for a cause. But you wouldn't have lived for me the same way I would have for you. You wouldn't have ruined yourself and gone on living in my name. I would have."
"I'm your son, B. Your child. I asked you to love me and you slit my fucking throat."
Only silence follows. Bruce can talk, has all the space for his senseless babbling he could ever hope for. but he doesn't. His eyes are trained on the knife in Jason's hand. It's laughable how a gun, the bane of Batman's existence, is being pushed aside for a sharp peace of metal with a nice handle. Well, he's not complaining. If Bruce had any idea what was coming, he would've tried to stop it. Would have maybe pushed his son into the lesser evil that is arterial bleeding. This way, he only prays for the blade to leave. Jason weights his options and decides that his chances of going into shock if he goes through with the cut are too high for the risk to be worth it. He's already feeling dizzy.
It has to be a gun. Nothing else holds quite as much weights.
He drops the dagger. The relief on Bruce's face lasts just long enough for it to hurt when he reverts back to devastation once the gun finds it's place on Jason's temple.
"Jason!" Bruce screams, anguished. He's rushing, but he can't outrun a bullet. He already knows he'll be too late.
The scene is, Jason has slowly come to realize, more sad than anything else. Bruce is desperate to keep him alive. Desperate to have him back. It's the point he was trying to prove, more or less. He hesitates for exactly half a second. This would fucking ruin his father's life.
"Don't bury me," he says, because the doesn't know how long it would take this time. There's always a chance he'll wake underground. He's not willing to take it.
Jason shoots. Bruce lost his claim on fatherhood when he left him to bleed.
there's pain. That much is to be expected, and his own fault entirely, but that doesn't mean he can't complain.
Waking up from dying is always more or less the same. It hurts like nothing else—and he's had a lot of painful experiences to back up that statement— but it's somehow easier to deal with than a mild cold. He feels detached, like his suffering is everything but physical, a concept floating all around him. He knows, logically, that his wounds sting, and burn, and that he is in agony; the kind that would, in any other case, make him thrash and scream and claw at his own skin. No urge to move awakes within him. His throat doesn't turn raw with intensity of the wails that never come. Peace in his mind is intoxicating. He's aware of all that happens around him, and yet, the silence is overwhelming. It's, weirdly enough, both better and worse than any experience mortality can give him. He hates it.
There's something wrapped tightly around his left wrist, as if the bullet piercing through both sides off his skull wasn't the more pressing matter out of the two, and his head is positioned somewhat above the rest of his body. Stiff but gentle fingers are coursing through his hair. They're shaking too much for him to be as comfortable as he'd like. It's nice, until they graze a leaking wound and he hisses.
"Fucking ow," he tries to protest, but it comes out slurred. The world feels too soft for him to care. Kinder than usual, perhaps because it's his brain that's suffering the damage.
The hand stills. Someone screams. Jason would roll his eyes if they were open. As it is, he just prays internally for silence and drifts off.
He will come back. He always does.
Contrary to the impression one might get, considering how quick to throw his life away he was, Jason does not like dying. He hates it, actually. With passion. Even with all the painful and uncomfortable parts taken away, it's still fucking weird, and once the out-of-character serenity it usually leaves him in floats away, a depressive episode is sure to follow. A cycle that perpetuates itself, in a way. Dying makes him want to die, which in turn makes him happy until he wants to die again, and so he does, only to do it again. It takes some time and an awful lot of resolve to break out of, and it makes him understand his mom, which, of course, makes him hate it even more. It makes him hate himself too.
He's somewhere in the middle of the road currently, neither here nor there, so when he opens his eyes he feels almost normal. Dick Grayson, the one and only, is the first thing to grace his eyes. The second is a ceiling so familiar it can't be anything other than the Cave.
"Damn," he says to his brother's exhausted form, because the man still hasn't noticed him. It's been five seconds, to be fair, but Jason is impatient like that. "You look like shit."
The hug he's tacked into happens so fast he doesn't see it coming. When did Dick even turn around? And okay, wow, that's tight. His brother might be what kills him again if he doesn't chill the fuck out. Jason is just about to comment on it when he notices the older man's body is shaking with silent sobs, and he decides the better course of action might be to shut up, actually.
"Hey Dick," he says, awkward to the bone. He wasn't thinking about Dick. Dick probably wasn't thinking about him either, but they're on good terms now, and he's the one who staged his own suicide, so it's a weak defense. "Its, uh, it's okay."
His brother tears away from him even faster than he attached.
"Okay? Okay?" There is a myriad of emotions passing through his face, most notably anger and complete devastation, and fuck, Jason really should've thought about Dick. "Nothing is okay! What the fuck is wrong with you, Jason?! You can't do this! You can't just—" He chokes on a sob, unable to continue, and throws himself against Jason again, hands on his neck feeling the pulse. They stay like that for minutes until he starts talking again. He hasn't stopped crying the entire time.
"Never do that again. Jay, Jace, please. I can't—You can't. Never again. Never, never, never, never, never, please, never do that again. I just got you back. You just came back, you can't leave. Please, please, please..."
Dick's pleads gradually fade back into soft whimpers, head buried in his brother's neck. Jason letting his defenses down like his would usually be nothing short of a miracle, and he'd be trying to utilize the moment before it can pass him by. There hasn't been a single thing that could be regarded as usual in the past twenty-four hours. All he can feel is relief.
A hand flicks him on the forehead as soon as he allows himself to think about drifting off.
"You better now?" Jason asks, hoping for things to magically go back to normal. He gets a glare in return.
"I'd punch you in the face if I wasn't so scared of whatever there's left of your brain spilling out." It's a joke. It doesn't feel like one.
"Yeah that's...completely fair." Guilt is crushing him alive. He knows right away that this is something he will never fully forgive himself for. Dick wasn't supposed to suffer in the crossfire. He's sick of other people catching the fire of his war with Bruce. What's worse is that he can't bring himself to regret it. A weight has been lifted off his chest, for a while, even if new one settled in right after. New hurt is easier to cherish. He's finally said all he had to. "If it means anything, I wasn't trying to hurt you. It just happened."
"Right. That's not much of an apology."
Jason thinks his words over carefully, then gives up, because there's no way for them to sound good. "I am sorry that you got hurt. That wasn't my intention. But I'm not apologizing. I did nothing wrong."
Dick looks at him like he's insane. Maybe he is. An argument is ready the older brother's lips, but he shoves it down, because he knows it wouldn't bring either of them any good. Jason is good at running. Better than he ever was at talking. The moment Dick tries to redirect some of the blame his way, he'll flee, and that's one thing that can't be allowed to happen. Dick doesn't think he could take it, after everything.
"Alright," he resigns, keeping his thoughts to himself. "That's the best I'll ever manage to get from you."
"Damn right," Jason agrees, and lets Dick lean against him again. He has a headache that is all the headaches in the world combined, but that feels right, considering his brain just stitched itself together, or something equally disturbing. They lie there, soaking in each other's presence, and Jason wonders for how long will he be allowed to have this before something takes it away again. Before his brother leaves, like everyone inevitably does.
The silence stretches until he finally uses all his leftover courage to ask the pressing question. "Where's Bruce?"
Dick looks away, hesitating before he finally answers truthfully.
"Upstairs." He keeps talking, voice weak, already ahead of Jason's oncoming anger. "He...It was bad, Jay. I kept trying to calm him down, but he was—it was bad. And then he just shut down, and I don't think he could even hear me. I thought, if I could get him to listen then he'd realize things are okay and you're still breathing but, well, it just got worse. Lorazepam helped for a while, but he freaked out again, and I had to fully sedate him, and Tim's with a friend because he shouldn't have to deal with Bruce's grief, he's a child. And I don't know what to do, none of us know what to do. You almost died and nobody knows how the fuck you're alive. And I'm glad, obviously, I'm so happy to see you again, I want you alive, but I'm so confused, and nothing makes sense, and you died. Twice."
Dick is out of breath by the time he finishes, and his eyes are shiny again. Jason is struggling to get any words out. The numbers are nowhere near correct. Twice is laughable. He doesn't want to answer any questions. Is this how people always act when their loved ones try to take the easiest shortcut to Hell? Guilting someone they're trying to keep alive and pouring out all their emotions on them? Seems counterproductive, if you ask him. Given the option, he will gladly die again just to evade all the conversations he knows are surely coming.
Dick, in all his overflowing kindness, takes pity. "He's still asleep, I think. Alfred's keeping the watch on him."
"Right. Good." He props himself up with his hands, pushing Dick aside, and sits on the edge of the bed. He rips out an IV cord he somehow failed to notice. That's not concerning at all. "Well, I'm all better now. I'll get out of your hair."
There's a hand gripping is own right away, hard enough to bruise. "No you won't."
"Dick."
"Jason."
They stare at each other until Jason finally breaks the eye contact. "Fine." He lies back down.
"I'm getting B. Don't you dare leave."
Dick leaves, and Jason knows that this is the part where he slips away and leaves. He knows that, but he already made his brother go through enough, so unfortunately, this is the least he could do. Doesn't mean he likes it, but he'll go through with it.
Bruce comes alone. He descends the stairs, takes one look at Jason, and ceases all movement in favor of looking all over him. Calculating the odds of all of this being a hallucination, possibly. Jason takes a deep breath, and decides to talk. For Dick.
"Don't just stand there like you've been petrified." Draining his tone of venom proves to be hard. He should get some sort of participation award to honor the attempt. "Look me in the eyes, Bruce. I'm no Medusa."
It was a stupid analogy. Among his worse opening lines. Tim would call him cringe. He gets a pass for dying a few hours prior, so it doesn't matter.
"No," Bruce replies after a while, "you're certainly worse." It stings.
"And here I was trying to play nice."
"Nothing about what you did could ever be described as playing nice. Not in the minds of the most deluded Arkham inmates, and most definitely not in mine."
"Well." He shrugs. "I'm playing nice now."
Bruce gives him a long look he struggles to place. He knows Bruce, knows him better than most could ever dream of, but their time together was never enough. Some things slipped past.
"Are you?"
Animosity is easy. Banter is easy. If they keep giving each other shit, maybe they'll never have to face what went down.
Jason doesn't want easy this time.
"As nice as I owe you."
Bruce disagrees. Jason can see it in the shine of his eyes, the downturn of his lips. He still lives in the land of make-believe, where one day, his fifteen-year-old son will rise from the ashes of a murderer and they'll all play happy family again.
"You still fail to see anything but my wrongs."
Bruce face goes blank. He recovers. There's anger in the set of his jaw.
"Maybe, Jason, if there were any rights for me to look at, I'd see them."
It hurts. It really fucking hurts to hear, after everything that went down, all the words he said in vain. He wishes it didn't, but it does. His eyes burn. Where was all that apparent care Dick implied was held for him not even moments ago? If Bruce keeps suffering when he loses him, why is Jason never welcomed with open arms?
"I don't follow your laws", he reminds him. "You're not my father."
"You called yourself my son."
Jason doesn't remember that. He doesn't remember much of what went on. It doesn't make the words less true.
"And I called myself no one's son long before that," he points out. "But you're right. I did. I am."
"Does that not make me your father?"
"Of course it doesn't."
Bruce just stares, curious. He doesn't get it. Of course he doesn't.
"It's different. You stopped being a father to your son when he died." He stops to think when he catches the obvious disagreement ready on Bruce's lips. "Or, no. You're still a father to that kid. The one who never got to grow up. But I grew up. I'm still here. So it's not me. But you're still you. And that kid is still your son. And I'm not the me that kid was, not anymore, but I am, sometimes. And so I'm your son. Sometimes."
Jason can see the concern setting deeper into Bruce's frown lines. "Wouldn't that make me your father, sometimes?"
"Well, that's stupid."
"Why?" It's a genuine question. Somehow, that makes it worse.
"You killed me, Bruce," Jason accuses with more peace than he ever thought he was capable of. The calm of dying really hit him hard.
Bruce chokes on air. "You killed yourself."
"That too," he agrees readily. "But you killed me first."
"What are you talking about?" Distress was never a good look on him. That doesn't stop Jason from reveling in it. "Are you out of your mind?!"
"Come on, B. Was all that talking I did before my grand finale for nothing?" He lowers the fabric of his shirt to better expose the side of his neck. "We both know it wasn't the explosion that killed me. Would've been cliché for it to happen twice."
Bruce isn't breathing, or if he is, Jason can't see it. The man just keeps looking at him as if that will make him change his mind.
"You killed me, Bruce," he repeats calmly. "You can't be my dad."
Jason leaves, knocking over a glass of water left at his bedside. He hopes Dick doesn't get cut picking up the pieces.