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The gun was heavy in Jason’s hand, shaking as he struggled to keep it pointed up and in front of him. Blood soaked his palms, only worsening his grip on cold metal.
Pain shot through his entire body with every heaved out breath, reminding him of the gunshot wound in his back leg. Blood bathed his legs and the back of his head where he’d fallen into a pool of the sticky red.
A tingle in the back of Jason’s throat threatened a cough, but he couldn’t look away from the man in front of him.
Bruce, cowl lost in the fight at some point, had an expression of pure devastation. Jason could imagine what he was thinking. Failure, liability, mistake. Of course he was disappointed his biggest failure came crawling back from the dead.
“Ja—“ Bruce was cut off from whatever disappointed speech he was going to give when Jason pointedly turned the safety of his gun off. Bruce’s eyes flickered down to the barrel, a good four feet away, before blue eyes landed back on Jason.
This hadn’t been the gun he used to kill the Joker and his goons, a green haired corpse lying motionless across the room. This may not have been the same gun, but it was still Jason’s hands that pulled the trigger.
Green in Jason’s vision was a constant, but now it was mind numbing, easy to fall back on the familiarity. He had wanted Bruce to kill the Joker, wanted him to choose Jason and not the Joker. Of course it went to shit, always did with Jason. For some reason the green haired bastard’s goons managed to find them, throwing a wrench in Jason’s plan and ending with a bullet in most of their heads.
After everything, Joker’s death had been an accident. A fucking accident.
“Jason.” Bruce breathed out, slowly raising his palms up. He hadn’t even looked at Joker since the initial shot, eyes locked on the last one standing. “Jaybird…”
A spike of soul deep agony made it that much harder to look Bruce in his eyes. “No.” Jason couldn't bring himself to raise his voice to a yell. “Don’t call me that, just— just don’t.” There was no attempt to hide the anguish in his tone.
Emotions flickered in Bruce’s eyes, indecipherable. “Jason, put the gun down.”
“What, just for you to knock me out? Leave me as a little present for Arkham?” Jason growled. “I won’t listen to you, not when being your perfect little soldier got me killed.”
Bruce flinched, physically recoiled back at Jason’s harsh words. Jason faltered at the plain hurt in Bruce’s eyes, clear as day. Bruce had never once been completely honest and open with his feelings, not in Jason’s lifetime at least. To see what looked like genuine grief unabashedly displayed.
Grief of you or how you used to be?
Coiling heat and frustration pulled a little more green into Jason’s vision, the colour draining with every second he looked into his father’s Bruce’s eyes.
“I’m not the same person I was four years ago.” His voice is low, cracking on the words as anger drained and all that was left was an aching sadness. It was harder and harder to keep his aim steady on Bruce.
The man in front of him took in a rapid breath, eyes watering. “Jason, I know it will be almost impossible for you to believe me, but I’m sorry.”
The apology strikes Jason, unexpected and forcing him to blink back tears. He tells himself the shaking in his hands is out of anger.
It has to be out of anger, not when the alternative is– fuck.
“I’m sorry for pushing you away when I should have talked to you. I’m sorry for not being there when you needed it most. I’m sorry for making you into a soldier when you are my son.”
Lying. Lying. LYING. LYING–
Jason’s veins pulse in time with the green surging and spinning in his head, swirling and rocking with every apology Bruce freely gave out. He was so distracted he didn’t see Bruce stepping closer.
“I’m sorry for never being willing to express my love for you and your brothers. I’m sorry even through all my contingencies, I didn’t stop to think about why you were acting the way you were.”
He’s lying, he hates you, he put another kid in the role of target, replaced you so easily, you’re nothing but a thing to him–
A hand cradles Jason’s face, wiping away hot tears. His arm hung limply by his side, gun taken and placed somewhere out of reach.
Everything in his head was just so loud, pulling at him, urging him to move, kick, scream, shoot.
But Jason was tired, fuck, he was tired.
“I’m not going to apologise for not killing the Joker.” The hand cradling Jason’s face encourages him to look at his father. His breath hitches when he realises he has to look down, not up, to meet Bruce’s eyes. “But I will always and forever apologise that he ever got his hands on you, that my inability to keep the patients in Arkham locked up resulted in the death of you and countless other people.”
Green seeped out of Jason’s vision, the true blue of Bruce’s eyes clear. Bruce had tears of his own streaming down his face, something Jason hadn’t even noticed.
Jason was so tired.
He was tired of being angry at everything, of worrying that Joker would hurt or kill someone else, that another child, or heaven forbid another Robin, gets caught in the crossfire of adults fighting.
But Joker was dead. He had a bullet in his brain and no way to squirrel himself back to life to torment Gotham again. It was over.
Still, Bruce had his eyes on Jason, worried in a way the pit couldn’t twist and make out to be anything but fatherly grief.
Swallowing, Jason had to ask one last thing. He couldn’t let himself fall into the comfort of Bruce finally being here when he was still unsure of how this night would end. His voice trembled as the words came out like static to his ears. “Are you going to put me in Arkham?” He’d deserve it. Every action he made in anger that he now didn’t quite regret but understood would be means for imprisonment flashed in his mind.
“No.” Bruce’s voice is firm, something adjacent to anger in his voice. It makes Jason flinch, just slightly, but Bruce still softens his gaze at that. “No Jaylad, you’re not ever going to Arkham.”
Bruce’s second hand raises and pushes against the back of Jason’s head, pulling him closer and curling gently into his hair. Jason doesn’t resist, eyes fluttering shut as Bruce presses his face into his armoured chest. A hand runs through his blood-matted hair, careful not to tug at the sensitive locks.
Jason only hesitates a moment before fully leaning in, arms curling around his father and tightly clenching Bruce’s cape into his fists.
Jason was so, so tired, too tired to cry or stand or even think of the body laying across the room, finally still.
“You’re coming home, Jaybird.”