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He'd thought it would be poetic. To kill Bruce the same way he'd died, to come full circle, to end the man's life the way he'd allowed Jason's life to be ended. To burn him, blow him to pieces, erase all traces of him from the world, until all that was left of Bruce Wayne was ash and a whisper on the streets.
He'd wanted it. Planned it. Been seconds away from doing it.
He told himself that he'd changed his mind because it was too easy; Bruce would die instantly, with no knowledge of who had killed him, no personal touch. Anyone could have done it. It was, on occasion, so remarkably easy to kill Bruce that Jason was sometimes shocked that no villain had managed it, yet. He could have gotten away with it. He could have done it. Killed the Batman once and for all.
And he hated to think about it at all, but especially hated that he'd refused to admit why he really hadn't done it. He claimed it was because it would be too easy. He claimed it was because he wanted Bruce to know it was him. And maybe it was partially true.
But the real reason he hadn't done it was that he was standing off in the distance, hidden, with his thumb hovering over the trigger, and Bruce was getting into the batmobile. He wasn't glaring, he wasn't lecturing, he wasn't really doing anything except climbing in, his broad shoulders slouching with exhaustion and his movements practiced and familiar but exhausted and slow.
He was Batman.
But he was also Bruce.
The Bruce who'd taken a tire iron to the rib and still hadn't roughed him up or hurt him, the Bruce who'd given him a home when he could just as easily have dropped him off to the police and had him sent back to juvie, the Bruce who'd taught him how to fight, the Bruce who'd signed him up for external classes on anything he'd wanted to learn, the Bruce who not-so-subtly tried to get him to eat more his first few months in the Manor. The Bruce who'd given him a room of his own and had called him Jay and smiled at him often and never hit him, not once, not even when he would have deserved it. And even though he couldn't reconcile the new kid and the Joker's continued existence with....whatever it was that they'd had.....Jason knew that they'd had something.
He knew it.
The Batman's death would have consequences, for Gotham, for the world. Brucie Wayne's death would be a social bombshell.
But Bruce....
Bruce's death would be....wrong.
He'd wanted to do it, so badly. He'd had his thumb over the trigger, had lowered it onto the button.
But he couldn't.
And he hated himself. He knew that the reason why he couldn't do it was because he was still attached to Bruce.
He said he wanted it to be personal, but he really wanted Bruce to explain. To tell him why he'd let Joker live, why he'd replaced Jason less than a year after he was gone, why he'd just set up the stupid suit with a plaque that said Jason was nothing but another child soldier and left it at that. He wanted an explanation. He wanted a good one, that would make sense, that would have convinced him to stop. He hoped, in the smallest, stupidest part of himself, that Bruce still somehow wanted him, would let him come home, and everything could go back to normal.
But now Jason could see that no explanation would have satisfied him. Now he knew that even if Bruce had been the best with words, or emotions, or with how to react in scenarios involving his resurrected children trying to kill him, there still would have been no way to erase his supposed crimes in Jason's eyes. It was the Pit, and there was no getting past the crazed rage burning in his heart.
And Jason had no idea why he was even thinking about it so much.
Maybe it was because he'd been hanging around the Manor more, recently, and while Bruce hadn't been around that often and Jason had been keeping to himself, he was still there, dipping in and out to grab a sandwich or say a few words to Tim, and he never acknowledged Jason's presence besides a nod or a faint smile or a quick pat on the shoulder. Like he wasn't concerned. Like he was even privately glad that Jason was there.
Maybe it was because he'd been perilously close to an explosion earlier, and he'd screamed when the bomb went off and threw him to the ground with a few shreds of shrapnel embedded in his armor, between his ribs and lower down. Maybe it was because Bruce ran full out and reached him before the dust had even fully settled, heedless of the fire and rubble, and had torn his helmet off and cradled his head, feverishly pushed his bangs back and stroked his cheek, leaving streaks of dirt from his gloves. Maybe it was because Bruce's hands shook while he wrapped cloth around the shrapnel pieces to stabilize them, even though they really weren't that bad. Maybe it was because he refused to let Nightwing take Jason and had carried him to the car, himself. He and Alfred had tended to the wounds, Bruce had gotten out the painkillers that he himself would never take but always broke out when one of his children was hurt because he couldn't stand to see them in pain. The whole time, he acted like a man who'd seen a ghost, and kept furtively glancing at Jason, like he was reassuring himself he was still there. He was clearly rattled, and Jason sat silently and endured it, and he couldn't even enjoy it because he was too busy being consumed by guilt. He'd wanted to kill Bruce that way, and he almost had, but here he was, in Wayne Manor, cared for and as accepted as he had been as a street rat. And he was terrified of what Bruce would do when he found out but he wanted him to know because then he could finally see the horror he deserved, and not the--the love that was there, instead.
"The meds might make you nauseated, but I had Alfred make you lunch just in case you were hungry," Bruce said when he came in again, setting a plate down on the adjustable table next to the bed. "I wasn't sure if you'd rather stay down here or if you'd be more comfortable upstairs, so if you'd rather go back to your room--"
A choked sound escaped Jason, and he clenched his hands into fists, refusing to meet Bruce's eyes.
"Jason?" Jason clenched his eyes shut. Bruce's footsteps came closer, and a rough, warm hand touched his cheek.
Jason tugged his face away and faced the other direction, ashamed both of the kindness and the tears trickling down his cheeks.
"Jay." Bruce's voice was quieter, gentle. "What is it?"
Jason gulped through a traitorously tight throat, opening his eyes for a split second and immediately glancing away again at the open concern on Bruce's face. "I tried to kill you," he blurted out, his voice wrecked and high, and once the words started coming, they wouldn't stop.
"I--I had it all planned out, I made the bomb myself--" Bruce inhaled suddenly and sharply, and Jason stuttered to a stop but kept going. "--planted it, was watching. I-I hated you so much that I wanted to kill you like you'd let me be killed." Jason clamped his hand over his mouth as he choked on further sobs. "I would have done it. I would have killed you, and taken you away from Alfred and Selina and Dick and Tim and Cass and Damian--"
"Why didn't you?" Bruce asked, quiet and subdued.
Jason shrugged hysterically. "I don't know. I was going to. I thought of how it would feel, to kill you. I knew--" Jason choked. "I knew I could do it. And you still--you still let me here and I don't deserve it, any of it, you...you should hate me after everything I've..."
"You're right." Bruce said.
Jason stuttered to a halt, heart seizing in his chest. "W-what?" He asked.
Bruce must have seen his suddenly petrified expression, because he suddenly looked disgusted with himself and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, Jason, hell, not about hating you, no. About...about being able to kill me." His voice grew serious. "You're absolutely right. You could have gotten away with it. I was tired and not really paying attention. I wanted to get home early. I never would have known what happened. I didn't even know the bomb was there until I got back to the Cave and did the usual check-up. I didn't know it was you. You would have been able to do it easily. You were more than capable."
Jason kept his eyes clamped shut, his face turned away, new tears streaming down his face at the confirmation. Bruce's hand slipped up and gently cupped his chin, tilted his face up. "Jay. Look at me. Please."
Jason blinked his stinging eyes open, glanced up at the wavering silhouette of Bruce's face, at the steely grey eyes which were intense and...proud?
"But you didn't do it, Jason. And do you know what that tells me? That tells me that even when you've been driven to hell and back, even when you're mentally compromised and emotionally tormented, even when anyone else would have been broken and given in, you didn't. You didn't do it. And I don't care why, or how, or what you were or weren't thinking, or how angry you were. You didn't do it. It's over, and you didn't do it. And I am so," Bruce's voice broke, "so proud of you, for coming as far as you have after what you went through." Bruce's fingers were running through Jason's bangs, and Jason's eyes were huge because Bruce's eyes were shiny and wet, too. "You do deserve this, Jay, and more, especially from me. You came back. I got you back, so you're stuck with me, you hear? I don't care what you did or what you thought of doing. You didn't, and you're here, and you're my son. No matter what you've done."
Jason made a choked sound in his throat and threw his arms around Bruce's neck, clinging to him and burying his face in his shoulder and sobbing. After only a split second of shock, Bruce's arms closed around him and his hand came up to hold Jason's head, and Jason almost couldn't breathe for how much it hurt. How grateful he was, that Bruce believed he was good. How it was always too much to think that someone like Bruce could love him, let alone actually did. And he could feel Bruce shedding a few tears of his own into his hair, which made him cry even harder.
When his sobs had finally faded to occasional hiccups, Bruce eased him back a little. "Do you want to go upstairs?"
Jason shook his head. "Not yet." He scrubbed his sleeve over his nose, sniffling. Bruce nodded understandingly, took Jason's free hand and held it, stroking his knuckles with his thumb.
"...B?" Jason asked tentatively.
"Yes?"
Jason swallowed. "I...I didn't do it because...because it was still...you. Even with the cowl, it was you. And even when I hated you, I missed you so bad."
Bruce's lips pressed together, his eyes shiny. "I missed you too, Jay," he whispered. He leaned forward and embraced Jason again, but this time a bit more gently, like Jason was fragile and beloved. "More than you know."
Jason closed his eyes and held on.