a bad combination in the dark (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
redjay) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tushanshu_logs2012-10-22 12:42 pm
redjay) wrote in tushanshu_logs2012-10-22 12:42 pm
Entry tags:
closed
Characters: Jason Todd + Bruce Wayne
Date: Oct 21th / early morn
Location: Earth sector
Situation: He's tired, he's drunk, he's bleeding. And Bruce finds him.
Warnings/Rating: Nothing, probably. nothing but feelings.
[After Steph's party, Jason takes the usual routes that exist on the upper-levels of the city. On the roof-tops, the air smells fresher. There are less reminders of other people's existence. Isolation is a strange comfort in that it's good and bad. Good that he can clear his head and bad because it's a reminder that he'll never have what that girl Robin has.
Hell, who needs friends.
His stomach and liver are busy processing the alcohol. And even for one of his physicality and weight-grade, there's no way to avoid the influence. Add to the fact that his tolerance is not quite up to standard, and premium vodka is nothing compared to this kedan stuff, and you have Jason Todd - tired and drunk. And bleeding.
Because all it takes is one stretch that goes too far, and he's got a dressing that's got a thin taint of blood from his wound. It's across his shoulder blade, hard place to reach. Even harder to not pull apart with his late-night activities. There's still a-way's way home. It's time to make a pit-stop.
Jason stops on one of the tallest buildings in Earth sector. He finishes the bottle hanging off his belt and places it up-right and in front of the door of the roof entrance of the building. As always, security first.
There's a good view of everything from here. He can see Fire to his left, and there's a bit of Metal to be seen on his right. Of course, the range is an illusion, gives you a false sense of comfort in knowing that you can see everything in front of you. Except you leave your back exposed while you are stuck marveling at this view. Which is why, even when drunk, Jason takes up a corner. He gets his back covered, and that panoramic shot replaced with the roof entrance.
He doesn't fall asleep right away, that's way too easy. He spends 5 minutes staring at the bottle in front of the door, and another 10 minutes repeating scenarios, another 5 minutes of drifting in between sleep.
Finally, uneasy sleep comes. He close his eyes and dreams about that bottle being knocking over.]
Date: Oct 21th / early morn
Location: Earth sector
Situation: He's tired, he's drunk, he's bleeding. And Bruce finds him.
Warnings/Rating: Nothing, probably. nothing but feelings.
[After Steph's party, Jason takes the usual routes that exist on the upper-levels of the city. On the roof-tops, the air smells fresher. There are less reminders of other people's existence. Isolation is a strange comfort in that it's good and bad. Good that he can clear his head and bad because it's a reminder that he'll never have what that girl Robin has.
Hell, who needs friends.
His stomach and liver are busy processing the alcohol. And even for one of his physicality and weight-grade, there's no way to avoid the influence. Add to the fact that his tolerance is not quite up to standard, and premium vodka is nothing compared to this kedan stuff, and you have Jason Todd - tired and drunk. And bleeding.
Because all it takes is one stretch that goes too far, and he's got a dressing that's got a thin taint of blood from his wound. It's across his shoulder blade, hard place to reach. Even harder to not pull apart with his late-night activities. There's still a-way's way home. It's time to make a pit-stop.
Jason stops on one of the tallest buildings in Earth sector. He finishes the bottle hanging off his belt and places it up-right and in front of the door of the roof entrance of the building. As always, security first.
There's a good view of everything from here. He can see Fire to his left, and there's a bit of Metal to be seen on his right. Of course, the range is an illusion, gives you a false sense of comfort in knowing that you can see everything in front of you. Except you leave your back exposed while you are stuck marveling at this view. Which is why, even when drunk, Jason takes up a corner. He gets his back covered, and that panoramic shot replaced with the roof entrance.
He doesn't fall asleep right away, that's way too easy. He spends 5 minutes staring at the bottle in front of the door, and another 10 minutes repeating scenarios, another 5 minutes of drifting in between sleep.
Finally, uneasy sleep comes. He close his eyes and dreams about that bottle being knocking over.]
no subject
The others are still safely with Stephanie, and despite her many shortcomings, he knows she'll look after them. So when Jason leaves the party, Bruce trails after, silent as a shadow. He has no intention of interacting with him, but he's well aware (at least he can hazard an educated guess) as to how much alcohol Jason's had tonight, and where that might lead.
When Jason stops on a roof Bruce perches nearby. There's something of the street kid he was before Bruce found him in the way he curls up, even in the way he scopes out the area and sets the bottle in front of the door.
Something old seizes and aches in his chest at the little ritual, but it doesn't cause him to shift his posture. No. He remains exactly where he is, perfectly still until Jason falls asleep, and for fifteen minutes besides. And then he moves, steps away from the shadows, pads closer on silicone-soled boots. Jason's definitely been in a fight recently-- his clothing is scuffed and torn and bloody in spots. Bruce wonders if he ever bothered changing the dressing on the stitchwork he'd laid into his arm, but he's wearing too many layers to check.
Instead, he reaches up, pulls his cape from his shoulders and drapes it gently over Jason.
Then he simply sits on the edge of the roof and watches the city at night.]
no subject
Still, you have to stop sometimes.
Jason sleeps for a while. During that time, he doesn't notice that it got warmer. Besides tucking his head further into the corner to avoid the natural light, he doesn't move at all. He looks dead to the world. On any normal day, his body automatically wakes him up three hours in because he knows that's when the dreams start. It takes practice, but he's had plenty of it.
It just doesn't work with alcohol involved.
Almost four hours in, and Jason is dreaming. It starts with images: that leather sofa in Wayne Manor, the one in front of the fireplace, Bruce chuckles at his poor attempt at chess, Alfred brings him milk before bed, memory of that odd scent of the Batcave when it first hits you on a spring day then there's a light at the end of the tunnel. It leads to a door that won't open. And laughter.
Jason's breathing turns harsh before he bolts right up and trips over the cape placed on him.]
no subject
And he knows it. But what else is there for him? Just this. Only this. As long as he's alive.
No parent should ever bury their child. He lost Jason and-- and Steph, which hurt in its own way. He's come so close to losing Dick and Tim and Damian and Cassandra. What right did he ever have to involve them in this life? What right has he ever had?
He looks out over the city, jaw clenched, his carefully structured mind a mess as he thinks about that. Really, genuinely thinks about it. So far from Gotham and the mission that drives him there, what's left? A kingdom of nothing. Bones and breaks and sounds screaming in his ears that he can never lay to rest. And gunshots. Always gunshots. Just two. Small sounds. Desperately small sounds.
The slight commotion of Jason's nightmare is almost a welcome interruption. He turns, steps down from the ledge he's been perched on. Pins and needles are the order of the night and he ignores them to focus on his son.
No question what he's dreaming about. Bruce has shared it himself so many times that he recognizes the signs now by rote. He's torn between waking him up and vanishing before Jason knew he was there, but that moment of indecision costs him the option of both when Jason bolts awake and scrambles half-upright, slips on the cape (just doing that makes him look so young--) and Bruce reaches out instinctively to catch him.]
Jason.
no subject
It kicks him from his dream and launches him into firing all the nerve endings; neurons screams work, muscles protest at the same volume. Neurons with will on their side wins out in the end. Jason grabs at the arm holding him, pulls him into an elbow that's ready to--
Then he hear his name, and the voice.]
Wha--
[He's not sure what's going on. He's still asleep would be his first guess. Because it's
Bruce?
His heart pounding out of his chest. Hope is a dangerous thing. And the ones where he's there at the end is always the worst. Even if it's no longer a dream, the effect is still there, vividly so.
Jason finds his feet properly and recoils back. He breathes hard, it's the only thing he can do right now because everything else is still reliving that nightmare. He walks away, turns his back to Bruce and crouches down where the bottle is to recuperate.
He grips the neck of the bottle hard, trying to feel for that sinking feeling when reality slots back into place. He chokes out a short laugh. No quips finishes it off.
Recuperate, damn it.]
no subject
He's grown so used to living with the constant terror of losing Jason again it didn't even register as an independent thought.
But there's something that makes it more intense this time. Maybe because... because seeing Jason like this, so young and vulnerable, reminded him too well of the boy he used to be. Gentle and sweet, passionate beyond belief. Compassionate, too, which is what ruined him. It's easy to see Jason as the Red Hood. The threat. A man who almost killed Tim, who tried to kill Dick-- who tried to drive him to murder.
Seeing him as that same little boy that Bruce failed, though, that's harder to bear. Again, he is the architect of his own demise. The Joker. Dent. Jason. Arkham isn't the way it is because of Gotham. It's the way it is because of him.
He bends. Picks up the cape. It falls through his gloved fingers. Reinforced silk. A poor substitute for the nomex/kevlar blend he has back home.]
Jason, I--
[He doesn't know how to finish that statement. So the words simply fall off, and Bruce's fingers clench in the cape, causing the silk to ripple strangely in the light, a cascade of darkness in his grip.]
no subject
And he can't do that. Not in this position. He's still tense and ready to go. It triggers a closely related muscle memory - of being ever-so determined to get out, never giving up even when the bomb's ticking off. Jason needs to relax. Let his body ease out of it. Let his mind remember that those wounds are long gone. Nothing but phantom pain.
He makes a good show of being steady. He doesn't utter a word to Bruce, and goes sits down with the door against his back. He's facing him now, and there's apprehension at first and a slight flinch at the image of the Dark Knight in an unfamiliar backdrop then he does what he reminded himself to do - he relaxes. He keeps his eyes open, instinctual forcing himself to stay alert.
Hell if he cares about what Bruce thinks right now. This is his problem.]
no subject
He doesn't hesitate as he sits down beside him. Just enough distance between them that they aren't quite touching.
Bruce simply presses his shoulders back against the structure behind them (half door, half brick, one of the hinges presses into the small of his back when he shifts) and says nothing at all.]
no subject
Another being, hell, it's Batman.
Jason's not up for a fight though, not right now. Jason swallows hard and tries not to flinch when he comes towards him and sits down. But he does both.
He's only thankful that his voice doesn't give when he speaks.]
It's not what you think. I've--
[He pauses. For a second, he remembers his dreams and there's blur of white and green. And he knows in his gut there's another way that this conversation starts, and another way it ends. But here, it's all wrong. All that he envisions and re-assures himself of isn't there. He's not here. The symbolism is lacking. It doesn't get to start this peacefully, not when all of their lives has been everything but peace.
Jason pauses for an indefinite time. The words he wants to say doesn't come out. He is a stubborn one, always has been. Even being taken to a foreign place, met with a chance for redemption and acceptance, he resists, feels unjustified.
Talia's words repeats: unavenged.
Then he just turns it off. All of the feelings and emotions, the physical pain and the images is turned off and he steps back, becomes nothing but an observer. And he breathes.
For a while, the air comes tightly. Then it doesn't.]
You should have killed him.
no subject
He doesn't say it. He can't. Admitting it is too much like admitting defeat, and Bruce-- has never borne that well.]
I thought about it. I've thought about it for years.
[He tips his head back against the door. The night is cool, he can see his breath in the air but for some reason he barely feels the dip in temperature.]
I planned it out in more ways than you could imagine. A thousand different scenarios. It could never just be about killing him. I wanted to take him and disappear. For a month. Two. Six. I thought about how it would be if I beat him. Systematically. Broke every bone in his body and left him alone in some dark, inescapable place to heal and then came back to do it all over again.
[His hands flex, briefly. Muscle-memory. They coil into fists and then with an effort ease back to rested poise.
This is. Easier. Than the way it happened before. It's not as haphazard, but just as undercut with quiet passion. His voice sounds less like begging to his own ears.]
I wanted to torture him. As long as I could make it last. And then when he begged me to stop, I entertained the idea of dousing him in gasoline and watching as he burned to death.
[He breathes. Oxygen has never felt so much like a poison as it does right now.]
Do you know why I carried on my parents' legacy of philanthropy, Jason? Because despite the violence of their deaths, I needed to be able to honour their lives in a way that was... removed from who I am. And what I by necessity do. There are darknesses I can't succumb to if I want to uphold their memories, to do right by them. To do them justice. But they died more than two and a half decades ago now. I never knew them as people, just as parents. There are days when I can't remember what colour my mother's eyes were, or how my father sounded when he was trying to be stern. I don't know what my mother's favourite book was. Her hobbies. I never knew if my father preferred golf or croquet.
[His voice quiets a little. He so rarely speaks like this that he's unused to how he sounds when there's no anger or pain laced under his words. When he's just being himself as a man and not a symbol, not a soldier.]
You were brighter than that. Something in my life I cherished not because it's something you've been raised to cherish, as with a parent, but as something that... found me. We chose each other. Against all odds. And I always tried to do right by you and you... tolerated my clumsy attempts at fatherhood with a wisdom and patience beyond your years. When I lost you, Jason, it pushed me to an edge I thought I'd already surpassed the night of their deaths.
[He doesn't dare go into detail. That place still lurks at the edges of his mind, and although he's resigned to its presence as one tolerates an old injury that healed badly and aches in the cold, there are times when he's been terrified of slipping back into it. Of becoming something less than human.
For a reason he can't explain, he thinks quite distinctly then of Azrael.]
I've thought about killing the Joker. I doubt a day has gone by where it hasn't been somewhere in the back of my mind. But killing the Joker was always about me. My-- [his mouth twists.] pain. Grief. Guilt. My memories of you were so bright, Jason, I-- couldn't tarnish that by committing something that stood against everything we'd accomplished together. Vengeance wouldn't bring you back. The only way I could honour your memory was to live by my principles. As honestly as I could. I wanted to be worth what you'd...
[There's a crack in his voice. Very fine. A slight slip in the control he exerts so masterfully over every nuance of himself. When he continues on, it's as if it didn't happen.]
What you'd died for.
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We give [His jaw tightens, his teeth clenches and words slips out between them.] everything. Our bodies, our soul, our lives to this. You're not selfish, Bruce. None of us in this business are.
It wasn't just about me. Or you. I don't blame you for what happened. It was my fault for being-- stupid. Reckless. I could never blame you for that.
[The words are crisp and clear. It's not a whisper. It's a hard truth he always meant to tell Bruce, eventually. It seemed like a good time now.
He bows his head, his hands struggles to stay limp and not crash that bottle in his hand, just to hear a distraction from a sensitive topic.]
But how many others has he harmed? How many orphans has he created? Or children has he made parents bury? How many will there be in the future if he keeps on breathing?
[He pulls himself up, steady hands braced on steady knees, and stands. His tone gets firmer. There's more conviction in his voice, sharpened with anger.]
This isn't just about vengeance for me. This is about getting rid of a nightmare on Gotham. And locking them up isn't good enough for that. I don't understand how you can't see that lethal force has become necessary for what we do.
You know I'm right. [A pause. It doesn't last more than a minute before he makes another sound. Half a scoffs, half a laugh] You would know that if you lived outside your fantasy world for a moment. But that's what makes you you. And me me.
Do you want to know the truth, Bruce? Since we're being honest here. [He moves and gently settles the bottle back back on the ground by the door. It hardly makes a sound.]
I think our principles started to split long before death did its part. I think you're scared to admit it.
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He can't stand the idea that Jason forgives him. That he doesn't blame him. Because Bruce will carry that weight until he dies. Beyond that, if the few times he's experienced death in his life are an indication of what awaits him. His jaw clenches; he looks away. As open and honest as he's being (trying to be, every move like a chess piece slid across a red-white checkered board) he doesn't want Jason to see the look on his face in that moment, and even his considerable self-control can't hide it.
There's an echo then, ghosts of future past, '-- entire graveyards he's filled--' and he hears it clear as day. He can almost smell the mould in that dilapidated old building. Almost the memory of the Joker's high, shrill laughter makes his jaw ache with tension. Almost he can hear the slight tchk of the bomb counting down. The dénouement of everything they've ever done.
Bruce remembers moving to cover Jason just before the bomb blew. He'd made his choice. He was ready to live with it. Jason for the Joker. There was no other option. But it all came to nothing in the end.
(He could have turned, could have walked away. He told Dick once that one should know the difference between shooting a bullet and failing to step in front of one. But how can he see or even justify there being any value to the Joker's life after everything he's stolen, taken away, destroyed or razed to the goddamned ground?)
Bruce doesn't flinch away from the words. He can't. He does watch, wearily, as Jason gets to his feet. It's always a fight with him, and Bruce... for a moment, when he closes his eyes all he can see is the same little boy who lifted the tires off his Batmobile. Such a small window of opportunity that's lead them here, to this. Like fate.
But Bruce is a man of science and reason. He doesn't accept 'fate' as an answer for the way his life has gone. Of course, he's seen too much to dismiss it out of hand, either, but it's not in him to simply accept.]
There aren't many things that scare me, Jason. That isn't one of them.
[He's gone back and forth on the matter of Felipe Garzonas. Sometimes he's convinced that Jason did it. Others he can't fathom it.
But fear? No.
Fear isn't growing apart from someone. Fear isn't even watching them, knowing they can kill.
It's holding them in your arms as they die.
Bruce has been in a position to be uniquely intimate with his fears. Too many of them have come to pass. And the rest... for the rest, there isn't much he wouldn't do to keep them from transpiring as well.]
no subject
Jason isn't looking at Bruce, he has his back towards him. Perfectly safe in the knowledge that somethings never change, won't ever change. Bruce is one of them. Of course he thought he would, after what happen to him, his mother, that warehouse. A martyr's reign begins with his death and all. He never would have imagined that Joker would still be around. Or thought that there would be another Robin filling in his shoes.
Just another cycle in the cave of self-torture for Bruce Wayne and his friendly death-proof birds.]
So what are you afraid of? It's clearly not another grave to dig.
[He turns then. It's partly because he needs to see Bruce's face, another part... He might be looking for a fight right about now. He sees that R badge on that boy, and thinks about his days training with Bruce. Another life. Taken from him.
And it's the same thing here. His plans, his purpose; another life stolen.]
Damian Wayne. Son of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul. You know--
[This is hard enough, he won't bring in the part where he slept with that woman. Not that it would be of any use. Just a cheap trick. Worth a second of distraction, maybe.]
He's good. Really good. For an eleven year old. How long as he been training - since he was three? How long do you think he'll last under your wing?
[This-- It isn't the fight he was looking for. But at some point, you have to realize that there's no point in physically hurting Batman. They do that well enough for themselves on patrols, while they're pretending to be meta-humans. So Jason's sitting down again, opposite of Bruce. He's listening. And he's ready to fire back.
It's like beating a dead horse. Cathartic, but there is no gain or lost.]
You couldn't think of a better way to bond with your son than inviting him to the cave and fit him in a suit? "Baseball was out of style, let's beat the shit out of criminals instead."
no subject
He wonders, then, if Jason will ever stop trying to hurt him.
And if he'll ever stop letting it happen. Physical blows he can block and parry, counter and deflect. He can hurt Jason if he needs to, physically. It's hard, but Bruce knows those limits.
Verbally, he is defenseless. No part of him could ever justify or rationalize being cruel to this boy with words.
He doesn't need to explain Damian's existence. But after a moment, he does.]
Longer than that. Damian's life began with training. Not mine.
[His tone is a calm, flat neutral. That in itself is the only insight, the only warning as to the tumult behind it. Another piece brought into play. A sacrificial gambit.]
I knew nothing of his existence until shortly before I was lost in time. Damian was trained to be an assassin at Talia's behest. This life, our life, Jason, is a gentler one than he's known. He was raised to replace me and eventually to conquer the world. I'm sure you can imagine how the League would raise a child on which they placed such aspirations.
[In other words, Damian's life has been short and filled with violence and death. Kill or be killed. And Bruce damn well knows it.]
Given the choice, I only want for Damian what I want for the rest of my children.
[He closes his eyes briefly. Damian is his blood, yes. But he is no more Bruce's son than Jason, than Dick and Tim, no more his child than Cassandra. If Bruce relied on blood alone for familial ties, he-- never would have learned he wasn't alone.]
Safety. Happiness. And the knowledge that there's always someone there to catch them if they fall.
no subject
The shock of it isn't really that Damian was trained by Talia. It's Talia; if there's one thing he knows about her, it's that she's always looking to find a new shiny weapon to use. Why would it be any different with her own son. No, the shock comes from the same source as before. That boy -- that miniature assassin -- is a Robin.
The more he thinks about it, the more he wants to laugh. He doesn't, not then, but he does smile. He leans back and shows it to Bruce.
Trained-assassin. A Robin.
There's something funny there. When he begins to laugh, he hears Joker's laugh overlaying his in his head and he stops. Abruptly. Push that thought away.]
Guess I was special.
[Jason looks up. A moment of clarity comes. He wonders what his younger self, that young promising boy wonder, would think.
Look at him now. How far he's fallen.
At first it was just six feet.
Now?
There's a lot more red on his uniform than that of the Robins.]
What about the girl? She's not your type.
no subject
No. She isn't. Stephanie--
[Divulging Damian's secrets is one thing. Stephanie's... that's something else entirely, and Bruce hesitates, almost uncharacteristically.]
She's worked hard to be where she is today. I'm proud of that.
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There's something else. Now, it's the game of getting that information. The more he knows, the more he can plan.]
I've caught her off-guard twice, both times we met. Two for two. You sure proud is something you should be feeling?
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[Stephanie isn't as strong as they are, as fast or as smart. But she has a spark of something that he recognizes, knows intimately. She's driven, adaptive, braver than most people he knows, knowledgeable in her areas of expertise. And compassionate, well beyond the cruelties the world has shown her.
She... was a good Robin.]
And yes. I am.
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You're unbelievable.
[It's not a compliment.
They're kids. He would have just left them alone, they don't need to be dragged into a life of crime-fighting and grit that they should only be experiencing while watching on TV.
It's too late for them. Once they're in, they're in for life. There's rarely going back after that. The rush, the thrill, the sense of purpose - he knows how addictive it can be. There's no pushing the matter and there's no telling Bruce off.
Stubborn old bat.]
Everyone wants to be a hero. Doesn't mean they should be doing half the stuff we do. Did you even try to tell them off, or did you just say yes?
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[He knows they're not talking about just Stephanie any more, but the clarification is still necessary.]
I wouldn't wish this life on anyone.
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He doesn't ask that question. Jason gives Bruce a hard look, as if that's all it takes to communicate everything. Of course, it doesn't. All their talks seems to end like this - with nothing resolved.
He stands and perches on the ledge of the building. His exit is calling in the form of exhaustion wearing on his body.]
Keep an eye on them. You won't be the only one to. [A bit ominous but he means...well?] Sleep tight, B.
[And he's off. He doesn't bother checking to see if Bruce is following. He already knows where Jason lives, if the new baby bird is anything to go by.]