['I could never blame you for that'. Simple words, and he's heard their like before, but something in him breaks to hear it now. Jason was just a child. It isn't... it shouldn't be on him to take that responsibility on himself. Bruce was the one who took him in. Who trained him. Who introduced him to this life. Jason's recklessness was Bruce's own shortcoming, personified.
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.]
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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.]