[Fine he'll set it down on the island countertop instead.
Hearing that outloud is... honestly, he'd have preferred the slap. It's better that she think of him this way. That she and the others never realize how close to killing the Joker when Jason died and so many times afterward. That showdown with the three of them in that old building--
God, he still dreams about it. About how things might have gone if he'd just shot the clown right there. A punctured lung. A ruptured liver. He's lost count of the times he's woken up from that dream, hands shaking as he fights down the urge to vomit. Not because of the violence of it all, but because of how desperately he wants to see that violence done.
If he could do it for anyone it would be for Jason. If he could rationalize going down into that darkness at all it would be for Jason.
He doesn't believe Jason can be saved because... in a way, the boy is the manifestation of every failure Bruce has ever had. Every mistake, every wrong decision, every bad call. He's a symbol as much as a son. A good soldier in a war that never ends, never stops-- there is no light at the end of this tunnel, and Bruce long ago accepted it would claim his life. His life, not-- goddamnit, not those of his children.
He doesn't believe Jason can be saved because the thought alone terrifies him. It would feel too much like a slate wiped clean and Bruce has no idea how to live without the blood he's had on his hands for years.
What's one more weakness? One more chink in his armour? He has plenty already. He can't even be angry at Stephanie. She's telling the truth as she knows it, with the pieces he's given her and when has that progressed to disaster before? His jaw tightens abruptly, and his knuckles whiten on his glass.
Three options. He can provoke her to the point where she storms out. He can order her to leave. Or he can discuss the matter with her like a rational adult.
Not alone.
Bruce breathes.
In another life, one where his parents survived that night and he grew up normal and happy, loved-- everything untouchably perfect, he actually saw therapists for that night in the alley. He remembers the facets of that life overlaid with his own, how easy and simple it had been to sit down against calfskin leather and talk about his feelings.
Funny, how a version of him that had never known darkness could do it so easily. It's not that he's never spoken to people about his problems before. Shondra-- she was a medicinal doctor, but her touch healed so much more than his body in the few short months of their acquaintance. He can still remember how he came alive in her presence, how deftly she stripped his defenses away, how willing he was to tell her everything.
And how freeing it felt, to have that option. Cathartic. Like lancing an infection just below the skin, it hurts for a while and then it starts to heal. He understands why people do it. And why he can't.
If he heals, if he stops digging at those old scars, if he loses his anger and hatred he loses everything that makes him Batman. And he can't live without Batman. Batman is everything he built himself to protect what he holds dear and at the end of the day it's no more than a thin veneer between who he is and who he's failed.
Jason. Barbara. Dick, in needing him to become Batman. Damian, for never knowing of his existence. He's the lord and master of a legacy built on blood and bones and bodies, noises like gunshots and falling pearls.]
no subject
Hearing that outloud is... honestly, he'd have preferred the slap. It's better that she think of him this way. That she and the others never realize how close to killing the Joker when Jason died and so many times afterward. That showdown with the three of them in that old building--
God, he still dreams about it. About how things might have gone if he'd just shot the clown right there. A punctured lung. A ruptured liver. He's lost count of the times he's woken up from that dream, hands shaking as he fights down the urge to vomit. Not because of the violence of it all, but because of how desperately he wants to see that violence done.
If he could do it for anyone it would be for Jason. If he could rationalize going down into that darkness at all it would be for Jason.
He doesn't believe Jason can be saved because... in a way, the boy is the manifestation of every failure Bruce has ever had. Every mistake, every wrong decision, every bad call. He's a symbol as much as a son. A good soldier in a war that never ends, never stops-- there is no light at the end of this tunnel, and Bruce long ago accepted it would claim his life. His life, not-- goddamnit, not those of his children.
He doesn't believe Jason can be saved because the thought alone terrifies him. It would feel too much like a slate wiped clean and Bruce has no idea how to live without the blood he's had on his hands for years.
What's one more weakness? One more chink in his armour? He has plenty already. He can't even be angry at Stephanie. She's telling the truth as she knows it, with the pieces he's given her and when has that progressed to disaster before? His jaw tightens abruptly, and his knuckles whiten on his glass.
Three options. He can provoke her to the point where she storms out. He can order her to leave. Or he can discuss the matter with her like a rational adult.
Not alone.
Bruce breathes.
In another life, one where his parents survived that night and he grew up normal and happy, loved-- everything untouchably perfect, he actually saw therapists for that night in the alley. He remembers the facets of that life overlaid with his own, how easy and simple it had been to sit down against calfskin leather and talk about his feelings.
Funny, how a version of him that had never known darkness could do it so easily. It's not that he's never spoken to people about his problems before. Shondra-- she was a medicinal doctor, but her touch healed so much more than his body in the few short months of their acquaintance. He can still remember how he came alive in her presence, how deftly she stripped his defenses away, how willing he was to tell her everything.
And how freeing it felt, to have that option. Cathartic. Like lancing an infection just below the skin, it hurts for a while and then it starts to heal. He understands why people do it. And why he can't.
If he heals, if he stops digging at those old scars, if he loses his anger and hatred he loses everything that makes him Batman. And he can't live without Batman. Batman is everything he built himself to protect what he holds dear and at the end of the day it's no more than a thin veneer between who he is and who he's failed.
Jason. Barbara. Dick, in needing him to become Batman. Damian, for never knowing of his existence. He's the lord and master of a legacy built on blood and bones and bodies, noises like gunshots and falling pearls.]
He made his choice.