Fic: The Dream (DCU - Bruce/Jason) 1/1
Title: The Dream
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Bruce Wayne/Jason Todd
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,773
Summary: Every night, the dream is the same.
Prompt: (for 50_darkfics) #73 - Tears
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: This plot bunny ravaged my ankle last night and wouldn't let go until I was done with it. Written in enthusiastic response to this artwork by astraea_f. If you haven't seen her stuff, please go check out her page. Good gods, it's beautiful. I just can't stop staring! Oh, and huge apologies to my f-list readers. Regularly scheduled/requested ficcage will resume shortly. :p
The Dream
It's the same dream every night. Every night the same series of phantom images and scenes play beneath Jason's eyelids, taunting him with the thing he's wanted for longer than he can remember, now, teasing him with the one thing that's just out of reach. It's so close he can taste it...
Bruce...
It starts with the wind howling around him as he waits on the rooftop for the Bat to show up. It's cold, mid-winter now, the unmistakable smell and feel of imminent snow nagging him to get this over with so he can get back on the road and back to New York, back to his rat trap of an apartment. Back to some semblance of warmth, that he knows he won't feel until he's done with Bruce.
When the familiar swish of silk alerts him to the other man's presence on the roof, Jay finds himself stone-still, mute, glaring at Bruce's cowled, shadowed face through the impersonal lenses of his own Kevlar hood. He's rooted to the spot, unable to breathe, his eyes locking with those of his former mentor.
An eternity is spent simply standing there, each waiting for the other to speak, both tense and coiled, unmoving.
Finally, “I didn't think you'd come.” Bruce's voice is rough, hoarse when he speaks, his tone weary.
Jason blinks a few times before he can respond. “Didn't seem like I had much of a choice. Your invitations aren't known for being optional.” He thinks he hears a dry chuckle at his defensive retort, and Bruce doesn't disappoint when the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smirk.
“You haven't changed.”
Anger rises as a surge of adrenaline and heat from the pit of Jason's stomach at that, and suddenly he can move again and is lunging forward, his knife already out and ready to lash out at Bruce. “How can you say that!?” he cries out, before his wrist is caught and he's being forced to the ground. When his hood impacts the cold concrete his head snaps back, and he realizes through the haze of shock and pain that Bruce has him pinned, his knife taken from him and his arm twisted behind his back.
“I didn't ask you here to fight, Jason,” Bruce growls in his ear through the hood. “I want to talk, to... find a way to work through this... thing that's keeping us apart.”
The hint of a choked sob in Bruce's throat tells Jay that he's serious, but Jason knows all he'll get from the Bat is another lecture about The Mission and 'crossing the line'. “Spare me,” he breathes, chest laboring under the weight of Bruce's elbow on his back. “You want to work through this thing? Admit you were fucking wrong about the Joker. Admit that I was just a replacement for Dick when Golden Boy got too old to play the part. Admit that once I was gone, you went out and got picture perfect Timmy to make you forget all about me! Because I just wasn't fucking good enough to wear the goddamn short pants in the first place!” His throat burns with the accusations, unexpected tears stinging his eyes, and for once, he's glad Bruce can't see his face.
The weight of the elbow on his back doubles. “Dammit, Jason! How can you think those things? Yes, I should have gotten the Joker off the streets a long time ago, and don't think that doesn't tear me open every damned day, but don't you ever, ever assume you were a replacement for Dick, or that I could ever sweep your memory under the rug! Do you have any idea what I see when I close my eyes at night? Huh? I see you! Begging me to save you from that goddamn clown! I see you waking up inside a coffin! I see you wandering the streets, not even knowing who you are.” Bruce's voice grows softer, “I see in your eyes how much I failed you.”
Shivering in the cold, Jason struggles beneath Bruce, trying to process the Bat's words and failing. It doesn't make sense. It wasn't a lecture. It... Does Bruce feel... guilty? “Let me up,” he says, forcing his voice to a neutral tone. He's not sure he can hold his composure now, but he knows he needs to try.
Bruce lets out a heavy sigh in what sounds to Jay to be distrust, but the weight is removed and the former Robin can fully breathe again. Wincing against the painful movement in his now bruised, stiffened back, he manages to flip over and sit up, and scoots back on the concrete to lean against the stairwell door, pulling his knees to his chest.
For a long moment Jay just stares at Bruce, the Bat crouching close by, watching him intently, warily. Resigning himself to the fact that the usually menacing tilt of his head in the hood isn't having anywhere near the effect on Bruce that it has on everyone else, Jason finds his voice again, “I... I dream about the coffin, too.” He's not even sure why he's said that, but it feels like another weight off of his chest to have admitted it, even if the admission is to the man he never wanted to know.
“I'm sorry,” Bruce responds almost immediately.
Not quite thinking clearly, Jay spits back defensively, “You should be.”
“I know.”
“It's all your fucking fault I was in there to begin with.” The retort is automatic, leaving the ache of instant regret in his gut.
This time Bruce doesn't respond, his eyes icy beneath the cowl, and suddenly Jay can't breathe beneath his hood. The air inside it is stifling and stale.
With a slight panic, he reaches up to click the latches and tug the hood off, tossing it aside as he gasps for fresh air. The deep breaths are cold, crisp, and now he can definitely taste the coming snow. But he's still too hot, and he can't get his jacket off fast enough, tangling with it as he finally flings it away to join the discarded hood.
Bruce only stares at him, closely watching Jay's unmasked - no domino tonight - and vulnerable face, and both their breaths hang frostily in the winter air between them.
Jason can't stand the other man's scrutinizing gaze, the furrowed brow he knows is hidden beneath the cowl. Frustrated and... embarrassed, maybe, all Jay can do is lean his head back against the metal door, breathing easier, barely maintaining his outward calm despite the mad pounding of his heart. After another long, tense moment, he says, “Whatever else you have to say, just say it already.” He can't bear to meet Bruce's eyes now, knowing the other man's likely response.
“I don't want to lose you again, Jason,” Bruce finally says. “I can't.”
The pit falls out of Jay's stomach, and his head snaps forward automatically, his eyes narrowed. “What?”
“I don't want to let the things you've done since you came back stand between us being a family. I... I don't exactly have a perfect record, either.”
Before Jay can think of a response, his mouth hanging agape, Bruce plows forward, “And I sure as hell can't let you go on thinking you were Dick's replacement. That couldn't be further from the truth.”
“Please. You never cared for me like you cared for Dick. I was never good enough for you. Never good enough to fill his perfect shadow.” The sting of jealousy is an old, familiar wound to Jay, and he nurses it with the painful wake of the verbal barb.
“Wrong,” Bruce counters. “I never felt for Dick what I felt for you. You had - have - the same cold fire I always felt. Dick is sunshine. Not the night. Not vengeance. Not like us. And Tim was...” Looking away, he continues in a more solemn tone, “Tim had to practically beg me to let him work with me. I didn't want - couldn't stand - having a reminder of what I'd lost when you were killed.” His gaze snaps back to meet Jay's, icy blue orbs now blazing. “But he's not you. He couldn't be more dissimilar to you if he tried.”
The confession breaks something inside Jason, flaying him open and spilling everything he's guarded so closely for so long. With his insides burning, he doesn't feel the spring of his muscles until he's up off the concrete, practically lunging at Bruce, his tears finally spilling down his cheeks. He doesn't even know what he's doing until he's forcing the other man back onto the concrete, trapping him beneath his own, slightly lesser, weight, his gloved fingers grasping Bruce's shoulders. He knows Bruce could stop him if he wanted to, but there's no resistance as Jay presses down to kiss him firmly. He has to know. Has Bruce always wanted this... the same way he has?
With one hand moving to hold Bruce's head in place, Jay brings the other hand up to caress a cowled neck, warmth seeping through the layers of fabric between his fingers and delicate skin, and he feels the other man responding, his hot mouth opening beneath him to deepen the kiss. Frantic, Jay shoves his tongue into Bruce's mouth, wanting to taste Bruce, to savor the end of their long estrangement, and he can't help the tears that are sliding down his cheeks to fall on the cowl. It doesn't matter, anyway. All that matters is the strong pair of arms sliding around his waist and pulling him close, the heat of their bodies keeping out the cold. All that matters is this. This feeling. Acceptance. Welcome. Love.
Around them, the first snowflakes begin to fall from the Gotham sky, cold and weightless and wet in Jay's hair.
Warmth. Home.
Bruce...
Jerking, Jay startles awake as his eyes snap open, and he sits up in bed so fast the room spins, even in the dark.
Dingy apartment. Cold winter. Rats.
With an agonized groan and his heart pounding in his chest, he pulls the sheets up around him in a futile attempt to stave off the chill, and flops back down on his side, staring out the dirty window next to his bed. He doesn't even try to stop the tears that spill down his cheeks and onto his pillow, the dream so fresh he can still taste Bruce's lips, his tongue, his breath, and Jay's shuddering sob at the too-vivid memory leaves him angrier than he wants to be. Dammit.
Every night, it's the same fucking dream.
* * * * *
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Bruce Wayne/Jason Todd
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,773
Summary: Every night, the dream is the same.
Prompt: (for 50_darkfics) #73 - Tears
Disclaimer: DC and WB own it all. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Note: This plot bunny ravaged my ankle last night and wouldn't let go until I was done with it. Written in enthusiastic response to this artwork by astraea_f. If you haven't seen her stuff, please go check out her page. Good gods, it's beautiful. I just can't stop staring! Oh, and huge apologies to my f-list readers. Regularly scheduled/requested ficcage will resume shortly. :p
The Dream
It's the same dream every night. Every night the same series of phantom images and scenes play beneath Jason's eyelids, taunting him with the thing he's wanted for longer than he can remember, now, teasing him with the one thing that's just out of reach. It's so close he can taste it...
Bruce...
It starts with the wind howling around him as he waits on the rooftop for the Bat to show up. It's cold, mid-winter now, the unmistakable smell and feel of imminent snow nagging him to get this over with so he can get back on the road and back to New York, back to his rat trap of an apartment. Back to some semblance of warmth, that he knows he won't feel until he's done with Bruce.
When the familiar swish of silk alerts him to the other man's presence on the roof, Jay finds himself stone-still, mute, glaring at Bruce's cowled, shadowed face through the impersonal lenses of his own Kevlar hood. He's rooted to the spot, unable to breathe, his eyes locking with those of his former mentor.
An eternity is spent simply standing there, each waiting for the other to speak, both tense and coiled, unmoving.
Finally, “I didn't think you'd come.” Bruce's voice is rough, hoarse when he speaks, his tone weary.
Jason blinks a few times before he can respond. “Didn't seem like I had much of a choice. Your invitations aren't known for being optional.” He thinks he hears a dry chuckle at his defensive retort, and Bruce doesn't disappoint when the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smirk.
“You haven't changed.”
Anger rises as a surge of adrenaline and heat from the pit of Jason's stomach at that, and suddenly he can move again and is lunging forward, his knife already out and ready to lash out at Bruce. “How can you say that!?” he cries out, before his wrist is caught and he's being forced to the ground. When his hood impacts the cold concrete his head snaps back, and he realizes through the haze of shock and pain that Bruce has him pinned, his knife taken from him and his arm twisted behind his back.
“I didn't ask you here to fight, Jason,” Bruce growls in his ear through the hood. “I want to talk, to... find a way to work through this... thing that's keeping us apart.”
The hint of a choked sob in Bruce's throat tells Jay that he's serious, but Jason knows all he'll get from the Bat is another lecture about The Mission and 'crossing the line'. “Spare me,” he breathes, chest laboring under the weight of Bruce's elbow on his back. “You want to work through this thing? Admit you were fucking wrong about the Joker. Admit that I was just a replacement for Dick when Golden Boy got too old to play the part. Admit that once I was gone, you went out and got picture perfect Timmy to make you forget all about me! Because I just wasn't fucking good enough to wear the goddamn short pants in the first place!” His throat burns with the accusations, unexpected tears stinging his eyes, and for once, he's glad Bruce can't see his face.
The weight of the elbow on his back doubles. “Dammit, Jason! How can you think those things? Yes, I should have gotten the Joker off the streets a long time ago, and don't think that doesn't tear me open every damned day, but don't you ever, ever assume you were a replacement for Dick, or that I could ever sweep your memory under the rug! Do you have any idea what I see when I close my eyes at night? Huh? I see you! Begging me to save you from that goddamn clown! I see you waking up inside a coffin! I see you wandering the streets, not even knowing who you are.” Bruce's voice grows softer, “I see in your eyes how much I failed you.”
Shivering in the cold, Jason struggles beneath Bruce, trying to process the Bat's words and failing. It doesn't make sense. It wasn't a lecture. It... Does Bruce feel... guilty? “Let me up,” he says, forcing his voice to a neutral tone. He's not sure he can hold his composure now, but he knows he needs to try.
Bruce lets out a heavy sigh in what sounds to Jay to be distrust, but the weight is removed and the former Robin can fully breathe again. Wincing against the painful movement in his now bruised, stiffened back, he manages to flip over and sit up, and scoots back on the concrete to lean against the stairwell door, pulling his knees to his chest.
For a long moment Jay just stares at Bruce, the Bat crouching close by, watching him intently, warily. Resigning himself to the fact that the usually menacing tilt of his head in the hood isn't having anywhere near the effect on Bruce that it has on everyone else, Jason finds his voice again, “I... I dream about the coffin, too.” He's not even sure why he's said that, but it feels like another weight off of his chest to have admitted it, even if the admission is to the man he never wanted to know.
“I'm sorry,” Bruce responds almost immediately.
Not quite thinking clearly, Jay spits back defensively, “You should be.”
“I know.”
“It's all your fucking fault I was in there to begin with.” The retort is automatic, leaving the ache of instant regret in his gut.
This time Bruce doesn't respond, his eyes icy beneath the cowl, and suddenly Jay can't breathe beneath his hood. The air inside it is stifling and stale.
With a slight panic, he reaches up to click the latches and tug the hood off, tossing it aside as he gasps for fresh air. The deep breaths are cold, crisp, and now he can definitely taste the coming snow. But he's still too hot, and he can't get his jacket off fast enough, tangling with it as he finally flings it away to join the discarded hood.
Bruce only stares at him, closely watching Jay's unmasked - no domino tonight - and vulnerable face, and both their breaths hang frostily in the winter air between them.
Jason can't stand the other man's scrutinizing gaze, the furrowed brow he knows is hidden beneath the cowl. Frustrated and... embarrassed, maybe, all Jay can do is lean his head back against the metal door, breathing easier, barely maintaining his outward calm despite the mad pounding of his heart. After another long, tense moment, he says, “Whatever else you have to say, just say it already.” He can't bear to meet Bruce's eyes now, knowing the other man's likely response.
“I don't want to lose you again, Jason,” Bruce finally says. “I can't.”
The pit falls out of Jay's stomach, and his head snaps forward automatically, his eyes narrowed. “What?”
“I don't want to let the things you've done since you came back stand between us being a family. I... I don't exactly have a perfect record, either.”
Before Jay can think of a response, his mouth hanging agape, Bruce plows forward, “And I sure as hell can't let you go on thinking you were Dick's replacement. That couldn't be further from the truth.”
“Please. You never cared for me like you cared for Dick. I was never good enough for you. Never good enough to fill his perfect shadow.” The sting of jealousy is an old, familiar wound to Jay, and he nurses it with the painful wake of the verbal barb.
“Wrong,” Bruce counters. “I never felt for Dick what I felt for you. You had - have - the same cold fire I always felt. Dick is sunshine. Not the night. Not vengeance. Not like us. And Tim was...” Looking away, he continues in a more solemn tone, “Tim had to practically beg me to let him work with me. I didn't want - couldn't stand - having a reminder of what I'd lost when you were killed.” His gaze snaps back to meet Jay's, icy blue orbs now blazing. “But he's not you. He couldn't be more dissimilar to you if he tried.”
The confession breaks something inside Jason, flaying him open and spilling everything he's guarded so closely for so long. With his insides burning, he doesn't feel the spring of his muscles until he's up off the concrete, practically lunging at Bruce, his tears finally spilling down his cheeks. He doesn't even know what he's doing until he's forcing the other man back onto the concrete, trapping him beneath his own, slightly lesser, weight, his gloved fingers grasping Bruce's shoulders. He knows Bruce could stop him if he wanted to, but there's no resistance as Jay presses down to kiss him firmly. He has to know. Has Bruce always wanted this... the same way he has?
With one hand moving to hold Bruce's head in place, Jay brings the other hand up to caress a cowled neck, warmth seeping through the layers of fabric between his fingers and delicate skin, and he feels the other man responding, his hot mouth opening beneath him to deepen the kiss. Frantic, Jay shoves his tongue into Bruce's mouth, wanting to taste Bruce, to savor the end of their long estrangement, and he can't help the tears that are sliding down his cheeks to fall on the cowl. It doesn't matter, anyway. All that matters is the strong pair of arms sliding around his waist and pulling him close, the heat of their bodies keeping out the cold. All that matters is this. This feeling. Acceptance. Welcome. Love.
Around them, the first snowflakes begin to fall from the Gotham sky, cold and weightless and wet in Jay's hair.
Warmth. Home.
Bruce...
Jerking, Jay startles awake as his eyes snap open, and he sits up in bed so fast the room spins, even in the dark.
Dingy apartment. Cold winter. Rats.
With an agonized groan and his heart pounding in his chest, he pulls the sheets up around him in a futile attempt to stave off the chill, and flops back down on his side, staring out the dirty window next to his bed. He doesn't even try to stop the tears that spill down his cheeks and onto his pillow, the dream so fresh he can still taste Bruce's lips, his tongue, his breath, and Jay's shuddering sob at the too-vivid memory leaves him angrier than he wants to be. Dammit.
Every night, it's the same fucking dream.
* * * * *