Jason ficathon contribution number one: Spare
Spare
By Mary ( thebitterone@hotmail.com)
Summary: And if you live through this with me, I swear that I would die for you.
It's halfway through the fourth funeral when Jason realizes today's his sixteenth birthday. That seems almost funny, and he'd laugh if he remembered how.
It's sunny and there's no wind and someone's shouting and honking their horn and swearing out on the road. Jason feels like he's trapped in a bad dream, and imagines that if he tried to run away his feet would drag and the air would turn thick as syrup. And then his alarm clock would start beeping and he'd swear and Bruce would tell him to watch his mouth.
Seems that even though he's forgotten how to laugh, he still knows how to cry. The tears sting his eyes and feel hot against his cheeks. He's been lost in thought for a while, because now it's just him and Alfred beside the new grave.
The headstone's an angel, sad-looking and tall and elegant. Jason's got no idea what makes something classy or tacky but it seems pretty tasteful to him. He stares at it until he could draw it perfectly just from memory.
"Master Jason," Alfred says gently, resting a hand on his shoulder. "No more graveside vows. Let this be an end to it all."
Jason doesn't want to lie, not here. Not now. So he doesn't say anything before turning away and walking back to the cars.
-
The nightmares are so bad that Alfred keeps suggesting that maybe Jason should think about seeing a doctor. Jason always shakes his head and gives wan smiles in reply. Anybody'd be shouting in the night, after what happened.
-
"Jason."
"They're watering down the morphine, I swear to God. I think you should speak to somebody about it."
"The doctors have been persuaded that your condition is stable enough for you to be discharged."
"About time. This has been the longest week ever. We going back to the States tonight?"
"Yes."
"I never thought I'd miss Gotham, but I do. Weird, huh?"
"You're not going back to Gotham."
"What?"
"I've spoken to an associate. You'll be recuperating with a family in a small rural town."
"What the fuck, Bruce?"
"This is for the best."
"No. You won't go through with it. You can't. You know you can't."
"When you've made a full recovery, if you wish -"
"Don't do this. You can't do this to me, you bastard."
"- if you wish to return to Gotham..."
"Get out. Fuck you. Get out."
-
The Kents stay for three weeks and Jason knows that everyone's hoping he'll go back with them. Alfred keeps saying stuff about fresh air and sunshine and new starts.
It's not that Jason doesn't like Smallville, in a novelty-value sorta way. And the Kents were great to him in those months he spent with them after he got hurt. But he knows where he belongs. Where he has to be.
Eventually they leave, with lots of remarks about how he's always welcome and how they'd love to have him, and as they pull out of the drive Jason breathes a shaky sigh of relief and hopes that someday he'll be able to make their kindness up to them.
-
"What's happened to the money?" Jason asks one day. He can't believe he hasn't thought of it before now, considering how precious spare change was to him once upon a time.
"The majority is in a trust, with a sum provided monthly to keep you in the manner to which you've become accustomed," Alfred answers. Jason thinks of the way he'd been 'accustomed' to living before meeting the Batman and he laughs until he chokes. Alfred remains tactfully quiet until Jason's gotten ahold of himself again.
"Sorry."
"It's all right, Jason." Said as if that can ever be true again.
"I just... I know there are foundations, charities and scholarships and stuff, named for dead people. I wanted to do something like that. I thought -" Jason ducks his head, afraid his idea will sound stupid. "Barbara might've liked a rehabilitation type of deal. Teaching new skills to people who get injured."
"She would have appreciated that."
"I don't know about the others. What the best ways to honor Dick and the Commissioner would be. Nothing feels right."
"You will think of something in time. And, ah," Alfred hesitates, worry obvious in his expression and his tone. "Master Bruce?"
Jason grits his teeth and looks away. It's not time yet, but it will be soon. He's almost ready to face what he knows he has to do.
-
Once, at a dinner party or a cocktail party or maybe just a party party, Jason heard somebody talking about him and Dick.
"Wayne'll never settle down long enough to make a match," the partygoer had explained between sips of champagne. "But a family line like that can't be allowed to end simply because the head of it doesn't want to marry. You've heard the rumors about the Grayson boy's parentage, I'm sure. Wayne can't parade a bastard as his heir, but a ward is no trouble at all. And now here's another 'orphaned' child with the striking family coloring being introduced to society. An heir and a spare, eh? Where's that waitress got to, I could do with another glass of this..."
Jason knows he'll never be the first choice. But the true heir is dead and cold and in the ground, so it's up to the spare to do the best he can.
-
It's another three weeks before Jason works up the nerve to go down to the Cave. There's no dust or damp or anything so he guesses that Alfred's been coming down. Good. That'll maybe make the inevitable fight a little less heated. They both know what's going to happen, even if neither of them are really ready to say it.
Jason stays down there for a couple of hours and breaks some random crap just to feel it shatter and crumple against his knuckles. Just to hurt. When he leaves he takes one of the batarangs with him and sleeps the night through with it clutched in his hand, the bladed edge biting into his palm hard enough to draw spots of blood along the welt-line. For the first time in two months, he has no nightmares.
-
"Jason, telephone for you."
"Is it him again?"
"Yes, it is."
"Tell him I'm dead."
-
"I'm quitting school."
"Do you think," Alfred says softly. "That this is the choice he would have wished for you to make?"
"Well, we'll never know, because he's gone."
Alfred's gaze is level and calm. "I'm open to debate, Master Jason, but you must have the courtesy to remain consistent in your arguments. If you tell me now that you are leaving behind formal education, despite the fact we both know Bruce would never allow such a thing, then I will assume that when you come home some night in the future in need of stitches or bone-setting with a cowl about your neck you will not tell me that it's what he would have wanted. Either you let Batman fade into myth, and make your own choices, or you honor all the things which were dear to him."
Jason blinks. "Are you saying you won't try to stop me, so long as I stay in school?"
"I am saying," Alfred sighs. "That I know which battles I have a hope of winning, and which battles I do not, and I believe your schooling is something it's possible to convince you to change your mind about."
-
He spends all the time he can training. He's good. Strong. More balanced in his techniques, because his arms can't take the same kind of punishment since he got hurt. He's even learning all that detective stuff, or at least making an effort to try.
His growth spurt has slowed down for the time being and he's pretty tall for his age but it's still not enough. Alfred shortens the capes and buys boots in Jason's size.
On Halloween night, Batman goes on patrol. One of the thugs he takes down makes a wisecrack about how vacations do wonders for the figure, but it mostly goes smoother than Jason was worried it might. He drives home shortly before dawn arrives and gratefully eats the plate of food Alfred's prepared. After that, Jason curls up in the center of Bruce's bed and lies very still. His heart feels like his knuckles do after a brawl.
-
Jason's grades are dismal, but they were anyway so nobody notices. When Poison Ivy stabs his leg with a two-foot-long thorn, he claims that he got in a bike accident. He's getting a rep as a dangerous kid, a bit of a lost cause. The principal at his school says something about bereavement and recklessness and Jason nods and tries to look like he's losing his grip and takes the business card of some counselor who specializes in cases like his and then never goes to see her.
The wackos like Ivy are making life easier. They don't care who Batman is, not really. That Batman is is all that's important to them.
He gets hurt a lot. The bad guys do too, way more than they ever did before, but Jason's not good at dodging or blocking or that stuff. Alfred stitches and dresses all the wounds and sometimes says "Jason, I will not continue to play nursemaid. You must stop this. Even Master Bruce did not do what you are doing when he was sixteen. I cannot remain here simply to watch you kill yourself". But Jason knows that Alfred wouldn't leave him, so he doesn't even pretend to listen.
It's hard, and Jason knows he's not really keeping it together, but he doesn't know what else to do but fight as hard as he can for as long as he can.
-
In the middle of February Jason is chasing down a jewellery thief when a small figure launches itself out of the shadows and knocks the guy down.
It's a kid, probably about thirteen or fourteen and small for his age. He's wearing a jacket and jeans and expensive sneakers and his face has that burned-away look Jason recognizes all too well. Like everything comforting or good or happy has been sucked out, stripped down, leaving nothing but the strongest and fiercest bits behind.
"You need me," the boy says. "You're not up to this on your own. You're going to die. I won't let you die. Not again."
His eyes glitter in the dark of the nighttime air. He tilts his small, sharp chin up. Daring Jason to say no.
"Get in the car," Batman tells the boy.
-
"Jason."
"Wide open spaces and daylight. Isn't that against your religion or something?"
"You gave me little choice, considering your apparent hatred of the telephone."
"It isn't the telephone I hate."
"My decision was made with your best interests in mind."
"They're great. The Kents. Superman's real lucky to have parents like them."
"Then you see why -"
"But they're not my parents. My parents -. I worked something out. Wanna hear it?"
"Yes."
"You want me to have all the good stuff. A wife and kids and a dog and a house and all that. You want me to be happy. But I'm not happy here, 'cos I don't fit here. I fit with Gotham. In the night. With you. Take me home, Bruce."
-
"The more things change..." is all Alfred says when they arrive back at the Cave, before walking away and leaving the two of them alone. Jason can tell that there's going to be an extremely stern lecture in the near future.
"So what's your name, anyway? I can't just call you Robin," Jason says, and thinks wryly that Bruce probably could've.
"Timothy. Tim. You're Jason."
"I know my own name. Have you been stalking me?"
"What? No." The boy's eyes widen. "No, I just want to help."
"Why?"
"Batman needs Robin. You need someone to help you. I need... for Dick, I need to. I need..."
"To honor him?"
"Yes." The boy, Tim, nods emphatically. "Please. Give me a chance?"
"Would I have brought you here if I was gonna say no?"
-
They design a new costume for Tim, something more armored and sleek than the old one. Jason's in no hurry to go to any more funerals.
Alfred doesn't say a word beyond "would you like pumpkin or potato and leek soup?" and "I took the liberty or returning your overdue video rentals, sir" for weeks, and Jason starts to get scared that he's gone too far this time. That Alfred's gonna quit, or call Superman down on Jason's ass, or phone Tim's parents and spill the beans.
"On a scale of one to seriously, how pissed are you?"
"I'm not angry," Alfred answers, not looking up from his ironing. "Merely deeply concerned. I had hoped that you would have abandoned this whole business by now, not brought in another boy to aid you."
"You make it sound like I dragged him kicking and screaming. He chose this. And he's super-smart. He knows what he's doing."
"He's a child. So are you, for that matter."
"He's Robin now. Robin's not a kid. You know that."
"Of all people, Jason, I would have thought you would see the danger in such thinking."
"There's danger in a lot of things that need doing."
Alfred smoothes down a tiny crease in the sleeve of one of Jason's school shirts and doesn't say anything else. Jason punches himself in the thigh in frustration and walks away, heading for the Cave.
Tim's at the computer, face lit up with the weird almost-green light from the screen. He's reading through the foe files and has just hit 'J', and Jason tries not to wince at the photo of the Joker. One of these days he's gonna face off with that guy and show him just what a crowbar to the kidneys feels like.
"Can we talk for a sec?" Jason asks, sitting on the second swivel chair at the bank of screens. He wonders if it's disrespectful to something big and important that they're both wearing normal clothes in the Cave. Sometimes the uniforms feel hard to breathe in, in a way that's got nothing to do with how heavy the new chest plates are.
"You look like the kids in my class at school, when we've got a surprise exam," Tim says and smirks a little with his mouth. His eyes are smiling more genuinely, as usual; most of Tim's softer expressions are neatly obscured when in-costume.
"I was just talking to Alfred. He's pretty furious."
"Ah." Tim's smirk fades a little. "Do I have to go?"
Jason shakes his head tries to work out how to say what he wants to get across. "That's not his decision. Hell, it's not even my decision." Jason matches Tim's reappearing smirk with one of his own. "No way I'm brave enough to call someone twice as smart as me my sidekick. We're fifty-fifty, right? I mean, I know I always hated that 'junior partner' tag. I'll keep helping you train for as long as you want it, but only 'cause I still know stuff you don't yet. You're Robin as long as you want to be, and not a day less or more or whatever, and -"
"Remember to pause for breath occasionally. I hear it's useful," Tim cuts in.
"Babbling?"
"A bit. But thanks. I think we make a good team."
"Yeah," Jason says. "We do."
-
"I'm almost touched. In a creepy way."
"I wanted to feel you were still present here. I couldn't help harboring the hope that you'd return."
"So you stuck my suit in a case like a butterfly on a pin? Has anyone ever told you that you're kinda nuts?"
"It's been suggested."
"Is it waterproof? The case. We could keep piranhas in it. Or those deep sea fish that look like alien bugs. Hey, Bruce, can I tell you something kinda weird?"
"What is it?"
"When I was gone, it was like... it was like Robin needed Batman, and Jason needed Bruce, and those two things weren't the same thing at all. Doesn't that sound stupid?"
"I understand."
-
Gillian Matheson dies brutally and alone. By the time Tim and Jason get a chance to look the crime scene over, the police have been through and collected pretty much everything useful. Tim checks and double-checks anyway, just in case. It's a crummy motel room, and it stinks of desperation and blood.
"Don't touch anything," Tim tells Jason in his coolest Robin-voice. Jason makes a face at him and stands as still as he can.
"Can't you just hack into the police files and see what they've already got?"
"Yes, but I wanted to do my own sweep. Stop moving your foot, you're disturbing the edge of the stain."
Jason looks down. "Whoops. Sorry." He steps back onto the unmarked part of the carpet. It's not a big area. "How did you know that I'd moved? You didn't even turn your head."
"Just one of my many talents," Tim says, and Jason doesn't need to see his face to know there's a smirk on it. If Tim wasn't consistently right about everything, Jason would accuse him of being a cocky little know-it-all. "I want to interview the husband."
"He'll be sedated." Jason swallows. He hates it when they have to deal with the families. "Doped up to his eyeballs."
"Still, I'd rather contend with that than wait until he's had time to block out the gorier details."
When they get to the Matheson penthouse, a woman is sitting at the glass-topped dining table with a bunch of police forms spread out in front of her.
"Oh, it's you," she says in a thickly accented voice, looking up. "The Commissioner told me you would be coming here.
"Can we see Mr Matheson?" Jason asks. The woman shakes her head.
"No. He's resting now and I won't disturb him. Anything you need to know, I can tell you. I'm the housekeeper."
"Can you think of anyone who might be responsible for what happened?" Tim takes over the questioning. Jason's glad; the soft tremble in the woman's voice, and the way that she's looking at them like they're the only thing that has meaning in the world, makes him way too angry to remember the right things to ask.
"No." She shakes her head. "No, no. Gillian, everyone loved her. She was a beauty, but kind too. So kind. Such a big heart. She would have been a wonderful mother."
"She was pregnant?"
"Yes. Always she was trying to feel the kicking. The doctors tell her no, too early, but she tries anyway. She was so excited."
"The baby would've been her first?"
"Yes." Now the woman looks down at the papers, and her breath is shuddery and choked. "Yes, it would have been her first."
"George Matheson has an adult son, doesn't he?"
The woman looks up a Tim and shakes her head.
"Martin is a good boy. He didn't do this. The Commissioner, she wanted to know about him too. So many questions. He's a good boy."
"I'm just trying to get my facts right, ma'am. We want justice as much as you do."
Her mouth is a thin, hard line. "Good. You find them, and you make them pay for what they did to her."
"We will," Jason says, and doesn't care that there's a crack in his voice.
-
"That was a professional hit, wasn't it? Done up to look like a crazy." Jason keeps his eyes on the road. "I still don't know how you can use that while I'm driving. Don't you end up wanting to hurl?"
"No," Tim says, not looking up from the laptop screen. "And yes, you're right. The entry wounds looked frenzied, but they all hit a major artery or organ. See, I told you that you weren't giving yourself enough credit for your detective skills."
"I wouldn't say 'the vibe felt wrong' counts." Jason shakes his head.
"So what's your vibe say about the son?"
"Well, part of me wants to say that it's too obvious. But if the cops are thinking that way too, then maybe it's not so unlikely. Guys like that snap at the sight of guys like us. I think the police are hoping we can get a confession out of him and end this mess the short way."
"Hmm." Nodding, Tim types something rapidly. "I can give you his address. It's a gamble, butI think it'll pay off."
-
It's an impressive entrance. Tim's new uniform, with the high-collared black cape, is just as badass as the Batman costume. Together, they look like something out of a nightmare, especially swinging boots-first through a glass wall.
"Martin Matheson," Jason says in the nastiest version of the Batvoice. "You're responsible for the death of Gillian Matheson, your stepmother."
Matheson's a trim-looking guy in his mid thirties, and the photographs on the wall of him with various dignitaries and models show that his smile is superior and cocksure. Right now, he's not smiling, and his pulse thuds visibly in his throat as he swallows and sits up in bed, gaze skating over to the beside table before settling on them.
"She was a gold-digging whore. She wasn't even half his age, did you know that? She was younger than me, and he was going to leave it all to her."
"So you had her murdered, the crime disguised to look like a random attack."
Matheson laughs. It's not a nice sound. "I knew he'd slip up somewhere. Even for ten thousand, I knew something'd go wrong." He glances at the nightstand again.
"Get that?" Jason asks Tim. Tim nods, and opens his palm to show the two micro-recorders there.
"I'll go phone the police," Tim says. Matheson's looking at the bedside table in quick, nervy glances. Jason gives Tim a tiny nod. "I'll be five minutes," Tim goes on, returning the nod and then moving through the doorway into the other room.
Matheson makes a dive for the drawer and has the gun in his hand by the time Jason's moved beside him. One shot goes off, the bullet hitting the symbol on Jason's chest harmlessly, and then Jason bends Matheson's wrist back until there's a snapping sound and he drops the gun. Matheson's nose breaks and bleeds easily as Jason pushes the heel of one palm up against it, and when Matheson kicks wildly at Jason it's the perfect excuse to step down hard on his ankle. The angle's bad, because Matheson's still half on the bed, but that just means that it's some of the smaller bones in his foot that give way first. When Matheson cries out, Jason socks him in the mouth twice. Matheson gives a wet groan and his eyes roll back in his head.
Jason steps back. It doesn't feel like enough, and he keeps thinking of how small that patch of unstained carpet was in the motel room, but it'll do. He cuffs Matheson and binds his feet, too, just to be on the safe side.
Tim's waiting in the doorway. "I played the confession to the operator, just in case anything happens to the recording we're leaving here."
"Don't think we've got anything to worry about. This guy's not going anywhere before the cops show up."
"Yes, I can see that," Tim says. "Let's go."
They don't talk much on the drive back towards Tim's house. Jason's glad of the way they can just sit and be quiet without needing to say all the stuff they're thinking. He hopes he's as much a comfort to Tim as Tim is to him, but can't imagine how that could be true. It seems like Tim was practically born to be Robin, while Jason's just Batman because somebody had to be.
He drops Tim off a couple of blocks from Tim's house and then goes home. He's not hungry, but eats the toasted sandwich left out for him anyway. It's still warm. The manor feels bigger than the universe, and the sunrise is still a couple of hours away.
Jason changes into boxers and an old t-shirt, and brushes his teeth until his mouth doesn't taste like he's been swallowing back vomit all night, then slides in between the cool cotton of the sheets on Bruce's bed.
-
"I can tell when you're awake."
"It's hard to stay asleep when you're petting my hair like that, Bruce."
"I couldn't help myself."
"I guess I'm the Batman's one weakness, huh?"
"I'm sorry I sent you away, Jason. I didn't know what else to do. I'm sorry."
"Hey, all's well that ends well and all that jazz. G'night, Bruce."
"Sleep well, Jason."
"Don't stay up listening to me breathe or anything creepy like that all morning, okay?"
"I'll do my best."
"I guess that's all anyone can really ask for, isn't it?"
-
After what feels like a very long time, Jason falls asleep.
By Mary ( thebitterone@hotmail.com)
Summary: And if you live through this with me, I swear that I would die for you.
It's halfway through the fourth funeral when Jason realizes today's his sixteenth birthday. That seems almost funny, and he'd laugh if he remembered how.
It's sunny and there's no wind and someone's shouting and honking their horn and swearing out on the road. Jason feels like he's trapped in a bad dream, and imagines that if he tried to run away his feet would drag and the air would turn thick as syrup. And then his alarm clock would start beeping and he'd swear and Bruce would tell him to watch his mouth.
Seems that even though he's forgotten how to laugh, he still knows how to cry. The tears sting his eyes and feel hot against his cheeks. He's been lost in thought for a while, because now it's just him and Alfred beside the new grave.
The headstone's an angel, sad-looking and tall and elegant. Jason's got no idea what makes something classy or tacky but it seems pretty tasteful to him. He stares at it until he could draw it perfectly just from memory.
"Master Jason," Alfred says gently, resting a hand on his shoulder. "No more graveside vows. Let this be an end to it all."
Jason doesn't want to lie, not here. Not now. So he doesn't say anything before turning away and walking back to the cars.
-
The nightmares are so bad that Alfred keeps suggesting that maybe Jason should think about seeing a doctor. Jason always shakes his head and gives wan smiles in reply. Anybody'd be shouting in the night, after what happened.
-
"Jason."
"They're watering down the morphine, I swear to God. I think you should speak to somebody about it."
"The doctors have been persuaded that your condition is stable enough for you to be discharged."
"About time. This has been the longest week ever. We going back to the States tonight?"
"Yes."
"I never thought I'd miss Gotham, but I do. Weird, huh?"
"You're not going back to Gotham."
"What?"
"I've spoken to an associate. You'll be recuperating with a family in a small rural town."
"What the fuck, Bruce?"
"This is for the best."
"No. You won't go through with it. You can't. You know you can't."
"When you've made a full recovery, if you wish -"
"Don't do this. You can't do this to me, you bastard."
"- if you wish to return to Gotham..."
"Get out. Fuck you. Get out."
-
The Kents stay for three weeks and Jason knows that everyone's hoping he'll go back with them. Alfred keeps saying stuff about fresh air and sunshine and new starts.
It's not that Jason doesn't like Smallville, in a novelty-value sorta way. And the Kents were great to him in those months he spent with them after he got hurt. But he knows where he belongs. Where he has to be.
Eventually they leave, with lots of remarks about how he's always welcome and how they'd love to have him, and as they pull out of the drive Jason breathes a shaky sigh of relief and hopes that someday he'll be able to make their kindness up to them.
-
"What's happened to the money?" Jason asks one day. He can't believe he hasn't thought of it before now, considering how precious spare change was to him once upon a time.
"The majority is in a trust, with a sum provided monthly to keep you in the manner to which you've become accustomed," Alfred answers. Jason thinks of the way he'd been 'accustomed' to living before meeting the Batman and he laughs until he chokes. Alfred remains tactfully quiet until Jason's gotten ahold of himself again.
"Sorry."
"It's all right, Jason." Said as if that can ever be true again.
"I just... I know there are foundations, charities and scholarships and stuff, named for dead people. I wanted to do something like that. I thought -" Jason ducks his head, afraid his idea will sound stupid. "Barbara might've liked a rehabilitation type of deal. Teaching new skills to people who get injured."
"She would have appreciated that."
"I don't know about the others. What the best ways to honor Dick and the Commissioner would be. Nothing feels right."
"You will think of something in time. And, ah," Alfred hesitates, worry obvious in his expression and his tone. "Master Bruce?"
Jason grits his teeth and looks away. It's not time yet, but it will be soon. He's almost ready to face what he knows he has to do.
-
Once, at a dinner party or a cocktail party or maybe just a party party, Jason heard somebody talking about him and Dick.
"Wayne'll never settle down long enough to make a match," the partygoer had explained between sips of champagne. "But a family line like that can't be allowed to end simply because the head of it doesn't want to marry. You've heard the rumors about the Grayson boy's parentage, I'm sure. Wayne can't parade a bastard as his heir, but a ward is no trouble at all. And now here's another 'orphaned' child with the striking family coloring being introduced to society. An heir and a spare, eh? Where's that waitress got to, I could do with another glass of this..."
Jason knows he'll never be the first choice. But the true heir is dead and cold and in the ground, so it's up to the spare to do the best he can.
-
It's another three weeks before Jason works up the nerve to go down to the Cave. There's no dust or damp or anything so he guesses that Alfred's been coming down. Good. That'll maybe make the inevitable fight a little less heated. They both know what's going to happen, even if neither of them are really ready to say it.
Jason stays down there for a couple of hours and breaks some random crap just to feel it shatter and crumple against his knuckles. Just to hurt. When he leaves he takes one of the batarangs with him and sleeps the night through with it clutched in his hand, the bladed edge biting into his palm hard enough to draw spots of blood along the welt-line. For the first time in two months, he has no nightmares.
-
"Jason, telephone for you."
"Is it him again?"
"Yes, it is."
"Tell him I'm dead."
-
"I'm quitting school."
"Do you think," Alfred says softly. "That this is the choice he would have wished for you to make?"
"Well, we'll never know, because he's gone."
Alfred's gaze is level and calm. "I'm open to debate, Master Jason, but you must have the courtesy to remain consistent in your arguments. If you tell me now that you are leaving behind formal education, despite the fact we both know Bruce would never allow such a thing, then I will assume that when you come home some night in the future in need of stitches or bone-setting with a cowl about your neck you will not tell me that it's what he would have wanted. Either you let Batman fade into myth, and make your own choices, or you honor all the things which were dear to him."
Jason blinks. "Are you saying you won't try to stop me, so long as I stay in school?"
"I am saying," Alfred sighs. "That I know which battles I have a hope of winning, and which battles I do not, and I believe your schooling is something it's possible to convince you to change your mind about."
-
He spends all the time he can training. He's good. Strong. More balanced in his techniques, because his arms can't take the same kind of punishment since he got hurt. He's even learning all that detective stuff, or at least making an effort to try.
His growth spurt has slowed down for the time being and he's pretty tall for his age but it's still not enough. Alfred shortens the capes and buys boots in Jason's size.
On Halloween night, Batman goes on patrol. One of the thugs he takes down makes a wisecrack about how vacations do wonders for the figure, but it mostly goes smoother than Jason was worried it might. He drives home shortly before dawn arrives and gratefully eats the plate of food Alfred's prepared. After that, Jason curls up in the center of Bruce's bed and lies very still. His heart feels like his knuckles do after a brawl.
-
Jason's grades are dismal, but they were anyway so nobody notices. When Poison Ivy stabs his leg with a two-foot-long thorn, he claims that he got in a bike accident. He's getting a rep as a dangerous kid, a bit of a lost cause. The principal at his school says something about bereavement and recklessness and Jason nods and tries to look like he's losing his grip and takes the business card of some counselor who specializes in cases like his and then never goes to see her.
The wackos like Ivy are making life easier. They don't care who Batman is, not really. That Batman is is all that's important to them.
He gets hurt a lot. The bad guys do too, way more than they ever did before, but Jason's not good at dodging or blocking or that stuff. Alfred stitches and dresses all the wounds and sometimes says "Jason, I will not continue to play nursemaid. You must stop this. Even Master Bruce did not do what you are doing when he was sixteen. I cannot remain here simply to watch you kill yourself". But Jason knows that Alfred wouldn't leave him, so he doesn't even pretend to listen.
It's hard, and Jason knows he's not really keeping it together, but he doesn't know what else to do but fight as hard as he can for as long as he can.
-
In the middle of February Jason is chasing down a jewellery thief when a small figure launches itself out of the shadows and knocks the guy down.
It's a kid, probably about thirteen or fourteen and small for his age. He's wearing a jacket and jeans and expensive sneakers and his face has that burned-away look Jason recognizes all too well. Like everything comforting or good or happy has been sucked out, stripped down, leaving nothing but the strongest and fiercest bits behind.
"You need me," the boy says. "You're not up to this on your own. You're going to die. I won't let you die. Not again."
His eyes glitter in the dark of the nighttime air. He tilts his small, sharp chin up. Daring Jason to say no.
"Get in the car," Batman tells the boy.
-
"Jason."
"Wide open spaces and daylight. Isn't that against your religion or something?"
"You gave me little choice, considering your apparent hatred of the telephone."
"It isn't the telephone I hate."
"My decision was made with your best interests in mind."
"They're great. The Kents. Superman's real lucky to have parents like them."
"Then you see why -"
"But they're not my parents. My parents -. I worked something out. Wanna hear it?"
"Yes."
"You want me to have all the good stuff. A wife and kids and a dog and a house and all that. You want me to be happy. But I'm not happy here, 'cos I don't fit here. I fit with Gotham. In the night. With you. Take me home, Bruce."
-
"The more things change..." is all Alfred says when they arrive back at the Cave, before walking away and leaving the two of them alone. Jason can tell that there's going to be an extremely stern lecture in the near future.
"So what's your name, anyway? I can't just call you Robin," Jason says, and thinks wryly that Bruce probably could've.
"Timothy. Tim. You're Jason."
"I know my own name. Have you been stalking me?"
"What? No." The boy's eyes widen. "No, I just want to help."
"Why?"
"Batman needs Robin. You need someone to help you. I need... for Dick, I need to. I need..."
"To honor him?"
"Yes." The boy, Tim, nods emphatically. "Please. Give me a chance?"
"Would I have brought you here if I was gonna say no?"
-
They design a new costume for Tim, something more armored and sleek than the old one. Jason's in no hurry to go to any more funerals.
Alfred doesn't say a word beyond "would you like pumpkin or potato and leek soup?" and "I took the liberty or returning your overdue video rentals, sir" for weeks, and Jason starts to get scared that he's gone too far this time. That Alfred's gonna quit, or call Superman down on Jason's ass, or phone Tim's parents and spill the beans.
"On a scale of one to seriously, how pissed are you?"
"I'm not angry," Alfred answers, not looking up from his ironing. "Merely deeply concerned. I had hoped that you would have abandoned this whole business by now, not brought in another boy to aid you."
"You make it sound like I dragged him kicking and screaming. He chose this. And he's super-smart. He knows what he's doing."
"He's a child. So are you, for that matter."
"He's Robin now. Robin's not a kid. You know that."
"Of all people, Jason, I would have thought you would see the danger in such thinking."
"There's danger in a lot of things that need doing."
Alfred smoothes down a tiny crease in the sleeve of one of Jason's school shirts and doesn't say anything else. Jason punches himself in the thigh in frustration and walks away, heading for the Cave.
Tim's at the computer, face lit up with the weird almost-green light from the screen. He's reading through the foe files and has just hit 'J', and Jason tries not to wince at the photo of the Joker. One of these days he's gonna face off with that guy and show him just what a crowbar to the kidneys feels like.
"Can we talk for a sec?" Jason asks, sitting on the second swivel chair at the bank of screens. He wonders if it's disrespectful to something big and important that they're both wearing normal clothes in the Cave. Sometimes the uniforms feel hard to breathe in, in a way that's got nothing to do with how heavy the new chest plates are.
"You look like the kids in my class at school, when we've got a surprise exam," Tim says and smirks a little with his mouth. His eyes are smiling more genuinely, as usual; most of Tim's softer expressions are neatly obscured when in-costume.
"I was just talking to Alfred. He's pretty furious."
"Ah." Tim's smirk fades a little. "Do I have to go?"
Jason shakes his head tries to work out how to say what he wants to get across. "That's not his decision. Hell, it's not even my decision." Jason matches Tim's reappearing smirk with one of his own. "No way I'm brave enough to call someone twice as smart as me my sidekick. We're fifty-fifty, right? I mean, I know I always hated that 'junior partner' tag. I'll keep helping you train for as long as you want it, but only 'cause I still know stuff you don't yet. You're Robin as long as you want to be, and not a day less or more or whatever, and -"
"Remember to pause for breath occasionally. I hear it's useful," Tim cuts in.
"Babbling?"
"A bit. But thanks. I think we make a good team."
"Yeah," Jason says. "We do."
-
"I'm almost touched. In a creepy way."
"I wanted to feel you were still present here. I couldn't help harboring the hope that you'd return."
"So you stuck my suit in a case like a butterfly on a pin? Has anyone ever told you that you're kinda nuts?"
"It's been suggested."
"Is it waterproof? The case. We could keep piranhas in it. Or those deep sea fish that look like alien bugs. Hey, Bruce, can I tell you something kinda weird?"
"What is it?"
"When I was gone, it was like... it was like Robin needed Batman, and Jason needed Bruce, and those two things weren't the same thing at all. Doesn't that sound stupid?"
"I understand."
-
Gillian Matheson dies brutally and alone. By the time Tim and Jason get a chance to look the crime scene over, the police have been through and collected pretty much everything useful. Tim checks and double-checks anyway, just in case. It's a crummy motel room, and it stinks of desperation and blood.
"Don't touch anything," Tim tells Jason in his coolest Robin-voice. Jason makes a face at him and stands as still as he can.
"Can't you just hack into the police files and see what they've already got?"
"Yes, but I wanted to do my own sweep. Stop moving your foot, you're disturbing the edge of the stain."
Jason looks down. "Whoops. Sorry." He steps back onto the unmarked part of the carpet. It's not a big area. "How did you know that I'd moved? You didn't even turn your head."
"Just one of my many talents," Tim says, and Jason doesn't need to see his face to know there's a smirk on it. If Tim wasn't consistently right about everything, Jason would accuse him of being a cocky little know-it-all. "I want to interview the husband."
"He'll be sedated." Jason swallows. He hates it when they have to deal with the families. "Doped up to his eyeballs."
"Still, I'd rather contend with that than wait until he's had time to block out the gorier details."
When they get to the Matheson penthouse, a woman is sitting at the glass-topped dining table with a bunch of police forms spread out in front of her.
"Oh, it's you," she says in a thickly accented voice, looking up. "The Commissioner told me you would be coming here.
"Can we see Mr Matheson?" Jason asks. The woman shakes her head.
"No. He's resting now and I won't disturb him. Anything you need to know, I can tell you. I'm the housekeeper."
"Can you think of anyone who might be responsible for what happened?" Tim takes over the questioning. Jason's glad; the soft tremble in the woman's voice, and the way that she's looking at them like they're the only thing that has meaning in the world, makes him way too angry to remember the right things to ask.
"No." She shakes her head. "No, no. Gillian, everyone loved her. She was a beauty, but kind too. So kind. Such a big heart. She would have been a wonderful mother."
"She was pregnant?"
"Yes. Always she was trying to feel the kicking. The doctors tell her no, too early, but she tries anyway. She was so excited."
"The baby would've been her first?"
"Yes." Now the woman looks down at the papers, and her breath is shuddery and choked. "Yes, it would have been her first."
"George Matheson has an adult son, doesn't he?"
The woman looks up a Tim and shakes her head.
"Martin is a good boy. He didn't do this. The Commissioner, she wanted to know about him too. So many questions. He's a good boy."
"I'm just trying to get my facts right, ma'am. We want justice as much as you do."
Her mouth is a thin, hard line. "Good. You find them, and you make them pay for what they did to her."
"We will," Jason says, and doesn't care that there's a crack in his voice.
-
"That was a professional hit, wasn't it? Done up to look like a crazy." Jason keeps his eyes on the road. "I still don't know how you can use that while I'm driving. Don't you end up wanting to hurl?"
"No," Tim says, not looking up from the laptop screen. "And yes, you're right. The entry wounds looked frenzied, but they all hit a major artery or organ. See, I told you that you weren't giving yourself enough credit for your detective skills."
"I wouldn't say 'the vibe felt wrong' counts." Jason shakes his head.
"So what's your vibe say about the son?"
"Well, part of me wants to say that it's too obvious. But if the cops are thinking that way too, then maybe it's not so unlikely. Guys like that snap at the sight of guys like us. I think the police are hoping we can get a confession out of him and end this mess the short way."
"Hmm." Nodding, Tim types something rapidly. "I can give you his address. It's a gamble, butI think it'll pay off."
-
It's an impressive entrance. Tim's new uniform, with the high-collared black cape, is just as badass as the Batman costume. Together, they look like something out of a nightmare, especially swinging boots-first through a glass wall.
"Martin Matheson," Jason says in the nastiest version of the Batvoice. "You're responsible for the death of Gillian Matheson, your stepmother."
Matheson's a trim-looking guy in his mid thirties, and the photographs on the wall of him with various dignitaries and models show that his smile is superior and cocksure. Right now, he's not smiling, and his pulse thuds visibly in his throat as he swallows and sits up in bed, gaze skating over to the beside table before settling on them.
"She was a gold-digging whore. She wasn't even half his age, did you know that? She was younger than me, and he was going to leave it all to her."
"So you had her murdered, the crime disguised to look like a random attack."
Matheson laughs. It's not a nice sound. "I knew he'd slip up somewhere. Even for ten thousand, I knew something'd go wrong." He glances at the nightstand again.
"Get that?" Jason asks Tim. Tim nods, and opens his palm to show the two micro-recorders there.
"I'll go phone the police," Tim says. Matheson's looking at the bedside table in quick, nervy glances. Jason gives Tim a tiny nod. "I'll be five minutes," Tim goes on, returning the nod and then moving through the doorway into the other room.
Matheson makes a dive for the drawer and has the gun in his hand by the time Jason's moved beside him. One shot goes off, the bullet hitting the symbol on Jason's chest harmlessly, and then Jason bends Matheson's wrist back until there's a snapping sound and he drops the gun. Matheson's nose breaks and bleeds easily as Jason pushes the heel of one palm up against it, and when Matheson kicks wildly at Jason it's the perfect excuse to step down hard on his ankle. The angle's bad, because Matheson's still half on the bed, but that just means that it's some of the smaller bones in his foot that give way first. When Matheson cries out, Jason socks him in the mouth twice. Matheson gives a wet groan and his eyes roll back in his head.
Jason steps back. It doesn't feel like enough, and he keeps thinking of how small that patch of unstained carpet was in the motel room, but it'll do. He cuffs Matheson and binds his feet, too, just to be on the safe side.
Tim's waiting in the doorway. "I played the confession to the operator, just in case anything happens to the recording we're leaving here."
"Don't think we've got anything to worry about. This guy's not going anywhere before the cops show up."
"Yes, I can see that," Tim says. "Let's go."
They don't talk much on the drive back towards Tim's house. Jason's glad of the way they can just sit and be quiet without needing to say all the stuff they're thinking. He hopes he's as much a comfort to Tim as Tim is to him, but can't imagine how that could be true. It seems like Tim was practically born to be Robin, while Jason's just Batman because somebody had to be.
He drops Tim off a couple of blocks from Tim's house and then goes home. He's not hungry, but eats the toasted sandwich left out for him anyway. It's still warm. The manor feels bigger than the universe, and the sunrise is still a couple of hours away.
Jason changes into boxers and an old t-shirt, and brushes his teeth until his mouth doesn't taste like he's been swallowing back vomit all night, then slides in between the cool cotton of the sheets on Bruce's bed.
-
"I can tell when you're awake."
"It's hard to stay asleep when you're petting my hair like that, Bruce."
"I couldn't help myself."
"I guess I'm the Batman's one weakness, huh?"
"I'm sorry I sent you away, Jason. I didn't know what else to do. I'm sorry."
"Hey, all's well that ends well and all that jazz. G'night, Bruce."
"Sleep well, Jason."
"Don't stay up listening to me breathe or anything creepy like that all morning, okay?"
"I'll do my best."
"I guess that's all anyone can really ask for, isn't it?"
-
After what feels like a very long time, Jason falls asleep.