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Jason looks at the map spread over the table, recalculating the patrol routes now that he’s expanded his territory. There was an Arkham breakout the night before and Jason seized a sizable chunk of the Bowery in the confusion. His goons even knocked out Scarecrow before he could do any damage to Crime Alley, which was why they’re all celebrating with the several packs of beer Jason bought to reward a job well done.
Always easier to catch flies with honey, after all.
Jason isn’t paying them much attention, half an ear on the bragging tales of their exploits like they did more than stand around while Jason did all the real work. He wants to finish the redistribution and implement the change before the city wakes up from its stupor surrounding major crime incidents.
Running a criminal organization is more work than Talia made it sound like, but it’s engaging. Originally his plan was to maintain it until Batman wised up and killed the Joker, but Jason’s been sorely disappointed on that front—and he’s raising a shit ton of cash, keeping the streets of Crime Alley clean and safe, and bleeding every other gang in the city dry as goons flock to his banner.
Jason’s pretty sure it’s the dental. Or the child care policy. Either way, he’s a great employer.
It’s slightly annoying to listen to his goons create ever more embellished tales of their takedown, but Jason just focuses on his work and tunes them out. 53rd street is Spanish territory, so he can’t assign Johnson and Bird, which means he needs to reroute their patrol, or give it someone else entirely, except the people on that route know Johnson and Bird, and Jason is loath to shake things up too much. Still, the routes need to cover all his territory and recently acquired streets are always a bit touchy. Maybe if he kept the first half of the Johnson and Bird route? Or maybe—
“—Bat got taken out,” someone is recounting with gleeful relish. “I swear, I heard it from my cousin, he was there.”
Jason blinks at the map, unsure why he tuned in to the conversation. He refocuses on the map—
“Your cousin’s an alcoholic, Costa,” Ingham scoffs. “I wouldn’t believe him if he told me the Bat got a new sidekick.”
Jason glares at the map. Of course. Fucking Batman. Even clear across the city, he was distracting Jason.
“No, I swear, Luis has been doing this whole twelve-step program, he’s sober!” Good for him. “And he swears he saw it go down—Bane had the Bat cornered, just like last time, and snap.” Costa punctuates his statement by cracking off the top of a new beer. “He says,” Costa’s voice drops and Jason finds himself leaning forward to hear better, “he says the Bat didn’t get up.”
There’s a low, sharp inhale as the group rocks backward. It’s one of the cardinal rules of Gotham. The Bat goes down, of course he does, he’s a man. But he always. Gets. Back. Up.
You never take your eyes off the Bat because he’ll disappear and reappear to kick in your teeth.
Jason doesn’t realize he’s walked over until the goons are blinking curiously at him. “You have intel?” Jason barks at Costa to cover up the awkwardness.
“Uh, sure, boss, we told you that Bane broke out of Arkham,” Costa explains slowly. Bane was in Amusement Mile, Jason didn’t consider that a threat. “So apparently the Bat took him on—”
“No Robin,” Sarti contributes, before being elbowed by Ingham and hissed to shut up. Jason only briefly glares at him. They all know not to mention the R-word around him.
“No Nightwing,” Beck says, considerably more mournfully. They’re a diehard Nightwing fan from back when Dick was still wearing the scaly panties. Very helpful in tracking Nightwing’s location at all times, but Jason has also heard way more gossip on Nightwing’s paramours than he ever needed to know.
“—by himself,” Costa continues, “but Bane caught him off guard and—” Costa grabs Romilly to act out a wrestling slam. Romilly yelps as she goes down, beer spilling everywhere. “Did the same thing he did last time.”
Jason’s distracted from Romilly’s inventive curses—if she’s half as capable as she is creative, he needs to watch out for her—by Costa’s last sentence. “Last time?”
“You know, boss,” Sarti says. “When Bane cracked Batman’s spine. Like this.” He snaps a toothpick in his fingers to demonstrate. The crack is sharp. “Everyone in Gotham must’ve heard about it.”
“How about we pretend like everyone in Gotham hasn’t heard about it?” Jason says evenly, crossing his arms. “And you explain what happened?”
Something about his tone was clearly too even, because the goons are slowly inching away from him, leaving Costa, the messenger, and Sarti, oblivious, as the sacrifices.
“It was a couple of years ago,” Sarti explains, clearly not picking up on his boss’s mood. “Sometime after he got the new Robin—” Ingham hisses so loud, Jason loses the next two words—“Bane said he was going to take over the city, Batman went out to stop him. I wasn’t there, so I don’t know what went down exactly, but everyone said the same thing. Bane snapped Batman in half.” Sarti mimes breaking a stick in two. It looks strangely violent. “Bat was missing from the streets for weeks.”
“But he’s back and fighting fit.” Jason doesn’t know why his chest is tight. “It can’t have been that bad.”
The goons all exchange glances. “Well, yeah,” Ingham says slowly, “but…”
“He sorta moves stiffer now.”
“Yeah, like that stick in his ass got wedged up even further!”
“He used to be more flexible—remember when he’d do flips with Robin?”
“Sarti, I swear to god, stop saying his name—”
“Maybe he’s just getting old?”
“If the Bat really is human, I’m surprised all his injuries haven’t caught up—”
“Enough!” Jason’s sharp, modulated voice cuts through the babble. The goons fall gratifyingly silent. “Whatever did or didn’t happen to the Bat, he’s still a threat. That’s all we need to know. Stop speculating.”
He glares them all down, exuding glowering vibes despite the helmet.
“But boss,” Costa pipes up earnestly. “If the Bat’s out for the count, then we can use that intel.”
“It’s not intel if it’s from your alcoholic cousin,” Ingham mutters.
“I told you, Luis is sober now! And he swears that he heard the crack.”
“Until we independently verify—”
“Doesn’t matter, Nightwing’s probably going to show up—”
“Do you think Robin will start patrolling again, too?”
“Sarti, you’re going to end up with a bullet in your skull, don’t say I didn’t warn you—”
Jason contemplates the rafters as the group descends into further squabbling. This would be the annoying part of people management. No doubt W.E. would preach something about every voice getting heard, but Jason just pounds a fist on the table, halting all conversation with a large clatter.
“Enough,” he growls, letting out all the menace he can. “We go about our business as usual.”
“Yes, boss!”
Jason stomps back to his table, pauses, and turns back.
“And never assume that the Bats are gone. They have a way of crawling out of the grave.”
It’s been half a year since Jason interacted with any of the Bats. Since his carefully-plotted plan to get Batman to kill the Joker went up in flames, quite literally. With Robin out of commission and Nightwing grieving the ruins of his city, it was easy for Jason to draw his borders around the territory of the Red Hood, and follow through on his promise to shoot any Bat that crosses it.
The last time he saw Batman, he was aiming a gun at his armored back.
They’ve mostly left him alone, focusing on problems in other parts of the city. Jason’s proud to say that crime rates overall have dropped in Crime Alley, because that’s what happens when you have a quasi-militia on the ground to enforce your rules. Jason gives them all generous paychecks and benefits, and shoots anyone who steps out of line. Carrot and stick. Works like a dream.
It’s helped him too, building his organization out of the cinders of Black Mask’s, focusing on the groundwork, the day-to-day, the logistics and planning and organization instead of screaming at the sky until his rage burned out his voice. It’s subsided into a vicious, cold fury in his chest, ever-present, burning slow and hot. An anger he can channel now.
Fuck the Bats. Fuck them all, Batman and his self-righteousness, the ever-sanctimonious Nightwing, the new perfect little soldier of a Robin. Jason already proved himself—downed the Golden Boy, defeated the Replacement, brought the Dark Knight to a standstill.
Jason proved what he already knew—they don’t give a fuck about him. And he doesn’t give a fuck about them. And that doesn’t change just because he’s heard some goddamn gossip.
The Bat didn’t get up.
It isn’t the first time Batman’s been injured. The only reason Jason cares is because if it’s true, he can make greater inroads into Somerset territory. That’s all.
The news comes trickling in from a few different sources over the next week—the details change on every telling, but the central theme is the same. Batman and Bane had an altercation. And the Bat’s out of commission.
Jason doesn’t put too much stock in it and continues conducting his business like he’s expecting a Bat to drop out of the rafters at any moment. The vigilance pays off when he’s sitting on a rooftop, watching a drug deal on the borders of his territory through a pair of binoculars, and he hears the distinctive flutter of a cape.
The emotion that sinks into his stomach isn’t relief. It’s not.
Jason spins and shoots in the same breath and the shadow ducks easily out of the way. Too easily, if Jason’s being honest, because his guys are right, Batman does move stiffer now, more solid and less fluid. More like the old man he is, a thought that’s been bouncing inside Jason’s head the last few days, because how many times has he watched Batman shake off an injury with no apparent consequences? Gotham might half-believe that Batman’s a demon, but Jason knows the man behind the mask is only human.
There’s no way he could twist so fluidly to avoid a bullet aimed at center mass.
Batman twists back to face Jason, light falling across his jaw. Jason grits his teeth and tightens his grip on his weapon, not wavering. “Nightwing,” he snarls, flicking over the costume and noting the likely spots of padding. Without movement, it’s easier to tell that Batman is shorter than he usually is, though there’s probably insets in the boots. “Decided to play dress up?”
Nightwing shifts, as though thinking about denying it, before his jaw tightens. “Hood,” he says, voice coming out in a modulated growl. “You’re outside your territory.”
“This is my territory now,” Jason replies coldly. “Or wasn’t that part of your crash course in Gotham politics? Too busy trying to make sure the cowl fits?”
With Nightwing it’s always a toss-up whether Jason gets a fistfight or wordplay, but it’s clear that he’s not in a quipping mood. “Is that your grand plan? Take over Gotham piece by piece while we aren’t watching?” Either that, or he’s really getting into character.
“Not my fault you lot keep turning your backs,” Jason emphasizes the last word, just slightly, and watches Nightwing stiffen. Something cold settles in his gut. “Where is the old man, anyway?”
“Why do you care?” Nightwing shoots back.
“I like to keep track of my enemies,” comes out as menacing as Jason intends, without the hint of panic he swallows. Deflecting is never a good sign.
Nightwing opens his mouth, and snaps it shut again, grinding his teeth. “You know what, I don’t have the time to deal with you tonight,” he says sharply, turning on a heel and striding away. Jason can hear him muttering into a comm, something about shifting boundary lines and updated intel, but Nightwing disappears off the roof before Jason can recover from the dismissal.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jason says out loud to the empty roof. Nightwing really does have Batman’s mannerisms down.
And Jason still doesn’t know what happened to him.
A week later, and Jason is ready for drastic action. Idle and then not-so-idle internet searches for Bruce Wayne revealed nothing, not even a fake boating accident to break the news, and he hasn’t been spotted once. Jason is not desperate enough to stake out the Manor.
He has, however, resorted to scraping the bottom of the barrel for information sources.
“Uh, boss?” Ingham ventures out. Jason could see them picking straws to approach him out of the corner of his eye. Ordinarily, he would be slightly pleased that they considered him so intimidating, but right now he was intent on glaring a hole into the skull of his hostage as he waited for him to wake up. “What…what exactly are we doing?”
“Getting intel,” Jason growls out. He’s seventy percent sure their hostage is playing dead. He caught that finger twitch.
“Intel on what exactly, boss?”
“Batman.” The name comes out like a swear, dark and full of vitriol.
Another finger twitch. Jason wonders if he’ll get more cooperation if he starts breaking those fingers.
“Didn’t, um, didn’t you say that we’d be conducting business as usual, Bat or no Bat?” Ingham tries.
Well, yes, but that was before Jason went a fortnight without any news but increasingly horrific and graphic tales of what had befallen the Dark Knight. He turns fully towards her and Ingham squeaks, looking rather like a deer in headlights.
“Do you have an issue with the way I do business, Ingham?” comes out both question and threat.
“No, of course not, boss!” Ingham reassures hastily, sneaking back a step when Jason turns away. “Just—ah—on the matter of the rules…”
“Spit it out.”
“Robinsstillakid,” Ingham says in a rush, squeezing her eyes shut like she’s expecting him to start shooting. The rest of the goons are pressed against the far wall, all watching him warily and apparently braced for child mutilation.
This is the only problem with recruiting from Gotham’s henchmen population, half the time they expect Jason to be as bad as the Joker.
“Don’t worry,” Jason says, turning back to the brightly colored vigilante tied firmly to a chair. “Robin will leave in one piece.” Another finger twitch. “As long as he cooperates.” He jerks the Replacement’s head up with a fist in his hair and he’s met with the white lenses of the domino mask. “Decided to join the conversation, Pretender? Or are you going to continue play dead?”
Jason can see Robin consider it and tightens his grip on the kid’s hair. He has no aversion to a repeat of Titans Tower if the brat insists on being stubborn. Fortunately for the structural integrity of the kid’s bones, he opens his mouth. “Hood,” he spits out. “What do you want?”
“You know what I want, Replacement,” Jason snaps back. “Batman. Where is he?”
“I don’t know. Tricorner, probably, near wherever you drugged me,” Robin retorts. “Or maybe he’s tracked you down. Maybe he’s standing right behind you.”
The goons gasp in unison. Jason doesn’t twitch. The kid really is a pretender if he thinks that’ll work on Jason. Jason has a finely honed Bat radar and none of the hairs on the back of his neck are standing up.
“I said Batman, not the two-bit circus showoff in daddy’s clothes,” Jason growls.
“Nightwing’s in town?” Beck says excitedly in the background.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the kid lies baldly.
“Oh for fuck’s sake—”
“Language,” comes the automatic hiss of someone used to saying it on repeat. It’s enough to cause Jason to pause and slowly turn his head in the direction of his goons.
Costa is bright red. “Sorry,” he whispers, “I just—he’s a kid—force of habit—I’ll just shut up now.” He does a fantastic job at trying to melt into the wall.
Jason turns back to Robin, who has the temerity to look amused. “For fuck’s sake,” Jason repeats with emphasis, shaking him a little, “anyone with eyes can tell that that’s not the real Batman. So where is he?”
“Have you considered getting your vision checked?” Robin asks with apparent sincerity. “I don’t think all those explosions are good for you, Mr. Hood.”
There’s a murmur of agreement from the peanut gallery and Jason didn’t ask for audience participation.
“You gaslighting little motherfucker—”
Costa makes a sound, someone else elbows him and the admonition turns to a wheeze.
“—I’m only going to say this one more time before I start breaking fingers, so listen up. Where. Is. Batman.”
His fingers are itchy with the urge to shoot something and it’s going to be Robin if the kid doesn’t give him what he wants.
“Why?” Robin asks. “Why do you care? Why does it matter to you? It’s really none of your business.”
“Of course it’s my business!”
The shout lingers in the air. Jason’s chest is tight and twisted. Robin stares at him with a dawning look of comprehension and Jason doesn’t understand it. Jason wants to wipe that look off his face. Jason wants—Jason needs—
The back of his neck prickles and Jason moves without thinking about it, ducking under the batarang and rolling free of the bomb. It explodes, flooding the room with smoke. The flutter of a cape echoes oddly.
Jason ignores it. It’s not Bruce. He’s not getting any answers tonight.
Why do you care?
He doesn’t care. He doesn’t. He doesn’t.
This is stupid. Jason can admit that to himself. This is a truly terrible idea, and he’s had some spectacularly bad ones—trusting the woman that gave birth to him and not shooting the Joker the instant he had a clear shot being two of them—but this is a new, pathetic low for him.
The keypad beeps and unlocks. Jason’s codes have long been removed—if not after his death then certainly after Titans Tower—but it looks like no one’s found the back door Jason engineered when he was a Robin trying to sneak out after a grounding. The walk down the long tunnel is as fraught with tension as it was when he was fifteen and tiptoeing back home.
Except this isn’t home. He’s only here for intel. No one’s answering his fucking questions, so he’ll go to where the answers have to be.
It’s late. Patrol would’ve ended hours ago. It’s too early for anyone to be awake. The Cave should be empty and the Batcomputer free to access.
Jason doesn’t look around at his old stomping grounds, doesn’t try to catalogue the changes, the way life moved on after he died. The purpose of this visit isn’t to feed his rage, it’s to find out what happened to Bruce. The Batcomputer terminal is empty and there’s no one to stop Jason from sitting down and logging in.
The main password’s changed, and Jason isn’t going to begin to try and guess the Replacement’s, but he knows that the Golden Boy uses tongue twisters in foreign languages for his passwords, and it only takes six attempts before Jason’s in.
The information he’s looking for will be in the medical files. Jason ignores his own file staring back at him—is the last thing in there his autopsy? is the last thing in there not his autopsy? is Batman keeping updated tabs on him?—and clicks on Bruce’s file.
The first tab lists his current injuries.
Jason swallows. The list is long. Very long. He clicks on the image files and the X-rays pop up, gray on black. That’s a lot of metal supporting Bruce’s skeleton and Jason can see microfractures where the stress grew too much. Some of the metal is wrenched out of place as well and Jason’s bones ache as he tries to imagine what this kind of damage would look like.
The broken vertebrae are starker. Multiple fractures, along the metal that helped keep Bruce’s spine in one piece. There’s nothing about a spinal cord injury, but that doesn’t make a broken back any easier to deal with.
And the older injuries. Bruce’s file lays them all out in grim, exacting detail and Jason sees metal plates and surgery scars and cocktails of medication. He tries to shake the images, but he can’t. When he closes his eyes, he doesn’t see Batman anymore.
He sees his mom, swallowed up by tubes and pills, clinging desperately to life but too exhausted to hold on.
“Master Jason.” Jason startles out of the chair and spins around, gun automatically extended.
Alfred merely looks at it with a hint of distaste. “This is a surprise,” the man says, as though he isn’t being held at gunpoint by the biggest crime lord in the city. “You didn’t give any notice that you would be stopping by.”
Like Jason is here for tea and cakes. Like Jason isn’t an intruder.
Jason feels like the insane one, still holding onto the gun, so he reholsters it, fingers fumbling. “Alfred,” he says, wincing when the word comes out growled through the modulator. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”
“Insomnia is not solely your purview,” Alfred arches an eyebrow. “May I ask what you’re doing here? If this is another step in your ongoing drama with Batman, I might remind you that he is not the one who keeps this place in one piece, and I ask you to think of an old man’s poor joints before causing too much of a mess.”
“I’m not—” an old man’s poor joints—“I’m not here to break anything. I just,” he glances at the monitors. One of them is still showing the X-ray of Bruce’s spine.
“Ah.” Alfred is looking at him with a strange kind of knowing, like he can see past the helmet and into Jason’s eyes. Like Jason is the one being X-rayed.
“How—how is he?” Jason ventures out, heart stuck in his throat. Line after line of medical information, and nothing tells him Bruce’s actual condition.
Alfred considers him for a long moment and Jason is struck by the thought that Alfred isn’t going to tell him, that he’s going to grind the knife in, that he’s as disappointed in Jason’s actions as the rest of the family and this will be his revenge—
But what he says is worse.
“See for yourself,” Alfred invites, and turns on a heel to briskly walk for the elevator.
“What—Alfred, wait!” But Alfred isn’t waiting. He’s walking away, leaving Jason’s question unanswered and Jason doesn’t know why he ever thought Alfred was nice, he’s clearly just as petty as the rest of them.
The elevator dings closed before Jason can reach it and he’s left alone in the Cave, Bruce’s broken spine imprinted in the back of his eyelids, desperation twitching through his fingers.
He considers leaving.
Really, what more does he need to know? Bruce is alive. He can stop thinking about it.
His footsteps take him to the stairs instead.
Jason leaves the helmet and the more visible portions of his weaponry downstairs—Alfred’s judging eyebrow will never not haunt him—before heading up. He ignores the pictures on display in Bruce’s office, the remnants of his old life, his old bedroom door, how much things have changed and how much things have not. He’s not here for nostalgia. He’s just here to—to satisfy his curiosity. That’s it. That’s all that matters.
He pulls open the door to Bruce’s bedroom before he can second-guess himself.
The room is dark and shadowed. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust with the absence of night vision and slowly, details make themselves clear.
Bruce is the lump on top of the bed. There’s no visible medical paraphernalia around him, but Jason knows that doesn’t mean much. There’s a stocked tray on the nightstand that holds pill bottles and ice packs and the outline of Bruce is lumpier than Jason remembers.
He gets closer and the moonlight illuminates the large cast covering one arm. Bruce’s face is turned away from him but Jason can hear his slow, faintly raspy breathing. Steady in sleep. Not at all aware that there’s a League-trained crime lord hovering at his bedside.
The thought makes him furious and Jason turns sharply away before he can reason out why. The pill bottles distract him and he picks them up, squinting to read their labels.
Painkillers. They’re all painkillers.
Jason doesn’t know how long he stands there, frozen, haunted by memories of a different life, but the sound of sheets rustling breaks him free of the stupor. He turns, and finds blue eyes peering back at him.
It’s the first time they’ve seen each other, face-to-face, since before he died.
“Jay?” murmurs a sleep-hoarse voice. “Jason?”
Jason should leave. Jason should run. If he escapes out the window, Bruce will think it’s just a hallucination—except Alfred knows, and Jason’s been caught on the security footage, and it doesn’t matter, because he needs to get out of here right now.
But Bruce lurches up the moment Jason shifts towards the window—lurches up and immediately crumples with a choked groan, and Jason instinctively turns back towards him.
Bruce’s face is all pinched, gleaming with sweat as he strangles down shouts. Faded yellow bruises appear like shadows across his skin. There are more scars than Jason remembers, both fresh and old, and he gets lost in tracing them with his eyes.
“Jay,” Bruce repeats, more awake, gaze back on Jason though faintly quizzical. He’s still panting, free hand clenched into a fist to stave off the pain. Jason involuntarily glances back at the painkillers. “What are you doing here?”
The confusion breaks Jason out of his strange mood. He isn’t fifteen, standing at the foot of Bruce’s bed after a nightmare, filled with the utter certainty that Batman made all the monsters go away. He is one of those monsters now, and he knows all too well that Batman isn’t infallible.
The evidence is on full display, after all.
“Heard some interesting stories,” he says, as harshly as he can, the sneer discordant in the too-quiet stillness. “About Batman getting snapped like a twig.” He clicks his tongue. “Came to see if it’s true. If you’re really out of commission.”
Bruce looks down at himself, as if to confirm that he’s injured. When he looks back up, his expression is resigned.
It tears at a place inside Jason he long thought dead. “So that’s it, is it?” he hisses, stepping closer to loom over Bruce. “One measly little terrorist is all that it takes to take you out.”
“Jason—”
“I always knew you were a failure,” Jason snaps. “It’s good to see that it isn’t only sidekicks you disappoint.”
“Jay—”
“But you’ll never learn your lesson, will you,” he spits out. “You’ll be back out there in a month, or a year, or however long it takes you to convince yourself that you’re not suicidal, that dressing up like a bat and punching criminals is something more than a death wish!”
There’s a ringing silence as his words fade. Jason realizes he’s breathing heavily, that there’s wetness on his cheeks, that Bruce looks faintly blurry in his vision.
“Jay-lad,” Bruce says quietly.
Jason wants to turn away, but he can’t. Jason wants to stop crying, but he can’t. He sees his mom, and he sees Bruce, and there’s something awful tearing inside his chest, something he tried to deny for days and days and days.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce says softly.
Jason snorts, watery and cracking. “Sorry for what?” he says thickly, as close to a sneer as he can get. “Losing a fight?”
“For scaring you,” Bruce says, his voice too-knowing.
“I’m not scared,” Jason bites back immediately, scrubbing his eyes. “I’m fucking thrilled you’re out of commission. You know how much territory I’ve accumulated in the last two weeks? Missing Bats is good—good for business.” His voice cracks at the end but Jason takes a shaky breath and stands tall.
Bruce looks at him like Jason is twelve again and trying to hide that he has a stomachache from eating too much. It’s a combination of fond sternness and quiet sorrow. “Then why are you still here?” Bruce asks, raising an eyebrow.
Jason opens his mouth, and then closes it. Why is he still here? He’s confirmed Bruce’s state, lobbed some insults at him, and made it threateningly clear he can waltz in and out of the Manor as he likes. He should leave. Maybe trash some stuff while he’s at it, take another go at the Replacement, make it undeniably clear that he is the enemy.
He just can’t make his legs move.
“Oh, Jay-lad,” Bruce whispers, worn and tired. “C’mere.” He strains to lift an arm and Jason is jolted into motion, stepping forward instead of back, getting closer instead of away.
His cheeks are wet again as he clambers on top of the bed, slow and cautious, careful not to jostle Bruce as he shifts around him to the empty side of the bed. Learned behaviors from a lifetime ago fall into place—minimal movement, curling up to make himself as small as possible before tucking himself against his parent’s side so that he doesn’t cause them any further pain. When fingers settle in his hair, stroking idly, Jason squeezes his eyes shut and muffles the sob.
“It’s okay,” Bruce whispers. “It’s okay, Jay. I’m fine. I’ll recover. I’m sorry for worrying you.”
Jason nudges his head against Bruce’s hand. His chest is tight with all the things he wants to say, everything he wants to spill in one messy, watery deluge, and if he opens his mouth he won’t stop until he’s done. He can’t. He’s terrified of it.
Thankfully, Bruce takes the hint and falls silent, gently petting Jason’s hair. Jason listens as Bruce’s breathing slows down. Watches the rise and fall of his chest. Stays there and keeps count by it, up and down, inhale and exhale. The clearest indication that his dad is alive and well.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep.
“Listen up, because this is important and I’m not going to go over this multiple times to make sure it gets into your puny little heads, understand?” Jason growls out, nice and threatening.
“Yes, boss!” chorus his goons.
“Now, I know we’ve been focused on expanding into the Bowery, but there’s no real reason to limit ourselves to one island. We got that deal down in Tricorner Yard, yes, but we don’t have anything up in North Gotham.”
“Like the Diamond District?” Beck asks.
Jason waves them off. “North north. I took the clown’s name. It’s only fair that I take his old stomping grounds too.”
“Amusement Mile?” Sarti clarifies.
“Yes.”
His goons exchange looks among each other.
Ingham steps forward. She appears to be the designated volunteer for the whole week. “Um, boss? Amusement Mile is currently occupied by Bane.”
“I’m well aware,” Jason says dismissively. “We’ll remove him, I doubt he’s too big an obstacle.”
Jason is going to take great, detailed pleasure in shattering every one of Bane’s vertebrae and seeing how he likes it. He’s only interrupted by the pleasant fantasy by the muttering of his goons.
“Pay up,” Romilly grins, holding out her hand and beckoning. “I told you losers.”
Ingham groans and digs through her pocket. All around them, goons are exchanging money. Sarti is happily counting through a wad of cash as Beck glowers. Costa slaps a pair of twenties in Romilly’s hand, grumbling. Jason hears muttered imprecations about the Bats.
“What are you all doing?” Jason asks, unsettled.
“Nothing, boss,” Romilly chirps at him, tucking her winnings away. “So, tell us how we’re going to take down Bane!”