A/N: Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. (This applies to this and future entries)
Prompt: encounter.
Rating: M for language.
Characters/pairings: Bruce, Jason (non-slash)
Summary: A conversation between Bruce and Jason on the sixth anniversary of Jason's death.
"Here lies Jason Todd," read the inscription, "Loved son." He wondered absently if it'd be in bad taste to deface his own gravestone, maybe correct it a bit. Probably.
April 27th. Exactly six years since his murder now.
Happy fucking anniversary.
Jason wasn't really sure why he was here. Nowhere else to go, he supposed. His apartment wasn't really much more than a place to sleep and store guns; he sure as hell couldn't sleep right now, and there was no way he was sitting around there all day. He'd tried going out on patrol- it was broad daylight, yeah, but he'd still managed to track down some deserving targets. Beat up a few muggers. Took down a few drug dealers. Shit like that. But today, he hadn't been able to focus. Just about got his head taken off by some hired goon with a machine gun. Almost ended up with a knife in the back when he let his guard down mid-brawl. And after, down at the docks, some hapless thug had attacked him with, of all the Goddamn weapons he could have chosen, a crowbar, Jason had just quit. There was no fucking way he could fight anymore today.
So... yeah. Cemetery. The place didn't look at all like he remembered, not that he recalled much of the scenery. Still, it just seemed- well, a lot more peaceful, to be honest. Quiet. Sedate. Never think it was the same grave he'd clawed his way out of.
Suddenly, everything seemed a lot less serene. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He needed a drink. Something strong, and lots of it.
He heard a faint rustle of movement to his right, and turned, not really expecting anything. His jaw just about dropped.
It was Bruce.
The man was wearing his usual suit: black shoes, black jacket with a white shirt, no tie. He looked like he'd just come from a meeting or something. Or to a funeral.
Jason tensed at his approach, but Bruce made no move to attack, stopping a few yards away. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, they just stared at each other, expressions unreadable. Slowly, Jason relaxed, and Bruce crossed the rest of the distance, sitting by his son. Neither of them looked at the other.
Jason was the first to speak. "Six years now" he said, eyes still fixed on the gravestone. "Sure as fuck doesn't seem like it, does it?" Bruce said nothing, and Jason continued, "Course, I can only remember three of them, y'know?" He turned to face Bruce, lips twisted in a mirthless smile.
Bruce remained silent and Jason sighed, tugging a cigarette from his pocket.
"I wish you wouldn't smoke," Bruce said at last.
"There are a lot of things you wish I wouldn't do," Jason retorted.
"It could kill you, eventually."
"It'll have to get in line."
He lit it, closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply.
For a while, neither of them said anything. Finally, Jason broke the silence.
"It's weird, being back here." He ran a hand over the grass and laughed humorlessly. "Never know it'd been dug up- what, 3 times now?" He took another drag of smoke and continued, "Always wondered who filled it back in, after I- after the first time." Another drag. "I mean, gaping hole, splintered coffin, missing corpse- not something you see every day. You'd think someone woulda said something. Called the police or some shit like that. 'Lock the doors, there's a zombie on the loose!'" He laughed shakily, humorlessly.
"I'm sorry, Jason," Bruce said quietly, and fuck him, for being so serious when Jason just wanted to pretend that, for once in his Goddamn life, everything was fine. "I should have been there." Bruce rested a hand on his son's shoulder, but Jason shrugged it off, not looking at him.
"I guess it doesn't matter now," he dismissed.
Silent again. Jason finished his cigarette and stubbed it out against the gravestone, watching Bruce's reaction out of the corner of his eye. Bruce narrowed his eyes slightly, but said nothing. Jason lit another one.
"You know, I keep thinking about the funeral," Jason said, if only to banish the quiet. "Who attended, what it was like, that type of morbid shit. Must've been a pretty small crowd. I mean," he raised a hand, counting off people, "There would've been you, Dick, Alfred, probably Babs, but other than that? I didn't really have many friends at school- none that'd show for a funeral, at any rate. Maybe one or two of the Titans, but I don't get the feeling I was much missed there. So that's, what, four people?"
Bruce said nothing.
"I'm right, aren't I?" Jason asked, not sure why he hated the thought, the idea, but despising it all the same.
Nothing. Jason wasn't entirely surprised to find tears welling up in his eyes, and he blinked them away, taking a drag off his cigarette, savoring the faint burn in his lungs, the rush of nicotine through his veins. He exhaled, watching the smoke curl around him.
"Well. There you go."
"Jason-" Bruce began, then broke off, sighing. Jason again felt a hand on his shoulder, and he allowed himself to be pulled into the embrace, wordless. "You- you weren't forgotten," Bruce hesitated, "I missed you, Jason. We all did."
Jason did not respond, running a hand absently over the inscription, the granite cool to his touch. "When I die again, I think I'd like to be cremated," he said at last. "Have my ashes spread over the Narrows. No grave, no headstone, no stupid little case in the Cave- nothing. No mystery resurrections, either. Actually rest in fucking peace. Besides, I think I've lost my taste for coffins, y'know?"
He felt Bruce tense against him and realized he'd struck a nerve. He hadn't even meant to, this time.
"You shouldn't talk that way," Bruce whispered.
"What way?" Jason asked, already knowing the answer.
"You're 19, Jason," Bruce said, "You'll outlive me by decades."
Jason snorted derisively. "Right. I'm sure I'll live a long, fulfilling life. Maybe settle down, get married, have a white house with a picket fence and 2.5 kids."
"Jason, stop," Bruce said quietly, and Jason wondered just what it was that disturbed Bruce: Jason's second death, or Bruce's second failure.
He wondered if he could find out. "I mean, really, how long do you think I'll live?" he pushed, "How long any of us will live? It's only a matter of time before someone gets in a lucky shot. It always is."
"Jason, please, stop." Bruce's voice was barely audible, and heavy with emotion.
Jason knew from the moment the words left his mouth that he was going to far, but he couldn't seem to stop himself, wasn't sure he wanted to. "Dick'll probably last the longest- Golden Boy always was good like that. Can't say with the new one, though. He's a shitty fighter, so-"
"Stop." Jason felt Bruce's grip on his shoulder tighten painfully, heard the anger in his voice, and he turned towards him, a sense of satisfaction overtaking him. Bruce was shaking with rage and pain; his eyes bored into Jason's, and- fuck, was Bruce crying?
Whatever satisfaction he'd had, vanished. All of a sudden, he felt sick. His gaze dropped to his feet. After a moment, he felt the hand on his shoulder loosen, disappear. Jason stubbed out his cigarette, this time on the ground next to him. Once again, his eyes stung with tears, and he rubbed his hand over them.
"Sorry," he mumbled, "I just..." he trailed off. "I guess there's nothing like dying to shove your own mortality in your face, huh?" He turned towards Bruce. The man's expression softened, and Jason wasn't sure why it was such a relief.
"Jason-" he broke off, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. "You really don't understand, do you?"
Jason blinked, surprised by the sudden question. "Understand what?"
"How much I love you. How much I missed you- miss you. How it kills me to see you like this, and know that it's my fault. How much it hurts to hear you talk about your own death like it's going to happen tomorrow, and know that you mean it. How painful it is to see you so hurt, so angry, and to realize that I have no idea how to bring you back, how every time I try it seems like I just push you away farther."
Jason couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, because, fuck, that was everything and nothing he wanted to hear, all at once. He turned away, choking back a sob, but a hand under his chin forced his gaze back up. "I will save you, Jason," Bruce continued, "If I have to drag you back home kicking and screaming, fine, because I will not sit by and watch you destroy yourself."
Jason wanted to scream, to yell, to tell Bruce that he didn't need his help, that he didn't need saving, that if Bruce wanted him back so fucking much, if he really cared, he'd kill the Joker, or at least let Jason do it, but no sound came from his mouth. Bruce's hand on his jaw was painfully tight, and Bruce's eyes were hard, piercing, determined. Again, Jason looked away, and Bruce released him. He drew his knees to his chest, shaking, his breathing ragged, eyes closed, trying and failing to hold back tears. For a heartbeat, Bruce hesitated, then reached out and set a hand on Jason's shoulder.
"Jason," he began, his voice soft, comforting.
The boy twisted from his grip, still not looking at him.
"Go," he finally whispered, his voice choked. "Just go."
Bruce stood. "When you decide you want to end this," he said gently, "I'll be there. Just say the word, and I'll do everything I can to help you."
"Get the fuck out of here!" Jason yelled. Bruce did not move. Jason shuddered, taking a few uneven breaths. "Please," he pleaded, "Just go."
Bruce turned and walked away.