Keeping Broken Pieces Together
Warnings: PTSD, smoking, some language and description of violence. The worst of it is in the first part.
Good reading!
He should be out. It's a little past midnight and usually, he's still out patrolling at this time. He rarely comes back home this early.
But tonight? Jason is slumped in a corner of his room, because he's had enough of walking around in the dark like the lost soul he is.
His heart is stammering hard against his ribs, and he's hot, nauseous, shaking. He figured that if he has to be an emotional wreck right now, he might as well endure it while sitting down.
The night is calm. The sky is clear. The moonlight invades a part of the room through the window, giving it a somewhat irreal atmosphere. Blurring his surroundings.
-it's dark, it's too dark, he can't see anything and he can barely move-
He knew. He knew, when they saw him, when they heard his laugh, that it would be one of those nights.
Eyes wide open, he doesn't feel his fingernails diving into his scalp -scratching and clawing and ripping at the wood, diving into the dirt and digging as the skin tears itself apart- as he forces himself to breathe slow and deep.
-but his face is pressed against the concrete and there's blood in his mouth and throat, each breathe is a battle and his ribs scream at the next hit-
He swallows -blood- and takes another deep gulp of air to prove himself that he can. He can breathe. His throat isn't burning from a lack of air, because there's plenty of it left.
Right?
Jason forces his fingers away from his hair and straightens up -his bones crack at every move- to lean his head against the wall.
He's lost somewhere between a tangible, fragile reality and vicious memories. He's trashing in vain, struggling to grab an unseizable present as he's himself seized by a past that wants to swallow him whole.
He's drowning in blood and pain and dirt and fear, and there's nothing -there's no one coming- that he can hold onto to keep himself from sinking. He wants to scream.
-he screams and yells and begs and cries-
Jason tries to forget that there's a pack full of cigarettes in his jacket and several beers in the fridge. He doesn't like to smoke or drink when he's in that kind of state. But that doesn't mean he can't almost smell -blood and burned flesh and rotten wood and dirt- the scent of his menthol cigarettes.
-but the only answer is the cackle, and it never stops, it's too loud and sick and insidious, it's crawling inside his ears and under his skin-
It was easier out there. When the others were around and the only part of him he could allow them to see was that rage and anger.
But he's alone now.
He's alone, and he can only see pitch black even as the bright moon flows in the room. He wishes there was a storm out there. He'd prefer the rain to hammer the glass of the window, the thunder to ground and the wind to blow hard between the city's buildings.
He hates that the moon isn't bright enough to clear the darkness he's in. He hates that the night is calm while he's herratic. He hates that there's no storm to cover up the constant laughing in his head.
If he calls someone (anyone), he will break down over the phone.
-he calls but no one is coming-
He's so fucked up right now. He's cold and hot at the same time.
He's exhausted. But he's not sure if he will wake up if he falls asleep. He's not sure what he'll have to face if he wakes up.
Or if he wants to wake up again.
-it's too late-
It feels like he can't move his legs. It feels like his current state is definitive. Like he's stuck. Trapped between here and there. Like he will never be able to find his way out.
-to crawl out and emerge from the dirt-
Finally, the thunder roars. Or maybe it's the sound of the warehouse blowing up.
Jason closes his eyes.
He's burning.
"Still no word from Jason?"
Cassandra lifts her head at Tim's question. Then takes the cup of tea he's handing to her, without taking her eyes off the crease between his eyebrows.
She's on the roof, because she can't stand the tension that hovers inside anymore. Tim sits next to her. His arms are stiff, from his shoulders to the top of his fingers.
Cass takes her phone – a gift from Bruce, some months ago – from the pocket of the old sweatshirt Dick leant her. She gives it to Tim so he can read the message Jason sent her half an hour ago.
It causes his neck to stiffen, becoming as tense as his shoulders. His knuckles are turning white on his mug, so Cass caresses them gently with her fingertips as her other hand takes back her phone, her eyes falling on the screen again.
Let them know I didn't kill myself, Jason said. And it's his humor, his way of saying that he's fine. It usually means 'I wasn't okay, and it was hard, but I'm okay now.'
Except that usually, he'd say it out loud, face to face. So that his eyes and half-smile are visible and the irony is hearable in his warm voice.
But Jason is not here with them, he didn't even called. Jason never sends messages on Cassandra's phone. He normally calls, because he knows that she doesn't like to communicate in writing. She doesn't master letters yet. Plus, it's frustating enough not to be able to see her interlocutor. Writing means she can't even hear the other's voice.
Cass moves a little closer to Tim, so she can feel his body-heat. Family. They're looking at the horizon and the sight is beautiful. Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees Tim's Adam apple dip when he swallows and his lips part when he breathes in before talking.
"What happened, Cass?"
She furrows her brows, tilts her head to the side. She doesn't know. Not a lot more than Tim, at least.
"Last night seemed like a routine patrol," she says, her fingers tapping against the mug. Ta-tap, ta-tap, it's like the sound of a heartbeat. "I met Red Hood on his territory. Long time no see. We patrolled together."
Tim's leaning towards her. Brows furrowed. Not worried-furrowed, but concentrated-furrowed. Tim's lips are a thin line. His way of showing concern is to analyze the problem. He thinks it will help him to find a solution that doesn't really exist. Ta-tap, ta-tap, make her fingers on the mug.
"It was a calm night. A robbery, some muggings. Then there was... that scream?" Tap. Cass breathes in. "A little girl. She didn't stop screaming. We ran toward her." Cass licks her lips. She doesn't need to say it aloud for Tim to understand that they were too late. "She had been missing for days. Red Hood was investigating. She was so tiny... and there was all that blood..." Cass breathes out. Ta-tap, ta-tap.
"The Joker?" Tim does that thing with his voice, when it sounds firm yet fragile at the same time.
"His thugs. It was. A trap, I think. But with him, you can never be sure, right?" She turns fully toward Tim, her eyes into his. He stands her glare, his clenched jaw answering 'No, you can't' better than if he replied with his voice.
"We were outnumbered," Cass goes on. Ta-tap, ta-tap, ta-tap, it takes her several seconds to realize her fingers increased their pace. Tim's eyelid twitches very slightly. He's refraining from looking at her hands. "We heard Joker's laugh. Jason... snapped?" Cass swallows. "It was all wrong. The set of his shoulders, his clench on his guns. His posture and the way he moved."
The confrontation was a blur. Cassandra felt uneasy. "He was yelling." She couldn't even understand what Jason was saying. "A bomb exploded. There was too much noise. And smoke. The Joker was there, very close." Tim's eyes narrow just a little. Cass looks away. "We got separated. I realized I couldn't hear laughing anymore. I was alone with the thugs." Ta-tap. She stops. "And Jason was alone with the Joker."
Tim lets out a long sigh. The silence gulps them down.
"I got rid of the thugs," Cass says a moment later. "When I found Jason, Batman and Robin were there. The Joker was tied up. His face was red and swollen and bloody. But he didn't stop laughing. Not for a second. And Bruce was screaming at Jason's face while he was gripping him by the shoulders, hard. I think he was preventing him from going to the Joker. Jason was screaming, too. It was too loud. It felt saturated."
She remembers Damian standing not far from the Joker. Arms crossed too-tight on his tense body for it to be natural. His lips a thin, grim line. The white lenses of his mask rounder than usual. He started slightly when she approached, and it wasn't normal that he let himself be surprised.
"Then," Cassandra's fingers haven't resumed their tapping on the mug, "Jason's eyes falled on Damian. Or I think they did, because Jason's head was turned toward Damian and he just. Froze. Bruce released his grip on him. It was silent for some seconds. Except for... the laughter, you know? Damian suddenly kicked the Joker in the head to knock him out. Even unconscious, he was smiling."
It felt like she could still hear him laughing. Once again, she doesn't need to say it, because Tim knows.
"Jason began to walk away, his steps heavy. Bruce tried to put a hand on his shoulder, but he snatched it away. And then you know."
Then, Oracle had called Dick, who had called Tim. They went to the Manor. What did the Joker say to Jason? How long were they alone until Batman and Robin arrived? Nobody knows.
Dick and Bruce fought. Dick tried to call, but never got a response, so he sent a message on Jason's phone. Because Alfred said that Jason should come asking for their help by himself. That he wouldn't accept it if he feels like he's forced. That they should just let him know that they're there for him when he's ready.
We're all at the Manor if you need us, Dick sent. We're waiting for you.
And maybe Alfred is right, because talking to Jason about that has never lead anywhere.
Cass looks into Tim's eyes again. "I should have followed him," she adds, voice barely above a whisper.
"Hey," Tim awkardly puts his hand on her shoulder. Comfort isn't his thing. But it's okay. Tim tries and Tim cares, and it's comforting enough. "Don't blame yourself, okay? Jason didn't want to be followed."
"No," Cassandra says. "He didn't." She looks down. It's like Alfred said, and maybe Alfred is right. "But he needed to." Maybe Alfred is wrong too.
The mug has grown cold in her hands. She hasn't taken a single sip. Neither has Tim. She feels his hand tense on her shoulder.
Maybe they're all wrong, because there's no right choice. There's no solution. A part of Jason has been broken and ripped away from him all that time ago. And it has been shoved into his face last night, but it is torn and distorted and lost. It's too late, Cass remembers Jason screaming at Bruce, and it made Bruce flinch so hard.
It's too late, there's no turning back, there's no changing what happened or repairing what has been broken. They can't fix Jason.
Ta-tap.
They can't fix him, and Jason knows it. He won't let them try. He has to live with it now. He'll have to fight this torn part of him every time it's shoved at him.
But as much as Jason wants to be able to deal with that on his own, he can't.
Letting him alone that night had been a mistake, Cass realized when she read his message. It's impossible to read 'I'm okay now' in it at the moment. She reads 'I'm still a mess, but I don't want you to come and see it.' And everything in Tim tells her that he reads the same thing.
"He doesn't have to be a mess alone," she suddenly says. Tim raises an eyebrow, surprised by her sudden declaration. "We're all messed-up anyway," she adds.
Tim smiles a little, but his eyes don't follow. "I guess he thinks he's a bigger mess than the rest of us," he says quietly.
"Yes, he does. And he doesn't want us to try to... do something about it. But if we don't, it's like giving up on him." Cass rubs at her eyes. She feels tired. "But we can be messed-up together, even if we can't fix each other."
"I guess it's a good compromise," Tim says. His features keep softening. And it's sad, because his eyes just starts smiling too when Tim stops smiling at all. "I just hope it's achievable," he adds, his shoulders dropping.
Cass feels a little discouraged, because he actually has a point. They all have the best intentions for each other. But it's not enough. They seem, most often than not, completely uncapable to comunicate. They don't always understand each other. Their family is complicated. It would take a miracle to really fix things between them.
"Maybe it's impossible," Cass murmurs. Tim's chin lifts just a little. "It's not Jason who is unfixable. It's us, this family." Tim snorts at that. "But I like our family as it is. It's difficult sometimes, but it's the way we are. Not perfect. Feisty. Messed-up. It's still family." Tim's body is very still now.
"It's all that we have."
It's been two days, and Jay still hasn't returned any of his calls. Or messages.
Nightwing is on Red Hood's turf, crouching on the edge of a builging. Waiting to be spotted. No, it's not exactly true – Jason probably already knows that he's here. Dick is waiting for his little brother to decide to come at him.
He lets his eyes brush off Gotham's light, his ears be lulled by the sound of the cars on her streets and the echoes of her inhabitant's voices. He lets her breath mess with his hair and caress the skin of his face.
Dick wishes the wind could carry away Jason's anger and fears.
He doesn't turn around when he hears footsteps on the roof behind him, bracing himself for the confrontation. One word too many, and Jason'll run away.
"Y'know, when harrassing someone on the phone doesn't work, it's not a reason to begin stalking them."
Dick cracks a small smile. Jason is trying to make their conversation sound casual, as if he didn't know exactly where this is going. His tired voice makes the weak attempt fail miserably.
"But I thought you were ready to take our relationship to the next level?" Dick stands up and turns around at Jason's snort. How worn does his face look under the red helmet?
Jason won't walk closer. He may be joking around, but he's on his guard. There it is. Dick's chance of convincing Jason to come home with him.
But Jay doesn't let him speak. "I was surprised," he mumbles, "that you didn't come and force me to talk about my feelings sooner."
Okay. Not a perfect start. "I won't make you talk," Dick says. He sighs. "Look Jay, everyone thinks you should come to the Ma-"
"And why exactly?" Jason snaps. "So that B can give me an umpteenth void lecture?"
"Well, you did try to kill the Joker agai-" Dick bites his tongue. Making that remark now of all time? Really?
And indeed, Jason takes a step back, turns his back, begins to walk away. He went through that speech countless times. Dick realizes he can't take it just now.
"Wait! I'm sorry, okay?" Jason stops and Dick swallows. He's got one more chance. He won't bust it this time. "I'm just worried about you. We all are."
"Why?" Jason asks again. Not moving an inch. "Saw him the other night. Ticked me off. Got over it. End of the story." He shrugs it off, like it's nothing. "It's happened before, and it'll keep happening as long as the bastard's alive. Deal with it. Or no, don't. I deal with it just fine on my own."
"Do you?" Dick asks quietly. The silence he gets in return is answer enough. "You don't have to be alone on this, little brother." Still no answer. Dick sighs. "I told you. We don't need to talk this out if you don't want to." Though you really should, he's not enough of a fool to add it out loud. "We'll just... eat Alfred's cookies, watch some stupid movie, tease each other and make way too much noise, okay? Together." His tone is so hopeful, he sounds like a ten-year-old. But he hopes he made his point.
Jason lets out a small, bitter laugh. "How long, Dickhead?" He shakes his head a little. "How long do you think it will take for Bruce to confront me about what happened the other night? About my choices in general? We're not meant to just be together without drama. I don't want to deal with his shitty moral lessons right now." He turns his head just a little, so that Dick can see one white lense narrowing at him. "Nor do I want to deal with yours."
Dick gritts his teeth. How is he supposed to answer to that without making Jason run away? "You can't expect us to just forget our values-"
"I don't!" Jason interrupts hotly, turning around to face him fully. "I'm not the one trying to change the others!" He's moving forward, his boots hammering the concrete. "I'm not asking any of you to put your fuckin' values in the trash! I just-" Jason's voice breaks a little.
Dick blinks. There's an uneasy feeling in his stomach. Jason might be taller than him, but he seems so very little right now. It feels like he has Damian in front of him instead, like the words I just want you to accept me are dancing in the air, emanating from his self without having to be said aloud.
Dick swallows hard. Shit. When did they get there? He puts his hands on Jason's shoulders, pretending he's not hurt when Jason tenses.
"We're not trying to change you," he says slowly. Licks his lips. And corrects himself, because if he wants to do this right, he has to be totally honest. "Not like that. We just want to make things better."
"But you can't," Jason hisses, shrugging his hands off. "You can't change what I am today. It's me now." He takes a step back. "You can't fix me, Dick. I'm not able to be okay or to bear your moral code anymore." A small pause. Dick's sure Jason is biting his lip under the helmet. "I have my own burden to bear now."
Something in Dick snaps, because they let Jason alone on a night just after a confrontation with the Joker. They basically let him slam the door shut and lock it after his demons entered. "That's the point!" He snaps. "You don't have to bear it alone. Let us help you moving on-"
"I can't move on! What the fuck do you think I've been trying to make you understand for the past ten minutes?!"
And Dick loses it. "Of course you can't! You've adopted the old identity of the man who killed you, Jason! Do you even realize how insane that is? You just keep digging a deeper hole for yourself since you came back. Before wondering what your actions do to our values, you should consider what you're doing to yourself!"
Has time just stopped? It sure feels like his heart froze in his chest. As did Jason in front of him. And Dick can't stop wondering, when the hell did a come home speech degenerate into that?
"There we are," Jason finally whispers. And it's all wrong. He should be screaming and swearing and insulting. Hitting, even. "Seems like I'm a lost cause."
It's me now. I can't stop. I can't change. I can't be fixed. The broken, unspoken words turn in circle in Dick's head as Jason turns his back to him and walks away for the second time that night.
It's too late.
Dick came home without Jason. Tim doesn't know if he's surprised or not. He just knows that Jason will spend another night alone.
They all knew enough of those lonely nights to have a vague idea of what it feels like. The nightmares that come with them.
"Dick," Tim calls when he sees his brother arriving from the cave, hair still wet from the shower. And then nothing. He wants to say something wise, that would cheer Dick up, but all that comes to his mind are empty phrases like 'it's not your fault' or 'it will be okay', and that's so lame. He sucks at that. How does Alfred do this?
But Dick smiles because he's awesome and so better at that than Tim is, and he understands. So he puts a warm arm around Tim's shoulders and ruffles his head, squeezing him against his side.
"We'll work this out, Timbo. Don't worry." There's something in his voice, a fond and steady tone that is nearly enough to mask the weariness. He makes it sound so easy.
And then Dick's heading toward his room. Tim feels like he's totally useless.
"Uh, Dick?" He tries again.
Dick turns his head, "Yeah?"
"You should... go to Alfred?" Dick's fond snort tells him it's not a total fail.
"Yeah, maybe I should. Thanks, Timmy." Tim doesn't really know why Dick is thanking him. But he'll take it anyway.
They go to their rooms. Or they intend to. Tim stops in front of his open door.
"You know," he says slowly, "You could use the front door from time to time."
"Shut up," Jason offers good-naturedly as he's leaving Tim's room, the open window visible behind him. There's a short silence, and then Jason mumbles, "I hope Alfred made some cookies?..."
Tim's practically sure he can hear Dick's smile.
"Of course he did."
For a pleasently long moment, they just have a nice time hanging in the kitchen. Cass ran downstairs as soon as she recognized Jason's voice. Damian followed not much later, pretending that he was just thirsty – Tim didn't even roll his eyes. He's making progress.
Alfred came too, back straight and steps steady, and seemingly totally unfazed. He insisted on making more cookies. At the end of the day, he was right as always. It's Jason who decided when he wanted to come. More or less.
The kitchen is filled with baking scent and the noise of their bickering. And Tim remembers Cassandra's words on the roof, and he doesn't miss her bright smile in his direction.
It sure feels nice. They can almost pretend everything is normal – or, say, as normal as things can be with them. They can almost pretend Jason didn't have a break-out in the middle of the town just a few nights ago. They can pretend everything's okay.
They pretend Jason's voice doesn't quiver for a second when Bruce enters the room, and that nobody tenses when he's approaching.
But Bruce just lays a hand on Jason's shoulder, and lets it there as he's casually taking part in the conversation.
Tim feels dumb for feeling grateful.
They persuade themselves this simple gesture is enough to fix everything. That they've worked it out. They're lying to themselves, but for now? None of them cares.
It's as Cass said, right? They can't just arrange everything. They can enjoy those moments, because that's what keeps them together.
Tim takes another cookie, and pretends.
It's late, even for them. The Manor is silent, but Bruce knows better than to assume it means they're all sleeping.
Everyone's in his room when Bruce wanders in the hallway. Everyone except Jason, who's just standing in front of his door, motionless, like he's debating if he should enter or not. He lifts his head when he hears Bruce. Who clears his throat.
"It was. Nice to see you, tonight." Jason snorts in response. Bruce considers it's a good thing. "Listen, Jason, I know how. Complicated all this is, but-"
"Wow. Don't, old man. You'll sprain a nerve." Jason rolls his eyes, and Bruce is practically sure he should be offended. The younger man sighs heavily. "Look, I know that you love me, okay?" There's something off, but Bruce decides he's misinterpreted.
And he feels a little dumb, because he was about to make a big speech, where he'd calmly explain himself and most certainly find a way to bring up something which would anger Jason and ruin everything. But really. Jason just exposed the synthese, the conclusion, and Bruce realizes it's all he wanted to say. All that needed to be said.
His kids always make it seem so simple.
"I'm going for a walk in the garden," Jason says suddenly. "I don't plan on running away," he adds, "I just need some air."
"Of course. Goodnight, Jason."
"Yeah. G'night."
He keeps his eyes on Jason's back as he's slowy descending the stairs. He hears the front door open and close.
"World's greatest detective, uh?" calls Dick's voice behind him, and the reproachful tone is heavy in it. So there really was something off then.
Bruce turns toward his eldest as he's approaching, but doesn't say a word, letting him speak instead. Dick's jaw is set, and something in his eyes make them fail to glare.
"Is that all?" he says. "A hand on his shoulder and an 'I love you' speech?" Dick turns his head under Bruce's questioning glare. "You two have a problem. We have a problem, and tonight's certainly not enough to solve it."
And Bruce narrows his eyes, because where Dick is coming from? He can't help but wondering what he and Jason said to each other a few hours ago, when Nightwing decided to go out. Something changed in Dick, between the moment he left the Manor and the moment he returned.
"Tonight sure seemed like a good start," Bruce says slowly, frowning. Apparently it's not a good answer, because Dick makes that face when Bruce doesn't understand where he's going.
He hates that face.
"Or so you think," Dick says, gritting his teeth. "Jason basically tells you he's okay when he's clearly not and you just. Believe him?"
"To the point, Dick."
"He thinks that you love Robin-Jason," he blurts suddenly. "That you love the old him, the one that he was... before."
Bruce feels his eyes widen. It's me now, Jason yelled that night when he saw the Joker. He didn't understand on the moment. Barely paid attention to it then. But now that it just appeared from nowhere, it seems like he won't be able to get it out of his head.
Dick looks up, his eyes stabbing into Bruce's as if they were knives. "He thinks that you don't love the Jason he is now, or at least, that you love him less."
For a second, Bruce's mind goes blank. Is it really what Jason believes? Is one of his sons persuaded he doesn't love him anymore? "He's wrong," he states. It feels like his voice isn't firm enough.
"Is he?" Dick's hiss sounds like the crack of a whip.
"Of course he is!" Batman growls. "It's his choices I have a problem with. Not him!" Not really. Not like that.
"Well," Dick says after a moment. "You better start to teach him the difference then. You haven't done a great job of it so far."
Dick leaves him alone in the dark hallway. His last sentences echoing in his mind.
And not for the first time, Bruce wonders.
How much of a failure he is to his family.
"Didn't hear the front door," Jason says when he hears footsteps behind him. The air is pleasently cold against his face.
"Didn't really want to alert the others, so I used my window," Tim's voice answers as he reaches his side, arm crossed. "You always get in by my window. It's true it's one of the most accessible from the garden."
Jason snorts, lost somewhere between desesparation and fondness, because shit, Baby-bird. "The most accessible entrance from the garden is the front door, or one of the windows of the first floor," he says. "I enter through your window because I like passing by your nerdy, freak's room before having to face all the other freaks in this family."
And Tim just starts. Really, it shouldn't be that easy. Jason feels a smile stretch his face.
"...You just like to mess with my stuff and move things so that they're not in their place, right?"
"There's a little bit of that too. But hey kid, that ain't my fault if you're the funniest to troll."
"How long since your last cigarette?" Tim asks conversationaly after a confortable silence. Jason raises an eyebrow at him. "You. You usually smell slightly like smoke."
"I don't smoke in periods like... this. My mom taught me better." The snappy remark leaves a bitter taste on Jason's tongue. Suddenly he doesn't want to smile anymore. And then he realizes how tense Baby-bird went beside him. And for some reason, he feels like a total asshole. Must be Tim's superpower, given how often it happens around him. Jerk.
"You were hoping I had quit for good, huh?" Jason asks quietly. "You really should stop caring. It makes you stupid." He ruffles the kid's head until it goes all spikey and Tim's beginning to protest.
Then Jason puts an arm around Tim's frail shoulders.
He knows Tim is able to read between the lines. I'm sorry, Jason just said. I'm not angry at you. Thanks for caring.
Jason wonders when the kid learnt to understand him. Must be after the time he stopped calling him Pretender, and just before Tim quit protesting when called Baby-bird.
"I can't," Tim finally says, after a silence so long Jason needs a moment to get what he's talking about. "I mean. We can't, you know. Stop caring. Stop trying." They're not talking about cigarettes anymore.
Jason snorts. "It's a dead end though." He doesn't feel as bitter as he'd thought.
"Yeah," Tim breathes. "but we're stubborn. I guess we're a lost cause. All of us."
And Jason just starts and pushes Tim away to face him, because-
"That dick told you about-" Tim's frown and startled look stops him there. "Forget it."
"... Jason?" Baby-bird tries again after a second.
But Jason doesn't answer, because he feels so good suddenly and he doesn't know why. All of us.
He fears the feeling to just go away if he tries to understand, so he grabs Tim by the arm and drags him toward the front door instead.
"Time to go to bed, squirt. It's late for kids."
He ignores Tim as he struggles and protests slightly for good measure.
When they enter, Cass is sitting on the stairs. She looks up and smiles.
"Bruce said he'd like to talk to you tomorrow," she says. And shit. He knew Bruce wouldn't wait long before giving him his moral Talk, but hell. He'd like to have just one entire night before-
"I don't think it's about... unpleasant stuff," she quickly adds when she sees his face, her eyes round. Oh. So Bruce isn't that much of an asshole after all. Figured.
"Thought we've got this covered," Jason mumbles, not really at ease.
"Father did too," they hear a high-pitched voice coming from upstairs. "Seems like Grayson considered appropriate to make him change his mind."
"Thirsty again, brat?" Jason teases, looking up to meet Damian's narrowed eyes, and he can hear Tim snorting next to him.
"No, Todd. I'm informing all of you that I plan on sleeping now. You will not make any unnecessary and disturbing noise under any pretext."
"Yeah, yeah. Goodnight to you too, kid."
He can swear Damian's about to snap something in response, but Cass doesn't let him the time. "I still put a glass of water on your bedside table," she says.
A short silence. Then, "I'll... take note of your gesture."
"You're welcome," she beams.
Baby-Satan lets out a quiet -tt- as he heads toward his room. They soon follow his example.
Jason is fucked-up beyond repair. He is right now, and he'll probably be for the rest of his life. But for some reason, the thought doesn't devastate him like it should. Like it did until then.
Jason is lying on his bed, hands under his head. His room is between Dick's and Tim's, in front of Damian's and Cassandra's; Alfred's and Bruce's being at the end of the hallway.
Jason is fucked-up, but the thought doesn't burn him like it did that night.
The window is opened, because he's got a cigarette between his lips. He'll have to deal with Alfred later, he knows, but the smoke tastes like habit and normalcy on his tongue. His eyes are closed, because it doesn't make his fears dance under his lids in dark images anymore. He's able to enjoy the silence, a real silence, which isn't rythmed by sickening laughters or hollow sounds of explosions. He can smoke then.
Jason can't, won't get fixed. But right now, at this very moment, it doesn't matter.
He sure feels a little bit less broken now.
Thanks for reading!
I had so much to say in this fic. It literally obsessed me until I finished it. Finding a way to say it properly, without it to become repetitive and boring was so hard. I hope it's not a complete fail.
Please let me know what you thought of it and what needs to be modified or improved :)