I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, Our Lord, Who was conceived by the Holy Spirit... Who... Fuck. He doesn't remember. And he swears again. What comes after "Holy Spirit"? Jason has always been great at memorization. But now, he can't remember what comes after "Holy Spirit". He rubs his eyes, it burns. He's sore from kneeling before the altar, so he sits. He starts over.
"I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, Our Lord, Who was conceived by the Holy Spirit... born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified... died, and was buried... Fuck..."
It's not in his head, but from his mouth that the profanity comes from, reverberating on the walls of the little chapel, the one in the rectory kept for private ceremonies or the priest's use. And now, the priest needed another place to hide. He can't sleep. And he can't even finish one prayer. His head is full of holes, full of blanks.
He gives up, rises and searches for a Book of Common Prayer. He sits again, on a bench this time and continues.
"He descended into Hell. The third day He arose again from the dead..."
He hates that one, all of those like it and that's quite a bunch.
"He ascended into Heaven, sitteth at the right hand of God, the..."
A noise. Jason turns around. But no one is there. He thought he heard his name, thought he was done for. He needs to concentrate on the prayer, on the words. Dick is not there. It's just his headache. It's just the building creaking.
"...sitteth at the right hand of God, the Father Almighty; from thence He shall come to judge the living and the dead... from thence He shall..."
Crap, he's been reading the same sentence over and over. Is he some stupid goldfish or what?
"I believe in the Holy Spirit..."
God, that lucky John bastard... Focus. Focus.
"...the holy Catholic Church, the..."
Screw John. Screw that damn grid.
"... communion of saints..."
All he had to do was to leave that booth. It was so simple.
"... the forgiveness of sins..."
He would have heard these moans, he would have made him scream. Fucking grid, fucking priest shit, fucking Dick Grayson. Oh Dear God. Focus. Focus.
"...the resurrection of the body, and the life..."
The scent of his hair, the touch of his skin radiating with heat. He knows how that would have felt. His hands clench on the book, folding the pages.
"... the life everlasting."
He can't focus. He remember every word from yesterday. He can't exorcise it. He can't bleach it from his brain.
"Amen."
A-fucking-men. Jason throws the book away. That's it. He lost it. He's mad. He's good at memorization. Dick wasn't like that. He remembers how he made a mess of his desk, how he harassed him, how he got his "revenge". Dick wasn't like that. He changed. Dick would never have done that. Because Dick, oh so fucking flawless Dick, so damn lovable Dick, was all about people. And people were all about him. Always showing off. People always asking for more, wanting their own piece of him. Always showing off, always the damn hero of the situation. And that's exactly why Dick Grayson can't possibly be here in his church. Not since the last six months.
Six months already. Back at that time he was dealing with a small part of the Russian mafia in Blüdhaven. He was giving them information about good ways to import drugs and arms from their general headquarters back home and they were letting him take a look in their files. Jason needed to find out if Scarecrow had mess with hallucinating powder again and if he was going to scare the hell out of the whole Gotham with contaminated drinkable water. He did find out and stopped him. Then, things got ugly. The boss heard about how Red Hood took down one of his biggest client here and he wanted him dead. When he came back to go on with their deal, a small party was waiting for him. Actually a hundred men or so. Nothing new there. He hastily got rid of the dangerous ones and destroyed most of their shipments. Then, fucking Boy Scout Nightwing showed up. He joked about Jason being in his town and not even stopping by to say hello. He told him to shut up and he joined the fight. All was doing swell until a henchman pulled out his gun. He didn't care in the moment: He always wore a bulletproof suit and the hood protected him from headshots. Dick was going to take care the scumbag, accomplishing a perfect gymnastic routine to get closer to his opponent. If he knew what was going to happen, he would have pulled his own gun, thrown a knife or at least looked away.
The guy dodged the first kick and Nightwing slipped in a puddle of blood or something and he took one or two seconds more than usual to get his stance back. It was all the mobster needed to settle his gun between his brother's shoulder blades and shoot. Everything happened at the same time. Dick lost his smile all of sudden, his knees gave way and he felt unceremoniously on the ground. It was the last event that made him understand. Even when he fainted, Dick was fucking poetry in motion. And there he wasn't gracious for the first time of his life. Jason vaguely remembers how he killed everybody except the fucking asshole. He finished with him. He tore his eyes open with his knife, he punched him until his face was a bloody mashed mess and then he put his hood on his head. He stepped back and activated the auto destruction mode. He watched the bastard's head blow into little pieces before actually having the guts to go fetch Nightwing.
It was a common night, common enemies and somehow he managed to die. He kneeled beside him and it was only then that Jason took the full blast of the news. He was dead. He peeled his mask off, just to be sure. He was staring into the nothingness and blood was seeping from his mouth and sticking hair to his face. There was a small sticky hole in his back and a warm pool of red around him. He grabbed him and felt that his supple body was slowly hardening to become a cadaver. He was gone. He was gone and Jason did nothing to save him.
Damian was the first to find them. It only took a glance for him to understand. Robin then tried to beat Jason to death for not having protecting Dick and his stupid costumed butt, pretending not to cry and yet the despair in his voice telling otherwise. It's the damn suit that killed him. It was probably less bulletproof than his, and even his wouldn't have taken the entire blow. Yes, it did wonders to show off his ass as he fancied, but the exhibitionist in him finally was his loss. Then Bruce happened. He was silent as usual. He pulled off his cowl. Nothing mattered. Suddenly, his whole life, his revenge, the Batman was nothing. Dick was dead.
And that's exactly why he can't possibly be here.
