Author's Note: Thank you guys for letting me know you're alive out there, lol! Big thanks to InspireInspireInspire. I couldn't respond to your review in a PM, but thank you for your comments, and I'm sorry to hear about your cousin.

Chapter 6

I make the 6 o'clock news on four different channels. There's even tweets from TMZ about me pounding that guy's face into the sidewalk; I got some "likes". Unfortunately, none of those "likes" come from Alfred.

I got back home around 6:30, just in time to meet a furious Alfred (furious meaning one of his eyebrows was raised and his mustache twitched a bit when he talked), who immediately called Bruce to let him know I was home. Alfie tried to talk to me after that, trying to figure out why I went ape-shit. What was I supposed to tell him: I dunno, Alfie, I just wanted to hit something and the guy got in the way of my fists? And hey, I still wanna kick the shit out of something, so move.

To tell the truth, I don't remember what I said to him. I just know he left me alone. I been in the gym ever since, beating the shit out of a punching bag. I don't even bother with gloves; hell, I don't even bother to get outta my school clothes. I did lose the jacket after an hour though.

I don't hear the gym door open, but I see Bruce in my peripheral vision just standing there with his arms folded over his chest. I give the bag one last jab and spin to face him. I know I look a hot mess. Every inch of my body is dripping sweat, and my long-sleeve shirt clings to me like second skin. I use both hands to peel matted hair off my forehead so I can see Bruce better.

I need to know what kinda mood he's in. I have to know what to say to him; how to explain. I owe him something for showing the press how fucking crazy I am. Bruce doesn't look pissed or scared or confused… he just looks like he did at the hospital earlier, tired and completely owned, like he lost it all. The look in his eyes is the same as when he's in Dick's hospital room watching him sleep, like he's watching the world—a world he can't save just because he wants to.

He sees the world in Dick. A lot of older people do… but why is he looking at me like that, now? You don't see the world in guys like me; you see… I shut my eyes, envisioning the crowd on the sidewalk and the pervert on the ground all moving away from me.

Bruce unfolds his arms and clears his throat. In a soft voice, he asks, "Do you want to shower first?"

A shower before "the talk" where you tell me how bad I screwed things up for you? How cell phone videos of me kicking ass on YouTube are gonna make people think you don't know what you're doing with Dick and me?

I don't want a shower. I don't want to wait. Like I wanted to know days ago, before Dick got so sick: Where do I stand with Bruce? "Where are we, Bruce? Am I…" God, how do I ask this? "What are you gonna do with me?"

Bruce's blue gaze doesn't break away from me and it doesn't change; he's still looking at a world he can't save. "I don't know, Jason. But… I'm not doing right by you, am I?"

I blink. Bruce not doing right by me? I almost snort. How much more right does he think he has to be? Feed me, clothe me, make me your kid, gimme a brother; make me a hero… "'Course you're doing right, Bruce!"

I just can't get it right. I make a fist and hiss; my hands are throbbing and sore from hitting the bag so hard for so long. I look down at my bruised knuckles and keep my head bowed. Sweat dribbles down my chin. "There's just something wrong with me. Maybe it's…" like Dick inheriting a kidney disease "…inherited. Everyone in my family is a fuck up. My dad, my mom, my aunt… my uncles are both in prison."

"There's nothing wrong with you, Jason," Bruce says, voice still soft; he's so tired he can't bring himself to yell. "Not like you're probably thinking. You're just angry, scared and confused. Leslie and I talked. We've come to an understanding about Dick's care. She's not going to have to do what she told you she would."

Bruce reaches out and clamps a hand on my damp shoulder. He's stiff and awkward, like touching me is weird. It kinda is. I mean, he gives me pats and one-armed man hugs and things on occasion, but Bruce just isn't huggy—and that's okay.

"I'd never let it go that far," Bruce says. "No one is going to ever take you or Dick away from here. I'm sorry I made you think that I might let something like that happen. I know I don't act like it in front of you… and Alfred's scolded me… but you're very important to me. You two, you're my source of pride. When I look back at all of the things I ruined, bridges I've burned, and then I see you two wrestling each other or saving people, I feel hope."

You see the world, one you want—but with me in it, too?

"You sure you ain't mixing me up with Dickie-bird? Sometimes, he shines so bright he makes other people look better," I say.

Bruce squeezes my shoulder. "I'm not mixing you two up. I'm proud of what you're becoming Jason."

"I'm a guy who beats random strangers in the street senseless and who…" my voice breaks, "kills because he's too stupid not to whack people in the head with baseball bats as hard as he can."

Bruce's face is lined in places it shouldn't be for a guy his age. "You need better outlets. You need to work on your anger issues and moving past your initial reactions. You need to think."

"Bruce, I…" He's making excuses for me, just like he cleaned up my murder scene. What do I say? Bruce, stop giving me chances? Hell, I need every chance I can get and I may not deserve 'em from Bruce, but who else'll give 'em to me? I got nothing to say, except, "So, what now?"

Bruce sighs. "Leslie suggested that you talk to someone."

I stare at Bruce. "A shrink?" Well, yeah, I'm crazy, right? "Okay." I nod. Who knows, I could like the guy or chick. What can it hurt? It's not like I'm paying for it or like Bruce will miss the money. And if it works, and/or makes Bruce feel better then it's all good.

Bruce eyes me. "You want to see a psychiatrist?"

I shrug. "If you think it'll help me, then fine. Whatever. I made you look like sh—er—I made you look bad today; I bet that guy's gonna sue."

"He tried; one of my lawyers dealt with it," Bruce says.

Damn, that was quick. "And you're not yelling at me. I killed a guy, and then I do this, and you're totally Zen."

"I'm not Zen, Jason." He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't even know how to have this conversation. I'm not… the person for this, but I'm messing things up with you."

"You're not! I'm messing things up!"

"You're a child; you're supposed to mess up. I'm not a child," Bruce says. "And I don't know what to do. So, you'll talk to someone, but I don't think that's enough. It wasn't enough for me. Batman made it enough. I don't know if Falcon is making it enough for you, or making it worse."

I cringe and my guts wrap around my spine and pull. After all I've done, do I really deserve to be Falcon? Those bitch nurses could be right about me not belonging with Bruce and Dick. Bruce and Dick don't kill or beat up random jerk-off's on the street. Dick doesn't get in fights at school or have teachers call home to talk about how bad he is.

If Bruce tells me Falcon's dead, then… then…

I'll want to understand.

I'll want to cry.

I'll want to die.

Because Falcon makes me feel good about myself. Falcon is my chance to show I can do good stuff and that I'm not gonna end up like my parents… to tell Bruce: thank you.

"Show me that Falcon's not making it worse," Bruce says. "The Team mission tomorrow is very important to your brother. I trust you'll perform to the best of your abilities."

I feel the wind being knocked out of me by Bruce's words. "What?"

He simply stares at me, his face serious.

"You're… still sending me out with the Team?" I ask. My voice is high with disbelief. After all that he's shipping me off on an infiltration mission? "Are you… are you sure?"

Bruce gives me a small smile. It touches his eyes and I see the world reflected there again.

God, please make me worthy of that look; make me like Dickie-bird.

"Do you think you can handle it?" Bruce asks me.

I nod, my eyes are stinging and I wipe at them with sweaty palms. It doesn't stop the tears that escape. Geez. "I'm sorry, Bruce."

And I really mean it this time.

Bruce pulls me into a one-armed man hug. He doesn't say anything, but I know Bruce—and Batman—know I'm not lying. I'm sorry for making him worry; sorry for embarrassing him; sorry for letting him down.

But I won't do it again. This mission is gonna go without hitch, if I gotta pull it off myself. Bruce lets me go, and I pull my long sleeved shirt over my head so that I'm just in my soggy undershirt. "I'm gonna take a shower, then I'm going to read up on the mission. What time should I meet the Team tomorrow?

"Nine hundred hours; I'll bring you in," Bruce says. He pats my shoulder. "You okay?"

I nod, and he looks slightly relieved. In that gentle tone he uses with Dick when his painkillers are wearing off and it's too soon for another round, Bruce says, "By the way, you're grounded for six months."

Well… fuck.

Author's Note: So, what's the verdict? Like it? Hate it? Don't care either way? Well, any way you like it, let me know. Please review!