Author's Note: Probably one more chapter after this. Bruce and Jason reconnect on one final patrol through Gotham's streets. Upon returning to the house, Jason finds Damian camping in his room with violent movies and ice-cream. Half-assed and sometimes mean bonding ensues. Enjoy.
Forge 12
Jason
Wayne Manor is my home. Bruce is my dad. These are the things I'd love to be able to tell myself. Just hearing them in my head makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. But they're not true. They're awful close to being true, but they aren't. Wayne Manor's nice and Bruce is mellow, but they don't fit me as a home and a parent. This isn't anything new. I've had the same viewpoint since I first came into Bruce's life and it hasn't changed. It probably never will. But labels aren't important to me. I don't need a place to call home or a man to call my dad. I need things that could fit those labels, but not so much that there's no room for manoeuvre. That I can come and go at the house and talk to the big guy if I feel like I need to is enough for me to hit the road on. I'm satisfied I've got something and someone I can depend on. Because now I don't feel alone or isolated. I don't feel resentment at Dick or Tim or even the Ninja Brat at having things and relationships I lack. I realised I only lack them because I don't need them to live. I can do just fine without a Thanksgiving dinner or someone to throw me a birthday party. I've always coped just fine. I always will. I've realised that being me isn't a bad thing. What I've done may be, but deep down, I'm a good person. If Bruce believes I am then I guess I believe it too.
This evening's patrol rolls out like a procession on a red carpet. Me and the big man go somewhere, we find someone, we squeeze said person, we find more people, we kick ass, we move on. We ease through three whole districts of the city like that. It seems so easy that after a while I start to think he's set all this up as a kind of low-key going-away party. Then we hit a roadblock. Alright, let's not sugar-coat it in highway-related metaphors: it's not a roadblock, it's a large, armed contingent of dope-peddling scumbags malleting the hell out of each other with semi-automatic weapons. We have stumbled across an inter-turf drug war between rival gangs that is threatening to spill out into the surrounding housing blocks and spark both a massacre and a riot in less than a day if we don't do something. I am so all over wading into this shit-storm. It's the best tune-up I could ask for before my European tour. So I jump straight in with my own bullets to ease the tension.
Rubber bullets may not be lethal, but they hurt a lot more because they can't kill you. A bullet to the temple usually results in blissful ignorance of what damage is being done to your head; a rubber bullet to the groin results in feeling like you've been fouled with a low-blow from a cannonball. In short, it hurts a lot more for a lot longer, but at least you get to see how big they swell the morning-after. It's always better to live horribly than die peacefully. So, I get the big guy's reasoning that I don't have to use live projectiles to get a rush of adrenaline. Still, even as I pop a couple of rounds into every target below someone's waistline, and quietly chuckle to myself as they pull faces not unlike a gurning Jim Carrey, I don't feel the same excitement or urgency as when I use real metal jackets. For me, if you're not planning to kill anyone, there's no point bringing a gun at all. At the moment, my modified Glocks feel like a gimmick rather than a part of my being.
However, after less than ten minutes of accurate fire and Bruce's range of nerve strikes and variations burying his boot heels in unsuspecting faces, the war has been reduced to a skirmish, and a non-starter at that.
"I'm out of bullets." I tell the big man as I check my magazine clips.
"That seems very uncharacteristic of you." Bruce muses, "How many did you bring?"
"Like twelve clips of fifteen. I swear I only put two rounds in each of the twenty I dropped. That means forty gone which means, I should have nine full clips left or one-hundred-and-thirty-five bullets." I say before turning to look at him. "Why'd you lift my clips like that?" I could feel him take one every time he folded back to my position to launch a new assault on a different target. I don't need to be a math whiz to know if he drew back behind the firing line nine times, he stole nine clips off my belt.
"I thought it might be nice if we did this the old-fashioned way, because I'm a sentimental old fool." Bruce explains without hesitation or humour. I'm surprised.
"Al? Al suggested you do this? I thought it didn't matter how I took them down, so long as I did the right thing." I check, astonished the old man would be able to coax the stone-hearted rich boy into making such a wet statement.
"I did say that. And I meant it. But I just felt, since we do not like intimate gestures of affection, there had to be another way to show how much I will miss your company. Alfred suggested, since I still fondly recall some of our earlier patrols and the dynamic we shared…"
"I am NOT making quips like I used to. Okay? Not happening, nor am I going to squeeze into pixie shorts again. Those days are over." I tell him straight. Even though he's under the cowl and operating in full bad-ass mode, Bruce smiles at that.
"That is not what I meant. I hated those elements of our patrols as much as you do now. I was always a fan of our team manoeuvres. We did them with greater fluidity and flair than I have enjoyed with either Dick or Tim during their tenures in the role. I thought it might be nice to 'tag-team' our remaining workload tonight, like we used to." He says to bring images of a thirteen-year-old boy giggling as a grim-faced guy in a bat costume flung him into the backs of two heavy-set thugs crashing into my mind. Shit, that was actually me at one point. I roll my eyes and sigh.
"Jeez, you really are a sensitive old woman, aren't you? Fine, if it'll make you happy, I can probably still do a few of the old shuffles and shakes with you." I say only for him to jab a finger in my face.
"No guns."
"I may have been kicked in the head more times than any of your other kids put together, but I remember there were no guns in the dim and distant past. Let's go before you get any other 'fun' ideas." I respond slapping his finger away and walking past him in the direction of our next stop: the Bowery. He's lucky I actually like the sound of that idea or I'd have flipped him the bird like the old pro I am and left town already. Turns out I'm a sentimental old hag too.
We run through about seventy variations on the theme of causing lasting pain but no long-term damage over the next three hours. I get flung into people head-first, feet-first, fist-first and, on at least two occasions, ass-first. Believe me, when you're crashing into someone's face at fifteen-miles-an-hour, any part of your body can prove to be an effective weapon, even a pair of rock-solid butt cheeks like mine. We do synchronous flips forward and back to springboard into pairs of enemies that are blocking both the front and rear escape routes, assisted dropkicks to the stomach, simultaneous arm and leg locks on different targets before making them head-butt each other and some other crazy stunts I can't believe I ever forgot.
Throughout it all, I remember how well we used to work as a team when tempers weren't at boiling point. When I was thirteen going on fourteen, partnering up with Bruce on a move that could only be effective with perfect team cohesion and pulling it off, gave me a rush of adrenaline bigger than anything I have ever felt before or since. And I admit, for nine months, I was so addicted to getting that high that I would launch into a team manoeuvre even if Bruce had other plans. I felt so connected to him when we linked hands or touched during an aerial assault, more so than I ever did with my folks or Sasha, despite her doing nothing wrong. Those moments of choreographed art amidst alleyway brawls and dirty street fights were truly the happiest of my entire adolescence under his roof. When we finish the patrol with a deft aerial somersault that requires us to clasp hands for added momentum before slamming into each other's targets, I remember how good a rush without bullets can be. I even voice my opinion, although I make sure I don't give away how much fun I had.
"Will you just marry me?" I say, only half-joking. The big man smiles before shaking his head.
"And here I thought you were humouring me. I take it you enjoyed the heavy dose of nostalgia we created tonight?"
"Maybe a little, but you definitely enjoyed it more." I say with a smile safely hidden beneath my helmet. He inclines his head, but the smile stays put.
"I can admit to that being the case. Shall we go back to the cave?"
"If you also admit I do the whole tag-team thing better than Dami, then we've got a deal, otherwise I'm heading for the strip joint downtown." He looks uncomfortable with the ultimatum and I understand. The Ninja Brat takes everything personally and even things mentioned far beyond his earshot somehow manage to grab his attention. But I want him to say it anyway, just because.
"Yes, you do. Please do not tell him I said that. It would…sour him, beyond belief." He says with careful consideration given to his way of sanitising the more appropriate phrase of 'make him bat-shit crazy and likely to rip someone's head clean off.' I'm satisfied.
"Deal. Let's ride."
When we get back, the big man resigns himself to the cave for the foreseeable future to work on some problem or other. I bid him goodnight and begin to ascend the stairs before stopping. I clock my memorial statue and its plaque claiming me a 'good soldier'. Normally it gives me shivers. This time I think its gaudy as hell.
"Hey, Bruce?" I call down. He turns his command chair towards me.
"Yes?"
"I think it's time to take that stupid thing down. I don't need an epitaph just yet." I tell him whilst gesturing to the case. He smiles before nodding his head.
"I will see to it in the morning."
"Thanks."
"Goodnight, Jason."
"Night, big man."
I get into my room ten minutes later and find a guest lounging on my bed, watching my DVD collection and eating mint choc chip ice-cream. Damian's staked an early claim to my room, a bold move since I have yet to yell my intentions to split from the rooftops. When I wander in, still clad in half my survival suit and tool belt, I'm half-tempted to drop him right now with the few rubber bullets I have left in my clip. Then he locks eyes with me. The hatred is still there, as is the resentment of old wounds and wounded pride, but the kid's eyes aren't baying for my blood quite so obviously anymore. He points to something on my nightstand. I follow his finger's direction until I see another bowl of ice cream that's so freshly scooped it hasn't even begun to melt yet. He's literally just set-up camp here…to hang out with me. Violent movies and ice-cream, the common ground between League of Assassins' royalty and gun-toting thugs. I roll my eyes at the offer, feeling the slightest of vibrations on what I assume might be my heartstrings.
I lug off my belt and stretch out on the bed beside him. I grab my bowl and then look at him again, this time with suspicion at his kindness. He narrows his eyes at me.
"It's not poisoned…this time."
"Is that supposed to mean there'll be a next time, Psycho?" I ask with a smirk, testing it and finding no trace of bitter almonds or flat-out rat poison amongst the sugary goodness. He sneers at me.
"Just give me a reason to end you, Todd. I'm waiting for it."
I respond by reaching over and ruffing his hair. "Aren't you just the sweetest little monster I've ever known? Daddy's little sociopath actually has feelings after all." He jerks his head away and I wait for retribution. He glares at me before scaling it back to a scowl. He does nothing to regain his lost dignity. I nod my head, impressed at his new level of restraint. "You're not a complete tight-ass after all, Dami. It'll take you far in this world, believe me."
"Is that your idea of a compliment?" He asks derisively. I fluff up the pillows behind my head and rest the bowl on my stomach, ignoring him and settling in to watch one of the better sequels to Friday the 13th. A moment later, the devil spawn copies me. We exchange glances and then begin to watch and eat in total silence. About forty minutes, during a particularly gory murder scene that still stands up today as stomach churning, the kid speaks.
"Thank you for mending your relationship with my father. It means a great deal to him." Damian says without looking at me. I steal a glance at him before returning to the screen.
"The old man's not all bad, I suppose. He just…"
"Forgets we exist?" The brat says to finish my sentence for me. I nod.
"Yeah, pretty much. You mean as human beings, right?"
"Not, I mean altogether."
"I heard you spent time with him just this afternoon."
"Watching some black-and-white plebeian drama with actors who died before the last ice age is not time well spent."
"But watching Jason slice screaming idiots apart with his chainsaw is?" I say as my point is visually acted out onscreen. Damian shrugs.
"I like him. He reminds me of you and your particular brand of subtlety on the battlefield. Do I need to explain my joke or have you mastered humour?" He inquires bluntly. I laugh.
"I get it, but I'll never quite be as funny as you, my darling brother." This new moniker prompts him to finally look at me again. He looks surprised.
"Do you consider me family?"
"What, no comparison to me being related to chimps rather than human beings today?" I check. He blanks my attempts to sidestep the question. I sigh. Kids, no time for real comedic processes anymore. "I'm not entirely un-fond of you, my little lunatic. Satisfied?" He considers what I've said before nodding in agreement and musing on the subject again. It's fascinating to watch a wind-up toy slowly whirr into life. Eventually he manages to say something back.
"If you truly feel that way, I must confess to having grown to tolerate you as well."
"Great." I say with only a fraction of my typical sarcasm for such a Bruce-styled attempt at praise. He frowns in indignation.
"You should feel honoured. I have never bestowed such an accolade on an enemy who shot me point-blank in the chest."
"Yeah, sure thing, Devil Spawn. Want another one put on?"
"Yes."
As we begin to watch House of Wax, I feel the kid shift his weight closer towards me. I shift away. He shifts closer again. I shift away again. When he does it a third time and I'm hanging off the side of the bed, I have to confront him. "What do you want?"
"Do you really like me?" He asks, his eyes impossibly big and confused about the situation. He's ten. Remember for God's sake he's only ten. I nod my head to appease him.
"Yes."
"More than Drake?" He asks leadingly. I snort.
"Not a chance."
"Will you please…be nice to me?" He says sliding back over to create room for me. Oh, for Christ's sake…really? He's ten, Jay. He's ten and he's feeling unloved and vulnerable and you know exactly how bad that feels, especially with Bruce. He's tried to be nice to you, tried to hang out with you and he has no idea if what he's doing is working or not because you're such a sarcastic prick about it all. Give him a fucking bone before he gnaws his own arm off for the attention. I let out the biggest sigh of the night before shuffling back onto the bed and hooking an arm around his shoulder so his head rests against my chest.
"Fine, but only because you got me ice-cream." I say. He settles into a comfortable position. A sharp chin in my stomach tells me he's just nodding in agreement.
"Thank you…Jason." The brat says, acknowledging me properly. "I will think twice about stabbing you in future." I roll my eyes before venturing to ruffle his hair again.
"If you were my kid, I would've drowned you at birth."
"The feeling is mutual."
