He should go.
The thought keeps trying to force his feet to move. He should go. He shouldn't bother them. It's been a week since Dick's most recent visit and a week and a half since Joker was run over by Dick's bike. A smile curves Jason's lips. Dick ran him over. It's almost funny.
Almost.
The Joker is still in recovery and will be for about another eighteen months. He's expected to make a full recovery.
Jason lingers at the gate of the Manor, debating whether or not to ring. What if Dick wasn't actually serious when he said that they missed him? Does Barbara even really know who he is? What if she doesn't care? What if Bruce opens the door? What'll he say? Will he be mad to see him? Does he know what Dick did? Did Dick tell him? Did Dick tell any of them? Is Dick in there right now? What if Dick opens the door? What would he do? Punch him? Hug him? What if Alfred opens the door? Will he be disappointed in him or glad to see him return?
The thoughts turn themselves over and over in his mind, torturing him. Suddenly, a voice pierces his thoughts.
"You can come in, you know."
He's so startled that he jumps, eyes wide, turning to see who's at the door.
It's Dick.
Jason breaths in an inaudible sigh of relief to see him at the door. "How-How are you?"
"Fine. Did you come by to say hello?"
"I-I don't know why I'm here. I wanted to see Bruce. I mean, I wanted to see Alfred. I wanted to see Barbara, too. I kind of wanted to see how everything was going along. I sort of miss being here. I mean, I-"
"Jason, shut up and get in."
For once, he does as he is told.
Jason is standing in the Batcave next to Dick and he's coming very close to fidgeting. He never fidgets. And yet, his fingers want to dance along the walls and his foot wants to start tapping. He keeps it all hidden under wraps.
Alfred is talking to Bruce, his hand holding a glass tray of cookies. Bruce looks tired; there are dark circles under his eyes and he has three days worth of stubble. Everything looks exactly the way it did before.
"Go," hisses Dick, shoving him forward.
"No, stop it," Jason hisses back.
"What's the matter? Scared?" Dick knows Jason's weak points and he knows that his pride tops the list. He also knows that he's just made it impossible for Jason to back down.
Throwing his brother a filthy look, Jason marches down the stairs, his cheeks flushed bright with anger. He stops abruptly and Bruce and Alfred both turn.
"Dick, stop making so much noise, we're bus-"
Bruce's voice cuts off as he turns to look at his son.
The tray slips from Alfred's hand and shatters on the ground. The sound seems to wake Bruce from his trance.
"Jason," he says quietly. "What are you doing here?"
But Jason doesn't answer. His attention has been caught by a memorial of himself in the room. There are two statues; one of himself and one of Bruce. Both are in uniform.
Jason walks closer, his feet taking him of their own accord. He presses his fingers to his statue, feeling the familiar fabric beneath his fingers. The uniform is new and starchy. He remembers how much he hated wearing uniforms when they were new like this, the fabric scratchy and rough. It took eons to get it comfortable and by the time it did, Bruce or Alfred would declare it unfit and have it replaced.
"When was this built?" His voice is quiet, low, and he can barely recognize it. He swallows hard then says louder, "Bruce. When did you build this?"
Bruce has no idea what is going on. One second he was trying to pinpoint the Catwoman's next target while Alfred force fed him cookies and the next his estranged son who had recently tried to kill him is in his den, asking about the memorial in his honor. It is all rather sudden.
"It was built after you were buried," Bruce's voice is so quiet it barely carries. He clears it noisily then asks, "Jason, what are you doing here?"
His son turns to him, green eyes bright. "A Good Soldier," he reads aloud. "Was I actually?"
"Yes. Of course."
"You always made me feel like Dick was better," Jason murmurs awkwardly. "You were always comparing me to him about everything. School, training, listening to Alfred. Dick was the good son. The good fighter. I was just his replacement."
"It was never like that," Bruce says forcefully. "You are both my sons. I care about you both, I love you both."
"Then why didn't you avenge me?" The words explode from Jason's lips in a torrent of anger. "If you loved me so much, why didn't you kill him? How could you not?"
The room was very still and very quiet. No one moved a muscle. Alfred didn't even blink.
"I could never kill him."
"Why? Just couldn't be bothered?"
"No! I wanted to kill him more than anything. It was all I thought about for days, weeks on end."
"Then why didn't you," demands Jason.
"That's not for me to do. I don't have the power to take away a life."
"Why not? He's taken away plenty."
"And if I took away his, what would that make me? I'd be no better than he is."
"You sound like Dick."
"Dick always understood this better than you did."
"That's what I'm talking about! You're always comparing me to him!"
"Jason," Bruce pauses, searching for the right words. "You and I never agreed on some things. And maybe we never will. But I never loved you any less than Dick and I never cared about him any more than you. As for the Joker," he sighs, "Joker wants me to cross that line. He doesn't even care if I kill him because that would mean that he has won."
"So this is about some stupid vendetta between the two of you?"
"Of course not! This is about what I believe in and what I will and will not do. I won't kill someone. Not Joker, not anyone. It is something I won't do, no matter how badly I want to. It's not my call to say who dies and who lives. That's not up to me. I won't kill a person and you know it, Jason. It's wrong and it's something I swore not to do."
"Fine," Jason's voice is brittle. "I-Bye, Bruce."
He turns for the stairs when Bruce's voice pulls him back. "Why did you come here?"
Damn. "I don't know," answers Jason truthfully. "I thought maybe I could get some answers. Or, at least, understand your decision better. Maybe see Alfred or Barbara."
"Master Jason," Alfred cuts in smoothly. "I wish to speak to you in the dining room."
"What?"
Three voices in unison express their shock.
"Alfred, no," Bruce says quickly.
"This is what I know how to handle, Master Bruce," responds Alfred. "It is my duty as butler to correct such family disputes."
Dick looks like he wants to laugh and cry at the same time. He feels like both. "Let them go, Bruce," he voices aloud.
"Fine," he snaps. "I'll see you both later."
Jason is sitting at the dining table; his hands scrubbed clean and passed by Alfred's inspection. He has absolutely no idea what is going on.
"Eat," Alfred intones briskly, nudging a platter of sugar cookies at him.
Jason eats. They taste like sawdust to his dry throat but he doesn't say a word.
"Now, I've become aware of some discord among you three," informs Alfred. He sets about to chopping up carrots for the night's soup.
Jason remains silent.
"Firstly, I know you think your father favors Master Dick. Why is this?"
"I don't know, Alfred." Jason picks at a cookie's edge. "He's always comparing me to him about everything, even school. He makes me feel like I'm not good enough. Like Dick was better or something." He nibbles at the bottom of the cookie, barely tasting it.
"You know that isn't true, don't you?"
He doesn't say anything.
"Master Bruce may not have said anything to you," Alfred says heavily. "But you must know that he was always very proud of you. He even compared Master Richard to you a few times."
"Oh, Alfred, he did not."
"He did," Alfred says seriously. "He used to tell him how devoted you were, how ambitious you were, how proud of you he was. Master Richard was rather jealous, I would say."
"Alfred. He actually said that? You swear?"
"I swear or my name isn't Pennyworth, sir."
Jason sits, stunned by this revelation. Finally, he manages, "I never knew that."
"I gathered as much, sir," Alfred says dryly. "One didn't need to be part of the British Intelligence to figure that out. Now onto the next order of business; why he didn't avenge you or so you say."
Jason stiffens slightly, his brow furrowing.
"Master Bruce takes pride in what he teaches his sons. He would have hated for your death to the Joker to be the reason why he gave into the Joker."
"He saw it like that," Jason asks skeptically. "Giving in?"
"It was what the Joker would have wanted. And Master Bruce would have died before he gave him the satisfaction."
"How could that give Joker satisfaction if it meant Bruce would have killed him?"
"The Joker has always wanted your father to cross the line he had drawn for himself so long ago. It was what he has always dreamed of achieving, or so I imagine. He would consider dying at Master Bruce's hands a victory because it meant that he had finally managed to break him. Your father would never have allowed your death to be what would make the Joker victorious."
A light drizzle taps against the windows and Jason sighs, burying his head into his hands.
"Do you understand now, Master Jason?"
Alfred has moved onto polishing the silverware to be used for the night's dinner. Jason watches him wipe a knife with his rag, thinking. "Yeah. I mean, yes. Yes, I understand, Alfred. It's just…not what I would have done."
"Master Bruce," Alfred says sternly, "and you may never see things the same way. But what is important is that you remember that it is your similarities that keep you close."
"Alfred," Jason whispers, "I don't think we are that close."
Alfred stops wiping the forks and turns to look at Jason, really look at him. "Master Jason, your father will never close his heart to you. Not as long as he may live."
Then, smiling at him, he adds, "Finish your cookies now. They're still warm."
Jason bites into a cookie. It's delicious.
"By the way," Alfred adds as an afterthought, "I heard you say that you wanted to see Miss Barbara Gordon. She's out shopping this afternoon with a friend but she'll be back by five. Feel welcome to stay, Master Jason."
For the first time in a very long time, Jason gets the feeling that he's right where he's supposed to be.