Author's Note: Glad you all liked the smooches and fun of the last chapter. But now I may have to brace myself for the tar and feathers… All in all, I hope you all enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you don't… well… I just hope you don't hate me TOO much…. I guess we'll see. Minor spoilers (can you spoil something from a character's past?) of Jason's new non-car-stealing origins in the New 52. Also, a mention of Jason's pre-Death of the Family fling with Isabel, the adorable stewardess. In general, a lot of reflecting on the past in this (long) chapter!

This is the end of the (now named) 'Beyond Death' arc. Then there will be two chapters of 'Interlude' next, followed by a final arc that will probably be a TAD shorter than the first. That final arc will be called 'Beyond Broken.' See you all on the flip-side. ~ Tsuki

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I don't own any characters mentioned in this story. The rights belong to DC comics, Bob Kane, etc.

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Darkness Cannot Drive, Part 16/? (Chapter 15)

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For one spectacular moment, Jason is happy.

As he slips into his apartment window, his whole body feels tense and pulled tight like a strained spring, ready to snap. Jason drops his helmet onto the dusty apartment floor, wincing as his scorched arm throbs in protest at the movement. A groan escapes his lips, sounding thunderous in the silent room. His mouth still tastes hot and his chest is tight. He feels like he's fifteen again, which seems ridiculous. But that was the last time he felt this… giddy. Over just a kiss.

Really, Jason can count on one hand the number of kisses that he really remembers, that really mattered to him. The first was Roy—back when they were kids, back before they both fell into their cages of darkness and pain. Before Roy, Jason had done other things with guys—not all of them consensual or really all that pleasant—but he'd never actually just kissed anyone before. With Roy it had been perfect, all teeth and smiles and video games and light.

After that, there was the cute blond caterer at the Wayne Foundation banquet. The boy had been eighteen and smoked hand-rolled cigarettes. Jason had been bored and horny, and had no problem lying about his age. They snuck away to the coat closet and had shed everything but their dress-pants and socks when there had been a loud banging on the closet door, and Bruce's stern voice warning that—if Jason wasn't back in the ballroom in three minutes—there would be dire consequences. He still remembers the look of horror on the young man's face, the giggles and gasps of "oh fuck" as Jason tried to button up his shirt with shaking hands.

The kiss—a whole lifetime and resurrection later—from Talia Al' Ghul hadn't been one of lust or love, really. But that didn't make it any less memorable. It was a call to battle, a challenge. "You remain unavenged." That kiss had set him on a path, had changed his life.

The kiss from Starfire. Now that was something. Sure, it was just to absorb his memories, but there was never someone who could look at you as deeply and affectionately as Kori. Jason remembers the smell of the sea air, the sun rising as he poured out his heart to the curious and stunning alien. The memory is so beautiful it almost hurts.

And then there was Isabel. That memory… well, that's weighted with darkness and guilt. The kiss was great—so was the sex afterwards. But Jason put her in harm's way. Almost got her killed. That's something worth remembering—a warning and providence for the future.

And that's it, he realizes. Not that he hadn't kissed anyone since Isabel—almost forty years had passed since he stayed over at Isabel's Gotham apartment. Since then, he'd traveled all over the world, gotten sucked into other universes, discovered he couldn't die anymore. You know… the usual.

And yes, he occasionally fucked around. But that's usually what it was—hot and fast and casual. Any kisses were perfunctory brushing of lips just to make it all seem not too awkward, or shallow, or slutty. Nothing meaningful, though. Nothing even all that memorable.

The kiss with Terry, though? Holy… shit… It was desperation and electricity. A chilling fire that spread everywhere that Terry's body touched his. He wanted to pull the kid to him and swallow him whole, to collapse into him, to forget…

Ah, but there's the rub. He can't forget. All of a sudden, reality sets in. It breaks through the lingering heat of lust like shards of broken glass, lodging in his heart and under his fingernails. The giddiness is now starting to transform into something dangerously resembling panic. All it takes is a few more minutes and all of Jason's veins are throbbing with a type of fight-or-flight response that seems to all hinge on a sense of dreadful certainty, an acknowledgement of one, clear fact: This? Whatever this thing with Terry is or whatever it could be? It isn't going to work.

Still frozen, standing there by the window, every situation Jason can imagine flashes before his eyes, each one filled with more pain and brokenness than the last.

Some of these flashes are of his past—the look on Bruce's face when he throws his batarang and slices Jason's throat, the image of Isabel broken and passed out on the floor, and even the look on his mother's face in the African sun as the Joker appears from behind a mosquito net.

But some of these flashes are, he thinks, more prophetic visions of the future—what it would be like when Bruce found out, when Superman found out, when they had to deal with Terry's mom, when Jason kills someone in front of Terry (and that's just a matter of time, if he sticks around, he realizes. A kiss doesn't change the fact that he thinks Bruce is a broken and idealistic idiot when it comes to keeping criminals alive…), when Terry and Jason find out they're completely and utterly incompatible. 'I mean, Jesus,' Jason thinks, 'he's a fucking kid. Dick was barely out of short-pants at his age. Was still a Titan. What the fuck do I think I'm doing?'

Jason stares at the blue glow of his computer console, at the crumpled clothes on the floor… and makes a decision. Tim Drake had implied earlier tonight that he thought killing people was what Jason "does best." But Jason knows deep down that there's a skill he's perfected well before he learned to throw a shuriken or fire a gun. It's a skill branded into his cells, as familiar and comforting as cigarette smoke.

Moving over a box of computer chords, Jason picks up a duffle-bag from the floor and proceeds to do what he has always—and likely will always—do best.

It takes a little over an hour to break down the security system, pack the duffel bag, and load up his car. By the time he enters the Gotham Loop Freeway, Jason has almost convinced himself he's made the right choice. The only choice he could have made...

Almost.

.

.

'Well,' Terry thinks, 'what a difference two hours makes…'

It has been a pretty long time—all things considered—since Terry has felt a real sense of fury. Since he's become Batman, he has sometimes felt desperate, angry for sure, frustrated at other times, and fearful occasionally. But real rage and fury is something which Terry associates with his 'old' self—that kid who would fight anyone at the drop of a hat, who would boost cars and damage property, anything to leave his mark on the world around him. When he was younger, it was often him and Charlie Bigalow against the world. Charlie always had a smirk on his face when they got into trouble, as if his battle with the world was a game, something to amuse him in an otherwise dull existence. But Terry never found the fighting or the property destruction fun… but he did find it therapeutic. This anger and determination and fire—he never knew where it came from—it was so unlike either of his parents, something intense and seemingly burning in Terry alone.

Since he'd become the Batman, that fire had been calmed and fed. That destructive rage had been exchanged for calculating rationalness, for plans and tactical strikes. Even when he was fighting for his life, Terry felt different than he had when he was a fury filled kid lashing out at everything and everyone.

But now? Terry feels the anger return like a ghost—so hot and palpable, itching his hands and tightening his neck.

Jason's apartment is empty. A clean sweep. Just a few remaining computer chords and a plastic water cup left in the trash bin. Terry almost feels impressed at how quickly Jason packed up even his meager belongings. He can almost see it as he looks around—he must have taken down the computers in record time; must have clicked all his weapons into those large, ridged metal carrying cases; must have shoved all of his clothes in his black duffle-bag.

It almost looks like Jason was never here at all.

Terry wants to break something. Badly.

His eyes dart around briefly and he considers chucking the trash bin at the window for old time's sake. He can imagine the satisfying sound of breaking glass, the slight relief that it would bring. But property destruction has always been a slippery slope with him. Inevitably, it becomes just a salve on an open wound. When that doesn't make him feel better for long, he'll find himself in one of Neo Gotham's many 'bad' parts of town. He'll insult the roughest looking guy there. It won't be long before it's fist to face, the taste of blood, and bone on bone. Won't be long before Terry's body is singing with adrenaline and the rage is calmed for a moment.

Charlie always loved that side of him. He would tease him lightly as he pressed antiseptic covered cotton-balls against Terry's split lips and gash-covered foreheads. Would praise 'Tiny Terry' to his other friends and call them pussies and slaggers in comparison.

But Charlie is gone. And so is Jason, it seems. And Terry knows where giving into that rage and the destruction leads—the memory of a grey jumpsuit with JUVENILE DETENTION stamped in peeling white letters across the back is the only reminder he needs.

Balling his hands into tight fists, his short nails digging into his palm, Terry takes a deep breath and a final glance at Jason's apartment. Then he heads downstairs, starts up his bike, and heads back to Wayne Manor.

.

.

Bruce Wayne sits in the darkness of the cave, files on RAGE and corporate connections flashing across the screen. He may not be able to fight crime on the ground anymore, but damned if he's going to feel useless and give up the 'detective' side of the job. Terry's not ready for it anyway—but, even if he was, Bruce still knows that he holds onto this role with an iron grip. With this, he's still Batman. At least partly.

The click of the Wayne Manor clock sliding open raises hairs on the back of Wayne's neck and he tightens his grip on his cane, bracing for a fight with an intruder. He relaxes slightly when he sees Terry descend the dark stairway.

"I thought you had plans with 'friends,'" Wayne mutters. He hadn't believed Terry's earlier transparent misdirections and vagueness for a second. The young man's nervous tapping of fingers and eagerness to get out of the cave hinted at something other than a trip to the Juice Bar with Max. But Bruce hadn't pushed it… yet.

"They fell through. Thought I'd come here and work off some energy. You know, at least use my time productively."

Bruce frowns, watching Terry slip off his jacket and his shoes. Terry is tense, a bottle of emotion. Strange. "You should use this time for sleeping, if you feel you have 'free time,'" Bruce retorts.

"Couldn't sleep right now if I wanted to," Terry chirps. His voice has a forced flippantness, with the harsh tension of a darker emotion underneath. Terry isn't nearly as good as Bruce is at lying. Bruce feels they need to work on that, that it's an essential skill for a Batman, but—for now—he's slightly grateful for Terry's artlessness.

Bruce turns back to the computer and half-goes back to work. But mostly he listens. Listens to the sound of Terry wrapping his hands in tape and starting in on the punching bag that Bruce had imported from Pakistan. The bag is lighter and thinner than an American boxing bag—but it is also harder and rougher, taking more control and focus. And, most of all, its noises are fairly loud in the emptiness of the cave. So Bruce listens.

Terry's punches start calculated and sharp, tight and controlled strikes to the bag's sides. Then the speed increases slightly and Terry shifts some of his attention to the center, sharp upper-cuts hitting the bag at its core. The speed increases again and Bruce can hear the bag swing as Terry gets in close, punches leading into elbows and shoulder strikes in a sharp fury.

Terry isn't fighting the bag right now, Bruce can tell. But he is fighting something.

He wonders briefly if he should turn around or keep pretending to work. This decision is almost made for him when a strangled sound escapes Terry's lips, a half-growl of frustration and half-near-sob. Bruce knows that sound. He's made it before himself—a sound made of a rage and pain that cannot be contained. One that has to slip out, one way or another.

Bruce is on his feet before he knows it, shuffling over to the training area, his hand tight on his cane. "You'll need to put some salve on those hands," Bruce states flatly.

Terry pauses and glances at his hands in clear surprise, sees them red and torn and sore even through the wrapping. "Fuck… yeah, I guess I will."

"You should do it now," Bruce replies, nodding for Terry to follow him to the medical station. Terry follows silently, his tenseness and pain practically echoing in the emptiness of the cave. Bruce slowly takes out the medical kit and thinks, not for the first time, how strange it is to be on this side of the looking glass. How many nights had Alfred pulled out this kit? How many times had Bruce insisted—siting on this medical table—that he had to get back to work, to keep thinking about something, to fold secrets into himself? And how many times had Alfred firmly stopped him, tried to pull him back to the light and to a sense of stability and sanity.

But Bruce isn't Alfred. The boys always liked Alfred. No one likes Bruce. Bruce doesn't do comforting hands on shoulders, or sugar cookies, or hot chocolate. Bruce does orders for tighter dismounts from the parallel bars, or lectures about security. Bruce has always been a far better Batman than he has been the "reassuring father figure." So, he stays silent while he massages the green salve into Terry's torn knuckles.

It's actually Terry who finally breaks that silence. "You got your wish, by the way." The words are practically spit out through clenched teeth. Bruce raises an eyebrow and waits for Terry to continue. After a moment, he finally does. "Jason's gone."

Ah.

Over the last month and a half, they both had done a fairly thorough job of pretending that Bruce didn't know that Terry was training with Jason. Bruce wonders if this is the time to reveal how obvious it was—how the moves and sharpness that Terry used would have told the story even if Bruce hadn't placed a tracer on Terry's bike weeks ago. Which he did. And that just confirmed how often Terry took trips to old town, how often he parked his bike next to a secluded and inexpensive apartment building. One which rented by the month—Jason's modus operandi.

Bruce looks at the tension in Terry's neck and shoulders, the grim set of his jaw. Something clearly happened with Jason—did Terry witness Jason commit a murder? Did Jason say something—did they fight? Bruce finally answers the silence with: "I did warn you. Jason isn't someone you can trust, Terry. If you had listened earlier when I said…"

"Slag it and fuck! I cannot listen to this right now!" The violence and intensity in which Terry pulls away surprises Bruce and he finds himself having to brace himself on the medical table as Terry suddenly pauses in his rage. Bruce sees Terry's face shift from anger to… something else. Like an unstable building starting to collapse, Terry curls in on himself, arms braced over his chest like he is giving himself a hug or protecting his chest from the cold.

"Bruce…" he starts "I… I know—you need to yell at me. But please… can you just lecture me tomorrow? Whatever you're going to do, just… just do it then. Add reps to my workout. Limit my patrol. Take away the suit. Just… not tonight, okay? I don't think I can take it."

Bruce is silent for a moment. "When they fall... you goddamn be there to catch them," Dick had warned him not long ago, "or at least to help them pick themselves back up."

That was always really more of Alfred's job. Catching and mending his fallen birds. But then… Terry isn't a "bird," is he? He's a Bat. Bruce sighs and sets his cane to the side.

"No need. To wait or for a lecture." He sees Terry's brow furrow, the young man's blue eyes flash skeptically. Bruce clenches his jaw and continues. "I understand—you felt you needed more training. I put a lot of pressure on you. And it's dangerous out there. I can't be angry at you for wanting to be prepared. And I understand why you may be… drawn to Jason. You're always curious about the past—my past. Dick, Tim, even Barbara, and of course myself—we all deal with the sins past by burying them. Pushing them aside and letting them rot. That was never Jason's way. It must have been… refreshing to have someone more open than we all have been. And I know there are similarities between you and Jason. I do… understand that." Terry's gaze is intense now, but the surrounding expression is one of almost humorous shock and bewilderment.

Bruce sighs, the difficult part out of the way, and continues. "But you know that I'm not prone to trust. Most would say that I don't trust anyone. Ever. But I'm trusting you every time you put on that suit. That's my legacy. My name. My life. I don't give that away lightly. So I am trusting you—every night. And I know that you're going to have to… make your own decisions and your own mistakes. But, from now on, if it has any connection to Batman, you need to tell me about it. No secret training. No hiding. You want me to keep trusting you—or to trust you even more? You have to trust me too. Even when I make mistakes—or threaten to take away the suit…"

"Or replace me with a robot, so you'd actually have something in the suit which takes orders," Terry reminds him.

Bruce snorts and shakes his head. "That wasn't… a permanent option. More like a backup plan. You know, if I had perfected them, it would have made your month of injury a lot easier."

Terry's face relaxes into a half-smile as he exaggeratedly rolls his eyes. "Sure, Wayne. I'm sure robots were the answer."

Bruce shrugs, picking up his cane again. "Superman used to have robots, you know."

"Yeah, well, Superman used to wear bright colors too. Don't see you copying that one." Terry's shoulders have relaxed slightly. He and Bruce wait in silence a moment as Terry stares off into the darkness of the cave.

"He's a fucking bastard," he whispers finally. "He… Jason and I had something we needed to talk about. And it was… important. I guess. I mean—fuck—it just felt like something that made a lot of sense. I was supposed to swing by after dropping off the suit. But he was just gone. Everything. Every trace of him. It wasn't a kidnapping or a fight. He just packed his bags and split, just two hours after… slag it… you know what? Nevermind."

Bruce tries not to betray either his feelings of surprise or concern. Just how close had Jason and Terry become? He silently curses himself for not putting the tracer on Terry's bike sooner. Of course, since he has a location for where Jason had been staying, he can search local security cameras for signs of Terry's bike from the last few months and use those to pinpoint how often and for how long he had been stopping by. He could also triangulate that position and calculate Terry's most common routes and how often they had likely intersected with Jason's. But that, well, that was a project for another night…

"You say it was something that seemed important?" Bruce finally asks.

"Yeah," Terry bites out.

"And he left instead of talking to you about it."

"Yeah again. Did I mention he's a bastard? God, this night slags."

Bruce stands there solemnly. He has run out of things to say. He could try to tell Terry how much that makes sense for Jason, how even as a boy he'd slip out and escape rather than deal with problems directly. Sure, if the problem was a person with a gun or a hard right hook, Jason would charge in and take him down. But emotions? That was always something different. Jason didn't do emotions—other than anger—any better than Bruce did.

But Bruce doesn't know the words to explain that to Terry—doesn't even know if he fully understands it himself. He can't explain to Terry what he saw in Jason that first night they met, when Jason was fleeing from an uncertain future, a box of prescription drugs under his arm. He can't express the distrust that Jason showed Dick, the constant worry and suspicion that he'd be replaced by the former-Robin-turned-Nightwing. Nor can he show the look of hate and betrayal that Jason gave Bruce the first time he fled Gotham.

Bruce finds that he truly has no words of wisdom. No insights that could smooth Terry's pained and angry expression. However, as if channeling his old guardian, he finally says: "I'm going to go make some tea. Come upstairs and have some."

"Huh?" Terry's brow wrinkles in surprise. "Um, okay."

The two men walk toward the cave's stairway, almost a parody—Bruce thinks—of old memories. Bruce is not someone who comforts or easily shares feelings of trust and care and love. But right now, there's a young man with dark hair and bright eyes who's angry and hurting and who fights every night to keep people safe. And—like history repeating a strange and familiar melody—there's a silver-haired old man behind him on the stairway, who stitches his wounds and makes him tea, and who can't help but think of this damaged young warrior as his son.

For now, Bruce thinks, that has to be enough.

[[END OF ARC 1 – BEYOND DEATH]]

Stay tuned—same Bat Time, same Bat Channel—for the interlude, the return of Jason,
and the arrival of Superman!