"…don't care what…"
"…cannot simply…"
"…needs…"
Familiar voices seep into the muggy haze Jason drifts through, giving him something to anchor onto in the darkness. He lays there for long minute, trying to make sense of the indiscernible words. Whoever is speaking, they are doing so in hushed tones. This makes it even harder for Jason to try and understand them, which irritates him. Frowning, he begins to shift, struggling to push his way back to consciousness.
"…Jason? Jason?"
Breathing deeply, Jason opens his eyes.
He's back in his room. He had been put into his bed and covered with a thin sheet, with multiple pillows propped up behind him. His armor had been relieved of him, and all he wears now is pajama pants and a plain t-shirt. Slowly, Jason moves his gaze about the room until it falls on Bruce and Alfred, who are standing off to the side of the bed.
Jason blinks heavily, giving his eyesight time to focus. "Bla'gate…" he slurs.
"The fire is under control now," Bruce says grimly. "Three prisoners and a security guard died in it, but fortunately that was the extent of the fatal causalities."
Alfred holds out a glass of water, helping Jason take a drink. The water is much welcomed, soothing his throat and clearing his head of the aftereffects of the drug-induced sleep. Feeling more coherent, Jason pushes himself into a sitting position.
Glancing between the two, Alfred frowns ever so slightly. It's clear he'd like to say something, but he seems to understand the need for Bruce to talk to Jason alone. "I'm going to check on Master Dick, sir," Alfred says to Bruce. "I'll be downstairs if either of you need me."
Bruce nods, not taking his eyes off of Jason. "Thank you, Alfred."
As Alfred leaves the room, Jason focuses his eyes on the far wall, anger growing within him as the seconds pass in silence. Bruce keeps his body still, so as not to betray any of the apprehension he feels as he speaks. "Jason, you are being confined to your room for the rest of the night."
The muscles in Jason's jaw tense, and he refuses to look at Bruce.
A frown slips onto Bruce's mouth. "I cannot trust you, not after what you pulled. Your room will be in the highest security lockdown while Tim and I are out on patrol. When I get back, we'll decide what to do from there."
Finally, Jason turns his gaze to Bruce. "So I'm a prisoner."
"Don't exaggerate, Jason," says Bruce. "You're being punished, yes. But you're staying in your room; it's not as though you're being locked up in one of the holding cells in the Batcave."
Jason's face scrunches up in annoyance. He twists the bedsheet covering his legs in one hand, his knuckles turning white with the tightness of his grip. "You drugged me," he says.
Bruce shifts slightly at the accusation. "You gave me no choice. You were out of control."
Jason gives a small shake of his head. "No. No, I knew exactly what I was doing."
"And what was that, Jason?" snaps Bruce. "Taking a man's life?"
"Yes," Jason says fiercely. "That's exactly what is was. If you had let me finish, there would be one less animal on the streets of Gotham, and less victims in the long run."
"He was in prison."
"He would've gotten out soon enough, either by breaking out or by being released." Jason grits his teeth. "You know that, Bruce."
"It doesn't matter," Bruce says. "What you were about to do…" He growls, clenching his fists. "Jason, we don't do that. How else are we supposed to differentiate ourselves from the criminals?"
"I've heard that excuse so many times from you and everyone else here. It's such a pathetic argument it makes me want to vomit," says Jason. He throws back the sheet, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "How selfish are you that you would sacrifice innocent lives for the sake of keeping your hands clean? If you're that paranoid about it, maybe you shouldn't have gotten into this vigilante thing in the first place. Because the truth is, if you really want to help people, once in a while you're going to have to do some dirty things. That's just how it is."
"How can you say that, Jason? How you can justify murder?" Bruce throws his hands out in frustration, terror gripping him at hearing his own son speaking like this. "Have you lost your mind?"
"Yes, Bruce!" Jason shouts. "I've lost my mind! Is that what you want me to say? Would that give you relief, to think that this isn't really me, but is a result of Joker's torture? Is that what you want to hear? Because that's not the truth. That's not what this is." Jason stands, looking absolutely livid. "This is about the hundreds, thousands, of people I've watch suffer because of Gotham's criminals, before, during, and after my time as Robin. This is about the kids like me, who have no one to protect them when the bad people come. You have no idea what it's like to be so helpless. What it's like to not be able to even find refuge from your own father. Those kids, those people – who is going to keep them safe? You?"
"I try to," Bruce says tightly.
"You try to," spits Jason. "Well what do you do about the criminals who aren't afraid of you? What do you do to stop the ones who know you won't kill? Their lives aren't at stake, and they know it, so they continue doing what they're doing." Jason grits his teeth. "My dad came home from jail once and showed my mom this fresh scar you had given him with a Batarang before locking him up. And you know what he did? He laughed. He boasted about how he had faced off with the Batman and now had proof to show to his friends. He was proud of it, Bruce." Jason's lips curl into an expression of utter disgust. "His run-in with you didn't change a damn thing. A couple of beers later and he was already shouting at my mom. I yelled back at him, trying to defend her, and he beat me. Then he locked me out of the apartment for two days."
Bruce's hands clench, but he doesn't speak.
"There was no remorse in his eyes that night," sneers Jason. "He had learned no lesson from you. And he never would have. But now that he's dead, he can't hurt anyone else." Snarling, Jason kicks out at a pile of books lying on the floor. The books go flying into the air, pages fluttering about, ripped from their spines. "There are hundreds more kids in Gotham with similar stories to mine. And their abusers aren't afraid of you, Bruce." He violently throws his arm towards his window, throughout which the distant lights of Gotham's skyline can be seen. "Those foster kids wouldn't be the hospital right now if we had done our job right and taken care of Joker and Harley years ago. Seven kids and two volunteers would still be alive. Why don't you get it? Why can't you get that through your thick head?"
"Killing is not doing a job right, Jason," grinds out Bruce. "It's succumbing to the gravity of Gotham. It's allowing yourself to be molded by the violence and hatred."
"Gotham's gravity is suffocating the good people who live within it," Jason retorts. "They can't hold out forever. Your methods aren't working – we have to do more."
"We do everything we can within our power, and within our morals, Jason," says Bruce. "That's all that we can do."
"Then you're a coward!" Jason says viciously.
Bruce presses his lips together, struggling to keep his composure. "There is no bravery in taking a life, Jason."
"Would you have done it to save me?"
Bruce freezes at that. "What?"
Jason braces himself as he speaks next, as though afraid to ask. "If you had known what would happen to me, if you had known Joker would take me, torture me, for nine months, would you have killed him? Before he could have done it?"
Bruce is silent. He watches Jason, who is staring back at him with an unwavering gaze. The rage is gone from Jason's eyes; all that encompasses them now is a pleading desperation.
Long seconds pass.
Bruce opens his mouth weakly, and for a moment nothing comes out. "I…I don't know," he finally admits. Shame washes through him as he speaks; he knows it's not the answer his son wants, but he truly cannot think of anything else to say. Because he doesn't know the answer himself.
The glimmer of hope fades from Jason's eyes, and angry tears well in them instead. "Get out, Bruce," he says, the quiet fury in his voice scorching.
"Jason…"
"Get. OUT!"
A tense moment passes, and then Bruce turns and walks over to the door. He pauses, his hand gripping the doorknob. "I'm sorry," he says softly. Then he leaves and locks the door behind him.
Letting out a vicious cry, Jason picks up the lamp sitting on his nightstand and throws it at the wall, shattering it. He kicks at his bed, knocking the mattress over a few inches, then snatches up the pillows on top and chucks them across the room. One knocks over his red guitar that had been propped up against the far wall; it topples over, the crash breaking strings and splintering wood. Jason is screaming, his throat scratching itself raw as he lets out years of frustration and misery.
I'm not worth it. I'm not worth enough to break his damn rule.
He sees the picture of him and Bruce at Gotham High's baseball field sitting on top of the nightstand. Grabbing it, Jason drops to his knees and violently smashes the picture against the floorboards. The glass shatters and Jason repeats the action, this time cracking the wooden frame. Subconsciously, he realizes how childish he's being, but he can't stop himself. If he doesn't move, if he doesn't tear something apart with his hands, he's certain he will be driven mad.
His hand clutching the picture rises and falls again and again, not stopping even when the broken glass shards slice into his skin and blood splatters across the floor he's kneeling on.
He would condemn me to nine months of torture rather than break his rule.
He doesn't even register the pounding on his door.
"Jason? Jason! Bruce, get up here! Open this damn door!"
The pounding grows more frantic, but Jason's destruction of the picture continues. Soon there is hardly any frame left, and then Jason is crumpling the picture in his hands, his blood staining its edges.
There's the sound of the security system unlocking, and then the door slams open. Thudding footsteps approach Jason and someone crouches down beside him; a hand touches Jason's shoulder and he jerks away, letting out a fierce snarl as he throws his fist forward.
Tim lurches back, barely managing to avoid Jason's punch. Upon recognizing who had come into his room Jason pauses, staring at Tim with wide eyes.
"Jason…" Tim says brokenly.
Jason drops his eyes to the smashed picture frame, his gaze following the smears of blood. A shaky breath escapes him and he bends over, curling in on himself.
Tim leans forward and wraps his arms around Jason's shoulders, drawing him close. "It's okay, Jason," whispers Tim.
Bruce stands in the doorway, watching silently. He desperately wants to be by Jason's side, but he doesn't go into the room, as he knows it would only make everything worse.
Jason and Tim stay on the floor for a long time. Eventually Jason sits back against his bed, resigned to just staring down at his bloody hands in his lap.
"We need to bandage your hands, Jason," Tim says quietly.
Jason doesn't move.
Feeling uneasy at Jason's lack of reaction, Tim hurries to Jason's bathroom and grabs the needed supplies from the medicine cabinet. He dresses Jason's wounds in silence, with Jason continuing to simply stare ahead blankly.
The moment the final wrapping is put in place, Bruce gestures towards the hall. "Tim," he says. "It's time to go."
Tim tilts his head down, trying to get in Jason's line of sight. But Jason hardly even notices the younger boy, whose shoulders droop in dejection. Tim looks up at Bruce pleadingly. "Bruce…"
"Now, Tim."
Tim shakes his head. "I'm staying here."
That catches Jason's attention. He lifts his head, surprise flickering in his eyes as they watch Tim.
A frown crosses Bruce's face. "Jason cannot leave this room. You, however, are needed back on patrol."
"Go by yourself," snaps Tim.
Bruce grinds his teeth. "I don't have time for this, Tim. Come on."
"Just go, Tim," Jason mutters.
"Jason –" begins Tim.
"Go."
Tim reluctantly gets to his feet; he makes his way to the door, glaring at Bruce as he leaves the room. Unease coils in Bruce's chest as he watches Jason wrap his arms around his legs and bury his face in them. His movements hesitant, Bruce shuts the door and reactivates the security system, releasing a heavy sigh as the locks click into place.
Tim is already in the elevator, not bothering to wait for Bruce before descending to the Batcave. Alone in the hallway, Bruce leans against the wall and presses his hand over his eyes.
He's locked Jason up. He's imprisoned his son, after he had been the very one to free Jason from captivity a year ago.
What have I done?
He has never felt this unsure before, so completely at a loss as of what to do. He's lost his son yet again, and this time he's not sure the damage can be fixed.