darkjustice - Tumblr blog

[darkjustice]

"I try not to think about history unless it affects the present," Batman replied coolly. "Is there a reason our history would meet that criteria, Riddler?" There was a slyness in the air, usually was with the green-coded man. But this was more. A new layer. He'd look into it later, set up surveillance if needed.

With a low chuckle, he followed after Nygma with a swoop of his cape. His footsteps silent and steady, unafraid to go where the Riddler beckoned. "Love what you've done with the place," he deadpanned in a cold, dry voice. He turned to face him. "I'll keep it brief. Since you seem... preoccupied," he noted. "I want to know if you've heard about any resurrections. If anyone's been whispering about bringing the dead back to life."

Riddler grinned when he heard the answer to his riddle. "Not even the history between you and I?" He teased him, finally turning to face the other man. That wasn't the history he'd been referring to with the riddle, but if Batman wasn't interested in what he was currently up to... then there was no reason to explain it any further.

"What can I do for you, Batsy?" He questioned, glancing up at his much taller form. The last thing he needed tonight was a beating from the Bat. Especially when he was supposed to be meeting with Isabella again for dinner tonight. She'd have too many questions he couldn't answer. She didn't seem to have a clue that she'd been meeting up with the Riddler and not her beloved, wimpy Ed.

"Ah! Information. While I am rich with it, Batman. I'm afraid I won't be able to tell you everything. I'm usually the one who asks questions... not gives answers. Remember?" He joked. Then he mentioned that they were old friends and he paused. "So you are interested in our history, then?" The Riddler glanced around carefully before checking his watch and walking over to a side door in the alleyway and pushing it open. "Step into my office and we'll talk."

[darkjustice]

The anger is sharp, piercing. Like a bullet, not a crowbar, but Jason bashes him over the head with his anger again and again. And each strike pierces straight through his armor, his skin, into the vital organs and the bone marrow. He feels the splinters in his veins. The shame courses through him like a poison. There's no antidote. No way to fight this. Nothing to do but hold his mask in place and desperately hope that the cracks don't show.

Because he's put Jason through enough. Without apologies and groveling to add to the pile.

It would never be enough. If he could, he would grab the heart from his own chest and give it to the boy. He would've given it that night, if it meant trading places, if it meant saving him. He did this, all of this, to save people. Once that was true. Now... now he wasn't sure why he wore the cowl. Maybe as a scarlet letter. A cautionary tale. Maybe because as long as he wore it, he could always keep a part of himself sealed away. Batman was a statue, a monument, a shield. A symbol, more important than anything.

Right?

That's what he always told himself. The lie he could always believe.

"What do you want from us, Jason?" There's no emotion in his voice when he asks. No sorrow, he's choked that down deep. No anger, not even the superficial flash that comes with wearing the cowl. Just... a question. Hanging in the air between them like a snowflake that had formed in the midst of this sudden -- and possibly eternal -- winter. "Do you want us to pretend you never died? That you aren't, on some level, a ghost?"

He takes a step forward now. So that when Jason turns to him, there's only a foot or so between them. He looks down at Jason, and a sharp exhale of breath escapes his lips. "Don't be a child," he whispers. So softly that he can almost tell himself it was only in his head. But he knows it wasn't. His eyes look for Jason's, to lock onto if the boy will let him. "Of course your death changed things. It changed everything. You know me, Jason," he growled. He was so angry and so sad and he couldn't let the sad slip in, so he made himself more angry. "You know I can't prove anything to you unless you want to believe it. And I know you. I know you are the only person who might be more stubborn than I am. But you know what?" He paused for a moment. "I don't know your question, just like you don't know my answer. But I know that you are not a coward." Bruce couldn't say the same for himself. "So ask."

Jason isn't sure what it was he was expecting, really. For Bruce to actually act like his dad, in this moment, and not give him the cold and distant Dark Knight for once? Maybe. He finds himself disappointed regardless. It's an effort not to bite down on the butt of his cigarette, as his mouth twists into something that's a cross between a grimace and scowl.

There's a small, terrible voice in the back of his head that whispers: did he never actually care? He doesn't want to listen to it. He wants those ice creams after patrol and good report cards and movie nights and the constant hovering whenever he was sick to mean something—

"Not really. It's clear to me that you had no problems replacing me," he spits out before he could stop himself, sharp and bitter and without any actual meaning. But then he thinks of the kid who's now flying around in Robin's colors, and he can't help but think that he does mean it, just a little bit, the part of him that's still that little boy laying broken and bleeding on the warehouse floor. That nothing really has changed. This anger isn't directed at Tim. Has nothing to do with the kid. Has everything to do with Batman and Robin. "Seemed to have no problems allowing another minor to put on the cape and tights, anyways. Like me dying wasn't enough of a discouragement."

He takes out the cigarette, lets it dangle between his fingers. The hand holding it falls to hang limply between them. "I'm not going to haunt your halls, old man. It doesn't take a genius to know a ghost is all either of you is going to see, if I did that." He still doesn't turn to look at Bruce fully, but he's still watching him out his peripherals. The itch to get up and bolt buzzes under his skin still. He doesn't give into it, not yet, but he might sooner than later. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head.

"I really just have one," his voice quiets, and he finally does turn to Bruce fully. "But I already know your answer, so there's no point in asking it."

[darkjustice]

Tim filled the momentary silence with a tirade of emotion. It was proof he wasn't ready for this, proof his head wasn't in control. For all the genius in him, sometimes Batman feared that this Robin was all heart. An admirable quality in any other profession. A liability in their line of work. So he cut it off, ended it all. The conversation, the mission, all of it.

He knew why they were here. There had been a shake up of gang activity throughout Gotham. People disappearing, escalating violence. Turf wars breaking out in the chaos left behind. It was still simmering, nothing huge. A blip on the radar, but a blip he was aware of. Even now, two gangs beneath them were jockeying for position, posturing at one another. Batman saw it, calculated how long it would take to take Tim back to the manor and return. No, too long. Maybe he could program the car to --

He never had a chance to finish the thought. Because Tim threw himself off the damn building. Batman heard the snap of the grappling hook and reached for his own. He was tempted to shout out, demand Tim come back, but even the sound of gunfire wouldn't drown that out. They'd be spotted before they were in position. No, the dice were cast now. There was no choice but to follow.

Silently, he landed behind one of the shooters. Batman grabbed his ankles and ripped him backwards, catching the weapon before it hit the ground. A flick released the ammo and he tossed it in the face of another gang member. Batman swooped around, eyes narrowing as they spotted his young protegee. "We're going to have a long discussion when this is done," he warned, tossing a batarang at the gang member coming up on Tim's left.

Bruce told him he was acting like a child and he felt himself scoff. Turning his head away from Batman and placing his attention back onto the street again from where he was perched. Nothing happening yet... but he heard whispers that the gangs in the area were rearing up for a fight. Red Hood must have gotten them shaken up pretty bad and with fear bred chaos. Two of the gangs in the Narrows were getting ready to take it out on each other and Tim had plans to meet up with his not-girlfriend for a little turf war date. He hoped they could break up the fight together... and now here Bruce was... looming behind him and casting a very familiar yet threatening shadow over him.

Bruce kept talking and Tim clenched his teeth. It didn't feel fair. He didn't know much about Jason's time as Robin, but from what he heard Dick had been allowed to go out on solo missions. Besides, Bruce seemed too busy for him lately... that or he wasn't taking him out on patrols on purpose. "What else do you have to teach me?" He asked abruptly. Turning his head again suddenly to face him. "Nightwing had solo patrols when he was Robin. I have more experience now than he had then." He pointed out. "Spoiler is smart, resourceful and she has my back. We can handle a little turf war. It's not like I'm seeking out A list villains, Batman. Why can't you just let me prove-?" He cut himself off before Bruce informed him that the mission was over.

He turned on his heels and began walking back into the shadows that he'd come from. Tim glanced over his shoulder back on the street. Noticing how the two gangs he'd been watching for had just arrived. Tearing his attention from the potential fight, he started walking after Bruce when he spoke again. Noting that getting himself hurt or killed wouldn't change what happened. Tim froze. His stomach turning at the indirect mention of his father's recent death. Who knew when the next time Bruce would take him out on a supervised mission was. "No. I think I'll handle this first." He said, quickly taking out his grappling hook and shooting a line to the building across the street before leaping off the roof and towards the freshly started gun fight.

[darkjustice]

"I'm not really interested in history tonight, Riddler," Batman called out. His voice was low, gruff -- but not mean. No edge to it. As far as the villains went, there were far worse than Riddler. Sometimes Bruce even found himself enjoying their conversations. Though of course Batman would never say so aloud.

He took another step forward. Not a threat, just to stand more in line with the other man. Of course he scanned for weapons, dangers, Nygma could be tricky at times if he was in the mood. But judging from the wine in his hand and the spring to his step, mischief wasn't on the docket tonight. Curious.

"I'm looking for information on more recent events," Batman explained. "Anything big that might be shaking things loose around here. Figured you might have heard something you might be willing to share." He smirked under the cowl. "After all, we're old friends aren't we?"

He knew that voice well. It scratched an itch in the back of his mind, one he hadn't been aware needed scratching. Edward took one final step, the high heel of his boot clacking against cobblestone. A bottle of wine in one hand and the other free enough to grab the knife in his pocket if he needed to... although, just what would be the point? He didn't fight physically. Especially not with him.

"Batman." He couldn't resist the smile that appeared on his lips. Even as he bit his bottom lip, trying to will it away. Oddly enough. He wasn't interested in playing games with Batman tonight. He had his mind set on something else entirely. Or rather: Someone else.

"I hate to disappoint. Truly I do! You know I adore our time together. But I'm afraid I only have time for one riddle tonight: Sometimes I am liked, sometimes I am hated usually I am old, usually I am dated what am I?"

[darkjustice]

Feliz nananacumpleaños @fallingshadow <3

[darkjustice]

Batman stood in the shadows, peering down into streets he knew all too well. The narrows were a dark, dangerous part of town. Crawling with criminals. Most of them, ultimately, harmless. Parasites that fed off the larger criminals, the ones with real damage on their minds. Those were the ones that Batman wanted to keep his eye on. A bit of movement, a blip in the light as someone passed by a window -- it caught his attention, and after a moment's examination, he swooped down. Batman landed silently behind the person. Only his voice announced his presence. "It's been a while," he called out gruffly. "Somehow I'm not surprised to find you here."

[darkjustice]

There was a distinction between Batman and Bruce. A line. Whenever he put on the cowl, he took off his real mask. He didn't know if there was anything underneath it, anything he could actually face. "Gotham used to have some sanity left," he breathed, running a hand through his hair. Putting the mask back on properly. Even now, even here in his home, with his longest and possibly only true friend, he had to wear it.

It kept things together, after all.

If Alfred noticed the moment of weakness, he said nothing, and for that, Bruce was grateful. "The mug can be tested for fingerprints and DNA easily enough in the Batcave," he noted. And once Bruce did it himself, there would be no denials left. He kept flicking through the surveillance footage while the butler spoke, explained the whole story in detail. He paused as the cameras at the front door caught the first glimpse of him. The angle usually gave an excellent view of visitors, but the boy on camera kept his head down just enough. Even still, he was unmistakable.

He stopped. Set the tablet down even as the footage still played. Alfred walked across the screen, out of sight, and Jason followed, and Bruce felt the tectonic plates shifting beneath his feet again. The air went cold, too cold to breathe, and anyway Bruce's lungs had stopped working. Alfred's voice was the only thing that kept him anchored. That measured, even tempo while the world pitched and tilted around him. He put his hands on the desk and leaned over the tablet, swiping to another view point, following them through the manor. "I would never call you stupid, Alfred," he said softly. "You --" He stopped, glancing up at the older man. "You lost him too."

With a fluid motion, he pushed off the desk and strode around it. "We need to verify it," he said again. It was a last grasp, and neither of them really needed to. But Alfred humored him, as always. "We need to know how this happened, and why. Until we do, everything is just speculation." He paused, standing in front of Alfred. Looking over at him. "I'll... need to go out tonight," he said, hesitating for reasons he couldn't quite understand. "Once we have the test results. Bring the mug to the cave, please." He hesitated again, but only for a second before striding off to one of the entrances.

That's not possible. Alfred laughed a hollow laugh. "Sir, anything is possible in Gotham," he replied. He met Bruce's gaze, and could fancy he saw the professional mask flicker just for a second. They both wore masks, though Bruce's was more literal most of the time. Alfred knew it. Thomas Wayne had known it. He knew the man Alfred had been, before, back in London. All the yes sir and Master so-and-so and the pocket handkerchief and the pressed suit stuff was part of his own mask. A mixture of things he'd learned in the army, and things he'd picked up from growing up in Whitechapel, rubbing shoulders with men who were just passing through on their commute to London proper.

Bruce said they should verify it, and immediately headed for the study. Alfred followed. "I made him a cuppa," he replied. "I left the mug in the sink." He wasn't surprised Bruce wanted to check. He'd meant what he'd said, that anything was possible in this city, but he also knew from experience that things like this were usually too good to be true. Bruce put a hand on the desk to steady himself, but Alfred didn't go to his side. He knew it wasn't what Master Wayne needed. He needed distance, to think this through. He knew he would have been doing exactly the same thing, had he not seen and held Jason for himself.

"For what it's worth, I don't think it's a trick," he replied, seriously. "I couldn't believe it either, but I was as close to him as I am to you now. I drove the lad here. I talked to him --" He cut himself off, knowing he needed to explain what had happened from the beginning, as Bruce had asked. He sighed, paused, gathered his thoughts, and spoke again.

"I was on my way back to the car. There was a boy in front of me, on the pavement, with his back to me. He seemed reluctant to turn around. He told me to avoid some corner or other. I can't remember where. Was doing a real good job of avoiding eye contact, even when he turned to face me, and he tried to shuffle past, but I saw him." His voice broke a little, and, like Bruce had, he paused, pushed the emotion down. It was just a story. A report. Like he was reporting a mission, way back when. "It was Jason. No mistaking him. His hair had white streaks in it, like he'd dyed it, but it was him. I reached out and grabbed his arm, and he was really there. Tried to fob me off and tell me he didn't know who the bloody hell I was. Had a real good go at it too. He even put on an accent." He smiled sadly, and kept talking. "But it was him. It was chucking it down, so I put up my umbrella, and led him to the car. Before you say anything, sir, I know that was bloody stupid of me. But if you'd have seen him standing there, soaked through like that, you would have done the same."

[darkjustice]

Bruce doesn't expect the cigarette to go out. Isn't surprised by the next drag on it, more shocked the smoke isn't blown directly at him. Still, the smell is acrid and sharply unpleasant before the slight night breeze carries it away. If only grief and mistakes were so easily dissipated.

He grows still at the question. Almost imperceptibly, since he's so still in general. But inwardly, he feels it. Every word of Jason's, dripping in sarcasm, sends ice through his veins. The frostbite is sharp enough to sting. "I wouldn't know," he answers honestly. He sends gardeners to the gravesite, pays for its upkeep. But he doesn't go there. Even before Jason crawled out of it, that's not where his memory was. Not for Bruce. The shrine in the cave, that's what he has instead. It's private. It's his. But he doesn't say this aloud, doesn't tell Jason that. How could he? How can he offer any explanation, when he's failed this deeply? Failed to protect him. Failed to keep him alive. Failed to notice he had returned.

Bruce looks over at him. Because despite the cowl and the cape, this is a conversation between Bruce and Jason, not Batman and Robin. Both of them irrevocably changed by the other, never to be the same again. "Ra's," he repeats, nodding once. "I should've guessed he was involved." But his mind is spinning, spiraling, and he can't spiral. He's Batman.

"Alfred says he invited you to stay at the manor," he says, refocusing. "But you're not going to take him up on that offer, are you?" His gaze is steady, unmoving from the boy. He can't satisfy his own desire to reach out, to pull Jason close, but he can look at least. Assure himself that the boy is alive with his own two eyes. The silence between them is thick, fraught with tension. "You..." Bruce stops. Swallows hard to ensure his voice will stay steady. "You must have questions."

Jason does look at him — when he's turned to look at the city. Bruce looks older, from what he can sowl. They're both so much older now. He just wants his dad. He wants to leap off his building and never see him again. Everything is always a tangled up mess, whenever it comes to him.

He doesn't put the cig out. He knows it's not going to kill him. He's quick to turn away again when Bruce looks back at him. Takes another drag out of spite. Exhales slowly. His eyes had a faint green glow to them, in the dark like this. He doesn't turn to face him directly, but he is looking at him. He's half tempted to blow smoke right in his face. But that would be plain uncalled for. Probably.

"When was the last time you visited my grave?" He asks in lieu of a proper answer, leaning back further against the gargoyle. "It wasn't even a year before I crawled out of it, I think. I dug through the coffin and six feet of dirt. Wonder if anyone noticed and just fixed the grass over it without saying anything."

He glances away, and focuses his gaze on the burning butt of the cigarette. He doesn't remember much. He thinks he wasn't all the way back in his body then. But he remembers being lost and confused and scared and hurting. He couldn't remember his own name but he remembered Bruce's. It was his dying breath after all. He remembers crying and crying and no one answering. Two weeks. Two weeks he haunted the streets of Gotham before the League scooped him up like some stray cat.

He sighs.

"Became a zombie. Attracted Ra's attention, I guess, and became a little less of a zombie. Not much to it, really."

[darkjustice]

Grief. Bruce knew grief well. Batman was born of grief. But a very special kind. Overpowering, all-consuming, a hungry kind of grief. The kind that demanded something be done, action be taken, justice be served. It was easy to get lost in that kind of grief. Bruce wasn't sure he had ever really escaped it, wasn't sure he ever would. He couldn't let that happen here.

"Given that you were acting like a child again, I decided to treat you like one." Batman's voice was rough, each word harsh. That's what grief like this demanded, there would be no sugarcoating. That wouldn't help. (That's what he told himself. That's what he needed to tell himself. So he could ignore the way his heart was pounding in his throat. So he could pretend this was all about what Tim was going through, nothing to do with himself.) "Those are excuses," he said flatly. "Not explanations. You're still being trained, on supervised patrols. A peer is not supervision. Especially..." He trailed off, jaw clenched tight. "You're coming home. Now. This mission is over."

His cape swirled behind him as he turned, and he started forward, expecting Robin to follow. Batman had given his order. But Bruce paused, half a step into the shadows. "Getting yourself hurt or killed won't change what happened," he said, staring forward into the dark. Giving them both the chance to avoid eye contact. Batman straightened up. "Let's go."

There was nothing left in Tim Drake's life. He'd stopped talking to his friends around the same time he dropped out of high school. Any plans he had to further his education were washed away with the blood of his father. It wasn't long before his home was taken and most of his father's things were given away to old family members who never cared to know him. What he had left was this mask and a name that belonged to two other boys before he borrowed it. A name that suited him a little better than the one he just so happened to be born with. He always liked being Robin more anyway. The daring adventures, the mysteries, the way he felt like he was doing something to actually help people. It meant something.

Tim felt himself cringe at the sound of a familiar voice. Grovelled and deeper than the one he heard at Wayne Manor. It was humourless, but he was pretty sure that was supposed to be a joke. Part of him wanted to remind him that Bruce wasn't his father, but it was a little too cliche. So he settled for something else, "I haven't had homework in a couple years." He teased, "Was that a joke? Or did you hit your head?" His tone a lot lighter than Bruce's. Even knowing he was in a world of trouble right now. All he could do was try to keep his cool while swearing internally. Batman marched over to him and he straightened his back as though he was a young soldier. "I'm just scouting. I'm not in jeopardy. You trained me... you know I'm capable. Besides, I'm not technically alone. Stepha- Spoiler's going to meet me."

[darkjustice]

"Alfred --" Bruce stepped forward, the mask slipping just for a second. The flash of concern in his eyes, the real fear gripping his chest. But everyone was fine, he said. He was steady on his feet, didn't seem ill or... Bruce didn't understand, couldn't process the words for a moment. They hung in the air above them, he felt the moment right before they hit him. That final second before his life flipped on its axis.

"That's not possible," Bruce said, shaking his head. He loosened his tie, fumbled at the buttons of his shirt. But his eyes met his friend's, his oldest and dearest confidant, the one person who truly knew him -- the one person he would always trust, with everything. Alfred was no fool. And Alfred would never lie to him, certainly not about something like this. He would say it if he was sure. "We should verify it," Bruce said after a moment. He shucked off his jacket and tossed it on a chair as he walked into the study. "Did he touch anything in the house? We can check the fingerprints." He set a hand on the desk, just his fingertips touching the wood. Just barely, but enough to keep him steady while the world rocked under him. He stared over at an empty, unlit fireplace. Impeccably clean and gleaming black spikes. No wood stacked in it, just an empty hole. A darkness that Bruce felt all too familiar with.

"I felt him die, Alfred. I felt the warmth leave his body. If this isn't him -- if it's some trick or trap, I.... I don't know what I'll do." He smirked, and plucked a tablet off his desk. Flicked through a few screens to call up the surveillance system. "But it won't be pretty. It might even be decidedly ugly." His eyes met Alfred's. There were so many half-strung together questions in his mind, but he couldn't detangle them all. Couldn't begin to understand it. So he pushed it down, down and away. "Why don't you start at the beginning and tell me everything?"

Alfred had been waiting to broach the subject of Jason all day. He had no bloody clue how he was going to bring it up. He'd barely wrapped his head around it himself. But the one thing he knew was that he needed to inform Master Wayne, as soon as possible. He knew Jason's death had weighed on him, more, even, than it had weighed on Alfred. They had both carried the loss in different ways. After the boy's funeral, they'd both come back to Wayne Manor, and it had been hard to imagine Jason wouldn't stroll in from school, swinging his rucksack, chatting to Bruce about their next adventure. Thinking about him, remembering him like that, made Alfred despise himself more than he thought possible. He'd let the boy go out and fight crime like a sodding Hardy Boy. And he'd got killed. Simple as that.

Alfred waited for Bruce to return from the press conference, standing to attention in the lobby of the manor, letting the loathing and grief and fury eat him. He deserved it, didn't he? Just because the lad wasn't dead, that didn't undo what had happened to him. When Bruce finally walked through the door, Alfred knew he didn't need to say anything for the other man to see something was wrong. It was written all over his face.

"Yes sir," he said hurriedly. "Everyone's fine." He gripped his hands together behind his back, and cleared his throat. "I ran into a lad yesterday. Thought he was a street kid. But --" He cut himself off, and stared into Bruce's eyes. "There's no easy way to say this, Master Bruce, so I'm just going to say it. It was Master Todd." He kept his voice steady and calm, for Bruce's sake. "It was Jason. He's alive. I don't know how. But he is."

[darkjustice]

"I remember a lot of things, Jason." He remembered an angry little boy, with such a powerful sense of right and wrong. He's here again, right there, alive and breathing. But he's different. He's... Bruce can't say what, exactly. He's Jason. But he's not. He's more. Or maybe less? That's the horrible thought, a needle in the back of his mind, drilling into his skull, sending pain straight to every nerve ending -- but Bruce can handle pain. He's so good at freezing it out, he barely has to think about it.

Bruce steps out of the shadows. Comes to stand a few feet away, looking out over the city. His eyes slowly come back to Jason. Taking in the sight of him. He's older. There's that streak through his hair that wasn't there before. The look in his eyes, that fierce cold in them -- that hadn't been there before either. It's like staring into a black hole. "How are you here?" Bruce asks, voice measured, calm. He can guess, he has theories -- but whether Jason answers, how he answers if he does, will be very telling.

He could reach out. Put a hand on the boy's shoulder and pluck the cigarette from his fingers and pull him into a hug. He could picture each step in his mind, but he stayed frozen, still as the gargoyle beside Jason. "Put that out while we talk. Be a shame to come back to life only to get lung cancer, don't you think." The words sound almost human, almost like they had a thousand times before over dinner or training or during patrol. "Jason, are you even going to look at me?"

Jason knew the moment that Alfred saw him, there'd be no avoiding an early reunion with him. He really didn't want a confrontation. Not really. There was a part of him that would rather fall off the face of the earth before seeing Bruce again— but this needed to be done.

It's not what he had planned. But he already had to change some things as the years went by. It's important to be just as flexible as he was thorough. He can keep his purpose for being in Gotham separate from the Bats. His objective has shifted several times over the years — once more isn't going to kill him a second time.

So, instead of donning his usual gear, he slipped on his more inconspicuous dark red League-style fatigues. There'd be no use hiding the Pit's effects from Bruce — might as well rip the band-aid off. Alfred didn't need to know it, but keeping it from Bruce would just... well.

He's not that bright-eyed, bushy-tailed little birdie anymore. He fell from the nest and didn't get back up. He knows that Bruce and Alfred are wanting that dead little boy back. But he's not that kid anymore. He died and came back broken. And he's far from being that scrawny teenager anymore because of it. Some sort of wake up call needs to happen, before things spiral completely out of his control.

He's perched beside the gargoyle like he always used to. No mask, just Jason with a face marred by scars. There's a cigarette dangling from his mouth. An old habit that's also made a return. He glances towards Bruce when he approaches and tilts his head. Doesn't quite turn towards him fully, not yet.

"Not gonna lie, I'm a little surprised you bothered to remember this place."

[darkjustice]

@all-blades

It was Jason. He's alive. I don't know how. Alfred's voice had been ringing in his ears for hours. He couldn't remember right now how the conversation had gone after that moment. Because as soon as he heard those words, a tidal wave of emotion had swelled up above him. So high it blocked out all the light, left Bruce completely in darkness. Holding his breath.

And then it crashed down around him.

Grief first -- he remembered holding Jason in his arms, limp, cold. The terrible weight of death like gravity pulled harder on the lifeless. Sometimes he still felt that weight in his arms, even now. But then joy, unbridled, wild, like a fire tearing through him, scorching, too fast, too much, too intense. Jason, alive. Alive again, with that attitude that couldn't be contained and a smile that would melt a room when he was really happy. How could Bruce not feel joy, remembering that? Remembering him as he was? But then crept in suspicion. Fear. Anger. Was this really Jason? How could he be alive? Oh, there had been plenty of cheated graves in Gotham, even bonafide resurrections -- but had anything good ever come of those? What if something else had taken Jason's place? What if... What if he was changed?

It was that last question that finally made him don the cowl and slip out into the city. He could've gone to where Alfred had said they ran into each other. But no. No, Bruce followed his gut and found himself at the belfry. Approaching a particular gargoyle. He stood there, silently, staring up at the figure while the tidal wave crashed over him all over again. Everything, all at once. "So. It really is you," he said finally, standing very still in the shadows of the belfry.

[darkjustice]

@thedetectiverobin

Some people called Batman 'The World's Greatest Detective.' But it didn't take a whole lot of sleuthing to track down Tim. Alfred had raised no concerns, but that in itself was a concern. A moment of too quiet that had tickled at the back of his mind. Perhaps that process could be called a sort of detection, but actually tracking the boy down to a rooftop in the Narrows -- well, it wasn't exactly child's play, as Bruce had trained him, but it wasn't impossible. "Funny," he called from the shadows behind Tim. "This doesn't look like your room. I thought you had homework." His voice held no humor, humor was nearly impossible in the low rumble he used as Batman. And they were Batman and Robin now, not Bruce and Tim. He couldn't let those lines blur, not again. "You were told not to go out alone," he barked, striding up to the boy. "You've put yourself in jeopardy and compromised my trust. So I hope you have a very good explanation."

[darkjustice]

@butlermate

"All in all, it was a successful venture, and Wayne Enterprises looks forward to collaboration with other major Metropolis businesses in the future. I think that's all the shareholders wanted me to say." The reporters laughed, and Bruce smiled at the cameras the way he had practiced all his life. Then he held up a hand. "Thanks everyone, but I've really got to go. I've got a lot of work left to do at home -- like sleep." It wasn't, strictly speaking, a lie. But most everything else he said was, along with the casual grin and wave of his hand as he strode inside Wayne Manor.

Inside, his demeanor changed. Once the door shut, his face grew stony, unreadable. His posture straightened, he cracked his neck. The vapid gleam left his eye, replaced with a brooding look. He had planned to find Tim first, a quick check-in before he went down to the Bat Cave to get the scope of what he'd missed while away -- but the look on Alfred's face made him pause. "What happened?" he asked simply. "Is everyone okay?"

[darkjustice]

By Rohan Sendi