the night is darkest just before the dawn

"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."

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."

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.

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."

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.

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.

"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?"

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?"

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.

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.

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.

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."

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."

"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."

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.

"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?"

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.

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?"