im positively obsessed with the idea of jason finding out about dick killing the joker, and it meaning absolutely nothing to him -- hell it might even make how he sees dick, sees the bats, even worse
just the idea that jason has been pulling away, he cant find a reason to keep trying with these people, person after person, kid after kid, name after name gone. ages ranging far too low to keep playing this game of cat and mouse, to keep pretending that he will ever be happy with these people.
he's been selfish, so so SO fucking selfish and hasn't been worth a fuck.
the bats notice, they see jason willing to hit harder, that he pulls back later and later and later, how he doesn't even bother yelling amymore, he says his piece and shuts down -- no amount of poking, prodding, and berating is getting him to engage
it's a big one, but they're desperate.
they've got jason in the cave, another night of close calls, another night of the tension ratcheting up in all their shoulders, they know what he wants to do, and jason knows what he SHOULD do, but they press on
and in a desperate bid, they tell jason dick killed the joker, a hail mary if jason's ever heard one, and the fucked up part is, he believes it, he believes it 100%, but he knows there's more to this story and the GUILT on dick's face disgusts him.
his stomach rolls with it, it's almost as bad as how he felt when shelia looked at him, mid puff, mid crowbar, mid bone shatter.
the regret, the guilt, the fucking cowardice
jason remembers heaving when he looked at her, blood and bile mixing in ways no child should ever taste.
at least there's no blood
instead, he demands the footage, placates them with removing his guns from their holsters, knives clatter on the table and taking off the mask, they wanna catalog his disgust and disappointment that's on them
and he watches how the joker taunts dick about him, how the idea of tim being dead was enough of a straw to break the camels back, how dick's already folding under the pressure, how bruce takes one look at his golden boy and moves to fix it
and jason matters to no one
dick cant watch the footage, he knows what he did, he sees it flash behind his eyes plenty, he just watches jason, and they're being shut out -- jason's face is blank, carefully, there's nothing they expected to see, no tears, no joy, no satisfaction-- there's nothing
dick feels his tongue fumble for words, "i. . . couldn't stand him talking about you like that"
and jason snorts, "ah okah so we're pretending you didnt think tim was dead, got it," he rolls his shoulders and starts walking back to his weapons
tim cant help but cut in, as if what he has to say will make a difference, "he gave you what you wanted, what more do you need"
jason continues to check his weapons over, sliding knives back into place, "what i wanted was a dead joker, what i wanted was a family that valued me more than that sack of flesh, instead, ive got three cowsrds staring back at me wondering if they got an A for effort."
jason's hands are steady, relaxed even, his mask sits in his hands and he briefly flicks his eyes down, it's kight and somehow painfully heavy, from the color, to the title, to the power -- it's defined his life for the last decade and realizes. . .
these people were never worth it.
50 dead 32 of them under the age of 18, all people he could have helped, could have kept ALIVE if he wasnt so busy tearing scabs open and bleeding at the feet of people that cant even BEGIN to understand what loyalty means
he puts his mask back on, "im done, dont call me."
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