Black & Red (Young Justice/Batman Fiction)

Chapter 6

I make the 6 o'clock news on four different channels. There's even tweets from TMZ about me pounding that guy's face into the sidewalk; I got some "likes". Unfortunately, none of those "likes" come from Alfred.

I got back home around 6:30, just in time to meet a furious Alfred—furious meaning one of his eyebrows was raised and his mustache twitched a bit when he talked—who immediately called Bruce to let him know I was home. Alfie tried to talk to me after that, trying to figure out why I went ape-shit. What was I supposed to tell him: I dunno, Alfie, I just wanted to hit something and the guy got in the way of my fists? And hey, I still wanna kick the shit out of something, so move.

To tell the truth, I don't remember what I said to him. I just know he left me alone. I been in the gym ever since, beating the shit out of a punching bag. I don't even bother with gloves; hell, I don't even bother to get outta my school clothes. I did lose the jacket after an hour though.

I don't hear the gym door open, but I see Bruce in my peripheral vision just standing there with his arms folded over his chest. I give the bag one last jab and spin to face him. I know I look a hot mess. Every inch of my body is dripping sweat, and my long-sleeve shirt clings to me like second skin. I use both hands to peel matted hair off my forehead so I can see Bruce better.

I need to know what kinda mood he's in. I have to know what to say to him; how to explain. I owe him something for showing the press how fucking crazy I am. Bruce doesn't look pissed or scared or confused... he just looks like he did at the hospital earlier, tired and completely owned, like he lost it all. The look in his eyes is the same as when he's in Dick's hospital room watching him sleep, like he's watching the world—a world he can't save just because he wants to.

He sees the world in Dick. A lot of older people do... but why is he looking at me like that, now? You don't see the world in guys like me; you see... I shut my eyes, envisioning the crowd on the sidewalk and the pervert on the ground all moving away from me.

Bruce unfolds his arms and clears his throat. In a soft voice, he asks, "Do you want to shower first?"

A shower before "the talk" where you tell me how bad I screwed things up for you? How cell phone videos of me kicking ass on YouTube are gonna make people think you don't know what you're doing with Dick and me?

I don't want a shower. I don't want to wait. Like I wanted to know days ago, before Dick got so sick: Where do I stand with Bruce? "Where are we, Bruce? Am I..." God, how do I ask this? "What are you gonna do with me?"

Bruce's blue gaze doesn't break away from me and it doesn't change; he's still looking at a world he can't save. "I don't know, Jason. But... I'm not doing right by you, am I?"

I blink. Bruce not doing right by me? I almost snort. How much more right does he think he has to be? Feed me, clothe me, make me your kid, gimme a brother; make me a hero... "'Course you're doing right, Bruce!"

I just can't get it right. I make a fist and hiss; my hands are throbbing and sore from hitting the bag so hard for so long. I look down at my bruised knuckles and keep my head bowed. Sweat dribbles down my chin. "There's just something wrong with me. Maybe it's..." like Dick inheriting a kidney disease "...inherited. Everyone in my family is a fuck up. My dad, my mom, my aunt... my uncles are both in prison."

"There's nothing wrong with you, Jason," Bruce says, voice still soft; he's so tired he can't bring himself to yell. "Not like you're probably thinking. You're just angry, scared and confused. Leslie and I talked. We've come to an understanding about Dick's care. She's not going to have to do what she told you she would."