Jason had been the one who wanted to kill Bruce.

He didn't care who he had to side with to get it to happen, but it had been part of all he cared about. All he had thought about for years, it seemed, whether it was when he was tied up in that abandoned wing of Arkham, or putting on that suit, or working with criminals like Scarecrow and Deathstroke. He had wanted to make him pay for what he abandoned him to, the branded 'J' sitting under his eye a permanent reminder of that torment.

But Bruce couldn't even let him have that. It almost made him laugh, how comical it seemed. He was so quick to take away what other people wanted, to abandon things for his own cause. Jason wondered if he should have even followed that truck in the first place, made that shot, but he had. Because despite everything, it changed his mind.

Enough to shed the Arkham Knight gear and dump it somewhere he wouldn't see it again. Even in death, he wondered if Bruce was giving him that just about concealed knowing look through his cowl.

"You don't have to be here, you know," Jason muttered grimly under his breath, having not even turned around when you approached. He felt you take a seat beside him, the wind a little frosty up on the roof of the building. His brows furrowed, flicking another small rock off the edge. He watched it land on a lower roof across from them. He'd been consumed by the thought of Bruce for years. He almost felt empty, like a light with nothing to follow, now that he was dead. He thought maybe he'd feel better now that he was gone.

So, he skipped the funeral. He wasn't ready to assimilate into his life like that, nor did he feel comfortable being there. It still tore him up inside, in strange ways.

"He wouldn't have wanted me there," he chuckled dryly, but there was a second of something akin to regret. He sighed heavily, shaking his head. "It's Alfred's, too. You should go. He's probably already rolling in his grave."