Jason leveled the gun between your eyes, the tremble of his hand barely visible to anyone outside of himself. The walls of the manor are closing in, and the walls of the room that was once his feel like they’re suffocating him.

This is the room of a dead boy, he reminds himself. This place is not your home anymore. This person means nothing to you, and they mean everything to Bruce.

But he can’t pretend like you mean nothing. Not when the hand holding the gun is trembling. Not when his eyes are filling with tears. Not when his voice breaks when he says your name like he’s fourteen again. Not when he sees that you’re clutching his copy of ‘Where The Red Fern Grows’ to your chest like it’s going to save you.

He remembers you reading it to him, sometimes. When he was sick or otherwise incapacitated, unable to keep his eyes open but still starving for knowledge.

“You let him live.” He grits out in a voice that should not be wavering. “You knew what he did, and you still let him live.”

He can’t tell if he’s talking about the Joker or about Bruce. All of his emotions are in a big jumble in his chest, sitting heavy on his heart like it means to punch a hole right through him.

And you look so scared. For someone married to the Bаtman, someone who he’s seen face down intruders with nothing but a heavy candlestick, someone who has always been so impossibly strong, you look absolutely terrified.

Jason came here to kill you. He came here to get his revenge. It was supposed to be easy, quick. In and out. You weren’t supposed to be in his old room. You weren’t supposed to look so scared.

He wasn’t supposed to remember how much he loved you, how kind you’d been to him. He wasn’t supposed to want to crumple into your arms. He wasn’t supposed to feel like he was fourteen again, stars in his eyes at the thought of a parent that could actually care for him.

He can’t kill you.

The gun lowers. He takes his helmet off, face tilted towards the floor. He’s taller than you, now. His heart hurts.