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Jason didn't mind the rain, before.
For a long time it didn't mean anything but not being able to play in the streets for the afternoon. Catherine didn't used to work back then, and she wasn't sick either, so she was home too, making them hot chocolate and reading her magazines or playing her crosswords.
Sometimes, she and the other ladies from the apartment would sit at the front steps, drinking lemonade and gossiping about their husband's while the kids played up and down the street. But not while it rained.
This was still back when Willis was taking shifts at the local mechanics (back when the bills were manageable, with no school fees, no medical bills, no need to look for work in the backroads to make ends meet).
He wasn't always home when Jason was awake, but on the days he did come back early, Willis would drag the mud in and get told off for not wiping his boots on the doormat. He'd scoop Jason up and laugh when Jason squealed at the cold he brought in with him.
It's pouring it down out there, Jace, Willis would always complain, messing up Jason's hair with large hands covered in car grease and smelling of cigarettes, your pa almost drowned in a puddle!
Jason would sit by the window in the living room, perched over the back of the sofa and watch as Gotham's perpetually grey clouds grew even darker, trembling in the sky as large droplets fell and marked the pavements. Frowning, he'd watch as the scribbles of chalk got washed away, swimming down the road for the drain.
Catherine would sit beside him, the two of them content with the slight chill from outside covering the room. In the summers, their apartment got awfully stuffy, even with all the windows open, so a slight cold was more than welcomed.
"When will the rain stop?" He asks impatiently, throwing himself over the arm of the sofa.
Catherine rolls her eyes at his antics, reaching over to tickle his exposed belly. She smiles something unforgivingly bright when he giggles, "I'm not sure. Whenever the clouds get tired, I suppose."
"Ma," Jason sighs, "Clouds don't get tired."
Catherine raises a brow, setting her crossword puzzle down on the coffee table, besides two steaming mugs of hot chocolate, "How do you know that? Have you asked them?"
Jason's confusion only grows and he scrunches up his nose, peering up at the clouds quizzically before looking back at Catherine, "Clouds don't talk."
"Sure they do, you just need to listen carefully," she tells him softly, patting the spot next to her, "Come here love, I'll show you."
Evidently dubious, Jason heaves himself from one side of the sofa to the other, exaggerating his movements to really show how displeased he is with being forced indoors. Catherine watches him with amusement, wrapping an arm around him and pressing him into her side when he's close enough.
She leans down a little, pressing her lips to the crown of his head and she whispers quietly, "Now just close your eyes and listen."
It takes many moments until Jason settles, Catherine's holding him tightly in a way that is always familiar. It's the perfect spot, by her side, slotting into the space that's small enough just for him. At first, Jason's too focused on the sound of the washing machine in the kitchen, just about nearing the end of its load, then it's the startling sound of a police siren in the distance.
Just when Jason's about to tell her that she's being silly, he hears it. The gentle pit pat pit pat of raindrops against the window. There's no clear rhythm that sticks for long enough, but when Jason closes his eyes, he can almost make out the faint drumming music that comes with the rain. The sky rumbles occasionally, deep and echoing outside, followed by more falling droplets.
"Can you hear them?" Catherine whispers when Jason starts to melt into her embrace.
He gives her a sleepy hum in agreement.
They sit there in a not-quiet silence, listening to the tapping of droplets against the window and the howling of the wind through the vents, when the front door opens abruptly.
Jason jumps awake, having been dozing off his mother's arms through the lulling silence of the rain, blinking quickly in a daze. The sounds of the rain and the wind sound incredibly loud for a moment, before they're muffled by the front door closing on them once more, replaced with the loud footsteps of heavy construction boots walking down the hallway towards the living room.
Willis appears in the doorway, his curly hair plastered down onto his forehead from the rain, work clothes absolutely drenched and dripping water all over the floor. He's got a huge grin on his face at the sight of Catherine and Jason curled up on the sofa.
"Jason! It is pouring it down out there!" He complains in lieu of a greeting, laughing as he runs a greasy hand through his wet hair, "You should've seen me! Your pa was swimming through puddles to get home."
Jason scrambles off the sofa (almost slipping on the forgotten crayons he had been playing with earlier) to jump into Willis' arms, getting the front of his pyjamas all wet. Today, instead of smelling like cigarettes and petrol, Willis smells like the outside and the rain.
Somehow, Jason finds he doesn't quite mind the scent of Gotham clinging onto his dad.
Catherine watches them both with exasperated fondness, glad she hadn't given Jason a bath yet when Willis rubs his wet cheek all over Jason's face, before she sees her husband's muddy boots, "Willis take your damn shoes off, I just mopped the place!"
Willis throws Jason over his shoulders with a fake gasp, carrying the boy like he's a sack of potatoes and ignoring his squeals of surprise, "You hear that Jace? Your ma don't even care that I almost drowned tryna jump over the ocean in Miss Sharma's driveway. I keep telling that woman to fill up that pothole!"
"I'll drown you in it myself if you get mud into my kitchen," she grins despite herself, "Go get cleaned up, I made hot chocolate."
Willis smirks, "What, no welcome kiss?"
Catherine's face drops, and she arms herself with her unfinished crossword puzzle, "Willis I swear to god you better not —"
"Jason," he announces, flipping the boy over so he's in Willis' arms again, "Let's give your ma a kiss!"
"No!" Catherine shouts, jumping off the sofa and scrambling towards the kitchen, "Get changed out of your wet clothes first! Willis!"
Jason giggles loudly when Willis laughs next to his ear, the rumbling of his chest shaking him around as they run after a shrieking Catherine, "Here we come!"
"No!"
"What do you mean no?" The man scowls, dumping the rest of the small backpacks belongings out onto the muddy street, "You telling me you've not got it?"
Jason wipes his mouth, grimacing when the taste of blood mixes with dirt, "I'm telling you I didn't take nothing!"
"He's lying boss," someone else says, a kid only a couple years older than Jason, a cruel smirk on his face, "There was at least two-fifty missing from this week's total."
The man who had originally slapped Jason across the face kneels down, grabbing him by the front of his hair and tugging him up to make sure Jason's looking at him, "You hear that? Someone stole my money, so if it weren't you, who the fuck was it?"
"Why don't you ask the assholes who keep blaming me," Jason grumbles, ignoring the aching pain on the side of his face. He can already tell he's going to have a massive bruise on his jaw in the morning, which means the homeless shelter is going to ask questions if he tries to get a meal.
"What're you implying?" The teen from earlier spits, stomping forward and stepping on Jason's belongings, "You saying I stole the money?"
Jason hadn't specified just which asshole he was talking about, but the guy had practically sold himself out by rising to the bait. The man holding Jason by the hair must realise it as well, because he growls under his breath before throwing Jason backwards. He slams his back against the alley wall, but at least it doesn't leave him exposed.
"Dammit boy, if I find out you stole my money I swear to god —" his anger is quickly redirected from Jason to the other boy, who's brave facade immediately peels away to reveal a terrified looking teenager. Jason almost feels bad for indirectly ratting him out.
The man grabs the teen by the collar, dragging him away from the alley just as the first few drops fall onto the pavement. The smell of an oncoming rain had been pungent throughout the streets all day, and Jason's both thankful and annoyed it's chosen to start pouring now.
The rest of the men who arrive to threaten the non existent money out of Jason quickly realise they're not going to get anything, much less from a shaking ten year old, and follow the main man out, leaving Jason slumped against the alley wall.
One of the men lagged behind for just a moment, not looking as pleased by Jason's trembling frame as the others had. He looks around, sighs, and takes his wallet out, pulling out a couple of one dollar bills.
"It ain't much but it'll get you a meal tonight," he grumbles, before giving Jason one last pitiful look, "Listen kid, you'd be better off jacking tires than getting involved with this lot, you hear me?"
Jason didn't need to hear what he already knew. The only reason he had even agreed to help this group of pickpockets and thieves was because the shelter was starting to get less and less lenient with helping him out without asking any questions.
It's only a matter of time before they realise there he doesn't actually have a sick mother to look after anymore, and once they do, it's straight into foster care again. Jason would rather die.
"Fuck you," Jason scowls when the man waits around for an answer, but holds the money with an iron grip.
The man looks like he wants to say something else, but a call from the group ahead pulls him away. With one final, pitying look, he ducks out into the rain and runs down the street.
Once the man leaves, Jason finally relaxes, sitting back and leaning against the alley wall. The rains start to pick up, large puddles forming in the dips and potholes of the road beside him, but Jason can barely feel anything.
He stares down at the money the guy had given him is some twisted show of mercy, and has half a mind to just throw it into the mud beside him. Then, with large and heavy movements, he starts to pick up his very few belongings the guys had dumped out.
It's not much. Most of the things can just be wiped down and salvaged, but other things might have to be thrown away because of the rain. There's a battered copy of some book Willis liked to read that Jason's hadn't tried to yet, but carries around with him anyway, and the front cover has completely ripped itself off, the rest of the pages completely drenched.
Jason reaches for it, tears in his eyes, but realises there's no use. It's completely ruined now.
But underneath it, he manages to pull out a crumpled up photo. He quickly shields it to his chest before it can get anymore ruined, heart beating loudly and painfully. The book is beyond saving, but at least it protected the photo.
The only photo of Catherine he has left.
Jason takes in long deep breaths, trying to calm himself down as the rain becomes almost unbearable. There's only so much cover a dumpster or a bridge can give you, and Jason's not sure if either will be a safe option to ride out the developing storm.
With a shaky sigh, he looks down at the money again, the only things left dry because he's holding them so tightly.
Jason wonders if he could buy a hot chocolate with this.
"Is it not to your liking?"
Jason blinks, looking away from the mug of hot chocolate to Alfred's concerned gaze, "What?"
"The hot chocolate," Alfred clarifies gently, "You've been staring at it for some time now. Is there something wrong with it?"
Jason feels the back of his neck burn as a flush grows on his cheeks, and he quickly shakes his head, taking a large gulp of it just to prove there was nothing wrong. Alfred's mouth twitches in amusement, but he says nothing as he watches Jason struggle to swallow his huge mouthful.
Dick is watching him from the other side of the table with a similar expression of bemused delight, his own mug of steaming hot chocolate clasped in his hands. The seat beside him is empty, but there also sits another mug of hot chocolate, untouched.
"You've been pretty distracted," Dick starts offhandedly, not meaning anything serious by it as he takes a sip of his own drink, "Everything alright?"
Jason blinks in surprise. He hadn't noticed himself acting any differently. Sure, he's less talkative to some degree, but that's because Dick is here. This is probably the third conversation they've ever had without Bruce playing the buffer that Dick ends up latching onto instead of Jason, despite their rocky relationship. It's probably easier to talk to someone you hate than someone you don't even know.
But Bruce is running late from a meeting, probably caught in traffic caused by the sudden storm that's overtaken Gotham. His hot chocolate is on its way to lukewarm given how long he's taking.
"It's nothing," Jason says unconvincingly, very aware of the knowing look Alfred gives him from the counter, where he's busy preparing tiny cheese sandwiches for snacks later.
Dick doesn't believe him, but doesn't push, shrugging as he takes another sip of his drink. Jason follows in turn, savouring the warm sweetness and slightly tangy aftertaste of Alfred's signature and secret hot chocolate recipe.
"Do you think Bruce is okay?" He asks to fill the silence. It's not awkward, exactly — since Alfred appreciates a calm and quiet kitchen to unnecessary chaos, and he and Dick don't have much to exactly talk about — but the silence is still a little too stifling.
Dick thinks about the question, before sparing a brief look out the large floor to ceiling windows that look out into the garden, "The storm is getting pretty intense."
Jason picks at the slight crack in the ceramic mug to sedate the itch to do something. He hopes Alfred doesn't notice and throws it out. It's his favourite mug.
Alfred hums, cutting the sandwiches into perfect triangles meticulously and plating them on a tray to put in the fridge, "Master Bruce is more than okay. He should be here any moment now."
"Should we drink his hot chocolate?" Dick whispers cheekily, sliding Bruce's mug over to him. Jason watches, a smile tickling the corner of his mouth.
"Well, he is late," Jason says in agreement, checking out the corner of his eye to make sure Alfred's distracted with picking his next cheese filling. The old butler is very insistent that Jason shouldn't have too much chocolate, as per the diet Leslie has him on.
Dick grins at him, sliding Bruce's mug until it's right between them on the table, wisps of steam rising from the foam layer on top, "Well, you should do the honours."
Jason doesn't stop his smile this time. It's still strange, talking to Dick and remembering that this is not a stranger but a brother , but it's these brief moments of childish enjoyment that reminds him of the fact.
That this is just another part of his new life.
As he reaches out for the mug, there's a sound of the large front doors opening by the foyer, letting in howling wind and gusts of rain.
"Jay? Is Dick still here?" A familiar voice calls from the main corridor.
Jason looks up at his older brother, eyes wide, "It's Bruce!"
"Quick!" Dick laughs, scrambling out of his seat and grabbing one of the muffins Alfred had left out for him, "Grab his hot chocolate and hide!"
Jason giggles, "He's going to find us!"
"How are you so sure?" Dick raises a brow, more than willing to indulge childish games of chase for tonight.
Jason's chest is oddly light and bright when he laughs, "Because it's Bruce!"
"What'd he say?" The woman shouts, leaning forward without actually getting any closer to the boy laying down in the middle of the road.
Her boyfriend is still screaming on the phone, half shielded in the car as he rattles off whatever address their GPS is showing to the operator on the other side. The woman looks around nervously, desperately hoping someone will come running up the empty road to collect the kid.
But it's no use. Whoever got rid of the kid evidently doesn't want him back.
The boy's body lurches upwards again, like something straight out of a horror movie, and the lady would have jumped ten feet away if the kid didn't immediately start sobbing. It's a strange sight though, because he looks dead.
He's ghostly pale despite what was probably once warm tanned skin, and what parts of him are not sickly looking have heavy and dark bruises. Bursts of whines and crying leave him periodically, but he doesn't seem awake at all. He's covered in blood and it seems to be coming from his arms mostly, but he's covered in so many cuts so it's hard to say what the major injury is.
Not to mention he's dressed in what looks to have been an expensive suit at one point. It's ripped and soaked through from the pouring rain now, but the shine of satin and the thick shirt underneath speak of carefully chosen care.
She shivers, thinking that he looks almost like a buried corpse come alive — or, come back alive.
It's this heart wrenching sight of a boy who might only be barely fifteen, limping and collapsing in the middle of the road and almost getting run over by them, that makes her step forward to inspect him.
"Don't touch him!" Her boyfriend cries from the car, sounding disgusted, but the rain is heavy enough that she can pretend not to hear him at all, "The ambulance is on its way!"
As she kneels down on the muddy road, the boy's eyes open halfway, looking like he's lost someplace between being awake and asleep. His mouth parts just a little as he mumbles something.
Against all better judgement, she leans closer, her ear close to his mouth, "What? Say that again?"
"Bruce…" She hears him mumble, voice croaky with what she assumes is damage (she hopes it's not from screaming).
"Bruce? Did he do this?" She echoes, trying to figure out the significance of an otherwise average name, and sees the boy twitch, "Or… you want us to call him? Get Bruce?"
The boy falls silent. The rain starts to get stronger and she hovers above him, stretching her coat as best as she can above him like a cape to shield what little of the rain she can.
"Who is that, love?" She tries to get him talking again when he looks like he might be slipping away, "Who's Bruce?"
The boy almost sighs, eyes opening as wide as she thinks he's able to with the harsh bruises around his face, and maybe she's just imagining it when he's got a gentle smile, tears streaming down the side of his face, "Bruce…"
"It's okay honey," she tells him, feeling her own eyes tear up at whatever torture this poor kids been through, "We'll find your Bruce."
She has no idea who Bruce is, but he's important enough to this boy who can't say anything but his name.
Then, it hits her.
"Is Bruce your brother? Your… dad? Do you want us to call your dad?" She asks hurriedly when she notices his eyes about to roll back.
But it's too late, because as the sound of an ambulance siren grows nearer, the boy's gone completely still. As he's whisked away by the equally as horrified but professional paramedics, she hesitantly lets them know the boy's father might be named Bruce, and that's all he seems to remember.
She never does find out who this Bruce actually is, or what happened to the boy they found half-dead in the rain.
(The father had lost a son.)
Jason feels the first drop of rain right on his hands, which are throbbing in pain from where he punched Batman right across the face. His middle knuckle sits awkwardly in a place it shouldn't, and while the pain is pulsating through his entire hand, he finds he's almost numb to it.
He feels numb a lot of the time. A strange numbness. Somewhere between the feeling of being on fire and being under ice. A pain so visceral, so consuming, it's barely there at all.
Jason takes a deep breath in, closing his eyes hard. He raises his head until he's facing the sky, every sharp and heavy drop like acid on his face, digging deeper and deeper under his skin.
Behind his closed eyes, he smells wet mud. The graveyard is cold and dark, Gotham's sky is almost red with pollution and it feels like the world is on fire. Bruce is standing right in front of him, staring him down.
Jason had a clear image of what he might've seen based on the man who he remembers raising him. Bruce was always quick to cry, softer than anyone gave him credit for. Jason was expecting something similar to that — maybe horror, or relief, or guilt.
Instead...
Disgusted. He couldn't believe this is what Jason might have turned out to be, what he is.
There wasn't a single ounce of regret on his face.
"He didn't even care," Jason whispers to himself, facing down again, slowly opening his eyes just a sliver to see how his feet are beginning to sink into the wet ground below him, "He didn't even —"
The rain is unforgiving and it looks like it might flood, and Jason's body remembers what it's like to try and fight the downpour, when you dig upwards and keep digging to no avail. His body remembers how clay sticks to skin, rubs painfully and weighs you down, how wood and rocks break fingers and nails. His body remembers the burning cold.
But Jason can barely feel the unconscious tremble that overtakes him, as his mind is elsewhere.
He didn't even care.
Jason balls his hands into fists, gripping them tightly, leans forward and screams.
He can barely hear himself over the crashing of the thunder and the vicious rain.
(And the son had lost the father.)
"It's going to rain," someone says tentatively behind him.
Jason doesn't bother turning around and dignifying that observation with a response. He knows it's about to rain. Gotham had been stuck in a perpetual grey standstill all weekend, teetering on the line of a storm. The air smells of old dew and humidity.
Jason shrugs when the silence grows, realising they'll get nowhere if he doesn't try to carry the other side of this uneventful conversation. The sooner it's done, the sooner Jason can leave and have a night of peaceful sleep.
The dark figure floats closer, with the same temperament of a large dark rain cloud, moving swiftly and carefully through the sky. Jason doesn't tense like he might have done years ago at this approach from behind, but it doesn't mean the discomfort isn't there.
Judging by the way the dark cloud clears his throat croakily, the discomfort seems to be a shared sentiment, "You should head home early tonight."
Jason scoffs, peering down at a passing car on the street below, going well above the speed limit while being way too close to a corner of apartment buildings, "Oh yeah? You gonna take your own advice?"
Finally the dark cloud comes to stand beside him. Jason is leaning against the railing of the room, with dangerous haphazardness, while the cloud stands ramrod straight beside him.
"Someone has to protect Gotham," the dark and perpetually frowning cloud replies without an ounce of shame.
(Jason remembers when the dark cloud used to be a little brighter. Smiling more than it frowned.)
Jason rolls his eyes, completely unsurprised, "Yeah well, that's too bad. Maybe I want to protect Gotham."
This time the silence is less crumbling and far more threatening, because what usually follows it is a completely unpredictable comment that sends Jason spiralling for days afterwards. It can either end in one of them screaming, or crying, or fighting —
"And who will protect you?" The cloud asks in a rumble. The sky follows in tandem, and finally, the string breaks and Jason feels the cold rush of wind cut between them. It's going to start raining.
"Bruce," Jason whispers, barely audible from the voice modifier in the mask and the sudden booming from the sky, "I don't want to do this right now."
"It really is going to start raining," Bruce continues unperturbed, ignoring him entirely and changing the subject by pointing out the obvious again.
Jason's hands shake in poorly suppressed frustration, and he would really appreciate one of the other Bats swooping in to distract Bruce so Jason can make his escape, but unfortunately for him, it's just them on the roof. Bruce has obviously thought about this conversation, and sought him out to accomplish something, so a rushed escape would only just move them to another roof.
"Batman listen I really —" he turns to face the man with a sigh, entirely too tired to handle whatever it is Bruce's put his mind to.
He stops short when he sees Bruce staring down at the street with a troubled expression. For a genuine moment, Jason thinks Bruce is going to jump over the railing to catch the joyrider who sped off into the distance, but instead, Bruce grits his teeth and tenses his jaw.
"You —" Bruce starts, eyes transfixed on the metal rail and not willing to look anywhere else, especially not in Jason's direction, "You always… hated the rain."
Jason's breath gets caught in his throat.
For a moment, Batman's shoulders seem so much broader than he remembers, his figure less imposing and more encompassing. Batman's cape carries a dark universe, empty and devoid of anything without a brightly coloured Robin hidden beneath it, and Jason stares at the way it swallows his father's entire being all on its own.
Jason feels very small all of a sudden. Far too small to be standing here with a storm brewing right above him.
"You tried to hide it but I could tell," Bruce continues, tone awfully wistful, but expression too pained to seem melancholic, "You always insisted on staying up together when there was a particularly bad storm. You never liked movies, but you loved the cinema room when it rained. You enjoyed sitting by the fire if it flooded,"
Bruce chuckles, something deep and familiar, "I remember I suggested we go out and play in the rain as a joke once. I don't think I've ever seen you look more horrified about anything in my life."
"Alfred also hated that joke," Jason finds himself saying without thinking, not sure whether to be surprised that he remembers this memory with such clarity, or surprised that it makes Bruce smile wider.
"Alfred hated the joke because he hates mud," Bruce says in amusement, and finally, looking up so he's looking at Jason and not the city below them, "You hated it for other reasons."
Jason tenses at that. Bruce notices this.
He doesn't add anything else.
Slowly, Jason forces himself to relax again, letting out a shaky breath he hopes is hidden by the howling wind, "What do you want from me, Bruce?"
Bruce's expression goes pinched again, and it would otherwise amuse Jason that this is what Batman looks like when he's caught off guard. He obviously hadn't prepared for this conversation to get this far, or get here at all.
The first few droplets fall beside them, slowly building in force. The rain is still light, still growing. There's still time for an escape.
Bruce stares him down, "Go home."
Jason's face twitches in annoyance, "Fuck you."
There's still time to run. The rain isn't here yet, not entirely. The storm is still approaching.
"Then," Bruce says, the cowl masking his eyes, but his voice betraying what hides beneath, "Come home."
Jason wants to laugh, if he didn't feel like screaming, this was supposed to be unpredictable.
"Not a chance," Jason grumbles, pushing away from the railing with more force than necessary, rattling the metal bars precariously. Batman doesn't even flinch, continuing to stare at him with an expression that isn't harsh enough for Jason's liking. This is usually the part where they start fighting.
The escape is imminent. The storm is close.
"Fine," Bruce understands startlingly easily, stepping back from the railing so they're standing face to face. Jason a few inches taller than the man who's always seemed like he was larger than life itself, "Then stay with me."
Jason freezes when the last announcing crack of thunder roars, before a sudden wave of rain befalls the city. Neither of them move, even when it's harder to see what sort of face Bruce's making now, the rain harsh enough that Jason can feel it through his leather jacket.
"Are you fucking with me?" Jason demands, shouting just a little to be heard over the rain.
"No," Bruce says back, not even shouting at all, but Jason hears him all the same, "Stay with me through the storm."
Jason's hand trembles at his side, "And do what? Play in the damn rain?"
To his surprise, that evokes a bark of laughter out of Batman, and Jason's sure he's gone insane, because it's a little regretful no one else is around to see how ridiculous of an image this is. Batman and Red Hood, standing on a roof in the pouring rain, laughing.
"Yes Jay," Bruce says too quietly, a smile in his words, and Jason can still hear him, "We'll play in the rain."
It's all a little too much at that moment, even if there's a sparkling warmth in place of where there is usually a crushing coldness. He's soaking wet, can barely hear anything, he can barely see —
This would usually send him crashing to the ground, clawing at the floor for some sort of escape.
But in front of him, stands Bruce Wayne. His dad.
"I don't need you," Jason suddenly announces, just so he's made it clear to the world.
He can't see Bruce's face when he replies with a slightly louder, "Alright."
"And we are not playing in the rain," Jason continues, realising these are just nerves talking for him at this point. He's shivering slightly, which is rare given how warm he runs and how fast he heals ever since he returned to Gotham. He's not entirely sure it's from the cold.
Bruce laughs again, and Jason thinks maybe Scarecrows infected the rain again, and this is all one massive hallucination, "It was a joke, Jason."
"Oh yeah sure, Batman the comedian," he retorts, fighting a smile off his own face as he turns for the door to get off the roof, "Come on then. I hate standing in the fucking rain."
He realises this is the first time he's actually admitted that out loud. There's no chiming of bells or fireworks or even a settling closure under his skin. No great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. It feels almost anticlimactic.
Bruce grunts in agreement, moving after him dutifully as what sounds like deep reverberating laughter escapes his chest. Jason can feel him following behind, like an annoying, ever constant, dark thundering cloud.
The rain continues and so does Jason.