He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand any better than he did on the day he dragged Joker out of the closet, had his gun pressed up against too-pale skin, the indent and give of a temple. And I don't know that I can ever make him understand, or if it's even my place at all to try. The scar peeks through between his fingers, and I feel... regret. Wonder if the murderous gaze that I'd shot Joker in that moment, the blaze of anger, brushed by Jason instead.

In the end, it doesn't matter if he hates me. Doesn't matter if he'll be angry with me for the rest of his life. If there is anything that can convince him to make something out of the years he has left, out of the hope that a part of me wants to believe still exists, buried underneath all that rage, then that should be enough. Let me be the one who stays underground.

Let me be the one who carries the burden.

"The goddamned Wolverine," I reply first; it's the easier answer. No need to say what the injuries do all their own, that the station was filled strategically, and successfully so. It takes another breath.

"This isn't what I wanted for you."