lights behind the glass

[crusaded]

I start to wonder at the voice that echoes through the pipes. The laughter, thin yet grandiose, wears at my nerves until my teeth grind, a click sounding through my aching jaw as I take heavy steps through the city. I have half a mind to stay underground, to make sure that Jason eventually takes the bathysphere to the surface. A brief sweep of the area has already unearthed stores of food, sources of drinkable water, and although I don't cherish the thought of leaving Damian and Cassandra to their own devices, I know that they're more than capable of handling themselves on an island like this. Provided Jason doesn't find them. Provided his friends...

No. It may take a second fight, one as violent as the first, but again I am left with no other choice. Seconds seem less crucial now, but still I steadily walk along the shadows, eyes open and following every fleeting dot of red in my surroundings. Wondering. People must have built these walls, laid out the ground below my feet. The arch of a rainbow stretches to one side, the lights behind the glass dimmed, sparking.

"—think you can take my stage—"

I'm hearing things.

"—what good are you? Broken, shattered, remnants of a soul—"

Alfred's voice doesn't linger by the shell of my ear, but his thoughts breach regardless. Entreaties. Wondering if I can't afford a moment's rest.

Comments

[crusaded]

He steps closer, far from afraid. That's where the line between Jason and this young man is drawn. The memory of a parent can be a terrifying thing, the type of impression that never fades, never lessens— there isn't a day when I don't think of my own parents, the shadows that they cast and whether or not I live up to them, if I can ever manage even for a moment. As a father, I certainly haven't. I know that. I could try and justify it all I want, argue that any son of mine needs to be prepared for the eventuality, the likelihood that there will come a day when I am no longer around, long before they feel ready.

Truth is, I'm simply not fit to be a father.

A second passes before I ask, without taking a step, heart still thrumming with the adrenaline that refuses to subside, hands still clenched. "What's your name?"

[onlyapassenger]

Don't think I'll ever get used to that, people not recognizing this uniform. It's different from Steve's, but the general idea of it... It's iconic. I know all about alternate realities, but I still have trouble picturing a world where Steve Rogers never existed.

Bucky considers the question. He could give his civilian name. He doesn't, strictly speaking, keep a secret identity around these parts, though he doesn't make a point of flaunting his past, either. But the guy he's talking to is dressed like a giant bat, and so Bucky decides to play by the rules of their peculiar little culture. He's tense, his skin fitting tight over his bones, his pulse pounds like a hammer in his chest, but a spark of incredulous humor lights up his eyes.

"Captain America."

[crusaded]

I hear the flare of pride in his voice as he gives the name— no doubt, he's accustomed to having people in the world recognize him for the uniform, and the shield he wears on his back. But I don't. The ease with which he brushes by that moment of hesitation shows that he's had plenty of time to grow accustomed to the particulars of the island. Plenty of time to find Jason a home, though not enough to keep him from retreating down to a place like this in times of greatest fear. What strikes me more is the reverence that he affords the title. It reminds me of Jason and the first time he tugged his arms into the sleeves; of Tim, expressing the strong belief that there needed to be someone to hold the mantle; of Stephanie and her ever-present need to prove herself. Even Damian, first running to my side bearing the same colors, pieced together as well as he was able.

Were I to think of myself or of Cassandra, I'm not sure that either of us has ever managed quite the same. Respect fades into embodiment. Nature. Reflex.

"Batman," I reply, not because I doubt that he knows, but instead, because it seems fair.

If anyone's keeping count.

[onlyapassenger]

"And here you wanted to skip the pleasantries," Bucky says, with a flash of white teeth, too on edge to keep the grin from turning into a grimace. He steps back, not out of respect, but because he needs to or else risk breaking detente. The shield keeps him grounded, its weight a reminder of ideals he's worked hard to reclaim as his own.

It's a small island. They'll run into each other again, but he's in no rush to test his control a second time anytime soon.

[crusaded]

Briefly, temptation strikes hot. On some level, I seek the edge in every person I encounter, fellow hero or criminal. Knowing where the fissure lies is instrumental in understanding a person, in being able to predict their actions, a useful skill regardless of whether I'm trailing those destined for Arkham or if I'm trying to decide which direction Jason has likely walked in. I doubt I'd have to push hard to break him through the surface, if only because it wouldn't take me much in turn to join him in the thick of battle. And a fighter can always see that in another.

Useful though it may be, my hand is forced, my priorities lying elsewhere.

"I wanted to know your name. But I won't ask for what I refuse to give in return," I reply, taking my first step, forward and carefully circling around him.

My time should be done here.

[onlyapassenger]

A note of dark amusement sounds in Bucky's throat as he turns to leave.

"I already know your name."

[crusaded]

The revelation, if you can call it that, comes as no surprise. And I have yet to meet a single person who doesn't, at some point, require an ally. So let Jason have that.

All else can fade to silence for now.