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]

I believe in the guy's conviction. I do. I believe that he thinks himself capable of putting me down, and— well, right now, I wouldn't put it past him. The barrel staring me down grates at my nerves. Years later, and it still calls to the forefront of my mind all of the small details, the sound of a siren too far in the distance, of the orchestra muted by a sprawling brick wall, the deep bass thrumming in my chest. The situations aren't one and the same, but the shadows slip over everything else just enough. Just enough that I'm finding it hard to focus on the words that slip through his mouth, presumptuous, as though I now rest calmly in the palm of his hand, to do with as he may.

Ridiculous.

But I listen, regardless; what a person claims can come to pass may prove just as insightful as watching every action they take.

"So talk," I tell him, unwilling to back down by even a step. I know what stands behind me, and I know that I have more to gain by keeping away from the wall than I do by the marginal benefit of another foot or two away from the barrel of his gun. A couple steps in, and I start moving to the side, wondering if that'll be enough to trigger him. Wondering if that's my goal.

Then again, if he's any friend of Jason's, and if I still know even half of what there is to know about Jason these days, he won't take that final step. Sound travels too well in pathways that echo like these.

"And stop wasting our time with idle threats." Through the words, my hand quickly slips by my belt, a batarang now nestled safely in my palm. Blunt.

Won't do me any good in a chase, but it's enough to knock a gun readily out of most men's hands when wielded correctly.

[onlyapassenger]

There's no warning save, perhaps, for Batman's own words. Were Bucky of sounder mind, maybe he would've quipped in reply, would've swallowed his own reckless impulses, but he's had a rough go of it lately, and all he sees now is an excuse to let loose. He's been made impotent by this island, his actions over the past year rendered futile and useless through interference by an unknowable power, but he has not been made idle.

He wants me to talk? Fine. Just gotta get comfortable first.

Darting forward, Bucky's left hand wrapping around Bats' neck, and thanks to the fine folks at S.H.I.E.L.D., he's able to lift the guy just enough to show he can, though he refrains from any greater show of strength. Refrains from throwing him into the wall.

That's better.

"I gave Jason a home," Bucky says, so deliberately, so casually, it belies his anger. "Dragged him out from his cave and put an honest-to-God roof over his head... Yet the second he thinks you might show up, he goes running underground like a wounded animal."

Sucking in a breath, he continues, "I've been cleaning up after your goddamn mess since I first met the kid, and I will not stand for you ruining what he's built here, you throat-cutting son of a bitch." He lets go with a shove. "Stay the %*(? away from him."

[crusaded]

Anger typically does one of two things. Explosions aren't uncommon. But neither is an emotion filing down until it's nothing more than the finest of an edge, held carefully against the vein. There's little subtlety in the way that he grabs around my neck, no way for him to lay claim that my very presence isn't boring under his skin. This isn't a man who wants a talk— this is a man who wants a fight, and I find myself all the less inclined to give it to him. Why? Why give him the high ground, why give him the satisfaction, or justification for grinding me into the pavement? If he wants to find reasons to justify every single step he's taking, let him.

But I won't help him. In his eyes, I see an anger too fresh, almost young in its ferocity. Can't quite place it, but before I can stop myself, my lips curve in a grin. Tense. Without mirth. "Yeah?"

My arm darts out, wrapping around that same damned hand that clutched me around the throat, but for all my voice cuts out ragged now, I feel that I almost owe him thanks. I hold him in place, grip tight.

"Great roof you've put over his head, here," I reply, words quick, cutting. "And what were you going to do if I didn't choose to surface?"

[onlyapassenger]

Bucky doesn't feel the hand, only knows it's there because he's looking right at it before his gaze tears upwards. He's wound up like a clock, but it's that singular detail that delays instinct; his mind's flooded with countless ways to break free, but he already knows he'll opt for the simplest when the time comes. His brows arch behind his cowl, unseen, though the set of his mouth hints at an unspoken challenge.

"You can rot down here for all I care," he says when he finds his voice, and he smiles colder than a Soviet winter. "But I'm taking the kid back home if it kills me."

[crusaded]

I don't let go of his hand, not when it actually seems to be holding him in place, if not physically. I'm not a fool— I know that he could break out of the hold in any number of ways. The strength of his arm is indicative of that much, and when combined with his speed, the reinforcement of my glove alone isn't going to do anything. But that's not what I'm after. Because there are certain types of people you don't win against with intimidation, and in his eyes, I see that about him. Defiance, and a will tempered by any number of things that might have happened in his life. All I need is an audience.

That's what happens when you grasp at straws.

"Don't let it," I reply, releasing my grip, dropping his arm with a hint of force. In case Jason's around, in case he's watching, I lower my voice so that even the nearest shadows would have a hard time feeling out the words. "And don't you assume that you understand all of what's happened to him."

[onlyapassenger]

The second he backs off, I want to surge forward again and punch him. He could take it, just look at the bastard... He's built like a damn wall, and there's not a doubt in my mind that he could dish out whatever I gave him in turn. Months I've spent fighting nothing more than shadows, but the day I'm offered something that can bleed, I know I have to let him go...

Because I took the shield instead of the knife... Because I know that it'd be wrong not to... Because, even if he's a jackass, Bruce Wayne is still Jason's father... And I won't take from someone else what was lost to me. Not from another orphan. Not unless it was the only way.

But it's not. And in the moment, I hate this place just that much more.

It's training alone that keeps Bucky poised. Stubbornness that finds him locked on the spot. He doesn't flinch, moving only to square his shoulders before he steps in just enough to be uncomfortable.

"Good advice," he says. "Don't forget it."

[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.