RP with BroodingBat
He's making progress on escape. He's a fair distance from actually going for it, but he's still rather pleased with himself. He's positive the panels are the best option now- he highly doubts Bruce doesn't have some type of backdoor built in for himself, and it makes sense that it's those things. And now, he thinks he has a way to open them. He's got some idea what they do, too. He's not positive on the specifics, of course, but it's enough to start to work from. Watch Bruce when he goes in and out, experiment with the system- that type of shit. Anything to figure out just what they do. He's not entirely sure where to go next with it, but he'll figure it out when it comes.
But for now, he's just letting his mind wander, sketching nothing in particular, just to have something to do with his hands.
Bruce enters. He has tea and biscuits. Those little sugar ones that Alfred assured him for well with the smoky tea he'd prepared. The man moves towards the end table by the couch and sets it down.
He glances briefly up at Bruce, then back down at the sketchbook. He hadn't spoken to the man since earlier that morning, flat-out ignoring him when he'd brought food in earlier. He's not sure if he will this time. He's pretty sure Bruce'll say something, of course- not like he'd bring in food now, otherwise, unless he was looking for an excuse to talk, he's sure.
"You conducted yourself well with Little Tim," Bruce comments as he pours the perfectly steeped tea in to the waiting mugs. Of course the mugs aren't to Alfred's standards, but they are unbreakable.
He can't quite repress the snort of laughter. The kid'd gone to all that trouble to keep the bastard from finding out, too.
After a moment, he's forced to lower the sketchbook, laughing harder. Oh fuck, that'd been hilarious. He still can't believe the kid'd managed to get himself locked in.
Bruce lets himself almost smile as he watches his middle son. "Does this mean you like him?"
He shrugs. "He's not bad, I guess."
"He is rather. Cute. Though his energy levels rivals Dick's."
He blinks. "Cu- who are you, and what have you done with Bruce?" He pauses. "And can you keep him?"
"Keep Little Tim?" he asks, giving Jason a puzzled look.
Jason shakes his head. Yeah, that'd probably sounded wittier in his mind. "Nevermind."
"I am working on a way to send him back to his own universe, but honestly, it's going to take some time. If it's at all possible." Bruce pauses. Oh. That's what Jason was asking."And yes. 'cute' is how I would describe him. He's far too. Spastic to be considered 'adorable.'" His face is stony and solemn, as Jason seems to want.
He snorts a little, turning his eyes back to the sketchbook. "That so?"
"I could wish it was otherwise," he offers sincerly.
He continues to focus on the paper, offering, "Well, anyone who drives you nuts is okay in my book."
Bruce blinks. "Drives me nuts?"
"You sure sound annoyed enough."
Bruce frowns. "You don't like it when I attempt humor. And you take me to task when I'm serious."
He blinks. "Hm?"
"How do you want me to behave, Jason?" It's an honest question. Guessing hasn't worked. At all.
He pauses, the graphite coming to rest against the paper.
"... kind of a loaded question there," he says slowly after a pause, buying himself time. He- God, how the hell is he supposed to answer that? He knows how he wants him to behave- he does- he just- he doesn't even know what the hell to say to that.
"It's a loaded situation. And I will own up to my part in making it so. But. I can't just leave you here. Alone. And I don't want my presence to cause more problems."
"You know, there's an easy solution to that," he says sardonically, mind still racing.
"It's not a real solution."
"Pretty sure I wouldn't be complaining."
"You wouldn't be home. You wouldn't be sleeping. And. I." He frowns. Feelings, specifically the expression of them, aren't something he's good at.
His hand tightens on the graphite. "And you what, exactly?" he asks, voice cold.
"I would. Miss you." Even with Jason hating him. These stolen moments with his son mean a lot to him.
He pauses, hesitates, then redoubles his resolve. "No. You wouldn't."
"Yes. I would." He takes a deep, steadying breath. "Jason, you don't know what it does to me, to have you back, but to have you hate me so."
He presses the graphite harder against the paper. "What it does to you? Obviously not that much."
"Jason. Killing the Joker isn't an act of caring. It doesn't show what you mean to me."
"You let him get away with it."
"I don't kill, Jason. That's doesn't mean I'm letting him get away with it."
"You haven't stopped him."
"Stopping him won't mean I care more than I do."
He just about breaks the graphite in half, he's holding it so tightly. "... you son of a bitch," he spits, voice low. He's- goddamn it, he's fucking admitting it, and he still won't- he doesn't even- won't even fucking stop- did he mean that little to him?
"I will keep trying to show you, that I care for you," he says as he stands. "That I want you whole again." He turns to leave.
"He killed me," he says in a quiet voice, "Because no one stopped him before."
"I can't do it." And some part of his mind hates himself for it. He tells himself that he's being strong, that he's being principled. But that's not why.
"Then let me."
"You had time. You even saved his life, taking him to a veterinarian after beating him near to death. You won't kill him."
"I needed him alive long enough. I don't now."
"Jason, I will not argue this with you again. I will just keep doing my best to see you healthy." He heads toward the airlock. "You will have your first meeting with J'onn 7pm, tomorrow."
"Fuck you!"
Bruce doesn't look back. He just leaves.
He throws the sketchbook angrily back on the table, twisting an agitated hand in his hair.