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This world is strange, Jason thinks.
He sits with Tim on the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling, and watching the dark expanse of the night sky. It's strangely clear tonight for Gotham City, without a hint of smog. He can even see the moon, an arched crescent just above their heads.
It's only been a single day since he somehow got sucked into this god-damned dimension, but he's already sick of it. He and Tim have barely exchanged more than a single brief greeting. I don't want to talk to you, he thought upon seeing the man for the first time, almost as much as I don't want to see your version of Bruce.
Fleeing outside to sit under the stars felt like a cowardly move, but if he didn't get a breath of fresh air, he thought he was going to suffocate. If he spent another minute in the Cave, he was going to break down. So… the roof of Wayne Manor, looking out over the city.
Nothing stopped Tim from following Jason up to the rooftop though, or from sitting down right next to him. Nothing stopped Tim from gazing up at Jason with eyes that almost felt like they were piercing his soul.
It's odd, Jason thinks, to sit beside someone who seems so familiar and yet not. The other man has Tim's face, sure, but he's so unlike his Tim that it's bizarre. Though, he guesses, that might be unfair. It's not like he ever really got to know his Tim much anyway, since they've never really been on even remotely friendly terms. He hasn't seen much of the man, beyond…
…beyond the photos and videos the Joker used to show him.
He shakes his head, a bitter taste rising on his tongue as he runs a hand through his sweaty curls. He doesn't count the photos and videos. Doesn't want to count the photos and videos, not really, despite the fact that he can see Robin's signature bright red, green, and yellow colors against the back of his eyelids when he blinks.
He presses the palms of his hands to his eyes, as if vainly trying to wipe away the image. He nearly flinches when he reopens them and notices how close this new Tim has gotten, leaning in to peer up at Jason with an expression that feels like a struggle to name. The other man raises a hand, gesturing softly at the left side of Jason's face.
"Did he do that?" Tim asks quietly.
He doesn't say the name, but Jason knows.
Jason reaches up to thumb over the scar on his cheek, a thick and ragged brand in the shape of a J. Even now, years after the scar's formation, it still twinges with phantom pain at the gentle touch. "Yes," he replies, even though he doesn't want to answer, "Yes, he did."
Tim cocks his head, his own hands moving to touch the corners of his lips. He's not smiling, but it almost looks like it because of the man's own scars; two faded gashes sit on the sides of his mouth, turned upwards into the faint veneer of a grin. "It's probably mean to say that I'm glad I'm not the only one," he says, "But I'm glad I'm not the only one."
Those are why I didn't wanted to talk to you, Jason says to himself. I can't stand the sight of the stars those scars. He doesn't have their story, doesn't know the reason why they're there, but he can make assumptions. They still remind him of his own Joker, staring down at him with that stupid, terrible grin. Jason also didn't want to have this conversation, but Tim is just that type of person that would want to have it anyway. At least that's the same between universes.
Jason feels like his heart has been yanked out of his chest and set in a platter for the man. Tim knows his story—would have been told it during the debrief about how and why Jason ended up in this dimension in the first place—but Jason doesn't know his, doesn't know anything other than the fact he has those stupid fucking scars.
"Fuck, man," Jason mutters in place of a real reply, releasing the swear aloud.
"Yeah," Tim agrees softly.
"You know, I wanted to kill the Joker," Jason says, which is funny, because it feels like he's spilling his guts to a literal stranger in sheep's clothing. This isn't his Tim, he knows that. This isn't the Tim he spent hours upon hours being forced to look at, and this isn't the Tim that replaced him. Hell, Jason doesn't even appear to exist in this universe. This Tim never replaced Jason because I don't exist.
Any leeway he makes with this man will do absolutely nothing to change the fact that his Tim likely currently despises him. For good reason, he knows, because, god, I almost killed his girlfriend.
Jason keeps talking anyway. "I wanted to kill the Joker, but in my universe… by the time I finally had the chance, it was already too late." He stares hard at the moon. "He died because he was sick. Can you believe that? The stupid bastard did it to himself, taking all kinds of drugs to try and become more powerful. He absolutely deserved it, but still… I wish I was the one who got to end it."
There's a long, silent pause before either of them say anything.
"Sorry to disappoint, but you can't kill him in this universe either. I already took care of that for you," Tim replies at last. He looks at Jason with very solemn eyes. "Killing the Joker is kind of overrated, to be honest."
Jason lets out a sound that sounds halfway between a laugh and a choked cry, his eyes snapping away from the sky and back to Tim. He lifts his hands to press against his mouth in attempt to muffle it, but doesn't think he succeeds. Tim smiles a real smile, so much more reassuring than the false one made with just his scars. It shows just the barest hint of teeth and reveals a hidden dimple on Tim's cheek, and strangely, it reminds Jason of the Joker much less that way.
"I was eleven," Tim says, smile fading back into a frown. He's twisting his fingers together, fidgeting absentmindedly. He picks at his fingernails, hard enough to draw blood. "He's the only person I've ever killed."
The expression on his face screams that he knows he's never going to forget it, but that he's doing his best to try.
Jason bites his lip, a feeling of mild shame bubbling in his gut. He wants to say that while I never killed my Joker, I've still killed plenty of other people, but he doesn't. Instead, he says nothing. He throws himself backwards, hands raised, crossing his arms under his head. He blinks up at the sky and the shining moon, pointedly not meeting Tim's eyes when the man looks down at him. He stares out at the sky, drawing the lines between constellations with his eyes.
"The Justice League said that they'd figure out a way to get you back home soon," Tim offers.
"I don't want to go back home," Jason replies. "There is nothing for me there." There is no Bruce, he thinks, there is no Bruce, because he's dead and it's all my fault.
Tim smiles again, this time just a bit sadly. Jason is struck by how different he looks from Jason's Tim. When he first land eyes on him, he had thought they shared the same face. Only, that's not quite true. They have the same face, almost, but this Tim has those scars on the edges of his lips and heavy bags under his eyes and the beginnings of premature crows feet, despite probably only being around Jason's own age.
Tim closes his eyes, and lies back, joining Jason in pulling his arms up to act as a pillow. The two of them are so close together, barely a foot apart, and their elbows brush against one another. Jason sucks in a slow, steady breath.
There's a thousand things that Tim could say right now, but for some reason, the one Jason doesn't expect is "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too," Jason says reply, and it feels like he means it. "I don't know what happened to you, not entirely, but… I'm sorry," he says again to Tim, though he knows that he's apologizing just as much to someone else. I'm sorry, Bruce.
A shooting star streaks past above them, white and hot, and Jason allows himself to lie for a moment with someone who seems to actually, truly understand.
I really don't want to go back home.