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Today 3:11 AM
Rude-Robin
So… were all in agreement rite
Rude-Robin
P=SM? Its too coincidental for him not 2B. No way is J shacking up w 2 diff guys in and out of costume
Rude-Robin
@Orphan Annie can u confirm 🤔
Orphan Annie
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
I'll Spoil YOU
genuinely the worst Robin 👎
Orphan Annie
( ͡°( ͡° ͜ʖ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ʖ ͡°) ͡°)
ohhhhhhhh
oh shit 😣😨 suddenly that rooftop made a lot more sense holy hell
I'll Spoil YOU
TELL TELL TELL TELL TELL TELL TELL TELL TELL TELL TELL TELL
3:10 AM
— + —
The entire ride home, Jason feared Peter would fall straight off — the guy was not only exhausted but still half-frozen, idiot — but miracle of miracles, he stuck to Jason like glue. It was only when they stopped in front of their apartment and he waited for Peter to get off that Jason realised Peter never fell off because Peter was literally stuck to him. Unnerved, he tugged at one of Peter's hands, clutching Jason's sides. Peter's fingers were lax but his skin clung to the fabric like velcro.
Weird. Was that how he stuck to the walls? Jason hadn't decided if that particular skill was an ability or had something to do with his suit, but there was no webbed fabric to muddy the waters now.
"Pete," Jason huffed, twisting in his seat to catch Peter's attention.
"Mh?" Peter blinked dopily, like a child waking from a long car ride. Another blink and Peter realised what the problem was. "Oh! Sorry."
And then Peter's sticky hands were gone and he was practically flying off the motorcycle. Back on solid ground he stumbled but righted himself quickly. Brow's creased with trepidation, Peter glanced between the apartment block and Jason, still perched on his motorcycle.
The way Peter stood… the way he fidgeted uncertainly… Jason was abruptly reminded of the first time they'd met as Red Hood and Peter Parker. Before Peter knew who Jason really was, and vice versa. The anxiety and guilt that haunted Peter, brought to the surface by the thought of having hurt Jason. The emotions Peter showed now weren't far off what Jason saw in him then.
"Go on up," Jason said gently — as gently as his modulator could muster, at least. "I'll be back soon. Have to change back into civvies."
Peter nodded mutely and trudged, zombie-like, up the main steps. Exhaustion weighed down his shoulders, a heavy miasma of darkness Jason thought he could have swiped his hands through, so tangible was its presence. But maybe that was his own exhaustion talking. Fuck. He wanted to collapse into bed so fucking bad.
He could have waited. Could have said it later, when they were safely ensconced in the privacy of the apartment, but Jason couldn't help himself. It had to have been the weariness. A moment of weakness between brain and mouth. But once he'd committed there was no turning back.
"Pete."
Peter stopped in the doorway, head turned but not all the way towards Jason.
"I'm sorry. About your home."
Peter's hand tightened on the handle, before abruptly going slack. It did this several times. The silence was heavy with a grief that could find no justice. Jason understood it well: the feeling of having lost access to a world that was once precious to you. Of knowing it carried on without you while you remained trapped behind an impenetrable wall. Impotent. Alone. Unable to touch that glossy future. Look but don't touch.
And? All the while? Those who'd stayed on the other side of that wall stared or frowned or — or mocked. Unable to comprehend your grief at a world they thought unchanged.
"You know…" Peter said eventually. He finally glanced back at Jason, who suddenly wished he'd said what he'd said without the armour and the mask and the four steps of concrete and the five steps of sidewalk between them. Peter's gaze was dark and heavy. Red-rimmed. "You know… I was relieved, for a moment? When he said I couldn't go back."
Jason's hands clenched into fists where they rested on his thighs. He hung his head, then looked up. Even though he knew Peter couldn't read Jason's expression, Peter deserved his full attention.
"So was I."
Peter's mouth fell open. He sucked in a breath as though to speak. Then, devastatingly, he offered Jason a weak smile instead.
Jason gunned the engine again. Too much. He'd revealed too much of himself to the open air.
"Be back soon. Lock the door."
"Okay," Peter might have murmured, but his response was drowned out by the revving motorcycle. Still, Jason waited to see the front door close firmly behind Peter before he sped off to his closest bolthole, eager to return before Peter decided that running again was a good idea after all.
— + —
Deja vu take two, Jason thought when he fell against the apartment door little more than twenty minutes later. So eager to return before Peter decided to do something else stupid and ill-advised, Jason hadn't even bothered to wash out the black wax in his hair (not that the bolthole had much in the way of bathroom facilities anyway).
His thighs burned, right down to the bone. He'd jogged most of the way back; shambling up the stairs was the final killer. Stupid fucking elevator. It was already a long night, what with the horror and relief of finding Pyg, only to be worsened by Constantine's appearance and everything that followed. The last thing Jason needed was the elevator out of order again to tie things off in a neat, shit-stained bow. They'd have to get on that, pronto.
And to think, the night started on such promise, with that high-spirited chase across the district.
Jason took a moment to compose himself — get his breathing under control — before he let himself inside. Only to be immediately disappointed: lights still out, no sign of Peter, though his bedroom door was ajar and the rush of water from the bathroom told Jason he had the shower running.
He sighed. Kicked off his boots. Said hi to Dog when she hopped up from her bed by the window and flicked on the lamps — anything more felt like too much for the hour.
Peter was probably hungry. The last thing he'd eaten had to have been that single protein shake. After the night they'd had, that wasn't nearly enough to keep Peter sated. That bottomless pit had to be gnawing at Peter's ribs by now. But there was no sign he'd made something up for himself before heading to the shower. Even Jason was hungry, since Constantine's visit had interrupted his customary snack before heading back after patrol.
Unwilling to make anything too strenuous when sunrise was only a handful of hours away, Jason made a quick omelette. Nothing special, just some pre-cut lardons and grated cheese.
Sometime between whipping up the eggs and sprinkling cheese over the pan, the water switched off. Jason listened for anything out of the ordinary, but there was nothing except the usual clattering about Peter made in the bathroom. He set the gas on low and crossed the room to knock gently at the door.
"Pete?"
A wordless grunt of acknowledgement was all he got, but at least it meant Peter was cognisant.
"Made us some supper… you need any help with the wound dressing?"
The click of the lock and the door swung open, revealing Peter, flushed — Jason hoped he hadn't started with a hot shower, he knew just how badly that'd hurt when near to hypothermia — tousle haired and pantless once again. He'd put Jason's hoodie back on and a (presumably) new pair of boxers peeked out from underneath the hem.
As suspected, the bandages were gone; a glance into the bathroom revealed Peter's crumpled towel and a wet puddle of bandages — stained faintly red. The dressing Jason had stuck on top was just as soaked and just as red. It had probably been worse before the twenty-plus minute shower washed most of the evidence away.
Jason sighed heavily. "Get on the breakfast bar. I'll sort you out while you eat."
Peter nodded mutely and Jason threw a hand towel over the counter before Peter hopped up. Then he checked on the omelette, retreated to the bathroom to get the first-aid kit — this one, he'd stolen straight from the Batcave while Bruce had been off with the JL — and set it down beside Peter. He left Peter to rummage around for supplies while he turned off the stove and portioned out their supper.
Peter had already picked out the same collection Jason used at the safehouse when he came back with the plate… The inclusion of the lidocaine was telling.
Feeling resigned and yet still hoping this wouldn't become a commonplace occurrence (fat fucking chance), Jason washed his hands, gloved up and set to work, replacing the torn stitches as quickly as possible while Peter ate haltingly. Alfred would have tutted at Jason's handiwork when he finished, but Jason was simply pleased he got the job done before the anaesthetic wore off. He covered the wound with a new dressing then swapped Peter's emptied plate for fresh bandages. By the time he'd torn off the gloves and washed his hands, his supper had gone cold. Didn't matter: Jason sat at the breakfast bar and wolfed it down with gusto.
"Take the day off tomorrow," he told Peter in between bites.
Peter glanced up from his plate, frowning. "I'll be fine—"
"Take the day off," Jason repeated, firmer. "Today's been… a lot. Take the damn day off. They can cope without you."
The glare Peter levelled with him was no more than a token rebellion. It took little more than Jason lifting a brow in challenge for Peter to capitulate. He sagged.
"Fine."
Jason nodded, satisfied, and returned to his meal before the cheese could congeal into something sad and unappetising.
As he finished eating, Peter secured the bandages with a safety pin and hopped down from the island, only to immediately cringe as he jarred his wound. Jason snorted around a mouthful of eggs and ignored Peter's answering scowl.
Peter circled around the kitchen island and opened the fridge, pulling out the milk. He shot a glance at Jason. "I'm making hot chocolate," he announced. It wasn't anything remotely close to a question, but Jason heard one in there anyway.
"Please," he said and Peter nodded.
He watched Peter putter around the kitchen, limping only slightly. The quiet between them was melancholic, Peter far from his usual bright self. He worked beneath the light given off by the extractor and absently gave Dog pets in between measuring out cupfuls of milk and several generous scoops of hot chocolate powder. It was the cheap stuff, bought more for nostalgia than true enjoyment. The tin always brought up memories of his mom, before things had gone to shit. Evenings spent with her making them each a cup, humming softly as she watched the cooktop and scraped the saucepan with a metal spoon. It was terrible stuff — watered down and only vaguely chocolately — but eight year olds weren't exactly known for their discerning tastebuds (except for the gremlin, of course. But the bratling was on a different level).
Laugher bubbled out softly when Peter pulled a slab of chocolate from the fridge, frowned at it in thought, before he shrugged, broke off a few pieces and tossed them into the pot too. Jason's eyes slid shut, letting the slow susurrations of metal on metal wind back the years… just for a little while…
The first wisps of steam were rising from the pan when Jason forced himself to re-ask the question Peter never managed to answer earlier that evening. "Peter…"
"Mm?"
"Who was Thanos?"
Peter's hand froze in its constant stirring. Steam plumed up around the whisk. The kitchen was sweet with the smell of chocolate and milk.
His non-reaction was telling in and of itself. Jason opened his mouth, about to dismiss the question for later — he was aware he was pushing things — but Peter huffed and shot him a dry glance.
"And that can't wait?" he said, quiet voice still startlingly loud in the kitchen's muted atmosphere.
"… It could," Jason admitted, then grimaced. The feeling that if he didn't push the matter now, he'd never get any answers, was strong. He wasn't generally one to ignore his instincts.
Tonight was a disruption of the status quo, and Jason'd be damned if he allowed things to return to the way they'd been before. If Peter's presence in this world was to be a permanent one, then the time for secrets was over.
Peter appeared to understand the sentiment. He snorted and returned his attention to the saucepan. The stirring picked up again.
"Thanos the Mad Titan…" Peter mused, lost in thought. A terrible expression filled his face and the gentle sounds of his whisking stopped once more.
Dog bopped against him, dragging him from whatever memory had momentarily trapped him. Peter breathed out shakily and tightened his grip on the whisk as he leaned against her.
"Thanos was… an alien. Big. Purple. Would've been a big fan of that guy… what's his name… Matthus?"
"… Malthus[1]?"
Peter shot Jason a grateful look. "That's the one. Got it in his head that he had to save the universe from itself… so he collected all the dragon balls—" Jason frowned, not understanding the reference, "and put them on this big gold glove. The 'Infinity Gauntlet'—" the contempt and fear was clear in Peter's voice. He glanced at Jason. "I wasn't there when he did it — was stuck on the planet Titan. We'd tried to get the gauntlet off him. We failed. But all it took was a snap!" The mimicked sound cracked through the apartment, sharp enough to scratch glass. Peter dropped his hand. "And half the life in the universe was wished out of existence."
Jason's breath caught on his ribs with horror. "Half the — half the universe?"
"Crumbled away like ash." Peter tested the temperature of the milk with his pinky and popped it in his mouth immediately after. "Me included."
The two words were tossed into the air with such casual disregard Jason almost missed the implication. "You died?"
Peter grimaced. "I…"
"You don't see it that way?" Jason asked, mind reeling.
"I guess." Peter shrugged, looking a bit hunted. "It's just… when I think about half of all life being destroyed, it's — well, it's hard to justify it by that metric, you know? Impossible to even quantify, nevermind visualise. What I do know is, one moment, we were all there on Titan, wondering how the hell we were going to stop Thanos when he'd already popped himself away. The next, half the heroes around me were crumbling away, falling apart in the wind…"
Peter scratched the back of his still-damp hair and stared down at the hot chocolate like it could offer some kind of answer. When he found nothing, he looked back to Jason. His gaze was haunted.
"I knew I was next. Most people… after… they said it felt like dropping off to sleep. But not me. To me it—" his voice broke, jaw snapping shut. He rounded back on the hot chocolate. Tested it again and turned off the burner.
Back turned to Jason as he poured the hot chocolate over the sink, Peter continued. Quiet. Horror creeping into the words and digging under Jason's skin: "I felt it. The — unmaking. My body fought it, but one little Spider-Man can't compare to the power of the Infinity Stones. I was torn apart like everyone else, begging Mr Stark — Iron Man — to make it stop."
Peter turned. His expression was grim as he handed over a mug, then limped past Jason with his own to collapse with a heavy sigh on the couch. Not a drop of hot chocolate was spilled. Jason hesitated but forced himself to stand and join him. He sat sideways to see Peter better.
"But you came back?" Jason asked once he'd settled.
"The Avengers — they're like the Justice League — they… well. A lot of it was classified, but Happy — he worked for Mr Stark — told me they messed around with time. Collected all the Infinity Stones before Thanos got them. Snapped the lost half back, right where we'd been five years before… a lot of people died again because of that… Probably would've been us too had Doctor Strange not been with there on Titan."
"Doctor Strange…" Jason said cautiously. "He was the one who—"
"Erased me?" Peter smiled wryly. "Yeah. Same guy. He made a portal, and then I stepped right into hell."
"Hell?"
"Another battle. Only this time it wasn't seven against one. It was us against thousands." Peter closed his eyes and drew in a shuddering breath. "We won… eventually. But I… I couldn't feel it, you know? The relief… I failed on Titan. Couldn't stop Thanos before it turned ugly. I had — I had the gauntlet — in my hands! I could've—!" Peter wrenched at his hair in frustration, only to slop hot chocolate over his lap with the move. He hissed and Jason set his mug down on the coffee table, then grabbed Peter's and set it down beside.
"Stop." He tugged Peter's hand away from his hair. Peter resisted, fingers tightening white-knuckled, before Jason's insistence won out. He dragged Peter's hand down, fingers wrapped around Peter's deceptively thin wrist. "Peter… how old were you when this happened?"
Peter sucked his teeth. "That doesn't mean anything, I—"
"How old, Pete?"
"Sixteen. Nearly seventeen," he bit out. Jason's hand tightened around Peter's wrist without conscious thought.
"Peter—"
"I know!" he suddenly blew up, twisting to sit up on his knees, facing Jason as his expression contorted angrily. "I know — no one blamed me! It wasn't my fault we failed on Titan! I know that!" Peter scrubbed at his face and sagged, just as swiftly as he'd tensed up. "I know, okay? But I—"
"Can't help it," Jason finished. He understood the sentiment all too well, even nearly ten years on, an adult's perspective under his belt and years more of clear-headed experience.
Peter shot him a grateful, desperate look. "All I can think of, when I remember Titan, is the feeling of that gauntlet in my hands and the taste of ash. And then—"
Peter wrenched his hand out of Jason's grip, only to return it with one of his own. Jason didn't struggle, though his pulse picked up a fraction at Peter's strength. There was a light in Peter's eyes that spoke of a desperate desire to be heard. A dam had been broken, a single stone knocked from place and the words were escaping Peter in a rush Jason didn't dare interrupt.
"That wasn't even things done. We beat Thanos — had to. He'd decided destroying half the universe wasn't enough. He wanted to rebuild it from the ground up. Fresh slate. So Mr Stark snapped him out of existence even though it killed him in the process — and that was it. End of story, except how could it be?
"Five years we'd been gone. Five years of a world without half its people. Everyone was happy we were all back, sure! But they just… expected us to go back to normal. But nothing was normal anymore! They'd had five years to mourn and move on. They called it the Blip! Like it was just a — an error! A temporary lapse in fucking judgement! That world was their normal now. But us? We were all stuck five years in the past. People died! Millions were suddenly homeless!
"Ma— my aunt, she came back to our old apartment, only it wasn't ours anymore. Another family had moved in. She was a lucky one; Mr Deacon who lived next door, he'd been snapped too, but he'd been crossing the road. Got hit by a bus the moment he came back. How do you come back from that? How does anybody?"
"I'm sorry," Jason said quietly. "Sorry that happened to you."
"Yeah," Peter said, dismissive.
"No." Jason made use of Peter's grasp to pull him in close enough he could see the faint freckles dusting Peter's nose, even in the dim lighting. He had to make Peter understand. "I get it. I really, really do, Peter. I know what it's like to… to come back. Find yourself in a world that's moved on."
Peter blinked, processing Jason's words. He bit his lip. "H-how?"
Jason could have prevaricated. Could have given a half-answer and moved on. But that would've been unfair. And Peter was too close. No amount of talent could've hidden a lie from him. All it'd succeed in would be to push Peter away. If Jason didn't make this a give and take now, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Peter would never trust him with his scars again.
Jason… didn't want that.
He swallowed. "I've… I died too."
Peter leaned fractionally closer, as though summoned near by Jason's confession. "When?"
"I was fifteen."
Peter was silent, but his gaze on Jason was unwavering. In the dim lighting his eyes could've been pits of tar and Jason couldn't shake the nerves that suddenly appeared beneath that inhuman stare. He'd never really had to explain what happened to him. Everyone just seemed to… know. Or assumed they knew.
"I was Robin, then," he continued. Was it uncertainty that kept his voice pitched low? Or some strange desire to keep Peter close? He didn't know. "The second one. Probably wouldn't have been it for much longer, though. Batman and Robin was meant to be a partnership and I… don't think I could've been the kind of partner Batman was looking for." He smiled, unable or unwilling to conceal his bitterness. "When your whole life, you've only ever seen the law used as a bludgeon to keep the poor dirt poor and protect the powerful, it's hard to believe in Batman's faith for it."
Peter, who Jason knew was closer aligned to Batman than he'd probably ever be to Red Hood, merely nodded. Jason pushed on rather than dwell on the inrushing tide of gratitude that rose with his acceptance.
"We were on the outs at the time and I — I learnt that the woman I'd thought was my ma had adopted me. That my real mother — she was still alive, not six-feet-under after one too many crosses with a needle."
"Jace," Peter said, but wherever that name was meant to lead him, remained a mystery.
"I followed the trail to Qurac[2]. Sheila — my biological mother — she was a humanitarian — a doctor. But she was being blackmailed by Joker," Jason spat the word out with more venom than their closeness merited but Peter didn't so much as flinch. The open trust on Peter's face hurt to look at, but it was a good hurt. "I told her who I was. Said I could help her. And then she — she led me into a warehouse. I thought she was just taking me somewhere private, but she wasn't. It wasn't just us in that warehouse. Joker was there."
Realisation dawned on Peter's face, clever enough to understand how things went from there. Suddenly, Jason was pushed back into the couch and his arms were full of Peter, warm and not remotely soft and impossibly strong, whipcord arms wrapped tight around Jason's ribcage.
Now… Jason wasn't much of a hugger. Touch could too often be turned into a weapon. Holding people at arm's length was one of the few ways Jason could maintain control. He'd gotten better through the years, but after… he accepted people's touch, but it wasn't usually something he initiated for himself and so very rarely for his own sake.
And yet, Jason couldn't stop his arms from wrapping around Peter. Couldn't stop a hand from clutching the back of Peter's head, soft curls winding through his fingers. Couldn't stop him from squeezing as his breath grew wet and the memories of red-spatters on concrete and hysterical laughter bounced around his skull.
"My mom," he choked out, voicing something he'd never dared to say aloud. "She just — just sat there. Smoking a fucking cigarette while he—" Jason cut himself off. Breathed out the poison. Peter's hands, crushed beneath Jason's weight, pressed up against his shoulder blades. "He beat me with a — a damn crowbar—"
Peter startled in his arms, no doubt thinking of Jason's weapon of choice.
"Don't," Jason warned, refusing to relinquish his grip. "I don't want to—"
"No, I get it," Peter said, wiggling so he could look up at Jason, chin rested on Jason's sternum. "It's a reclamation, isn't it?"
"Yeah," he breathed. Closed his eyes against the onslaught of Peter's honest regard. Had to get the rest out. "Joker's all for the thrill of things. Eventually, he got bored. Left us to it. But not without a parting gift." Jason suddenly laughed. Couldn't help it. "I had to reclaim the crowbar, see? Explosives aren't great for close combat."
Peter's hands clenched in Jason's sweater. "Oh."
"No more Jason Todd after that. No Robin. Nothing but a coffin, buried beside the woman who sold me out."
"Jason, that's—"
"I know."
"But your father! How could he—"
"He doesn't know."
Peter went very still. Then he was pushing himself up, hovering above Jason, hair haloed by the lamplight. His expression was ragged. "Jason."
"She was a victim, too," Jason whispered. "He'd been blackmailing her. She was a humanitarian."
"She let the Joker hurt you!"
"I know that… But I can't help but think sometimes, if she'd still be alive if I never went there. How different things would've been if I'd just settled for what I had."
Peter's face spasmed.
"… Pete?"
"My aunt — M-May," the word that escaped Peter was laced with a pain as raw Jason's. "She got killed because I couldn't just — couldn't just settle. I could've just let Doctor Strange make the world forget I was Spider-Man, right from the start. Or not even gone to him in the first place. Instead, I pushed and pushed and then the spell was broken. And then there were people in Happy's apartment who she thought deserved a second chance. And they did — they did! But why — why did he have to kill her?"
Jason couldn't offer anything close to an answer as Peter cried openly. He reached up, tugged, and Peter collapsed back onto him, unnaturally heavy. Sobbing brokenly. His own eyes burning, Jason squeezed them shut and held on tight. Still, he felt tears break containment, slipping in trails of fire down into his hair.
Jason didn't know how long they stayed there. Didn't know how long it took them to calm. For their clasps to turn from desperate to comforting. But he thought he heard the first stirrings of a city waking when finally he could confidently speak without his voice breaking.
"Peter…" he said to the ceiling. The man in question had buried his wet nose into Jason's collarbone. "That could never be your fault."
"Fuck you," came Peter's muffled reply, voice still damp with tears and less savoury things.
Jason squeezed him tighter. "You were just a kid—"
"Less of a kid than you."
This guy. Jason felt like Peter had cracked open his ribcage and wrapped those elegant hands tight around his heart. "I—"
"If it can't be mine," Peter bit out, "then it can't be yours, either."
Jason laughed softly, without a trace of humour. "… Yeah. 'Kay."
"… Jason?"
"Mm?"
"… Thank-you. For everything."
By Bichory:
He stared at the popcorn ceiling, trying to determine if that was the beginnings of dawn stretching its way across the textured plaster or just his eyes having adjusted to the lamplight. Exhaustion from a night of fighting and grief had settled like a lead blanket, far heavier than Peter could ever be. He dreaded having to eventually get off the couch, and not just because he'd lose the comforting weight of his housemate.
"Yeah. I… fuck," he said eloquently. Grimaced. "Despite everything, I'm glad it was my living room you fell into. Even if you'll eat me outta house 'n home."
It was Peter's turn to laugh. His breath tickled against Jason's skin. "Ass."
"Little shit."
Their laughter turned genuine, soft in the gentled light. Jason closed his eyes and breathed in the faint scent of their generic shampoo. He'd never say it aloud, but with Constantine's diagnosis, Jason felt he could finally trust the feelings of affection he had for Peter. Could finally accept him as a friend.
For as long as a world like theirs could allow them to be so.
[1] Thomas Malthus was an 18th -19th Century economist and demographer. He popularised the theory that population (which of course was ballooning thanks to medical advancements and the industrial revolution) was exponential in growth, while our ability to produce resources was linear. This would therefore lead to demand outstripping production. The guy, of course, was wrong since it turns out our ability to produce resources has a tendency to jump thanks to continued technological advancements (e.g. manmade fertilsers, pesticides, GM crops etc), nor did he account for the trend in more developed contries to have shrinking birth rates. Regardless, it was (and IS) a popular belief at the time and is one that still maintains popularity in the global zeitgeist. Even now shortage in supply isn't because of shortages in production but inequalities in distribution.
[2] The whereabouts of Jason's death was originally Ethiopia in "Death in the Family", however it was retconned to the fictional country of 'Qurac' in Rebirth (and possibly New52? I can't remember from vol3). I hemmed and hawed over which country to stick to, but in the end decided on Qurac, mostly because I found the stuff with the Amazons from vol 2 of RHATO (rebirth) cool. Also, we're very much ignoring the bullshit story DC tried to tell in the Death of a Family arc in RHATO (n52) which essentially tried to say that Joker manipulated the entire downfall of Jason's family, and himself. Fuck that storyline with a rusty spoon.