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There were two cathedrals in Gotham. Gotham Cathedral, officially Gotham Cathedral of Saints Kentigern and Columba, had once been condemned, and especially so after a Joker attack, but it was an iconic part of the city skyline, and the generosity of the Wayne Foundation had made the necessary renovations swift and popular. Now, it was the fashionable place of worship for the Catholic upper-crust of Gotham. Jason knew that, right now, the Christmas Eve midnight mass would be full of well-dressed churchgoers holding lit candles, before they would process out into the graveyard, watched by the gargoyles he used to sit on when he was still a child who believed Batman would always catch him.
The second cathedral held a different kind of midnight mass.
Technically speaking, Bowery Cathedral of Saint Jude might not actually be a cathedral anymore. Jason had no idea if there was any bishop that oversaw it. He didn’t care. Everyone called it Saint Jude’s anyway, and it was
not
an iconic and fashionable part of Gotham’s cityscape. It had two gargoyles, which were technically
grotesques
now, since the downspouts had rusted away, and they didn’t so much resemble demons, as winged possums that were throwing up. When Catherine had still brought him there, he’d named them after the apostles, Peter and Paul. He locked eyes with them on their perch above the door as he made his way to the gate. It had been well-crafted wrought iron once. Someone had stolen the pins from the hinges, though, and it was now held in place with several industrial zip ties and some soggy duct tape. It shrieked as he dragged it open across cracked concrete and packed snow.
Park Row at eleven thirty at night was a bad time for someone to make themselves known, but Jason walked without fear. He was the scariest thing in Crime Alley, and everyone knew. Regardless of his status, he conscientiously removed his red helmet and put it in his bag, then wiped his feet on the mat before he pulled open the lopsided oak door.
Midnight Mass at Gotham Cathedral was grand and quiet, but midnight at Saint Jude’s was holier. Huddled families sat and lay on every inch of the chipped stone floor. The young and old alike were wrapped in blankets, and the scent of the soup kitchen’s christmas eve dinner lingered in the air.
Jason had never much cared for the people who worked the soup kitchens on Christmas Eve and Christmas day. They were never the same people that worked it year round, but rather the people who wanted to feel good about themselves on the holiday. He supposed it didn’t much matter so long as people got fed, but when the do gooders had had enough and went home, he would still be there.
He
fed crime alley year round.
From his giant duffle bag (not the one that had once held heads) Jason began to pull his Christmas bounty. Bruce’s guilt money was good for something, even if Jason bitterly wished he wouldn’t leave a voicemail twice a week.
Every reaching hand in Saint Jude’s that night got a plastic bag full of canned food (with the pull tabs so no one needed a can opener) bottled waters, a gas mask, and a blanket.. Some people got extra, the families with infants got formula and diapers, the kids without them got gloves and coats that, if they didn’t fit, at least the kids could grow into. No one complained or asked for more, no one tried to grab some of the food from someone else’s bag. Because this place was a holy place, although the people in it weren’t bound to Catholicism. Saint Jude’s was holy because of the goodness that made Christmas Eve inside it safe. No one dared disturb it.
For those that were Catholic, Father Marquez held a soft service in a side chapel, offering communion and blessing in a crackling voice, before retiring.
Then Jason held his own service, opening a well-loved book stolen from the Wayne Manor library. The children around him were mostly asleep already, the others quickly fell asleep, but for those that woke during the four or so hours it took, they heard his voice, saw his face, even if it was framing his domino mask, and he read them
Matilda.
As he read, Jason tried not to pay attention to the stamp on the front page of the book
From the Library of Jason Todd-Wayne
bought for him by Bruce on his first Christmas at the manor. He tried to ignore the blue ink below the stamp that said
To Jay from D, Merry Christmas,
and he batted away the memories of Alfred encouraging him to try out his brand new stamp on his brand new book.
At four in the morning, as he slipped quietly out the doors of Saint Judes and onto his bike, he was still trying to shake the memories. He could picture what Christmas meant at the Wayne household,bigger and louder than it was when he was there. Bruce insisted on a real tree and Alfred snarked about vacuuming up the pine needles, Dick would be there, so would Tim, now that the kid had lost his parents for good. Jason couldn’t begrudge him that, after their first confrontation, despite Jason’s anguish at discovering that the Titans hadn’t put up a statue, they mostly avoided one another.
His bike hummed along mostly silent streets.
Stephanie would be with her mother, and Babs with her dad, but Cassandra would be home.
Not home,
he reminded himself. Cassandra would be at the manor, with Duke and Damian as well.
He passed a group of rowdy drunks, pouring out onto the street.
Jason just rode on his bike, realizing belatedly that he’d left his empty duffle bag behind in the church. It didn’t matter. He needed to think, or maybe not to think.
And there was a hanukkiah in a window he passed. It wasn’t lit, just set out, waiting for sunset that evening. Christmas and Hanukkah, beginning on the same day. Bruce would bring out his great, great grandmother’s menorah and insist on polishing the silver himself. Tim was Jewish too, if Jason remembered right. He could go home. He could. He could go to the manor and there would be light and people and in the evening they'd laugh and he would hear the spit of the oil as Bruce and Alfred made latkes and the could bicker over if applesauce belonged on them.
Except the boy that laughed and dipped latkes in applesauce had died. He passed a warehouse and shuddered, phantom pain and real, icy memory carving their way down his spine.
Jason stopped to fill his tank at a gas station. There was no one there, but there were Christmas tree stickers on the window of the service station. Also taped there was a card, drawn in crayon. It read
Merry Christmas Dad.
His phone began to buzz in his pocket as he watched the numbers on the pump tick upwards. He ignored it.
He should go back, it was so late it was early, but his apartment was empty and everywhere he looked he was reminded of–
“Hey Jay-lad,” Came the sound of Bruce leaving yet another voicemail. “I know you don’t really listen to these but–” a breath through the phone. How Jason
wished
he hadn’t enabled that stupid live-listen voicemail function.
“But I woke up early, too early, and for just a second I wondered if you would be jumping on my bed to wake me for Christmas. I…it was silly, I suppose. But I thought I’d call and tell you that we want you here.
I
want you here, if you want to be here. It's the first night, too, so we'd love it if...if you could come... anyway, merry Christmas. I lo–” Bruce was cut off by the dial tone, having taken too long.
Jason brushed something from his face and ignored that it was a tear.
His bike hummed to life again, warm in the freezing air, and he drove off. He’d stopped somewhere in the diamond district, but the buildings turned to blurs around him. Some places were bright, lit up with light displays but devoid of people. Others were dark. It was early morning now, though, and some buildings he passed showed the flicker of lights as families were woken by their kids. The wind slithered under his leather jacket like a knife and it seemed to beat against the Saint Christopher medal he’d been buried with. Saint Christopher offered protection to travelers, he thought, as he crossed Trigate Bridge. He stopped and stole a wreath off a bank’s door. Ironically, he also offered protection against sudden death.
Jason stopped his bike short at Gotham Cemetery.
He supposed he wouldn’t be doing this if he could remember it well. He remembered some things, the satin lining, the feeling of wet earth, but little else. If he remembered it well, he wouldn’t be walking through the gate and along the well-kept paths to the little headstone that he lay under not terribly long before. Someone had stuck a battery-powered candle in among poinsettias and christmas roses. Half a dozen people had to have left flowers there. All the people who would visit his grave knew he was alive again. He didn’t stomp any of the flowers into the muddy snow. He left his stolen wreath leaning against the back of the headstone and turned on his heel, trekking back towards the gate and hoping the slowly falling snow would cover his tracks.
He sat on his bike, kickstand down, and stared at the cemetery gates again as the snow began to fall more thickly. It piled onto his still shoulders.
In the far distance, a bell tolled six in the morning.
Nearer by, a raven croaked and began to tug at a bit of holly tied to the gate.
The handles of Jason’s motorcycle were ice cold and his fingers were so stiff the couldn’t really uncurl.
He took a deep breath in.
More snow fell.
The bells finished tolling.
He breathed out and switched on the bike.
His stomach, or perhaps his inner ear, whatever part of his body remembered the feeling of driving these roads, remembered exactly. He followed the long road north, feeling cold for reasons that had nothing to do with the wind or snow.
The circle drive formed a familiar swoop in his stomach as he pulled his bike to a stop. The steps to the front door were snowy and his boots crunched. He held his helmet under his arm and peeled the domino from his face.
And he rung the bell.
He waited only a moment before the door opened.
“Merry Christmas, Dad.”