Part 2 — Tea for the Unburied (DC x DP AU)
Jason could feel the city again once he sat.
The pressure in his skull faded to a dull ache. The ringing in his ears softened. The world narrowed to porcelain, steam, and the faint clink of china as the man poured tea with unhurried care.
Jason watched his hands.
White gloves. No tremor. No hesitation.
“You’ve done this before,” Jason said hoarsely.
The man smiled without looking up. “Many times.”
The tea smelled like bergamot and something warmer beneath it—vanilla, maybe. Or memory. Jason’s chest tightened painfully.
On the other side of the green barrier, his family was still there. He could see Bruce’s silhouette, rigid and unmoving, Dick pacing like a caged animal, Tim frozen in analysis paralysis, Damian standing too straight with his sword clenched too tightly.
They looked far away.
As if underwater.
“You’re keeping them out,” Jason said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The man set a cup in front of him. “Because this conversation is not for them.”
Jason huffed a weak laugh. “Figures.”
He wrapped his hands around the cup. It was warm. Solid. Real. That alone scared him more than the golem had.
“You know who I am,” Jason said slowly.
“I know what you are,” the man corrected gently. “And who you were. And who you might yet become.”
Jason swallowed. “Then say it.”
The man finally met his eyes.
“You are a living anomaly,” he said plainly. “A soul that crossed the threshold and returned without permission.”
There it was.
Jason let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. That tracks.”
The man tilted his head, studying him with open curiosity. “Most who return as you did do not last. Their bodies reject them. Their minds fracture. Or the dead come calling.”
“Guess Gotham rolled out the welcome mat,” Jason muttered.
“The dead are not cruel,” the man said. “They are lonely. And they recognize their own.”
Jason’s grip tightened on the teacup. “So that thing—those things—they weren’t after the city.”
“No.”
“They were after me.”
“Yes.”
Jason stared down at the tea, watching steam curl and vanish. His reflection wavered on the surface—helmet gone, white streak bright against dark hair, eyes too tired for someone his age.
“How long?” he asked.
The man considered. “As long as you remain unresolved.”
Jason laughed then. A short, broken sound. “Buddy, if unresolved was a crime, Gotham would implode.”
A faint chuckle. “You deflect.”
“Occupational hazard.”
The man sipped his tea. “You were supposed to move on.”
Jason’s jaw clenched. The words hit deeper than he expected.
“I didn’t get a choice,” he said flatly.
“No,” the man agreed. “You didn’t.”
Silence stretched.
Jason felt the calm pressing against him—not forcing, not drowning, just… waiting. Like time itself had decided to give him space.
“What happens if I stay?” Jason asked.
“The disturbances will escalate,” the man said honestly. “More dead. More drawn to you. Gotham will suffer.”
“And if I go?” Jason whispered.
The man’s gaze softened. “Peace.”
Jason’s hands shook.
“I don’t want peace,” he said. “I want—” He stopped, breath hitching. “I want time.”
The man’s eyes sharpened with interest.
“Time,” he repeated.
“With them,” Jason said, voice breaking despite his effort. “With my family. I didn’t get enough. I barely got anything.”
The man leaned back slightly, studying him anew. “You would trade the balance of life and death… for stolen moments.”
Jason looked up fiercely. “I already did.”
Something like approval flickered across the man’s face.
“You are very much your own,” he said. “That is rare.”
Jason hesitated. “You still haven’t told me your name.”
A pause.
Then: “I am called Clockwork.”
Jason’s stomach dropped.
Not because he knew the name—but because it felt important. Heavy. Like a word that belonged in the same category as fate and judgment.
“You’re not here to drag me back,” Jason said slowly.
“No.”
“You’re not here to kill me.”
“No.”
Jason leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Then what are you here for?”
Clockwork smiled.
“To offer you terms.”
The barrier shimmered faintly as Bruce struck it again from the outside. Jason glanced at it instinctively.
Clockwork followed his gaze. “They will not be harmed. Not by me.”
Jason exhaled. “Good.”
“I can anchor you,” Clockwork continued. “Stabilize the tear your existence creates. Shield Gotham from the worst of the dead.”
Jason’s eyes snapped back to him. “What’s the catch?”
Clockwork’s smile turned knowing.
“You will belong, in part, to my domain.”
Jason barked a laugh. “There it is.”
“You will be watched,” Clockwork said calmly. “Guided. Corrected if necessary.”
Jason leaned back in his chair, staring up at the dark Gotham sky beyond the barrier.
“A leash,” he said.
“A tether,” Clockwork corrected. “One that keeps you here.”
Jason closed his eyes.
Bruce’s face flashed in his mind. Alfred’s tea. Dick’s laugh. Tim’s quiet understanding. Damian’s sharp, earnest loyalty.
Life, messy and painful and unfinished.
When he opened his eyes, Clockwork was waiting.
“What about the dead?” Jason asked.
Clockwork’s expression turned almost fond. “I will teach you how to quiet them.”
Jason’s heart stuttered.
“…Teach me.”
Clockwork stood and extended his hand again.
“Time is very patient,” he said. “But it does not wait forever.”
Jason looked at the hand.
Then past it—toward his family, blurred and frantic beyond the light.
He stood.
And shook Clockwork’s hand.
The barrier pulsed.
Time moved.
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