Chapter Text
"We have loved each other well, dear Willie, but now, for reasons we cannot understand, that bond has been broken. As long as I live, you will always be with me, child.
Then let out a sob
Dear Father crying That was hard to see And no matter how I patted & kissed & made to console, it did no
You were a joy, he said. Please know that. Know that you were a joy. To us. Every minute, every season, you were a—you did a good job. A good job of being a pleasure to know.
Saying all this to the worm! How I wished him to say it to me And to feel his eyes on me So I thought, all right, by Jim, I will get him to see me
[...]
And I believe this has done me good. I remember him. Again. Who he was. I had forgotten somewhat already. But here: his exact proportions, his suit smelling of him still, his forelock between my fingers, the heft of him familiar from when he would fall asleep in the parlor and I would carry him up to—
It has done me good.
[...]
Then Father touched his head to mine.
Dear boy, he said, I will come again. That is a promise."
Willie and Abraham Lincoln, as written by George Saunders in Lincoln In The Bardo
Bruce’s office hasn’t changed. All of the furniture—the bookshelves, the desk, the chairs, the couch, and especially the grandfather clock—haven’t been moved. The pictures on the walls are the same (one of Alfred and Bruce when Bruce was younger, one of Dick when he graduated middle school, one of Martha and Thomas Wayne on their first date, and of course one of Jason, asleep in a chair in the library with his mouth hanging open embarrassingly). It’s still too cold by a few degrees, the sunlight from the windows (which face the woods and barely let any in, anyway) doing nothing to warm it.
The papers on the desk are different, but they always are. Being different means they haven’t really changed, either. Jason doesn’t want to look at what they say—he knows he’ll see his name. Knows he’ll see things he should never know about, things that never should’ve been said at all.
He sighs softly, leaning back into the uncomfortable chair across from Bruce’s, the one he’s sat in a million times. It’s not so uncomfortable anymore, but he doesn’t want to think about why, so instead he stares at the desk.
It’s big. Big enough to hide under. When he was younger, he’d make a run for this room when he was scared, not only because of the lock on the door but because of this desk. Bruce could follow him into the room, but he couldn’t follow him in the space down there. He learned not to force Jason out, to instead coax him out and into his arms, and eventually Jason didn’t need to hide anymore.
He feels like hiding now, but it’s too late.
It’s too late for a lot of things.
Hugging his legs to his chest, knees under his chin, Jason resolutely doesn’t look at Bruce. Sitting at his desk, dressed like it’s any other day, hair clean and face shaven. Unaware of Jason, sitting right here in front of him, like he has been for the past three hours.
Totally fucking fine.
The stack of papers on the desk has dwindled, all of the official Wayne Enterprises things—papers to sign, letters to read, letters to write, all a bunch of drivel Jason’s never cared about—done and put in a pile off to the side. Bills are in another pile, some marked as paid, some not. He sees his name on one of those, and looks away so fast, something sparks in his head, pain lancing from ear to ear.
Bruce doesn’t notice his wince. He doesn’t look up at the noise Jason involuntarily makes. Does nothing but pick up on the letters still in the original pile, the one that all mention Jason in the worst way possible.
He reads one, face staying still as stone, and writes a reply, shoulders tense. He reads another one, and writes another reply, and again and again until the stack is gone, replaced by letters that need to be sent out. Letters thanking strangers for their sorries, for their kind words about a boy they called street trash to his face. Jason thinks about ripping them to shreds, imagines reaching forward and crumbling them up, throwing them away, setting them on fire.
Those assholes don’t deserve whatever Bruce said back to them. They don’t deserve his words, his attention, his forgiveness.
They don’t deserve anything .
Bruce’s hands are shaking.
Jason chances looking up at him. His face is still frozen, not in a frown or smile, just wrinkles on his forehead, eyebrows flat, lips pressed together. His hands come up and hide him away from Jason’s eyes.
Suddenly angry, he stands, ignoring the way his bones are broken and bent, ignoring that it hurts to breathe, ignoring that he’s still sticky with blood and tears and dust. He goes around the desk, to Bruce’s side, and tries to pull his hands away, wants to see. Needs to see.
It doesn’t work. Bruce’s shoulders start to shake.
He can’t force him out, he realizes. He has to coax him out. Into his arms. Like he’s done for Jason a hundred times over.
“Bruce,” Jason tries, his voice scraping out his throat painfully. “Look at me.”
It doesn’t work.
“Bruce!”
Nothing.
“LOOK AT ME!”
Abruptly, Bruce stands, his chair falling to the ground behind him. It passes through Jason, and he flinches at the intrusive feeling. Bruce doesn’t notice though, of course he doesn’t, he just stands there. Breathes, and his chest is heaving, and Jason can’t look away. He’s seen Bruce in all sorts of situations, including ones where his emotions got the better of him, but he’s never seen him quite like this.
“Bruce…?”
He’s scared. Damn it all, he’s scared . Even after everything he’s been through—Willis, Mom, the streets, the starving and the homelessness and the fear and the anger, becoming and then being Robin, the fucking Joker—it frightens him to see the only parent worth a damn he ever had act like this. Mom loved him and took care of him, but she was sick and unreliable, and he’s made his peace with that as much as he possibly can. But Bruce? Bruce is a rock, a brick wall he can always lean against, one he can trust will always be there for hold him up and keep him steady.
He’s not steady right now. He’s shaking and panting and his face is contorting, and it’s scary .
“Fuck,” Bruce whispers. It’s a broken, wet cry, said through clenched teeth and tears, and it crackles in his chest, the same way heat and pain flare in Jason’s just at the sound of his dad’s voice.
“Bruce.” He tries again. Tries to sound like Robin, like he’s the bravest kid in Gotham, when they all know he’s not the bravest but the stupidest. Tries to infuse the magic, tries to get Bruce’s attention, tries so hard it fucking hurts.
But dead Robins don’t have magic.
Bruce bolts from the room, tearing around his desk and through the door, down the hall and past Alfred, who calls out Bruce’s name to the same effect as when Jason does it. He goes up the stairs and past Dick’s room, straight to the door that’s been permanently shut, opens the handle with caring gentleness, and goes inside.
Jason, who followed him all the way there, stands outside, barely breathing at all.
Bruce lays in his bed, on his covers, hugs his favorite pillow to his chest, the one Jason always clutched when he slept here. The one he took from his first home, kept with him on the streets, his prized fucking possession that made it to the Manor, to his bed , and is still here even though Jason isn’t anymore.
He steps into his room, ignores how nothing here has changed, either. His bookshelves and desk and especially the big clock in the corner are the same. The pictures of his mom and of Bruce and Alfred are still hanging on the wall. The papers on his desk are still there. His book still has the bookmark in it. The closet door is hanging open, revealing all the clothes he’ll never wear again.
“Bruce.” He says. There’s no reaction, except that the man holds the pillow closer, pressing his face into it. “Bruce!”
There’s a shuddering breath, a low wail, and the dam breaks.
Jason gets closer, touches Bruce’s shoulder, which trembles and shakes under his hand. He pets him, tries shushing him, tries yelling at him, tries to just be there, but none of it makes a difference. Bruce sobs and cries and holds his pillow, and says his name over and over, “Jason, Jason, Jason…,” and Jason tries so hard to make it better.
Tries to say, “I’m here.”
Tries to say, “Look at me.”
Tries to say, “I forgive you, I’m sorry, just look at me, please, Bruce, look at me ....”
Bruce doesn’t hear him. He doesn’t react when Alfred comes into the room, sits on the bed and touches him where Jason is, their hands overlapping.
Eventually, he sits up. All the poise and normalcy of earlier is gone, replaced by puffy eyes and tear tracks down his cheeks, his hair messy. Alfred hugs him, biting his lip so hard it’s about to start bleeding.
Jason stands there on broken legs and watches as they mourn him, his own tears carving paths through the dust coating his face.
“I loved him, Alfred,” Bruce suddenly says, breaking the air with a sob. “I loved him.”
“I know, Master Bruce. I know.” Alfred’s eyes squeeze shut, and Jason has to walk away, he can’t stay here another minute, he can’t bare to face this anymore—
He doesn’t get even halfway to the door before Bruce says, “I didn’t tell him that enough. I should’ve...I should’ve told him that every chance I had, why didn’t I….”
“Wherever he is, I’m sure he knows,” Alfred consoles.
Jason, choking on his stupid emotions, goes back to the bed and sits next to Bruce, rests up against his back, and tries again to get his dad’s attention.
"One feels such love for the little ones, such anticipation that all that is lovely in life will be known by them, such fondness for that set of attributes manifested uniquely in each: mannerisms of bravado, of vulnerability, habits of speech and mispronouncement and so forth; the smell of the hair and head, the feel of the tiny hand in yours—and then the little one is gone! Taken! One is thunderstruck that such a brutal violation has occurred in what had previously seemed a benevolent world. From nothingness, there arose great love; now, its source nullified, that love, searching and sick, converts to the most abysmal suffering imaginable.”
Mrs. Rose Milland, “Essay Upon the Loss of a Child”, as shown in Saunders’ Lincoln In The Bardo