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- Jason
Why was mom so silent? She hadn’t been silent earlier when Tommy had been there, yelling something about money and… and… and a favor mom owed him. Jason didn’t like it when mom owed anyone favors – because that meant hiding in the hallway closet when the loud and angry men came over or lying when the police came to ask questions about some drug or another.
Now his mom was silent, and Jason was still hiding in the closet, his favorite edition of Moby Dick from the library clutched against his chest.
He hadn’t heard anything in ages, but that might just have been because he had fallen asleep between all the jackets and coats after Tommy left, the sudden silence so much better than any lullaby he could ask for. But Jason was too old for bedtime stories and lullabies anyway – Mark, from the apartment above theirs, had recently said that only babies still liked stories and songs.
And Jason wasn’t a baby. He was nine, and he could read advanced literature, and cook pasta so well mom sometimes cried when she ate it. He could do his own laundry – and his mom’s too – and sometimes he even cleaned the apartment while his mom slept.
Jason was a big boy, and yet something had scared him terribly when he woke up and only silence greeted him. Normally mom would wake him up after she had calmed down from one of Tommy’s visits, and she would be in a great mood while doing so. Last week they had gone to get ice cream together, and his mom had laughed and joked and danced – she hadn’t even been mad with him when Jason dropped his ice cream cone and cried.
But now the only sound that reached him through the doors of the closet was the rumbling of their broken heater. No crying. No screaming. No laughing – not even the slight snoring that always echoed through the hallway whenever mom fell asleep on the couch.
He was careful when he crept out of his safe spot, his book still clutched in his hands.
“Mom?”
Only the heater answered him with another silent rump. Jason didn’t find that comforting at all:
“Mom? Is Tommy gone? Can I come out?”
Still no answer. And Jason wasn’t an idiot. He wouldn’t have left the closet if he hadn’t known that Tommy was already gone. If there was one thing Jason hated even more than the angry men coming to yell at mom, it was when the angry men would find him and yell at him as well.
“Mom? Answer me! Did you go out again?”
He reached the door to the living room and when he cautiously glanced around the corner, he could see the back of the couch – and his mom’s hand being elegantly draped over it. Relief made his tummy warm. Mom had just fallen asleep… everything was alright.
“Mom! Don’t scare me like that!”
A smile was dancing over his lips, as he reached the couch, his hand raised as if to shake her awake when… when he noticed that something was off; Mom’s lips were very blue, and her eyes were open, even though she was asleep.
“Mom? You can wake up now… this isn’t funny anymore.”
But she didn’t react. She didn’t even react when Jason began to shake her, or when the first sob broke through his defenses and disrupted the rattling of the heater. She didn’t react no matter how loud he yelled, or how much he cried.
No, his mom was just laying there, dried spittle running down her chin, beautiful eyes open and unseeing.
Jason was a big boy, he wasn’t naïve, he knew that his mom wasn’t just asleep. She was dead. She was dead, and there was nothing he could do. She was dead… and he was not.
She had left him alone, just like everyone else.
That night Jason went to sleep next to her, his head pressed close to her chest, feeling her body grow colder by the minute.
- Bruce
The cowl footage flickered over the screen in front of him for what felt like the thousandth time. The pictures never changed. They always remained the same, no matter how much Bruce wished he could change them. But, no, it was always the same.
First, him landing the plane, his hands shaking and frantic. Then, the warehouse in front of him. The warehouse that held his son and his nemesis. And then the end… the warehouse exploding right in front of him, the blast pushing Bruce back.
But that wasn’t the end, was it? Bruce only wished it was.
Because if the footage ended here, Bruce could go on with his life, pretending that his son was still alive. If the feed cut out there, he would never know how Jason looked after the Joker had his fun with him. He would never have to grapple with the knowledge that… that Batman had failed where he is not allowed to fail.
Robin was dead.
His son was dead.
And Batman had been too late.
He had been too late to save the boy that had brought light into the Manor and Bruce’s heart after Dick had left. He had been too late to save his son, who had called him dad with a grin on his face and a bounce in his step.
Bruce watched the video, watched as he came to a stop in front of the ruins of the building that concealed the most morbid of treasures: Jason’s body. The Batman of yesterday climbed over broken pieces of concrete, over something that had once been a wall and then he stopped.
Bruce knew why, and only moments later the cowl footage showed it as well: Jason’s broken and bloody body. The corpse of his son, clutching the hand of the woman who had lured him out there.
He could still feel the weight of the unresponsive body in his arms, even now, hours after it had happened. He would never forget that feeling. He couldn’t allow himself to forget. That was a weight he would always carry with him.
Because he had failed. He had failed Robin; failed Gotham; failed his mission.
But most importantly, Bruce had failed as a father. His job had been to look after Jason. To love him and cherish him and nurture him. And Bruce had done his very best! He had gone to every sports event Jason had participated in, he had been a captive member of the audience during Jason’s theater rehearsals, he had listened and laughed during every dinner as Jason told him about his day at school.
And now, his son was dead.
At one-point Bruce would have to leave this chair, and he would have to leave this Cave, and he would have to stand up to a world that hadn’t yet realized what beauty had just been lost to the world. How much colder the world was without Jason to bring his laughter and genius into it.
Right now, only Bruce knew what horror had happened. Only he was crying about a life lost too young. About the mistakes that were made that lead to this tragedy.
Right now, only Bruce knew that his life would never be the same – it would be so much poorer.
At one point Bruce would have to leave this chair and tell the world that Jason Todd was dead – but right now he only clicked play, starting the video once more.
His hands were shaking. Both in the present and in the past.
- Steph
Twenty-one… twenty-two… twenty-three…
“If you could now sign here and here? After that the closed adoption process will be finalized and you won’t have to hear from us ever again.”
The lady from the adoption center was smiling, and Steph was returned rather forcefully into the present. What a drag – counting the tiles of the hospital ceiling had been a great way to stop herself from thinking.
She really didn’t want to think right now.
“Um… okay”
Her voice was scratchy. Of course, it was. She had screamed herself raw during the birth. There had been no one to hold her hand, only a compassionate nurse offering her comfort in the few minutes she wasn’t needed elsewhere.
Well, Steph would have wished to be anywhere but in the delivery room as well. But beggars can’t be choosers, right?
“Your signature, Miss… Brown?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
Steph took the pen from the smiling lady, putting her name on the dotted lines. Done. Finished. She no longer had a daughter.
Only that she did have one .
The woman from the adoption agency exited Steph’s room with a smile and a promise that her little girl would have a great life. She would get a loving family, a stable homelife, and wonderful opportunities. All of which were things Steph couldn’t offer to this small, little human.
Why was she crying?
She had known that a closed adoption was the only solution the moment Dan had closed the door in her face. She was barely seventeen for fucks sake. She hadn’t even finished high school yet, she hadn’t done any of the things she always wanted to achieve, she hadn’t even saved the world yet.
That was no life to bring a kid into.
Her baby deserved to grow up somewhere else. Somewhere Cluemaster and Spoiler couldn’t destroy her life. She deserved happiness and a future and beautiful dreams far, far away from Steph and the mess that was her life.
And, yet, here Steph was, crying in her hospital room, her heart being ripped apart by an emotion Steph could only describe as grief.
Her baby girl was alive and well – and yet Steph was mourning her.
It was the best decision she could have made, in some ways it was the only one, but her soul was screaming, her heart a mess. She didn’t even want kids! Not yet at least! Maybe not ever! But when she had looked into this small and innocent face after the most painful hours of her life were over, Steph had been filled with a love so pure she hadn’t known it existed.
However that moment in the delivery room had only strengthened Steph’s resolve. This tiny, perfect being didn’t deserve to live the life Steph could give her. She deserved so much more than Steph could offer.
So, she gave her daughter away.
Stephanie Brown no longer had a child – but she would always grieve for when she did.
- Barbara
"I always called her Sarah, and now it's too late to call her Mom."
Her own words echoed in her mind. Maybe because they were true. Maybe because Barbara hadn’t known they were true until she had uttered them.
And Barbara liked knowing things. Heck, she had made an entire business out of knowing things. But this pang of realization, that Sarah had been her mom – that had come completely out of the left field.
Babs had never been against the relationship that had made her father smile again after years of solitude, she had never hated this woman who made her dad joke and laugh, who made their lives so much easier. But Barbara had also never… she had never allowed herself to get any closer than that.
Or so she had thought.
Apparently, her mind had lied to her heart, since she could feel it break now, tears hot as they joined the rain streaming down her cheeks, setting a rather appropriate tone for the funeral. Sarah could have been her mom, was her mom in many ways her own mother had never managed to be, and Barbara had only realized it now .
She had realized it as she was dressed in black, sitting next to her grieving father, as they accepted the condolences of friends and family and people, who only bemoaned that the Joker had taken another life.
Barbara was so sick of that freak. She was so sick of this man, who kept hurting her family again and again and again. First Jason, then her, and now… and now Sarah.
If Babs was capable of time travel, she would change many things. She would tell Jason that he could always come to her whenever he had troubles with Bruce, and she would visit her friends on the evening that changed it all… and maybe she would have called Sarah ‘mom’ whenever the older woman greeted her with honest smiles and her cunning wit.
Maybe she would even gift her something small on Mother’s Day, reminding them both that all the best families were chosen not given.
But sadly, Barbara couldn’t time travel. All she could do was sit in the rain and cry. All she could do was offer her hand to her father, so he had something to hold onto. Something to still tie him to this earth.
All she could do was realize way too late, that she had had a mother in her life all that time.
The rain continued to fall, one drop after the other merging with the tears on her face. It was too late to remember all the good times, too cry over opportunities Barbara had had but had never taken.
There was no reason to recount that dance recital when she was fifteen, knowing that nobody would come to see her dance, only to spot Sarah – who at that time was still her dad’s girlfriend – in the crowd. She was only punishing herself, when she reminded herself of all the late-night phone calls Sarah had answered, whenever Barbara had fallen victim to her own feelings.
Sarah had been her mom all along, Babs had just been too blind to see it. And now it was too late.
- Cass
No.
The phone hit the floor with a bang.
No.
Not her.
Not while Cass was gone. Not while she was cities, countries, continents away from her best friend.
The tears started silent. They were sad little things, almost as lonely as Cass was as they ran down her cheek, leaving salty trails of abandonment.
Steph was gone.
Her best friend in the entire world, the girl that had looked at Cass and seen… a girl --- was dead. And Cass was alone again.
She still had Bruce, of course, and her brothers, but Steph... Steph had been something else. Something magical. Something special.
Steph had seen her for who she truly was.
Cass was appalled by how easy it was to think of her in past tense, how fast Steph had gone from the most vibrant person Cass knew, to someone who was dead, someone gone, someone who only existed in the past.
Her sobs grew louder, a wail pushing past Cass’s lips, declaring her wounded and the world unfair.
Steph had gifted her many words, some that described the current situation rather well, like ‘Fuck’ and ‘Shit’ and ‘Motherfucking Lying Bitch of an Asshole’. Cass really liked that last one – Steph had too. But Steph had also taught her tender words, like ‘Heartbeat’ and ‘Summer Evening’ and ‘Romantic Sunsets’.
Steph had seen Cass’s silence and recognized it for what it was: a sharply honed weapon, but also the desperate pleas of a lonely and soft person. Steph had made her loud.
It was only fair that Cass was loud in her grief as well.
The first scream tore apart her throat. An ugly thing, loud, shrill, and painful to her ears.
Steph would have loved it.
The second scream was calmer. More focused. More in control. Cass almost didn’t choke on that one, the snot running down her face ugly and beautiful.
Steph would have cheered her on.
The third scream was uncontrollable, a force to be reckoned with. It was all her rage and all her fire and all the inconsolable sorrow building up in her chest.
Steph would have cried with her.
But from now on, Cass would be damned to cry alone.
- Tim
Tim was okay.
Okay?
He had everything under control. Absolutely everything. His hands weren’t shaking, no, and he wasn’t trembling. Or maybe he was. But it was just cold in the Cave. Why was it always so cold in the Cave? You would think that Bruce had figured out heating after all the years he spent down here in the darkness. But no – the Cave was always cold and… and Tim was freezing.
Yes, that’s why he was shaking.
No other reason.
Nothing else going on here.
Just a chilly wind and some… news . No. Tim had everything under control. Everything was alright. His cheeks hurt because… because… Tim was sure that he had a good and proper reason for his hurting cheeks, a reason that had nothing to do with the sobs wrecking his body.
Why was he crying? Oh, he knew why. He just couldn’t allow himself to think about it. He couldn’t allow the darkness of his own mind to claim him. He wouldn’t resurface. He would vanish in the maelstrom of “not again, no him, not again, no. please. Not him.” and then everything would be over.
He, most of all.
Tim Drake would not make it to the other side, should he be forced to confront… No, not going there. He wasn’t going to think about that. Wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t.
Instead he would focus on something else. Like, how cold it was in the Cave. It was so, so cold – Tim was shaking all over, the hoodie he was wearing not enough to protect him against the extreme cold. It was… he was just cold. And alone.
Where was the rest?
Oh, yeah, Alfred had said that he had to lie down. The news were too much for him – and Alfred was old after all, he had to look after himself, they couldn’t lose- No. Tim wouldn’t think about that.
Where was everyone else?
Jason – Jason had ran. Tim had a faint memory of Jason running. Away. Probably. Jason always ran away.
And the Brat? Tim had no idea where the imposter was. Screaming somewhere probably. Yelling. Fighting. Breaking. They were all breaking.
Tim knew that he was breaking.
Dick was… Dick was in front of him, his gaze unbelievably sad.
Why was Dick sad?
Oh.
Oh.
Because Bruce was dead. And Tim wasn’t strong enough to believe that.
- Dick
The sun was shining as Dick took his seat next to the gravestone.
The graveyard in front of him was illuminated by the late summer sun, showing the beauty and serenity many artists had found in sights like this before. It was a movement in the late 19 th century – Naturalism it was called, a follower of the Romanticism that had dominated from the late 1780 onwards – that had focused on idealized paintings of horrible places and circumstances.
Whenever Dick visited Damian, he thought of that.
He thought of all the times he had caught the boy painting and drawing and sketching, and all the times he had missed his opportunity to tell Damian just how much he loved art as well. Dick wasn’t an artist – had never been, really – but he was a lover and curator of the piece’s others created.
Damian had died before Dick got a chance to show him the collection he had once upon a time curated for a gallery in Manhattan. He had put every piece of his soul into that gallery – every painting chosen with care and affection. It had been a mirror of all things Dick Grayson. A mirror, Damian would have enjoyed.
Now he could only join his little brother here, waiting with him until the sun set, and the darkness allowed Dick to cry.
Damian had died for him. Damian had sacrificed himself so Dick could live.
It was easier to focus on “der Wanderer” by Casper David Friedrich than to live with the hatred that bubbled in his stomach whenever he was reminded of the fact that he would never see his kid again. That he would never cuddle or hug or laugh with Dami again.
Damian should have let him die.
The world had progressed far beyond its need for Dick – but Damian had been a child. There was so much Damian had never gotten a chance to even try… and now he never would.
Dick watched as the shadow of the white birch danced across the grass in front of him, watched as two birds fought about their territory in the air. He watched as the sun set, painting the world around him red and orange and yellow, setting it aflame.
He watched until it was dark enough for him to talk:
“I am so sorry, Dames. I know, I promised you that I would be stronger the last time I visited. But then again, I promised you a whole lot, didn’t I? A future, for once. And a loving family. I broke a lot of my promises, didn’t I? I am so sorry. I love you. You are my Baby Bat. My kid.”
Tears were running down his cheeks, these hours spent in darkness and in sorrow the freest his heart had been ever since Damian had died:
“Why did you save me? Don’t you know… it is Batman’s job to look after his Robin. Not the other way round.”
Dick waited next to Damian’s grave until the sun came back, washing his tears away with the light of a new day. Burying his sorrow next to Damian in the ground, where the rest of the world could never see it.
- Damian
Richard wasn’t there when Damian… when Damian got back. That was the first clue. The second clue was the silence that echoed through the Cave when Damian asked where Richard was hiding away.
The third clue was this: The closed door in front of him, leading to Richard’s sanctuary.
Richard’s door was never closed. It was almost something like a myth between the rest of the… plebeians father had taken under his wing, that Richard’s door was always open – no matter how tired the man was or if an injury was tying him down, whether he was currently living in the Manor or somewhere else, his bedroom door was never closed, always open for visitors, brothers, and hoodie thieves alike.
And now the wood in front of Damian’s face screamed at him: SOMETHING IS WRONG. WRONG. WRONG. WRONG .
It wasn’t a conscious decision to push the door open, and step through the doorway, but once Damian made the first move, he couldn’t stop. The room was exactly how Damian remembered it being.
And that was the last straw.
The last clue.
The last hint.
Richard was dead.
Tears were pooling down his cheeks, his knees suddenly growing weak. Richard’s room never looked the same twice, some redecoration or chaos always changing the layout and look every couple of weeks. But this? The poster on the wall over the desk, memorabilia from over two decades strewn around the sole bookshelf?
This was the exact same way this room had looked the last time Damian had stepped inside of it, ready to steal one of Richard’s hoodies and taunt Drake with his successful heist.
Damian knew what this meant.
Some part of him had known the moment Richard hadn’t been by his side when his eyes opened for the very first time since he… since he died. Since Father had brought him back.
Because if there was one thing Damian knew, it was that Richard wouldn’t miss Damian’s resurrection for anything in the world. Because Richard had promised him to always be there for him. Because Richard… because Richard had never broken that promise ever before.
Something fragile snapped inside of Damian. Something precious and soft, something that Richard had loved to nurture. Something that had almost grown strong and standing in all that time Damian had spent by Richard’s side, first as Robin to the man’s Batman, and then as… as a brother.
His big brother was gone. His… his… Damian wasn’t exactly sure how to describe Richard, how to explain to the world just what the man had been to him.
And now it would no longer matter.
No one was ever going to call Richard Damian’s dad again, offending Damian and making Richard look sad. No one would ever tease Damian with his perceived favoritism regarding the man ever again – because Richard was gone.
His… brother… no… his parental figure… no… His Batman . His Batman was dead. His partner would no longer return home just to hug Damian close and tell him that he was proud. His favorite person had died – and Damian hadn’t even been there.
Richard had died without him.
It was only fair that Damian grieved alone as well.