Work Text:
Bruce has always known he’s never been a conventional dad. He’s a multi-billionaire. He has subpar emotional skills. He’s Batman.
Still, he’s always tried his best.
He took in Dick, an orphan just the same as him. He gave him food, shelter. Robin. He tried to give him love and care. Bruce suspects those first years with Dick were some of the happiest in his life, if only because they don’t have all the weight of the years to come.
And then… Dick moved out.
And things were… gray again. And then Bruce met a little street kid, ballsy and desperate enough to steal the tires straight off his batmobile, and instead of anything he could have done, he gave the kid a meal, a home. Jason. He gave him Robin, too, even though the title wasn’t his to give away.
And then… Jason died.
Jason died, and that was a pain, a clawing, vicious, tearing thing that no parent should ever have to live through. Bruce spiraled, and then the little boy next door came up to him with photos, knowledge of his identity, and a demand to be Robin. He said no, but the kid came back and back, and if Bruce didn’t do something then the little black-haired boy (just like all the others) was going to get himself killed.
And then… Jason came back.
And that, Bruce could have handled that better. He just– his son was back and was an overnight crime lord, angry and vengeful and killing left and right, and Bruce— Jason nearly killed Tim. And Tim is his son, too, and Bruce promised himself that he was never going to lose another one again.
And then… Bruce ripped a hole through his own son’s neck.
So, yes, Bruce knows he’s not a conventional dad. He’s not even a good one. But stars above, does he want to be. He wants to try.
At the very least, he wants to ensure that he never again holds the dead body of one of his children in his arms again.
—--
Jason growls when he hears the faint crunch of feet against the graveled rooftop. The fact he can hear them at all means they’re not the Bat’s, and further still it’s too heavy to be Dick’s.
“Replacement,” Jason says shortly, not moving from where he’s looking down the scope of his gun to the circle of gang members gathered in the building across the street. “You weren’t invited.”
“He-ey, Hood,” Robin 3.0 draws out unsurely. Jason listens to him shuffle for a moment, before he seems to come to some sort of decision and march forward. “You know, there’s more in the basement.”
Jason does lift his eyes for that, giving the kid an eyebrows raised, incredulous glance, “Replacement, I didn’t ask for your input.”
The kid scowls at the name. “Don’t call me that. And, I’m right. B and I have been casing these same guys for the past few weeks. This is their main building of operations. There’s no windows to the basement and only one entrance, so it’s a more logical choice to keep all their weapons.”
The people in question are a small group of hotshots with big connections trying to get a foothold in Gotham. They aren’t affiliated with any local gang outside of sales as far as Jason can tell, which means they have an outside contractor. But the outside contractor is bringing in all sorts of things that Gotham doesn’t need on her streets— military grade guns, armour piercing bullets, explosives. All in all, it’s one of the smaller issues in the city, but an issue that needs to be dealt with nonetheless.
He turns back to his scope, tracking as one of the asshole’s gets up and disappears out of his line of sight towards what must be the cellar door. “Great. Thanks for the info. Now buzz off.”
He practically hears the Replacement cross his arms. “No. I’ve put at least as much time and effort into this as you have, and now B won’t let me help. I’m staying.”
Jason rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, B’s an ass, what else is new. I got this. Shoo.”
“No,” he stresses in retaliation. “You can’t make me.”
“Like fuck I can’t,” Jason snaps back, irritation simmering low in his gut. This is his op. It’s in his Alley. Why the fuck is B or better yet, the Replacement, messing around in his territory?
The Replacement sucks in a breath at that and remains quiet for a few moments. Just when Jason thinks he’s about to have rid himself of a bird problem, the kid says quietly and plainly, “I’m not allowed to be around you, you know. B would have a fit if he knew I was here. But I don’t think you’re— I don’t think anything like that’s ever going to happen again. I’ve seen how you treat kids in Crime Alley, how your kill count has gone down. So, no, I don’t think you can make me.”
Jesus. Jason rolls his eyes heavenwards, annoyed at the kid and annoyed at himself because the kid’s right. Jason isn’t going to actually use the kind of force it would take to make the kid fuck off, and the takedown has to happen tonight, so he can’t just run and out-manuver him amongst the Alley’s rooftops.
“Fine,” Jason bites out, impressed despite himself. Annoyed, but impressed. The kid has guts. “But you do exactly what I say, got it?” He searches the Relpacement’s face, waiting for him to nod in affirmation. “Good. I can’t have you screwing the pooch.”
—--
In the end, it’s Jason who screws the pooch. Big time.
It fucking sucks. It hurts like a bitch too.
Things had gone relatively well up until they entered the basement, dispatching the wanna-be gang members with ease. They don’t work seamlessly, exactly, but they have enough shared training that they’re not in each other’s way, either. But they don’t have an exact number for the amount of people in the basement, nor the layout.
Poor planning, Jason knows, is sloppy. But knowing there’s a basement at all is a leg up than where he was before, as is having someone at back, as much as it prickles.
But sometimes it feels like Lady Luck is specifically out to get him.
The shot lands between the padded plates sewn into his pants legs and the kevlar of his chest armour. The area is small, but vulnerable, and rests right over his hip.
Jason goes down with a cut-off shout, cursing every deity he can think of as he lands roughly on the concrete ground, shots still going off over his head. Fire licks up from the gunshot, up and down his nerves, making his toes curl and his hand clench around his gun.
Fucking fuck, fuck, he thinks, ever so eloquently.
As much as he would currently like, Jason can’t just black out. With blurry vision he props himself up on his elbow, gun firing towards any humanoid shape that isn’t red, yellow, and green.
When all is said and done and the Replacement is the only thing left standing in the room, Jason gives into the heaviness setting into his limbs and falls back onto his back.
“Fuck,” Jason groans, spots dotting his vision.
“Okay,” the Replacement falls to his knees besides him, “Okay, okay, Ja– Hood, you’re going to be fine.” The kid’s hands flutter uncertainty over the bullet wound before going to one of the many pockets on his utility belt and pulling out a thick wad of gauze. He presses it to Jason’s side with a kind of sureness that shouldn’t belong to any preteen.
The pressure only increases the pain a tenfold, sending the agony in his side down his legs, up his spine, into his fingertips, and Jason barks out a stream of curses, punching the concrete ground beside him.
“Fuck, kid! That fucking hurts!”
The look the Replacement sends him is so dry it could suck moisture from the room. “Yeah. You have a bullet wound in your hip.”
“Fuck off,” Jason growls.
“Uh-huh.” The Replacement licks his lips, the only sign that he’s nervous amongst all his big talk. “I’m comming B.”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Jason says, glowering, and tries to leverage himself back up to his elbows.
The kid pushes him back down with an aggravating amount of ease, “Hood, you’re bleeding out and weigh a ton. You need immediate medical attention that I can’t give you. I’m comming Batman.”
“Fucking hell,” Jason says to the ceiling, unable to do anything about it and frustrated at the fact.
The kid looks around the room one last time as he raises the hand that isn’t putting pressure on Jason’s wound towards his ear. It stills halfway towards his head, and the kid’s breath noticeably hitches. “Hood…” There's a thinness in Robin’s voice, a scared panic that immediately arrests Jason’s attention from the pressure he’s applying to his hip. He follows the baby bird’s line of sight.
Attached to what can only be a bomb, is a blinking, red timer.
00:30.
And with an alarming sort of clarity, Jason thinks, No more dead Robins. The thought’s ironic, given the last context it had, but it’s nonetheless true. No more dead Robins. And certainly not by a fucking bomb.
He grabs Tim by the back of his cape, yanking him down. In the same motion, he’s taking off his helmet and slotting it over the kid’s head. With how this is going, Jason might need it more, but he’s not taking any chances.
“Run,” he demands.
He can’t see the kid’s expression through the red of his helmet, but it must be as outraged as his voice sounds even through the helmet’s modulator, “I can’t leave you here!”
“Run,” he says again, a little more desperate, glancing at the timer.
00:25.
“I won’t make it like this, you know it.”
“I–”
“Robin!” he barks out, using his best Batman voice, “Run!”
And like any well-trained little bird, Tim does, with only one back-turned glance.
Leaving Jason with a bullet in his hip, a red timer, and sinking, clawing feeling in his gut and throat.
00:20.
Well. Fuck.
He raises a trembling hand to his face, peeling off his domino. He died in it once, might as well change things up for the second go around.
Jason always knew he was going to die doing this job. He did die doing this job. He knew once he came back he’d do it a second time, too. He had just hoped he’d hold out a little longer. Maybe not die to a fucking bomb the second go around, either. If it’s not the explosion that gets him, it’ll be the falling debris or smoke inhalation. 0/10, would not recommend.
He was in worse pain than this last time as well, but even just shifting his foot sends agony spasming through his whole body. He’s not even going to be able to stand, let alone get up a flight of stairs.
00:15.
At least he got the Replacement— Tim, he might as well call the kid his name— out.
No more dead Robins.
No other bird is going to bite it the same way Jason did. He got the kid out, he reassures himself.
The kid will go home to Bruce, who doesn’t seem to learn his fucking lesson about putting kids in costumes and sending them out into the night. Maybe Jason dying a second time will teach him.
Maybe not.
00:10.
Fuck, Jason really doesn’t want to go out this way again. The prospect of death doesn’t scare him so much as the way he does it, or the After. Dying slow and drawn out by smoke inhalation is so much worse than the split second death from the explosion going off could have given him. And being forgotten… Being forgotten hurts.
But Death… she isn’t so bad. She’s quiet. Kind. The black is a peaceful sort of place, and being yanked out and thrown back into a world that is loud, and cruel, and unforgiving was just as bad as dying.
He hopes he doesn’t come back this time.
00:05.
He doesn’t particularly want to die either, though.
00:04.
He prays Tim made it out.
00:03.
He hopes they don’t forget him.
00:02.
He wishes he made up with Bruce.
00:01.
It’s Jason’s last thought.
He closes his eyes, and ignores the wet warmth of tears trickling down his cheeks.
00:00.
Boom. Fire. Rubble. Pain.
Darkness.
—--
Sometimes Bruce finds it really unfortunate that Tim is smarter than him.
He’s not mad at the fact, he’s rather proud, actually, but he can sometimes find it frustrating when his kid sneaks out while he’s in the shower or doing paperwork, slipping around any of the numerous alarm systems Bruce has set to prevent that very thing from happening.
Case in point: Tim’s Robin suit is not on its stand.
With a sigh, Bruce makes his way over to the Batcomputer. He’s fairly sure Tim wouldn’t have turned off his tracker, because out against the rules he may be, he’s not completely foolish when in regards to his safety.
And besides, he’s pretty sure Tim doesn’t know about either of the backup trackers, so Bruce would likely be able to find him anyway.
Pulling up Tim’s tracker is easy. Reading where Tim is is less so.
Crime Alley.
Tim knows he’s not supposed to be in the Alley. The Red Hood is dangerous and has shown no hesitation to hurt Robin in the past, despite his recent willingness to work together when the situation is desperate enough to call for it. The one or two times they’ve all teamed up have been tense affairs, ending in large, blow out fights between Jason and Bruce, although they’ve yet to come to blows. Hood’s not been back to the cave at all.
In the deepest, most hopeful parts of himself, Bruce believes that Jason isn’t going to hurt Tim again.
The rest of him is too paranoid and too worried to follow suit.
And, so, the rule remains. Tim can’t go into Crime Alley. Robin especially can’t be alone with Red Hood.
Bruce would question why Tim is there, but he already knows. He took Robin off their latest case, once it became clear the upstart gang’s headquarters are centered deep within the Hood’s territory. Hood has made it clear that Batman and Robin aren’t allowed within Crime Alley’s borders, and Bruce has enough awareness to know that if Hood isn’t already on the case of the arms dealers, he will be soon.
Thus, it isn’t a problem for Batman and Robin anymore, though Bruce is still going to keep an eye on the situation to make sure it doesn’t get out of hand.
He had thought he had explained that to Tim well enough. Clearly not.
Bruce turns towards the stand where his Batman suit rests.
Time to go collect a wayward Robin.
—--
Bruce is only a few short minutes away in the Batmobile, already in Crime Alley, when his comm crackles to life. Tim’s desperate voice is on the other end.
“B, B, Hood’s injured, a-a bomb,” Tim takes in a deep, heaving breath. It sounds like he’s running. It sounds like he’s scared.
It’s like a spear of ice to his heart.
“Robin, status update, now,” Bruce demands, stepping on the gas and doubling his speed in seconds, weaving in and out and over Gotham’s night traffic.
“Bomb, Hood’s injured, can’t move. B—” the letter, drawn out and desperate, gets cut off with the rumbling, falling, fiery sound of an explosion going off. He knows it by heart; it’s a sound that he’ll never forget, a sound that haunts Bruce’s nightmares.
Static pours over the open comm line, and Bruce pleads for a response as he steps even harder on the gas pedal. He heard the explosion twofold, over the comm and in person. Only a block or two away, smoke pumps itself into the air, a beacon in the distance calling him to his sons.
“Robin! Robin, come in!”
But there’s no answer. All he can think is he’s too late. He’s too late, he’s too late, he’s too late.
Bruce doesn’t even park the car as he skids to a stop, hopping out and running towards the burning building all in the same motion. Never again, he promised himself, Never again.
Close enough to feel the sweat evaporate off his body and feel his skin dry from the searing flames, red, yellow, and green comes stumbling out of the bellowing fires. And for a moment, relief crashes through his veins like a tidal wave.
But as Bruce moves to meet Robin, he notices the glint of red through the smoke. Tim’s wearing Red Hood’s helmet. It’s cracked. And like that, he feels like he’s drowning again.
He makes it to his youngest, dragging him closer with a desperation he hasn’t felt in a long time. He runs his fingers over Tim’s soot covered arms and sides, feeling for breaks as Tim struggles in his grasp, moving his arms off to take off Jason’s helmet.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. B,” Tim gasps, helmet clutched in his shaking fingers, “B, he’s still in there. He saved my life, and he’s, he’s…”
Bruce is moving before Tim even finishes his sentence, a hysterical sort of desperation pumping through his veins as he launches himself towards the flames. Jason. Jason.
Jason and Bruce might have their issues, but in no universe does that mean he’s going to abandon, lose his son a second time.
“He’s in the basement!” Tim yells out after him.
Headfirst into the burning flames, Bruce quickly finds the basement door in the quickly smoke-darkening room, and rushes towards it. Coughing his way through the smoke billowing out of the basement, he looks around the hazy, rubble and flame filled room for any hint of his son.
Just as he begins to fear that his worst memory will repeat, he sees the glimmer of a red bat hidden against cracked concrete rubble like a beacon amongst the glaring flames.
In a blink, Bruce is by his son’s side, lifting the rubble off of him with a strength that shouldn’t be possible. He pushes, he shoves, he does anything and everything he can to get his son unearthed from the rubble of the quickly devolving building. Concrete moves to the side, and piece by piece, Jason’s body comes more and more into view.
It’s only Bruce’s training that he doesn’t lose it then and there. Blood pools under Jason’s torso, coming from his right hip if the half-charred piece of bloodied gauze is anything to go by. He’s also bleeding from a cut to the head, just above his eyebrows. His leg below his left knee sits at the wrong angle, and his breathing is shallow in a way that speaks to injured ribs. But he is breathing. He’s alive. And that, that is all that Bruce needs.
Jason’s alive.
He’s not too late this time.
Bruce takes in as deep of a breath as he can in the smoke-filled room, then as delicately as possible, picks up his son in a way least likely to aggravate his many wounds. He grunts, lifting from his knees to his feet. Jason’s heavier than he used to be, probably nearing Bruce’s own heavily toned weight.
It’s surprising, and it hurts in a way he wasn’t expecting. His little boy’s all grown up. He knew it, intellectually, but feeling the physical difference is something else.
But those are thoughts for later. First, Bruce has to get out of the building. He maneuvers himself around flames and debris and up the stairs; his pace quickens as he gets closer and closer to the exit.
And then he’s out. Tim rushes up to his side, and wordlessly opens the Batmobile so they can get Jason in.
When Bruce clambers into the driver’s seat, he looks back to see Tim treating Jason’s wounds.
“He saved me,” Tim says quietly.
Bruce swallows. He turns in his seat, tugging his youngest into an awkwardly angled hug. Despite the fact, he’s pretty sure the both of them need it, if the way Tim relaxes some and the knot in his chest eases are any indication.
“And if it weren’t for you sneaking out tonight,” Bruce says, voice thick despite his best wishes, “no one would have been here to save him.”
Tim smiles shakily at that. Then his lips twist, something amused dancing across his features. “No more dead Robins,” he says. There’s a bit of wryness in his voice, but an awareness that the words mean something better than they did before.
Yes, Bruce thinks, No more dead Robins.