Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bruce wakes up, and immediately wishes he hadn't.

It doesn't matter how much he tries to prepare. Doesn't matter how many cases he buries himself in as he watches out of the corner of his eye as the day ticks closer and closer on digital calendars, and he's a bit more inclined to hit harder on the vital points while brawling in alleys, and it's a bit more difficult every morning to pull himself out from underneath the duvet. He wakes up on that day, the day Jason died and Bruce felt his life start to unravel itself by seam after seam, and is hit with grief, bitter and sizzling on his tongue, as if it's something new to him. As if it hasn't been lodged deep inside of him from the day he heard the bang of a gun and saw pearls stained with blood and held his mother's hand until it grew cold.

He wants to do a lot of things, all of a sudden. He wants to get the faint, almost taunting smell of smoke and burnt rubble out of his nose. He wants to run away somewhere where the air is fresh and crisp and most of all clean and finally feel capable of forcing breath into his lungs. He wants to scrub his hands until they turn red and raw, trying to get the half-imagined blood off. And most of all, he wants to sink into his mattress and feel himself unravel and dissolve into ash and not feel anything, ever, for the rest of eternity.

"Bruce?"

Bruce doesn't startle, but he does something close to it. "Tim," he says softly. "What is it?"

Bruce can't see Tim from his angle facing the ceiling, but he hears the unmistakable scuffle of a shoe being scraped across the ground near the doorway, over and over. "You don't have to do Batman today, you know."

Bruce lets his eyes flutter shut. "I know. I'm not going to."

"Oh." A beat. "You don't have to go to work, either."

"I know. I'm not going to."

"And...the gala. Today. You don't need to be there. If you don't want to."

"I know that. But I do want to."

"Oh." Tim seems to be at a loss for words. "Right. Sorry. Just thought I should...put that out there. Sorry." His shoes scrape as he turns.

"Tim," Bruce calls, and Tim stills. "Thank you. For putting that out there. I appreciate it."

"No--no problem." Bruce can make out the faint note of pride in his voice. "Bye, B."

"Bye." Despite himself, despite everything, despite the fact that Bruce wants to scream until the windows shatter and the bricks crumble in on themselves and his vocal chords snap from the sheer force of it, the corners of his mouth tick up in a small smile.

Bruce forces his eyes open. He stares at the ceiling for another long moment, as if memorizing the creases of paint will somehow be his salvation, and then pushes himself out of bed. He walks to the bathroom, pretending not to notice the dark smudges under his eyes. It's already 2 PM, and he has a gala to prepare for. 

The gala is exactly as miserable as Bruce expected. He's begrudgingly willing to play the part of the bumbling, smirking, happy-go-lucky playboy on any other day, but today he drops the pretense like it burns him. 

As dull as the socialites can be usually, they seem to have picked up on Bruce's cues, on the aura that practically screams don't come near me if you value the attachment of your limbs to the rest of your body , well enough to give him a five foot berth on all sides. He has an undrinken glass of scotch clenched tightly in his hand, and the waiter that was tasked with coming close enough to hand it to him seemed like he had personally been granted a miracle when he was able to dart back to the crowd.

Bruce glances at his watch for the sixth time that minute. He wouldn't be here if it hadn't been the year's biggest charity gala to support people under the poverty line, especially in Crime Alley, the one he had started himself when he first adopted Jason. He doesn't think that Jason would have forgiven him if he didn't attend. He doesn't think Red Hood would forgive him now, either, but then again, there's a long list of things that he doesn't want to forgive Bruce for.

He'd secretly hoped, perhaps foolishly, that today would be easier now that Jason is--well, back might be a bit of an over exaggeration in his mind. It's not like they're living the happily ever after, dinner together every night and drives to and back from school fantasy Bruce had created for himself back when tears stained his pillowcase every night. But he is here, he is present, even if only in packed fists and barbed words poured between them in the dead of the night.

He should have known better. Grief is grief is grief and always will be. 

Bruce finally decides to take a sip out of the scotch when--

The violent tinkle of shattering windows. Lights flickering and dimming rapidly, then pulsing to their usual bright glare to illuminate someone standing in the middle of the ballroom, hands thrown up in wild elation. The people around him scream.

Bruce's eyes rove over the figure in the center. Purple suit. Stringy green hair. Glasgow smile.

Oh. Fuck. No. 

He didn't go on patrol because, perhaps cowardly, he couldn't stand the idea of seeing him again, even though he was supposed to be safely locked away in Arkham, knew he wouldn't be able to hold himself back. 

Air is a distant memory to Bruce's lungs. The glass of scotch is in pieces on the ground. He is humming with adrenaline, with pure raw energy the likes of which he hasn't felt in a very long time.

"Terribly sorry to interrupt your evening, ladies and gentlemen!" Joker cackles, spinning slowly around, eyes wide as he soaks the large arches, the grandeur, in. Behind him, goons in clown masks with guns pour in through the cavities in the windows. "I know how much fun you must be having, drinking and gossiping on the deathday of the boy who's the reason you're here, if my sources are correct. And they always are."

Bruce needs to become Batman. Needs to slip behind the safety, the comfort, the control of a mask and kevlar armor. But he can't make his legs lead him to a dark corner, can't bring his fingers into tapping his earpiece to call Tim or Alfred or Dick or someone. He can only stare, stare, stare, blood pooling across the edges of his vision, wondering how long it would take him to rip the skin from Joker's bare, taunting, open throat.

Joker's spinning slows to a halt so that he looks directly at Bruce, a wide grin stretches across his face. "But where are my manners?" he crows. "Look at the guest of honor at this deathday party! Let's all clap. Clap!"

The people near Bruce screech and skitter out of the way, but he ignores them. Stays still and stoic. Looks right back at Joker.

"You poor little baby kicked it, didn't he?" Joker says. Bruce feels something inside of him flare. "None of the newspapers will shut up about it. Poor Bruce Wayne this, poor Bruce Wayne that. But do you want to know something interesting?"

Joker walks towards Bruce, too much of a bounce in his step. "I knew another daddy whose birdie, whose baby, whose son died today. The same day! And I killed him! That's interesting, right? Tell me it's interesting."

Bruce is face to face with him now. Can see all the wrinkles and creases in makeup. "Not so interesting," he says softly, "since I already knew that. I knew it very well."

"You did?" Joker says, pulling his features into a grotesque, exaggerated look of disappointment. "Aw. I was going to make you guess who the daddy was. And then who the birdie was. But I guess you might already know that. The rich always have their ways, don't you?" He shrugs. "That's okay. I'll just make up another game. You can guess how many times I hit the birdie with my crowbar. And how many times he said please versus how many times he said stop . How long it took for him to start bawling . And how many seconds the daddy was late." Joker bares his teeth in something resembling a grin. "Do you want to play?"

And then Bruce fucking loses it.

Faster than he can blink, faster than the light fizzling out of Jason's eyes, Bruce lunges forward and grabs the lapels of Joker's stupid purple suit. Joker laughs and aims a punch at Bruce's face, but Bruce just as quickly elbows it out of the way. He sweeps Joker's feet out from underneath him and throws him to the ground, using his grip on Joker's suit to slam him into the ground a few times, ensuring that the wind is knocked out of him. At the same time, he hails down kick after kick to Joker's legs, fracturing them. 

It all happens in the span of a few seconds, faster than Bruce has ever fought before. It's not happening fast enough. It's happening too fast.

Distantly, as though in the fuzzy aftermath of a dream, Bruce sees the Batmobile crashing through the cavity in the windows. The goons that aren't blown out of the way turn fire on it, bullets ricocheting pointlessly off the sleek exterior. 

They've practically forgotten about Bruce, about whatever semblance of a plan they must have had, their fear of Batman taking control. There's nothing in Bruce's way. Nothing stopping him from ending this, once and for all.

"Oh, this is a plot twist!" Joker exclaims. His legs are twisted, mangled in ways that no legs should, and yet he doesn't seem aware of it. "A wild one!" He laughs.

He won't. Stop. Laughing. Bruce is in Ethiopia again and Jason is trying to grab onto his suit but the blood is making everything slippery and the bomb is down to single blaring digits and Joker's laughter is still fluttering in the wind and Jason's eyes are rolling into the back of his head, he tries to say something but no words come out, only blood, flowing out of his mouth with a wet gargle--

The thing is.

The thing is, Gotham is constantly walking a too-thin tightrope. All it would take is a strong gust of wind to topple the entire thing over, to explode it into gang wars and panicked looting and uncontrollable riots. Batman might be the only thing keeping that gust of wind at bay. Not only by apprehending muggers and busting trafficking rings, but also by being that eternal symbol of: Gotham will fuck you up. It will fuck you up and then one day you'll look around and wonder if there's anything worth saving or loving. But it won't kill you, and whatever doesn't kill makes you make you stronger, and there's always a bit of hope in that stalk of resilience.

So the thing is, Batman does not kill. Cannot kill.

But Bruce isn't Batman right now. He is a grieving father. He is flawed, fractured, and aching. He is a man who has held his son's battered body in his arms and known, with an indescribably deep certainty, that he would never be as happy as he once was, as happy as he was the day before, ever again. He is someone who has been trying to escape that day for years and thought he had but now realizes that he never came close.

And Joker is laughing, laughing like everything Bruce holds close to his chest is nothing, is worthy only of burning like garbage.

Bruce fists his hand in Joker's hair. He raises it up. And then he smashes it on the ground.

Joker's breath hitches, and then he keeps on laughing. Bullets are still flying, Tim is vaguely yelling something as Robin, maybe Nightwing is there, Bruce doesn't know, but all he can hear is that fucking laughter. On and on. Its pitch is gratingly high and it scrapes on his eardrums. On and on and on.

"Stop," Bruce says, "fucking," he tightens his grip on Joker's hair, " laughing !" He slams Joker's head against the floor again. Bone cracks like a whip.

His breath rattles in his lungs. Burning hot embers curl up his spine.

Joker's laugh is starting to taper off, finally, as his eyes roll back and his limbs turn slack, but it's not happening fast enough . Bruce needs to get rid of it, he needs to get rid of it now. And so he smashes Joker's head against the floor one last time.

Joker's skull shatters. Blood oozes out of the wound, dampening Bruce's shoes and pants. Loose flesh and brain matter splatter on the shiny marble floor like some strange and beautiful painting.

Bruce thinks that he could stay here, staring at Joker's corpse, forever. Maybe it's already been forever. 

But a fight is still raging and people are looking and he can't stay in his bubble forever. And if Bruce knows anything, it's how to force himself together when his world has shifted in ways no one can understand.

He glances up. People are staring at him, fear and relief mingling strangely in their eyes. Forgotten drinks clutched to their chests. He smiles tightly at them. And then Robin is yelling something, and their attention jerks to him.

Bruce slips away. It's time for Batman to make an, admittedly belated, appearance.

Bruce stirs his cup of coffee. The kitchen is dark, the blinking lights of the microwave and oven casting a faint bluish glow. Batman had neatly finished whatever goons Robin had missed and had a few words with Gordon afterwards. Which should mean that the cops leave him alone for another twenty-four hours. Even when they do come to pick him up for questioning, though, he's pretty sure Gotham will be too relieved the Joker's gone to bother punishing him. And even if the courts are overtaken by a sudden fit of moral righteousness, they are still broken enough that Bruce knows he can get by with little more than a slap to the wrist if he pours a lot of money in the right places.

Tim is asleep, the combination of a brutal fight and a sleepless forty-eight hours beforehand serving as an excellent replacement for a melatonin pill. Alfred hasn't left his room all day, and Bruce highly doubts he even knows what went down.

So Bruce is here. Alone. Bent over a cup of coffee that's long since gone cold on his kitchen island. Just stirring.

He keeps searching inside of him, scouring the nooks and crannies and crevices of his heart, for even a bit of guilt. He finds a bit of regret. A lot of relief. But no guilt.

If he has spared another parent, any parent, from the pain of losing their child at the Joker's hands, then he can go to his grave with a clear conscience. He finally sips his coffee. It's cold, but that just makes the bitter taste all the more prevalent. He keeps drinking it.

"You don't have to keep hiding, Jason," he calls. "I know you're there."

A heavy pause, and then Jason steps out from where he's been crouched in the next room. He flicks the light switch. Bruce blinks at the sudden brightness, at the way the lights glint off Jason's boiling green eyes.

"How did you know?"

"I know a lot of things," Bruce says mildly. "Besides, you're two hundred pounds now, Jason. You can't expect to be as proficient at hiding as you once were."

A quick scan shows that Jason doesn't have any guns on him, and Bruce takes that as the olive branch it is. He still has three knives--one in his boot, one in his jacket sleeve, one strapped on his waist--but Bruce can hardly begrudge him that, considering he also has five knives on him. 

Jason doesn't say anything. He has that determinedly blank, unimpressed look on his face that Bruce knows means that he doesn't quite know what to make of what he's feeling, is still trying to parse through words and emotions. Bruce knows that because it's exactly the kind of face he makes.

"Have some tea?" Bruce asks.

Jason's fingers twitch, and for a moment, Bruce thinks that he's going to refuse. Bruce wouldn't blame him if he did. These days, it seems like all they're good for is hurting each other. 

Bruce doesn't especially want that. He walks into every interaction convincing himself that this is the time that he'll make things right again, say what he should say and do what he needs to do to get his son and his life and his happiness back. And then there's a slip up and Jason is yelling at him and the grief for someone who is standing in front of him lays itself heavily on his heart without giving him any clue as to what he's supposed to do with it and something vast and deep inside of him is yelling can't you see I'm doing my best despite everything, despite losing everything, despite having to get up to a world who hates me every morning ? And their worldviews seem so intrinsically different, black versus white and death versus life, that Bruce allows sharp insults to spill from his lips and allows his fists to meet punch with another punch.

 He doesn't think that's going to happen today, though. He's filled with a new kind of conviction. Bruce has slathered his hands in blood, and he has to ensure it's not for naught.

Besides, Bruce has just killed a man. Their worldviews might not be so different, now. 

Jason finally nods, a short, jerky gesture. Bruce gives himself a moment to smile before picking up a bottle of water and pouring it in the kettle.

"You killed Joker," Jason blurts. "Bruce, you killed him."

Bruce plugs the kettle in and flicks the on button. "Astute observation. How did you find out?"

"By using the fucking remote," Jason says. "Someone filmed you. It's on national television now."

Bruce grunts. "I hope my hair looked alright, at least. You never know with these videos. Somehow they always manage to make everything look so grainy."

There's a silence, filled only by the sounds of the bubbling kettle. Then: "You're joking, Bruce." Bruce pities Jason a bit for how bewildered he sounds. "You've just killed, which is your big no-no rule, the mantra you repeat to yourself every morning as you shave, the guideline you live by and worship, and you're joking."

"Joker's worn off on me." 

"You're not worried you'll be cursed indefinitely? You're not worried you'll go to hell for it?" He says it like a taunt, but Bruce can hear the undercurrents of frustration.

"If I go to hell," Bruce says quietly, seriously, "then I will gladly face Joker and fight him for the rest of eternity. But until then, I will not lose anyone more to him. I will not watch as another parent loses their child to him. And that is reassurance enough."

Jason is breathing deeply, staring at Bruce with a slightly lost look, as if this is his first time seeing him. Bruce feels something twinge in his chest. That was the way Jason looked at him a lot in the early days, when he still expected Bruce to hit him, fuck him, or both, and could hardly believe it when Bruce did neither.

"Do me a favor," Jason says, "and clear things up for me. Did you kill Joker so that he wouldn't kill anyone else, or did you kill Joker as revenge? For torturing me and killing me and turning me into this?"

Bruce walks to the pantry and finds a tin box of tea leaves. He carries it back to the kettle. His hands don't shake. "Don't talk about yourself like that. You're not a product of Joker's schemes and machinations. You're your own person, Jason. You're bigger than Joker and that night in Ethiopia."

Jason snorts. "I'm the one who's been trying to tell you that for six months. But don't evade the question."

Bruce grabs a teapot from the cabinet, sets it on the counter, and sprinkles some tea leaves in. "I was not expressly thinking about the effects of me stopping Joker. It's the main reason I don't feel guilty right now, and I'm sure it was somewhere in the back of my mind, but it wasn't the focus."

"What was?"

"Ethiopia," Bruce says bluntly. "Your blood on my armor. Your cuts and broken bones and bruises. The numbers on the bomb. The smoke. And the Joker. Laughing and laughing and laughing. And then Joker was laughing again, in real time, and I couldn't stand it. I snapped. And I guess you saw what happened next while watching CNN."

The kettle dings. Bruce pours water into the teapot and covers the lid, leaving it to steep.

"I guess I did," Jason echoes. "But. Batman."

"Batman has Gotham to think about," Bruce says. "Batman has to be a symbol and a leader and cling onto a moral compass even if it would be more practical not to." He shrugs. "But I'm a grieving father. And I don't have to do anything but avenge my son."

"So you did it for me, then," Jason says, his eyes boring into Bruce's. "After all this time. After all the fights. You did it for me."

Silence. Bruce glances up at the ceiling, and then back down.

"Someday," he says quietly, "you are going to realize that I love you. The same type of love I feel for Dick and Tim--that all-encompassing love that barely leaves room for anything else. And you are going to realize that I have always loved you, from the moment I met you, and that has not stopped after Felipe Garzona, or Ethiopia, or Red Hood."

He motions Jason closer. Jason hesitates, and then walks gingerly, carefully, towards Bruce. 

They're closer than they've been in a long time. Bruce's fingers hum, remembering when this would have meant that Bruce's next move would be a punch, or perhaps a dodge. As it is, he raises a hand and places it on Jason's cheek, stroking it softly with his thumb. Jason's eyes flutter shut, absorbing the warmth and love and complete and utter adoration.

"And I hope, I pray, that you don't ever understand what it means to lose a child, the sheer grief that it entails, but one day you will realize that I grieved you the best I could. That Tim was not a replacement, but the only thing helping me cope. That he does not take away from the love I had for you, because nothing could, not even a little bit."

"Bruce," Jason says. "Dad."

Bruce smiles softly. He pulls away, takes a small strainer from the drawer, and pours tea into the mug, using the strainer to filter out the solids. He hands the mug to Jason, who takes it with both hands and then heaves himself to sit on the kitchen island. He sips from it tentatively.

"I like it. Even more than Alfred's."

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"His tastes better. But I like yours more."

Bruce smiles.

"Let's talk about some meaningless shit," Jason says. "Something that doesn't matter at all, except to us."

"Language," Bruce says. "Okay."

And so they do. They talk. Jason tells him about a nice girl he met, and how they've started swapping recipes back and forth. She taught Jason how to make chicken soup. He taught her how to bake chocolate cake. Bruce tells him about the garden he started maintaining after Jason died, when the house felt too empty and he needed to get out. The magnolias, the roses, the orchids and the bleeding hearts. They've all flourished, even the high-maintenance ones, thanks to his tireless OCD.

"You never struck me as the gardening type," Jason says, smirking. "Guess I got too used to seeing you maul criminals to be able to picture you bending over flowers."

"It's done no favors for my back, that's for sure," Bruce says. "But Alfred thought I wouldn't be good at it either, and nothing is more motivating than trying to prove his judgmental looks wrong."

Jason snorts. 

"Let's bake something," Bruce says.

"Why?"

"You seem to consider yourself Gordon Ramsey. I'm just putting that to the test."

"Didn't Alfred say you were a disgrace to the act, concept, and thought of cooking?"

Bruce rolls his eyes. "He only says that because I ruined his beef wellington once . When he first became butler, fresh out of the army, he'd be hard pressed to cook anything that wouldn't get him arrested for poisoning."

Jason looks like this is the best day of his life.

"He burned boiling water, Jason."

Jason laughs. "It's a crime you've never told me about this before."

They set upon making brownies, and after a long hour of arguing over who gets to break the eggs, who has to stir for ten minutes, and Jason talking Bruce out of making a bat-shaped oven for the Batcave, they have a steaming pan of brownies in front of them.

"Should we wait until they cool?" Bruce asks.

"We're not pussies," Jason says. Bruce considers this, nods, and hands Jason a fork.

They both munch thoughtfully.

"I like it. Even more than Alfred's." Bruce spears another chunk. "His tastes better, but I like this more."

Jason smiles, so very brightly, and Bruce feels a sudden lightness in his chest. He doesn't think it's going to go anywhere for a long, long time.