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A person only truly dies, when their name is spoken for the last time. When no one can recognise the face in old photos and the writing on the back is too faded to make out because some genius went and wrote it in pencil. When the last of their personal effects are bought from the charity shop or disposed of. Only when our love and memory are completely forgotten, will we ever die.
Not one single book left the shelf in Jason's room. In fact, a battered copy of Pride and Prejudice, which had been fished out of a cardboard box in some thrift store, sat open on his desk, bookmark discarded by its side and open on page fifty-three. It was hardly in impressive condition- even if you disregarded the thin layer of dust across the open pages- but the second Jason saw the golden-embossed title on the spine, he insisted on buying it. Bruce had offered him another copy, also Pride and Prejudice, that was a later edition and in far better-nick, but was refused.
On the car ride home, after a few gentle pokes, he admitted it was because he thought no one else would buy it. That the book was just well loved, so treasured those previous owners had penned their names in fancy swoopy letters, to tie themselves to it forever, and that was no fault of the book itself.
Upon arriving back at the Manor, Jason found his nicest pen and looked up ‘calligraphy’ on his phone. He bit his tongue between his teeth as the nib slowly scratched across the page, determined not to mess it up, and wrote his own name next to the others.
He never read the book, not all the way through. The book remained on page fifty-three.
Just like his bed was eternally unmade, the covers half on the ground, with a stray hoodie discarded on top. Like his science project was only ever half-completed, missing most of the planets, with all but one unfinished. He had started with Pluto, the sole fully-painted planet, farthest away from a sun that did not exist.
Then there is the glass cabinet. Oh, that cabinet, and that damned plaque too.
It was both impossible to understand and entirely clear why Bruce spent his nights talking to the cabinet, and not a framed photo or even the bookshelf upstairs. They were all reminders of what Jason was, not what Bruce had allowed him to become.
A torn suit, encased in glass. A cautionary tale. A ‘good soldier’.
Bullshit.
No one cries for soldiers, ‘good’ or otherwise, he was crying for his son. He was choking on each breath, scrambling to fill his lungs, and he cried and cried because his little boy was dead.
He had been fourty-five seconds late. Not even a full fucking minute. Fourty-five fucking seconds.
How was he supposed to cope with that? To ‘move on’ or ‘forgive himself’ like everyone was telling him too? Jason was dead, there was no moving on from that. You do not move on from a coffin, you stay there and rot.
-
When Dick arrived at the Manor, he didn’t bother checking the study or Bruce’s room. He made straight for the grandfather clock and silently descended down the flight of stairs. He could hear him sobbing before he reached the bottom.
Hunched over on the chair he’d pulled away from the computer, was Bruce Wayne- not Batman. In fact, Batman had not been seen the last week, Nightwing and Robin instead patrolling the streets in his place. Dick wanted to understand, to shoulder that weight for the next fortnight or more- of course, the first anniversary was going to be tough, they had known that- but it was growing harder to carry it all on his own.
He moved in front of him, crouching down, and waited for Bruce to notice him. It took him a moment, once he moved the hands from his face.
“What’re-” Bruce made a pitiful attempt to clear his throat “What are you doing here?”
“You sent Alfred away.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You told him he wasn’t needed here anymore, that’s the same thing Bruce.” Dick sighed “He called me, last night.”
“You should be with Tim, he needs you.” He was shaking his head. The longer Dick looked at him, he noticed Bruce couldn’t see him- in fact he was looking straight past his head into the glass cabinet.
He clenched his jaw and had to turn his face away from Bruce for a few moments as he reined in his frustrations “First of all, I think I made it pretty clear I go where I want to these days, I don’t take orders. And as for Tim; he needs a hell lot more than me. In fact, we both do, măgar.”
“Dick-”
“No.” He growled “You’re not doing this, not now. I know what today is, I fucking know, alright? You think I’m happy either? I grieve for him every single day, just like you, like we all have for the past fucking year! I know, alright? I know Jason is dead. Nothing about this is okay, but I’m still here! I’m right fucking here, and so is Tim now, and you can’t stay like this because we need you too.”
Somewhere, while he was talking, tears had begun to fall, slowly at first. However, when Bruce finally looked him in the eye, it was as if the dam burst with that single blow. His legs dipped down until he was sat against the floor.
“Dick.” Bruce mumbled and shifted forwards in the chair. A calloused hand gently wiped the tears from his sons face and pulled him in close, holding his head against Bruce’s chest, right above his heart.
“You don’t get to do that, it’s not- it’s not…” His voice wavered and he shuddered out a breath. In a tiny whisper, sounding more like the 12-year-old boy in his circus uniform, shouting for his parents to get up, than he had in a very long time, he continued “It’s not fair.”
And for that Bruce held him all the tighter.
-
Tim was already asleep when they went upstairs. It would have been a miracle in its self, if only he had done so in his bed and not on a couch, his head at an awkward angle on the arm. His domino mask was still on and Bruce crouched down by his head to gently peel it away. He tossed it onto the coffee table, hardly caring where it landed, and lifted the kid into his arms.
He was more a teenager than anything and just hitting his growth spurt too. In fact, it dawned on Bruce that he was the oldest any of his sons had been when they came to join him. Dick had been twelve, Jason was eleven, while Tim was thirteen.
Bruce tucked Tim into his own bed, taking time to brush back his hair- he should probably book him a haircut soon, it getting rather long- and wait for him to snuggle his face into his pillow. He left the desk lamp on; Tim didn’t like sleeping in the dark.
“Tată,” Dick mumbled from the doorway, looking every bit exhausted as Bruce himself felt “Do you…”
Well-versed in the mumbling of Dick Grayson, Bruce nodded and began the very short walk to his own room, Dick slowly shuffling after him.
When he was a lot smaller, Dick would knock on his door with elephant in hand, and ask to stay with him for the rest of the night. Often Bruce would not even respond, instead pulling back the covers and letting the child crawl up onto the mattress and wriggle until his head was tucked by his neck. Sometimes it was the nightmares that drove him there, of snapping rope and lightning, and other times it was because of the patrol only a few hours earlier. Regardless, he was never turned away.
This time was no different and Alfred, upon receiving a text from Tim, returned with suitcase in hand to find Bruce fast asleep, Dick curled up next to him.
-
Six feet beneath the ground, a child opens their eyes and screams.