Chapter Text
IN THE DAYS AFTER JASON'S DEATH, BRUCE FOUND HIMSELF INCAPABLE OF MOVING FORWARD, shutting out anyone who dared to come close.
The curtains were still undrawn, and Alfred decided not to wake him up early these past few mornings, leaving Bruce to mourn in solitude. He tossed and turned in his sheets each night, unable to sleep when so many disturbing images flashed before his eyes. There were dark, sunken bags formed under his eyes, having not gained one peaceful moment of sleep despite how much time he spent in bed.
There was no possible way for anyone to coax him from the loss of his son, not even Alfred, who tried his best to be there for him as much as he could, and who was also just as heartbroken. No one could convince him to eat, to get up from bed, to go live his life somehow. How could he do any of those things when Jason couldn’t anymore? How could he keep living when his son was dead?
All he felt was overwhelming grief … and so much anger.
Anger at the maniac clown responsible for Jason’s death, anger at the one who was supposed to be his mother only to betray him, anger at the cruelty of fate, anger at himself for not being there when Jason needed him most. But perhaps it wasn’t just that, perhaps he was angry about the fact that if he hadn’t taken Jason under his wing, if he hadn’t allowed him to become Robin, then this wouldn’t have happened in the first place.
Perhaps he was angry at himself for getting Jason involved in his life, making him a soldier instead of a boy who deserved to live the childhood Bruce never had.
That night in Bosnia was fresh in Bruce’s mind, he could still remember it all like a curse he couldn’t escape from.
He could still remember the smell of burning wood. He could remember the debris and whatever was left of the warehouse from the explosion that surrounded him. He remembered the ash that fell from the sky, blackening the snow he stood on. He remembered the dread and fear he had when he couldn’t find Jason, holding out hope for the possibility that he might still be alive.
Bruce wasn’t a man of faith, yet he found himself praying.
However, his prayer wasn’t answered, and he was left looking down at what had once been Jason, his Robin suit torn and bloodied. The state he was in when Bruce found him, it made him sick to his stomach. It was like the world had come crashing down on him and all he could do was witness it as it did.
“No,” he had whispered quietly in denial, shaking his head as he scanned the bruised, beaten features of his son. “Jason … My boy …”
He cradled him is arms, so gently as though he were alive to feel the pain if otherwise. The weight of his body, the coldness of it, the sight of the many fresh wounds that had inflicted on him … One chilling thought ran through Bruce’s mind as he carefully caressed the back of Jacon’s neck, his fingers brushing against his soft curls, hiding his face against his shoulder as he wept.
My son is dead and it’s all my fault.
Hot tears streamed down his cheeks that day, repeating the same words over and over. Rocking back and forth with him in his arms, Bruce allowed himself this one moment to break down, incapable of burying the despair he’d held in for as long as he could remember.
That day in Crime Alley, when the pearls from his mother’s necklace fell against the soiled cement, echoing in his ears at the same time the gunshot that killed her fired.
It brought Bruce back to that moment, as that helpless little boy, who could do nothing except crouch on his knees and beg for any being merciful enough to bring his parents back to him. He was still that boy at that moment, holding onto what was left of his son, finding himself repeating the past all over again.
He forced himself to never forget that night, to use it as his fuel for vengeance against those who brought harm to the innocents, to the ones responsible for the corruption that coursed through his beloved city.
The days and nights that followed Jason’s death blended into a period of time where Bruce found himself a prisoner of his own mind. When he could no longer ignore his duties after a week of isolation, he returned back to the man he was.
Or well, whatever was left of him there was in the first place.
Bruce knew he couldn’t keep doing this any longer, he couldn’t allow to feel sorry for himself if it cost the city’s citizens to face the consequences of his absence.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred had stood beside Bruce as he crouched over the batcomputer, clad in his suit with his cowl pulled back. It was his first time returning to action since Jason’s passing, and the concern from his butler was obvious enough in his tone. “Don’t you think it is … too soon for you to be out there? Perhaps—”
“It’s never too soon, Alfred.” Bruce interrupted him, voice hoarse and taut. “I have to get back to work.” His fingers quickly tapped against the large keyboard before him. “I’ve left this city on its own for too long. The criminals will start thinking it’s the right moment for them to strike. I’ll be there to prove them wrong.”
“Yes, I’m quite sure of that.” Alfred sighed, smoothing down his fine suit with his gloved hands. “But perhaps another hero can be there on your behalf.”
As though on cue, footsteps sounded from behind him. Light and springy, like those of an acrobat. But not just any acrobat, Bruce noted.
“Hey, B.” Dick greeted, a solemn expression marking his features, even with his domino mask on. “Alf said you could use a hand. Or well, I thought you could and—”
“I don’t need help.” Bruce snapped, his already thin patience since Jason’s death waning even thinner. He couldn’t have any of them pulling him back from doing what he needed to do, what he had to do.
Gotham City needed Batman. He couldn’t let his emotions overcome him any longer. He couldn’t allow his grief and anger to take hold of him like this. That would only lead him to become reckless and get himself killed in this line of work. He was better than that.
“Go back to Blüdhaven, Dick.” he got up abruptly, placing his hands on the corners of the batcomputer’s keyboard. Turning his head over his shoulder, he added, “You’re not needed here.”
“Come on, Bruce. Don’t give me that,” Dick took a step closer, and it was clear that he was not willing to back down. “Everything’s been hard since Jason died. It took a toll on you, you’re not in the right shape to be going out there, especially on your own.”
“I’ve been doing this long before I took you in as Robin.” Bruce straightened himself, appearing taller than he already was. It was a tactic he used to assert himself in a way that made the others register that they could not get through to him, that his word was final. “I know my limits. I don’t need lectures, certainly not from you.”
“I’m not lecturing you, that’s something you do.” Dick countered, brows furrowing. “If anything, I’m trying to help the man who practically raised me. I’m trying to be there for you even when you push me away—like you always do.” There was a pause, and then an exasperated sigh escaping from Dick’s lips, “That’s the thing with you, Bruce. You never let anyone close. You’re afraid if you ever do let that happen, then for once, you’ll realize you’re just as vulnerable and human as the rest of us.”
Bruce kept his hardened gaze at the batcomputer, unwilling to look at Dick. He knew that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to rein in the undirected anger before it was targeted on him. Bruce couldn’t do that, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to take it back.
“I’ve always appreciated your help,” Bruce admitted, his voice just a hint softer then. It was the truth, and he needed Dick to know that. Forcing himself to not look in either Alfred’s or Dick’s direction, Bruce pulled back on his cowl, “But it’s not needed right now.”
Not giving either of them enough time to continue protesting against his decision, Bruce made his way to the batmobile. Using his wrist holographic computer, he opened the hood of the vehicle and jumped inside.
“Wait,” Dick ran towards him, palms raised up. “Bruce—”
Starting the engine, Bruce hit the gas before he could even hear the rest of what Dick was going to say to him. A part of him knew that he shouldn’t have done that, but the other part, the one filled with rage and grief, couldn’t bring himself to care all that much. He needed time to himself, he needed to be Batman.
He needed to bring some sort of control back into the streets of his city, as though that could possibly make up for the loss of his son. As though, by doing this, he could somehow save Jason all over again.
With narrowed eyes, Bruce sped from inside the batcave into the dim, rather empty streets of Gotham. So many thoughts raced in his mind as he passed by all the familiar places on his drive, both good and bad. The theater where he last spent his time with his parents to watch The Mask of Zorro.
He could remember it as though it were only yesterday. The excitement and joy he had as a little boy, rambling on and on about how much he had enjoyed the movie to his parents.
“That was amazing!” he gushed, bouncing on his feet as he held his mother’s hand and walked beside his father. “Do you think we can watch it again sometime?”
His parents shared a quick glance with one another, one of effortless understanding, before they both smiled and chuckled at their son.
“Of course, sweetheart.” His mother said, lowering herself just enough to peck his cheek.
Who would have thought that that would be the last moment he would share with his parents? Who would have thought that as they chose to walk their way home they would encounter a robber threatening them with a gun?
Who would have thought that Bruce would have to do nothing but watch as his parents were shot?
That fateful day had changed everything.
It changed the way Bruce viewed the world and changed him into someone different. It was like he had aged ten years in that one day, the child he once was no longer there. He was but an empty vessel, finding the pursuit of justice the only thing capable of making him whole. It was supposed to be a way to help cope with his trauma, to help with the overwhelming grief he had tried so hard to overcome.
The Batman had been about bringing vengeance to those who, like the man responsible for his parents' deaths, Joe Chill, inflicted harm on the innocents. It was meant to somehow bring his own parents to justice in a way. And now, Bruce found himself back at the start, using this mantle as a crutch to aid him in handling yet another loss.
Jason had been the one good thing in his life, especially after Dick had left the nest and Bruce was alone. Jason had been the boy who needed a father when Bruce needed a son. They took on the roles perfectly for each other, and Bruce was the happiest he had been in years. He could not have imagined a life more perfect than the years he spent with Jason, finally understanding what it felt like to bear such love for a child who wanted and needed him just as much as he did. Finally understanding what it was like to be a father.
It was ironic the way fate seemed to work.
In the place Bruce had lost his parents, Crime Ally, had also been the very place where he first encountered Jason.
He had been stealing the tires to the batmobile, using his lug wrench as a weapon to slam against Bruce’s abdomen when he was caught, running away with an insult thrown his way. Bruce had found himself amused by the boy then, how he did not seem afraid of him despite his reputation. Little did he know where that encounter would lead him, and how that boy would change his life for the better once he took him under his wing. How they would both become better versions of themselves together,
Crime Alley may have taken away his parents, but it had also brought him a son.
“We need all available units at Gotham General Hospital,” a GCPD dispatcher notified through the police radio. “There’ve been reports of gunshots and violent activity, take precautions.”
Bruce’s grip tightened on the wheel, he knew where he was needed tonight, making a sharp turn to take the fastest route to the mentioned location.
When Gotham called, Batman answered.
〣
“Master Bruce!” Alfred called out as soon as he returned to the cave, rushing to his side to help Bruce stand upright as he got out of the batmobile.
Tonight had gone differently than planned. Or well, if Bruce was being honest, he hadn’t exactly planned anything at all. Everything was just a blur of violence, his fists slamming as hard as they could at the criminals he found, not thinking about the blood coating his gloves. It was so unlike him to rely on his emotions like this, to not hold himself back and do more damage than what was necessary.
“What in good heavens happened out there?” Alfred asked, visibly concerned as he brought Bruce to the gurney. Once he sat up on it, the old man took a minute to scan for his wounds, shaking his head at the deep lacerations and the blood that stained his suit.
“I’m fine,” Bruce brushed off, not having enough energy to explain. “Just patch me up, Alfred.”
Bruce was ready to hear some scolding from his butler, able to predict it with his downturned lips and furrowed brows. But he knew it was deserved, seeing as he had went against Alfred’s advice and came back proving him right all along. Was he going to admit that, though? Of course not.
“This is very unlike you, sir.” Alfred chided, reaching for the medical supplies needed as Bruce carefully peeled off the top piece of his suit. “I’ve never seen you come home with such grave injuries when it’s not against those super-villains.” A sigh escaped his lips as he shook his slowly head to himself. “It was too soon for you to be out there, too soon. You haven’t given yourself enough time to properly grieve.”
Bruce stared at the ground, knowing that what Alfred was true was true but unwilling to voice that out. Jason had been the light in his life when he was surrounded by darkness. He had been the sole person to bring out the best in Bruce whom he had thought died along with his parents. To think he could just go back to trying to live as he could before was not possible, but he forced himself to try to convince himself that it could be.
“You cared for that boy,” Alfred continued, his voice going quieter, softer, as he began tending to the gash that ran from across Bruce’s shoulder to the middle of his back. “You loved him. And he loved you. For the first time in so long … I saw you happy. Jason changed you, Master Bruce. And I truly believed that there would’ve been a point in time where you both could have found a somewhat normal life away from all … this.”
A solemn expression marked Bruce’s features, unaffected by the needle that pierced through his skin with each fresh stitch. He had long grown accustomed to the discomfort that came with being patched up, his eyes focused on the ground as he mulled over Alfred’s words.
“And I was happy,” he admitted ever so quietly. “Having Jason in my life was like … a fresh start. With Dick gone, I almost forgot what it meant to be Batman until I found Jason in that alley. I thought by taking him in that I’d save him from a life of crime. I thought I could help him create a sense of justice to help him heal from what happened to him and his mother.”
“I wanted to help him, but I didn’t. I failed him, Alfred. I failed Jason. My son.” Bruce hung his head low, closing his eyes. “He needed me and I wasn’t there. Not just on that night but before that. I didn’t tell him about his father, I kept it from him thinking it was better he didn’t know.”
Bruce had truly thought Jason being oblivious about his father’s death would be better, but he was wrong. He should’ve known but he was only thinking in a way most parents did, wanting to shield their children from anything that hurt them, even if it meant hiding things from them.
“Then he found out about his mother—his biological mother—and I offered to help him. We found her but I should’ve kept a closer eye on him, I should’ve known Joker would be involved. I …”
“Master Bruce,” Alfred cautioned quietly, carefully wrapping the bandages around Bruce’s stitches. “You did all you could for the boy. You were the parent he needed when neither of his were there. What happened to him is not your fault.” A stern look took over the old man’s face as he glanced away. “It was that monster who killed Jason. It’s him you should blame, not you.”
“It’s easier blaming myself.” Bruce’s hands clenched into fists against his thighs. “It’s easier than fighting against what comes over me every time I remember him .”
Pure loathe spilled through, soaking in that last word. Because it’s not just a word, but a person—someone that Bruce cannot stand to think of, even when mentioned briefly.
“It’s easier than trying to stop myself from going against everything I fought so hard for. Against who I’m supposed to be. If I even think about that…that monster for even a second, I almost find myself willing to throw all of it away. I find myself wanting to end him, right then and there. But I can’t…”
It’s a struggle to even think straight anymore with the rage and sorrow conflicting with each other in his mind. Bruce came to a standstill, unable to cross the line and yet still finding ways to reach just close enough. Before, he would make it a priority to not cause more harm than necessary, but that had changed since Jason’s death. Bruce still hadn’t made the decision to kill, he didn’t believe in revenge, and yet he was still unable to properly move on.
Bruce was stuck between the past and the present, and he had no motivation to even concern himself with the future.
“And you haven’t,” Alfred’s voice came with surety, and yet with tenderness as well. He had finished tending to Bruce’s wounds then, putting back the wrap of bandages on the silver tray nearby, before placing his wrinkled hand on Bruce’s good shoulder. “You’ve fought this battle many times before, Master Bruce, and you’ve always learned to overcome them. You know just as well as I do that Batman is more than being strong all the time, that he is a mere man that breaks and comes back stronger than before.”
Though Bruce never bothered to admit it, Alfred’s words always left him feeling better than he originally felt, however, the outcome this time was different. Bruce still wasn’t in the right mind space to truly take all that Alfred said into account. A part of him was in another place, and for some reason, Bruce preferred it that way.
With only silence to come between them, seeing as Bruce could not find himself to say anything, merely staring down at the ground as he slowly flexed his injured shoulder, Alfred took it upon himself to leave with the silver tray in his hands.
Bruce got up from the gurney he sat on and made his way towards the batcomputer, stubborn and insistent that he kept doing what he always did to ignore the current state of his well-being, to ignore the way his very soul remained tormented and lost. With the corner of his eye, Bruce caught sight of light bouncing off the glass, knowing exactly what it was he was passing by.
Stopping dead in his tracks, Bruce slowly turned around to face what he knew he’d find, something that would make him feel that same twinge he always did whenever he looked at it.
Jason’s memorial display case.
The suit inside was pristine and unworn, having been one of his extras that he never got the chance to wear. It was the very suit Jason had died in, except without the blood stains and tears it sustained. The very suit Bruce had to peel off his dead body so that no one could trace the discovery back to him. So that people would not find out that Bruce Wayne and Jason Todd were Batman and Robin.
However, Bruce found himself regretting his actions, regretting the fact that Jason was not remembered for who he truly was: a boy who sacrificed his own life in an attempt to save another’s. A boy who saved Bruce’s own life in a way since the day they met. The boy who was a hero to all of Gotham.
Bruce shouldn’t have robbed him of that, but he did. He did it so that the people still had Batman to protect them, though that reason wasn’t enough to make Bruce feel any less guilty or angry at himself.
He kept his hardened gaze on the display case, eyes watering despite himself, as he took in the costume with its signature red and yellow color scheme. When he closed his eyes, he could picture Jason discovering the suit for the first time.
“Pixie boots?” Jason raised a brow curiously at them when he caught sight of them.
“The previous Robin didn’t mind them.” Bruce had said.
“In fact,” Alfred joined in, taking a step closer to the two. “Master Richard had been the one to come up with its design.”
Jason just looked at the suit again, not saying another word, though his expression said more than enough. Despite his disapproval of the choice of shoes, there was no mistaking the admiration and awe the boy felt towards the suit, towards what it stood for.
The memory soon faded and another took place: the first day Jason wore the suit. He stood proud as ever with his hands on his hips and the widest smile Bruce had ever seen him wear. It was this day where Jason knew that his life would change forever.
“This is the best day of my life!” He had exclaimed.
Bruce at the time had smiled then, looking at Jason as if he were the source of light in his eyes, his own little star.
Just as quickly, Bruce was brought back to the present, his eyes focusing once more on the memorial case. He put one hand against the glass, taking in Jason’s Robin suit one last time.
My partner, my son, my fault.
He forced himself to walk away, to not linger near it any longer, because he knew that if he stayed more than even a minute he would wallow in his grief and guilt all over again. He could not afford to do that any longer—Gotham could not afford it. The cost was too great a price to pay if he left the people who needed him, he had to let go.
He needed to let go.
But … could he really do that?
The only option he had was to keep pushing forward, just like he did with his parents, and yet he found himself hesitating. Instead, he was desperate to turn to another solution, one that made him question his own morals.
When he finally reached the batcomputer, cautiously sitting down on his seat and wincing at the slight strain it brought to his injuries, he looked up at the massive screens before him.
He couldn’t believe what he was thinking at the moment, couldn’t believe the suggestion that seemed to come to him so freely. If he was the man he was before Jason’s death he would have turned it down as quickly as it came, but he wasn’t.
With almost hesitant fingers, Bruce typed out a name on the search bar, the name of the one person he hadn’t stopped thinking of since the day he walked away from them.
Talia al Ghul.