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As he made his way to the shady abandoned warehouse near the docks, Bruce’s hands were faintly shaking. He was acting recklessly. He knew that. He had no other options. Red Hood had his son’s body, and Bruce would do anything to get Jason back.
He had already failed his little boy once; he wouldn’t let himself fail him even in death too.
At least Red Hood hadn’t known that Bruce was Batman. That was a small mercy. While Bruce would be facing an unknown, merciless vigilante, at least he was doing so as Bruce Wayne, ineffectual but well-meaning billionaire businessman, rather than Batman. There was no knowing what Red Hood might do if he knew he had an unarmed and helpless Batman at his mercy.
Probably get the Joker involved. Bruce and his boy could go out the same way. Wouldn’t that be poetic?
“Wayne…” Red Hood’s voice modulator pitched his voice lower than it probably was. Bruce had assumed that Red Hood was older, but now that he was seeing him in person, he was starting to suspect that he was quite young. Maybe in his early twenties.
Maybe younger.
God, it always killed him when he got older and his adversaries got younger and younger. Just another reminder that his children would never have a world that was truly at peace.
“Red Hood,” Bruce said, trying to keep his heart from racing in his chest. “Please, we can settle this non-violently.”
“Can we?” Red Hood snapped. “You know what you did.”
“I don’t know how I’ve wronged you,” replied Bruce, deliberately not saying ‘I don’t know who you are’. He had tried that line before; it never failed to send people into frenzies. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry. Please, my son shouldn’t pay for my mistakes.”
Red Hood stared at him, eyes obscured by his helmet.
Bruce kept talking, too desperate to stop. “I don’t want my son’s body disrespected any more than it already has been. Return him to me, and you can have anything you want.”
A dangerous offer to make to an infamous criminal. If Bruce wanted to get Jason back, he truly had no other option. It had been two years since someone had stooped so low as to desecrate Jason’s grave. Bruce had heard nothing since.
No ransom, no demands, no threats.
They simply took his son, and left.
It was a miracle that Bruce managed to keep himself under control.
“Whatever I want?” Red Hood echoed.
“Anything,” Bruce reiterated. “Jason is my son. I love him more than anything in the world. I’d do anything to have him home safe.”
Red Hood lowered his gaze, a strangely bitter tone seeping into his voice. “You replaced him. If you loved him, why would you do that?”
Hesitating for a moment too long, Bruce replied, “Tim came to me in a difficult time of my life. When my grief threatened to destroy me, he gave me the strength to continue. I never stopped loving Jason. That’s why I need you to do the right thing. Return my son to me. Please.”
Dimly, Bruce was aware of his vision blurring with tears. He hadn’t cried in front of another person since Jason’s funeral. He hadn’t really spoken to anyone other than Dick, Tim or Alfred, either.
Jason was such a good boy. He hadn’t deserved any of this. Hadn’t deserved to be killed. Buried. Stolen.
Hadn’t deserved any of this.
Bruce was distantly aware of Red Hood approaching him. Of him reaching up to pull off his helmet. He was too emotionally exhausted to be scared, even as the helmet was fully removed, revealing the young man’s face.
And he was a young man, probably barely twenty, possibly even eighteen or nineteen. His jawline was sharp and angular, his eyes sharp, but there was something undeniably vulnerable about him. A tuft of white amidst a crop of curly dark hair.
He looked so similar to…
“Jason?”
“Hey, Old Man.”
For a moment, Bruce simply stood there, taking everything in.
Then, slowly but surely, his confusion gave way to anger.
“How. Dare. You.”
Not-Jason took a step backwards. “What do you-”
“How dare you use my son’s face against me?” Bruce bellowed. His hands would have been shaking if they weren’t bunched into fists. His voice lowered, taking on an unmistakably venomous quality. “I don’t know who you are - what you are - but you will regret this.”
“I’m not-”
“You are not my son!” Bruce shouted. “Jason is dead.”
“I’m right here, Bruce,” Not-Jason said. His wide, terrified eyes were the same ones Bruce had once seen on Jason. The eyes of the kid who had been holding a tire iron to his chest, eyeing at Batman like he was a predator about to attack. “ Please .”
What if it's true? What if he really is your son?
What if it's a lie? What if he chooses to believe Not-Jason, only for the monster to turn on him? He can’t let that happen.
“You don’t even have my son, do you?” Bruce said, defeat seeping into his voice. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
Not-Jason moved closer, reaching out a hand to touch Bruce’s shoulder. “Bruce, please.”
“Don’t touch me.”
“Bruce!”
“GET OFF!” Bruce shouted, shoving Not-Jason back. Not-Jason stumbled, lost his footing, and fell backwards. There was a too-loud crack as Not-Jason hit his head on the dirt floor of the warehouse.
Shit.
With Red Hood handcuffed to the bed in the med bay, Bruce took a moment to compose himself. Though the sound of Red Hood hitting his head had been jarring, the bleeding had been minimal. Red Hood would wake up with a concussion, but hopefully no lasting injuries.
Hopefully.
Christ, what had he done?
Even though Red Hood was lying to him, there was a genuine possibility that he was simply a misguided or unstable young man who had deluded himself into believing he was Bruce’s son. Jason’s unresolved murder was quite the public spectacle, after all.
The more worrying possibility was that Red Hood was inhuman in some way. A clone or something similarly awful. Demons were known to impersonate people, and there were a good number of known shapeshifters. Any one of them could have decided to toy with Bruce Wayne, for money or for power. Even worse, Bruce might have deluded himself into believing them, driven by his own grief.
God, if only Jason could see him now… He’d probably have some witty quip up his sleeve that would lighten the mood, and give Bruce a moment to re-centre himself, before moving on.
Trying to imagine what Jason would say would only sour the moment, so Bruce refrained.
(“Trying to ignore me, Old Man?”)
(“Because that worked so well last time…”)
(“You never learn, do you?”)
He had to focus.
Step one: Check if Red Hood was a demon.
Despite his many, many flaws, Constantine had given Bruce a decent list of signs to look for when it came to identifying demons. Red Hood passed every test.
Step two: Check if Red Hood was a shapeshifter.
Taking a sample of cells from the surface of Red Hood’s skin, Bruce put it under the microscope, checking for the characteristic instability present in all shape-shifter’s body cells.
Nothing.
Step three: Check if there was a match for Red Hood’s DNA on the police database he had access to.
No matches.
Bruce stared at his computer for a long moment.
It had to be wrong. Maybe Red Hood wasn’t on the database? Maybe his DNA was never filed? Maybe he never got caught?
… maybe Red Hood really was…
No. He couldn’t draw any drastic conclusions without evidence.
Bruce had Jason’s DNA on file, to avoid misinterpretations of the forensic evidence they acquired as Batman and Robin, so it wasn’t difficult to compare the two profiles.
Identical.
The chances of two individuals having the exact same DNA profile was infinitesimally small. Functionally impossible. And yet…
Bruce shifted his gaze over to Red Hood, still lying unconscious and handcuffed.
Christ, what was he doing?
Sitting with his head in his hands, Bruce berated himself for being too foolish - too angry - to listen.
Dick was right. He didn’t know how to be a normal person. How could he? He had grown up with his wires crossed.
He had no business being a hero, let alone a father.
After a short while left stewing in his own anger, Bruce was dragged out by the sound of Red Hood - Jason - stirring. “Bruce? What are you…?”
Bruce was by his side in moments. “Jason, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Why did you…?” Jason moved to clutch his head - concussion, Bruce distantly recalled - but his hands were stopped by the handcuffs. Bruce reached to undo them. “Bruce.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” Bruce said. “I love you, Jason.”
Bitter tears gathering in his eyes, Jason muttered, “I was so angry. You let me die, Bruce.”
“I know.”
“You just let me go.”
“I know.”
“I was screaming for you, and you weren’t there.”
“I know.”
Jason lay back in the med bay bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Even after all that, I still missed you.”
“I missed you too, Son. So much.”
(So much it almost killed me.)
There was no telling what would happen next, but Bruce had his precious son home with him. That was worth any hardship.
It wouldn’t be easy - Jason was angry, rightfully so - but they’d overcome hardships as a family before, and they surely would again. Bruce was simply glad to have been given a second chance.