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It’s a cold, dusty night in Gotham. Like it always is. Like it always will be. Because the city is cursed and her protectors can’t distinguish the weeds from the crops. They just rip and rip, letting the weeds spread through the garden and devour all the fruit in their greed. Gotham hasn’t yet learned how to revolt against the pests. Luckily for her, Jason has opted to save her from her own doomed guardians. So he oversees her infestations, keeping the underworld on a tight leash.

Unfortunately, that means he hardly ever gets a quiet night.

The neon signs promoting various downtown businesses cast a red glow over the streets, and Jason watches from his post on one of the tall, old buildings. Downtown Gotham wasn’t as gorgeous as her historic section, but she was still under his protection. Of course, some people believed that his preemptive method of defense was unnecessary, but he was efficient. Batman wasn’t.

Despite the bat symbol stitched into his costume’s chest, Jason did not fly with the rest of the brood. They always had a bone to pick with his ideologies, which was frankly hypocritical. They all used excessive violence in their attempt to save Gotham, Jason was just the only one willing to exploit it. From his vantage point, he can’t see the sly trades of dope and cash, but he can see deep into the alleyways and the movement of people down the streets. 

In one hand, he twirls one of his guns, leaving the other resting in its holster; his other hand supports his weight on his propped-up knee. He can’t imagine he’ll need two guns tonight. None of his informants had reported imminent gang wars lately, though he could feel trouble brewing on the coast. 

Maybe he should use some of his preemptive measures to ensure it didn’t get out of hand. It might even be fun. He’s been missing fun.

With the sounds of cars and foot traffic and the incessant conversations of the condemned, a normal person, or even vigilante, wouldn’t be able to hear the imperceptible footsteps on the other side of the roof. But Jason wasn’t trained by just anyone. He had skills from the Batman and Talia Al Ghul under his belt, so he wasn’t surprised by Batman’s arrival. Just annoyed. The Bat should know this was Jason ’s territory, not a few more measly blocks for him to stretch out his anger.

Before the man can speak, Jason pivots on his booted heel, planting his feet firmly on the concrete. He keeps his gun in his hand, absentmindedly switching off the safety. 

Batman is only a few feet away, dried blood already chipping from his gloves. In recent years, his suit had turned to armor, a combat against his age, and had only grown more monochrome. It felt like a blast to the past, back in his days as Robin, seeing Bruce in one of his older, bluer suits. He must’ve lost a bet with the Justice League. 

“Red Hood,” Batman says, after their short impasse, his voice as disapproving as ever.

Jason’s eyes narrow behind his mask. He doesn’t like seeing Batman, not in his brothers’ photos, not in the news, and certainly not interfering in his streets. “What do you want?” He says curtly, his voice modulator twisting his voice into something it’s not. Bruce doesn’t get to hear his real voice. Not anymore. “This is my section of Gotham.”

“You don’t own any part of this city,” Bruce growls. He wants to laugh, having always found the way Batman tried to lower his voice hilarious, but he is still too angry with the man to find any amusement in his actions.

“Rich, coming from you,” he retorts, raising his gun. His aim is careless. The Batman suit is bulletproof. What a nuisance. He’d bury a bullet into Bruce’s flesh if he could, if the man showed a second of weakness. He deserved it. Jason should not have had to die. Bruce had never even apologized. Not when Jason crawled back to Gotham, hate instilled in his very blood. He made reparation after reparation to his rogues, but never for his son. 

Dick had reached out to him after his return, inviting him to Blüdhaven. It was odd, seeing Damian outside of the League of Assassins, but he wasn’t planning on being the first to bring it up. Even his relationship with Tim was on the up and up, especially after the last couple of rescues. His sisters, particularly Steph, were rambunctious little siblings, except for Barbara. She was older than him, so he doesn’t think she counts.

So it wasn’t like Jason didn’t want to come home. He ached for it in his chest, like the old familiar beating of metal against his ribs. The need suffocated him. But he had no home now, not since his death. He had lost it in the explosion, along with his naive hope for a ‘better Gotham.’

There was no better Gotham, and there was no better Batman. It wasn’t his fault the city, and her vigilantes, were too gullible to realize that. Batman couldn’t save anyone . Jason would.

The lenses in Bruce’s cowl shift, narrowing in on the barrel of his gun. “Lower it,” he commands, like Jason is still the fresh-faced Robin hopeful for the world. 

“Yeah, well, you’re not my dad,” he says pointedly, relishing in the sting, “So I don’t see a point in listening to you.”

Batman’s shoulders tense, hunching up. His cape lifts slightly off the dirty floor, shorter than usual. “ Jason ,” he starts, voice unusually raw. His fists squeeze tightly before dropping open limply. “I know what is best for Gotham, and it is not a continued cycle of violence.”

“And what have you done to curb that violence, huh?” Jason shot back, stepping forward to press the gun up against the symmetrical bat symbol. He feels a surge of satisfaction as Batman flinches back. “You’ve been doing this for decades, and not once have you seen the bigger picture.” He doesn’t bother to keep the anger out of his voice. He needs Bruce to see it, like a last-ditch attempt at understanding. “Gotham is still the same decrepit, messed up city she always was. Might’ve been better if you hadn’t rolled along in the first place.”

“You don’t know anything about Gotham,” Bruce protests. “The underworld has always been a sickly spread, even before it rose to the surface and got to her citizens. You’re not doing anything to stop it, you’re just aiding in her destruction.”

“I am not like you,” Jason bites out, like the very insinuation is a curse. “Batman is a plague.”

Bruce snarls at the insult. “Yet in no world is Red Hood a cure.”

“You know nothing about me! You weren’t there, Bruce . You let me die. You let me suffer. You let Joker live, endangering all of your other precious Robins ,” Jason taunts furiously, pushing. He can’t resist it; he has to dig the knife into Bruce’s flesh and search for bone. The anger behind Batman’s lenses is like a gift, and he can see the impulsive swing coming from a mile away.

In the time it will take to hit him, Jason has a few options. He could dodge, but he’s too close to the ledge. He could block the hit, but it might leave an opening. There is a saying about immovable objects meeting each other floating somewhere in his mind, but he doesn’t have the time to grasp it. He could punch back, shoving Bruce back against the rooftop and absorbing the hit into his suit, but his dominant hand is preoccupied with his gun. So he finds himself doing what he does best: he shoots.

It’s point blank, hovering over Bruce’s chest, and he can feel the kickback travel up his arm, his armor soaking in the force. Blood splatters onto his chest, marring the red bat he wears, and Bruce’s fist loses its momentum as he stumbles back. Bruce catches his footing smoothly, trained over the years to not go down easy. He clutches at his chest, the red seeping past his gloves and viscously dripping onto the floor as he haunches over. Blood spurts from his chest, rushing out in a way Jason had never seen from the man before.

His hand, satisfied in its entirety, drops to his side, and he feels a sudden surge of terror.

He hadn’t expected the bullet to go through.

And he had gotten him right between the lungs. Right where his heart is.

“You bastard ,” Jason seethes suddenly. “What happened to your bulletproof suit? What kind of idiot wears cloth to fight crime in Gotham of all places?”

Bruce doubles over, Jason dropping his gun to catch him. “It got destroyed in the last alien invasion,” he admits, voice tight and pained. His fingers do nothing to stop the gushing blood, and he knows. His hand leaves his chest, clutching onto Jason’s arm.

Jason has seen a lot of people get shot, mostly by his own hand, but there is something so utterly jarring about seeing Batman take a hit and not fight back. “So you decided to wear a suit from what, the 80’s?” He winces as Bruce’s grip weakens slightly, sliding down his arm. He’s never going to get the stain out of this jacket. 

“Just- hold on, old man,” he mutters, helping Bruce onto the floor, trying to ignore the way he more so flops down. “Why do you weigh so much?”

Without Batman slumped against him, Jason is able to get a better look at the wound. It’s not pretty. The suit is ripped, wetly clinging to the torn flesh. He doesn’t even want to think about all the grime getting in. The blood is the bigger issue. It pours down the front of his blue suit, soaking and spreading like a hungry wildfire. Jason pressed his hand against the gunshot wound, unable to see where the bullet might be buried. He can’t worry about removing it right now, instead applying pressure. Bruce hardly makes a sound, like always, just a pained hrn .

“Shit, shit, shit, shit ,” Jason hisses, shrugging off his jacket. It was a lost cause anyway, he tells himself, bundling it up and pressing it into the wound. “What were you thinking?”

“That you wouldn’t shoot me point blank,” Batman replies, his voice rough and raw. His hand, weak and shaky, reaches up to claw his cowl off. He peels it back, revealing his face, and suddenly Jason is not on the rooftop with Batman, the man who has only wronged him, but Bruce , his father . “Shit,” he huffs, dropping his hand and resting his head against the concrete. 

Jason’s grip tightens on the jacket, trying to lighten the situation, “Did you just curse?” It was rare, extremely rare, to hear Bruce curse verbally. He never did, at least since he took in the first of the flock.

“You’re a bad influence,” he retorts, voice slow and measured. Jason watches as he squeezes his eyes shut, tensing his jaw against the pain. “Jason,” he says tightly, forcing his eyes open. “Jay bird.”

Jason huffs, something injured and angry. His hands scramble up, ripping off his helmet. His hair pokes out, slumping together after being in his hood all night. He hates that old name. The way it burns at his heart and makes his eyes sting. It sounds too solemn, like the last call from a mother bird to her hatchling.  “Stop saying my name like that,” he grits out, and Bruce gets to hear his actual voice for the first time that night. For the first time in a while, really. Those at war rarely meet for family dinner. “You know I hate it.”

Bruce’s chest heaves in some approximation of a laugh, and he tries to plant an elbow under himself to get back up. He can’t manage it, and it feels so surreal to see Batman fail at something. The blood has spread, seeping down his sides and staining the roof. They’ll have to scrub it so no one can pick up the DNA later.

“Fuck, I need to call Dick,” Jason scrambled, removing some of the pressure from the jacket and scrambling to free his phone from its pocket. His hand leaves smears of blood as he fumbles to open his messages. “He’ll know how to deal with this.” He scrolls through his contacts, cursing the fact that he doesn’t text his family enough when a heavy weight lands on his wrist. It’s Bruce’s gloved hand, smudging even more blood on Jason’s sleeve.

“Shush,” he says, almost soothingly, and it hits him just like it did when he was a child. Just like when he was Robin, trained to follow every move Batman made. His shoulders sag, and it's almost as if his brain reboots.

He hangs his head, letting his phone drop before twisting his hand to hold Bruce’s. “I shot you,” he says, sounding like a scared child. He hates it, the fear and guilt warping his voice. He’s meant to be the Red Hood, a vision of revenge. Not a child. 

“You do a lot of that,” Bruce says, “you didn’t know it would be different.”

“I knew your suit was weird,” Jason combats, unable to let Bruce win. “I just thought it was a recreation, with more hidden armor. You never face the world without armor-“

“Shush,” he repeats, cutting his rambling off. He squeezes Jason’s hand, though it’s weak and pitiful. Jason can’t help but shake, full-bodied and rough, and hunch over Bruce’s body. “I’m not mad.”

Jason scoffs, but it scratches at his throat and makes him choke on his words. It doesn’t feel real. Bruce not mad at him? As if. “You’re always mad at me. At everything I do. You hate me.”

“No,” Bruce says firmly, lifting his arm up to rest his hand on Jason’s nape. His touch is solid and burdensome, but he runs his thumb over Jason’s scars gently. A gentleness that Batman never allows himself. “Don’t tell me you believe that. You’re my son . I could never hate you.”

Jason scowls, trying to disguise the way his vision turns blurry at the words. “Don’t talk like that. You never talk like that. Why are you talking like that?”

“I dislike the idea of you living under a misconception,” Bruce says, his words becoming noticeably slower. He slips over some of them clumsily, like he can’t remember how to speak.

“You’re talking like we won’t have time to clear things like that up later ,” Jason stresses. He can’t think about it. Batman can’t die, not on a cold, miserable night in downtown Gotham. Not to his son. Despite all his bluffing, Jason wasn’t ready to watch Bruce die. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. It doesn’t work. His heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest, and his ears are ringing. He squeezes Bruce’s hand tightly.

Bruce meets his eyes, his own squinted and dazed. “Jason,” he says, almost apologetic. “There are some things I just,” he pauses, taking a shuddering breath, “I just need you to know.”

Jason squeezes his eyes shut again, feeling the cold wind bite at his wet face. “Shut up, old man,” he says roughly, “There aren’t going to be any last words today.”

There’s a beat of silence as Bruce musters up the energy to speak. His hand slides off Jason’s neck, flopping down onto his mutilated chest. “I love you, Jay bird,” he murmurs, quiet and nearly incoherent. Jason jolts, a spike of fear leaving his body almost numb as he watches Bruce’s vision unfocus. He shakes him, the dead weight making it difficult.

“ Dad ,” he fumbles over his words even as they break, eyes wide and panicked. “Dad, c’mon, don’t do this. What about the little demon brat, huh? Or Tim? Or Alfred? God knows Alfred can’t live without you,” Jason pleads, his tears stinging at his eyes. He shudders when Bruce’s eyes don’t focus back in, when his chest stops heaving, and when the blood stops pouring. It hurts and aches, and he knows it’s his fault, and for the love of God can he stop crying ?

But he can’t, because Bruce lies in front of him, dead, and he doesn’t even have the strength to carry him back home like Bruce did for him on that horrid night so many years ago. His arm, the one clutching Bruce’s still hand, vibrates, and a panel in his suit slides open.

The bats operated together, that was their thing. They all worked ‘alone’, but they operated together . And that required a network. It was usually managed by Oracle, but there were built-in functions meant to respond on their own. It kept the family safe. It kept them together and on the same page. 

So when Jason’s suit flashes with the message “ CODE BLACK ” matched with his coordinates, he knows the rest of the family will get there soon. He knows everyone knows Bruce is dead.

There’s barely enough time for that thought to flicker across his brain before there is a rush of wind and a figure lands beside him.

“Oh god, Bruce ,” Superman chokes out. He must’ve heard the heart stop.

Jason can’t imagine what it might look like, Bruce dead with Jason the only one at the scene, his guilty gun a foot away. He doesn’t imagine it because he knows the only possible conclusion is that he did it. He killed his father. And they’d be right.

He’s numb as Superman pushes him slightly to the side, shifting his weight. The space forces Jason to drop Bruce’s limp hand, all so Superman can check Bruce’s pulse.

It’s pointless. It’s not like it will start beating again.

Jason hasn’t been brave enough to touch the cold skin yet. It would be too much.

Through the haze he can see Superman fall to his knees, the Man of Steel weeping openly as he cradles his friend. His breathing is rushed; he’s hyperventilating. Jason knows all of the steps to calm someone down from a panic attack, but he can’t make himself move. He just sits there, letting the world crash down on him. Superman faintly repeats Bruce’s name again and again, begging.

It’s a constant thrum in his head and Jason slumps over, finally letting himself sob. Oh god, what has he done? 

Superman’s head finally snaps up, and there’s a hint of red fire fuming in his eyes. “Red Hood, what happened?” He asks, silently giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“I didn’t mean to,” he mumbles brokenly, hardly able to process anything but the drying blood of his father flaking off his skin. “Oh god, I didn’t mean to.”

The fury in Superman’s eyes flames brighter. He stands, reluctantly drawing himself to his feet. His limbs seem to hang off him limply, like he wants to plop down to Bruce’s body again. He takes a deep breath, his voice tense and mighty. “Red Hood, you will be tried for your crime by the Justice League—“

“Father!” Damian cries out, panicked as he races across the rooftop, Tim right behind him. The sight of Robin seems to shock Superman out of it. Tim catches up, wrapping his hand over Damian’s eyes and picking him up.

“Robin,” he chastises as Robin struggles and fights his grip. Tim turns his body away, glancing back to look at the body. At his dad. He seems stunned, tightening his grip on the kid. “Robin, calm down.”

“Let me go, Drake!” Damian shouts, trying to reach one of his swords. “Let me go, that’s my father!” He scrambles and tries to pry himself out of the hold. “There must have been an issue with the programming!”

Tim’s eyes flicker back to the body, like he almost believes Damian. Like he needs proof. Like there’s not a world where Batman could die. His gaze darts to the gun, then Jason, and there’s something in that unfortunately brilliant mind that knows immediately. He draws in a deep breath, shutting off slightly. “No, Damian. You don’t need to see it.”

Damian’s struggle weakens slightly, hearing the defeat in TIm’s voice. “It’s my father, Drake. Let me see him.”

Red Robin hesitates before he lets Damian drop to the floor. He immediately scrambles around his brother’s legs, freezing when he spots his dad. “Father,” he croaks out, stumbling forward. Superman reaches out, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Robin,” he starts, manufacturing his voice to be calm. His brows knit together in concern though, and his customary superhero tone makes his words sound wrong and off putting.  “Robin, it’s alright.”

“Alright?” Robin snaps, calling him out on his lie. “Batman is dead . My father. ” He twists his head, tearing his gaze from Bruce’s corpse. “You let this happen.”

Superman reels back, “What? Robin, I would never–”

“All those powers and you couldn’t save Father, alien,” he bites out scathingly. His anger is quick as a blade, slicing right through the hero and landing at Jason’s throat. The young demon knows all, it seems — Bruce raised his kids much too smart — and in seconds there are swords in both hands. “Did you do it?” He accuses, "I knew Father was right to keep you out of the family.”

“Damian,” Tim scolds, spinning around to place a hand on Robin’s hood. “Don’t say things like that!”

Everything feels wrong to Jason, like he’s been twisted onto his head and beaten brainless all over again. “I didn’t- or well, I did, but I swear–”

“Red Hood, report,” a new voice says, landing on the rooftop with a flip. Nightwing’s voice is oddly assertive, and he plants a hand under Jason’s arm to pull him up from the floor. “Report,” he insists, trying to snap him out of it. 

“Dick!” Jason fumbles, staring at his older brother with wide eyes, like a panicked animal. “I meant to call you. God, I meant to call you. He wouldn’t- he stopped me.”

“Who? Bruce?” Dick asks, keeping him upright. He keeps his eyes straight, looking right at Jason. It’s just an excuse to not look at Bruce.

Jason nods, shaking like he hasn’t in a decade. He wipes his eyes, unable to blink. If he does, Bruce’s figure may disappear from the corner of his vision, and he can’t handle that. “Yes. He just- he knew, and he wanted to talk to me–”

“Little wing, shush,” he says quietly, cupping his bloody face. Jason can’t be making any sense blabbering like this, but Dick looks so understanding. “What did he say?”

Jason breaks, the tears starting up again. “He said he loved me. Dick, he said he loved me .”

“He shouldn’t have,” Damian snaps from the side, getting Dick’s attention. “Grayson, he murdered Father.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Jason sobs, needing Dick to understand. “I thought his suit was bulletproof–”

“I know,” Dick murmurs, pulling him into his chest. Jason has to hunch over, having always been bigger, but it still feels like he’s a kid in his big brother’s arms again. “It’s okay.” 

Damian storms over, pointing his sword in Jason’s direction. “It is not okay. He needs to pay.”

Dick turns, his eyes sharp. “Fall back, Robin,” he commands, taking control like all those nights he covered for Batman. “Superman,” he says, shifting his gaze. “Take Robin and drop him off at the Manor.”

“No!” Damian protests, stomping his foot on the ground even as Superman scoops him up. “Father is dead, and it is his fault!”

Jason flinches where he stands, lowering his head as Superman flies off. Tim moves to stand over the body, kneeling to pick up the discarded cowl. He’s silent, almost deathly so, and he shifts to sit down properly. He doesn’t look like he plans on getting up for a while. He just stares at the cowl like he’s waiting for it to blink back at him.

Dick reluctantly pulls away from Jason, struggling to manage all his grieving siblings. “Tim, get up. We’re not having a wake here.”

“You haven’t even looked at him,” he says quietly, resigned. “Look at him, Dick. Dad’s dead.” 

“Tim,” Dick sighs, placing a hand on his back.

He gets a tired glare in return, grabbing Dick’s hand and pulling him down until he’s sitting. “You’re not looking. He’s not coming back and fixing all of our mistakes anymore. Look.”

Dick is silent for a moment, staring into his younger brother’s insistent eyes. Slowly, he turns his head toward Bruce and freezes. They’ve all seen people die. It’s never hurt like this though. No one wants to be orphaned a second time in their life, after all. Dick takes a moment, studying the torn flesh and coagulating blood. Somehow, Bruce has turned even paler than the moon, all the blood washed out of his face and speckled over his skin. His eyes are hollow, reflecting the light of the night like his lenses always did, and he stares unblinking at the world. Dick reaches out, seeming almost scared to touch him, but he digs around in Bruce’s utility belt until he finds what he was looking for. His hands leave with fingers smothered in blood, but he lifts a small flash drive triumphantly.

Tim looks at it, at the bloodied bat symbol, and just drops his head onto Dick’s shoulder. He seems tired. Exhausted.

“He always thinks of a way to fix our mistakes,” Dick says, showing the flash drive to him. His voice is soft and soothing, and he lets Tim take it. “He’s got it all figured out.”

Jason knew about the flash drive. Bruce had told him, back when he was Robin and Nightwing had just flown the nest. Bruce kept a data base, constantly updating, full of contingency plans and fixes for any scenario. In case Batman was incapacitated and Robin didn’t know what to do. It was hidden in a false bottom in Bruce’s utility belt, only locatable if you knew where to look.

Tim cradles it in his hands until he can’t bear to look at it anymore. 

Jason walks over, grief making his movements sluggish. He kneels by Bruce’s head, touch light as he slides his eyelids shut. He can’t risk causing more pain. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, not sure who he’s talking to. 

His younger brother glances up at him, at the blood flaking from his suit. He takes a moment to collect himself, fumbling with his cape for comfort. “If he wasn’t mad, neither am I,” he mumbled.

“Can you tell us what happened, Little wing?” Dick asks Jason softly.

He nods, sitting down. He feels so far away from his brothers, but somehow still so close. “I was patrolling, and clearly so was he. We fought, we always fight. It was over my guns again. He didn’t approve, so he threw a punch and I just- I panicked.”

Dick is quiet for a moment, squeezing Tim gently before standing. “We should get back to the Manor. We need to tell Alfred. We need to take Bruce home.”

Tim reluctantly gets up too, clutching onto the cowl tightly. “His car should be around here somewhere.”

“This is why I hate rooftops,” Dick sighs, rubbing his fingers together until the blood flakes off. “I’ll get the Batmobile closer if you two can carry him down to the ground.”

“We can,” Jason says, rubbing at his eyes. His tears have stopped by now, the salt drying into his skin. It brings back the familiar ache in his eyes, the way his tears quit after he realized no one was going to save him. He waits for Dick to leave, leaping off the roof, before he forces himself up, slipping his arms under Bruce’s shoulders and hauling his weight up.

Tim stands quietly, like a scared kid wondering when his parents will come back home. “Can you carry him?”

“Yeah, sure, why not? He’s what, 250 pounds?” Jason bluffs, trying ot to look at the way Bruce’s head rolls limply, his neck no longer supporting its weight. He tried not to scowl at the task. Jason had always hated dead bodies, it was the unfortunate side effect of murder. Typically, though, he didn’t have to drag them around, and typically they didn’t weigh more than him either. 

At the roof’s edge, Tim hooks the clawed part of his grappling hook into the ledge, testing to see if it would hold. “We can’t carry him all the way down, it’ll spread too much blood,” he reasons. He presses his earpiece, tuning in Nightwing to the conversation. “Bring the car around the east side, we’ll lower him down.”

Jason feels the echo of Nightwing’s affirmation in his own ear as he hauls Bruce over to where Tim is positioned, watching as his younger brother undid his cape. 

“We need something to support him. We can’t just tie him to the grappling hook. Help me get this around him,” Tim demands, and Jason helps him tie his cape around Bruce’s body, supporting him. He attaches it to the other end of the grapple, peering over the side of the building in wait.

“Dick is a terrible driver,” Jason huffs, joining Tim. “How hard is it to park a car?”

“Does he ever drive?” Tim questions. “Most of us just use our motorbikes these days. I think Damian is trying to bribe Bruce into getting him one. Was trying to, I mean.”

Jason can see how Tim’s hands tighten into fists at the mistake, his head dipping for a second under the guise of searching. Thankfully, the Batmobile pulls up at that moment, the hood of the car sliding back.

Jason silently hooks his hands under Bruce’s body again, lugging him onto the ledge. He makes sure Tim’s grip is firm and steady before he lets Bruce’s weight shift off the roof. Tim jerks at the sudden weight on the taut string, and Jason rushes to help steady him. 

It’s still weird to him, working with his younger brother rather than against him, and he can tell Tim isn’t used to it either. But still, they manage to lower Bruce down into the Batmobile, and Dick undoes the tie. Tim kicks at the hook’s claw until it topples over the side of the building, and he glances back at the blood trail that’s already soaked into the concrete. 

“Do you think anyone would care if we left that to deal with later?” Tim says, gesturing his head toward it. He’s trying to act unaffected, they all are. The second they aren’t staring at Bruce’s dead corpse it feels like the world has gone back to normal. Like Jason will have countless days left to fight with Batman and Tim will have countless days to fight at Batman’s side. 

Jason narrows his eyes, turning to pick his mask up from off the floor. And his bloody jacket. And, after a second of deliberating, the gun. The weight feels wrong in his hand. Different. He slides it into its holster, struggling not to think about the fact that some of Bruce’s blood had hit it. Had hit a lot of the surrounding area, really. His jacket is heavy, and it folds awkwardly where the blood dried. He’ll have to replace it. “I think we’ll be forgiven. I doubt anyone will check up here tonight.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, lockpicking the door to the roof. “This building has an elevator, right? I don’t have the energy for stairs tonight.”

“Me neither,” Jason shrugs, following Tim inside. They’re acting so blasé, and it feels wrong, but tonight has made him so tired. So very tired. Like a hatchling wanting to return to their nest for the harsh winter. 

Thankfully, the building does have an elevator, and Jason slips his mask on in case of cameras. His hands are still coated in blood, and it looks like someone has been clawing at his mask in a desperate attempt to get out. Next to him, Tim slumps back against the wall, his suit looking wrong without the cape. This whole time, he’s managed not to let go of Bruce’s cowl for a second.

“His cowl used to look so stupid,” he says softly, a hint of amusement to his tone.

Jason tips his head back, letting it clank against the glass wall. “He’s always looked stupid. It was a humiliating time. Surely you’ve seen Dick’s old costume?”

Tim snorts. “In the Cave. Did he seriously used to wear that?”

“I don’t know what he was thinking,” Jason shakes his head tiredly. “It was so flashy. But I suppose he was just starting out. We’ve all had costume hiccups.”

“Like when I used a cowl and not a domino mask?” Tim asks wryly, making his brother laugh.

“God, you looked older than Bruce.”

“Rude,” Tim huffed, as the doors to the elevator slid open. “Better than when you tried to fit into the Robin costume again.”

“Eh, I’m not so sure. The cowl was really bad,” Jason says, pushing himself off the wall and heading through the door. It was dark and pristine, like the cleaners had just gone through that afternoon. He doubted it would last. Nice things rarely ever did in Gotham. He waits for Tim to decode the alarms to the front door. Sure, he could do it himself easily, but it was so much easier not to. Benefit to having a genius in the family.

Nightwing is waiting outside the Batmobile when they get out, and he tosses the keys to Jason. “I’ll sit in the back, you two can drive.”

Tim sends the keys a jealous look as Jason gets into the driver’s side of the car, before he vaults over to get into his own seat. Dick takes a bit longer, having to readjust Bruce’s body so he has enough room. It was probably a bad idea to give Jason the wheel, as he opts to follow absolutely zero driving laws. He gets them back to the Manor in minutes, though, so they can’t be too mad.

When they park, Jason is tasked again with the role of carrying Bruce, and he’s so scared to look down and see the pale, saggy face of his father. Alfred is waiting by the grand door, looking defeated. Damian is huddled close to his side, and his head pokes up when they enter. He scrambles up to his feet, standing warily. 

Alfred looks so… lost when he sees Bruce’s body, and he steps toward Jason. “My son,” he murmurs, voice breaking at the edges. He places a hand under Bruce’s head, holding it up so it doesn’t hang awkwardly. His thumb is placed right where the pulse would beat, like the blood isn’t enough proof. “What happened?” The butler asked, unable to even look up.

Jason takes a deep breath, and there’s a prickle of fear in the back of his head that whispers that this will be the last time he sees his family. “I’m so sorry–”

“Red Hood and Batman got into a fight. It was an accident,” Dick says softly, resting a hand on Alfred’s shoulder.

“I know. I know it was.”

Jason tries not to flinch, not wanting to disturb Bruce’s body. He doesn’t deserve this family. He doesn’t deserve their soft words and their gentle forgiveness. They should be enacting vengeance. They’re too nice. Too genuine. He was terrified Gotham would eat them alive. “Alfred, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.” He’s repeating himself again, desperate. He hates their mercy, but he needs it so badly. He needs his family so badly.

Alfred finally, slowly, draws his hands away from Bruce, looking up at Jason. He reaches forward, unclasping the mask from his face and putting it aside. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

Damian stands to the side, looking lost and hurt. “Why are you forgiving him?” He asks, looking genuinely confused. There’s a twinge of anger in his voice, but all in all he’s just a lost child. “He killed Father.”

Alfred turns to him, resigned. “I know, Master Damian,” he repeats, like some omniscient being that can’t interfere. 

“Vengeance has to be served. It’s what Father would want,” Damian insists, and it’s like Alfred can see young, recently orphaned Bruce standing in front of him again. 

He shakes his head, attempting to hide his sorrow. “No, he would not want any of his children to come to harm.”

“I am the sole Wayne, it is my responsibility to—“

“You have no responsibility to hurt your family, Master Damian.”

Damian flounders at the scolding, like he doesn’t know what to do anymore. He ducks his head, cowering at Alfred’s stern look. “I need to call my mother. She’ll fix this,” he mutters, fishing for his phone from his suit. 

The Lazarus Pits. Able to revive the dead and the dying, for a price. A crushing price, one Jason still hasn’t recovered from. It changed him, warped him from the person everyone had expected him to be. It had forced him to grow up, and it had gnawed at his brain until he didn’t know what his role in the world was. It twisted him, made him violent. It made him hateful. It made him hate who he became. He tenses, readjusting Bruce in his arms, and Dick makes a sour face next to him. 

“No. Absolutely not,” he says firmly, earning Damian’s ire. “You know what the Lazarus Pits can do to a person. They’re unsafe, and he wouldn’t want that. They’ve never helped our family.”

Damian spikes, burning and fizzling. He never yells at Dick these days, too reverent to think he could do something wrong. But grief breeds anger. “You don’t know anything about my family. It is my father who died. How can you blame me for wanting my father back?”

“Stop saying it like that! He was my father too. He was Jason’s father. He was Tim’s,” Dick snaps. “I am his eldest son, Damian. You are not an only child, you can’t make decisions about our family on your own.”

Damian fumes, but he quiets. He steams, before his eyes turn to Jason. “Just because his revival was a mistake, just like him , doesn’t mean Father’s will go wrong.” His words make Jason freeze, and even Alfred seems caught off guard.

Dick’s eyes widen in surprise at the comment, and he speaks up before Jason can say anything. “Damian! Watch your tongue!”

“Master Dick is right,” Alfred says carefully, resting a hand on Damian’s shoulder. The child flinches, crossing his arms angrily. “You cannot be so mad at your siblings, even if you’re grieving. We’re grieving too.”

“It’s not the same,” Damian bites out, turning slightly and hiding his head in Alfred’s leg like an injured dog. “They got to grow up with him. They’ve had a father. I just got mine.” His voice frays at the edges, catching on his tongue, and his anger fizzles out. 

Alfred softens, dipping to cradle Damian’s head with one hand. “You still have your family, Master Damian. We will not stray from your side.”

Damian tenses slightly, drawing in a long breath before he pushes away. His head is tilted just enough that no one can see his face. “I won’t call my mother yet, or attempt to revive Father,” he mumbles, and it’s close enough to an apology that no one argues. He’s quiet again for another moment, before he shoots his father’s dead body a glance and steps toward the door. “I will be training in the Batcave if anyone needs my assistance enacting revenge.”

Dick watches as Damian disappears, and his shoulders slump. He looks around the room, assessing the cheapest furniture. He catches Jason’s eye, nodding toward a new couch. Easily replacable. “Set him down. You’ve been carrying him for a while.”

Jason does, of course, and blood flakes onto the finely woven fabric. Like this, in the suit without the cowl, it almost looks like Bruce has just found a place to sleep after a long patrol. Alfred takes a seat in one of the lounge chairs, his gaze sticking to his son.

Dick doesn’t move to sit, standing with a grave expression. He takes off his domino mask, fiddling with the edges. “I’ll have to leave Blüdhaven so I can take over,” he says, resigned. There’s no excitement in his tone, which is no surprise. The children of The Bat have long dreaded the mantle.

Tim’s head shoots up, and he fiddles with the cowl. “Who says you have to take over? Blüdhaven needs your protection.”

“And Gotham needs Batman. The world needs Batman,” Dick fights. “I’ve covered for him before. I was always meant to be the successor.”

“If I may,” Alfred says gently, before another argument can brew. “Master Bruce has already made this decision for you.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. He still stands by the couch like a domesticated dog on watch. “He’s already decided who will be Batman?”

“He has decided that the role will die with him,” he corrects, his eyes focusing down on the rug. “After Master Tim left, I believe he had some self-reflection, and realized that all of you were better with your own identities than being forced to become his.”

“Gotham still has the rest of us,” Tim says, leaning back in his chair like it will soothe his pains. “We need to worry about Bruce’s funeral first, and Batman’s disappearance. It’s too suspicious as it is.”

Dick stares down at his Nightwing mask as they talk, and slowly slips it back on. It seems to balm his soul, and he relaxes his posture. “I can be Batman for a few days, before we figure something out,” he offers. “Or we delay the announcement of Bruce’s death.”

“I’ll handle it,” Alfred says. “I handled the arrangement of his parents’ funeral. I believe he’d prefer his to be similar.”

Tim leans over slightly, looking almost concerned. “Yeah, but you don’t have to do it alone. We’re here to help. Family, remember?”

“I’ll never forget, Master Tim,” the butler assures, looking up. “I am grateful for all of you. Still, I’d like to arrange my son’s funeral myself. There are things for you to handle in the meantime.”

“Like the Justice League,” Dick sighs, like it’s a dreadful task.

Tim scowls at the thought, pensive. “When we got there, Superman claimed they were going to try Jason for murder. How are we going to fix that?”

“They have no right to try him. He’s not a part of their group, or a hero they can police. Jason will be safe in Gotham anyway, they’re not allowed in here.”

“But who knows if they’ll even still follow that? Bruce was the only thing that kept them out. We don’t even know how to tell the world he’s dead ,” Jason says, pessimism creeping into his tone.

Nightwing fishes through his suit’s hidden pockets, holding the flash drive up again. He shoots them a smile, though it’s worn and pained around the edges. “Well, let's see what Dad said, hm? I’m sure he had the answers here somewhere.”

Tim sighs, getting up. He takes a second to squeeze Alfred’s shoulder gently, whispering an assurance that he’ll be there to help. After that, he joins his brothers by the bookcase, and Dick slides down the statue’s head.

“So cliché,” Jason mutters, tsking as the bookcase moves to reveal an elevator. It takes them down to the Cave, the blue lights flickering during the short ride. When the door slides open, the faint sound of metal against stone filters through, and Jason hopes Damian won’t be able to hear the recorded words of his father over the fight. 

Dick strides over to the Batcomputer, finding the old plug used for flash drives and watching the computer screen light up. It prompts him to answer whether Batman is missing or dead. Dick hesitates before choosing the latter. 

Tim hangs back reluctantly setting the cowl down on the long desk, though his fingers never lift from the kevlar. “I’ll message the League,” he offers, keeping his gaze off the screen as another prompt pops up. 

Cause of death:

[Villain

[Justice League

[Disease

[Other

Dick deliberates before selecting Other . Again:

[Murder

[Natural Death

[Natural Disaster

The murder option is chosen, and another specification appears.

[Family

[Assasination

[Caught in the Crossfire

Jason wonders about why the family is even on there, why Bruce had allowed himself to consider such a morbid possibility. But, then again, Bruce was paranoid, and it had ended up being true, hadn’t it? He lets his eyes close for a moment, timed just so he doesn’t see Dick pick the top option.

A video takes over the screen, Bruce sitting in the center with his cowl off. He looks so young , like he did when Jason was Robin. There’s a heavy-set determination in his eyes still, like he thinks he can fix the world, but the wrinkles haven’t begun to set in yet, and his brows aren’t quite as furrowed. Dick makes a hurt noise by his side, and it hits Jason that Bruce in this image is around Dick’s age.

There’s no sad speech to start the video off, no stereotypical “if you’re watching this, I’m dead.” No, that was never Bruce’s style. After a quiet second, Bruce’s eyes narrow and he picks a paper up from his desk.

“Plan of action in the Manor immediately after my death is as follows, Robin–” Bruce begins, his voice sounding so weird, but it still aches. The video cuts off when he mentions Robin, switching to a slightly older version. There’s the Batman Jason grew up with, tired and worn around the edges but still hopeful for the cause. There he sits, in the very same suit he died in tonight. 

“And all other members of the family,” he corrects, before the video cuts back. 

“—Will be confined to Gotham for a seven day period, excusing emergencies. If Batman’s death is not public knowledge, Bruce Wayne’s death will be announced first. Then, after a week and two days, Batman’s death may be announced. During this gap, someone should take on the cowl to dissuade suspicion. If Batman’s death is, in fact, public knowledge, Bruce Wayne’s team should announce a family trip. Photos of him with the family will be released to the press, and a death can be faked in a foreign country.”

Bruce’s tone is cold, almost methodical, and Jason can see Dick mentally taking notes. Tim has taken a seat. Or, more appropriately, sat on the floor slumped against the desk. He’s drafting a memo to the League, but he seems dissatisfied at the contents, always shaking his head and deleting it. On the other side of the Cave, Damian is still training furiously, but he seems to be losing steam. He knows the kid can hear the sound of his father’s voice echoing across the cave, working its way back into the stalagmites. The bats settle down again, like they missed him.

Jason reaches forward, pausing the video, and it gets his brothers’ attention. Tim twists, looking over the desktop. His eyes are rimmed red, and his eyes are narrowed grumpily. “Why did you stop it?”

“We have time,” Jason shrugs. Truth was, he couldn’t handle Bruce sounding like that anymore. Not right now. “Who knows how many of these videos he has? We can watch them all later.”

“Or we could watch them now,” Tim argues, but Dick shakes his head.

“No, it’s getting late, and it’s been a long night,” he says. “We all need to sleep.”

Tim scowls, getting to his feet. “ No . Jason got to speak to Bruce tonight, we didn’t.” He wants to listen to Bruce drone on about trivial things in the background, purposefully not absorbing any of the words. It’s what he’s done for years. It’s what made long patrols and even longer debriefs withstandable.

“We’ll listen to them tomorrow, Tim. We won’t watch a single one without you,” Dick says, his voice dropping into a soothing tone. 

“Or me?” Damian says from the shadows, appearing behind them. He holds his hands behind his back, head ducked in grief. His words are strained, and Jason can see his hidden hands tremble. He wants to channel his emotions into fury, but he’s just a boy. He needs a comforting hand to guide him through the grief. 

Dick softens, placing a hand on Damian’s spiked hair and ruining it with a ruffle. “We’ll all be there. But dawn will be soon, and you know our skin burns when the sun is out,” he quips halfheartedly, before suddenly Robin shoots into his arms and makes him stumble back. He’s crying, and it’s a horribly new sight to see. Dick contorts slightly, helping him balance better. “C’mon, Dami, it’s bedtime,” he says, just because he knows the name upsets him.

“Okay,” Damian answers as Dick carries him toward the elevator. And, right before the doors shut behind them, Jason hears one more question. “I’m not the only Wayne in the manor, right? Even without Father?” He just wants a family.

It’s quiet for a moment, before Tim circles the desk to take Bruce’s chair. “You can go upstairs,” he says dismissively, sounding curt. 

“Oh please, you are not about to sleep down here,” Jason huffs, unhooking his hosters from his legs. He sets them down on the desk’s corner, the metal clacking against the table. It feels like a weight has been lifted off of him, like the guns were weighing him down and forcing him to drown in the murky river that suffocates Gotham’s harbor. He no longer sees his destined revenge in the gray steel, but instead sees the blood pouring and seeping from Bruce’s chest. It’s one and the same, but it feels so different.

A gun killed his dad, and he can suddenly understand Bruce’s need for vengeance. He turns his head away from it harshly, but some part of him still calls for his weapons. For the protection they bring. He’ll be back for them, but not for a while.

Tim glares at him, reaching forward to unpause the video, but Jason catches him. He tangles a hand into the back of Red Robin’s suit and tugs him up from the chair. Just to be a little mean, he lifts him just until Tim’s feet can no longer reach the floor.

“Come on, former Boy Wonder, or you’ll risk upsetting Alfred.”

He carries Tim over to the elevator, only setting him down when the doors shut, and he earns a grimace. “Alfred’s already upset. His son died.”

“Yeah, he did,” Jason said, doing his best to sound unaffected. Tim is acting like an ass, yet he needs to help him. He wants to help him. “But he still has us. We can’t lose ourselves. Not like Bruce did.”

“Not like Bruce did,” Tim mumbles, lowering his head, and the doors slide back open, welcoming them back to the Manor. Back Home. Just because it’s missing an occupant, doesn’t mean it’s any less Home.

It just means that Jason might have to swing around a bit more to fill up the empty room.