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He should have known that he was descending into something dark when he started sleeping in the suit, curled up in the Cave’s med-bay. That was one boundary he had never crossed before. Even if he was wounded or exhausted, he always made sure to rip Bruce Wayne out of the shell of Batman.
It was easier, then, to start treating Bruce and Batman like two different people.
Batman had lost a soldier; Bruce had lost a son .
Batman was furious; Bruce was grief-stricken .
Batman stewed in his guilt; Bruce was able to move past it.
There was so much he could have done differently. If he had, would Jason have still been alive? Were there any signs that he missed? Cries for help that went unheard?
Had he killed his son, without even realising?
The divide got worse with each passing day. Where it had once been small - a different name and a cowl to hide his face - it soon grew from stone paths across a small brook into a chasm. Batman and Bruce were no longer the same person.
As Batman grieved his lost Robin - his fallen baby bird - he found himself full of fury, and that fury had nowhere to go. It had no home.
The Joker was very much responsible, of course, but he couldn’t have been the only factor. Parents were supposed to protect their children. Bruce Wayne had done nothing to protect Jason from the danger of that maniac. He had let the child walk straight to his doom, and done nothing.
Though the Joker may have laid down the final blow, there was plenty of blood on Bruce Wayne’s hands.
There was nothing anyone could have done. The damage to Robin - Jason - Robin’s body was too severe. Even if that bomb hadn’t gone off, there was no possibility of him surviving. The autopsy made that much obvious.
Hairline fractures on the skull. Internal bleeding. Broken ribs.
A face no one could have recognised. Not even Bruce.
Even if you’d gotten to him sooner, what would you have done?
Cradled him to yourself for a little longer? What good would that have done? Would it have brought him any comfort, to be cradled in the arms of his killer?
Soothing your own guilt won’t bring him back.
You are a monster, Bruce.
You kill the people you love.
Worst of all, you don’t even realise you’re doing it.
On a quiet yet stormy evening, a small police station was manned by two officers. They were surprised when a well-dressed man entered the precinct. He was wearing a black suit. Momentarily, one of the officers was struck with the idea of a funerary suit, though he could not for the life of him explain why his mind drew that particular conclusion.
“I’m here to turn myself in,” the man said, hands shaking. As he stepped out of the shadows, both officers recognised him as Bruce Wayne.
“What are you turning yourself in for?” one officer found the courage to ask.
Wayne stared at him with vacant eyes.
“Murder.”