Chapter Text
If Bruce was analysing the situation by following his own protocols, he would state that it was a buzzing sound that served as a herald of all problems. A long, repetitive pattern of a sound followed by amused, witchy laughter that echoed at the back of his mind as he passed out, allowing his body to get blissfully light.
But by all accounts, it began much earlier that night, a few hours before he had encountered the magician.
As most things in his life did, it started with… Jason.
They weren’t supposed to get in the argument; not during the patrol, at least. But then again, they were never supposed to argue at all — and yet, they did.
This time… In all honestly, Bruce couldn’t even remember what started a fire this time. He just knew that he was unnecessarily on the edge because of their new enemy, and he lashed out on Jason, who was joking about something insignificant. And Jason, as honest as ever, fired back with even more cruel words, knowing precisely where to hit. One word after another, and it escalated to the point he could hear Dick’s voice, begging them to stop.
They didn’t.
Instead, feeling himself as a rebellious teenager again, searching for something (someone) to claw on to get rid of the unexplainable cocktail of feelings, Bruce aimed at his son’s throat again.
This time, metaphorically.
“What do you want to hear? That you are my biggest regret? Is that it? Because, yes, Hood, you are!”
It was a lie.
Bruce regretted Jason’s death, all the sufferings this boy went in his last moments, but never, never he regretted him.
But in that split moment, as Jason’s fists curled helplessly, Bruce knew that his son wasn’t going to think about his death. He was going to think about their life together, about his adoption, about him, being his father. Bruce knew it. And allowed Jason to think so. He allowed him to grapple away, before tearing the comms out of his helmet. He allowed him to leave.
Again.
The history was repeating itself, and as the previous time, ignoring the common sense — even ignoring his own kids, screaming at him, confused and disappointed — Bruce (Batman) chose to save the city first, ordering everyone to return to the task at the hand.
He tried not to think about their argument much.
He tried not to imagine how hurt his son felt right now. How he was going to close himself again, to lock up from the rest of the family, and pretend he was never a part of it.
If anything, Bruce focused on a brief, faint relief. Even in the early beginning of their mission, he wasn’t sure he wanted Jason to face this specific villain.
Marianne — or how crowds called her Anne-Marie — was a mysterious figure that appeared in their city out of nowhere, claiming to be a messenger of the God. And in a way, the genie. She heard people out at their darkest moments, and then, promised to grant their wish. No prices, no rituals, no sacrifices; she just wanted to help.
Expect, all her victims disappeared in the thin air after meeting her. Vanished without a trace, as if never existed at all.
Bruce still hadn’t guessed what she was exactly doing with these people, but he was determined not to let Jason face Marianne directly. He could easily imagine Jason wishing for something badly enough to catch her attention; to ask for her help.
And Bruce? Bruce would never forgive himself if his son disappeared again.
He… he wasn’t prepared to be the one to fall in her trap.
‘Oh, brave Batman, you shall not worry. Relax a little bit, my child,’ Marianne patted his shoulders, and he, almost cluelessly helpless, felt his body going numb. ‘You work so hard, and yet, for all your claims of being a saviour, you alone fill this place with sins. That goes against my beliefs.’
Marianne was a middle-aged woman, with silver strands shining in the heap of brown ones. She wasn’t by any means strong — too thin, if anything — but whatever power she yielded, Bruce found himself unable to struggle.
‘Do not fret, my child. Together, we can fix it,’ her hand cradled his cheek in a motherly gesture. ‘I know what bothers your heart, Bruce Wayne. I heard you struggling. Not seeing the full picture.’
‘What… are you… talking about?’
Speaking seemed hard too; his tongue felt weak, loosened. He almost felt drunk.
‘Your heart is confused. And your son prayed for you. You didn’t pay attention to it, but I did — there was his soft whisper among your angry screams, a faint wish for you,’ Marianne continued, her smile growing sharper. ‘You know what I am talking about, Bruce Wayne. You do.’
“Well, the next time, don’t pick up a street rat! That would save you from lots of trouble, Batman!”
Bruce swallowed:
‘Don’t.’
‘Relax,’ her nails dug in his cheeks, much harsher than she touched him before. ‘I will help you, Bruce Wayne.’
‘I don’t need—’
‘I will save you.’
He didn’t need to be saved, he didn’t want to accept her help, he-
He was completely helpless.
Marianne pressed their foreheads together, and that’s when the buzzing sound filled his heavy head. He tried to twitch, but his body still refused to listen to him, and so he caved in, wincing from something clawing in the walls of his brain, digging in his memories, in his thoughts, in his fears.
Bruce felt sick.
‘Trust me. It is going to be better.’
And the world collapsed.
The buzzing sound was gone once Bruce started to gain his conscious back.
Even with his eyes closed, he could guess that he was in the Cave again; a familiar, chilling air surrounding him, and the firmness of a bunk in the medbay was grounding enough to allow him to let out a relieved sigh. It was still a mystery how much time had passed, but if he was at home, then it could only mean that his kids finished the job safely. That all that mattered.
‘Father, you had finally awakened.’
Bruce grunted in response, eyes slowly opening, trying to focus its blurry sight on his youngest son’s figure.
He was instantly stricken with a thought that something was… wrong.
Damian was standing next to him, with his arms folded in his chest, and face expression twisted in a faint irritation. While this itself wasn’t entirely surprising, everything else was. His son looked… younger. Much smaller than the last time he saw him. His eyes, too, held nothing but a hint of distrust.
It was as if they were back again, at times when Damian just first arrived to Gotham.
‘I must say, I am quite disappointed by your skills,’ his son continued, stepping away, almost as if losing an interest in him. ‘Plenty of talks for a Batman.’
Bruce almost asked what was wrong, when he realised that it wasn’t just Damian that seemed to be off. The whole Cave was… empty. Quiet in a way it hadn’t been in ages.
There was a thing: no matter how bad Bruce could mess up with his kids, if he by any chances got hurt critically during the mission, his family always returned there to surround him until he would wake up. More often than not, he would open his eyes to be met by others — always concerned for him Dick, who had a habit of falling asleep, his head pressing to Bruce’s lap, Cass that curled around him securely, sometimes playing with his hair. Tim either slept on the foot of his bed, or was leafing through the recent cases on the desk, and depending on that, Damian was here either to bicker with him or to guard their sleep. Steph and Duke dropped by, but even if they didn’t, he would receive a message from them afterwards. God, even Jason would appear for a second!
But this time it was just Damian. And he acted too strangely. Not concerned or frustrated with him for being careless, just… disappointed.
‘Hey, Damian,’ Bruce sat down on the bed; his body felt wrong — too light, lighter than he remembered it to be. And he felt so, so tired; as if he was working out this whole time, without pausing for a sleep or even water. ‘What… What happened?
‘You had fainted,’ Damian scoffed. ‘Butler had checked your health, but found nothing suspicious, except for your usual lack of sleep.’
Butler?
Damian didn’t call Alfred like this for ages!
Not to say, that Damian didn’t mention Marianne or anything else related to the case, as if-
Marianne. Right.
The puzzle started to putting itself automatically, piece by piece.
Marianne told him that she will fix his situation before everything faded away. And what for, she was famous if not for promising her victims that they will wake up safe and sound, in the right place?
If people disappeared, vanished away, then maybe… Could it be she was sending them to alternative realities? To these exact worlds, where their dreams were more than true? Was this why this world, despite its faint accuracy, felt unfamiliar?
He needed proofs.
The further he walked in the depths of the Batcave, however, as his eyes scanned the area over and over, the more he was sure that it wasn’t his home.
There were no personal things belonging to others. No accidentally forgotten scrunchies Dick always wore on his wrists, because he liked to tug on them, while he was going through cases. No empty cans of Zesty Cola that Tim piled around, despite Alfred’s reprimanding. Not a sight of Cass’s sticker notes with awkward animals drawn on them that she left for others.
Nothing.
Not even memorials.
The closest thing this place had that reminded him of home was two photo frames — one, picturing his parents, Alfred and him, and another with Dick, back when he was Robin. Not even Nightwing. Just Robin.
‘Master Bruce, I see you had finally woken up,’ Alfred appeared on the stairs, his hands full of with a tray; the well-known odour of his brand tea brought the smallest sense of comfort. ‘On your place, however, I would lay down for another few hours.’
Damian snorted loudly.
‘What a child…’
And with that, his son was gone, disappearing in the shadows so skilfully as he only could.
Bruce sighed, feeling his head becoming heavier and heavier.
‘Al…’
He paused.
It was obvious, this world was not his. Whatever version of him lived here, he had a quite different life. And while Bruce wasn’t sure if he truly just jumped across a dimension, he would rather not to risk it all by actually revealing that he was an imposter. He needed to act very carefully if he didn’t want to ruin someone’s world.
‘Yes, master Bruce?’
‘How is… How do you think Dick is right now?’
Alfred’s expression twitched subtly. It wasn’t a grief speaking, just an old, long-forgotten sadness. The same one Alfred used to have every time they spoke of his son after he first left the Manor, making their once warm home an abandoned Manor.
So, Dick wasn’t dead. But even that didn’t feel like a relief.
‘As far as I am aware, master Dick is more than well. The last time I had a joy of hearing his voice — that would be a week ago — he was preparing for another short trip in the space, along with miss Koriand’r. He seemed more than happy, if you ask me. His only concern at that time seemed to be his dog, Haley.’
That sounded… surprisingly, great. Nice to hear, even.
‘Do you think he plans to visit us in the future?’ Bruce asked as nonchalantly as possible, picking up a cup of tea from the tray.
Alfred seemed confused.
‘...Well, you know how it is, master Bruce. Your relationship is too fickle to guess that for sure.’
They weren’t on speaking terms, then. Bruce felt as if someone stabbed him right on a freshly recovered wound. With everything happening in their lives, he preferred not to remember these times, when Dick was ignoring his existence. But here… here they never mended their relationship awkwardly.
‘Sounds about right,’ he agreed unwillingly.
Considering Damian’s age, neither Cassandra nor Duke had still appeared in his life as a permanent family members. That only left Tim’s status in this reality unknown.
‘By the way, Alfred… do you remember our neighbours? Drakes?’ As Alfred nodded, squinting at him suspiciously, Bruce turned away from him. ‘Had you heard any news from them recently?’
‘I am afraid, I did not,’ there was a short, almost unsure pause. ‘Though, I am quite sure that the last time they had appeared on the event in our Manor, they planned to visit Algeria. I assume, they are still there. May I ask… Why does it bother you all of a sudden?’
It was obvious, Tim wasn't involved in his life, either.
Except for Damian, who clearly didn’t want to be here, Bruce Wayne had no kids in this reality. No family to turn to.
But where it went wrong?
Why Dick had never returned to him? Why Tim never tried to get involved in his family? What was lacking? Who?
‘Master Bruce?’
Jason.
It all started with Jason. His conversation with Marianne, her disturbing, twisted idea of help — it all was about Jason. So, was it an alternative reality where Bruce Wayne had never adopted Jason Todd in the first place?
Because, strangely enough, it explained everything.
Dick had no reasons to initiate conversation with him, stepping in the Manor, if not for Bruce snatching his mantle and passing it to his brother. And knowing himself, he wouldn’t reach out to Dick without a reason first, too — so they just drifted apart, until it became too awkward to consider each other a family.
And Tim had no reasons to be there, if Batman didn’t start to lose his mind out of grief.
‘Master Bruce, you concern me deeply today,’ Alfred put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, squeezing it a little. ‘Is everything alright, my boy?’
Where was Jason Todd in this reality?
He thought he knew the answer.
‘I… am sorry. Everything is alright.’
But did he really want to face it?
One of the things Bruce always felt proud about was his personal system. Not the one he shared with the rest of the family — the one that was filled with cold facts and analysis — but his very own, personal one; more of a journal than a system, if anything.
It was a mixture of serious observations about anything and anyone. Some small details that didn’t make sense for others to be known, his thoughts on that matter or even feelings. Small reminders about something important. A personal tracker. Everything.
So, he started his investigating from there.
Mentally patting another Bruce on his back, he opened Dick’s personal case that had, at least, twenty pages. Which was shorter than the one he himself owned, but still offered a valuable asset of information.
In this universe, Dick was the first and the last Robin to ever exist. With no Robins to follow his steps, his son had barely visited the Manor, and if he did, it always ended with a fight between them. Despite that, Dick’s life seemed to be full of joy and personal achievements. Surrounded by his beloved team, Nightwing constantly balanced between ‘Haven and other cities, sometimes planets, growing closer with new people in his life. Every single mention of Nightwing on the news was stocked in Bruce’s personal journal, kept safe and cherished, leaving him no doubts: estranged or not, this man was proud of his son, even if he had no idea how to reach out to him again.
Bruce assumed that there was no meaning to do that, though. He thought that way back in his own time, when they were divided just for a few months — how worse this feeling could grow after so many years?
The realisation felt bittersweet. He was never brave enough to mend the relationship with his sons. Not a single of them.
But while Bruce and Dick at least had some shared history in this reality, Tim felt like a stranger there. He doubted that Bruce even remembered about the existence of his neighbour, and even if he did, he definitely wasn’t anyone more than a son of another wealthy family around.
And Damian, according to his notes, arrived to his father only a few weeks ago; his file was half-empty, half-despaired.
The only thing that didn’t change was Barbara’s constant support, and, apparently, his cooperation with Spoiler. He worked with Stephanie on occasions, though, it was hard to call them friends — Batman tolerated her, stocked some information about her qualities and skills, but it never seemed personal.
Everything seemed distorted.
Bruce didn’t even realise how he loved the noise reigning in his house, until he found himself there.
And he didn’t realise just how much of his current life was tied to Jason.
In a way… he seemed to be a glue for his family; for the family that had a hard time taking him back.
Had Jason himself realised it? Had he known just how many things in Bruce’s life had started only because he was there once? Did he-
No. No, he didn’t.
Perhaps, if he did, he would finally feel himself at peace in this house. Perhaps, he would think of this, every time he doubted that he was welcomed — not at ugly arguments between Bruce and him that kept repeating over and over again.
Oh, Jason. His sweet, little son.
How Bruce dreaded searching his name up in the system.
He lost him once, so many years ago, and still, he was afraid of realising that he was dead there, too. That he died in the streets, with no one to rescue him from the terrors of cold alleys.
Will he even be able to find his personal case there? Any mentions of him at all?
In this reality, would someone ever bury another kid of Crime Alley? Would there be any documents on his name, any stones on the graveyard to visit?
Unlikely.
‘Master Bruce, you know how much I hate to repeat myself, but I truly can’t help but worry. Are you sure you are okay, sir?’
‘Al, I am fine. I promise,’ he managed to muster a short, awfully tensed smile. ‘I am just… thinking.’
‘That you always do, my boy,’ Alfred scoffed, the fondness sipping in his warm features. ‘Perhaps, I should reschedule your today’s guest on another day?’
Bruce squinted a little.
It was a rare thing for him to invite a singular guest in the Manor. Hosting charity events were a one thing, but inviting civilians over… another. He always felt far too territorial with his house, especially considering what was happening under it.
Who was this important for him to break his own rule?
With Harvey too long gone out of his life…
‘Could you remind me again, who I am supposed to meet with today?’
Alfred shot him a bewildered glare.
‘You invited mister Todd for the dinner, remember? You were supposed to discuss with him his next project. I am afraid, I am not aware of details, but-’
‘Mister Todd?’ Bruce flinched before he could stop himself. His fingers wrapped around the arms of his chair, and pulled himself up. ‘You mean, Jason Todd?’
Alfred let out a long, exhausted sigh. His hand instantly touched his forehead, trying to measure his temperature.
‘Do we know any other members of family Todd, master Bruce?’
‘No…’ He whispered. ‘I assume we don’t.’
Jason Peter Todd was alive.
He was alive, safe and sound, and more than well.
Ironically enough, in this reality, people were calling him the Prince of Gotham. Expect, this time it wasn’t about owning the Lounge or having a list of crimes behind his back, but being known as a self-made philanthropist, the owner of the centre for recovering addicts, and just generally a nice person people enjoyed following.
It was… far too incredible. Almost unbelievable.
Despite Bruce’s concerns, Jason didn’t die on the streets how he always think he would, if they hadn’t met that day. And his life clearly wasn’t that great for the most of it — not until recently, at least — but he managed to find a way out.
According to Jason Todd’s personal case made by Batman of this reality, Jason stumbled across the owner of the bar, when he was fifteen. It wasn’t an adoption by any means, just a decent workplace with a small room in the basement, but it was a decent start; a chance to earn some money safely and resume his education. Eventually, the man had died, and since he had no family to leave the bar to, Jason got it all to himself. He put a lot on the stake by not keeping it and selling instead, but it played out well — Jason Todd crawled out of the Crime Alley.
He finished the school as an external candidate, instead of repeating all the years he had missed by being homeless, and applied for the sociology degree. He worked everywhere he could, quickly got famous among teachers, and eventually, got to the top.
Jason was all alone in this world, without no family that could care for him, but he seemed … happy. On all photos Bruce found, he was just so… contained. Peaceful.
And for a some reason, Bruce Wayne of this world just couldn’t stop obsessing over Jason, his new acquaintance in the world of charity and countless attempts to save Gotham.
It was almost ironical, really. No matter in what universe Bruce and Jason existed together, Bruce could actually stop thinking about his baby son; even if Jason wasn’t his son in them.
In this reality, much like in his own, their first meeting taking place on his parents’ death anniversary, predetermined it all.
“After so many talks, I had finally met “the Prince of Gotham”.
Current status: neutral.
Level of potential danger: ?
I need to check his background more thoroughly. He doesn’t seem to respect any of the high forces, police, included. Could he eventually spiral in another enemy?
Side note: he made me laugh today. It felt unusual. I don’t remember laughing so genuinely since Dick left.”
What supposed to be a simple background check, ended up becoming more.
For a while, Batman did nothing but constantly monitored Jason Todd’s persona, while searching information on him, until he came to peace with a fact that it was a simple kid with honest goals in his mind. After that, his journal entries grew more warm. It was nothing but a list of little details about Jason, his interests and curious, but overall meaningless, facts.
Jason took additional courses of literature and participated in drama club. He still lives in the Crime Alley, despite having enough money of moving out in a better, safer place. He loves cooking, and asked Alfred for a few receipts after visiting the Manor for the first time. Jason-
The pages were endless.
He clearly wasn’t his son in this reality, and yet, Batman liked to think otherwise.
It felt like a joke.
It wasn’t his reality — not the one where they always tiptoed around each other, not knowing how to act — and yet, Jason was so happy. It was Bruce, who was slowly falling apart there, living in almost complete solitude, becoming an empty shelf of himself, while Jason was thriving.
And who Bruce could blame there if not himself?
He had no scapegoats to avert responsibility now, not there.
‘Mister Wayne!’
Jason looked… like nothing Bruce was used to.
He was standing in the lobby of the Manor with Alfred by his side in a neat black suit with a red vest on — oh, Bruce knew he felt awkward in these clothes; he noticed this well-known itching in his fingertips that made him to tug on the sleeves of his shirt — and he seemed to be so… mundane?
There was no white streak of hair in the heap of usual curls. No tint of glowing green in blue eyes. No bags under his eyes. No hollowed cheeks. No scars.
(And, oh, his neck was clean, finally free of the ugly scar tissue left by Bruce’s own hand.)
God.
‘Jason,’ the sigh of relief that escaped his throat was more than genuine. ‘I am so glad to see you alive and well.’
His arms wrapped around Jason’s strong shoulders, tugging him in a desperate, far too familiar hug; a one that he shared with his Jason only a handful amount of times, in a heat of panic.
The body of (his) son was running so warm under his hands. Nothing like a coldness in the huge frame that Pit left; nothing that could remind of the bomb, always ticking in the back of Bruce’s mind whenever their hands brushed, on occasions.
‘Woah,’ Jason chuckled, awkwardly clapping Bruce on his back. ‘Sentimental much today, mister Wayne?’
…Then why Bruce didn’t feel satisfied? He was supposed to enjoy this hug. It was his only possibility to ever see his son so healthy and happy, after all.
So why instead it felt off?
Because Jason wasn’t automatically leaning closer before catching himself doing that, and instantly backing down? Because there was no lost hissing on his ear, indicating that Jason had no idea why would Bruce hug him?
This Jason seemed confused, too. Expect it was kinder and quieter, in a way you would feel if a very distant family member that you had barely seen, would drag you in a heart-warming hug.
‘Master Bruce had been in a slightly… interesting lane today, and for that I apologise,’ Alfred interrupted smoothly. ‘Master Damian assumes that his father hit his head, when he fainted this morning, and I inclined to agree.’
‘Oh,’ Jason pulled away from a hug, his brows frowning in a hint of concern. ‘Listen, if you have any problems with your health, I could visit any other—’
‘No,’ Bruce quickly rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t want to see anyone today but you, anyway, Jason.’
An awkward laughter bubbled out of Jason’s throat, but he nodded along, anyway.
‘Sure. As you wish. So, uh, how is Damian? The adaptation process must be hard on a kid… He lived in another country, right?’
Bruce stared at him, at the familiar kindness of second Robin warming others over years, and couldn’t help but ask himself, over and over again — would it be how his son would look, if he didn’t die? That was a son he could have, if he didn’t fail him?
‘He is… he is getting used to it,’ Bruce nodded. ‘He just misses his mother.’
Jason’s eyes fell to the floor. There was a brief, genuine emotion flickering on his face — a longing of something (someone) mixed with a simple understanding — before it went to the same polite expression he kept since he entered this house.
‘Will Damian join the dinner? Perhaps, I could volunteer to show him around a little.’
‘If he agrees,’ Bruce smiled. ‘He is not a socialite like we are, after all.’
‘Trust me, mister Wayne, neither I am,’ Jason scoffed. ‘In fact, something tells me that you yourself wouldn’t fit this description for all your acting skills.’
Bruce… laughed. It was a quiet, warm giggle that left his mouth. And if for Batman of this reality it wasn’t unusual, to laugh in Jason’s company so easily, for him, it was. When was the last time he could allow himself to be so carelessly amused? Not after Jason died, that’s for sure.
‘You are not wrong, lad.’
‘I am rarely am,’ Jason smirked back.
God, he wanted to squish Jason’s cheeks and cradle him to his chest. To have his son back and never let it go.
If only it was ever easy.
Jason spent the rest of the dinner enthusiastically explaining ideas he had for the project that Bruce Wayne agreed to sponsor. Apparently, he wanted to try to work on the idea of free clinic for people living in the Alley of Crime. A place to work at for those, who once got their education, but ultimately didn’t get a chance for the normal lives — Jason even had a few names of potential candidates; a list he made with Dr. Thompkins help, who was very supportive of his project — and a safe haven for many kids, women and men, left alone on these streets.
Bruce, admittedly, wasn’t focusing much on it. He was nodding along, trusting Jason with whatever he planned to make of that place, but mostly he was just… staring. It had been a while since he last saw his son speaking so animatedly, so lively.
His hands were moving, pausing on food as he tried to explain some visuals. He frowned in a familiar manner, when mentioning something that he didn’t particularly like. But, most importantly, his eyes were gleaming with the same anger on other’s behalf and a hope the second Robin had in himself.
Such a painful contrast of Red Hood, who spoke curtly, sometimes quietly. Who kept his arms defensively folded on his chest, barely moving as he spoke.
Like a shadow of himself.
Like a ghost-
Bruce squeezed his eyes shut.
Was he?
Was his Jason truly a ghost of his son, or he was his usual self, just changed? Changed, but not gone? Wasn’t it Bruce who yearned for a ghost, for a haunting image in the back of his mind to remind him of his mistakes?
He wanted a one. He did, and Jason… played along. Always so accommodating for others, his son.
‘Tell me, Jaylad, how your studies are going?’ He asked as Alfred returned to the dinning hall to collect the empty plates. ‘Anything new?’
‘Uh, just finals,’ Jason scrunched his nose, automatically leaning to help Alfred with dishes. ‘Just takes a lot of time. But I am not really complaining. And it is not like I have any troubles with studying, anyway.’
‘You are a smart kid,’ Bruce agreed with a short smile. ‘Just don’t overwork yourself. Combining your studies with a public life and all these projects… Don’t you feel pressured?’
‘It is a good kind of pressure,’ he shrugged awkwardly as Alfred softly pushed him back on the chair, refusing to accept a help from the guest. ‘I mean, I would rather feel pressured over this, instead of not getting a chance to do anything at all.’
That was a familiar line.
No matter if he was a civilian, Robin, or Red Hood, Jason was always restless. His mind itched to solve something, to overwork, to overachieve. A raw talent mixed with a passion that could only rival a despair by the sense of its urgency,
‘I understand. However, I would prefer to see you resting from time to time.’
Jason mustered a confused smile.
That wasn’t how his Bruce usually acted around him, was it? Was he less emotional? More guarded? Borderline air-headed in a way only Brucie Wayne could only be? Because Jason wouldn’t act so taken aback, if he knew this man well.
…Would his Jason be surprised if he said something like this to him, too? Would his genuine concern sound fake to his ears, if he tried to offer it to his son?
Yes.
It probably would.
‘You are very kind, mister Wayne,’ Jason fixed his collar absent-mindedly. ‘But there is no reason to… bother with all of that. I have a meeting with my classmates today, so, I’ll relax for sure.’
I am not your son, was left hanging in the air unsaid, but screamed out in Jason’s guarded expression.
And he truly wasn’t.
So what Bruce was doing there, pouncing on a boy that wasn’t his, while his own son would kill someone for getting an ounce of the same attention from him?
Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose.
The more he spent in this universe, the heavier his head felt, the thorns of the crown he put on himself after becoming Batman, prickling his temples with blood.
What kind of saviour was he?
And what kind of father?
‘I won’t take your time any longer, then,’ he uttered, plastering a less genuine smile on his face. ‘Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.’
‘It is nothing,’ Jason seemed relieved that the meeting was coming to the end. He stood up almost in a hurry, as if fearing that Bruce would change his mind if he stayed longer. ‘Get well soon, mister Wayne. Keep your strength for pissing more people in the town, you know? We don’t have many kind people there, after all.’
Bruce laughed again, though, this time it sounded more strained.
Would Jason still consider him to be kind if he knew that in another reality he was his father — a father that failed him deeply, dooming him to a constant feeling of being neglected by the hands of his own pride and fear of failure?
No. No, he wouldn’t.
If he knew everything that Bruce had done to him in another reality — and about all the things he didn’t — he would spit in his face, turn around, and leave.
Because that was Jason. His Jason didn’t change much, not a single alternative universe being able to take away the fire inside him.
So, was it his son, who came back wrong? Or it was his father that met him broken?
Both statements could be a true, but Bruce wasn’t supposed to let his inability to grief to become Jason’s problem.
But it happened. It happened, and Bruce wasn’t sure who from them two locked himself in that warehouse, despite the future waiting for them — him or his son?
‘Bye, mister Wayne.’
‘Bye, Jason.’
The Manor became dull again.
Bruce expected Damian to finally came out of the shadows of the second floor, where he was standing for a while now, listening to the conversations of theirs, but even he didn’t. Instead, he scoffed loudly, before leaving his failure of a father behind.
Funny.
Bruce Wayne seemed like the worst kind of father in the world without Jason ever entering his life. He handled this role so much better, when Jason was there. Expect, when it came to other kids, not to Jason himself.
So, why it was always Jason, who put effort in making his life easier?
“This boy doesn’t like Batman. And vigilantes in general.
Level of potential danger: neutral.
Additional note: He likes Wonderwoman.”
“Jason plans to get a PhD in the future.
Level of potential danger: ?
Bad sign, nevertheless.”
“On today’s event, Jason shielded me from the bullet. It seemed to be unconscious for him, an instinct of some sort. I don’t even think he realised who he was protecting — he just felt a responsibility to save someone.
Level of potential danger: negative.
I cannot hide anything on him. He seems like a genuinely good kid with bad roots. The case is closed.”
“...He confessed that he once stole Batman’s tires as a kid after a couple of drinks on the recent events. I can’t believe it was him.
Would things go different, if that night I arrived earlier than I did, and encountered him?”
“His favourite food: chili dogs, and bread. Just a plain bread, not even toasts.
Additional note: Neapolitan Ice Cream is another thing he likes.”
“Why I keep doing this? This case should be closed already.”
Bruce sighed loudly, landing on the rooftop of a small, five-stored building in the Crime Alley. His lungs were filled with a familiar dirty air, his body was hidden under the comforting armour of a suit.
He paused in front of a small poster with Jason’s face — something about a project Park Row 2028 focused on reconstructing this place — and couldn’t help but half-smile at the amount of small, graffiti drawing on it. Someone drew little hearts around Jason’s head, while another unsteady hand left a “get their asses, Jayjay” line on the bottom of the picture.
And then, there was a little signature under a childish-like bread and moustache, drawn with a red marker, in the same colour.
“This shit is pretentious as fuck. Respectfully, JTD.”
And Bruce laughed.
It was so easy to imagine Jason sneaking there, spoiling his own official poster. He must really hate his newly found fame. After all, he did hate appearing on events in his reality, too.
But just as he said himself… It was worthy.
Still, Bruce felt an uneasiness at that.
This Jason, unlike Batman, who seemed so desperate in his attempts to make himself a family, to find a connection between a boy, who made him laugh and himself, was at peace in his solitude and built brick-by-brick, life.
The realisation hit harder than it was supposed to.
Bruce was so used to his son always needing him, always searching for him unconsciously, that he forgot just how independent Jason Todd could be. Bruce wormed a way in his heart once, and completely forgot that their connection wasn’t a rule — just an exception. And he took it for granted.
When they argued, Bruce never kept a thought in his mind that this conversation could be their last. That Jason will get tired of him, of their unhealthy, repetitive conflicts, and instead of returning, he will leave and start his life anew, anywhere but under his roof. In his mind, the only thing that could separate them was death — and even it never really stuck.
Now, after walking in an unknown world for a while, he thought it was foolish.
What if Jason refuses to forgive him one last time?
Bruce did call him his regret. And they screamed at each other before, hurt each other even more, but this seemed like a finishing line.
Jason could forgive him a batarang at his throat, but he was never good at handling rejection.
And that was Bruce did, when he said what he said: he rejected his son. He rejected everything they had.
Bruce gripped his cowl, ignoring police comms, broadcasting about an ongoing attempt of robbery somewhere near. He couldn’t bring himself to move now. All he could do was to stare at the ground, thinking; always thinking.
He made so many mistakes in his life. With Jason, even more of them.
Was there a way to even atone any of this?
He tried to remember his parents. The memory of their voices was getting weaker, not disappearing with a time only thanks to footages he held dear in his files, but their smiles as bright as the day he lost them.
What would they say to them? To his kids?
Would they be disappointed in a son they saved once they saw what a man he turned into?
‘What’s wrong now, B?’ The thin voice called for him from behind. ‘Don’t you like it here?’
Bruce froze in his place.
He would recognise this voice from anywhere; a voice of a kid that he had dreamt so often. The same voice that called out for him so loud once Bruce’s head hit the pillow — the one that prayed in tears. Expect, instead of begging for help from God, he waited for his father to show up.
‘Jaylad?’
His son — his little baby son — was sitting at the edge of the roof, in his torn, slightly burnt, Robin suit. His curls were wet from blood, sticking to his crashed forehead, the domino mask no longer intact. He was swinging his bare feet in the air, staring at him with a blurry, slightly unfocused eyes.
‘Jason,’ Bruce whispered again, more anxious now.
His legs buckled, knees hitting the ground in front of a boy that couldn’t even be here.
‘So, you don’t like it here, old man?’ Jason smiled at him mischievously, baring his bloodied teeth. ‘I thought that’s what you wanted. All mistakes gone. All kids happy?’
Bruce’s hand was trembling when he reached out for his son. For the first time since he started hallucinating Jason, his hand didn’t go through the ghost, but instead cradled his soft cheek. As usual, his boy only leaned closer happily, slightly tilting his head to press his hand firmer.
‘I am sorry, lad,’ he murmured, ‘but I don’t like it here.’
‘Eh, you are never satisfied with me. No matter in which reality we are, you still can’t settle down with any of my versions,’ Jason’s smart eyes squinted at him. Then, he let out a long, drawled sigh. ‘That’s fine, old man. I had already accepted that I am cursed like that.’
Bruce frowned:
‘Cursed?’
‘Yeah. I am cursed,’ he nodded solemnly. ‘You know, my parents never like me.’
It was harder and harder to watch in his small, battered face, knowing that the same very voice rang in his son’s head every time they argued.
His hand lowered to grip Jason’s own, shaking hand. It was swollen and broken, to the point Bruce felt nauseous to even touch it — and yet, he couldn’t pull away.
‘I like you, lad. I swear I do,’ he swallowed down. ‘Just… please, give me a little time. I will return home, and I am going to fix everything. Just give me a chance. Just… believe in me, please.’
‘I thought I told you to let me joke in our duo, duh!’ Jason’s second hand reached to pat him on the cowl condescendingly. ‘Ha. You remind me of mom now.’
‘You mean… Sheila?’ The name never uttered in their house came out sounding bitter, almost as a hiss.
‘No. I said, mom.’
The warmness with which Jason pronounced this word served as an answer.
He meant Catherine Todd, of course.
The woman that Jason took care of for the most of his childhood; the one that, despite her best wishes and never-ending love, could never give her son what he needed. The same woman, who had no strength to put effort in making Jason’s life better, but took everything he sacrificed for her.
Bruce squeezed Jason’s hand tighter.
‘It hurts, dad.’
‘I am sorry,’ he choked on a sob, releasing his broken hand from his grasp. ‘I am so sorry. I love you so much, Jason. I swear, I do.’
‘It still hurts,’ Jason repeated quietly.
Your love hurts.
‘I’ll do better.’
‘You think you can do it, my child?’ Another voice, female this time, asked. ‘After everything I showed you, do you truly think you can?’
Bruce’s head snapped in the direction of the same very woman, Marianne, standing not so far from them. She was smiling at him warmly, almost blissfully blind to the rage, cursing through his veins.
‘You.’
He scrambled back on his legs, hiding a child behind his back, rather instinctively than knowingly.
‘Bring me back, Marianne.’
Marianne hummed.
‘That I will. After all, as I said, my goal is to help you, Bruce. If you are not happy there, I am not going to hold you hostage,’ she stepped closer, putting her hands atop of his shoulder. In the instant, the buzzing sound resumed, far more intense than the first time. ‘But tell me, had you finally reached an answer, my child? Are you finally able to tell if is that your son who is the biggest regret of yours, or it is you, who are his?’
Bruce scowled.
The light was flickering before his eyes, in and out, almost as if he was passing out and gaining conscious in an unending cycle.
‘Can you really save anyone, Batman?’
He opened his mouth to protest, but just the previous times, his whole body felt far too weak to move.
‘You can’t even save yourself. Just let me-’
He heard a loud scream, piercing through his ears. The breeze of air hit him on the chest, out of nowhere, and he stumbled back, falling in someone’s arms.
‘Should it always be me, who saves your ass, old man?’
And then, everything had finally faded away.
‘Okay, but are we going to discuss the fact that Jason has a magic now?’
‘I think that’s our last concern right now, Dick.’
Bruce’s heartbeat was still beating unevenly, when he started to wake up. The voices, desperately trying to sound quieter and failing, hammered on his temples, urging him to fall asleep again.
‘What so surprising about it, anyway? Todd yielded swords as long as I remember.’
‘Wow, sorry, we kinda thought he was dead, when he was babysitting you-’
‘Tim!’
‘Wait, wait, you all didn’t know about All Blades stuff? That’s funny, because Crime Alley told me about them himself.’
‘What!?’
His body felt exhausted. There was no pain in his bones, and yet, he didn’t feel like standing up right now, even if he probably needed to.
‘Urgh, how come Stephanie and Jason are gossiping all the time?’
‘Stephanie is charming. That’s why.’
‘Aw-w, thanks, Cass.’
‘Silence, rascals. Father is awake.’
Someone pocked him on the cheek, and Bruce, biting down the tired sigh, opened his eyes slowly. Even in the darkness of the cave, he could see the attention of others switching directly on him.
Damian was found sitting atop of his legs, frowning at him. Tim, slumped against the chair by his side, nodded at him in the greeting, not getting distracted from messaging someone. Dick, surrounded by Stephanie and Cass, was staring. Duke waved at him, one hand deep in the pack of his chips.
‘Hey, B,’ he exclaimed nonchalantly.
There were no doubts, he was back home.
‘Report,’ he croaked. ‘Where is Marianne?’
‘That’s why no one invites you on parties,’ Tim rolled his eyes. ‘You just woke up, and the first thing that bothers you is an old nun?’
‘Your attitude is unbelievable, Drake,’ Damian hissed at him. ‘Obviously, father is asking for the report first, because-’
Tim dropped his phone on his lap, only to demonstratively close his ears.
‘Blah, blah, blah!’
‘Boys, please,’ Dick groaned.
But it was late. Damian jumped from his place straight on Tim, like a little, but very furious cat, and Bruce, using an opportunity, escaped his bunk, without even trying to stop these two from fighting.
His eyes examined the Cave again.
Everything was back.
Expect, Jason.
Bruce passed by the rest of the children towards his desk, searching for any reports on the table. Somewhere in between of him hobbling towards and staring at the documents, Alfred had materialised next to him with a cup of water.
‘Alfred,’ he put a cup of water aside without even looking at it. ‘Had kids caught Marianne? How did it end?’
Even if Alfred wanted to chide him for the lack of manners or consideration, he was too used to this at this point, to waste his time on meaningless lectures.
‘Well, master Bruce… Your current enemy is under CGDP’s arrest. All of her victims — that would include you — had successfully returned. In fact, all of them appeared out of nowhere, right in the same places they were last seen before disappearing,’ Alfred stared at him for a while, as if waiting for an explanation, but as he gave none, he carried on with a sigh. ‘Commissioner Gordon is busy with interrogating them right now. It will be a long night for him, without a doubt.’
Bruce nodded.
‘It is good.’
‘Yes, naturally. Master Jason was a big help in this case. If I got it right, this woman, Marianne, was a quite infamous and dangerous witch of some sort.’
‘Where is Jason now?’
The moment this question left his mouth, Alfred’s warmth and concern turned into daggers.
‘I think, master Bruce, you had told him enough for today. I recommend you to leave this boy alone for a while.’
Bruce winced.
‘I… I know what you think, but I need to talk with Jason today,’ he shook his head, the sense of urgency returning to him along the all unease the other universe brought to him. ‘I need to fix it before it gets too late, Al.
‘Uh-uh. Last famous words,’ Dick appeared behind them, arms resting on his hips. ‘Maybe you should call it a day, and let him rest, instead.’
‘No, I-’ Bruce ran a hand through his hair. ‘I should talk with him today. It is serious.’
Dick sighed loudly. There was a familiar irritation glistening in his eyes, a disappointment, even, until it bled out in a dim, unwanted understanding.
After all, they both were here once. None of them actually knew what to do with Jason, their actions sometimes bringing him no comfort but an anxiety and a desire to run away without turning back.
But Dick was much better at this than Bruce will ever be; he always was.
‘Well, he is in his main apartment, according to Babs,’ his son gave up quickly. ‘He… Listen, I always ask you to act like a decent person around him, but today… It is like… I hadn’t seen him like this for a while, B. You hadn’t seen him when he brought you back to the Cave. I did.’
I always do, was left unmentioned.
Bruce stared back at his son, and couldn’t help but remember Dick from the other reality — the one that never reached out for him first, and thus, gave Bruce no second chance to recover their relationship.
‘Chum, I will do better from now,’ he promised quietly.
Dick shrugged. Bruce passed by him slowly, offering a brief pat on his shoulder, and he stopped him again.
‘Hey, B. Jason said that this witch-bitch was sending everyone to other dimensions.’
He nodded.
‘She did. Why?’
‘No reason. I was just wondering… was the universe she sent you in a good one?’
Bruce didn’t need to think twice to answer.
‘No. It was a nightmare.’