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I'm not your son, you're not my father.
We're just two grown men saying goodbye.
Bruce Wayne always knew he would have to let Jason go if he ever wanted him to be happy. He knew it during missions, in the tense silences between them, and in the way his son seemed more restless at his side than at ease. But Bruce ignored it—of course he did. How could he not, when it had only been three years since Jason had returned, since they'd tried to piece together something broken beyond repair? Jason hardly came to the manor, spent more time on missions with others than staying in Gotham, and every time they met, arguments were inevitable. And despite their bond with Dick, Tim, and Damian—despite the concern they held for one another—what Bruce had once dreamed of, that perfect sibling dynamic, had never truly existed.
So yes, Bruce had always known he would have to let Jason go, but knowing didn’t make it hurt any less. The thought of it gnawed at him—an ache in his chest, a dull throb in his soul. How was he supposed to let his son go when he'd only just gotten him back?
But he wanted to be better. A better father. Wasn't that what good parents did—recognize when their child needed to leave the nest, even if it broke them?
Maybe if he let Jason go, he’d get to see his son smile again, even if Bruce wouldn’t be there to witness it.
Bruce thought about it that morning as he sat in one of Jason's safe houses, watching him from across the room. Jason looked older—taller, broader, with scars etched into his skin like painful memories. His black hair was still streaked with that signature white patch, and his blue eyes—once so bright—were now an unsettling blend of blue and green, a cruel reminder of what had been done to him. The 'J' carved into his cheek was hidden beneath makeup, but Bruce still saw it. He always saw it.
The boy he’d adopted at ten, spent five years raising before losing him, had come back as Red Hood at twenty. And now, at twenty-three, Bruce was preparing to let him go again.
Had they ever really had enough time?
Jason crossed his arms, scowling—not with hatred, but with that ever-present pain he carried like a second skin. "Are you gonna tell me why we're here? 'Cause, old man, I’ve got shit to do—"
"You need to leave Gotham, Jason." The words came out fast, blunt—like ripping off a bandage. It was easier that way.
It took Jason a moment to react, his expression darkening, his body going rigid. Then came the shouting.
"What the hell are you saying?" Jason’s voice cracked, raw with emotion. "You're kicking me out? Jesus, Bruce—I knew it. I always knew you couldn’t stand me. And now—now you're finally doing it."
He started pacing the room, restless, a storm in his own skin.
"After everything—I’ve been helping this city. I've been helping you! I do things right now—I’ve been doing things right!" His breathing hitched, each word more frantic than the last. "I’m doing good for once!"
Bruce said nothing, letting Jason’s anger burn through the air.
"Jason," he finally murmured, his voice a quiet anchor to the chaos, "you’re not happy here. You never have been. Not in Gotham. Not with us. Not with the missions." He paused, his words slow and deliberate, because he had to get this right. "I’ve seen it. You’re not happy being you."
Jason blinked—stunned for a second, like the words had struck something deeper than the anger. Bruce wished, for a fleeting moment, that he could read minds—to know what Jason was thinking, to fix whatever was broken.
"I am happy here," Jason muttered, though the words hung hollow in the space between them.
Bruce shook his head, the denial cutting deeper than he expected. "You’re not. We all see it. Dick sees it during missions—you struggle to be here, to even step foot in your old room. Sometimes, it looks like you want to run away again. You’re not happy with us."
Jason's jaw tightened, and Bruce's heart broke a little more with every second.
"Why stay when you’re not happy?" Bruce asked softly. "We saw it when you changed your suit—when you started shedding the bat symbol."
Jason swallowed hard. It had been for Roy Harper, hadn’t it? To honor their partnership, their friendship.
"I… I'm fine here."
"But are you happy?"
Silence.
For the first time in a long while, Jason didn’t have an answer.
And then, without warning, Jason stepped forward and pulled Bruce into a rough, fleeting hug. Bruce froze—then clutched his son just a little tighter, memorizing the feel of him, knowing this was a goodbye disguised as something simple.
The family dinner at Wayne Manor days later felt like another unspoken farewell. They didn't call it that, of course—it was just a gathering, an excuse to have everyone together. But they all knew. They knew when Alfred served Jason's favorite meal, when his favorite dessert appeared at the end, and when Barbara quietly handed him a new phone—one untraceable by Bruce’s company. A silent message: "This one’s just for you. No strings."
They all knew.
And Bruce’s heart shattered all over again.
After dinner, alone in the study, Bruce made one last request—his voice a rough whisper against the suffocating ache in his chest.
"Every six months, Jason. June and December. Just a message—just to tell me you're alive. I won’t respond if you don't want me to, but I need to know you're okay. Please."
It wasn’t a demand—it was a plea.
Jason shrugged, brushing it off like it meant nothing. "Yeah, sure. Whatever. I can do that."
Bruce memorized the new number in an instant—as if the world would crumble if he didn’t.
Jason left that night. Quietly. No goodbyes to his brothers, no parting words. Just the distant growl of his motorcycle echoing through the dark.
Hours later, Dick found Bruce by the window, staring at the empty road.
"Do you think he’ll be happy?" Dick asked softly.
Bruce's jaw clenched, his face carved from stone—but his silence spoke louder than words.
He nodded, but the lie hung heavier than the night itself.
The first message came in December, during the holidays—when Bruce’s heart ached more than usual, a dull, relentless pain he had long stopped trying to silence. It was a quiet morning, the kind that made the empty halls of Wayne Manor feel even more hollow. Bruce had woken up that day thinking about Jason—about what it would have been like to have him there, maybe pretending to hate the Christmas decorations Alfred put up, maybe exchanging gifts like a normal family.
Instead, all he got was a single message:
"Don’t worry. I’m alive."
Bruce's heart—so used to being heavy—felt a brief, fleeting moment of relief. Jason was alive.
For a second, just a second, it was enough.
Then came the others, sporadically, unceremoniously:
"Don’t worry. I’m alive."
"Don’t worry. I’m alive."
"Don’t worry. I’m alive. P.S. not giving back the money you sent me."
"Don’t worry. I’m alive. P.S. Happy Birthday."
"Don’t worry. I’m alive. P.S. Tell Grayson happy birthday. He still owes me 20 bucks."
Each message was a knife twisted a little deeper, a cruel reminder that Jason was out there—breathing, surviving—but not with him.
And tonight, high above Earth in the Watchtower, Bruce found himself surrounded by the vast emptiness of space—silent and unforgiving. The planet below was a quiet blue orb, beautiful and distant, much like the son he couldn’t seem to hold onto. His fingers hovered over the keyboard of the console, itching to type something—anything—but what could he say? Jason had made it clear long ago that their conversations would never be more than these clipped, hollow reassurances.
It had been three years.
Three years since Jason walked away. Three years since Bruce had heard his voice outside of missions. Three years since he’d had any real sense of his son’s life.
And it still hurt like hell.
He was grateful—if that was the word for it—that his other sons never spoke of Jason as a ghost. Damian, when asked about his siblings, always said he had a brother who was traveling. Tim corrected reporters when they implied there were only four Wayne children, his voice firm: "There are five of us." And Dick—ever the optimist—only ever wished Jason was eating well, maybe trying new food, as if that simple hope was the most important thing in the world.
Because to the world, Jason Todd was dead.
But to them—to Bruce—Jason was painfully, beautifully alive.
"He’s okay, you know," came a voice beside him.
Bruce didn’t flinch. He’d known Clark was there for minutes now, lingering in the quiet.
He didn’t look away from the planet or the empty screen.
"You think so?" Bruce's voice was low—soft in a way that sounded more like a wound than a question.
Clark's hesitation was brief. "His breathing’s steady. A little fast—he’s arguing with someone over the phone—but he sounds… happy." Clark paused, as if weighing the word. "There’s laughter. Other voices. He’s with people, Bruce."
Bruce's hand stilled over the keyboard. For the first time in hours, maybe days, a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Happy.
Jason was happy.
"It’s his 26th birthday," Bruce murmured, the words breaking just a little at the edges.
Clark didn’t respond. There was nothing to say—nothing that would ease the ache sitting heavy in Bruce’s chest.
And when the silence grew too much, when the weight of Jason’s absence became unbearable, Bruce allowed himself the smallest of mercies: he wept.
He cried—not as Batman, not as Gotham’s stoic protector—but as a father who missed his son.
Clark didn’t say a word. He just stood there, a quiet presence beside his friend.
Days later, there was no message from Jason.
Bruce waited—silent, tense—for hours. His heart pounded louder with each passing minute. By the time he was sitting in a Wayne Enterprises boardroom, fingers twitching at his sides, he was a second away from asking Barbara for Jason's location. He didn’t care if it was irrational—he would find him, whether Jason wanted to be found or not.
And then, in the middle of a dull presentation, his phone buzzed.
Bruce’s blood ran cold. His fingers trembled as he excused himself from the meeting, his voice rough and unsteady. He locked the office door behind him before daring to read the message.
"Don’t worry. I’m alive. P.S. Sorry for the delay—was in space. No signal up there."
Bruce stared at the words. Read them again. And again. Five thousand times over, as if the repetition would unravel some hidden meaning.
Jason was alive.
His Jay was alive.
Later, he would learn it had been a mission with Roy Harper—that they’d been in Europe, then off-planet, and that Oliver Queen had mentioned it in passing during a League meeting.
Bruce remembered the sharp sting of envy.
Roy Harper left the U.S. too—found a life beyond his mentor’s shadow—but at least Roy still visited Oliver and Dinah. He went home sometimes.
Jason didn’t.
And Bruce couldn’t help but wonder—again—what kind of father he had been to make his son want to stay away for so long.
Bruce often found himself wondering about Jason — if the white streak in his hair was still there, if he'd grown a little more, if he still liked the same dish Alfred used to make for him. Did he still read the classics, or had he discovered new authors? Had he ever seen the desert, felt its endless silence? Did he have someone special in his life — or even want to? Did he still listen to the same music, or had his playlist evolved? Had he added more tattoos to his already scarred skin?
But they were just questions. Always questions. Questions Bruce knew he'd never get answers to.
It was much later, long after Jason had begun speaking to his brothers again — after Dick had gotten married and the rest of his children slowly began to leave the nest — that Bruce heard his name again in passing.
"Jason reached out," Dick said one evening, a nostalgic smile tugging at his lips. "Said he wished he could’ve come to the wedding, but he was 'in a galaxy far, far away' at the time. Very Star Wars of him. He’s fine. Said he'd send me a diamond rock as a wedding gift."
For the first time in what felt like ages, Bruce laughed — a quiet, broken thing — because that was so like his son.
The messages never stopped.
They came in waves — on important days, on quiet ones. Bruce always took time to read them, to sit in his study and absorb every word, even if they were brief. In December, he always set aside the 24th and 25th, waiting for that familiar buzz of his phone. Jason’s texts were short, sharp bursts of life — simple confirmations that he was still out there.
Bruce sent money now and then. Jason never asked for it, but he sent it anyway. Jason’s responses were always the same: a string of emojis — a thumbs-up, a smirking face, sometimes a middle finger.
Then there was the time when chaos broke out across the globe — a string of creature attacks — and Bruce’s fingers hovered over his phone, ready to message Jason. But his son beat him to it.
"Don’t worry, I'm alive.
P.S. Kicked some ass. Tell the League they’re welcome."
Bruce had chuckled softly — a sound that felt more foreign than it should have — his heart easing, even if just for a moment. He wanted to ask where Jason was, wanted to call him, hear his voice — but he didn’t. He never did.
It wasn’t until much later, in a quiet moment during a Justice League meeting, that Clark leaned in and murmured softly, "He was in Asia. With Roy Harper, Donna Troy, and Artemis. They make a good team."
Bruce exhaled slowly, a rare flicker of relief threading through the ache in his chest. His son wasn’t alone.
Maybe that’s when he started paying more attention to Donna Troy — when she visited the League, when she spoke to Diana about her travels, when Dick mentioned her frequent trips to Asia.
Because even if Jason was far away — even if he was a ghost in Bruce’s life — at least someone was standing beside him in the dark.
Bruce never saw Jason again — not in the way he hoped — but he did watch his other children grow. He saw Cassandra take up the mantle of Batman, saw Dick become both a father and a vigilant protector. He witnessed Timothy step away from Red Robin, carving his own identity while masterfully running Wayne Enterprises. And Damian — his fierce, unyielding Damian — became a doctor, a diploma proudly displayed on his wall.
And somehow, Bruce knew. He knew he would have loved to see Jason walk a similar path. To see him build something of his own. But in his heart, he also knew Jason had done great things — even if Bruce hadn't been there to witness them.
Bruce Wayne never expected to grow old. He always thought his life would end young — maybe at the hands of Bane, or with a bullet to his head. He imagined his body burning away slowly or lying lifeless on the cold streets of Gotham, much like his parents.
Yet, life surprised him.
He lived long enough to see his grandchildren, to witness a new generation of vigilantes, and to guide those who sought his wisdom. Perhaps it was karma, or maybe some unexplainable gift for all he had endured. He never fully understood.
And when the end finally came — as he lay on his deathbed, surrounded by his children, all saying their quiet goodbyes — Bruce saw him.
Jason.
He returned, a soft smile on his face, older but lighter, happier.
Bruce's gaze softened as Jason sat on the edge of the bed. He looked older — lines now creasing the corners of his eyes, new scars marking his skin — but he was still Jason. His Jason. The boy who loved books, who adored classic movies and the theater, who had a knack for biology.
"Did you really think I wouldn’t show up?" Jason teased, a familiar smirk tugging at his lips. "God, you must think so little of me, old man. We both know you couldn't leave without seeing me one last time."
Bruce chuckled — a hoarse, broken sound — but a laugh nonetheless. He didn't want to speak. He just wanted to look at his son, to memorize every line of his face, to see the boy and the man he had become.
Jason shifted slightly. "Dick called me. I was in Europe... taking some drama courses."
Bruce's throat burned. There were so many things he wanted to ask — so many things he would never have time for. But there was one question he couldn’t hold back.
"Have you been happy, Jay?" His voice cracked — too raw, too full of longing.
Jason smiled, and Bruce noticed the 'J' scar was gone — only a faint mark remained, a ghost of the pain Jason once carried.
"I have," Jason replied softly. "More than I thought I could be."
His hand brushed the faint scar on his face, as if reading Bruce’s mind. "Weird, right? Roy thought it was a good idea to use some alien tech to get rid of it. Apparently, having a Joker brand on your face isn't the best look when you're teaching a bunch of nosy kids."
Bruce’s heart ached. His son — his lost boy — was a teacher. A teacher who seemed content, who had found a piece of peace.
"I'm proud of you, Jaylad," Bruce whispered.
Jason laughed — really laughed. "Proud that I'm a broke teacher? Wow, setting the bar low, aren’t we?"
Bruce's lips curved into a rare smile. "Proud that you're happy. Proud that you're doing something you love."
Silence settled between them again — a comforting, familiar thing.
Bruce swallowed hard, fighting back the lump in his throat. There was one last thing he needed to know.
"Did you do everything you wanted, Jason? Did you... try new things? Taste new food?"
Jason chuckled softly. "Yeah," he nodded. "I did all that — and more."
The soft hum of machines filled the quiet room, monitoring Bruce’s weakening body.
Jason shifted closer, his voice gentle now. "I can tell you all about it later," he murmured. "Right now, you need to rest."
Bruce didn’t argue. He just nodded.
Jason stayed with him that night, sitting at his side, reading a classic novel — the same way he used to, long before everything fell apart.
At some point, Jason’s voice softened even more, barely above a whisper.
"Sleep well, Dad."
Five hours later, Bruce Wayne passed away — surrounded by his family, by his children.
Bruce never believed in heaven. He had fought aliens, sorcerers, and seen more than most could fathom — but heaven was always a question mark.
There was time, there was space — but eternal peace? That was something he could never grasp.
Until now.
Because Bruce Wayne woke up in his own kind of heaven.
He found himself back in Wayne Manor, surrounded by his children. Dick and Tim were playing by the fireplace — Dick already slipping into the role of the protective older brother. Damian was just a baby in Bruce's arms, cooing softly.
And there, standing in front of him, was Jason.
Younger now — wild black hair falling over his forehead, the familiar streak of white still there — braces on his teeth, his face unmarked by scars.
Bruce's heart swelled, so much so that he thought he might cry — but the joy was too vast, too overwhelming.
Jason’s voice, soft and childlike, broke the silence.
"You okay, Dad?"
Bruce didn’t hesitate.
He smiled — truly smiled — and replied with a steady voice.
"I’m okay, Jaylad."
For the first time in a long, long while, Bruce Wayne finally understood.
There was nothing left to fear.
Because for once — for the first time in what felt like forever — he felt truly, undeniably...
Alive.
The End.
No need to forgive, no need to forget
I know your mistakes and you know mine
And while you're sleeping I'll try to make you proud
So, daddy, won't you just close your eyes?