Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason can hardly breathe.

Every attempt to drag air into his lungs feels like sucking through a broken straw—thin, desperate pulls of air that never seem to make it all the way down. Smoke clogs his throat, thick and bitter, burning his tongue with the taste of ash and copper. His lungs spasm, convulsing against him, and each shallow gasp sends his ribs grinding together, jagged bone grating cruelly inside his chest. The sensation is unbearable—like shards of glass carving his insides with every twitch of breath. The pain ricochets through his body, white-hot, so sharp that it rips a cry from his throat before he can bite it back.

Tears slip free, streaking down soot-stained cheeks. He can feel them searing against the raw patches of burned skin, a sting layered on top of a dozen others. He doesn’t bother trying to wipe them away—his arms won’t obey. His left is nothing but dead weight, numb and alien, while his right feels too heavy, too sluggish to lift. Even the effort of trying makes the edges of his vision blur with sparks of black.

His neck buckles under the strain, refusing to hold his head upright. It lolls sideways, colliding with the jagged edge of broken rubble. The sharp corner presses into his temple, reminding him in some detached way that he’s still alive—still feeling. Heat radiates from nearby flames, prickling his exposed skin. The air is acrid with the stench of burning wood and melted plastic, chemicals biting at the inside of his nose until he coughs again, a wet rattle that makes his chest scream.

Something heavy is pinning him down. A slab of debris, concrete maybe, or twisted steel—he can’t tell anymore. All he knows is the crushing weight that makes his chest cave with each attempt to expand it, robbing him of what little air he can steal. He wills his toes to move, to twitch, to prove to him that his body still answers to him. But nothing happens. No pain, no sensation. Just a hollow absence that frightens him more than the agony of his ribs.

Everything hurts. And somehow, everything is numb. He can’t reconcile the two. He doesn’t understand how it’s possible to feel both at once.

Am I dying?

The thought drifts sluggishly through the haze, unmoored, like it belongs to someone else. His mind is too slow to chase it down, but it lingers anyway. It feels like I’m dying.

Jason doesn’t want to die.

He’s always known Robin came with an expiration date. Bruce made sure of that—grim warnings drilled into him between gritted teeth and punishing lessons. Survival drills disguised as training, lectures that felt more like last rites. Jason had thought he understood. One wrong step, a blade in the ribs, a bullet aimed true—he knew it was inevitable someday. He’d told himself he was ready. That it didn’t matter. Going out as Robin, in a fight, serving something bigger than himself—it had even sounded noble. Comforting, in a way.

But not like this.

Not crushed under rubble, broken and burning, fifteen years old and alone.

The realization slams into him harder than the explosion had, stealing what little air he has left. His chest heaves with a sob he can’t afford, tears spilling faster as the weight of it crushes down on him more completely than the stone. He wants Bruce. Needs Bruce. He can’t do this—not like this, not without his dad. He isn’t ready. He doesn’t want this to be the end, not without one last word, one last look.

“Please,” he whispers, the sound rasping from his throat like sandpaper. His voice is barely audible over the roar of the fire, eaten alive by the crackle of collapsing timber. He squeezes his eyes shut, the way he used to as a kid when the sirens outside his window grew too loud. He thinks back to a God he stopped believing in long ago—the one he’d cursed when his mother’s body went cold on the bathroom floor. Please. Just let me see him. Just one more time.

The world narrows to fire. It roars in his ears, swallowing every other sound, drowning out his desperate, ragged breaths. He thinks he hears something else, faint beneath it—a voice, calling his name. He can’t trust it. Dying men hear things. Hallucinations are supposed to come at the end.

Still, he goes still, straining against the crackling chaos to hear it again. His chest jolts with the effort, a fresh wash of pain rolling through him. His eyes sting, tears threatening to spill again. For one wild moment, his thoughts drift to Sheila. Is she still alive somewhere in the wreckage? Does it matter? He doesn’t care anymore.

Then—there it is. Louder this time. Cutting through the roar.

“Jason!”

His heart stutters. It’s Bruce. It has to be Bruce.

Jason forces his eyes open. His vision swims, the world around him warped and edged with smoke. He listens harder, ignoring the way debris continues to crumble and crash around him. He tries to call out, to answer, but all that comes is a broken gasp. The effort rips a hot pain through his chest, and he gags as blood bubbles in the back of his throat, choking him.

“Jason!”

The voice is closer now, desperate, raw in a way Jason has never heard before. Then, through the smoke, he sees him.

Bruce.

The dark silhouette looms over him, cape dragging through the smoke like the shadow of something divine. Jason’s vision tunnels, black spots edging the scene, but he locks onto that figure—onto the broad shoulders, the impossible presence. He watches as Bruce tears away his cowl, smoke curling around his face. The sharp lines of his jaw, the piercing blue of his eyes—they’re more vivid than anything else in this haze.

“God, Jason,” Bruce breathes. His voice cracks on the words, splintering in a way Jason has never heard.

Jason tries to speak, but his throat rebels. A wet gurgle escapes instead, pitiful and broken. His eyes blur with fresh tears as Bruce moves, frantically clearing away debris from his body. Each shift of weight sends fresh agony lancing through Jason’s ribs, but he feels the faint rush of relief as the crushing weight begins to ease.

Bruce hesitates when the last of the rubble is gone, his hands hovering an inch above Jason’s mangled body. He looks as if he’s afraid to touch him, afraid that any contact will shatter him completely.

But Bruce would never hurt him. Not Bruce. Not his dad.

“Jay,” Bruce says softly, voice wrecked. Jason barely feels it when Bruce finally takes his hand, fingers trembling as they squeeze his own. “Jaylad.”

Bruce is crying. Jason can see it, even through the blur of smoke and tears. His father’s face is wet, streaked with something he thought Batman was incapable of.

Jason wants to answer, wants to comfort him somehow, but his throat spasms again. Blood leaks from his lips, and he chokes violently, body convulsing as it tries to clear his airway. Bruce’s hand steadies his neck, tilting his head just enough to help. When the fit passes, Jason feels the brush of fabric against his cheek—Bruce using the edge of his cape to wipe his face clean.

“Quiet, Jay. Shhh.” Bruce’s hand presses to his cheek, thumb trembling as it strokes the grime away. Jason stares at him, dazed. He’s never seen Bruce like this. Batman isn’t supposed to be afraid. Batman is supposed to be the steady hand, the light at the end of the tunnel. But right now, Bruce looks terrified.

Jason feels himself being shifted. Pain claws through him as Bruce slides his arms under his neck and knees, lifting him carefully from the wreckage. Jason wants to protest, to tell him it hurts too much, but the words catch on his tongue and vanish. His head falls limply against Bruce’s chest, his hands useless in his lap. Bruce gathers him close, cradling him as if he weighs nothing. A broad palm rubs circles across his back, steady and desperate all at once.

A small sound escapes Jason’s throat, muffled against Bruce’s chest. He buries his cheek deeper into the soot-stained armour, chasing the familiar warmth. He’s so cold.

“It’s okay, Jaylad,” Bruce murmurs, his lips close to Jason’s hair. His voice wavers, but he keeps repeating the same promise, over and over. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Jason fights for words. It feels impossible, his body rejecting every attempt, but he forces them anyway. “‘M...s-sorry…” The syllables scrape painfully, and blood spills fresh from his lips. “‘M sorry, Bruce.”

“No.” The word lashes out sharp, sharper than Jason expected, but it’s jagged with grief. Bruce’s voice trembles, raw and broken. “No, this isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault, Jason. Do you hear me? It’s me. It’s on me.”

Jason shakes his head weakly against his chest. He wants to tell him he’s wrong, but he doesn’t have the strength.

The fire roars around them, distant now, just a backdrop. For a long stretch, the only sounds are the crackle of burning wood and Jason’s laboured breaths, shallow and uneven.

“I love you, Jay.” Bruce’s voice cracks again, whispering the words like they’re being torn from him. His tears spill freely now, dripping onto Jason’s face. “I love you so much.”

He bends down, pressing a kiss to Jason’s soot-caked forehead. Jason barely feels it. He can’t move anymore. Breathing is a losing battle.

His eyelids grow heavy, impossibly so. He wants to stay awake. He wants to hold onto this moment. But his body betrays him. His hand twitches sluggishly against Bruce’s chest, trying to tap out a message.

.. / .-.. --- ...- . / -.-- --- ..-

I love you.

Bruce goes still. His breath catches audibly, his whole body trembling as recognition floods his eyes. His hand presses harder to Jason’s cheek, thumb brushing over his temple like he can keep him anchored.

“I’ve got you,” Bruce whispers again, pulling Jason tighter against him, rocking him like something fragile and irreplaceable. “I’ve got you, Jaylad. I’ve got you now.”

Jason lets his head fall against Bruce’s shoulder, finally letting the tension seep from his body. He isn’t afraid anymore. He isn’t alone. For the first time, he feels safe—because he’s with his dad.

Chapter Text

The steering wheel creaks under the force of Bruce’s grip. His hands, usually so steady, so precise, tremble against the worn leather as the Batmobile tears through the narrow streets of Addis Ababa. The engine’s low roar reverberates like a growl, a predator tearing across the uneven roads, but even the power of the machine couldn’t drown out the fading, ragged sound of Jason’s breathing.

Every bump, every dip in the cracked pavement jarred Jason’s body where it lay pressed against Bruce’s chest. Each jolt felt like a failure, like another nail in the coffin Bruce was desperately trying to keep closed. He kept one hand locked around the wheel, forcing the car to obey him, while his other arm cradled Jason, palm spread across the boy’s dark hair, shielding his head from further harm.

“Hold on, Jay,” Bruce whispered. His voice cracked in a way it hadn’t since he was a boy himself. “I’ve got you, lad. Just hold on.”

Jason gave no answer. His breaths came shallow and wheezing, each exhale rattling ominously in his chest. His lips were tinged blue, a sheen of sweat and blood covering his face. The boy’s weight against him was too light, frighteningly limp, and Bruce could feel the warmth leaving him with every second that passed.

Blood seeped through the black tactical fabric of Bruce’s suit, soaking into his chest and thighs. He felt every falter of Jason’s heart, every stutter of his lungs. It was killing him inside, a steady tearing of his soul. He should have been faster. He should have been there sooner. He should never have let Jason join him in his damn crusade in the first place. 

The night outside pressed close. The air was heavy, thick with dust and heat that clung to Bruce’s skin. Streetlights burned weakly in the distance, their glow sporadic and uncertain, flickering like tired stars about to give out. The back roads stretched on in uneven lines, broken and half-forgotten, every corner blurred into the next. The city seemed hushed, not peaceful but stifled, as if it were holding its breath along with him.

At last, the faint glow of fluorescent lights appeared ahead—the hospital. A squat, utilitarian building on the outskirts of the city, its painted sign barely legible in the dark. It wasn’t the Batcave, with its state-of-the-art medbay and Alfred and Leslie’s tireless hands. It wasn’t Gotham General, where Bruce had contacts, leverage, and control. It was foreign, staffed by strangers who don’t know him, who don’t know Jason.

But it was all they had.

The Batmobile skidded across the cracked asphalt, brakes screaming as Bruce forced the car to stop. He was out before the tires finished spinning. Jason clutched tight in his arms. During the drive, he had shed the cape and cowl, discarding Batman in favour of anonymity. A plain black hoodie clung to him, hastily pulled from the emergency stash hidden in the car. Jason had been changed, too—out of the tattered remains of his Robin suit and into sweatpants and a shirt Bruce had carried for contingencies. His own jacket was draped around Jason’s shoulders, hiding the worst of the injuries.

The automatic doors hissed open, and Bruce was immediately swallowed by the chaos of the emergency ward. The air smelled of antiseptic and cleanliness, human suffering pressed into every corner. Voices rose and fell in languages he didn’t understand, a chorus of urgency and fear. Nurses and doctors moved with frantic purpose, weaving between patients on stretchers, guiding families who wept into their hands.

Bruce stumbled inside, Jason’s body limp in his arms. His boots left smears of soot and blood across the pristine tiles.

“Help!” His voice cracked, desperation shattering his usual control. “He’s—he’s dying! Somebody help him!”

A nurse appeared at once, her eyes widening as she took in Jason’s pale face and Bruce’s wild expression. She didn’t waste time with questions. “Bring him here,” she ordered, gesturing to an empty gurney nearby.

Bruce hesitated, clutching Jason tighter. His instincts screamed at him not to let go, to keep Jason pressed to his chest, where he could still feel the faint thud of his heart. “No, I—he needs me—”

“Sir,” the nurse interrupted, her tone firm but not unkind. “We need to stabilize him. Please, let us help your son.”

The word—son—punctured Bruce’s defences. Slowly, with agonizing reluctance, he lowered Jason onto the gurney. The boy’s head lolled to the side, lips blue, chest hitching shallowly. Bruce’s hands hovered, unwilling to withdraw. When the nurses began to wheel Jason toward the double doors, Bruce moved with them.

“You can’t go in there,” the nurse told him, blocking his path.

“I need to be with him!” Bruce’s voice broke, raw with fear. His hands, slick with Jason’s blood, shook violently at his sides. “He’s my child—he needs me—”

The nurse placed a hand on his arm, grounding him. “We’ll do everything we can. Please. Let us work. Stay here, clean yourself up. Someone will update you as soon as possible.”

Bruce was ready to argue, but the words collapsed in his throat. He hadn’t even noticed how badly he was shaking until the blood began dripping steadily from his fingers onto the white tile, slick and warm, too much like life itself slipping away.

Another nurse approached, guiding him toward a nearby sink. He didn’t resist. The faucet turned, water rushing in a steady stream as she took his hands and began rinsing them clean. He watched blankly as crimson swirled down the drain, disappearing into the pipes. It didn’t feel real. None of it felt real.

She reached for a cloth, dabbing gently at the soot smeared across his face. Her touch was brisk, practiced, but kind. That small flicker of compassion was enough to undo something inside him. He wanted to thank her, but all that came out was a broken sound, choked and guttural.

“Do you need me to call someone for you?” she asked, her tone careful, tentative.

Bruce’s throat worked, but words refused to form. His mind, however, conjured a single image: Alfred. The one constant. The one person who had always known what to do, who always knew how to steady him. He gave a jerky nod.

“Alfred Pennyworth,” he rasped at last. “Call him.”

The nurse nodded. “Do you have his number?”

Bruce fumbled with his phone, the device slick in his trembling hands. He nearly dropped it before the nurse gently took it from him, scanning through his contacts. Her brow furrowed slightly when she saw the name, but she pressed the call button without hesitation.

“Hello? Is this Alfred?” she asked after a moment, voice calm and professional, though years of being Batman had trained Bruce to hear the faint urgency threaded through it. “My name is Naima. I’m a nurse at Saint Gabriel’s Hospital in Addis Ababa. I’m with Mr. Wayne—yes, yes, that Mr. Wayne. He asked me to call you.”

Bruce closed his eyes, fingers gripping the edge of the sink hard enough to blanch the knuckles. His head felt hollow, light, and heavy all at once.

Naima glanced at him, then continued on the phone. “Yes, he’s here. He’s… shaken, but uninjured. It’s his son. He’s in critical condition. The doctors are working on him now.”

There was a pause, and Bruce could almost hear Alfred’s voice in his mind—steady, composed, even when the world was falling apart.

Naima extended the phone to him. Bruce took it, his hands shaking. “Alfred,” he croaked.

“Master Bruce.” Alfred’s voice was steady, though Bruce caught the undercurrent of worry. “What’s happened?”

“I…” Bruce swallowed hard, his throat burning. “Jason. He’s… hurt. Badly. I don’t…” His voice cracked. “I don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

There was silence on the line, and then Alfred spoke, firm and grounding. “Master Bruce, listen to me. Master Jason is strong. And so are you. You’ve done everything you can for him. Now you must trust the doctors. Do you understand?”

Bruce pressed his eyes shut, shoulders shaking. “I’m scared, Alfred.” His voice broke on the confession.

“I know, sir,” Alfred said gently. “I know. But you are not alone. I’ll contact Master Dick and arrange to join you as quickly as possible. You focus on Master Jason. He needs you steady.”

The line clicked, leaving Bruce with the quiet hum of a dead call. He lowered the phone, his hand limp at his side.

Naima was still there, watching him with an expression of quiet understanding. “Thank you,” Bruce murmured, his voice steadier now.

She gestured toward a chair against the wall. “Sit,” she said softly. “I’ll bring water. When there’s news, you’ll hear immediately.”

Bruce hesitated, eyes fixed on the double doors that had swallowed Jason whole. But at last he sank into the chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His chest heaved with silent sobs he couldn’t let free.

It was going to be the longest night of his life. And all he could do now was wait—and hope.

Chapter Text

The rhythmic ticking of the wall clock echoed in Bruce’s ears, each second stretching into eternity as he sat slumped in the uncomfortable plastic chair of the hospital waiting room. The chair was molded plastic, the kind designed for durability and not for comfort, and the hard edge of it pressed against his spine until it ached. His elbows rested heavily on his knees, hands threaded through his hair, head bowed as though gravity itself were trying to crush him into the floor. His gaze stayed fixed on the double doors ahead—the doors that had swallowed Jason hours ago and had not opened since.

It felt like a lifetime had passed since they’d taken him—Jason’s limp body lifted from Bruce’s arms, wheeled away by strangers whose names Bruce hadn’t caught, whose hands he had no choice but to trust. The clock told him it had been six hours. Six hours of silence. Six hours of imagining every terrible possibility that could unfold behind those sterile walls.

The surrounding room faded into static. He didn’t notice the occasional nurse passing by, or the concerned looks cast in his direction. He didn’t hear the steady hum of the fluorescent lights or the faint chime of the elevator down the hall. He didn’t notice the bloodstains that had stiffened on his clothes, the dry patches cracking against his skin whenever he shifted. His throat still burned from the smoke he had inhaled, raw and sore with every swallow, but he barely registered it.

All he could see was Jason. Jason gasping for air, blood spilling from his lips, eyes wide with panic as his small body trembled in Bruce’s arms. Jason crying, not from weakness but from the sheer terror of dying too young, too soon. And Bruce, with all his training, all his wealth, all his seeming control, could do nothing.

“He’s strong,” Bruce muttered to himself, jaw clenching tight enough to ache. His voice was rough, almost foreign to his own ears. “He’s a fighter. He has to pull through.”

But the words didn’t ease the weight that crushed him. The truth sat heavy on his chest, pressing the air from his lungs. Jason was lying behind those doors—broken, bleeding—because of him. Because Bruce had let him wear the suit, had let him follow into the line of fire, had failed to protect him when it mattered most. He had failed his son. And now… now he might lose him.

The entrance door creaked open, its sound cutting through the silence like a blade. Bruce didn’t bother to look up at first. The shuffle of shoes on tile, the faint rattle of luggage wheels—background noise to his vigil. But then a voice broke through the haze, soft, calm, and achingly familiar.

“Master Bruce.”

His head snapped up, eyes widening as Alfred stepped into view.

For a moment, Bruce just stared, stunned, as if conjuring the man from memory. Alfred stood there in the doorway, posture as impeccable as ever, despite the exhaustion of long travel. A leather duffel bag was slung over one shoulder, his free hand steady on the handle of a second case. His clothes were immaculate, pressed, and proper, though Bruce knew he must have rushed the moment he’d heard. Worry flickered in Alfred’s eyes, softening the lines etched deep into his face.

“Alfred,” Bruce breathed, rising so quickly his chair scraped against the floor. “You’re already here?”

“Of course, sir,” Alfred replied, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of concern. He crossed the room with measured steps, as though refusing to let haste undo the calm he carried with him. “I took the first available flight and came straight here.”

Bruce blinked, trying to process it. He hadn’t expected Alfred to arrive for hours, maybe longer. But of course, Alfred had found a way. Alfred always found a way.

“How did you…?” Bruce began, then stopped himself. Words faltered on his tongue, useless. He shook his head, a faint, bitter smile tugging at his lips. “Never mind. You’re here.”

“I am,” Alfred said softly, setting the duffel bag down at Bruce’s feet. He rested a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, the touch grounding him in a way nothing else had all night. “Now, tell me—how is Master Jason?”

Bruce’s throat tightened. He looked away, jaw clenching until the muscle ticked. “I don’t know,” he admitted, the confession breaking low and hoarse from his chest. “They took him back hours ago. No one’s told me anything since.”

Alfred’s hand squeezed gently. “They will, Master Bruce. These things take time.”

“Time,” Bruce muttered, frustration bleeding into his voice. “I’ve been sitting here for hours, Alfred. Hours. I don’t even know if he’s…” The word lodged in his throat, sharp as glass. He couldn’t bring himself to finish.

Alfred’s expression softened, but his tone was firm as he guided Bruce back to the chair. “Sit down, sir. You’ve been through an ordeal yourself. You’ll be no good to Master Jason if you collapse from exhaustion.”

Bruce hesitated, his body taut with restless energy, but eventually he sank back into the chair. His frame hunched forward, hands hanging between his knees. Alfred pulled another chair closer and sat beside him, calm and precise. He unzipped the duffel bag.

“I brought some essentials,” Alfred said, his tone practical. He drew out a neatly folded shirt and a fresh pair of slacks. “I thought you might prefer something clean to wear.” He held them up with a pointed look, one Bruce couldn’t quite meet.

Bruce glanced down at himself then—the ruined shirt stiff with blood and soot, his pants wrinkled and torn. He looked like a ghost of himself. He sighed, low and ragged, and took the clothes. “Thank you.”

“There’s more for Master Jason as well,” Alfred added, his voice quieter now. “Once he wakes, I believe he will appreciate something more comfortable.”

Bruce flinched at the word once. It was hopeful, confident—but Bruce wasn’t sure he could afford hope anymore. Hope had failed him before.

Alfred seemed to sense his turmoil. “He will wake, Master Bruce,” he said gently. “You must have faith in him. Master Jason is a fighter. He always has been.”

Bruce closed his eyes, the words hitting him harder than he expected. A fighter. Yes. But even fighters bled. Even fighters fell.

“I tried to contact Master Dick,” Alfred continued after a pause, his tone threaded with quiet regret. “It seems he is still out of range. No service where he currently is. I’ll continue attempting to reach him, but for now…”

“It’s okay,” Bruce interrupted, though his voice cracked. He looked at Alfred, eyes heavy and bloodshot. “You’re here. That’s… that’s enough.”

Alfred gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth softening. He shifted closer, moving his chair so it was flush against Bruce’s own. His hand lifted, steady, rubbing slow circles along Bruce’s back the way he had when Bruce was a boy—and the way Bruce now did for his own sons when words weren’t enough. Bruce didn’t lean into it, but he didn’t pull away either. The exhaustion dragging at him made every breath feel heavier, but Alfred’s touch anchored him, quiet and familiar, more powerful than anything spoken.

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant hum of the hospital and the steady ticking of the wall clock. Alfred didn’t press Bruce to speak, didn’t offer empty reassurances. He simply remained, steady as stone, as he always has been.

When Bruce finally spoke, his voice was a raw whisper. “He was so scared, Alfred. He… he thought he was dying. And I couldn’t—” His words faltered. His fists clenched until the knuckles blanched white. “I couldn’t stop it.”

“You did everything you could,” Alfred said gently. “You brought him here. You gave him a chance.”

“I should’ve kept him safe,” Bruce snapped, the edge of guilt sharpening into his tone. “I should’ve been faster, smarter—”

“Master Bruce.” Alfred’s voice cut through the spiral, firm but not unkind. “Blaming yourself will not change what has happened. What matters now is that you are here for him. And you are.”

Bruce’s shoulders slumped, his eyes closing against the sting of unshed tears. He wanted to believe Alfred. He wanted to cling to that anchor. But the guilt was suffocating.

The minutes ticked by, each one stretching into eternity. Bruce leaned forward again, head bowed into his hands, unmoving but for the rise and fall of his breath. Alfred stayed beside him, patient and unwavering.

At last, the double doors swung open. A doctor emerged, his scrubs streaked faintly with blood. Bruce shot to his feet, his heart hammering as he closed the distance in long, urgent strides.

“How is he?” Bruce demanded, his voice breaking on the words. “Is he—?”

“He’s alive,” the doctor interrupted quickly, raising a hand to calm him. “But he’s in critical condition.”

Bruce’s breath caught, relief and terror colliding like twin storms. “What does that mean? Is he going to be okay?”

The doctor’s expression was neutral, cautious. “He’s stable, but his injuries are extensive and life-threatening. He suffered multiple fractures—his right hip and leg are shattered, the left tibia is broken, and there is a pelvic fracture. His shoulder was dislocated, his collarbone fractured, and several fingers broken. There’s a spinal contusion we are monitoring closely for signs of paralysis. He also sustained a bruised kidney, collapsed lungs, severe smoke inhalation, and a fractured cheekbone. The most concerning issue is the traumatic brain injury—there is swelling. We’ve done everything possible to alleviate it. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will be critical.”

The words hit Bruce like physical blows, each detail striking deeper. He swayed on his feet, his jaw tight, his pulse thundering in his ears. “Can I see him?”

The doctor nodded. “He’s in the ICU. One visitor at a time. Only for a few minutes.”

Bruce turned to Alfred, who met his eyes with quiet encouragement. “Go,” Alfred said softly. “He needs you.”

Without hesitation, Bruce followed the doctor through the doors. The antiseptic sting of the corridor filled his lungs, sharp and sterile. The beeping of monitors echoed faintly from nearby rooms, mingling with the soft voices of nurses. The world felt narrow, reduced to the steps he took toward Jason’s room.

When they reached it, Bruce froze in the doorway.

Jason lay swaddled in bandages and braces, dwarfed by the bed and machinery surrounding him. Monitors blinked steady lines of green, the ventilator hissed with each forced breath. IV lines trailed from his arms, feeding life back into a body that had nearly lost it. His face was pale beneath the bruises, swollen where bone had fractured.

The sight gutted Bruce. His son looked so small, so fragile—so unlike the defiant boy who met the world with fire in his eyes.

Bruce stepped inside, each movement slow, deliberate, as though afraid the air itself might shatter Jason further. He sank into the chair at the bedside, his hand hovering before he finally took Jason’s less injured one, careful not to jostle broken fingers.

“I’m here, Jay,” Bruce whispered, his voice breaking on the words. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He squeezed lightly, the warmth of Jason’s skin faint but there. “You’re strong,” he murmured. His eyes never left his son’s face. “You’ve always been strong. You’re going to get through this. I promise.”

For the first time in years, Bruce Wayne—Batman—bowed his head and prayed.

Prayed that his son would listen.

Prayed that Jason would live.