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The metallic scent filled his nose, burning flesh resonating in his lungs and the sound of breaking, shattered bones seared into his ears. He’d never be able to forget what happened, what happened to his son. His boy.
Everything hurt, but Batman couldn’t allow himself to feel it in favor of getting Jason’s body home. Every little twitch sprouting more and more hope that his boy would wake up, that he would wake up from this nightmare.
But, deep in Bruce’s subconscious, he knew it wouldn’t be possible. Jason was dead. There was no feasible way a boy his size could survive the injuries it had been subjected to. Maybe it was ignorance, maybe it was naivety.
The Dark Knight didn’t bother trying to enter through the batcave, all reputational worries exchanged in favor of his boy. His Jason. Pushing the front door open he doesn’t hear the squelch of his foot landing in a blood pool, or the way Alfred’s voice calls from a nearby room.
He doesn’t hear the gasp of shock, nor the frenzied footsteps approaching him and the body that used to belong to his second Robin.
“-ruce?’’
He blinks, finally coming back to himself from the gentle prodding of Alfred’s question.
“Bruce,’’
“Joker…’’
Bruce can’t finish his sentence, because then - then - everything will become real. The dead weight in his arms, the pale complexion of Jason, the crushed and misplaced bone protruding from flesh in ways that were sure to tear through it sooner or later.
But Alfred, oh, sweet Alfred, he didn’t need an answer. Batman didn’t see him until the greying man came into his line of disassociated sight, but he knew what he was going to do. Alfred was going to comfort his own boy.
Feeling arms wrapping around his torso he broke, chest rattling with big, sputtering sobs and frantic breaths. Filling his lungs with just enough clean air before it was morphed into even more tears.
He cried, and cried, and cried. And then cried some more.
When the haze of detachment finally began to ebb he found himself lying in bed, the curtains closed but the lamp on his nightstand still on. Like Alfred did when Bruce’s parents died. But this wasn’t that time, it was worse. It was gut wrenching, he felt like he was suffocating.
With a stagger in his step he pushed himself to stand, not even trying to keep himself quiet as he walked around the second floor of the Manor. In search of something he wasn’t aware of, but knew he needed.
Bruce found his parents bedroom door, closed just like it had been when they first died. He remembers, he couldn’t bear to see anything that reminded him of them. Except his father’s razor.
Letting the door creak open he slipped through, coming face to face with the double en-suite doors that had had him spiraling in the first place all those years ago. But also gave him relief, the opportunity to breathe again without the overwhelming urge to just curl up and cry until his chest exploded.
He flicked the light on, keeping his gaze downturned to the sink. He pulled out drawer after drawer, finding absolutely nothing worth his time except some of his mother’s old perfumes and hair care supplies.
The last one, however, was the jackpot. Inside lay a razor, still in the box but the packaging was opened. A small screwdriver at the very back of the compartment, where he’d stashed it when he was drowning in his own sorrow and unable to find a healthy way to express it.
He detached the blade from the razor using the tool, feeling almost antsy with anticipation and excitement from the sight and weight of the weapon.
One line, just one, then he’d feel better. Then he’d stop.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Pretty soon his forearm was littered in open slices, the injuries bleeding steadily down to the linoleum tiles beneath him. Bruce had forgotten just how good this felt, how relieving it was. But the sensation lasted briefly before he came to the damning realization.
Almost two full decades of sobriety, down the fucking drain. And he couldn’t bring himself to care, the little boy inside him trying to convince him how this was a bad idea, but he wasn’t listening. He couldn’t.
How many lines had it been already? He’d lost count.
He wouldn’t kill himself, not tonight. He had to make sure Dick was comforted before he did anything final. But maybe he would write a note, telling his oldest that it wasn’t his fault. Yeah, he’d do that.