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Change rarely announces itself. It is similar to an hourglass. It tilts, letting its sand flow slowly and subtly, and by the time you realise what's happening, the other half is already full.
(Bruce, somehow, despite everything, had always been the last to know of the changes of the people closest to him.)
It was a simple, undeniable truth: children grow. One day they are small and fragile, and then they are teenagers, then adults, then—if they’re lucky—old.
They change over time, shaped by every passing day and every lived experience. Each trait is tested, polished, and evolved into something new. Something… Solid.
Bruce had seen it happen before.
He had lived it himself.
It felt like only last week that he had taken in a scrawny, underfed Jason—sharp-tongued, bold, and carrying a heart of gold.
For the first time in longer than Bruce could remember, he found himself smiling and laughing around someone without having to force it. He watched with quiet pride as Jason grew comfortable in the Manor, as he stood a little taller, spoke a little louder, and dared to take up space.
During the early days of his foster, Jason had the tendency to test Bruce from time to time—quietly, deliberately—pushing just far enough to see how much Bruce would presumably tolerate before finally, inevitably, kicking him out.
Bruce would never. He even promised him so.
But Jason didn’t trust promises. They always felt flat in the grand scheme of things.
Words could lie. He said. They could hide things, soften truths, pretend at permanence.
And Jason always tries to look under the words, more often than not, ready himself for any traps it might lay hidden. It was a measure of safety and survival.
(And mournfully, Bruce understood that.)
Actions, though—actions told him everything he needed to know.
Time and time again, Bruce would be patient with every antics Jason might pull and show that he cares.
Bruce cares so much about him.
It always caught him by surprise how quickly and easily this boy had somehow wormed himself deep in his heart not long since their meeting.
(Sometimes, it felt like when Dick was a child and started to venture out which of the Manor’s furniture was great for aerobics before they built the aerobics room.
The smile Dick gave him that day somehow left a pang of longing of sorts that Bruce needed to leave the room the next minute.)
Now at the turning point of fifteen, Bruce feels like he doesn't actually know his child anymore.
(It felt like déjà vu, like living through Dick all over again.
Dick at eight stayed glued to Bruce’s side—on missions, in daily life—inseparable, closer than best friends.
Dick at fourteen began to drift, restless and curious, pulling away in his need to see the world beyond Bruce’s shadow.
Dick at sixteen was angry. Bitter. He wouldn’t even look at him anymore.)
It wasn’t that Jason had completely changed. Not really.
He still quoted classic English novels like they were second nature. Still mocked Bruce’s rich boy things with a grin sharp enough to bruise. Still perched on his favorite gargoyle between patrols, watching the city like it belonged to him to protect.
At the same time, Jason barely spoke to him anymore. He’d grown distant—guarded, clamping down on certain topics, scowling at others.
He was pushing Bruce again, testing boundaries the way he always had, but Bruce couldn’t understand why. He couldn’t find the rhythm to it, the reason beneath the defiance.
“He’s at that age, Bruce,” Alfred had told him in one of their talks. “Give it time.”
Bruce clung to that reassurance like a lifeline. And yet—he knew what he was seeing.
It was the same righteous anger. The same fire he and Dick had once carried against the world.
Bruce had already made a few unfortunate missteps during Dick’s rebellion years. Their relationship deteriorated until it was held together by only a couple of visits a year (outside of emergency patrols) and short, guarded conversations, both of them careful not to explode and scare Jason with their fights.
(These days, Bruce thinks they might have finally reached a breakthrough in their relationship. Maybe—just maybe—he’ll try calling Dick again, see if he’ll come home for the holidays.)
He wonders if Jason’s distance comes from the burden of their nights in the city.
Jason cares. He cares too much, and that care curdles into anger with every injustice they witness on patrol. Piling school on top of that, the constant pressure and expectations, and his patience would eventually be worn down to nothing.
It was understandable.
Bruce can admit it now: it wasn’t—
It wasn’t the best decision to expose a child to that kind of violence.
Especially not a child who had been surrounded by it since such a young age.
Bruce should have known better.
(He danced to this song years ago. How come he hasn't learned his lesson yet?)
It shouldn't matter how much Jason proved to be resourceful to sneak out of the Manor and into Gotham’s streets the moment he learned who Batman was.
(How he missed having Robin by his side.)
Bruce thought it would be best to reset the momentum—to stop chasing what had already gone wrong and look instead toward the future.
They could still salvage this.
Jason was smart.
(Dick had been smart, too.)
He could do anything he wanted. Bruce had signed away his own future the moment he became Batman, but his child(ren) didn’t have to follow him down that path.
Jason could be… a child.
Like any other child Bruce hoped might survive Gotham—
safe, and happy.
But Bruce was a flawed man.
Both controlled and brash, disciplined yet emotional. No matter how carefully he tried to contain himself, his feelings always seemed to spill over when it came to his child(ren).
He shouts when he worries.
He reprimands when he’s scared out of his mind.
He keeps doing and saying the wrong things, over and over again.
It feels like he’s failing his child(ren) all over again.
(I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. There has to be a better way. You used to be happier when you were younger.)
And then it happens.
Emotions were high.
The adrenaline was electric.
Jason would never—
Even at his most emotionally vulnerable, he would never—
Still, there was a possibility Bruce couldn’t afford to ignore. People made mistakes.
Bruce knew that better than anyone. He’d had his own near-misses—punches thrown a second too late, gadgets used a fraction too harshly—always balancing on the thin line between efficiency and brutality.
People talked.
People speculated.
He needed to know. If only to protect Jason.
Why—
How come Bruce could never pull himself together when his child(ren) needs him?
Bruce stares at the door to Jason’s room, the echo of their last argument still ringing in his ears.
(Will always remain fresh in his ears.)
He curls his hand into a fist, raises it to knock—then hesitates.
There’s lead in his stomach, nausea creeping up his throat.
He doesn’t know his son anymore.
What if he makes it worse?
What if he ruins this too, the way he did before?
It’s ironic, really. He fights crooks and villains, survives high-stakes missions night after night in the streets—yet this will always be the line he’s too afraid to cross.
Bruce doesn’t know if he could survive it if Jason leaves the way Dick did.
(He barely held himself together back then.
Sometimes he thinks he never truly did—like pieces of him are still missing, like water forever leaks from a cracked vase.)
In the end, Bruce only murmurs a soft good night and turns away, retreating to his room.
(He regrets it instantly. He should have gone in. Should have kissed Jason’s head, told him he was loved—if only he’d known that would be the last—)
Bruce stands in front of the memorial stone, dead on his feet.
He will never know his son again.
(Bruce buried him as numb as he could. His son deserved to be buried without his father breaking down in the funeral.
But the past keeps surfacing, crashing over him at every hour like a wave he can’t fight.
Jason. My dear, beloved boy.
Why oh why couldn’t they take me instead, for all my mistakes? If only I hadn’t—)
Tracing the lines engraved on the headstone, Bruce realizes something else—something that hurts even more.
Jason wouldn’t know his father anymore either. Not the man behind the mask. Not the one he used to love.
(“Robin gives me magic,” Jason had once said—eyes shining with excitement, like he’d been born for it. Like he’d been made for it.)
If Dick could fly, then Jason could bring a smile anywhere he went.
Jason was magic.
Jason was Robin.
And Robin was—)
Jason cared more about the crime in the streets they fought night after night.
Bruce knows exactly Jason’s stance on its murderers and fiends alike.
Jason would never—
But Bruce had to know.
(I didn’t mean to accuse you—)
It’s ironic. Bruce now knows, with absolute certainty, that he is the one with blood on his hands.
(Oh God, Jason. Your father is a murderer now.)
(I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to have to experience this. You deserve so much better than this.)
(Please—please never forgive me.)