Archive of Our Own

Bruce has never considered himself a happy man. Even at his best, he is perpetually trapped in that high-functioning depressive baseline. But from a purely scientific standpoint, one would have to acknowledge that this alien, unprecedented emotion that presents itself in the pleasant tune Bruce whistles as he pours his coffee in the mornings and in the airiness in his chest as he grapples across rooftops with Robin by his side—it must be happiness. Or, at least, whatever passes for happiness in Bruce’s world.

“Good work tonight, Robin,” Batman commends his partner during the drive back home. Three robberies, a mugging, and a break-in at the local ice cream stop by Condiment King (apparently whether hot fudge counts as a condiment or a candy is a sensitive topic in the condiment-enthusiast community)—all foiled by the dynamic duo.

Feet kick the back of Bruce’s seat. “Good enough work to justify chili dogs? I’m starving.”

Bruce ignores that. “You could have been faster evacuating the civilians,” he tacks on because it’s him, “but everyone got out okay in the end. Just be more mindful of that next time.”

“Got it,” Robin says in the passenger seat beside him. “Sorry.”

A pair of arms leans against the back of Bruce’s headrest. “Did’ya see the way he fumbled that first mugger? I could’ve had the guy down in half the time.”

Bruce looks sidelong at Tim, who has been holding his arm tight against himself since they ended patrol. “How’s your arm?”

“It’s fine. Just twisted it the wrong way.”

“Put some ice on that as soon as we get home. I’ll have Alfred take a look.”

Breath wafts against Bruce’s ear even through the cowl. “What for? He didn’t die, so he’s fine. Right, Dad?”

Jason hasn’t changed one bit since last April. Bruce was concerned at first that the…incident with the Joker would have lasting repercussions, but Jason rallied better than anyone could have anticipated. He doesn’t acknowledge the burns in his uniform or complain about the permanent bruises from the crowbar where it repeatedly smashed into his skull. He’s missing teeth, but he smiles anyway. He’s happier than ever. They are happy.

Jason was gracious enough to let Tim into the household without a fuss, though the boy is all too eager to join Bruce whenever it comes to critiquing Tim’s actions as Robin. “Calm down, Dad, I’m just offering the new kid some constructive criticism!” Bruce should probably be more stern when discouraging Jason from picking on his successor. He’ll add it to the list of things they need to work on.

At least Jason is more agreeable now than he used to be. He encourages Bruce in his best (and worst) ideas. He reminds Bruce of things that have slipped his mind and helps him refocus when he becomes distracted by silly, meaningless things—like that new memorial case in the Batcave, for one.

“Stop staring at it,” Jason chides him time and time again, tugging Bruce by the hand to lead him away from the morbid display. “Quit beating yourself up over that little mistake and let’s go. The bad guys won’t catch ‘emselves!”

Jason is right, of course. He’s always right. Bruce’s son is alive and well. His new Robin is getting better every day. Everything is perfect. Bruce doesn’t have time to waste reflecting on past failures. He has to focus on the here and now: his son, his Robin, and his work.

Jason has become more lively at nighttime since his accident. Bruce suspects the boy has nightmares, so he’s taken it upon himself to keep Jason company through the night. Bruce can afford the lost sleep. He’s far more efficient now that he has all this time on his hands for extra work. He takes micro-naps at the correct intervals to keep his body and mind functioning, and not one minute more.

It’s better this way. It gives Bruce’s brain fewer opportunities to force those horrible nightmares upon him of burning warehouses and bloody crowbars. Nonsense.

This is what matters.This is his reality. The dreams are only a distraction.

“Bruce?” a timid voice asks. Bruce turns around in his computer chair, being careful not to jostle Jason perched on the arm of it, to face Tim. The boy’s arm is in a sling, but he is otherwise undamaged from tonight’s events. Bruce would never let harm befall his Robin after... “Hi,” Tim says. “Sorry. I already asked Alfred and he said yes, but I figured I should—well, it’s your house, so it’s only fair I run this by you, too, and—”

“You’re rambling again.” Tim has been so nervous around Bruce lately. He hopes Jason hasn’t been teasing Tim behind Bruce’s back. They need to have another conversation about bullying in the workplace.

Tim fiddles with his sling. “Right. Um. Is it okay if I stay here this weekend?” He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor. “I won’t bother you, I swear. I just didn’t want to go home to an empty house, and you said once that I can come over whenever I want.”

Jason groans dramatically. “Here we go.” Bruce shuts him up with a glare.

“Usually my dad tries to do something special on my—um, during this time of year,” Tim goes on, stumbling over his words, “but he’s on a business trip with Dana that ran late. They won’t be back until the day after tomorrow.”

“Of course you can stay,” Bruce says, trying to set a good example for Jason. The boy gets jealous so easily. “I’ll be busy tomorrow, but Alfred should be around to keep you company.” He doesn’t bother asking Jason to offer up his time; Jay doesn’t generally spend time with Tim on his own. Where Bruce goes, Jason goes. He’s loyal like that.

Tim’s eyes dim the smallest bit. “Oh. Okay.”

Bruce waits. “Anything else?”

“I guess not.” Tim coughs. “I’m gonna—yeah. ‘Night.” Tim scurries upstairs to the manor.

Jason snorts. “I wonder what that was about.”

“You really should be nicer to him,” Bruce chides. “It’s not easy trying to fill the shoes of…” The train of thought dissipates halfway through. Bruce shakes his head. Smiles. “It’s not easy being the new kid in the house.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m the best. Right, Dad?”

Jason never called Bruce “Dad” when he was alive, but they’ve come a long way since then. They are much closer now. Bruce spends hours each day holed up in Jason’s bedroom working on cases or just sitting there thinking, listening to Jason talk his ear off about whatever pops into his head.

Jason would never complain, but Bruce knows he’s been lonely ever since Tim entered the picture. Neither Alfred nor Barbara even acknowledge Jason anymore, too preoccupied with training Tim to bother checking in with poor Jay. And Dick hasn’t said a word to or about Jason since—

Bruce refocuses his attention back on his post-patrol report. The faster he finishes this up, the more time he’ll be able to devote to his neglected second-eldest. Quality time is a vital ingredient for raising a well-adjusted child. It’s easier to get along with Jason than Tim, but Bruce keeps meaning to work on that. It’s not Tim’s fault. Jason is one of a kind.

Bruce ruffles Jason’s hair, picking out little bits of ash and debris. Boys will be boys. “That you are, Jay.”

Tim doesn’t know what more he can do.

He turned fourteen years old this morning. It’s childish, he knows that, but he’d kind of been hoping for some kind of acknowledgement from Bruce. He’s the world’s greatest detective and Tim’s closest companion. How does someone like that forget something like this?

Dana called Tim this morning to wish him a happy birthday. Dad promised they’ll go out for dinner at Tim’s favorite restaurant tomorrow after their flight gets in. Alfred baked Tim’s favorite cake: devil’s food with strawberry frosting. Even Dick made the long commute from Blüdhaven to come spend the day with Tim.

Meanwhile, Bruce was too busy staring into space over breakfast to even notice the stack of rainbow-sprinkle pancakes Alfred served Tim with a lit candle on top.

It shouldn’t bother Tim as much as it does. Bruce has always been distant when it comes to Tim. He pays attention when it’s time for training, and he takes their Batman-and-Robin duties more seriously than anything in the world, but as Tim Drake? Tim might as well be invisible. Only in the mask does he matter. 

It wasn’t so bad until the anniversary of Jason’s death a few months ago—not that it’s unreasonable for Bruce to keep Tim at arm’s length. How can Tim possibly expect to fill the hole in Bruce’s life that was once occupied by his son who died? There is no rulebook for that. Tim took the role of Robin without a hitch because someone needed to do the job, but he can’t fill the void Jason left behind. He knew that when this all started.

He’s fine with it. Really.

Alfred visits Jason’s grave twice a week to clear away the weeds and refresh the vase of flowers he left on his previous visit. Bruce doesn’t go to the grave at all. He stares at the memorial case in the cave a lot, though. Sometimes he’ll stand in front of it for hours and hours, never saying a word or shedding a tear, though he’ll occasionally tip his head to the side as if someone is whispering in his ear. His mouth will quirk like someone told him a joke only he can hear.

It’s unnerving, but then again, that’s Batman. Creepy. Private. Odd. Tim is in no position to judge Bruce on how he chooses to grieve.

Tim stares at the memorial a lot, too. He wonders what Jason must have been like in life—if he would be proud of the way Tim stepped into his vacant shoes, or if he would hate Tim for trying to usurp his station in Bruce’s life.

Jason was the best partner and son a guy could ask for. Bruce says so all the time. Jason excelled in school, joined the theatre club, volunteered at soup kitchens. How can Tim ever expect to live up to a legacy like that? He’s a consolation prize at best and an unwanted replacement at worst. Jason was a real hero.

What a letdown Tim must be in comparison. No wonder Bruce wants nothing to do with him these days. At least he still has Dick.

By the time Dick realized how badly he’d failed to be the big brother Jason needed, it was already too late. Now that Tim is following in both of their footsteps, Dick makes a point of visiting Gotham every other weekend to remedy that mistake. It’s for Tim’s sake, but it’s also not for Tim’s sake, and he’s…he’s fine with that, too. Seriously. If this is what will help Dick feel less guilty about Jason, then Tim is happy to fill that role. He’s got a talent for placeholding.

Dick gifts Tim a Wizards & Warlocks expansion pack that Tim had his eye on the last time they went to the comic book store together. They get ice cream at Tim’s favorite shop, and then Dick takes him down to the Batcave’s gym to pass on some Tamaranean fighting styles Kory taught him.

“I guess I don’t have to ask if Bruce is still avoiding me.” Bruce hasn’t shown his face since Dick showed up at the manor. He never does during Dick’s visits. Tim has no idea where Bruce disappears to all the time. His bedroom is empty, and he hasn’t come down to the cave all day. He tries not to worry about it.

“He could’ve at least said hi,” Dick goes on bitterly. “How is the old bastard holding up? Is he doing any better?”

Tim would shrug if he weren’t trying to keep his stance as rigid as possible. According to Dick, Kory called this Tamaran’s version of Taekwondo. Tim calls it a neck injury waiting to happen. His arm still aches fiercely after last night, but he’s determined to push past it. Jason wouldn’t let himself be slowed down by a sprain. “He’s fine. He’s always fine.”

“Did he at least get you a good birthday present, or did he push the task off onto Alfred?”

It would be better to lie. Tim’s neglected-child woes are nothing to burden Dick with, but… “I don’t think he even noticed it’s my birthday.”

Dick unfurls from his precarious handstand to give Tim a strange look. “Bruce notices everything. There’s no way he’d forget that.”

“He’s…tired,” Tim decides to go with. “He works a lot. Everyone forgets stuff sometimes. I don’t mind, really. I have everything I need.” He stumbles and botches the next move on purpose to throw Dick off the subject, but Dick Grayson isn’t so easily deterred.

Dick puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I can talk to him for you, if you want. There’s no excuse for forgetting your birthday after everything you’ve done for him. You’re a kid. These years are important.”

“Please don’t do that. It’s really okay. He’s dealing with a lot right now, and I’ve always preferred being on my own, anyway.” Not exactly true, but Tim is used to being ignored. He can live with it.

Predictably, Dick remains unconvinced. He takes a knee so he’s at Tim’s level. “I know it’s hard, being around someone like Bruce. He’s not like normal people. His compliments sound like criticisms, and it doesn’t always feel like he cares, but deep down, underneath all the angst and emotional constipation, he does care about you. He’s just…bad at showing it sometimes.” He squeezes Tim’s shoulder. “I get it, is what I’m saying. If you ever need someone to complain to, I’ve got a PhD in dealing with the runoff of Bruce Wayne’s bullshit. There’s always a method to his madness.”

Tim chews on that for a minute. “Was Bruce ever…daydreamy when you were Robin?”

“Daydreamy how?”

“I dunno. He gets…distracted. I don’t think he’s sleeping.” Every night Bruce is either down in his cave or hiding upstairs in Jason’s room. Most of the time he’s working. Sometimes he just stares at the walls until daybreak.

Dick stands and stretches. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Alfred’s been trying to sneak sedatives into his tea for years, but it’s hard to pull one over on the world’s greatest detective.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Tim should let the subject drop. It’s not fair to poke around in Bruce’s business and gossip behind his back. “Sometimes he just…gets lost, I guess. I have to say his name a few times to get his attention. Or, like, the other day he zoned out so bad he almost tipped over the edge of a building.”

Dick swivels to stare at him, wide-eyed. “He what?”

“Yeah, I had to pull him back before he fell off. He was looking at something on the ground, I think, but we were too high up for me to see it. I dunno. It was a long night. He was probably just tired, like I said.”

“Do things like that…happen often?”

“I don’t know. Not really.” Tim should let it end there, but— “Sometimes he calls me the wrong name. Or he’ll look at me weird, like…like he doesn’t know who I am.”

“That’s—” Dick bites his lip, but then he shakes off the visible concern and puts on a smile for Tim’s sake. It isn’t remotely convincing. “You’re probably right about it being nothing, but I’ll check in on him later and make sure everything’s okay.”

“No,” Tim says quickly, “don’t tell him I told you. I’m Robin. It’s my job to take care of him.”

Dick smiles sadly. “Tim, you’re thirteen. It’s his job to take care of you.”

“Fourteen now, actually.”

Dick laughs and ruffles Tim’s hair, the tension dissipating. “Smart aleck. Fourteen.”

“I thought no one was allowed in here.”

Bruce glares at Dick standing tentatively in the doorway of Jason’s bedroom like the unwelcome guest that he is. Bruce is sitting in Jason’s reading corner sorting case files on his tablet. It’s quiet here. He does his best work when Jason is around, and he’s always easier to hear in this room. Easier to see, too. 

“You’re not allowed in here, dickhead,” Jason grumbles. He’s been lounging on his bed reading a magazine since Bruce showed up. Bruce keeps lecturing him about keeping his bloodstained shoes off the bedspread, but the kid has always been a rebel at heart.

“It’s my house,” Bruce reminds Dick. “I can go wherever I want.”

“Fine, then let me rephrase: Why would you want to be in here? Haven’t you punished yourself enough?”

“Make him leave,” Jason whispers.

“Get out, Dick.”

“You’re scaring Tim. He thinks it’s his fault that you’re not okay. Now you’re avoiding him on his birthday? Are you trying to screw him up?” At the blank stare he receives, Dick’s shoulders drop. “Oh, my god. You didn’t even know today was his birthday, did you?”

Bruce did not.

Jason tilts his head, thinking hard. “Who are we talking about, again? Short kid, kind of annoying?”

“What is wrong with you? You let Tim take up the mantle, you trained him, made him your partner, and now you’re just—what, dropping him in the trash? After everything he’s done for you? Instead of spending time with the poor kid on his birthday, you’re hiding in Jason’s room sulking by yourself. Did you even stop to think about how that’ll make him feel?”

Bruce keeps his expression carefully unchanged. “Tim isn’t my son. Jason is.”

“He’s not here! And yes, it’s terrible. Yes, you should feel bad that he died on your watch. You should hate yourself forever that I had to find about it through the goddamn newspaper, but as horrible as that all is, it’s in the past. Tim is your Robin now. He needs to be your priority.”

Jason scoffs. “Prioritize the failure who can’t keep up?”

Bruce tries to ignore him. It’s so disorienting with both of his sons talking to him at the same time.

Dick plows on, “That kid is killing himself to make sure you’re okay all the time, and you can’t even write him a birthday card. You’re hiding in this tomb instead of spending time with the kid who is alive and who idolizes you like you’re God.” He still hasn’t stepped into the room. He berates Bruce from the doorway. Coward.

“Sheesh,” Jason says. He’s appeared at Bruce’s side to drape himself over Bruce’s shoulder. “Since when did the golden boy become such an asshole?”

“Language, Jay.”

“What? He is!”

Dick looks in Jason’s direction for the first time. “What?”

“What?” Bruce echoes.

Dick’s eyebrows are furrowed. He looks between Bruce and Jason like he’s waiting for something to jump out at him. “What was that? Who are you talking to?”

“No one.”

“Rude,” Jason mutters.

Dick scrutinizes Bruce like he’s never seen him before. “Oh, Bruce…”

Bruce stands up before he can start. Jason’s hand has wormed its way into his grasp. “Get out. Leave us alone.” He realizes his slip-up at the same time Dick does. “Leave me alone.”

Dick’s eyes soften. “Hey, it’s okay. I—I see him too, sometimes.” His tone gentles, like he’s comforting a child. “Look, I know it’s hard to let go. I get that, but you can’t hang on to him forever. It’ll eat you alive if you let it. You have Tim to look after now, and isn’t that the whole reason he’s here in the first place? A second chance?” At Bruce’s silence, Dick persists, “Jason is dead. You know that, right?”

Bruce huffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, I—I think I need to hear you say it. It’s really important to me right now that you say the words.”

Jason squeezes Bruce’s hand tighter. “What’s he talking about? I’m right here.”

Dick enunciates very carefully, “Bruce, Jason isn’t here. He died.”

Then why can Bruce feel Jason’s small hand wrapped around his so tightly? Why can he hear his son’s voice pleading with him every time he closes his eyes, begging Batman not to let him go again?

Bruce looks sidelong at Jason, who smiles back. “I’m alive,” Jason promises him confidently. Happily. “Don’t listen to this nutjob. I’m here, Dad. Can’t you see me? Can’t you hear me?”

Bruce hears it, but he also hears little Jason—his brave, innocent boy—coughing on the smoke that filled his lungs and suffocated his efforts to cry out from under the rubble of the demolition. Bruce wasn’t there, but he still hears it in the background every time Jason goes away. He can’t sleep. Every time he tries, he hears his child’s sobs as his body broke and burned.

But it’s all right, Bruce reminds himself, cutting off that train of thought before he can spiral too far out. Jason is here. Jason is alive. The tragedy was just a dream.

“Bruce. Bruce.” His eyes snap back to Dick, who has frantically grabbed Bruce’s shoulders. “Did you hear me?”

“I…heard you.”

“Jason is gone.”

Bruce’s jaw tightens. “Stop saying that.”

“I don’t want him in here,” Jason says. No one is supposed to be in this room except for Bruce. “He’s being creepy. Make him leave, Dad.”

“You remember that day, don’t you? In Ethiopia. Jason walked into Joker’s trap, and he—”

“Stop.” Bruce slaps Dick’s hands off. He shuts his eyes. “I don’t want to hear about that nightmare.”

“It’s just a bad dream,” Jason reassures him. Bruce tries to focus on his voice instead of Dick’s. “He’s trying to make you upset.”

“It’s not a nightmare! You were there. You held him. Are you kidding me? It wasn’t—” Dick drags a hand down his weary, tear-dampened face. Neither of them talk about that day. They can’t. Bruce can’t think about it. “Look, Bruce, I think—I think you need to take a break. Get out of this room for a bit. When was the last time you slept?”

Bruce can’t sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees his son’s dead body. His fictional dead body. He doesn’t want to see it ever again. “Don’t tell me what I need. I’m fine. I’m better than fine.”

“You’re not! I’m sorry, but this isn’t— It’s not normal, Bruce. It’s been over a year.”

Bruce shoves him so hard that Dick nearly falls backward into Jason’s bookshelf. “A year? How can you possibly think that means anything compared to the life of my child? You have no idea what I lost!” 

Jason pulls on his hand. “Dad?”

“I cared about him, too! We all did.”

“Not like I did! You didn’t raise him! You didn’t love him! You didn’t let him fall into the hands of a monster and—” Bruce bites back an anguished sound. “Don’t you ever try and tell me you know what it’s like, you inconsiderate son of a bitch.”

Dick is taken aback. Bruce has never spoken to him like this before. To anyone. “You should…I think you should see someone. A professional. I can help you—”

“Fuck you,” Bruce snarls. He shoves past Dick and stalks out of the room with Jason on his heels, as always. Jason is the only one of his proteges who has stayed loyal, through and through. None of the rest could ever measure up.

“Don’t take it too hard, Dad,” Jason says. “He’s just jealous that you like me more.”

“You need to stop instigating,” Bruce snaps at him. “I could have talked him down if you didn’t keep—” Bruce turns a corner and nearly bumps into Tim.

Tim jumps back from his hiding place against the wall. His eyes fill with shame, and Bruce knows he was listening in. He probably heard everything. These damn kids don’t know how to mind their own business. “Bruce! Sorry, I—I’m just—”

“Poor little birthday boy,” Jason teases from atop Bruce’s shoulder. When exactly he climbed up there, Bruce doesn’t remember. “Y’should give him fourteen punches for good luck.”

Bruce strides right past Tim, but he stops himself midway down the hall. He forces himself to turn around. “Happy birthday,” he manages past gritted teeth.

“Oh. Uh, thanks.”

Jason blows a raspberry at Tim as they leave.

This is how Bruce knows he’s snapped: He goes to Harley Quinn, of all people. Call him a madman for even considering that the criminally insane could be a source of sound advice, but Harley has…experience with psychosis, among other maladies. She also knows Bruce better than any other run-of-the-mill psychiatrist would, and—damn him, but she might be the only person in the world whom Bruce can trust with this. She owes him after Jason.

He finds her at a pet store in the middle of the night. She broke in to feed the fish and tie-dye some hamsters. Bruce selected one of his stealth suits for this mission. No bat-related memorabilia or weaponry. “I need you at your sanest for this conversation,” he says, stepping out of the shadows. “Can you do that?”

Harley doesn’t even flinch at being snuck up on. “Tit for tat, Batsy.” She passes over a can of fish food and gestures to the row of tanks across from hers. Sighing, Bruce follows suit and sprinkles some flakes in. The goldfish swarm for their dinner. “What’s eatin’ ya?”

“Robin.” Harley’s easygoing grin vanishes. She wasn’t an accomplice in Jason’s death, but she still harbors her own guilt for what happened. As she should. “I’ve been…seeing him. Physically. He talks.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Wasn’t expectin’ that, but okay. Is he…here right now?”

Bruce scans the empty store. Jason looks up from the hermit crab he’s been studying and waves. “Yes.”

“Huh. Creepy. Is he saying anything?”

“Not at the moment.”

Jason crosses his arms. “She wants me to talk? Tell her she’s gonna make those poor fish blow up.”

“He said you’re overfeeding the fish.”

Harley turns the can of flakes right-side-up. Her eyes are wide. “You’re not messin’ with me?”

“No. I have…hallucinated him a great deal since the—the incident.” Bruce clears his throat. “First, it was sporadic. I only saw him during periods of great grief, but the episodes have become more frequent since the anniversary passed. I have gaps in my memory. Lately, I forget that it happened at all. I forget that I have a new partner and that Jason is—that he’s—” He can’t bring himself to finish. The fact alone that Bruce is telling this to another person, let alone to Harley Quinn, speaks volumes as to how bad it’s become.

“Let’s just go home, Dad,” Jason urges Bruce, pulling on his arm. It seems he’s lost interest in the crabs altogether. “We don’t need her help.”

“He doesn’t want me to talk to you.”

“Wow. Jeez, okay.” Harley sighs. She kicks over a shipping crate and takes a seat, crossing her legs. “Let’s do this, I guess. First things first: You’ve got doctor-patient confidentiality for the rest of this conversation. Any names you say or secrets you tell me will stay between us unless I feel that intervention is required to keep you or others safe.”

She waits for Bruce’s nod that he understands. At least she’s taking this seriously. He knew she would.

“In that same vein,” Harley continues, “I gotta ask if you’re having thoughts about hurtin’ yourself or others.”

Sometimes Bruce forgets that Dr. Quinzel used to be one of the most accomplished psychiatrists in Gotham. She and Bruce are both so removed from the people they used to be, but there are still remnants left behind. “That’s not an easy thing to quantify in my circumstances. I hurt people who hurt others.”

“And how ‘bout yourself?”

He thinks for a moment. “Not all the time,” he settles on. Sometimes he toys with the concept of jumping off a high building without a grapple. In the first week after…it…he took Joe Chill’s gun out of its case in the cave and brought it upstairs to shove the barrel in his mouth, but he heard Alfred crying in the kitchen, and he couldn’t bring himself to carry it out.

Harley squints, seeing straight through him. “You said he didn’t want you to talk t’me. Does he typically tell you to do things?”

“Yes.”

“Do they ever involve violence?”

He shouldn’t be sharing this information with her. It isn’t fair to Jason, who can’t properly vouch for himself. “He doesn’t like the new Robin. Or Nightwing. I believe he’s jealous.”

“Jealous,” Harley echoes. “That they’re alive and he’s dead?”

“He’s not—” Bruce seeks out Jason across the room again. He’s climbed into a cage of puppies to pet their sleeping little heads. He looks so out of place partaking in such a cozy scene with his charred uniform and open wounds that Bruce usually avoids staring at directly. Jason doesn’t like bringing it up, either. He’s happy ignoring his shattered ribs and the part of his ear that melted from the fire.

“He’s dead,” Harley says, enunciating her words carefully. Bruce tears his gaze away from Jason to meet her eyes again, for once completely serious. “Puddin’ killed him.”

“But he’s so—” Bruce clenches his jaw. “He’s here. I can feel him. How can he be gone when it’s like he never left?”

Jason glares at Harley from the puppy pile. “She’s crazy, remember? C’mon, Dad, let’s go home. I’m tired. We can take one of these guys with us. Remember how I always wanted a puppy?”

“Maybe this is your subconscious' way of punishin’ yourself for not protecting him,” Harley suggests. “You keep runnin’ away from your grief, so it’s following you literally until you can find a way to face it.”

“I’m being haunted by grief,” Bruce surmises. It sounds…small. How can Bruce’s child be reduced to a byproduct of his sadness? It isn’t enough.

Harley shrugs. “Or, maybe you’re just a sick guy who never learned how to properly cope with trauma and spiraled into full psychosis. I mean, the bat gimmick is kinda crazy in and of itself, no? Sounds like it was only a matter of time ‘til you snapped. Everyone does eventually.” She gestures to herself with a giggle.

Bruce is unamused. “That’s your diagnosis? I’m just a silly man playing pretend?”

“Why do you think you’re still seeing him?”

“You’re the professional. You used to be one, at least.”

Harley taps a tank skimmer against her chin like a pencil. “Do you have any underlying psychiatric conditions you haven’t told me about? Besides the blatant PTSD, depression, and OCD, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jason echoes, smirking.

Bruce pays him no mind. “I have no history of psychosis until now. I don’t feel psychotic. I still live my life as normal. I do my job. I take care of my family.”

Jason throws in, “Except for that pesky little twerp who keeps slipping through the cracks. What was his name? Tom?”

“I ran tests on myself,” Bruce continues. “It’s not a brain tumor. I have not been under the influence of any mind-altering drugs or toxins. There is no outside influence that could be causing visual and auditory hallucinations. And yet, he’s here.”

Harley stands up and kicks away her makeshift chair. “My tentative diagnosis? Grief-induced psychosis exacerbated by a severe lack of sleep.” She can’t see his eye bags behind his stealth mask, but Bruce knows how he appears to others. How he sounds. “I suggest a good night’s rest and antidepressants, to start.”

“Oh, is that all?” He half-expected her to recommend shock therapy or a girl’s night out to cure him of his phantom.

“Well, I dunno, maybe you should go to a psychiatrist who still has their license. Get on a proper prescription. I can only tell ya what I think, and this is what I thunk.”

“I don’t need to be medicated.”

“Not unless you want to keep hallucinating.” Harley hesitates. “Do you want to keep hallucinating?”

Bruce doesn’t answer that. Instead, he shifts his attention down the aisle to watch Jason make faces at a red beta fish. Bruce can’t help the slight upturn of his mouth at the sight. How can everyone keep saying Jason isn’t here when he’s so alive?

“I shouldn’t have come here.” Bruce places his can of fish food back on the shelf. “This was a mistake. I’m fine. You will not tell a single living soul about this, or I will hunt you to the ends of the earth.”

Harley doesn’t flinch. “I never play about doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“Good.”

She stops him just before he goes. “For what it’s worth, I’m real sorry. I didn’t know Puddin’ was actually gonna kill the kid. I would’ve stopped him if I did.”

Bruce and Jason leave the pet store together.

“How ‘bout we watch a scary movie?” Jason flicks Bruce’s ear. “That’ll perk you right up. My favorite’s The Sixth Sense. Put it on, Dad, I wanna see it again.”

“Not now, Jay, I’m tired.”

Jason pays Bruce no mind. He’s reclined against the headboard of Bruce’s bed, chattering on and on in ignorance of his father’s efforts to rest. “Or the one with the dad who goes crazy and tries to kill everybody? I bet you could do some real soul-searching with that one.”

“Please, just be quiet for one minute,” Bruce begs, his voice laden with exhaustion. He’s been lying in bed for hours, staring at the empty room and trying in vain to tune out the voice in his head. “Let me close my eyes for one minute.”

“But you can’t go to sleep now! What about all the people out there who need you to save them?” Jason pries Bruce’s eyelid open with his fingers. “There’s probably a bank robbery happening now. Or someone’s getting gang-raped. You should suit up.”

Bruce groans and rolls over. “Jay—”

“Maybe someone’s baby is getting beaten to death by a crowbar and it’s all your fault and you’re the one who killed them.”

Bruce sits up. Stares at Jason. “What?”

“I said there’s jaywalkers.”

“That wasn’t—”

Jason jumps up and down on the mattress like a monkey. “C’mon, Batman, Gotham needs us. They need you. They need a hero.”

They do need a hero, but Batman can’t save them. He can’t save anyone. He can hardly save himself.

Bruce just wants to sleep. Even one minute would be enough, but every time he closes his eyes, Jason’s voice calls him back to remind him of all the reasons why he can’t. He has to keep working. He can’t fail Gotham like he failed Jason, like he failed Dick. Like he’s failing Tim, who never stood a chance because his mentor was broken from the start. The only thing Tim could learn from Bruce Wayne is how to ruin lives and lose his mind.

“You know what I’m starting to think, Dad?” Jason asks. He’s spread out on the Batcave’s stone floor making snow angels in the dust bunnies. Bruce doesn’t remember coming down here. “Maybe we’re going about all this the wrong way.”

“Please, son, just…be quiet.” Bruce is so exhausted. He can’t think. He hasn’t showered or shaved in days. He hasn’t slept in…he can’t remember the last time. Too long. He dodges Tim’s every attempt to talk to him. He brushes off Alfred’s concern and Dick’s insistence that Bruce either help himself or get lost.

Batman and Robin haven’t been spotted together since Tim’s birthday. Tim doesn’t bother trying anymore. Half the time Batman doesn’t even go out alone; he sits here, and he talks to Jason, and he stares at the same memorial case he’s staring at now. The room smells like smoke.

“Maybe they’re right, though,” Jason goes on, undeterred by his father’s lethargy. “Maybe you’ve finally cracked.”

“Don’t be rude.”

“You can feel it, can’t you? You’re not right in the head.” Jason reappears to stand in front of Bruce, eye to eye, even though it shouldn’t be possible because Jason was—is so much shorter. “If it walks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck…”

“Stop—stop talking like this.” Absently, Bruce touches the glass of the memorial case.

“You can’t go on like this for much longer. You’re losing your grip.” Jason smiles sweetly. He cartwheels across the empty floor. His feet land silently. “It won’t ever get better, so there’s no point in trying, right?”

“What are you—”

“I’m not here.”

Bruce rips his gaze away from the empty memorial to face his son. “Don’t say that, Jay.”

“But just because I’m somewhere else doesn’t mean we can’t be together again. Batman and Robin are supposed to be a team, right? Together always.” Jason gazes across the cave at another of Batman’s most morbid mementos: Joe Chill’s gun. “No one’s stopping you.”

It’s true. Jason is with him, but Bruce is alone down here. Everyone is too on edge to join him when he’s like this. It could be another few hours before anyone comes looking for Bruce, and why should they even bother? Who is there to look out for Batman when he doesn’t want to be looked after?

“Tim,” Bruce says. A life preserver.

“He’ll be fine. Maybe he’ll get lucky and realize he’s not cut out for the hero gig. It’ll only kill him too, anyway. You’d be helping him dodge a bullet.” Jason laughs at his own joke.

“Dick. Alfred.”

“They think you’re nuts. You’re doing them a favor in the long run.”

“Gotham needs me.”

Jason shrugs it off easily. “Others will step in. Aren’t you sick of the fight? It’s time to retire, Dad. You deserve this.” The gun is out of its case. Bruce doesn’t remember opening the lock. He doesn’t remember walking over here.

“You deserve this,” Jason says again as Bruce raises the gun to his temple. The cold metal touches his skin. 

Someone squeaks. Bruce and Jason both whip around to stare at little Tim Drake, half-concealed behind the batcomputer. His wide eyes are fixed on the gun in Bruce’s hand.

“How long’s he been lurking?” Jason grouses. “Fucking creep.” 

Tim lurches out from his hiding place, reaching out like he can rip the gun from Bruce’s hand. “B-Bruce—” He stops himself, keeping a safe distance away. He’s trembling. Tim has tried so hard never to let Bruce see him afraid, but his walls are crumbling. “Please. P-Please don’t.”

This is going to traumatize him, Bruce thinks morosely. He still hasn’t lowered the gun. Jason is holding it up for him. What a good boy, taking his mentor’s burdens, helping him carry the heaviest loads.

“Don’t worry about him,” Jason whispers. The aftermath won’t be Bruce’s problem if he gets this over with quickly. Dick and Alfred can guide Tim through the grief. Lord knows they’ve had enough practice. They will all help each other move on from this loss.

“See? It’ll be fine.” Jason smiles comfortingly. “You deserve this.”

Bruce looks from Jason to Tim and back again. His two greatest failures.

Tim takes a tentative step forward, hand still outstretched. “Please, Bruce, I don’t—I don’t know what this is about, but you don’t have to. Talk to me. We can work it out.”

“Fuckin’ loser,” Jason says. He leaves Bruce’s side to lean down to Tim’s level and sneer, “This kid will never understand you like I do, Dad. He’s pathetic. He’s nothing compared to me.”

“Go upstairs, Tim.”

Jason grins. The charred skin on his face and burst blood vessels in his eyes should frighten Tim. The boy should be cowering from the snarl in Jason’s bloody teeth. “Yeah, squirt. Scram! This is grown-up business.”

Tim, of course, doesn’t flinch away from Jason. All he sees is Bruce and the gun. “If I leave you alone, you’re going to kill yourself, aren’t you?” It’s incredible how Tim can have the gall to talk to his mentor like this. Turns out this was all it took to make him finally grow a spine. Bruce would be proud if he weren’t so irritated. 

“Go upstairs,” Bruce snarls. “That’s an order.”

“No.” Tim’s voice doesn’t waver, but Bruce can see that he’s terrified.

“Insubordination’s not the Robin way,” Jason sing-songs. “It got the last one killed, remember? See, I told ya he didn’t have what it takes, Dad. Can you believe this stupid faker thought he could wear my uniform? It’s embarrassing.”

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Bruce snaps at Jason. It isn’t Tim’s fault that his mentor is malfunctioning. With better training from a man with all of his marbles, Tim could be one of the best, eventually. So would Jason if he had been given more time.

Tim looks around the cave—empty but for the two of them. “Bruce?”

“Jas—Tim.” Bruce shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Tim. I know this looks—” Scary. Life-ruining. Crazy. “This doesn’t concern you.”

He pulls back the hammer. “Just pull it already,” Jason coos, having returned to Bruce’s side. He smells like cigarettes and burning buildings. “Don’t worry about him. You’ll be free.”

“Be quiet!” Bruce swipes at the empty air. “I can’t—” He can’t focus with them both here like this, telling him opposite truths at the same time. He can’t make an educated decision like this. He’s so tired of not being in control of his own mind.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Jason Peter Todd, go to your room now.”

Tim gapes at his mentor like all of his jagged jigsaw pieces are finally falling into place to form a grim picture. “It’s—it’s Tim, Bruce. I’m Tim.”

“Right.” Bruce shakes his head. “Right, I’m—I’m sorry, Tim. You didn’t—” he huffs a world-weary sigh. “You don’t deserve this.”

“Neither do you.”

“Wrong,” Jason sings. “Wrong, wrong, wrong—”

“I got him killed,” Bruce spits between his teeth. He tightens his grip on the gun. “He trusted me, and he died for it. I keep failing him, over and over and over again. I have to make it right. I do deserve this.”

“Is…Is Jason telling you that?” Tim scans the room, looks right through Jason, but he’s catching on. He spreads his hands, keeping Bruce’s attention on himself. “It’s not real, Bruce. Whatever he’s telling you isn’t real because he’s not here. I’m here. Do you hear me? He’s gone, but I’m still here for you. I can help you get through this.”

“He’s lying,” Jason says. He forces Bruce to look at his face—blackened eyes, broken jaw, blood dripping down his forehead from where the Joker bashed his brains in—but all Bruce sees is the boy he raised. The boy he lost. “The dumb brat’s full of it. Look at me, Dad. I was just kidding before. I’m right here. I’m alive.”

Tim’s voice is farther away, but still clear. “The real Jason wouldn’t want this for you. He loved you. He wouldn’t want you to go out like this.”

“I can’t lose him again,” Bruce whispers.

“You won’t have to.” A hand touches Bruce’s wrist. He doesn’t force Bruce’s arm to lower the gun. He just holds on. “No one is going anywhere. Just—put that down, and we’ll go upstairs, and you can go to bed. You’re tired. You can reconsider it in the morning, yeah?”

Jason squeezes Bruce’s other wrist so hard it hurts. “Don’t let him do this to us, Dad. He’s trying to tear us apart. He’s nothing compared to me.”

Jason is right. Tim is nothing compared to what Jason meant to Bruce. But he can be something. Bruce can help him, but he’ll never get there if Bruce dies tonight. Tim is the only living person who still believes in Batman.

“It’s too dark down here,” Tim goes on gently. Slowly, he pushes Bruce’s arm down, lowering the gun from his temple. “Things will look different in the morning. In the sunlight.”

Bruce looks over at Jason, who has fallen silent. He’s waiting to see what Bruce decides. So is Tim.

“I…think that’s a good idea,” Bruce settles on. He lays the gun flat in Tim’s steady palm. “I’m tired.”

The breath leaves Tim in a shaky rush. “Okay. Okay, let’s—” Tim locks the gun back in its case. He keeps his hold on Bruce’s wrist like he’s afraid to let him go. He tugs Bruce towards the stairs that lead up to the manor. “C’mon. Let’s go talk to Alfred.”

Bruce starts to follow him, then stops. He looks back over his shoulder at Jason, who is still standing in front of his memorial. Jason catches Bruce’s eyes and smiles. “Go ahead, Dad. I’ll be waiting here when you come back. I’m not going anywhere.”