Chapter Text
Father Michael often wandered through Gotham Cemetery.
To most people, cemeteries were grim reminders of loss—gravestones looming, dates carved into crumbling gray rocks like cursed brands. Life and death and life and death. Suffocating cycles of finality.
To most people, cemeteries were the epitome of endings.
But to Father Michael, they were never creepy, nor eerie. He never felt like he waded between the headstones, ankles deep in blood, skeletal fingers brushing against his cassock. To him, cemeteries were devoted to love and rest and memory and humanity. Not an end, but a beginning. The crossing of a threshold from this life to the next.
Besides, the headstones themselves were for the living. A reminder to all that there was love here, and despite the loss, that love remains. The dead have no use for mourning.
Do not stand at my grave and weep…
The moonless night was dark and chilly. Father Michael pulled his wool shawl tighter around his shoulders as he navigated the older section of the cemetery, grass wild beneath his feet, tendrils sprouting between the aging stones like stringy locks of unruly green hair.
He paused, placing his hand gently against a cool, weathered stone. He whispered a prayer for the soul beneath.
Then, he continued on, weaving carefully between gravestones rather than keeping to the regular path. This way, he could better read the names—become acquainted with the life the stone held. He often had to squint to read the words; the dark and the ivy didn’t help his old eyes.
The wind smelled of earth and grass and sweet flowers. Around him, silence reigned as if the city itself was muted the second he stepped through the wrought iron gates. The air was heavy with history, settling around him like an old friend. Generations of families were reunited here; Father Michael had officiated many of those funerals, often burying the very babies he himself had christened.
Up ahead, he spotted the wings of a tall stone angel standing out against the inky sky. The scent of fresh earth lingered in the air.
He smiled softly. Someone must have loved you very much.
Turning away from the statue, he moved deeper into the older parts of the cemetery, where the gravestones were so worn there were no names or dates—only moss covered mounds and rough, rounded stones. These were his favorite. He wandered among them, whispering soft prayers and humming hymns.
You are remembered. You are loved. I pray that you are at peace.
A cold wind stirred the branches of the great oaks scattered across the grounds. An owl hooted somewhere overhead. Father Michael shivered, his joints stiff and aching. It was probably time to start heading back to St. Luke’s.
He turned to go, then—
A sound.
A sob, sharp and raw and pained.
He paused, straining his old ears.
Shallow, ragged breathing.
Someone was here. Someone was here and they were hurt.
“Hello?” he called tentatively. In the stillness of the cemetery, it echoed like a shout.
A groan, somewhere off to his left.
Without hesitation, Father Michael moved toward it as quickly as his aging legs allowed.
Most people wouldn’t dare go chasing strange noises in a graveyard after dark (or ever). Most people would be a healthy splash of holy water home by now, salt-loaded shotgun tucked under their pillow for good measure.
But Father Michael had Almighty God on speed dial. So naturally, Father Michael wasn’t scared of anything this mortal coil could throw at him—because why would he be scared of graveyard rustlings when he had divine backup?
Besides, Father Michael hadn’t been a priest his whole life.
“Hello?” he called again, eyes scanning in the dim, darting from headstone to headstone. “Is anyone there?”
The wind whistled once more, and the old oaks creaked in response. Dead leaves scraped across the grass. He opened his mouth to call again—
There!
Movement.
A dark shape, low in the grass between two crumbling red granite gravestones. Father Michael raced toward it. His heart pounded—not with fear, but urgency.
A mourner out this late wasn’t safe.
Someone hurt out this late wasn’t safe.
This was Gotham, after all.
(Father Michael’s different—he’s got divine backup and a .22 tucked safely beneath his cassock. This was Gotham, after all).
He rounded the corner, and—
“Oh, sweet Lord,” he breathed. His stomach jumped into tight knots.
A boy.
A boy, barely more than a child—fifteen, maybe sixteen—covered in dirt. He lay curled in on himself, scrabbling at the grass with ruined, bloody hands. Wet sobs dragged in and out of him, labored and pained and wrong.
Someone—someone wicked had hurt this boy.
His clothes were in tatters, his skin scraped raw. Father Michael could see deep, angry lacerations, both new and old, cutting across his small body. His limbs jutted out at sickening angles. Blood—there was a lot of blood. Fresh crimson weeping from gashes. Dark brown caked in old wounds.
Father Michael dropped to his knees beside him, heedless of the cold or the damp.
“It’s alright now,” he said gently. “You’re safe now. You’re alright.”
The boy flinched at the sound, lips moving—but whatever he was trying to say came out as a broken, wheezing gasp. Father Michael reached out slowly, careful not to frighten him further. He brushed gently against his cheek, damp with tears and dirt and blood.
Cold. The boy’s skin was ice cold.
But he was alive. Miraculously, he was alive.
Father Michael laid a hand on his trembling shoulder. The boy’s eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and wild. A striking blue, but dimmed, like the light behind them had nearly gone out.
“Help,” he rasped. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose. It pooled dark on the grass beneath him.
“You have it,” Father Michael said firmly. “I’m here. You hear me? I’m here.”
The boy’s eyes rolled back, broken, bloody fingers twitching a few times before going still. Panic squeezed Father Michael’s lungs, icy cold and gripping. Please, Lord, he’s not—
The boy’s mangled chest rose and fell—a horrid, awful sound that had Father Michael swallowing hard to keep his dinner down—but it was breath. Shaking, Father Michael fumbled for his pocket and pulled out his phone. His fingers didn’t feel like his own, but he managed to dial.
“Ambulance,” he said into the receiver, barely able to keep his voice calm. “The west side of Gotham Cemetery. There's a boy, he’s—please, just hurry.”
It could have been hours or mere minutes that he knelt there, the silence of the cemetery broken by the boy’s shallow breaths. Father Michael’s old bones protested the cold, but he ignored them. This boy needed him. That was reason enough.
Into the silence, into the uncertainty, the unknown, Father Michael did as Paul and Silas did inside that prison. Old hymns rose softly in the night air, songs from a lifetime of liturgy comforting them both:
Do not be afraid, I am with you.
I have called you each by name.
Come and follow Me,
I will bring you home.
I love you and you are Mine.
“‘While He was passing by, He noticed a man who had been blind from birth. His disciples asked Him, ‘Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he would be born blind?’ Jesus answered, ‘Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but it was so that the works of God might be displayed and illustrated in him. ’’”
Father Michael sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. When he’d first arrived, the afternoon sun had bathed the hospital room in warm, golden light. Now it was dark, the room dim, shadows cast long across the cold tile floor.
It was quiet, save for the soft beeping of the heart monitor and the rhythmic whirring of the ventilator. Father Michael stood slowly, old joints creaking. He didn’t mind it, though. He’d told the boy he’d help. He’d promised the boy that he was here—and here he’d stay.
The boy looked impossibly small in the wide, white bed. Numerous tubes snaked from his body, connecting him to a host of machines. A transparent line of IV fluid caught the low overhead light, glimmering faintly like a thread of glass.
Someone had wound a rosary through his scarred hands. One of the nuns who often visited, probably. They loved him—him, and his unshakable determination to live.
Father Michael’s heart ached as he remembered those first few days, that first night after they’d found him—body marred by injuries no child should ever have to endure.
We only see this kind of trauma in torture victims, the paramedics had said, faces grave.
But the boy had fought with a will that made even the doctors shake their heads. He lived through the night. He lived through the next week. He’d made it three months.
Father Michael remembered how he looked when they wheeled him into the room after his final surgery: covered in bandages, stitches, and bruising. He was successfully stabilized, but his prognosis was uncertain; the doctors were unsure if he’d ever wake up.
Father Michael and others who’d visited had taken to calling him Jay—because the “John Doe” printed cold and clinical across his chart felt far too indifferent for their little miracle boy.
Police had come, smudging black across his fingertips and promising updates if the prints found any matches.
They never returned.
After his pleas to the GCPD fell on deaf ears, Father Michael had taken matters into his own hands: he’d tracked down the security guards on duty the night he’d found Jay. What they’d shown him made his stomach turn, even now.
They’d led him to a simple grave—a stone jutting from the earth like a loose tooth. There was no name, no date, nothing to help identify the boy buried beneath it. The ground around it had been disturbed. Clumps of fresh dirt lay scattered, as if something—someone—had dug their way up. A crooked trail of soil led away from the grave; no doubt from where Jay had dragged himself out.
Kneeling in the grass, they could see the torn edges of the coffin through the gap in the earth—splintered wood, a ragged whole punched through the lid from the inside out. The interior had been shredded, desperate claw marks gouged deep into the lining.
This was no simple stone rolled aside.
“Alright, my boy,” Father Michael said, pulling himself from the memory and gently resting his hands on Jay’s scarred ones, still holding the glass-bead rosary. “Shall we continue?”
Father Michael knew that’s not where they stopped. The scars—some deep and gouging, others thin and long—marked his whole body. Even his young face was not spared; a particularly nasty one carved its way from his lip to his cheek, then up through his brow and back into his dark curls.
Father Michael returned to the hospital chair and reopened his Bible, something he’d done hundreds of times in this small room.
“‘We must work the works of Him who sent Me while it is day; night is coming when no one can work. As long as I am in the world, I am the Light of the world, giving guidance through My word and works…’”
Pale morning light dusted the hospital room. Dew sparkled in the sun on the grass far below the window. Nearby, a bird chirped—a cheerful, question-and-answer rhythm, breaking through the humming and beeping machinery.
Father Michael sat vigil in his chair next to Jay’s bed. Despite the picturesque morning, he was not at peace. Three days ago marked the six month anniversary of when Father Michael found Jay. While gracious donations from parishioners had proved more than enough, decision time was coming.
What did they do now?
They’d risked taking him off the ventilator, a gamble that had paid off. Jason had been breathing on his own for two months. The boy had fought so hard—and yet, he still laid unconscious in a too-big hospital bed, machines keeping him alive.
This was no life for a child.
In the months that Jay had spent comatose, Father Michael had been there—reading, humming, praying over this boy whose spirit was so strong. Father Michael had no children of his own; his calling as a priest required full dedication to his ministry. But with Jay, he’d come to see him almost as a grandson. He’d spent months with the boy. So much so, that he’d wondered what he was like.
Was he from Gotham? How did his laugh sound? Did he play sports? Has he ever swam in the ocean?
Who was his father? His mother? Is someone missing him right now? Wondering where their little boy is?
That last one always made Father Michael’s eyes misty. The thought of parents out there, worried sick over their little boy who laid here silent in a hospital bed.
What if he is so close, but so far?
Father Michael was startled out of his thoughts by the nurse opening the door.
“Good morning, Jay,” she said, rubbing sanitizer on her hands. “Good morning, Father Michael.”
“Good morning, Teresa.”
She ran through her routine check of Jay’s charts and vitals. As usual, they were all the same. She signed something on the door and turned to face Father Michael before she left.
“Can I get you anything, Father?”
“Thank you, Teresa, but I’m alright.”
She smiled knowingly, as if she'd expected the answer. It was the one he always gave, anyways.
“Okay, Father. See you at noon.”
Father Michael nodded, smiling at her as she went. Old bones protested as he rose from his chair and shuffled closer to Jay’s bedside.
“My dear boy,” he said softly. “Our little Jaybird—"
Wait.
There was a flicker. A tiny shift beneath his eyelids.
“Jay?”
He stood, heart thudding, unsure if he’d imagined it. And then, just when Father Michael thought maybe he does need better glasses—
A twitch, the smallest movement of Jay’s scarred little fingers. The boy’s eyes fluttered open, a vibrant teal—so different from the dim blue Father Michael had seen in the graveyard all those months ago.
Alive.
Father Michael flung open the door.
“Teresa!” he called into the hall. “Teresa! He’s awake!”
“Jay is awake!”
Once Jay was deemed stable enough, Father Michael brought him back to St. Luke’s.
It wasn’t hard, really. Gotham’s CPS department was swamped to hell and back—and Father Michael never clarified whose “father” he actually was. The GCPD had bigger fires to put out than a recently awakened John Doe they never cared about in the first place. Father Michael hoped St. Luke’s Catholic Church might offer some kind of peace for a boy whose life had been defined, so far, by violence.
It was…slow, at first. Jay’s mind was fractured, his body weak from months of lying unconscious in a bed. He was awkward and withdrawn, hesitant to adjust to the rhythms of church life.
Father Michael started simple: short walks around the church garden. He would talk to Jay about anything and everything, the same way he had beside the boy’s bed. When Jay grew stronger, he began running in the early mornings, jogging quiet laps around the church grounds.
It took weeks for Jay to speak, and even longer for him to speak to anyone besides Father Michael. He liked to read, Father Michael had discovered. He often found Jay in a corner of the church library, curled up in a chair near the fire, thick volumes piled high on either side.
The nightmares, though, the child will probably never escape. Almost every night, Father Michael was awoken by screams—awful, heart-wrenching cries of pure terror. He’d race to Jay’s room to find him tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, breathing erratic, face scrunched in fear. Sometimes, the boy ran to him instead, scarred face wet with tears, a single name falling from his lips in a rasped whisper.
Bruce.
That always broke Father Michael’s heart.
To help his mind recover, Father Michael tutored him personally. That’s when the memories began to surface.
One day, while they were studying Romans, Jay paused.
“My name.”
“Yes?” Father Michael asked, glancing up from his worn Bible.
Jay frowned, nibbling on the end of his pencil.
“My name is Jason.”
Father Michael nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said softly. “Okay, Jason.”
Jason studied him with his teal eyes, as if testing the truth of the name. With a small, decisive nod, he returned to his reading.
Father Francis taught Jason sign language for days when he couldn’t find his voice. Sister Dymphna led him through morning and evening stretches and slow, careful breathing to help rebuild his body. He worked in the gardens with Sister Thérèse. During Sunday Mass, Jason would sit in the back, silent but engaged.
As the months passed, Father Michael watched the boy emerge. Jason was gentle and kind. He was thoughtful, immensely so. He liked helping people. He was smart. But he was also haunted. And like with his mind, as his body grew stronger, the memories came back quicker.
One morning, during their usual stroll through the church gardens, someone had dropped a wrench. It was innocuous, an accident—Father Joseph was building a new bench after a rough storm had brought down one of the old trees on the old one. The metal tool had simply slipped from his grip, landing with a metallic clatter that echoed across the courtyard.
Jason had froze, his entire body going rigid.
“Jason?” Father Michael said, stopping beside him.
Raw terror spread across the boy’s face. He limbs trembled. His breath hitched in uneven bursts as if he couldn't get his lungs to take a full inhale. There was a faraway look in his teal eyes.
“Jason?” Father Michael tried again, softer this time.
Jason’s breathing kicked up, his chest shuddering, too-short breaths panicked.
“No,” he whispered. “No. No, I—please—"
“Jay,” Father Michael reached out, gently taking Jason’s shaking hands. “You’re here, you hear me? You’re not…you’re not there.” Father Michael didn’t know where there was, but he had a deep, sinking feeling it was a horrific place.
Jason shook his head violently, so hard Father Michael worried he’d hurt himself. He pulled away, breaths coming faster.
“Jay—” Father Michael started again.
Jason bolted.
“Jay!”
Father Michael spent the next half hour scouring the grounds—the church, the rectory, the convent—calling his name, heart frantic.
He’d found Jason wedged between two bookshelves in the library.
“Jay?” he said gently, worried Jason might bolt again. His heart broke at the sound of wet sniffles. Jason’s eyes were red and swollen, his cheeks blotchy, knuckles white from his clenched fists. Father Michael knelt in front of the boy, though his old joints disagreed heavily with the action.
“Do you want to stay there,” he asked softly, “or come out?”
Jason swallowed thickly. He unclenched his hands.
Stay, he signed with shaky fingers.
Okay, Father Michael signed back.
They sat like that for a while, until Jason’s breathing evened out and the tears dried on his cheeks. Eventually, he’d climbed out of the narrow space and collapsed onto a nearby couch, body limp with exhaustion. Father Michael sat beside him.
If Jay wanted to talk, he’ll talk.
After a long silence, Jay had finally spoken.
“Murdered,” he said, voice hoarse. “I—I was murdered.”
Father Michael nodded slowly, recalling the ruined coffin he’d discovered all those months ago.
“It—" Jason could barely get the words out. “It was—" He hiccuped, sobs threatening to return full force. His fingers traced absent circles on the worn leather of the couch, eyes still so far away, staring into the fire crackling gently in the hearth.
“It’s alright, Jay,” Father Michael said gently. “You don’t have to—"
Jason shook his head, swallowing hard. No, he signed. He scrubbed his face, sniffing. He took a shaky breath, as if preparing himself for what he was about to say.
His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audiable. “Joker.”
Father Michael’s heart leapt into his throat and he swallowed it back down. With great effort, he hid the rising tide of fury with a nod.
“There was…a crowbar,” Jason continued very quietly, like he could barely speak the words aloud. He peeled his eyes away from the fire and turned his full gaze on Father Michael. “And he—he—" Jason broke off, tears filling his eyes and spilling over onto his just-dried cheeks. Father Michael placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder as he sobbed.
Returning from the dead—for Father Michael, at least—was the miracle of his faith. The foundation upon which he’d built his life.
But this boy—this child, really—had died. And he’d clawed his way out of his own grave with broken limbs, carving upward through wood and earth until his shattered body reached the surface. And he would have died (again) if Father Michael hadn’t found him.
Was that not a miracle, too?
And besides, this was Gotham. A city of monsters and men. If there can be villains who control plants with a whisper and beings from other planets who flew through the sky like angels, then yes—Father Michael can believe in many kinds of miracles.
As Jason’s mind returned, Father Michael began to suspect that the boy wasn’t telling him everything about what he remembered. Jason seemed to harbor a deep hatred for Batman and Robin. Sometimes, he’d see Jason with a newspaper, fury burning in his eyes. Then, later, he’d find the boy in his hiding spot—in the library, wedged between the two bookshelves, sobbing.
Jason’s tangled mix of emotions surrounding the caped pair was…complicated, as far as Father Michael could tell. There was something there, but Jason wouldn’t tell him. And Father Michael didn’t want to push the boy away; he hoped, with time and healing, Jason could surrender that hurt.
So, Father Michael gave Jason direction: he enrolled him in St. Luke’s seminary school. Jason had taken to his studies well. Father Michael hoped more official schooling would help both his psyche and his emotional distress. Though he was younger than all his other peers, he quickly rose to the top of his class.
Father Michael was proud.
This quiet, kind-hearted boy—scarred both physically and mentally by a violent past—had survived.
Suffering, in and of itself, is not beautiful. It’s brutal. It’s raw and unfair and often silent. Just because you fear no evil doesn’t mean you’ll never walk through the valley of the shadow of death. But survival—survival is defiant. It’s miraculous and holy. It’s a constant cycle of failure and forgiveness and growth. What you learn from suffering are the flowers that grow in the valley—and God holds the watering can.