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Jason was dead.
If you asked Bruce, he would tell you that it had been exactly ten months, three weeks, and three days. But he would only respond with that precision if you were Alfred or Dick. To anyone else, he would say that it had been about a year and that he had accepted it, but that would be a lie.
If Alfred asked him how he was doing, Bruce would just say he was fine, probably tired from work at Wayne Enterprises.
Bruce could imagine the scene, but he knew Dick wouldn't ask him how he was doing. The boy had grown up; he was now a twenty-one-year-old adult.
(Jason was only fifteen, damn it.)
Truthfully, Dick didn't hate Bruce; he could never do that. Legally, he was his father and had given him everything to make his adolescence as normal as possible. But over the years, every exchange of words felt like a battle. They couldn't talk without communication problems arising or without Bruce completely shutting down about his feelings.
Dick understood, in part, why he behaved that way. Losing his parents at such a young age didn't help (although Dick had also lost his parents and didn't act like that). Everyone processes trauma differently, right? Even so, Dick loved him. He knew that Bruce did everything in his power to raise him in a place where, even if it wasn't the most suitable for a child, he never wanted for anything.
Sometimes Dick was about to say something to him, but he would see Bruce look away or tense his jaw, and he would choose to remain silent.
Bruce knew he wasn't a good father; he believed he never would be. He thought he should have tried harder, should have told Dick and Jason how proud he was of them. He did tell them, yes, but now he realized it wasn't enough.
He loved his sons too much. It was an enormous, suffocating feeling that he never knew how to put into words. That always worked against him. He knew that a child needs words of encouragement, and he never said enough. He hated himself for it every day.
Jason died because Bruce didn't arrive in time. Dick left town for Blüdhaven because he felt controlled.
Bruce didn't arrive in time because he gave Jason the freedom he never allowed Dick. He believed he was learning from his mistakes: with Dick, he was strict, controlling his every move to keep him safe; with Jason, he wanted to trust him and let go a little more. But he lost him.
Dick felt suffocated when Bruce was only trying to protect him from the worst of Gotham. Jason, on the other hand, had no restrictions, and that led him straight into danger.
Always too much. Always too little. Never enough.
Bruce knew they got along well. Jason used to spend weekends at Dick's apartment in Blüdhaven and come back happier, with stories he didn't always share. They understood each other. They had a bond that Bruce didn't know how to nurture. Now, one was dead and his relationship with the other was fractured.
His memories of Jason's funeral were blurry, but there were fragments that remained etched with unbearable clarity.
He remembers giving a speech about how much he would miss Jason, then seeing Dick in the crowd. His eyes were red and swollen, and next to him, a girl taller than him with reddish hair was holding his hand.
Bruce felt the ground beneath his feet shake. He didn't know Dick would come. He hadn't called him; he hadn't dared. And yet, there he was.
Then he saw Alfred put a hand on Dick's shoulder and understood what had happened.
Once the speech was over, all he wanted was to go back to Wayne Tower. He walked away from everyone, until he felt a hand on his shoulder giving him a squeeze. The touch burned, it hurt. But he didn't have to turn around to know who it was.
“Let me go, Clark.”
“The whole League is here, Bruce. Even some of the Titans.”
“And what do you want me to do about it? Do you want a prize?” Bruce spat out each word with venom, trying to hurt him so he would leave him alone.
“You're our teammate, our friend. We're here to support you.”
Bruce took Clark's hand, removed it from his shoulder, and turned away with a grimace, ready to tell him to fuck off, until he saw Dick standing next to him.
Shit.
He didn't say anything at first. He just looked at him. There was something in his expression that Bruce couldn't quite figure out. It wasn't anger, not entirely. It wasn't compassion, much less forgiveness. It was sadness. Raw, silent, and shared.
“You didn't call me,” the young man's voice sounded weaker than he would have liked. “Not even a message...”
Clark took a step back, deciding that this conversation was none of his business, even though he could hear it with his super hearing.
Dick looked at him for another second, then looked away and swallowed hard.
“I would have found out one way or another, Bruce.”
Bruce looked down. He was unable to hold his gaze. The words wouldn't come out, perhaps because he didn't have them, or perhaps because he felt he no longer had the right to say them.
𓆩𓆪 𓅪 𓉸
Ten months, three weeks, and three days had passed since Jason died; the same amount of time Bruce had kept his room locked and chained, just as he had done with his parents' room.
Jason was dead. Everyone seemed to be moving on, but Bruce closed his eyes every night and saw him there, trapped in a time that no longer moved forward.
For months, Batman had become more violent, distancing himself from the Justice League. He felt that the more he beat up criminals, the closer he was to getting Jason back. He knew that wasn't true, but there was something satisfying about being hit back with the same intensity. Bruce was falling back into old habits he had sworn to abandon, but the pleasure of feeling a cut or a broken bone was perfect.
Arriving at the cave and seeing his body covered in bruises gave him satisfaction; it was proof that he had given his all on the streets, and those wounds were his reward. He had self-harmed for years during his adolescence, but this was nothing compared to that.
Even so, sometimes it all became too much: too many physical wounds, too much mental exhaustion, too many expectations from the press and Wayne Enterprises. The fabric of his clothes, even though it was cotton, felt like sandpaper against his bruised skin. Everything hurt, a pain he had inflicted on himself, and all he wanted was for it to stop. He just wanted to hide in the cave and never come out again. He missed the days before he turned thirty when he could be Batman without explanation. No partners, alone, not caring if he lost his life. When nothing really mattered.
Bruce left the sickbay after stitching up his own wounds. The clock in the cave struck midnight: ten months, three weeks, and four days since Jason's death. He sat down at the computer, tangling his hands in his hair, which was long again.
He remained like that until he heard the elevator.
“Bruce?” Dick entered the cave. He wasn't wearing the Nightwing suit, but a blue sweatshirt and black pants.
“What do you need, Dick?” Bruce asked, his voice broken with exhaustion, lowering his hands.
“Hey, are you okay?” Dick paused, concerned when he saw him. “Do you want me to leave or... I don't know... turn off the lights?”
Bruce snorted and stared at the screen. “No. I'm fine.”
“You don't look fine.” Dick approached and left a cup on the desk. “Alfred asked me to bring you this. It's green tea.”
“Thanks,” Bruce brushed his hair away from his face and looked at his son. “Are you staying the night?”
“Yeah, Alfred's helping me clean out my old room.”
“Good.”
There was a heavy silence. Dick watched Bruce's hunched posture, the hair falling over his face, and the smudged Batman makeup under his eyes. He pressed his lips together. He wanted to say something, but he knew how it would end: with Bruce looking away and an empty “I'm fine.”
Instead of insisting, he leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. "Next month is my anniversary with Kory. I'd like you to meet her. She was at Jason's funeral, but that clearly wasn't a good time. I think... I think she's the one, Bruce."
Bruce remained motionless. It wasn't a thoughtful silence, but a heavy absence, as if the words hadn't managed to get through the wall. Finally, he exhaled and muttered, “If that's what you want.”
The annoyance was immediate. Dick stood up, moving away from the desk. “Is that all you have to say? ‘If that's what I want’?”
Bruce didn't answer. He looked down at the teacup, as if it were easier to face the hot ceramic than his own son. Dick shook his head, his jaw tense.
“I don't even know why I try.”
“Dick...”
“No, Bruce,” Dick raised a hand, cutting him off. “Every time I try to get close or talk about my life, you don't even bother to pretend you care.”
“I care. You're my son,” Bruce said, forcing himself to look him in the eye.
“Then make an effort to show it.”
Dick turned and walked toward the elevator. Bruce closed his eyes and rested his elbows on the desk, rubbing his face with his hands. It wasn't the first time he'd messed up. And it probably wouldn't be the last.
𓆩𓆪 𓅪 𓉸
One year, three months, and four days before Jason's death.
Bruce had lost track of time in the cave. The screens of the Batcomputer bathed his face in a cold blue light as he obsessively tracked Scarecrow's trail. Crane had been on the run for three days after his escape from Arkham.
Just as sleep began to cloud his vision, a muffled chuckle broke the deathly silence of the cave. It was a laugh Bruce knew by heart.
He turned toward the darkness and saw Jason. The boy looked almost comical: he was wearing his cotton pajamas and walking around dragging a blanket that completely enveloped him, as if it were a makeshift cape.
“Shouldn't you be asleep?” Bruce asked, standing up. He crossed his arms over his chest and forced a frown. “Alfred will be very upset if he finds you up.”
“I think you should be sleeping too, old man,” Jason replied. “We'll catch Scarecrow tomorrow. Dick said he was coming to town, we can ask him for help. It'll be a piece of cake.”
“Go to sleep, Jason. That's an order.”
“Hey, unlike you, I did get some sleep. I just woke up.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow, detecting something unusual in the boy's tone. “You woke up at this hour of your own will? Why?”
“Um... well...” Jason hesitated, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders.
“Jason.”
“There's a meteor shower,” the boy blurted out, avoiding Bruce's gaze. “I wanted to see it.”
“The light pollution in Gotham won't let you see anything, you know that.”
“I know, but...” Jason took a step forward, his eyes shining with a mixture of shyness and hope. “You can see it in Metropolis. And... I know one of the Zeta tubes has a direct exit there. So I thought maybe... you and I could go. Just for a little while.”
“You have school tomorrow,” Bruce reminded him, though his resolve began to waver under the boy's gaze. “You have a test.”
“It's an English test, Bruce. I'll do fine, I know it,” Jason smiled with that cheeky confidence that always managed to disarm the Dark Knight. “Come on, think about it. I've never seen a meteor shower. From Crime Alley I couldn't even see the stars, the sky was always dirty or blocked by buildings. I think it would be great if we went. Just once.”
Bruce was silent. His eyes scanned the screens filled with data on criminals, toxins, and violence. He glanced at his watch: it was an unwise hour, an hour when Batman should be patrolling or Bruce Wayne should be resting to keep up appearances. But then he looked at Jason, wrapped in his blanket, asking to see something beautiful in a world that insisted on being ugly.
“Ten minutes,” Bruce finally said, though they both knew it would be longer.
Jason let out a gasp of victory and jumped up and down.
“Yes! I knew you weren't a completely bitter old man. I'll go get my coat!”
Minutes later, they crossed the threshold of the Zeta Tube. The hum of teleportation was followed by the fresh, much cleaner air of the outskirts of Metropolis. They materialized in an elevated area, far from the lights of Superman's city.
Bruce took a portable telescope from the reconnaissance equipment he kept in the cave and silently set it up on a rock ledge while Jason stared at the sky with his mouth half open.
“Look,” Bruce whispered, stepping aside to let him take his place in front of the lens.
Jason leaned in, adjusting the focus with clumsy fingers. Suddenly, the first streak of light crossed the sky, followed by another, and then another. They were like scars of white fire streaking across the black velvet of space.
“Holy shit...” Jason whispered breathlessly. “It's... it's like the sky is breaking, but in a good way,” he said, still looking through the lens. “Thanks, Bruce.”
Bruce didn't look at the stars. He stood beside him, watching his son's profile illuminated by the fleeting flashes.
𓆩𓆪 𓅪 𓉸
Eleven months and one week had passed since Jason's death.
Batman stopped an armed robbery with unnecessary brutality. The criminals ended up on the ground, bleeding and missing several teeth. Bruce beat one of them relentlessly until he noticed another trying to get up and run away. He reacted quickly and threw a batarang, but before the weapon could hit, a wing-ding struck the man and knocked him to the pavement.
Bruce left his victim aside and looked up at the roof of the nearest building. Nightwing was there, hands on his hips and a small smile on his face. He jumped down from the building with a quadruple jump, as flawless as ever.
However, Bruce didn't notice the acrobatics, but rather the flash of a camera that focused on Dick for an instant.
Bruce had noticed it for some time: someone was following him across the rooftops, taking pictures of him. At first, he thought it was a reporter, but he never saw those photos published in the newspapers. He also considered that it could be a member of the League of Assassins, but they would never make the mistake of leaving the flash on. He simply assumed that it was not a threat; if that person had wanted to harm him, they would have tried long ago.
“Why are you here?” Batman said with his back turned, as he heard Dick land beside him.
“The Penguin is trafficking Drop to ‘haven,” Dick explained, stretching his arms behind his back. “I was taking care of a couple of warehouses and thought I'd say hi.”
“It's... good to see you,” Bruce replied. He avoided looking at him and bent down to pick up the phone from one of the men he had just knocked out.
Dick smiled slightly. “So… What's up with these guys?”
Batman remained crouched. He stared at the unconscious man for a few seconds with complete seriousness, then turned his gaze back to the phone.
“They work for Two-Face.” He stood up and tucked the device into one of the pockets on his belt. “He's been sending his men to rob banks all over the city.”
Dick nodded silently. “Want help with that?”
“No,” Bruce said, avoiding his gaze. “Want help with the Penguin?”
“I could use a hand.”
𓆩𓆪 𓅪 𓉸
Eleven months, one week, and three days since Jason's death.
Alfred was sure that Bruce needed to take a vacation, both from Wayne Enterprises and from Batman. It wasn't something he had just noticed; he had known for a long time, but he had preferred to keep quiet. After all, Bruce was an adult.
He clutched his umbrella tightly to shield himself from the rain and placed the bouquet of white lilies on Jason's grave. After wiping away a couple of tears, he prepared to leave.
Returning to the mansion, he went down to the cave as usual. Bruce was there, sitting in front of the Batcomputer, his face lit by the glow of the screen. He didn't turn around when he heard him arrive, but he spoke: “Dick went back to Blüdhaven.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “I thought he said he would be staying here for the rest of the week. The two of you were working on a case together, weren’t you?”
“No. I was just helping him until he could solve it. He did, so he left.”
“And you were hoping that Master Grayson would stay here longer with you, correct?”
Bruce looked up from the computer and frowned before fixing his gaze back on the monitor. “Two-Face is still at large.”
“No clues as to his location?
“Nothing yet.”
Alfred said nothing more. He watched him for a moment before leaving quietly, his expression hidden from Bruce’s view.
A couple of hours later, Alfred came back downstairs. He found Bruce sitting on the floor, curled up under the Batcomputer desk. His knees were tucked up to his chest, his arms crossed tightly over them, and his head was bowed. He was breathing slowly, as if each inhalation were a painful effort.
Alfred said nothing at first. He approached with light, almost invisible steps. Bruce didn't react; he didn't lift his head or move. He didn't seem to have noticed, although Alfred knew he had.
“You have a meeting with the board of directors today. It starts in twenty minutes,” Alfred finally said in a calm voice, crouching down beside him.
It took Bruce a few seconds to respond. “I'm not going. It's too late,” his voice was low.
“I see.”
There was a slow, heavy silence. Then Bruce spoke again, without looking at him, his face buried in his arms: “I think Jason died hating me.”
Alfred blinked; he hadn't expected that. He settled himself more comfortably beside him, but did not touch him. “Why do you think that, sir?”
“I didn't get there in time,” the words came out dry, precise. Like a technical fact, as if he couldn't allow himself to express the rest.
Alfred nodded slightly, taking his time to respond. “We can't know what Jason thought in his final moments. He was a sweet, kind boy, but also stubborn. Like you, if I may say so.
Bruce closed his eyes. He stayed that way for a long time, breathing through his mouth, his fingers digging into his own arms.”
“I miss him,” he finally said. Not as a confession, but as an inevitable fact.
“Me too, Bruce. Me too.”
𓆩𓆪 𓅪 𓉸
A year and three months before Jason's death.
The mansion was unusually quiet, except for the soft murmur of the television in the living room. Bruce crossed the threshold, removing his tie with a weary gesture after a long day at Wayne Enterprises. He didn't go to the cave right away; his feet led him toward the dim light in the living room.
Jason was there, almost buried under a mountain of blankets on the sofa. His nose was red, his eyes glassy from fever, and an empty cup of tea sat on the coffee table. On the screen, Gotham news was reporting on a foiled assault by Batman the night before.
Bruce approached quietly and sat down at the end of the couch, near Jason's feet.
“You're still sick,” Bruce said softly. It wasn't a judgment, it was his way of showing concern.
“Thanks for pointing out the obvious,” Jason replied hoarsely, letting out a dry cough. “You smell like thousand-dollar coffee and board meetings. It’s a tie.”
“You wouldn’t be so sick if you hadn’t asked me to go to Metropolis in the middle of the night.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Language, Jason.”
“Sorry.”
Bruce let out a tired sigh and reached out to touch the boy's forehead. It was hot. Jason didn't pull away; on the contrary, he seemed to lean imperceptibly toward the cool touch of Bruce's hand.
“What are you watching?” Bruce asked, glancing over at the television.
“You,” Jason pointed vaguely at the screen. “Or your version in tights. They say Batman was ‘unnecessarily violent’ at the dock. I think the guy with the knife deserved it, but the press always has something to say.”
“You shouldn't watch the news when you're sick. It just raises your blood pressure.”
“It's better than watching the penguin documentaries Alfred put on for me,” Jason settled in more comfortably, letting out a long sigh. “Hey, Bruce...”
“Yes?”
“When you get hit like that... does it hurt a lot the next day?” Jason looked at him with genuine curiosity. “I've never been hit that hard, not even when I got caught stealing food.”
Bruce was silent for a moment, looking at Jason's hands sticking out from under the blankets. They were still the hands of a child who was growing up too fast.
“Sometimes. But I forget when I know you're here, safe.” Bruce gave his ankle a gentle squeeze through the blanket. “Get some sleep, Jay. You'll feel better tomorrow.”
“Stay with me until the news is over, then I'll go to sleep… Please?” Jason asked, closing his eyes almost instinctively from the exhaustion of the flu.
Bruce glanced at his watch. He had reports to read and patrols to plan, but the world could wait ten more minutes.
“I’ll stay.”
𓆩𓆪 𓅪 𓉸
One year.
12 months.
365 days.
8,760 hours.
525,600 minutes.
31,536,000 seconds since Jason passed away.
Bruce knew he was screwed. Dick wasn't talking to him, and he couldn't even remember why they had fought the last time. Alfred didn't say anything, but he looked disappointed every time he saw him. Still, he pretended not to care as he watched the other guests at the gala he had attended.
He took a deep breath and smiled again, awkwardly flirting with the women around him; truth be told, he wasn't in the mood for anything. Almost two hours passed before he finally managed to sneak away to the rooftop.
Damn, he missed when Harvey used to save him from galas whenever he felt overwhelmed.
When he reached the rooftop, it was empty except for a boy of about twelve, with black hair and blue eyes, sitting on the floor looking at his cell phone.
The boy looked at him in panic, as if he had seen something forbidden, and ran back into the hallway. Bruce was confused, but he didn't think much of it. He leaned on the railing and looked down. A human would not survive a fall like that.
“Mr. Wayne, anything to say to the Daily Planet?”
Bruce recognized that irritating voice. “Leave me alone, Clark.”
Clark walked over to him and leaned on the railing. “You've missed a lot of League meetings.”
“Hal must be thrilled about that, right?”
“Bruce. You're important to the team, not just as Batman, but as our friend.”
“My last friend ended up with half his face melted by acid in the middle of a trial. Trust me, you don't want to be my friend.”
“Acid doesn't affect me.”
“Should I mention red kryptonite?”
“Bruce.”
“Leave me alone, Clark.” Bruce made eye contact, but the intensity was too much and he immediately looked away.
“You need to rest.”
“I'll do that the day I die.”
Bruce left the gala with a heavy head. The social mask had cracked and he no longer had the strength to hold it up.
He knew Vicki Vale had photographed him with her camera always at the ready; tomorrow's headlines would be scathing: “Bruce Wayne, indifferent on his son's death anniversary.” None of his invisible pain would appear in those letters.
Returning to the tower, he took off his jacket, dropped it on an armchair, and headed for the cave. There he put on his suit and adjusted his hood. At first, rage drove him like a tireless engine. Every blow he threw was a stifled cry against guilt. But the body has its limits. Fatigue and tension began to take their toll, and pain pierced his breath like a knife.
With his last ounce of strength, he knocked out the last thief of the night. Batman leaned against the wall of the alley, his vision blurred. The world began to spin until he fell to his knees, breathing heavily. He was about to lose consciousness when he heard a voice in the distance.
“Batman? Batman! Hey... you can't die here!”
Bruce struggled to keep his eyes open. When the figure was close enough, he thought he saw a ghost.
“J-Jason...?”
The boy took a step back, confused. “No. No, I'm not... Oh, shit!” The young man looked up, just behind Bruce's back. “I can't believe you're here.”
A smile spread across the boy's face just before Bruce closed his eyes completely.
𓆩𓆪 𓅪 𓉸
“Only someone completely out of their mind would stay up late into the night beating up criminals until they collapsed from exhaustion.”
Bruce opened his eyes with difficulty. Alfred was standing there, arms crossed and sleeves rolled up, watching him with a mixture of annoyance and deep concern.
“Do you know where you are, sir?”
Bruce looked at the older man's face and then scanned his surroundings.
“The cave,” he replied hoarsely.
“Correct. Do you know how you got here?”
Bruce brought a hand to his head. With effort, he managed to sit up on the stretcher and leaned his back against the headboard. “No.”
“Superman.” Bruce rolled his eyes. "He said he found you passed out in an alley. You've never had so many broken ribs at once, Bruce. You've never crossed this line before.
“I'm cold.” He looked down at his body, wearing only black boxer shorts and bandages that wrapped almost completely around him. “Where are my clothes?”
“Did you think I was going to bandage you over your suit?” Alfred replied sarcastically.
Bruce rolled his eyes again and looked down at his thighs, where most of the scars from self-inflicted wounds during his adolescence were concentrated. “Is Superman still here?”
“No. He left about twenty minutes ago. He said there was a traffic accident in Central City and Flash had asked for his help.” Bruce nodded silently. “I'll bring you some clean clothes, sir.”
“I saw Jason.”
Alfred looked at him silently for a few seconds longer than usual. Then, as if knowing he shouldn't touch that wound directly, he looked away and nodded once.
“Or so I think,” Bruce continued. “I think I was hallucinating from the pain.”
“I gave him several painkillers for that, sir. Don't worry, you will be fine.”
𓆩𓆪 𓅪 𓉸
One year and three days since Jason passed away.
Bruce knew he was doing things wrong, and to tell the truth, he didn't care at all. He was tired and bored with everything. He knew perfectly well that he should have stayed in bed recovering from his injuries; even Alfred had sent an email to Lucius on his behalf, saying that he would be taking sick leave.
Alfred worried too much.
Even so, Bruce got up. With what little strength he had left, he dragged himself to the Batcomputer and sat in front of it for what seemed like hours, until one of the security cameras gave an alert: Two-Face had been identified near downtown Gotham, prowling the area with his men.
𓆩𓆪 𓅪 𓉸
Nightwing watched from the top of a building, arms crossed over his chest, as the police took away the thief they had just arrested. A small group of people watched the scene from below, among them a little girl who noticed him by chance. Noticing her gaze, Dick smiled at her and waved. Then, with his usual agility, he did a somersault and began to make his way home.
A couple of blocks before reaching his apartment, he changed his clothes in an alley, making sure no one saw him. When he was ready, he continued on his way. A few feet from his door, he noticed a boy of about twelve or thirteen waiting for him. He was wearing baggy pants and a Green Day T-shirt over a long-sleeved shirt. He was holding a camera with both hands and fidgeting with his fingers against the plastic lens.
“That's my apartment, kid,” Dick said, still watching him. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Yes. My name is Tim Drake. I need to talk to you about Batman... and Robin.”
Dick frowned slightly and crossed his arms, a mixture of curiosity and caution.
𓆩𓆪 𓅪 𓉸 𓅪
Eight months before Jason's death.
The cave wasn't silent, it never really was, but that night the hum of the computers sounded like a swarm of wasps inside Bruce's skull. The mission at the port had been a disaster of bright lights, police sirens, and the sharp, metallic smell of gunpowder.
Bruce sat in front of the monitor, his shoulders stiff and his hands clenched into fists on his thighs. He hadn't taken off his hood; he needed the pressure of the material against his head to keep from falling apart, but even so, he felt like his skin was too tight. He was on the verge of a sensory overload.
“It doesn't make sense!” Jason's shout bounced off the stone walls, amplifying. “I had him, Bruce! I had him in my sights, and you ordered me to abort! He got away because of you!”
Bruce didn't respond. He closed his eyes tightly. Every word Jason uttered was like a physical blow. The high pitch of the boy's voice, charged with adrenaline and frustration, cut through the air like a knife. Jason walked toward him, his boots hitting the metal floor with a rhythmic echo that Bruce felt in his teeth.
“You always do the same thing! You just stand there silently, as if you don't care, as if I'm an idiot who doesn't know what he's doing. Say something, damn it!”
Bruce let out a muffled growl, a vibration in his throat to try to calm the noise inside.
“Jason...” Bruce's voice came out broken, flat. “You're talking too loud. You have to stop.”
“Stop? I'm angry! I have a right to be!” Jason slammed his palm on the table.
“Jason, for God's sake, shut up!”
Jason froze, in absolute shock. He had heard Batman's orders and shouts, but never that tone in Bruce's voice.
Bruce cringed as soon as the words left his mouth, sinking his neck between his shoulders with his hands trembling on his lap. He needed Jason to stop; he needed darkness, he needed the air to stop vibrating.
“Jason, please. I can't...”
“You can't what? You can't deign to talk to your partner? You can't stop being a fucking statue for five minutes?” Jason let out a bitter laugh, laden with disappointment. “It's always the same with you. When the going gets tough, you shut down. You hide behind that blank face and let me sink alone.”
Bruce clenched his teeth, tasting the metallic flavor of blood on his tongue. He wanted to explain that his brain was screaming so loudly he couldn't process anything else, but the words were stuck in his throat.
“If you're not going to say anything, then I'm leaving,” Jason spat. He waited a second, a small pause in which he wished Bruce would stop him, put a hand on his shoulder, do something.
But Bruce just stood there, staring blankly at a fixed point on the floor, swaying imperceptibly so as not to lose control.
"Fine. Keep your damn silence. I hope it keeps you company when there's no one else left here. Not even Dick wants to spend time with you anymore."
Jason turned on his heel and took the stairs up from the cave two at a time. The sound of the clock door slamming shut was the final note. Bruce finally allowed himself to exhale the breath he had been holding. He covered his face with both hands, pressing his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.
𓆩𓆪 𓅪 𓉸 𓅪
One year and three months since Jason's death.
Two months and twenty-seven days since Bruce met Tim.
From his seat in front of the computer, Bruce watched Tim and Dick talk, each wearing their respective Robin and Nightwing suits. It was strange to have the boy there. Over the years, he had learned how to deal with children, but Tim was unlike anyone he had ever met: he was too methodical, too astute, too intelligent.
Too much like Bruce
So much so that when Bruce saw him talking nonstop about a subject he was passionate about, moving his hands restlessly or making subtle faces at sudden loud noises, he preferred not to think about it too much.
“My suit has pants, do you like it?” Tim asked with a small smile.
Dick ruffled his hair and smiled knowingly. “The suit adapts to the wearer, not the wearer to the suit. It looks great on you, kid.”
Tim smiled, and Bruce felt, for the first time in months, that perhaps all was not lost.
𓆩𓆪 𓅪 𓉸 𓅪
One year, five months, and seven days since Jason's death.
Five months and four days since Bruce met Tim.
Bruce is a piece of shit, and he knows it. He's not a good person, but he's not evil either. He's just a fucked-up guy, full of guilt and mistakes he doesn't know how to fix.
Dick had walked out in a rage after another fight that Bruce didn't even fully understand. They shouted harsh words at each other that neither took back, and Dick left without saying goodbye to Alfred or Tim, as if he wanted to erase everything.
And Tim... shit.
He had started living with him after his mother died and his father fell into a coma, and Bruce was already ruining it. He had lost count of how many times he had called him “Jason” in the last month. Every time he did, it felt like he was stealing something that didn't belong to him; as if the memory of the dead son weighed more than the presence of the living one. Tim didn't say anything, but he was too smart not to understand what was going on.
Bruce knew he had ruined it even more when, upon entering the cave, he heard a sob under his desk.
He crouched down carefully and saw the boy. Tim was wearing a blue hoodie that was way too big for him, which Bruce recognized as Dick's. He had his knees pressed against his chest, hugging them tightly.
Bruce watched him for a few seconds, stood up, grabbed his Batman cape, and came back to sit next to him.
“Tim.”
The boy brought a trembling hand to his face to wipe away his tears. He avoided looking at him, as if eye contact were an invitation to a judgment he wasn't ready for.
“I won't cry in the cave again. I'm sorry.”
“You don't have to apologize for that,” Bruce squeezed the cape between his hands.
“Okay...”
“Do you want to... talk about what happened?”
“I miss my mom,” Tim replied, still not looking at him. “My dad too. It's strange, I didn't see them very often, but I always knew where and how they were. And now... I-I don't know. It's a strange feeling.”
Bruce took a deep breath, searching for words amid the lump in his throat.
“What you're feeling... you don't have to understand it all right now,” he said softly. “Pain isn't linear. Some days it hurts more, some days less.”
Bruce placed the cape over Tim's shoulders. The weight of the fabric seemed to calm him, and slowly, the boy looked up. His eyes, glassy, showed a fragile mixture of hope and sadness.
“Do you miss Jason?”
Bruce tried to speak, but nothing came out. It was as if someone were choking him.
“I'm sorry, that was a stupid question,” Tim said in response to the silence. “Bruce? Are you angry?”
“No.”
Fifteen minutes passed without anyone moving or saying a word.
“Are you sure you're not angry? Tim looked at him again, frowning. His voice sounded uncertain. “When my parents got angry, they stopped talking to each other or to me. I don't like it when people don't talk to me.”
Bruce closed his eyes, feeling the air grow thicker.
“I'm not upset with you, Tim,” he whispered. “I'm just... trying not to break.”
Tim watched him silently, tears still in his eyes.
“It's okay if you break a little,” he said finally, moving closer to Bruce and sharing the shelter of the cape. “Your cape is heavy. Like a weight blanket.”
“I like it that way.”
“Me too.”
“Tim?”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry for calling you ‘Jason.’” Bruce felt his eyes water for a moment, but he didn't let the tears fall. “It's getting cold out here. Want to go upstairs? We could watch a movie.”
“I’d love that.”
𓆩𓆪 𓅪 𓉸 𓅪
Eight months before Jason's death.
Almost three hours had passed. The silence in Wayne Tower was no longer a relief, but a burden. Once his senses stabilized and the ringing in his ears subsided, Bruce forced himself to climb the stairs. His movements were slow, still a little stiff, but his mind was focused on one thing: Jason.
He found him in his room, sitting against the wall. His knees were pressed against his chest and his cheeks were stained with tears that he was trying to wipe away with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, although the gesture only managed to irritate his skin further. Hearing Bruce, Jason looked up. There was no smile, just a flash of renewed anger.
“Are you here to tell me to shut up again and then not speak to me?” Jason spat, though his voice broke mid-sentence.
Bruce stopped a couple of feet away. He didn't get any closer, knowing that personal space was vital for both of them in times of crisis. He sat down on the floor, mimicking Jason's posture, leaning his back against the opposite wall.
“No,” Bruce replied softly, keeping his gaze on the carpet between them. “I came to... be here.”
“You made me feel like a monster, Bruce. I was just angry because I wanted us to do things right, and you yelled at me like I was the Joker. I've never seen you talk to him that way. And you hate him.”
Bruce closed his eyes for a moment.
“Jason, you're not a monster. Sometimes... the world gets too bright and too loud, and it gets hard to process everything. I'm so sorry. I never meant for you to feel that way, let alone compare yourself to him.”
Jason sobbed, a small sound that broke Bruce's heart.
“I hate that you don't talk. I hate that you shut me out. I feel like I have to yell to get your attention, and when I do, you pull away even more. It sucks.”
“I know,” Bruce stood up and walked toward him. He held out a hand, palm up. “Forgive me. It's not that I don't care. I care so much.”
Jason was silent for a long moment, staring at Bruce's hand. Finally, with a sudden but needy movement, he took it and lunged at him, hugging him tightly. Bruce tensed for a second at the sudden contact, but he didn't pull away. He wrapped one arm around Jason's shoulders, allowing the boy to cry against his chest.
𓆩𓆪 𓅪 𓉸 𓅪
Two years, eight months, three weeks, and nine days since Jason's death.
One year, eight months, three weeks, and six days since Bruce met Tim.
Bruce knew that when it came to emotions, nothing was linear. He had returned to work with the League a couple of months ago, Tim had recently turned fifteen and was now legally his son. Still, for some reason, sometimes all he wanted was to disappear... But tonight he couldn't. Tim had gotten sick and couldn't go out on patrol. Bruce had promised him that when they got back, they would watch a detective series and play a game of guessing who the culprit was.
So even though he let the criminals beat him up, he didn't let it get out of hand. He had a promise to keep.
He swung between the buildings when, out of nowhere, a knife cut his line. With a quick maneuver, he managed to land on the roof of a building. Despite the heavy impact, he immediately got to his feet and looked in the direction from which the attack had come. In the distance, he saw a man in a leather jacket and a red helmet waving his hand in greeting. Before Bruce could run toward him, the stranger threw a smoke bomb and disappeared.
Bruce turned quickly when he sensed someone approaching. It was Nightwing, who looked injured and was walking with difficulty due to what appeared to be a sprained ankle.
“What happened?” Batman asked.
“He was at the port. He plans to take Black Mask's place. He calls himself Red Hood,” Dick explained.
“I meant what happened to you.”
Dick gave him a forced smile. "I tried a jump and he threw a rock on the ground. He knew exactly where I was going to land. I twisted my ankle. He forced himself to stand up straight, ignoring the sharp pain. “Where's Robin?”
“At home, sick.”
Dick nodded and his face turned serious.
“Nightwing, you have to go to the cave. You can't stay like this.”
“Kory is waiting for me at home.”
The silence between them grew tense, like a string stretched to its limit. Bruce looked at Dick without saying anything, but the message was as clear as if he had shouted it: Don't argue with me. You have to go to the cave.
“Nightwing.”
Dick sighed and his shoulders relaxed. “Okay. Honestly, I don't even remember why I got mad at you the last time I saw you.”
The Batmobile glided through the streets of Gotham. The only light illuminating them was the reflection of streetlights and neon bar signs. Bruce drove in silence, his gloved hands clenched around the steering wheel. The atmosphere was heavy, but not hostile; it was the silence of two people sharing a pain they refused to verbalize.
After a while, Dick broke the ice. His voice was soft, almost a whisper.
“So... how's Tim? You said he was sick, right?”
Bruce took a second before answering. “Yes. He hasn't been able to go to the Academy in the last few days, let alone patrol,” his voice was grave, with a hint of concern that Dick hadn't heard in months.
“That doesn't sound good,” Dick commented.
“Not at all,” Bruce admitted, with unusual honesty. “But he's better compared to previous days. He always gets sick during the winter.”
Silence returned, but this time it felt different. “He'll be fine, Bruce. Don't worry.”
Bruce looked at Dick's face for a couple of seconds before turning his gaze back to the road ahead. “I know.”
The Batmobile continued on its way, and for the first time, the silence was not a barrier, but a respite. Dick shifted in his seat, letting out a slight groan. The pain in his ankle wasn't too bad, but it had been a while since he'd last been injured in a fight.
“If you want...” Bruce broke the silence. His voice was barely a whisper. “You can stay for the night. Tomorrow you could tell your girlfriend to come pick you up. That way I could... meet her.”
Dick was speechless. He hadn't expected such an offer. He had fought with Bruce so many times over this, begged for this opportunity, and now, after so many arguments and goodbyes, Bruce was offering it to him casually.
“Why now?”
Bruce tensed. His grip on the steering wheel tightened. He didn't look at Dick. The question hung in the air, laden with every unspoken word and every apology that never came. The vehicle stopped at a traffic light as rain pounded the windshield with a steady rhythm.
“I just... want to try to make things right, Dick.”
The sincerity in his voice and the way his name broke into a sigh were enough to silence Dick. He leaned back in his seat, feeling the physical pain fade into the background in the face of his father's confession. It was a silent apology.
Dick said nothing for a while. Finally, he looked at Bruce's profile and replied softly, “Starfire isn't a big fan of Batman.” Dick smiled sidelong. “But I think Kory would like the idea.”
Bruce didn't respond immediately. He kept his eyes fixed on the traffic light, his fist clenched on the steering wheel, but Dick could see a slight tremor in his jaw. It was a small crack in the wall Bruce had built around himself. He was trying.
The light turned green. Bruce loosened his grip on the steering wheel a little, and the Batmobile glided toward Wayne Manor.
When they finally stopped at the cave platform, Bruce helped Dick out of the vehicle. The young man leaned his weight on his father's shoulder, and for a moment, Bruce remembered the feeling of carrying Jason when he fell asleep in the cave.
They rode up the clock elevator in silence. Upon entering the mansion, the scent of chamomile tea and burning wood greeted them.
“Master Tim is in the living room, sir,” said Alfred, appearing from the kitchen with a tray of cold compresses and a first aid kit. His eyes softened when he saw Dick. “Master Grayson, it's a relief to see you home.”
“Hello, Alfie. I've come for a dose of your care,” Dick joked, though his voice still carried the fatigue of the night.
Once Dick's foot was bandaged, they walked to the living room. There, in front of the television, Tim was curled up under a weighted blanket, with a thermometer on the coffee table and a box of tissues. Next to him on the couch was a half-filled notebook and a pen. When he saw them come in, his eyes lit up, but when he noticed Dick limping, he tried to stand up.
“Dick! What happened?” Tim staggered a little from the weakness of the fever, so he remained seated on the couch.
“I got hurt at work, Timmy,” Dick replied, dropping down on the couch next to him. “But Bruce says I can stay. And that... well, he wants to meet Kory.”
Tim looked at Bruce with radiant surprise. Bruce said nothing; he simply walked over to the lights in the room and dimmed them to a warm, soft glow, the exact level his senses could tolerate that night.
“I promised to watch a detective series with you,” Bruce said. “And someone has to beat Tim at guessing who the culprit is.”
Dick smiled crookedly and settled in, stretching his bandaged ankle over a cushion on the coffee table. Tim returned to his place under the blanket, but left a space right next to him, between him and Dick.
Bruce hesitated for a second, his hands fiddling with the hem of his black sweater, until he finally sat down between his two sons. Tim dropped his head onto Bruce's shoulder. On the other side, Dick rested his head against the backrest, close enough that their arms brushed against each other.
The sky outside Wayne Manor remained cloudy, hiding the stars and any trace of the storm that had just passed.
𓆩𓆪 𓅪 𓅪 𓅪
Outside, the night was merciless. The Gotham wind roared between the skyscrapers, whistling with an icy force that cut like a knife.
Jason stood on the roof of an office building, directly opposite the imposing structure of Wayne Tower. The height was dizzying, but he didn't even look down. He felt the cold seeping into his bones, a constant reminder that his body no longer belonged to the warmth of homes or the soft light of reading lamps. His leather jacket crackled with every breath, and his red helmet rested on the concrete ledge.
In front of him, mounted on a precision tripod, was a long-range tactical telescope. Jason leaned forward, adjusting the focus with gloved fingers. The lens pierced the void between the two buildings, ignoring the chaos of the streets below, until it found the window overlooking the living room of Wayne Tower.
And there he saw them.
Jason clenched his jaw. The metal of the telescope felt icy against his face. He remembered the night in Metropolis, the smell of clean air.
He pulled away from the lens. The distance between the buildings wasn't that much, but it felt like they were in different galaxies.
Finally, he put on his helmet. The world turned digital, tinged with an artificial crimson red. He spun around and leaped into the void of the alley, leaving the telescope up there, abandoned.