Chapter Text
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Bruce Wayne was not having a good day.
Actually, Bruce had not been having a good week, or a good several weeks, or, if you wanted to get technical about it, a good few years. But this day, in particular, had been a test of will and strength unlike any he’d faced since— well, probably since Jason died. It was fitting, in a morbid sort of way, that once again Bruce had found himself facing a building in flames, knowing his children were inside; close enough to feel the heat, but not close enough to save them. Too late. He was always, it seemed, too late.
There was, of course, the not insignificant difference that this time, his children had survived. Everyone had survived, in fact— somehow there was not a single confirmed death from the sudden explosion that had rocked Wayne Enterprise’s newest Research & Development building. It was a miracle born mostly of timing; the incident had occurred on a Sunday evening, and the building had been nearly empty, save for security staff and the handful of researchers working overtime on the Dimensional Anomaly team. Still: three of his children, plus Cass, had all been inside; and somehow, all of them were alive.
Alive, but decidedly not all accounted for, and therein lied the problem. Because while Friday had been, objectively, a worse day— he was never going to forget the things he’d seen, the blood, the makeup— that nightmare had, at the very least, ended with Tim safely recovering in the Batcave. It hadn’t stuck, but at least for a time Bruce had been able to hold his Robin and know that he was safe, and he had Jason back. Jason hated him, and rightfully so, but Bruce had tried, he’d tried to take the miracle he’d been given, that he’d been to blinded by grief and guilt to see— all of his children alive, Jason alive, Jason, his boy, angry and hurt but his Jaylad, alive— and do what he needed to do in order to fix what he’d broken. He’d given Jason space. He’d apologized to Dick, and let him check on Tim, and stayed on the periphery, waiting for updates from well outside the Red Hood’s territory just like his eldest had recommended; had trusted his kids to look after each other, to be safe. And all three of them had nearly died, and Jason would barely even look at him, even though he’d tried to apologize for all that he’d done. He’d tried.
And then, almost exactly eight hours after watching a building explode and thinking, for a moment, that all of his children were inside— eight hours of searching, trying not to think about what might happen to Tim, in the caves under Gotham, with the Archivist and the Fearhound for company— Tim and Cass and the others had emerged from the caves, relatively unharmed according to their own report, and Bruce had said he’d bring the car only to be told that he wasn’t allowed to come.
“No, B, you can't come here,” Tim was saying. “Jon’s, uh…”
The Archivist. It was always the Archivist, wasn’t it? Bruce was not going to let that man keep him away from his kids for a single moment longer. Tim could have his space when he stopped getting kidnapped and almost dying; every time Bruce had let Tim out of his sight in the last few days had been a mistake, and Bruce refused to let anything else happen to his kid, to any of his kids, if it was in his power to protect them. So he was going to pick them up, at least Tim and Cass, and bring them to the Batcave where he could look them over and make sure they hadn’t been hurt; and he was going to keep Tim where he could see him until he stopped seeing his face covered in awful clown makeup every time he blinked.
“Jon’s not himself, right now, and it’s not safe for you.” Tim finished, and Bruce tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“I can handle it,” he assured his youngest. He remembered the last time the Archivist had been not himself. The man had said he could control it.
“No, B, the Archive—”
“I’m not afraid of the Archivist,” he lied, glancing down at his navigation system, Gotham Cemetery a small glowing dot on the map. He was halfway across town, but there was hardly any traffic, this early in the morning. He could drive fast. “I’ll be there in fourteen minutes.”
“Batman,” Dick cautioned, “we talked about this.”
“That was before Tim spent eight hours missing. I’m taking him back to the cave.”
“Like hell you are,” Jason hissed, “I’m taking him somewhere he’ll actually be safe.”
He would be safe in the Batcave. He would be safe where Bruce could see him and protect him. The Batmobile sped through Gotham, and Bruce grunted into the comms; the most acknowledgement he could manage without risking starting a fight. Jason had nearly pulled a gun on him multiple times, back on that rooftop, as they watched fire pour out the sides of the WayneTech building, as they argued over what to do.
Jason had wanted to go in after them; find an entrance to the cave system and track them down himself. Bruce had made him promise not to go out of comm range; a hard-earned concession that he’d only gained with Dick’s backing, and by promising that he wouldn’t go down too deep into the caves, either. As the hours had worn on, Bruce had found himself regretting that compromise. Much longer, and he didn’t doubt they’d both have gone down there.
“B, I’m almost there,” Dick said levelly. “I’ll make sure he’s okay, you don’t have to come.”
“I can hear you,” Tim pointed out grumpily, “and I’m fine, seriously.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Dick chirped, a little too cheerfully; he didn’t take Tim at his word on his own injuries, and neither did Bruce.
That instinct was proven right, unfortunately, when Dick piped up again a few minutes later with his own report:
“I’ve got them. Tim reinjured his ribs—”
Bruce grit his teeth, forcing himself to breathe evenly.
“—and he’s kind of covered in blood, but it isn’t his.”
Bruce made it across Kane Bridge in record time, parking beside the gates to Gotham Cemetery just in time to watch a sleek motorcycle pull in behind him. He looked in his rearview and saw Jason pull off his helmet, glaring at him with open frustration; and he watched Jason raise a hand to his ear.
“I’m here,” he said, the words almost audible in physical space as well, if it weren’t for the Batmobile’s soundproofing. “And so is the old man.”
“Jesus Christ, B!” Dick scolded, and Bruce watched as Jason stepped off his bike, jogging into the cemetery and up towards where the church stood half-built on the top of a small hill. He could see them, from where he sat in the car; see the figures of the researchers sitting scattered across the church steps, see the Fearhound standing in a faux-casual lean against the doorway, see the bright blue stripes on Dick’s suit helping to telegraph the way he threw his hands in the air as he paced in front of them. Tim was intermittently hidden behind him, sitting with his shoulders hunched and his arms crossed, and beside him was the Archivist, one arm over Tim’s shoulder, eyes a bright, glowing green.
He should have been hidden behind the tinted windows of the Batmobile, but Bruce could have sworn that the Archivist met his eyes, from all the way across the cemetery. He could have sworn the Archivist was scowling.
“You have to leave,” Cass hissed into the comms.
“Bring Tim to the car,” Bruce ordered, dread creeping down his spine.
“Fuck off,” Jason snarled. “You’ve done enough damage.”
The Fearhound unstuck from the wall, and Bruce got stealthily out of the car, watching as she slipped between the others and approached Jason on the grass in front of the church, just above the crest of the hill. It was hard to tell, from this distance, but something in her movements seemed wrong. Too fluid, too intentional.
“Hey, you okay?” Bruce overheard Jason ask her through the comms, and then—
“The Blood,” she growled quietly, Jason’s comms barely picking it up, the words distorted to the point of barely being understandable. “it’s very loud.”
Bruce didn’t need to hear any more. He made his way carefully through the gates, slipping between the shadows cast by gravestones as he approached the church. Dick and Jason were in full gear and could handle themselves, he knew, but Bruce would be getting Tim, and Cass, and those researchers, and getting them away from the Fearhound, who was clearly unstable, and the Archivist, who was covered in half-dried blood and who somehow, somehow— despite the fact that Bruce, Batman, should have been damn near invisible in the deep pre-dawn shadows— seemed to be staring right at him.
As Bruce drew closer, he realized with a growing knot of anxiety in his gut that this was not the same man he had held prisoner in the Batcave; this was not the man he had seen protecting Tim with his own body, his own blood. But it was familiar; because this was the entity he had watched salivate over Cass’ trauma— and his own— just before he’d been assured that the Archivist could control it.
Suddenly, Bruce wasn’t so sure.
“The Bat is here,” the Archive announced, and the Fearhound’s gaze snapped towards Bruce as a bolt of fear pierced through him. His breathing stuttered. Her eyes were glowing, too. Bruce thought that he may have made a mistake.
Jason spun around, following their uncanny line of sight to where Bruce was tucked into the shadow of a large gravestone, momentarily frozen with fear. He remembered the way that the Fearhound had looked at him, back when she’d broken into his home; the way she’d watched him, a mix of rage and anticipatory glee on her face, teeth too-sharp and clawed fingertips raking through the air. She hadn’t looked at him like that since then.
She was looking at him a little like that, now.
“You idiot,” Jason hissed, and Bruce stepped out of the shadow and moved a little closer up the gently sloping hill; there was no use hiding anymore.
“Tim,” he said, simply, his tongue feeling heavy and numb in his mouth, adrenaline making his heart beat pulse in his ears. He refused to let his fear show. “I’m just here to get Tim, and I’ll go.”
On the steps, all three of the researchers stared in fear; but none were so visibly terrified as the man Bruce recognized as Alan; he was one of the senior researchers on Tim’s team, Bruce had seen his work. Bruce also knew that he was not a brave man.
“No,” the Fearhound snarled, moving away from Jason and taking a silent, stalking step towards him. “He stays. He comes home with us.”
Bruce couldn’t stop the way his gaze flicked back and the forth between the Fearhound and the Archive, the tension in the air thickening as the sunrise started to bleed red into the horizon, the researchers all getting to their feet— the other two stepping away, but Alan moving, strangely, up the steps, heading towards the church itself. The Archive’s scowl had turned thoughtful, and as Bruce met its eyes again, it grinned.
“Batman, I’ve got this,” Dick tried, standing between Bruce and the church with his arms out to either side, like he could keep him and everyone else away from each other with only the force of his will. there was an edge of desperation to his voice. “Go back to the car.”
But the Archive’s smile widened, and there was a purring trill in its voice when it said:
“Too late.”
The Fearhound moved almost too quickly for Bruce to track; one moment she was several metres away in front of him, and the next she had somehow closed the distance between them; he lifted an arm to meet hers and redirect the first pass of her claws, stepping towards her and twisting in-step with her so that they switched places, the Hunter slightly below him on the slope as he channelled the momentum into a sweeping kick which she dodged by jumping backwards. The exchange did what he had intended for it to do; it put Bruce between her and the others, and gave him some minor high ground. Unfortunately, it also put her between him and the exit, and it put him between her and Archive, so he couldn’t keep them both in his sights at once.
She rushed him again, lunging for his throat, and he took a half-step backwards and raised his arms to counter the strike only for her to break off and switch into a kick; he dodged that with another step, and she grinned.
Her attacks weren’t complex, and she was in civilian clothes, but Bruce knew firsthand just how much damage her claws could do— he wasn’t interested in testing whether his armour would hold up, not when he didn’t trust her to stop with him. He needed to buy the others time; time to get away, or get her under control, or—
“Stop!” Dick shouted, and Bruce saw in his periphery as his eldest ran towards them, and as Jason swore and lunged, tackling his brother to the ground.
“Get off me—!”
“Do you want to get mauled, idiot?”
The Fearhound’s grin widened, and she made a sound somewhere between a trill and a growl as she stepped slowly forward, and he found himself stepping back. Then she lunged again, and he threw a batarang hard; the blunt end of it slammed into her shoulder, and she stumbled, and Bruce pressed the advantage, striking out with a kick before ducking back out of the way of her claws and throwing another batarang at close range, this one armed with a small smoke grenade capsule that went off the moment the hit landed on her hip, followed by another one thrown into the same shoulder as the first. The flurry ended with the Fearhound snarling and backpedaling out of the smoke, and Bruce moving about ninety degrees around her so that they were about level on the hill. This also brought the church back into view for Bruce, and he saw Cass pulling Tim away to the side, ushering him and the two younger researchers further from the fighting as Jason and Dick wrestled on the lawn and the Fearhound narrowed her eyes and the Archive walked slowly, steadily, towards them.
Then the Fearhound pulled out a knife.
Bruce hadn’t thought she was even armed, until that moment, and he rapidly recalibrated his expectations as she threw the knife with uncanny aim at his head; he rolled out of the way, towards the church, and she dashed after her projectile to fill the space Bruce had occupied a moment before, turning on the ball of her foot to swing her claws again and force him back another step. His reflexes all felt off, his instincts forcing him to retreat one step at a time when he should have been pushing forward, using the tilt of the hill and his own height and the small arsenal in the Batsuit to keep her at a distance; he felt wrong-footed and slow, fear making him hesitate when it should have sharpened him and brought clarity, and even though not a single one of her hits had landed, Bruce still felt like he was losing.
“Chive, no!” Tim yelled from across the lawn and a short ways down the hill, pulling out of Cass’ hold and running back up towards them. Bruce took another step back as all the air seemed to stop, whatever breeze there had been freezing as the Fearhound grinned and moved in for a strike aimed at his shoulder; Bruce pivoted away from it, bringing Jason and Dick back into view as they both looked up, as the Fearhound stayed in close quarters and moved around him, forcing him back another step and around the rest of the way until he was facing the church again, and he found that he was much closer than he had been; and Bruce realized exactly why she had not truly landed a hit: she hadn’t been trying to hurt him at all.
She’d been herding him.
Barely an arms’ length away, the Archive descended the final church-step, and as Bruce met its eyes the green glow in them flared brighter than he had ever seen it before and he froze.
“I don’t like you,” it told him, smiling like it had learned how from a cartoon, “and I am very hungry.”
Jason and Dick were both frozen, too, trapped by this monster’s gaze, and he knew Tim and Cass were both somewhere behind him, further down the hill— he would have no help from any of them.
He would have no help.
Fear shifted into horror shifted into terror, and Bruce tried to shake his head no, and the Archive’s smile turned to a mockery of a grin.
“Statement of Bruce Wayne,” it said, “the vigilante Batman, concerning his failure.”
Bruce couldn’t move. He couldn’t move. He tried, he channelled the full force of his will into raising his hand, closing his eyes, anything; all of his plans, all of his preparation, all of his lies— “I can handle it,” he had said, “I’m not afraid,”— were crashing down around him, and words were pulled from his throat without his permission, plunging him into the memories of the worst days of his life, of all the ways he had let his family down, all the times he had failed them.
He didn’t want to tell this thing about any of that.
“My first failure was to my parents,” he started, and the Archive hissed at him.
“Clever,” it said, enunciating the word in a way that showed just a little more teeth than was necessary, “Skip it. Tell me about your children.”
Bruce shuddered. “Dick was so young when he moved out,” he said, “too young, barely eighteen, and it was my fault. I couldn’t accept that he was growing up— that he was capable, that he deserved to be recognized as a hero in his own right, as his own person, and that living in my shadow was suffocating him. We fought, and I said some things that I regretted almost as soon as they had left my mouth, but the damage was done.”
He remembered that day. He remembered the way Dick had just shut down, as he was packing his things, the way he’d refused to even speak to Bruce for the short remainder of his time in the manor, and for months after he’d gone.
“He has given me more grace than I have ever deserved,” Bruce admitted. “After I gave the title of Robin to Jason, a name that had been his, without asking him— without so much as telling him— he would have been justified if he’d never spoken to me again. But he didn’t do that— he didn’t shut me out, not entirely, not forever. He forced me to give him the space he needed, and even though it was painful for him he tried to be a good brother to Jason.”
Bruce had made so many mistakes in those early days. So many mistakes, but none of them compared to—
“My greatest failures have been to Jason. I wish he’d never been Robin; I wish I’d given him a normal childhood, or as close to one as I could have. He deserved to live in safety and peace, he deserved to grow up and learn and live. He used to love going to school; he hated getting hurt on patrol, because it meant he’d have to miss class. He should never have been put in danger like that, no matter how much good he did, no matter how much Gotham needed him, he was a child.
He was a child. He was my child, my son, and I should have protected him.”
Bruce was grateful that the cowl hid his eyes, even though he was fairly certain that the Archive could see the tears building in them anyway.
“He should have been safe, he should have had the chance to just be a child— but he was an excellent Robin. He was clever, and kind, and absolutely unwavering in the mission; not in my mission, but his, his mission to make sure that no one else had to go through the kinds of things he did, to protect the powerless and the desperate, to comfort the scared and lonely, to be the light for everyone, not just for me. He was stronger, in many ways, than I have ever been; he never hesitated to face the very worst of what this city had to offer, the very things which had left him in need of my care, and respond whenever possible with compassion, even as I watched anger at every injustice burn within him. He was everything, he was exactly what Gotham needed, exactly what I needed, and I failed him over and over again.
It was Jason’s compassion which brought his anger. Every ounce of fury he felt was on behalf of those who had been hurt; whether by individuals more powerful than them, or by the broken systems that make up this city. He always stubbornly refused to accept that this suffering was a fact of life, and he channelled that outrage into action, and it was my job to help him direct it properly, to guide him and show him how to make sure that his anger did not consume him. Instead, I doubted him. I watched Felipe Garzonas fall, and I blamed him, and instead of helping him I grounded him, and I was trying to protect him but more people got hurt because of what I did, people died, and then he discovered that the woman who raised him had not been his mother by birth, and he had a living mother somewhere, out there, and he ran. And he found her; he found his mother, and the Joker found both of them.
I still don’t know exactly what happened, in Ethiopia. I know that Sheila Haywood had been aiding the Joker, blackmailed by his knowledge of her embezzlement, but I also know that in his last moments Jason used his own body to protect her— so I have to believe that it wasn’t her fault. And if it wasn’t her fault, then the blame for Jason’s death— for both of their deaths— lands on my shoulders alone. I held his still-warm body in my arms and I knew that what I had done was inexcusable, and I swore that it would never happen again. I swore that I would never bring another child into this life of violence and danger, even if it meant I was alone, even if it meant that my grief would destroy me. And I swore that the Joker would die for what he’d done.
On both counts, I failed. I failed, again and again and again. Because the Joker— he couldn’t be killed. I tried, and Superman had to stop me, because if he had died by my hand, the world would have fallen into war. It took me a long time to understand that ending the Joker is not something that I can do; it is not my place, as Batman, to make that choice. Gotham needs Batman, Tim told me, and he was right; and if I were to kill the Joker, I could never be Batman again. Dick tried to kill him, too; and he nearly succeeded, beat him to death after we thought that he had gotten Tim killed, another Robin lost to the clown. And I had to revive him, because Tim hadn’t died, because I knew that killing him like that would have hurt Dick nearly as much as it would have hurt me, because Dick is quite possibly the very best of us and I failed Jason, and I failed Tim, and I failed Dick so, so many times and I could not fail him again.”
Bruce was allowed a pause in his tale; a pause for a breath that came deep and steady even as panic thundered in his ears and spread through all his limbs in a horrible numbness. This was a nightmare come to life; if he could have, Bruce would have screamed for Superman; screamed for Clark.
He couldn’t. He couldn’t. Bruce didn’t know when he’d last been this afraid.
“I failed Jason, by letting Tim be Robin. I failed the memory of the boy who had died in that suit the moment I let another child wear it. But I was weak, and I am still weak, because I can’t bring myself to regret it. If it weren’t for Tim, I don’t doubt that I’d have pushed myself until I followed my son into the grave; I was reckless, stupid, taking foolish, suicidal risks, and Tim pulled me out. I failed Tim too, of course; the burden of saving me should never have been placed on his shoulders, but he would not have accepted any other solution. He came to me in my darkest of days, and he told me that he knew my identity, and that Batman needs a Robin and he was going to be Robin.
I wanted to keep him safe. I have always, always tried to keep him safe. And I in trying to protect him, I hid things from him, and from Dick, that I shouldn’t have.
When Jason came back, I didn’t, I couldn’t, believe it was real. He was angry. So, so angry, and if it were truly him, then that meant I had failed him again. Because he had become something awful, a twisted version of himself, with all of his anger and none of his kindness. Jason had become the Red Hood, a name once worn by the Joker, and he threatened Robin, threatened Tim, and all I could think was how my son would never hurt a child. And I was right,” he heard something like a smile in his voice, and it was jarring, it was wrong, because he was absolutely not smiling. “Jason didn’t hurt Tim. Jason saved Tim, from the very same man who I failed to protect him from. I was right, and I was wrong, because even as the Red Hood, even with all that he’d been through and all the ways I failed him, Jason hadn’t lost his kindness, his compassion, his drive to make this city safer— only I took far too long to see that, and in my grief I refused to—”
In the doorless doorway of the church, the shadows shifted. That was the only warning Bruce had before through that doorway burst Alan, eyes wide with fear and face tight with determination and brandishing a heavy metal pipe over his head, and he only had to take one step down before he was in range to swing that pipe into the back of the Archive’s head.
Somewhere close behind Bruce, the Fearhound shouted a wordless warning, but it wasn’t enough; the hit connected with a resounding crack, and the Archive lurched forward, the glow abruptly fading from its eyes as it fell first to its knees and then collapsed face-first onto the ground.
The compulsion broke, and Bruce stumbled backwards; it took all of his willpower not to fall to his knees. Alan stood on the second-to-top step, swaying slightly and breathing hard, not dropping the pipe but rather lifting it up like a sword and looking around with a sort of desperate frenzied expression at all the absolutely shocked faces on the church lawn.
The Fearhound was the first to move. She rushed towards the steps with a yowl of absolutely incandescent fury, and Bruce knew with a full certainty that she was going to kill Alan for what he’d done; but Bruce just managed to intercept her, tackling her from the side with absolutely none of his usual grace as she dashed past him, sending the two of them rolling over in the grass as Bruce tried to reach for something, anything in his utility belt that might help him— they wound up several metres away with her on top of him, and she raised one clawed hand for a surely deadly strike but Bruce had managed to tuck his knees to his chest, and he shoved her off of him with both feet, the force of the kick sending her flying down the hill; she hit the ground on her back and bounced once, rolling over and twisting in the air so that she next landed on her feet, that same clawed hand digging a gouge into the earth as she skidded to a stop just before a large headstone.
Tim dashed past Bruce, then, dropping to his knees at the Archive’s side with horror painted across his face, and Jason followed close behind, stepping around them as he lifted a small gun from his hip and pointed it right at Alan’s chest.
“What the fuck?” Jason snarled, his eyes flashing lazarus-green. “He saved your ass down there, you goddamn idiot!”
Alan, in a very poignant demonstration of the fine line between bravery and stupidity, brandished the pipe towards Jason.
“Stay back!” He threatened, or tried to— his voice was shaking far too much for it to be effective. “I know you’re being mind-controlled, but I’ll— I’ll still defend myself!”
“Mind control?” Jason asked, apparently so taken aback that it derailed whatever he’d been thinking entirely, never mind what Alan intended to do with a pipe against a gun. The green in his eyes dimmed. Bruce pushed himself shakily to his feet.
“You, you’re—” Alan stuttered, looking down briefly at where Tim was feeling Jon’s neck for a pulse, “The Archivist got Alvin, and Nightwing, and probably you, too— that’s right, I figured it out!”
Bruce didn’t know what to make of this. He thought it might be because of the panic still skittering across his skin, making it hard to think, but it seemed like nobody else knew what to say, either; the Fearhound was standing halfway down the hill, the sharp bloodlust in her eyes replaced by confusion, and Dick was looking between everyone else with a dawning sort of understanding.
Alan’s grip on the pipe faltered, and he firmed it back up again. “You used to be Robin, and then— he revived you— and— and I won’t let him get Batman!”
Jason lowered his gun.
“Tim?” he asked.
“He’s got a pulse,” Tim confirmed. “Head wound’s already closing.”
“Okay,” Jason acknowledged, and holstered his gun. “First of all: I am not being mind controlled.”
“You wouldn’t know if you were!” Alan retorted, but he did let the end of his pipe drop a few inches.
“Point taken,” Jason shook his head. “But the Archivist can’t bring people back from the dead, and even if he could, he doesn’t control people like that,” he explained. “You experienced it yourself, remember? All he does is make you freeze up and talk.”
Alan’s eyes widened again, and Tim frowned at Jason. “Alan hasn’t been compelled before,” he said, “why do you think he’s…?”
Tim must have found something in the twisting expression on Jason’s face, or else he noticed the sudden intensified panic washing over Alan’s, because Tim’s mouth fell halfway open in confusion.
“When was Alan compelled? He’s never even met Jon until today!”
Alan squeaked and let the pipe drop out of its defensive position, the end of it coming to rest against his dirtied work shoes.
“Alan,” Tim turned his full attention to the researcher, “what is he talking about?”
“I’m sorry,” Alan choked out, “I’m so sorry, Alvin, I needed the money, I didn’t think—”
“What did you do?” Tim demanded.
Bruce watched the exchange unfold like a train wreck in slow motion, most of the others doing the same thing around them. The Fearhound— or maybe just Alice, now, she looked like she was mostly back to normal— exchanged a meaningful look with Jason.
“Well?” Jason drawled, facing Alan. “You want to tell them, or should I?”
Alan dropped his eyes to his shoes; or, more likely, to the pipe dangling from his hands in front of him. “I sold them some information,” he whispered, “about— about our equipment. And the building. Security systems, blueprints…”
“You sold,” Tim started, slowly, haltingly, “The Red Hood. Company secrets? For money?”
“Yes,” Alan admitted, and he sounded like a man pleading guilty to murder.
“You helped them to break in,” Bruce connected, finally shaking off most of the lingering fear— though not all of it. “Last weekend, they broke in, we had to chase them out— you helped them get through the building’s security.”
“I did, Mr. Wayne, sir,” he kept his head bowed, and Bruce realized that Alan had likely heard everything he’d been compelled to reveal.
As if only just realizing what, exactly, he’d said, Alan’s head snapped up. “I mean— I mean Mr. Batman, sir, I— I’m sorry—”
“That’s a very dangerous secret, Alan,” Bruce said darkly.
Alan backed up the steps toward the church. “I’m sorry, I won’t tell anyone, I swear—”
“Really?” Bruce took a step closer, and Alan flinched. “Not even if you really need the money?”
Alan blanched. “No! I would never— I wouldn’t, I— I only sold the Red Hood what I did because— my wife. She was sick, and,” Alan’s back hit the wall next to the empty church doorway, “I was unemployed, at the time. I borrowed money from someone I shouldn’t have. A lot of money, and then— even when I got this job, with the interest, I couldn’t…”
Bruce watched understanding break over Tim’s face.
“Alan, why didn’t you tell me?”
Alan’s attention shifted from Bruce to Tim. “What?” he croaked.
“I could have helped you pay off your debts!” Tim explained. “We don’t want our employees to be drowning— if you’re working for WayneTech, you should be able to live comfortably.”
Tim was right. They didn’t advertise it, but Wayne Enterprises had a budget for paying off employee medical debt; Bruce knew how predatory the system could be, and the fund was necessary to prevent things exactly like this.
“Just be glad he sold his secrets to me,” Jason laughed. “All I wanted was to use your equipment. We barely even stole anything.”
“You took the nameplate off my desk,” Tim pointed out. “And took the eyes out of the gargoyles in the hallway.”
“That was Selina,” Daisy shrugged. “We kind of gave up on stopping her.”
Tim sighed. “Of course you did.”
Bruce supposed it didn’t matter, anyway; that whole floor was gone now.
Jason inhaled like he was going to say something else, then aborted the motion and lifted a hand to his ear, listening.
He nodded. “Thank you, Julian. We’ll be right there,” he said, and then moved toward where the Archivist was still lying prone on the ground and crouched down.
“Hey, Daisy, help me pick him up,” Jason directed, and the Hunter trotted back over and moved to carefully turn the unconscious Archivist over and lift him up so his front was against Jason’s back, with his arms looped over his shoulders so Jason could hold him steady as he stood up out of the crouch. Then he gestured Alan to follow them away from the church, and the man set the pipe down beside the door before going meekly where he was directed.
“Alright, Timbo, our ride’s almost here,” Jason said, and Bruce lurched back into motion.
“Wait,” he said, and to his surprise, Jason actually stopped mid-turn to face him again.
The acquiescence made Bruce’s thoughts stall out again; he clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides, trying to hide his nerves and not succeeding nearly as well as he normally would have. “Come home,” he said, finally. “Jason, please.”
Jason’s mouth was in a flat line, his expression clearly carefully neutral, but he couldn’t quite hide the conflict or the pity in his eyes. He hesitated, and Bruce felt a spark of hope— maybe, just maybe he hadn’t failed too badly, maybe he hadn’t lost any chance of fixing this—
Jason shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, and it was sincere. “Not now. Not yet. I just— I can’t.”
“Why not?” Bruce asked, unable to mask his desperation, his hope, because not yet wasn’t never; not yet wasn’t I hate you.
“I just need…” Jason sighed and turned around, turned away from him, and Bruce mourned it, mourned that simple acknowledgement that he didn’t deserve. “I need some time. and you need to get your damn act together.”
“What can I do?” Bruce took a single step after him, but stopped at Alice’s warning growl. “What do I need to do?”
“You said it yourself,” Jason bit out. “You’ve done a lot of failing, when it comes to your kids. Talk to me when you can prove it won’t happen again.”
Tim never left Jason’s side as they walked down the hill, and Dick followed them, hovering a few metres away. Cass was with them, too, an ever-present shadow guiding the three researchers towards the cemetery gate, where a large black van had just pulled in, and Alice brought up the rear, walking backwards and fixing Bruce with a glare that kept him rooted in place.
Everyone piled into the van. Dick and Jason got on their motorcycles. And Bruce was left alone, standing in front of the steps of a half-built church, in a cemetery that did not hold the body of his son.
He turned around, staring at the building where, apparently, the mystic caves under Gotham liked to spit people out, and he felt rather like he’d been chewed up and spat out himself; a wave of exhaustion swept over him, and a wave of anger, and he realized that he hated that church.
Bruce thought he would burn it down, if he could. Let it go the way of its predecessor, and hope whoever was chosen to build it next did so without the creepy spiderweb patterns.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have a lighter with him.
—