Chapter Text
Bruce doesn’t remember making the decision.
He remembers speeding to the warehouse, watching it explode, seeing it turn to rubble.
He remembers the crunch of gravel under his feet—but not gravel. Steel and concrete and tiny pieces of wood.
He remembers feeling frantic at the sound of Sheila Haywood. The raspy words, spoken in a hush.
“He saved me,” she’d said.
“He’s a hero.”
Bruce doesn’t remember everything from that day, but he will always remember the weight in his arms. The still warm feel of Jason’s skin. The unnatural stillness of his chest.
Sometimes, Bruce wishes there was more he didn’t remember.
If anyone tried to talk him out of his decision, Bruce doesn’t remember that, either.
So there Bruce stood—Batman stood, a whole slew of press spread in front of him, the entire Justice League behind, standing on the steps of the Hall of Justice.
“On Tuesday,” Batman began. He paused, and re-centered himself before Bruce’s emotions could take over.
He’d yet to… talk about it. With anyone, really.
Except Alfred.
Alfred had been a steady rock in all this.
Like on Saturday, when Bruce spent the entire day going through Jason’s mask cam footage, trying to figure out what had happened.
Why had Jason gone inside. How had he been overpowered by the Joker and so badly injured.
When he realized— when he saw Shelia convince Jason everything was safe, and Joker was gone, only to turn around and hand Jason over to him.
And then.
When Jason—when he only had seconds of life yet and knew it. He still—
He still shielded Haywood with his body, and assured her everything was going to be okay.
Bruce broke his hand, slamming his fist into the cave’s rock wall.
And Alfred came over to him, and dutifully dragged him over to the medbay, where he quietly cleaned him up and wrapped his hand, even though Bruce couldn’t bring himself to lift his face out of his other hand.
But Alfred was not with him, at the moment.
Bruce had written out his speech. He had it scrawled out on the paper in front of him, sitting on the podium.
He didn’t need it, though. Because even if he didn’t remember agreeing to this, he did remember every word he wrote.
Batman took a deep breath, and looked straight ahead, well above the heads of the press in front of him.
“On Tuesday,” he repeated, “the world lost a hero.”
Bruce swallowed, and tried to ignore the hushed tension that settled over everyone in attendance. The eyes of the press, quickly scanning the ranks of the League, trying to find the missing member.
Only there was no missing member.
And even if Robin hadn’t been League, he might as well have been. He was one of them, regardless of his age.
“He went by Robin,” Batman continued, “and he was among the greatest. I had the honor of calling him my son for the past three years, and he was one of the best people I’ve ever known.”
The press all scribbled down notes, and several shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
“He was fifteen years old, and already had accomplished more in his life than most do in 80 years. He was kind, compassionate, and had a heart of gold I envied,” he said, his voice thick. Jason had been the best. Far too good for this world.
“And on Tuesday,” Batman rasped, but he paused to let the roll of emotion settle back down. He couldn’t let himself think about anything until he finished his speech.
Jason deserved to have the world know about him.
He cleared his throat, and after a breath, he continued, “On Tuesday, he gave his life while protecting others. While protecting the one person who was directly responsible for him being there.”
That was information Bruce didn’t feel he could deliver impassionately.
Instead, he’d cleaned up his report on the incident, and had copies ready to be distributed to the press, once his speech was over.
Then, the press—the world—would know Jason’s character, and understand the tragedy that was that day.
“Robin,” Batman said, his voice amplified by speaker to all of the press, and all around the world, live on every news channel out there, “Jason was one of the best people I’ve ever met and the world is a darker place without him here.”
The sun hadn’t shown a single day since Tuesday, just as it wasn’t shining that day.
Jason was buried quietly on rainy Friday evening. No press, no fanfare. There were attendees to the service, of course. Alfred had spread the word to invite people. Had Bruce had his way, it would have just been them.
They all talked to Bruce, spoke empty words of condolences and praise for the kid Jason was. Bruce barely listened, and he didn’t talk back to any of them.
Instead, he spent the whole service staring at the casket. That was all he could do. Stare. At the far too small casket, closed up, so no one had to see how bad off Jason was.
His son. His little boy had been inside that box. And he was never coming out.
Bruce asked himself a million times why had he left such a small child alone.
Batman shifted in his stance, letting his cape swish behind him before he slowly reached up and undid the clasps on his cowl. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, staring out at the sky even as he could see the press all sit forward, no one daring to look away to even take notes.
With one last breath, Bruce pulled his cowl back and dropped it. The cool spring air hit his sweaty face and hair in an instant. He felt… clammy.
Hot and cold all at once, just like he’d felt when he’d found—
“Mr. Wayne,” one of the reporters said, her voice loud, but somehow still gentle. It was enough to make Bruce shake his head and refocus.
“The world lost a hero last week,” he said, with a strained voice, “Jason Todd will be sorely missed by all of us.”
Bruce turned around, blinking back his tears as he ascended the steps, completely ignoring all the questions being shouted by the press behind him.
Clark and Diana had been in the center of the League, standing directly behind him. Both stepped to the side, allowing Bruce to pass between them before they fell in line behind him, the entire Justice League following along inside the Hall of Justice.
The press continued its shouting, a cacophony of “Batman” and “Mr. Wayne” coming from behind him, before a new voice came on over the speakers. The voice of one of their PR people, telling the press about the packets they were about to be handed with information about “the death of one of our own.”
Whatever else she said, Bruce didn’t care.
He’d said his piece. Now, he was going home.
What home could possibly look like now… Bruce didn’t want to think about.
It most certainly could not be the Manor, that much they knew. He and Alfred had already packed up everything they needed for themselves and Ace, with the help of Clark and Barry. The security system was set to high, so no one would be able to break in and loot it, but as far as Bruce was concerned, he was never returning.
If not because the press knew he lived there, but because the halls were filled with Jason. Everywhere he looked, all he could see was his son, and Bruce—
“Would you like some company today, Bruce,” Clark asked, settling a hand down on his shoulder once they were inside. Bruce had been headed directly for the zeta, ready to simply leave.
The League dispersed, as soon as everyone was inside, but Bruce was keenly aware of their presence. Everyone hovering, just far enough away and mingled together enough to claim they weren’t, but Bruce knew.
“Not today,” Bruce rasped. For the first time all week, Bruce needed to be alone.
Alfred was at Titan’s Tower, waiting anxiously for Dick to return from space. He wasn’t due back for at least a month, last Bruce had heard, but Alfred had insisted.
And Bruce… he couldn’t go to Titans Tower, either. For the exact same reason he couldn’t go to the Manor.
So Bruce stepped forward, into the light of the zeta, and found himself looking at the empty cellar in the basement of his Montana lake house. The house he’d bought 15 years ago with cash, under the name Benjamin Payne.
The first thing he did was deactivate and unplug the zeta, so no one could follow him.
And the second thing he did was collapse down against the wall and finally let himself feel the pain he’d been burying all week.
- - -
Time was a cruel thing. It moved both excruciatingly slow, but way too fast at the same time.
Bruce spent most of his time inside, either in his bed sleeping, or in his chair in the living room, staring out the window at the trees outside.
Clark visited often. Most days, in the beginning. He brought food from Ma Kent a lot, and always made sure Ace had plenty of food to eat.
At first, he would try to make Bruce get up and do things, but after Bruce had thrown his glass of scotch at him, he’d quit trying. Instead, he talked constantly as he washed Bruce’s dishes and messed around in the fridge, doing whatever it was he did there.
All Bruce ever did was sit there, in his living room, a glass of scotch in hand.
But eventually… eventually Bruce ran out of scotch. And Clark refused to get him more.
Dick came once. Only once. Three weeks and two days… after.
He punched Bruce, as soon as Bruce got up and finally let him inside.
Bruce had deserved it.
“I cannot believe you,” Dick had snarled, “You just—you just gave up? Is this what Jason would have wanted?? What about the mission, Bruce.”
Bruce didn’t have the energy to respond.
- - -
Five weeks… into Bruce’s life at the lake house, it was Ace of all people that finally made him get up and do something.
Ace was perfectly capable of leaving the house as he pleased. And he did please, quite often. He reveled in the nature around them, and spent most his day chasing squirrels and splashing around in the lake.
But five weeks into their living in Montana, Ace found Bruce’s sneakers, and brought them to Bruce, sitting in his chair in the living room, as he picked at the plate of food he’d found in the fridge.
“Ace,” he said, pushing the dog away and knocking the shoes out of his mouth in the process.
Ace was not deterred, because he picked up Bruce’s shoes one at a time and dropped them into Bruce’s lap, then sat down and huffed.
“The door is unlocked,” Bruce said, turning his gaze down to Ace, “You can go outside yourself.”
Ace sat up taller, bouncing his front paws as he huffed again.
“Fine,” Bruce sighed. He sat his plate down on the side table, on top of the other two plates he’d not finished eating.
Thus far, Ace had been helping him with keeping food from sitting out too long.
With fumbling fingers, Bruce forced his sneakers on his unsocked feet and tied the laces the best he could.
His fingers felt stiff, just like the rest of his body when he stood up.
Ace scooted back, but sat back down, looking at Bruce.
“Well, show me what it is,” he said, motioning for the dog to go.
With a thump of his tail, Ace turned around and shot off for the back door and forced it open with his head, turning only to ensure Bruce was following.
The warm June air was no where near as warm as Bruce expected. Montana was much further north than he was used to living, so the air had a distinct chill to it. He stepped out to the edge of the deck and watched with a sigh as Ace hurried down the stairs and into the woods.
He barked, when Bruce didn’t follow, so Bruce sighed harder and slowly made his way down the steps.
They walked through the woods, over rocks and around large trees, for half a mile before Ace finally sprinted out of the woods into a large opening where there was a grassy and rocky beach along the lake.
Happily, Ace picked up an old, flat tennis ball off the ground and trounced over to Bruce to deposit it in his hand.
So Bruce took a deep breath and threw it.
Again and again Ace fetched the ball and brought it back, his tail wagging furiously the entire time.
And despite everything. After all the weeks of basically ignoring the dog, Ace didn’t seem any different. Didn’t seem mad at Bruce.
On the contrary. He was elated to be playing with Bruce again.
Because.
Because life continued to move forward.
Bruce wasn’t sure how he could continue on without Jason.
But instead of thinking about it, Bruce focused his attention on throwing the ball once more. Over and over, for as long as Ace wanted.
That was where Clark found him twenty minutes later, standing on the beach and tossing the ball for Ace into the tree line, making Ace have to hunt for it each time.
Clark landed slowly next to Bruce, letting himself basically float down until his feet touched the ground.
“You’re out and about,” he said after a moment, while both of them watched Ace sniff around a pile of leaves for the missing ball.
Bruce grunted. “Ace made me,” he added after a beat.
“Ace deserves extra treats for that,” Clark said, a smile evident in his voice. Bruce didn’t turn to look at it.
He wasn’t even sure what to say.
With a happy bark, Ace finally found the ball and eagerly bounced back to Bruce. This time, he gave the ball to Clark and stood back, ready for Clark to throw it.
Clark threw it far, causing Ace to shoot off as fast as he could to try and catch it.
Comfortable silence washed over them, while Bruce contemplated if there was anything he needed to say.
“Is there anything you need?” Clark asked, “I’m going to the store tomorrow.”
“I’m out of scotch,” he said easily.
But of course, Clark’s response was just as quick. “You don’t need scotch.”
“I disagree.”
With a half amused, half exasperated huff, Clark said, “If you want it, maybe you should go to the store yourself and get it.”
Bruce merely hummed.
With a roll of his eyes, Clark said, “You should probably shower first, though.”
Probably, Bruce thought mildly. His hygiene was definitely something he’d been neglecting, as of late. Without Alfred there to tell him off, like he used to always do.
Or Jason. With his exaggerated, “Gross did you sleep in a dumpster last night, B?”
Bruce took a deep breath, and completely ignored how it hitched, as he did.
“How’s Dick doing?” he asked Clark. He’d been meaning to ask for at least a week, but he’d never really found the words to do so.
Dick was furious with him, and he had every right to be. Alfred was with him, though. Helping him be Nightwing there in Bludhaven, so he wasn’t too worried.
Just.
He wanted to know.
“Better than you,” Clark replied bluntly, “He could really use his dad, though. He just lost his brother—don’t take his dad from him, too.”
Bruce swallowed, and somehow that was what broke the dam he’d felt trapped behind for weeks.
It was nothing dramatic, no loud wailing or collapsing in on himself, but Bruce felt the tears drip down his face, down his nose. Could taste the thin salty water on his lips.
When he lifted his sleeve to wipe them away, Clark placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
“Jason would want you to keep living, Bruce,” Clark said softly.
And Bruce couldn’t disagree. Clark was right.
There wasn’t much Bruce could do for Jason now, but perhaps he could manage that.
How he was going to do that, though… Bruce wasn’t sure.
The thought of living life without his son was—
It felt like a mountain too steep to climb.
All he could do was try, he supposed.