Qia
webboysurf
Festive
Half Pint
Nemaisare
Supermaxx
Aeolian
Yankee
Melissa
T H E B A T M A N
T H E B A T M A N
T H E B A T M A N
In collaboration with @Hillan as Jason Todd
Standing at the foot of an old man's grave, Bruce Wayne felt very young indeed.
Despite decades of war, hard-earned victories and valiant losses, all the marks and scars and dead bodies left along the way, when Bruce looked down at the face of the man who'd shot his parents down in that alleyway all those years ago, he'd felt nothing but the heavy, sad heart of an eight-year-old boy collapse within him. A boy who needed a father then, who needed a father now; but as he pushed back his cowl with a weary hand, he felt that this was the true difference between what he had become then, and what he was now: when Thomas had died, Alfred became what Bruce so desperately required. And now Alfred had gone, there was no one left to comfort the grieving child.
Bruce knelt before Alfred's headstone in the grounds of Wayne Manor, planted solemnly beside that of Thomas and Martha. He pulled his gauntlet from his hand and splayed his fingers out across the cold earth, feeling the grass reach up to meet his skin and brush the callouses and scars that littered his palm. The night was cool and crisp, the sky clear; the moonlight illuminated the ground in a ghostly pale willow, and off in the distance, he could hear the sounds of his city crying for him, crisis looming over the skyline. But Wayne Manor was on the outskirts, at the edge of county limits, and right now Gotham seemed so very far away...
"He died tonight, Alfred. I didn't think he could again, but seeing his face..." Bruce's voice was low - barely a whisper - and he was as much talking to himself, manoeuvring through his own tumultuous psyche, as he was to his departed father. "All this time, I thought he was at peace, resting. But when I saw Chill's body...Bruce Wayne, that little boy in that dark alley, he died again. He wasn't resting, he was just waiting. All of this...posturing," he gestured vaguely to his own suit, seemingly disgusted by it momentarily, "it was just dramatics to cover up the true desire. I've never killed, Alfred, but I never realised how much I craved vengeance until it was snatched away from me. What if there's no point anymore? When Bruce Wayne dies, what's left?"
From out of the shadows of the big oak tree, a ghost emerged, clad in a black suit and tie with a woollen coat draped over his shoulders. The ghost was quickly revealed as Bruce’s lost son; the child Bruce had failed more than any, the one he couldn’t save, the one he never understood. Jason spoke; everything about the way he moved showed clearly that he had no intention to fight his once-upon-a-time mentor. Not today.
“A world better off because a kid decided he would rather scar his knuckles saving the world, than burning it to the ground.” Jason let out a slight smile. “I’m sorry, Bruce.” A heaviness to his words, confiding his grief in the feelings Bruce was having. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t the one to kill him. For you.”
Bruce stood, donning his gauntlet and cowl once again. Even now, with all the wisdom of history, he still found himself putting up the old walls, closing off emotion in favour of disciplined stoicism. It wasn’t what Jason had needed then; wasn’t what he needed now. And yet, faced once again with his wayward son, Bruce found himself...lacking. He could only offer a weary sigh, a great deflation of his spirit, that betrayed all the physical ceremony.
“I don’t want to talk about death, Jason. Not today. Not here.”
“I’m sorry about Alfred. I didn’t have the chance to visit. I was so far deep underground when he passed, I only found out a couple of weeks ago.” Jason put his hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “In many ways, ways that count, Alfred was my dad, too. Anything good in me. I got it from him.”
Bruce took a long, measuring look at Jason.
“Anything good in you was already there. It’s why I took you in. Alfred just helped you see it.”
There was a pause; Bruce was rarely so affirming with his proteges. He turned away before he spoke again.
“It’s just a shame you had to bury it with anger.”
Letting go of Bruce’s shoulder, Jason took a step back.
“Joker buried me and that anger.” He retorted, quickly, regretting it as soon as he said it. He sighed and looked at Alfred’s headstone, his eyes wandering the row of fallen family. They fell to his own name on one of the stones. He scoffed.
“I was an orphan, growing up in Crime Alley. Dad’s a crook and mom's a junkie. I was going nowhere without you. Grayson never would’ve taken your wheels, and that intrigued you. You gave me a chance, and a house, and for all of my anger, I’m grateful. I’m sure Dick and the new kids are, too. But you turned us into your personal orphan army, Bruce.” Jason got angrier with each word he spoke, gritting his teeth as his eyes burned into Bruce’s. Leaning backwards, he eyed the ground, regaining his composure.
“Sure, you’d watch a movie with me once in a blue moon after a night of patrol as I fell asleep on the couch. But Alfred helped me with homework. He took care of me when I was sick. He made me watch every episode of Doctor Who with him, because he believed there was more to education than criminology and forensics." Jason’s eyes wore heavy, his fist clenching.
“When I came back, I spent so much time sitting on that rooftop next to the Wayne Enterprise penthouse. At the height of my madness, before my grand plan, when all there was to me was that same angry boy you caught stealing your wheels - I had my .50cal leaning against the railing and you in my sights. Everyday. Every meeting. For weeks. But do you know what stopped me, every time, from pulling the trigger? Thinking about how it would break the old butler's heart.”
From behind the lenses of the cowl, the Batman met Jason’s stare.
“I know.” Was all he said, and all the tension in the air went away. “And I’m sorry. I thought what you needed was a purpose, a mission. I was too deep in my own war to realise that you were children, not soldiers. Tim, Dick, Barbara...they all outgrew me. Damian and Cass are still getting there...but you never got the chance. The Joker cut the heart from this family when he did what he did to you. But you were the one who reopened the wound.”
There was a pause; the two men stood at an impasse, their decision not to fight resulting only in verbal sparring instead. Bruce was tired, and off in the distance the cries of his city weighed heavily on his mind, fraying already-thin patience. He extended an olive branch.
“Your deal with Waller. I know it doesn’t mean much to you...but I’m glad. I never wanted to put you in a cage, Jason, but you left me no other choice.”
The former Robin scoffed, surprised at this showing of emotion from Bruce. “Sometimes you have to put the rabid dog down… I just didn’t stay down.”
Bruce ignored Jason’s barb.
“I’m happy that you get a chance at...at redemption, away from Gotham. But if it overwhelms you again...if you find yourself faltering...” Bruce took a breath.
“You gave me a house, Bruce. But Alfred made this a home…” Jason cut his once-mentor off, sighing as a soft smile crept up his sombre face. “But one day… Maybe it could be a home again.”
Bruce nodded solemnly. He didn’t have the heart to correct Jason, and instead his gaze drifted towards the grand outer walls of the mansion.
“Wayne Manor will always be here for you; for all of you. It will shelter you, keep you safe, offer you a place to sleep.” Bruce let his eyes fall back to the headstone.
“But I fear it hasn’t been my home in a very long time.”
There was an aged sadness in Bruce’s voice that gave Jason hesitation to speak again.
