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Even now when her legs no longer work when she wills them. Even when she feels the phantom pain of being shot. She is still moving. Babs had always been detail oriented and goal driven. If there is a point A and a point B she will get there in as little time as possible.
Barbara missed fighting alongside the others as Batgirl but the mantle has been passed on since her time and she could not be prouder or Cassandra. Babs, unlike Bruce, does not have much hope for the villains they fight. Her hope is for Gotham. For it to rise above the limits that tamped down on the spirit and culture of the city itself.
Her sass is like armor used to protect herself. To deflect from the fear that would keep her locked in the clocktower if she didnât keep it locked away. She goes to therapy. Both for body and mind alike. Babs knows she isnât alone but she canât help the urge to isolate and do it herself. Sheâd seen her father do the same thing for so long that it was second nature and a habit she prayed one day to break.
Too bad heâd never really know ânormalâ. His father had always been religious. Some fancy church about a dead saint from ages ago. His father always rambled about being a knight on the eveâs he wasnât soaked to the bone in booze or off his gourd on some drug or other.
Jean-Paul learned to be quiet, be small, from a young age. To keep his grievances to himself. In high school people called him a creep. He was tall, like almost unnaturally so, with thick glasses and muscles heâd never worked for but he never talked. Jean-Paul spent most of his time in the library or computer lab. He was good with computers, not so much people, then his dad was gone and his head was loud loud loud and he was him but not himself.
A second voice spoke in his head now and it claimed to be an angel yet hated the stories of the saints. At least thatâs what Jean-Paul believed since reciting those stories was the only fucking way to shut that âAngelâ up so he could focus on his job. On college. There were nights Jean-Paul didnât remember but felt the lingering ache of.
Fresh bandages and bruises scattered across the fair flesh of his body like he was fighting a war. Little had he known he was. That angel forcing control over his body and acting as an anti-hero of sorts for an order heâd come to hate. The Order of Saint Dumas. At some point Batman had found him, heâd found Azreal before Jean-Paul you see, which wasnât good.
Batman believed him unstable and uncouth. Lacking training yet somehow being able to keep up in a fight. Jean-Paul was used to being looked down upon but oh how Azrael fumed at it. Then he- they were Batman. They killed someone and the guilt rooted into Jean-Paul so deeply it might as well have been an ancient tree.
Bruce did not know they were two instead of one so his anger was to Jean-Paul. And the blonde was used to it. To the anger directed upon him. The dissent. Again Azrael hated it. Hated that Jean-Paul was meek as if Azrael did not understand what heâd been through.
At one point Jean-Paul thought to end it. End the shared mind, the lack of control over his own body, the condescension from internal and external forces. Yet he didnât. He couldnât when the Order still stood. The Order thatâd stolen his childhood, his father, and his free will. So he stayed and made a deal with the Angel. They would take down the Order of Saint Dumas and prevent it from rising again.
Loss and grief were familiar to Kate but they always bled into rage and hollow anger. Losing her sister and mother, bouncing from school to school while her father oscillated between barely glancing her way and doting upon her for years after as if she were a ghost and his last hope at the same time, hiding herself in a âclosetâ because the love she wanted was wrong, finally loving a woman and losing everything because of it, losing herself in sex and alcohol and cigarette smoke in dingy alleys.
Kate had always been angry. At the world. At Gotham. At herself. All of it really. And yet that night when sheâd been saved she knew, in her bones she knew, a change needed to happen. First the weapons, the fighting, and the barely dragging herself home battered and bruised.
Then a ballistic suit, a tad gaudy but her father couldnât stand her coming home barely functioning nearly every night, with a tacky wig. Less broken ribs but a lot more attention. Then Batwoman. It was⌠everything. Sure Bruce made her use rubber bullets but that didnât change anything. Kate finally had something to fight for again.
Batwoman was freedom and expression and passion and everything Kate needed to rise out of the grave sheâd thought sheâd buried herself in. And so she fought⌠so she fights for Gotham. For herself and her family. For her sister and mother, the lives that they should have lived. And she lets her past, her sadness and anger, be her motivation.
She lets it be still and be seen like she lets herself be still and be seen. Sheâs not as angry anymore. Or maybe she isnât as sad anymore. Thereâs always been a blurred line between sadness and anger for Kate.
Selina once had hope for Gotham too. Just like she had hope for her mother returning. Then she saw how close to falling the city was and was overwhelmed. She knew she could not change what was done, could not mend the broken bits, but she couldnât make it worse either.
As a girl she stole to get by. Small things here and there to pawn off and pay for food, maybe clothes, but nothing too big. Not yet. The pawnshop owners knew her by name by the second year sheâd been by herself.
When Batman came along she thought it was pathetic. One man trying to save a city thatâd dug its own grave. But as his âfamilyâ grew, as did the scale of her crimes, she realized maybe Gotham wasnât as hopeless as she thought.
She began to toy with the Bat and get to know him, finding out who was beneath that mask, and somehow falling in love with him. And yet she never stayed. How could she when loving the bat meant being kidnapped every other week by someone trying to get under his skin or prove him wrong.
Trying to vilify a man who still had faith in a city whoâs churches were just skeletons filled with false believers and men who took the bible out of context to justify the sins they commit against both innocent and guilty alike.
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Bruce is a man who wants to be more than he feels like he is when everyone already sees him as the sun. He wants to be good. Good like his parents taught him to be but he feels like that type of good was torn from him the same night his parents were.
Bruce is so terrified of failing his city, the city his ancestors helped build and the city he was meant to save, that he has visions of the city in ruins when dosed with fear toxins. Bruce is a man who thinks he forgot how to love but when heâs with his family youâd think it was all he knew how to do.
His smile around his children is like the first hint of sun after weeks of Gotham rain and it always makes those around him relax just that much more. The citizens of Gotham just know he canât be Batman. Not because heâs ditzy or dull. No no. The opposite actually.
Heâs intelligent, kind, and bright and does everything he can while holding hope for a city rotting from the inside. Bruce Wayne canât be Batman.
Batman is so cruel, brutal to a fault, but wonât kill. The citizens think Batman doesnât kill because he likes the game of cat and mouse. They donât know itâs because Batman has the same hope that Bruce Wayne carries. The hope that everyone can be good.
Edward had been planning this heist more months. An old 'work associate' of Ed's had recently come into possession of an art piece that was very darling indeed. Edward simply had to have it for his home. Just one hiccup in planning occured. One that had Edward, the great Riddler himself, pulling at his roots.
How could he possibly get in and out without being noticed? He was let out of Arkham on good behavior so no way was he going back so soon. Query and Echo were out of the equation. Those girls were much too flamboyant when going to a soirĂŠe such as this. He needed someone who'd dress nice but blend in.
One name came to Edward's mind. A name with one too many emotions tagged to it for the ginger's comfort. Jonathan Crane.
Edward was not looking forward to calling Jonathan but took a deep breath and grabbed the phone. Dialing the most common number Jonathan actually answered. It rang a moment before the familiar Georgian twang filled the line.
"What do you want, Ed?"
"How did you even know it was me?"
"Only you still use this number. It ain't hard to guess."
Edward sighed and contemplated hanging up.
"Well then? What do you want?"
Edward ran a hand down his face as he realized he was about to make a mistake but it was hopefully worth it. "I⌠need a favor. Nothing big I assure. Just⌠a plus one."
Laughter filled the line. Sharp and guffawing. It horrifically sounded like a crow. Jonathan Crane was laughing. Edward hated that it made images of⌠post Arkham breakout sessions. The color staining Edward's cheeks made him grateful this was over call. He huffed and almost hung up.
"I'll do it."
"What?"
"I said I'll do it."
"And here I thought I'd have to go alone."
"Just email me the details Ed."
"No planning the old fashioned way?"
"Last time we did that you made me the bait because I, and I quote, 'breathed too loud' while you were working. Was I just not supposed to breathe?"
"Yes"
"I'll be waiting on that email then." The line clicked off as Jon hung up.
Edward groaned and ran a hand through his hair as he turned to his work table. Muttering about Jon being an asshole for hanging up on him. Still there was planning to do and Riddler had crimes to plan. Albeit small ones but still.
Days before the gala to reveal the painting Ed had scrutinizingly planned every second of the heist. Had a copy of the painting made and ordered the right frame. All that was left was to send Jon the details, the cover they were using, and time tables.
Jonathan read the email a day later and dedicated it to memory. He had questions about the cover but he knew Ed wouldn't answer them or change anything. Not now anyways. So he went over to talk about the details. Somehow the conversation coming around to the dress code.
"Ok, remember, you have to dress fancy."
"I can be fancy."
Edward settled Jonathan with a blank, disbelieving stare.
"I can!"
"You wear burlap."
"I was a professor!"
"You got fired."
"Yes, but only for shooting at a student."
Edward laughed and shook his head. "If you say so, Jon."
The rest of the night they were running through the final details of the plan. Papers, blueprints, the flyer for the art exhibit's gala, and other stationary were scattered across the work bench. Mugs of coffee on respective coasters. Edward half asleep staring at his laptop. Crane watching him and wondering what would happen if he injected the other villain in his sleep.
The day of the gala Edward put on his best black suit. His favorite of his non-work attire if he was being honest. He chose the one SUV he owned as the ride of the night. Finally he picked Jonathan up and helped Crane with the tie.
"And why'd it have to be a tie? I have a prefectly good bolo I could have worn."
"Jon⌠your bolo is a mini noose. It had to be a tie because this is a black tie affair."
"Will there at least be booze?"
"Not the kind you prefer but yes."
That shut Crane up for a moment. At least until they got to the event. Edward had lined everything up. He and Crane would socialize for a while in the beginning before Jonathan would spike the drinks with fear toxin. In the panic Edward and Jonathan would swap the real painting with the fake one. Easy.
That brought them to where they are now. Ed holding Jon's arm and Jon looming over him, champagne flute in hand, with a confused expression.
"Is there a reason you're clutching my arm?"
Edward, irked, gave Jon a sweet smile so it didn't outwardly look like they were pretending. "It's part of our alias, silly."
Crane hummed and stood up. He didn't like being around this many people but for some reason he'd never been able to turn Edward down. The plan was simple enough however. It was almost time as well. When the clock hit ten Crane moved to get another drink and subtly dropped a dissolvable tablet into the container. Within the next two hours more and more partygoers began showing signs of distress. That was the cue once everyone cleared the room screaming. Edward and Jonathan moved as a unit changing to their costumes and getting what they came for.
Soon enough to the two were in the SUV again and driving away. Edward driving, laughing at how easy that was. Crane holding his hat and watching Nygma laughing like he could absord the sound like oxygen. Gaze on the smile that split Ed's face. The painting secured in the backseat.
Back at Edward's apartment Crane was pacing as he tried to come to terms with the fact he'd spent a whole car ride wishing he'd kissed Edward. He swore and tried to leave without giving Edward the gift he'd bought him. He figured the ginger would hate it anyways. Grunting in annoyance then dropped the package on the couch on his way out. Ed had been clear they weren't sticking together long after the heist anyways.
Crane didn't know that Edward fell asleep using the quilt that he'd left.
Hope you like it. Honestly the most fun I have when writing is when I do mini fics based on Lalaâs art. Immaculate as always. Yâall should check them out!
- If someone were to sum Alfred up into one word it would be not be good or healthy or safe. It would be âintegralâ. Alfred is integral to the Batfamily. He is the sutures to the gaping wounds of breaking bonds that brings them together no matter how sharp or dull the needle used to sew the gash.
He is quiet mornings in where breakfast isnât served until the sun is at its peak because of loud nights spent fighting a war against crime. He rises the earliest and lays down the latest of the family to make sure all are well and fed. Alfred is not gentle in his care so do not think him one to coddle. He will put you to work if he see fit. Whether the work be darning (a curtain, a blanket, a cape, or any fabric he deems fit) or trimming the shrubbery and weeding the garden or tending the small farm that now takes up space on the manor grounds thanks to Master Damian and his love of strays.
Alfred has no such affections but Master Bruce was fond of his children and Miss Kyle had been influencing him to be more⌠assertive over decisions once usually left to Alfred.
The list of members I know enough about to write and how I feel about them. I know there are sooooo many more Batfam members out there but these are the ones I know and the ones I like writing for. I donât claim to be an authority on them or know every single thing about these characters. I love them but I know they are not perfect.
Iâm just gonna sit this here. Feel free to holler at me if ya donât like it.
.
.
A few moments later after Edward, though unfairly, won the game he was dragging Jon around by his lanky arm. Mid-way down a hall red lights began flashing, the alarm blared, the more mentally bereft inmates began to scream or cackle, and those allowed to wander began to run amuck and wreak havoc. Thinking quick Ed pushed his taller counterpart along, the latter exclaiming confusedly, and got the two of them out.
The blaring siren hurt Edwardâs ears but thankfully the guards heâd long since bribed were upholding their end of the bargain and not at their posts. The duo got to the window and Crane jumped first before turning back and saying;
âScarecrowâs got ya.â
And Edward has never wanted to tell someone to die more but he sighed and jumped. Giving Jon the benefit of the doubt since he was heavily medicated. Once out of the main building Edward took lead again. It took longer than Ed wouldâve liked to get to a hotel. Jonathan fell asleep the second his head was under a pillow.
Wasting no time Riddler began calling up contacts. Namely Query and Echo, his left and right hand girls, to get himself set up and back into the swing of things again. He reached out to broker after broker for as much information as possible while Jonathan loudly snored beside him like that blasted truck the Georgian drove.
While waiting for Query to get to the motel Edward laid down on the other side of the bed. It was quiet. Oddly peaceful. There was the dull hum of the air conditioner or maybe the heater. A short nap mightâve been nice. A texted pinged Edwardâs phone just as he was halfway asleep causing him to groan. So he sits up and reads it.
He only had a short while before Query got there so he woke Jonathan, whom Echo would be picking up shortly after, and got the man ready. Within fifteen minutes Query arrived and Edward waved a âcall meâ to a more sentient Jonathan Crane. Jon seemed at a loss for how to respond as he watched the car speed off just before a second car pulled up and Echo was telling him to get it.
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So just thinking over here. Imagine this if you will, Scarebeast transformation as a last resort.
You got Crane until he's hurt bad enough and Scarecrow comes out to play. You got Scarecrow until he has used all their energy and about to lose, than BAM! Scarebeast!
And what calms down our raving mad monster? Like give a safety blanket to a toddler having a tantrum.
You give him his Riddler.
Is the Riddler happy about this? No? Is he happy to be the center of someone's entire, undivided attention? I think yes.
Is he happy to be an over grown monsters favorite toy?
Imagine if you will Edward Henry Nygma peacefully working on some scheme or other when suddenly one of the many in the Batâs brood storms in without a word and drags him off. Not caring for his scheme or listening to the riddles Ed so loved to prattle off. Edward seeing no way of fighting them when they practically have him scruffed.
He hates it all up, thinking the were just taking him to Arkham, until the moment he hears the familiar eerie rumbles of Scarebeast. Then heâs struggling to get free because what have they done.
Why is Jon not Jon anymore?
What did the Bat do this time?
How did this happen?
Who caused it?
When did they even think it would be a good idea to corner Jon so badly he becomes Scarebeast?
Where was he?
Edward would fight as hard as he could to get to Jon. His friend. His companion. His lover. He dare not think of it until he sees Scarebeast and makes contact. Equal amounts fear and worry course through Edward as he whirls on the Bats and their birds.
âWhat were you thinking?!? Have you any idea what youâve done?! He was making so much progress and you ruined it! AGAIN!â
He turns to Scarebeast. His hands reaching up to cup the creatureâs face. His gaze becoming ever softer. Something heâd never admit. He looked to the Bats over his shoulder.
âYou all ruin whatever you touch and wonder why this city is doomed.â
Scarebeast doesnât fully understand why Edward is so angry. It just seems itâs human. Itâs Ed. Scarebeast just wants to curl up around Edward and nap. His favorite toy. His favorite love. Jonathan was too much a coward to admit he loved Edward but Scarebeast was not. He nuzzled Edward which elicited a soft laugh and warm arms around its neck. That made Scarebeast purr deep in its chest. Scarebeast liked hugs from Edward.
As a desperate child in Crime Alley he had hated the puffiness under his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks. The Alley leaving it's familiar marks on him as it did all its denizens.
Ironically, in the manor, he had come to an opposite issue. There was a stranger in the mirror. Healthy even while muscles coated over Alley Lankiness. A cuckoo bird caught between worlds as the whispered gossip of clarity case, street rat, and replacement followed him through classrooms and galas.
There was a mirror laying abandoned against the wall of that warehouse in Ethiopia. The angry brand marring his face had mocked him between tortures, its throbbing pain a constant reminder of his stupidity right til the timer hit zero.
In the LoA, between dissociation and green fog, the mirrors mocked him. The autopsy scar and Lazarus stained eyes call him abomination. Bruce's words, "It's not killing if they're already dead," haunt his nightmares.
He's working with the Batfamily again. Everything is fine. Dick stands in front of the mirrors in the showers assessing some bruises. Jason ignores the line marring his throat calls him a coward who can't even die right anymore.
His king traces every scar and calls him Beloved Consort, Beautiful and Strong, Survivor and Warrior. The Royal Seer worships them with his lips and it feels like absolution.
Jason doesn't hate the mirrors anymore.
Maybe it's worth the terrible ordeal of being known, to have someone gaze upon all the parts of yourself you'd call too horrible to look at... And call them beautiful.
Pairing: Ghost Jaybin, Bruce Wayne (hostile/haunted)
Songs: I am the one (reprise) from Next to Normal (Jack Wolfe), Eternity by Alex Warren, Remember Everything by Five Finger Death Punch, Harpy Hare by Yaelokre, Farewell Wanderlust by The Amazing Devil
Genre: angst/light horror/no comfort
Warnings: Jaybin haunting Bruceâs narrative, Bruce not being okay, depictions of body horror, slight gore, Trans Tim Drake, slight child abuse if you squint
Word Count: 2.6K
Chapter 2
The mission was grueling. Each night Bruce and Dick dragged themselves home more exhausted than the last. More wounds that need stitched or fixed somehow. The batcave always seemingly full of bandaging but new and used. The smell of blood filled the cavern more and more each day.Â
At that time Jason was there. Always when Bruce was alone. Always blaming Bruce. And the bad thing wasâŚ
Bruce was starting to believe him.Â
If Bruce wasnât collapsing into the couch in the batcave, sleeping at the batcomputer, or drowning himself in whiskey or bourbon he was hearing Jason. He was hearing the sickening clicks of Jasonâs jaw impossibly moving around words and the wet rasp of a voice rising from a decaying throat. Bruce had forgotten he was able to cry but these past few nights he found it to be a more common occurrence than he would have liked.Â
It was like after heâd lost his parents. How heâd jolted awake in the middle of the night with wet cheeks and tears falling down his face. His breath unsteady as he fought off that ever present anxiety. Batman wasnât supposed to fall apart but Bruce Wayne was not the man he was when he wore that cowl. Bruce Wayne was a father in mourning, a father with no justice for his son.Â
He knew he needed to pull himself together before he became the very thing he fought to protect Gotham from. A wrecked noise came from Bruce as his head fell into his hands. That sickening rage bubbling up again as Bruce muttered to himself.Â
âIâm going to kill that clown.â
Before he knew it his footsteps were leading him to the batcave. Anger, grief, and sheer hatred becoming a dangerous torrent filling his sails. Heâd been nearly suited up when an automated voice cut through the silence of the cave.Â
âWelcome⌠Man of Steel⌠guest ID JL001âŚâÂ
The announcement wasnât even finished before Bruce was slammed into the floor of the batcave. Clarkâs clear voice filling the little space between the two men.Â
âI thought you had a handle on yourself Bruce. I thought I wouldnât have to intervene. I trusted you to not stoop so low.â
âGet off of me Clark. This isnât about me.â
âThatâs not true and you know it. I have been listening to you break for weeks and you think I wouldnât notice when you finally snapped?â
âYouâve been listening but you donât understand. This is justice!â
âNo itâs suicide!â Clark exclaimed as he held firm to Bruceâs squirming form. An immovable object as always.Â
Another automated message filled the space before the rumble of a motorcycle followed.Â
âWelcome⌠Nightwing⌠guest ID BR002âŚâ
The familiar figure of Dick Grayson came into view seconds later. Dismounting his bike he hurried over. âSupes whatâs going on?â
âBruce was about to do something stupid.â
âI was about to get justice.â
âJoker is an emissary for Iran. You do what youâre planning and you start a war!â
Dick stood there, frozen, as he realized what was going on. His voice was quiet with disbelief as he looked at Bruce.Â
âB⌠donât tell me you were thinking about killing Joker. Youâve fought against killers for nearly twenty years! Like hell Iâm letting you become one!â
Bruce froze as his eldestâs words sank in. As they bled through his armor of anger and made him realize how foolish he was being. He stopped fighting against Clarkâs hold before grumbling a response.Â
âI was going to do it for Jason.â
âJason is dead B. Killing Joker wonât bring him back or fix anything. Youâre angry and I get that. I am too. But you donât see me suiting up to kill Joker.â
Bruce grunted. He knew Richard was right but how could he sit idly by while Joker wreaked havoc upon Gotham. He patted Supermanâs hand, a silent request to be let go, and tried to get up. Clark helped Bruce up but kept him within reach. Bruce understood the wariness in Clarkâs actions. He wouldâve done the same had it been the other way around.Â
In true Batman fashion the shadow clad vigilante trudged to his computer and sat in the chair before the large screen. A tired, pained, and weary sigh escaping Bruce as he rested his elbows on the desk. His head falling into his awaiting hands as his eyes fluttered shut. He did not cry however. Not with others around.
âMe and Nightwing have a mission to complete. Iâm sure you can see yourself out Superman.â
His voice came out cold and calculated. More Batman than Bruce Wayne. Bruce didnât care. It was best to use his anger as a shield because then it was meant to protect at least.
âBruceâŚâ Clark began but he saw that resolute set of the manâs jaw, the focus in those all too familiar blue eyes, the anger held between too tight shoulders. With a sigh he conceded.Â
âIâll keep an ear out Bruce. Just know if you try anything I wonât hesitate to stop you again.â
âOutâ
Clark didnât reply. He knew better than to fight Bruce on this. On his way out Clark placed a gentle hand on Nightwingâs shoulder and gave him a sympathetic look. Then he was gone and it was Nightwingâs turn to face the brunt of Bruceâs anger. And boy was it heavy. Bruce turned to Dick with that tired, resigned anger that made him want to wither away but the younger man withstood it. For Alfredâs sake.Â
He just hated how he saw his own anger reflected in Bruceâs gaze. He sighed and just walked up to the computer, logging on, and input the information heâd gathered for the case. If Bruce didnât want to talk then Dick wouldnât talk. Heâd let them sit in angry silence that should have been broken by a sibling he never let himself have.Â
Bruce, now behind Dick, struggled with words when faced with the silence of his eldest son. In the end the older man just grunted and walked off. What good was he when he was so angry? Maybe later heâd try to talk but right now words just felt impossible and people even more so.Â
Bruce needed to hit something so he moved over to the slightly open area where the punching bag was. It wasnât as haptic as Bruce would prefer but everyone always chastised him if they caught him starting fights on purpose. Especially Alfred.Â
The sound of heavy thumps and the higher pitched tink of chains filled the near silent cave but all Bruce could hear was Jokerâs laugh, slow beeping, Jasonâs screams, and a snowstorm. Each sensation bringing him closer to the memory. Closer to how heâd sped through that abandoned city at speeds even Gothamites wouldnât dare. Closer to arriving at the warehouse just seconds too late.Â
Each hit made his lungs ache as if they were filled with ice and ash yet again. As if rubble dust filled his nose and coated his throat. He didnât stop even when his hands felt like they had after excruciating hours of digging through broken concrete, smoldering wood, and sharp rebar. He only stopped when the punching bag became Jasonâs body hanging from tied wrists.Â
The vision just as haunting as the others. Though this one was closer to how his boy had looked when Bruce⌠no Batman⌠found him. Bruce cried out as he flinched away from the now normal punching bag. Those same words echoing louder and louder as Bruce trembled, running a hand through rapidly greying hair, and tried to force himself to calm down.Â
He was always tired, always stressed, always angry. Bruce just always was and some days it seemed to be too much but Bruce didnât act on those thoughts. The ones that dragged him down saying heâd lost too much, that the world wouldnât miss him if he were gone. Bruce just wanted his pain to stop but he knew he couldnât just stop. His children⌠child⌠his son⌠Bruce gave up on that thought. Dick noticed the way Bruce was silent. Anger and something else weighing heavy on the older manâs shoulders. It was just⌠Dick knew that weight but he knew Bruce wasnât going to talk about it. Not with him, not with Alfred, not with Dinah or Diana. Bruce never talked even when he should.
The silence was thick. Heavy. Tense in a way that made Dickâs skin crawl. He knew there wouldnât be a patrol tonight. Gotham knew Batman wasnât going to be there every night but that didnât mean he had to leave the city alone. Nightwing could pick up the slack of a broken bat. So he went out. He went out and fought.Â
He didnât know what to do when he got caught. He sent an emergency ping to the batcave with his location. Dickâs side ached, probably a broken rib or two, and his suit was torn in a few places where lacerations had cut through the dense fabric. The bleeding had slowed but Dick was growing dizzy, the ropes around his torso chafing, his limbs getting heavier. He knew he shouldâve been able to get out of these ropes but the young manâs limbs felt like sand bags, heavy and useless, so all he could do was sit and pray that his captor, fucking Black Mask, was just using him as bait.
It wasnât long before Bruce showed up in full gear only to be drowned in an ambush of Black Maskâs men. There was a fight but Bruce wasnât at his best⌠far from it if Dick was being honest. The manâs movements were sluggish at best from a trained eyeâs perspective. It was no more than an hour before Bruce was tied up with Dick. Black Mask entered with that stupid helmet thing, no doubt smirking beneath it like the arrogant bastard he was, and Richard hated it with every bruised and broken bone in his body.
They struggled to get free but even Bruceâs gauntlets couldnât cut through the ropes. Not at this angle at least. Theyâd been tied up too carefully for them to be able to move much even if Dick purposely dislocated something, anything, to attempt wriggling out. The distress beacon managed to get Alrfedâs attention but it was just Bruce and Dick in the field. There was no Robin. Not anymore.
That was until a knock resounded through the corridor and Alfred answered it. At first he saw nothing before a small, energetic, yet awkward voice sounded off below his sight line and the old butler had to look down to find the speaker. He nearly jumped out of his skin as he saw the young Drake spawn before him. Haunting blue eyes wide as the child stared up at him and blurted out whatever came to mind.Â
âI know Bruce Wayne is Batman! I- it took me a- a while to figure it out but I saw Robin, the first not the second because there is a difference, do a trick only the Flying Graysons could do. It was their signature and the first Robin did it s- so he had to be a Flying Grayson. The thing is they were dead except for their kid Richard a- and umm.. He umm.. Became Bruce Wayneâs ward and shortly after Batman had Robin when he had been a solo act. Th- the first Robin-â
Alfred cut the small one off by raising a hand patiently even though his patience wore thin.
âAnd why, pray tell, are you rambling to me about this? How are you so certain the two are just in merely similar circumstances?â
âI HAVE PROOF!â The little kid blurted as he held up a camera like that was proof in and of itself.
Alfred raised a sceptical eyebrow but remembered the emergency ping heâd received with a weighty sigh. Heâd just given a weary nod and led the kid to the batcave, handing it a Robin uniform and a comms piece, before telling the child where to go. The mask would have a holographic overlay that would lead him to the last known coordinates of Batman and Nightwing. Setting the child in the batmobile Alfred turned on the auto-pilot with the explicit instructions to not touch anything. Tim listened but he was confused. The costume was cold, not covering much skin, and made Tim question how Robin stayed warm. It was comfortable, if not a bit small. The compression was nice though it hugged Tim in awkward places.
The boy now regretted wearing a binder.Â
The car came to a halt, jarring Tim out of his thoughts, and opened with a mechanical hiss. A beep sounded from what the young boy could only assume was his mask and soon blinking blue arrows that formed a path began to lead away from the vehicle he was in. So Tim climbed out and followed the blue arrows to an eerily dilapidated building close to Crime Alley. The cold of the cityâs shadow seeping into the thirteen year oldâs bones and making him shiver but he pressed on. He had to.
Tim knew he was dressed as Robin but did not feel like he fit the role. Not yet. All he knew was Batman was in danger, he was small, and it was second nature to move silently. It was childâs play to get into the building but to find Batman was different. It took a minute before Tim found the dynamic duo heâd been stalking tied together. Blue eyes widened as he snuck closer until the two could see him. Nightwingâs eyes widened in shock while Batman⌠Batman looked at Tim as if he were a ghost.
To be fair Bruce wasnât seeing Tim.
A weak keen forced its way up Bruceâs throat but he forced it back down before it fell out. He knew his eyes were lying to him. He couldnât be seeing Jason Todd because that boy was dead and he wouldâve been seeing double if the boy wasnât truly dead because there in the corner lurked the grotesque imagery of his broken son but only a foot before stood a boy who looked nearly just like Jason. Short raven hair parted in the middle, fair skin, wide blue eyes with a brightness to them a life of brutality hadnât dimmed.
Then the figure, the boy, moved and touched them. He cut the ropes and suddenly Bruce was angry. He took to the comms with a gruff, low voice full of anger and confusion as Nightwing knelt by Tim.
âAgent A, who is this kid.â Batman all but growled out before Alfredâs cool tone responded and made Bruce downright furious.
âTimothy Drake, sir, he said he found out you were Batman and had proof.â
âHeâs untrained. Heâll get himself killed out here.â
âFrankly, sir, I do not see how that is my problem.â That response caused Bruce to growl in frustration and turn to Tim.Â
âYou need to leave. Now.â
âB- but the but-â Nightwing put a hand over Timâs mouth before correcting him. âAgent Aâ
âOh.. A- Agent A sent me to help. I want to help you!â
Batman scoffed at the whiny tone Tim had used and shook his head. âYouâre untrained. Youâd no sooner be killed trying to help me.â
Nightwing patted Tim on the shoulder. âLook kid, he doesn't want you getting hurt. Just go wait in the batmobile. We can handle ourselves.â
âObviously not if I had to come and save you.â
Batman grumbled and hoisted Tim over his shoulder before storming out of the building. Nightwing flanking them and taking out anyone that saw them. They kept silent as they made their way to the batmobile where Batman tossed Tim into the backseat while he and Dick sat in the front.
//Author's notes. Bruce was two seconds away from pulling out the Kryptonite on Clark after he burst in. Dude was rightly miffed. also I feel bad for Tim.
Content warnings: smut, the good stuff, Jon being absolutely feral, anal, male anatomy, soft aftercare
Jon had been thinking about this moment since he heard Edward moan from behind that cracked bathroom door. Edwardâs skin was soft under Jonâs calloused hands. A fair, freckled, canvas beneath tan and scared fingers.
Most people considered Jon a dead man walking but Edward had given him a chance even when he doubted his own heartbeat.
Ed didnât know it but Jon had fallen first, maybe even harder, but the older man sure wasnât about to admit that. Not when he was currently making his poor lover forget his own name. Heâd taken his time with Ed. Stretching and prepping his ass before finally beginning to carefully rock his hips until his pelvis met the plush of his loverâs ass.
That first minute was a challenge for Jon. Trying not to bust too soon. But then he got into a rhythm with it and forgot about that pressure. If there was a god Jonathan hoped they knew he wasnât worshiping them tonight. Not when he had such a perfect thing before him.
Each thrust drawing out more perfect moans from Ed. Each small sound driving Jonathan to keep going. To push the other manâs limits. To feel how he affected his lover. It was an addiction that he didnât think heâd ever be able to rid himself of.
Not when it felt so good to fuck into his loverâs ass and watch a man so composed fall apart because of him. Because he made him feel that good. For all Jonathan could comprehend, it was impossible to get his head around how he felt for Edward. As Scarecrow he clashed mentally with the Riddler and thought Edward was a fun test subject. As Jonathan Crane he was frustrated by Riddlerâs antics but was almost completely smitten with Edward Nygma.
And here he was rolling his hips rather ungracefully into Edward Nygma, a man who confused him endlessly but felt like a lifeline, and fuck does it feel good.
Jonathan wasnât a quiet man. Not really. Always stomping about or sighing and grumbling to himself. That didnât change much when doing to do. He moaned and groaned and growled about how good it felt to plow into his lover. His hands never still for a moment. Ed was loving it. He didnât get to see this side of Jonathan often so it was nice to let the man have his fun. Though he could tell Jon was annoyed by him hiding his moans.
Jonathan, well⌠not entirely, carefully ran a hand up Edwardâs torso to the gingerâs jaw. A hand so used to ending in needles now firmly holding his loverâs jaw. Pushing the manâs head back and leaning in to whisper warnings in his ear.
âDonât ya dare go tryin to hide those moans from me boy.â
His voice a haunting mix of Scarecrow and Jonathan but thatâs how he felt. Not knowing where Jonathan Riley Crane ended and Scarecrow began.
Poor man had to bite back a groan as Ed squeezed his dick and whined his name. His hips grinding back for even the tiniest sliver of friction.
âJon-â
Jonathan chuckled as he lazily pressed a kiss to Edwardâs shoulder. His hips rolling slowly to match. âMmmm⌠I gotcha bird just no more hidin those pretty noises yeah?â
He loved that dumb little nod Ed gave. Just meant he was doing his job right. Soon enough heâd picked up his brutal rhythm again and poor Eddie didnât last long after. Whining and shifting away, muttering things like; ââs too muchâ, âcanât take anymoreâ, and âoh fuckâ. That last one was Scarecrowâs personal favorite.
It was harder for Jon to get off after finding his rhythm but he knew Ed didnât mind. It usually ended up with the poor man coming a second time. It usually meant they would switch and Ed would take a turn being top but tonight it seemed that Eddie dearest was not up for that. That just meant Crane just went until he couldnât.
When he fell apart Jon didnât roar or moan he whined. He whined Edwardâs name before pressing a kiss between the smaller manâs shoulders. Edward was shaking from a second orgasm. Both of them breathless as they tried to remember who they were, what day it was, and where each other ended.
They stopped of course. Jon taking care of cleaning up since his darling Edward was so thoroughly out of commission. It was easy enough to draw up a bath and help Edward into it. Using a gentle cloth to clean the man.
Jonathan let Edward soak in the warm water as he changed the sheets. They were sticky with both of their spend and slick with sweat. Ed hated dirty sheets so they went into the hamper. It was easy to find the change of sheets and remake the bed with clean linens before helping his partner into the warmth of the covers. Heâd have Query and Echo get them food but for now heâd help Ed come down, relax, and settle into himself.
Edward grumbled something about being top next time that made Jon laugh as he held the man. Ed settled into his loverâs arms, hazel eyes fluttering shut, with a sigh.
OCxCanon, Jeremiah Valeska, fluff/maybe angst/whatever comes out
Part Two
JeremiahâŚ
Jeremiah hadnât been the same since heâd heard Jerome had broken out of Arkham last. Haelyn and Echo both had realized the change. The higher security protocols, the later nights, the constantly refilled decanter of bourbon in his workshop. Haelyn worried for her boyfriend.
Haelyn had met Jeremiah years ago when heâd been contracted by her father to help design a headquarters for his private military company. Well she knew him as Xander Wilde then. Thatâs what the public knew him by too. Sheâd found an old ID of his with a different name and thatâs when she learned his whole story.
Jeremiah had been sweet, if not a bit awkward, when they had first met. Over time as they grew closer she realized it was just that he didnât really know how to work with people outside of a professional manner. Echo was much easier to get along with because theyâd spend hours working out together, sparring and training, to be able to protect Jeremiah.
Now everyone in the bunker was on edge because Jerome was free again. Gotham was too still, biding her time and holding her breath, as the two brothers hunted for each other. Haelyn however tried to supply Jeremiah with some reprieve.
âMiah, you should come eat. Me and Echo picked up some Italian from this new place on Sixth and Hayman.â
Jeremiah made a noncommittal noise and gave a shrug of his shoulders which caused Haelyn to sigh. Walking over she gently took the tools from his hands and set them aside before picking him up over her shoulder.
âI am NOT doing the whole âdancing around your needsâ bullshit, Jeremiah. You are eating and that is final.â
âHaelyn! Put me down! This is insanely counterproductive to my work!â
âHun if I cared right now I would have given you an option.â
That sentence made Jeremiah huff in annoyance and go limp in her hold. He knew better than to fight her on this. His voice a bit defeated when he spoke next. âFine⌠I can walk however.â
âOkay but Iâm holding your hand so you can run back to the workshop.â Haelyn replied as she sat him down and led him by the hand to one of the open areas where Echo was waiting.
Jeremiah followed, albeit reluctantly, behind Haelyn. The smell of food finally enticed him enough to draw him to the table where the food was waiting. Haelyn and Echo dished out the food and took seats on either side of Jeremiah. The silence filled with the hum of the overhead lights, the click of silverware on plates, and the ventilation system cycling in new air. No one spoke while they ate but they just never felt pressed to fill the silence.
Finally finished with their meal Haelyn began doing the dishes. Echo went to the training room and Jeremiah lingered behind. Watching his girlfriend clean up the kitchen area. His soft voice breaking the stillness between them.
âThank you⌠for um⌠making me come eat. Iâve been kinda forgetting to do thatâŚâ
âI know, amor, I know. Why do you think I picked you up? Miah⌠I know youâre anxious about him finding you but you have me and Echo. We swore to keep you safe.â
âWell⌠you and Echo arenât here all the time and-â
âYou shouldnât be either but youâre stubborn and paranoid. I have an apartment on the edge of town that you could easily stay at but you choose not to even though I have sworn to you I installed the security systems myself.â
âBut it isnât my security system. Not ones I trust.â
Haelyn sighed at that, shaking her head, and focused back on her task. Theyâd argued over this before and Haely was not about to start that again. âFine. I get it. But just⌠maybe donât coop yourself up like this please.â
Jeremiahâs shoulderâs slump a bit at Haelynâs worried tone. His gaze looking over her figure as she dried the dishes and put them away. Something so domestic and yet it still brought butterflies to his stomach to see her like that. She felt him watching her and tried not to turn to look at him. She kept facing away from him, kept doing some menial task like cleaning the sink or counter, so she didnât have to see his pout. So he didnât see the worry in her eyes, etched into the lines of her face.
âI know it is scary but you cannot let fear rule your life. I wonât force you out of your safe space but I will offer to hold your hand when you are ready to step outside.â
Jeremiah made a choked sound, not really sure of what it was supposed to be, as he took a step closer to Haelyn. Sheâd always been like this. A steady presence willing to push but knowing when she shouldnât, when she should just be there, but she wasnât afraid to challenge him. She was smart in her own right. They both had bad things happen but itâs what they did in retaliation to the bad things that set them apart.
âHaelyn⌠you donât have to say that.â
âYouâre right. I donât but I did and that is that. So deal with it.â Haelyn shot back as she turned to lean against the counter. Her sharp gaze met his as she cocked her head and crossed her arms.
âNot everyone will tell you what you want to hear, Miah. I love you, you know that, but that doesnât mean I will shelter you. Protecting and sheltering are two separate things.â
âI-... Haelyn⌠YouâŚâ Jeremiah stammered as an amused look grew upon his girlfriendâs face. âWhy are you smiling like that?â
âYouâre cute when you stop thinking for once.â
âHAELYN!â
âYes mi amor?â
Jeremiah looked at Haelyn with shock, face stained red with blush, and fumbled to form words. âThat⌠you shouldnât be able to do that.â
âDo what?â Haelyn challenged as she walked over to him, her head tipping back to look him in the eyes, her smile growing as she closed the distance. Jeremiah tilting his head as he takes a hesitant step back. Haelyn chuckles as she tugs him into a hug, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. His arms wrapped around him as he shook his head fondly.
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Pairing: Ghost Jaybin, Bruce Wayne (hostile/haunted)
Songs: Stranger by Rabbitology/Small Fools, I am the one (reprise) from Next to Normal (Jack Wolfe), Gilded Lily by Cults, Fourth of July by Sufjan Stevens, You are my sunshine by Johnny Cash
Genre: angst/light horror/no comfort
Warnings: Jaybin haunting Bruceâs narrative, Bruce not being okay, depictions of body horror, slight gore, bad relationships with religion, alcohol abuse
Word count: 2.5k
Chapter 1
Bruce shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, and looked back to the glaringly bright screen of the batcomputer. He was supposed to be working on this case so why was he thinking about him? About a boy now under the ground. A grave he couldnât visit because he wished itâd been his body instead of a young boy searching for home.
Dick hadnât been to visit in a while so the manor was silent again. Bruce felt trapped in the empty home now. The silence weighing his shoulders as he spent days locked in his study, burying himself in whiskey and paperwork, when not on patrol. The man knew his butler watched in worry but dare not interject.
Alfred knew Bruce needed space though was loathe to give it. He wanted nothing more than to smack some sense into the man. Instead he was a silent pillar who made sure the man ate and kept himself clean as he fell apart.
In his grief Bruce didnât even realize how sloppy heâd been. Letting himself take hits he was meant to dodge or parry. Heâd come home more injured than he used to. Alfred knew he should call master Richard yet he stopped himself. If Bruce wanted the help, or finally wisened up, the man was grown enough to seek it himself.
Flash to the present where Bruce was lost in his mind before the batcomputer. Footsteps ringing in his ears made the man snap to attention and swivel to survey the cave. Empty sans the bats in the darkness above. Not even Alfred kept his usual vigil beside the stairs. Bruce sighed and turned back to the computer.
Moments later a laugh he knew too well echoed the walls. He fought to ignore it, muttering about psychosis and lack of sleep, yet it persisted so he turned again and physically recoiled as he saw something heâd prayed he never would.
Jason.
The boy was just standing there. Jaw limp, too crooked to be in the right place, and uniform scorched. The same uniform now in a glass case. Bruceâs gaze shot to the case. Untouched. Then back to the battered, bloody boy before him. That innocent laugh coming from his throat yet his eyes were dulled by his lack of life.
He saw the body of a boy once buried under scorched rubble covered in wounds that would never heal. The body heâd had a trusted contact stitch up like the wounds mattered. Like Jason was only in a coma. Like his son would come back to him.
His eyes took in the blood matted hair, the coppery brown of it dried against fair skin, bruises that had bloomed from Jokerâs beatings. That consuming anger began to burn again. He had to look away but his eyes were glued to the horrific sight before him.
Then more footsteps, the clinging of a silver tray, and a familiar voice. Bruce quickly turned to the computer so he looked like he was working. The familiar voice of his butler filled the cold space of the cave.
âMaster Bruce how goes the case? Anything of interest come about?â
Bruce shook his head and leaned back in his chair, slumping and resting his head on his head, as he looked to Alfred.
âNo. Not yet Alfred. I havenât been able to find anything.â
Not for lack of trying anyways though Bruce kept that to himself. He saw Alfred look through him, through that barrier he hid behind, as the man set down the tea tray. Bruceâs gaze shooting to where the boy was yet the space was empty. Alfred spoke with a hint of worry in his tone.
âMaster Bruce you look quite ghastly. Are you sure you are alright to work this case right now?â
âIâm fine Alfred. I just think I need rest. Iâll get a shower and head to bed soon enough.â
The elder seemed to relax at that, at Bruce conceding to sleep, and gave a nod. He left the tray with Bruce and left again.
The second Bruce was alone again a chilling voice, wet and raspy like it was filled with blood, slithering through the shadows.
âBruuuuuuceeeeeâŚâ
Over and over again he heard it but it grew louder, closer, each time. The laughter now more strained between rasps of his name. Bruce shut his eyes tight and covered his ears. The voice, that vision, he knew was behind him. He didnât want to open his eyes. He didnât want to acknowledge the visions. Bruce felt a pit hollow him from the gut up. The cold suddenly colder so he opened his eyes, trying to focus on the work before him, only to jolt at the vision of his dead Robin sitting upon the console like he used to. Battered legs swinging innocently.
âYouuuu canât forrrrget- t me Brucccce.â
The broken jaw twitched as words slithered, wriggling and wrong, through the air. Certain parts down out in howls, gasps, or hisses.
âNo-â Bruce felt himself choke on words forgotten with seconds of rising to his throat. His eyes burned and his stomach churned. A wretched sob catching in his ribs like his lungs had been punctured again.
His boy, his son, his Robin, sat so close he was almost in arms reach yet Bruce knew he could not hold Jason. Couldnât cradle or fix the broken form he saw. It was his guilt at surviving, at not being fast enough, at failing to protect the young boy now haunting his every waking moment. His eyes burned as tears welled but didnât fall.
With a shaky breath Bruce stood and peeled off his suit. His gaze leaving Jason just as his laughter echoed through the cave. The fluttering of a cape, shoes landing on tile, running. Then cold slammed into Bruce. A chill tearing down his spine knocking a tear loose.
Heâd made it to his room in a daze and hardly remembered the shower he took. As he looked in the mirror Bruce finally saw himself. The stubble, the tired eyes, the pallid skin. He looked like death and he knew it. He knew because he felt like he should be dead but he wasnât.
After sleep had claimed him Bruce relieved that mission, the last one he and Jason had worked on, again and again. Always just a moment too late, always too scared. It was too much. Too real. He saw Jasonâs anger as Bruce told him not to go to his birth mother, that something felt wrong, but never really stopping him. Never putting his foot down. He saw Jason leaving the hostel room, remembered how heavily the door had slammed, and flinched in his âdreamâ.
He remembered getting the call from Joker that told him how much time he had to find Jason. How much time before the boy wonder went boom. That laugh haunted him even in waking hours. Bruce felt the crunch of his phone in his hand as an anger so violent took hold. That anger married with sheer terror as he sped through abandoned roads to get to his boy. To save Jason.
The feeling of the explosion was what jolted Bruce awake. The feeling of a weight pressing his chest down. Pinning him. Bruce took a sharp breath as his eyes looked around as best they could from his immobile state. He felt heat painfully wash over him like a phantom of the explosion. A blood curdling scream he knew only he heard filled his ears and Bruce was suddenly sitting up. His body his own again.
With a shaky breath Bruce stood and pulled on his robe, making his way to the study because he knew he would not be getting anymore sleep tonight. Soon his body was sinking into familiar cracked leather with a glass of scotch in his hand. The fire before him crackling and yet Bruce neither saw nor heard the flame. The warmth, once soothing, now reminded him of the harsh way heâd awoken. A sob wracked his shoulders as his head fell to his empty hand. Waves of dark hair falling to curtain his shut eyes as he cried.
It wasnât a loud sort of grief that consumed the Batâs very existence but the kinda that shook the world around him like a plea. Like he was on his knees begging whatever god out there that was listening to help him. Bruce shifted uncomfortably in the usually comfortable chair. Praying felt like a weight at the moment. One he could not lift. Not when begging God to help him failed to save someone. Not when his cowl had been soaked with tears as he prayed the hardest he had in his entire life and still he was too late.
What would praying on his knees do if God wasnât listening to him?
Bruce sighed. What would his mother think if she knew what he was thinking? Would she understand or would she be angry at him for not communicating with God? Would she ask him to pray with her like she used to when he was young?
The man frowned into the amber liquid in his glass before finishing off what he had and setting the glass on an end table beside him. He sat there and drank himself gone, coming to back in his bed with a tray of food on his nightstand. Two painkillers and a glass of water included. Heâd have to thank Alfred for moving him and maybe give the elderly man a raise.
Trying to sit up Bruce hissed as the room began to spin, forcing him to lay back down upon his pillows. At least until he stopped feeling soâŚ. How did he feel? Hollow maybe? His head way pounding and his body ached and he couldnât just ignore the feelings like he usually did.
Bruce hated how common this had become. How heâd come to this. His father would have cut him off from his liquor long ago. If Bruce were a stronger man heâd cut himself off or ask Alfred to help him stop. If he were stronger heâd get help to stop the visions. Those horrific visions that followed Bruce and made it hard to leave his home.
He knew he could find some way to get the help he needed but he hated to admit he needed to help. He hated how horrible he felt every time he saw the ghost of the boy heâd failed. The first time heâd seen the vision heâd gone to visit that now empty room that used to be Jasonâs. He left it just the way it had been before⌠he forbade Alfred from doing anything more than dusting and keeping bugs out.
Finally, well after his food had gone cold, Bruce mustered the energy to sit up. To take the painkillers and drink the water. He ate what he could of the food and made his way back to the study. This time taking up station at his desk and working on WE paperwork. Alfred lingered nearby today. But not close enough to talk to.
They often fell into that awkward yet familiar rhythm. Dancing around each other, waiting on the other to make the first move, and nothing coming out of their mouths. Alfred wanting to step it yet wanting Bruce to fix himself. Bruce just wanting to fade into nonexistent. Neither of them reaching out because neither wished to be wrong.
Bruce felt hollow, angry, and now haunted. Alfred saw the way Bruce would occasionally stare at something intangible with a look of horror in his eyes, his fatherâs eyes, and knew best than to question it. What could he say to comfort the grieving mind. On a mission related to Joker was the worst it had gotten. The visions of that boy, of Jason, had been docile until that point. But then they kicked up. Growing more haunting, more gruesome, more real.
One such day Bruce was again in the batcave and had heard Jasonâs familiar laugh echoing the halls. He tensed as he waited to see the boy. Instead he heard the most blood chilling scream of pain and despair. He whirled around to see what had caused it and only saw something that made him feel a scream of his own clawing at his throat but he clenched his jaw and forced it down.
His eyes landed on the sight of Jason on the floor. Battered Robin suit stained in blood and torn, jaw dislocated but his hands were tied behind his back. He didnât have his belt or boots on. Bruce had questioned that when heâd found Jason. Wondered where theyâd gone. Heâd found them after digging in the rubble until his hands bled. Bruce looked to his own hands and saw the blood on them. A choked out voice filled his ears.
Bruce backed away as if heâd been shot. When his legs hit the edge of his chair Bruce fell heavily into the cushion of it.
âNo.â His voice broke as he shook his head in disbelief. âI- it was Joker. Not me.â
Bruce hated how broken his voice was. Hated how weak he sounded. Sighing he turned to the computer and called Nightwing. He couldnât do this mission alone. Jason didnât go away when Bruce turned away this time. Instead Bruce heard the sickening sounds of a broken body standing up and lurching towards him. A distinct stumble here and there as he heard those words repeated again and again, overlapping with each other occasionally, until it had built into a cacophony of Jason screaming at him it was his fault the young boy was dead.
Bruce heard himself break. Heard the sob that echoed through the cave. Just then Dick answered the call.
âBruce? Whatâs up? You n-â Dick cut himself off when he saw the defeated slump of Bruceâs shoulders. How they curled in and made him look smaller, weaker than he truly was. Dick wasnât used to it.
âI need your help Richard. This case⌠I canât do this alone.â
âItâs the Joker isnât it?â
âYeah. Heâs back after being inactive sinceâŚâ Bruce didnât need to finish that sentence. They both knew what he meant.
âAlright. I can be in Gotham by the time you suit up.â
Bruce grunted and gave a nod before hanging up. He now had three hours before his eldest arrived. Three hours to get over the way heâd been so shaken.
//I just know Bruceâs relationship with his religion was *strained* after losing Jason. Also my portrayal of Bruce is Abrahamic but more Jewish leaning but it doesnât come into play here much.
