Ray

Stanley Pines was almost 28 years old and here he was shivering in the snow, cold water soaking into his boots because the Stanleymobile had pretty much given up about halfway down Gopher Road and Stan’d had to trudge his way through three feet of snow for a half a mile before he got to … this.

Looking up at the house and checking the address - yep, okay, 618 - Stan thought for the thousandth time that hour what the fuck am I doing what the fuck am I doing what the fuck am I dooooooing!

The house looked like it’d been used as a set for a horror movie. Barrels of stuff with that radioactive symbol on it, barbed wire all around a hastily-made fence, and worst of all there was blood on the porch. Probably. Stan’s eyes weren’t too good, but there was a puddle that was dark and liquidy and he was gonna count it as blood. He didn’t know whether to hope it was Ford’s or wasn’t Ford’s.

Speaking of Stanford… Stan looked at the postcard again. ‘PLEASE COME’ stared up at him. It hadn’t changed in the five seconds he’d looked away.

He tucked the postcard into his sleeve and squared his shoulders. Ford was in trouble and he needed Stan. So Stan came, and he wasn’t gonna walk away now just because Ford had decided to go insane.

Stan marched up to the front porch, stomping through the snow partly cuz he needed to (seriously, this much snow should be illegal) and partly to get his frustration out before he wound up socking his twin in the jaw. He pounded on the door.

Nothing happened for a solid minute.

Stan waited in the freezing air.

Still nothing.

He knocked again. Muffled footsteps caught his ear and he stepped back a little.

The distinct sound of a lock clicking made him frown. And then another one. Stan’s frown got deeper with every subsequent click. Was that a chain? Yep. Padlock. Deadbolt. Deadbolt. Another padlock.

I’m too damn cold for this shit.

Finally the door swung open and - shit. Stan crossed his eyes to keep the new shiny thing in sight. A crossbow. Ford had gotten ahold of a fucking crossbow. And it was pointed straight at Stan.

“WHO IS IT? HAVE YA COME TO STEAL MY EYES?!” was the last thing Stan heard before a blinding pain lanced through his chest and he stumbled back and the w

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darkness

it was very very cold.

Stanford held his stance after firing at the stranger that had come to his door. Distantly, he heard them shout “OW” in a strangely familiar gravelly voice. They stumbled backwards off the porch and into the snow and lay there. He didn’t move until the person had stopped moving. Then his mind caught up to his body and went oh dear Moses I actually just shot someone.

The crossbow clattered to the floor and Ford put a hand to his mouth before the bile rising in his throat had a chance to come up. I. Just. Shot. Someone.

Even if the person was an agent of Bill, they didn’t deserve to be shot! Not like Ford did, at lea- no. No no no. Save the suicidal thoughts for after you’ve fixed your mistakes.

Ford scrambled towards the person, hoping against hope that they-.

The second he saw the face, he stopped. The world stopped. The snowflakes lazily drifted down, but everything stopped and nothing mattered in that one instant Stanford saw the face of the person he’d shot because it was his own face and that could only mean one thing: Ford had shot his twin.

Ford

shot

his

twin.

He fell to his knees beside Stanley, taking in the red jacket, the beanie, the duffel bag. His knee hit a piece of paper and he picked it up: it was his postcard. The one he’d sent to plead for help. Stan had received it. Stan had come.

And Ford had shot him.

 …. he reached for Stan. He gathered his twin up, held him close to his chest. Stan’s head flopped forward and his limbs remained limp. Like a discarded puppet. The thought made Ford heave a strangled laugh. Twins share everything.

“S-Stan, wake up. I-it’s time to get up. Come on.” He shook his brother lightly and Stan's head moved limply along.

Ford’s fingers fumbled at Stan’s neck. There was nothing. No heart beat-beat-beating like there should be. The fingers moved to Stan’s mouth, searching for breath. Nothing but a trickle of warm red. Blood.

“S-stanley.” The word was a broken whisper. Stan still didn’t move. “L-lee, i- I’m scared.” 

… 

Ford didn’t get it. Usually that did the trick whenever Stan went too far with a prank. But Ford’s twin was so very still against his chest. His body was slowly getting colder and Ford clutched him tighter to warm him up.

After several days in the hospital where you claim you don’t remember what happened after some guys grabbed you in an alley, it is determined there are traces of drugs in your system that would cause this memory loss and confusion. Luckily, the pit magic hasn’t completely left your system yet so while you could be injected with the drugs so they’d show up on your bloodwork, it doesn’t actually affect you so you can keep your wits about you to play the part you are trying to sell. You have a teary public reunion with your father and brothers with plenty of cameras flashing in the background to capture it all. Normally, that would have infuriated you. However, given in this instance you wanted the world to learn of your return, you grinned and bore it. 

Yet even once you are finally allowed to leave the hospital, things still don’t return to the way they were. It seems like everywhere you go around the manor, one or more of your family members are there, offering to help with whatever you are doing or asking if you need anything. As the oldest of the Bat kids, it feels strange to be the one being doted on instead of being the one doing the doting. 

However, you understand why they are doing it. To you, you haven’t really even been apart. But for them, you have been gone for over two months. They were there when you took your final breath and there when you took your first one again. So, while their clinginess and overprotectiveness are a little much, you don’t try to discourage them from it.

Besides your family behaving differently, your body is still struggling to return to normal after being dead for so long. Sometimes you feel fine, and other times you feel like you are dying all over again. At one point, even just breathing suddenly becomes difficult as it feels like someone dropped a car on your chest. Every breath is a battle as the magic of the Pit begins to drain from your system and your lungs struggle to relearn how to work without it. Luckily, Jason is there to talk you through all of it. 

In these moments, he holds you against his chest and speaks soothing words of encouragement as he coaches you through the worst of it. Normally, he wouldn’t be this soft and gentle, but you know he had gone through the exact same thing without having someone there to help him. He understands how terrifying and painful it is, so he’s making sure you never feel alone. 

You also still get flashes of pain occasionally as a memory returns to you, but these begin happening less and less frequently and with less and less intensity as you regain most of what you had lost. However, there is one memory that you wish had never returned to you. You try to push it out of your mind, but it’s not always possible. 

Nights are the worst. After the initial exhaustion wore off and your sleep patterns returned to normal, you are plagued with dreams reliving that memory. Over and over, you feel Clark’s fist driving into your chest. See the darkness creeping in once again as you struggle to catch your breath. The pain feels as real and intense as it did in that moment. And every night, you wake up sobbing just as the darkness overtakes you.

No one has mentioned Clark since you returned so you have no idea how the Kryptonian was dealing with your death. Like you told him on the day you died, you didn’t blame him for what happened in the slightest. He was being manipulated by the red kryptonite and had no control over his actions. As someone who had been dosed by Scarecrow’s fear toxin or Ivy’s love potion enough times over the years, you understood how these substances worked and you knew deep down that Clark would never do anything that would hurt you when he was in his right mind. And that was good enough for you.

However, you can gather that not everyone else in the family feels the same way.

Dick was the only one who looked sad, not angry when you tried to bring it up. So one day, you finally manage to corner him alone.

“Dick! Can I talk to you for a second?”

He turns, flashing a bright smile. “Sure, sis, what’s up?”

“I want to talk about Clark.”

Dick’s smile drops as he looks around nervously making sure no one else is around. Then he grabs your arm and pulls you into the nearby study. Once he is sure you’re alone, he sighs and asks, “What do you want to know?”

“What the hell happened while I was gone? I get everyone was upset about what happened, but no one will even mention him. I’m back! It doesn’t matter anymore. We should be able to work through this, not ban his name from ever being mentioned around here again.”

Dick shakes his head. “It’s not that simple. What he did was bad enough, but what happened after just made it worse.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “How could it have possibly been worse than killing me?”

“He showed up unannounced and uninvited to your memorial service.”

“Oh.” Yep. That would do it. 

While they couldn’t bury your body since you were technically considered missing to the public at large, someone had mentioned that they placed a headstone for you in the family plot behind the manor. They held a memorial service in your honor a month after your “disappearance”, with only a handful of the mourners knowing the truth of what happened. 

Sighing and lowering yourself into one of the study chairs, you say, “Yeah, I can see where that might not have gone over well.”

“No, it did not,” Dick says bluntly. “Jason launched himself at Clark the moment he arrived, but luckily Bruce and I were able to restrain him.”

“That is lucky. It wouldn’t be fun trying to explain how someone as tough as Jason could break his hand punching someone like Clark Kent in the jaw.” You can’t even imagine how your family must have felt at your service—only for Clark then to arrive and force everyone to relive that moment all over again. Losing Jason had nearly killed you years ago, and that had been at the hands of The Joker. If someone you cared about had been responsible…

You shudder. “What happened next?”

“Bruce did that whisper thing where he mutters so low no one but Clark can hear him. I still don’t know what he said but whatever it was, it almost brought Clark to his knees. He turned and left immediately.”

“Oh god…,” you say, burying your face in your hands. “It wasn’t his fault.”

You had told your father Clark wasn’t to blame for what happened to you. If they had been mad at anyone, they should have been mad at Luthor for dosing Clark with red kryptonite in the first place. 

Lowering your hands and looking back at Dick, you asked, “How’s he been since then?”

Dick shifts uncomfortably in place. “We…don’t know. Actually, no one does. No one’s seen him since he left here that day.”

“What!” you cry as you jump to your feet. “You mean that he has been missing for two months and no one thought to mention that to me? What about Lois? Hasn’t she seen him?”

Dick shakes his head. “No, and she’s been looking. She’s called Bruce a few times begging him to help her find him, but he stopped taking her calls.”

“What the hell, Dick!” You shove your little brother’s shoulder. “That’s horrible! Even if you think that Clark is to blame for what happened—which I for one don’t—Lois is completely innocent in this! How can you all just ignore her when she needs help?”

“You know Lois. Once Bruce refused to help the first few times, she sort of blew up at him. Made some comments that she really shouldn’t have and that’s when Bruce cut all contact.”

“What could she have possibly said that was so bad?”

Dick drops his eyes to the ground and bites his lip. For a moment, you don’t think he’s going to tell you. But then he whispers, “She said that Clark wasn’t in control of his mind or actions and that Bruce was more responsible for Jason’s death than Clark was for yours.”

You inhale sharply. Lois could get a little fiery when she got annoyed or upset, but you never imagined she would go for such a low blow. Even though Jason had returned and had (eventually) mended his relationships with the rest of the Bats, you know not a day goes by that your father doesn’t regret what happened or that he wasn’t able to save Jay. For Lois to throw that in his face was something nearly unforgivable.

However, regardless of what she said, it still didn’t mean that Clark didn’t need or deserve your help. 

Thinking for a long moment, you nod and walk past Dick heading towards your room. “I know where he is.”

“What? H-how?” Dick turns and races after you.

“He showed it to me once. Things were going bad for him and he wanted someone to know about it in case anything happened to him. He said he knew he could trust me. It’s a secret hideout—his ‘batcave’ if you will—and it’s where he will be.”

“Do you remember how to find it?”

You smile, as you reach your door. “Yeah, it’s kind of hard to miss. But I have to go alone.” You enter your room and start digging through your closet looking for your warmest jacket and thickest socks.

“No. That’s not happening.” Dick shakes his head. “There’s no telling where his head will be after this long or how he’ll react to seeing you. He could kill you all over again and there would be no one there to stop him.”

“Like you all did such a great job of stopping him last time?” You immediately regret the joke as a look of pain flashes across Dick’s face. Dropping your clothes, you wrap him in a hug which he quickly returns. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. But Clark didn’t mean what he did either and he deserves to know I’m okay. Maybe it’ll be enough to bring him home.”

“What do I tell Bruce?” Dick asks, his voice muffled where his face is snuggled into the top of your head.

“Tell him I took his jet for a joyride and I’ll be back soon. And if I’m not…then tell him I love him and I’m sorry. But I needed to try to fix this mess that I started.”

“You have to come back,” Dick mutters.

“I’ll try my best.” You pull away and use your knuckle to knock on Dick’s chin. “And, hey, if I don’t, tell Damien to start looking for another Pit.”

After the boys hijacked your father’s private jet, you figured you’d have to find a way around layers of security. Yet, surprisingly, you were pretty much allowed to just walk right on. The only moment of hesitation came when you said you needed to go to the Arctic, but even that only took reminding the pilot of who you were to get him to agree.

Now you are standing before an enormous ice-like structure you had only seen once before. It was beautiful in design; huge clear pillars crisscrossing every witch way reminding you of the crystals you saw in the mineral section of the Gotham Museum. Now, if only this place had a central heating unit, you could see yourself really enjoying a vacation up here. 

But you didn’t come all this way to admire the architecture, so you step up to the front of the fortress. Suddenly, a red beam shoots out and begins to scan you. Closing your eyes, you wait and really hope Clark didn’t remove your DNA access that he had installed when he originally brought you here. After a moment, you hear a beep and the wall in front of you slides back, allowing you entrance. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, you step into the building only for the door to slide closed behind you. Hopefully, you do actually find Clark because he never showed you how to exit the fortress. But that’s a problem for later. 

You continue deeper into the structure until you reach the central room. The huge, cavernous space is brightly lit by the clear glowing crystals all around the room and you have to shield your eyes for a moment until they adjust. But when you do, you realize you are completely alone.

As you begin walking around the room, you call out, “Come on, Clark. I know you can hear me, whether you’re actually here or somewhere else. You showed me how this place works and I know you’re connected to it. Me, Lois, my dad, Metropolis…We need you, so please come back. I do understand why you left and I’m sorry, but it’s alright now. I’m fine. And it wasn’t your fault in the first place.”

The echoes from your voice die down and you are left in total silence once again. Sighing, you try a slightly different approach. “Lisen, I know my dad and brothers can be real dicks sometimes—well, I guess one of them is always a Dick—but you didn’t deserve how they treated you or what they might have said. I told you what happened wasn’t your fault, but even as I said it, I knew you would still blame yourself. But you shouldn’t! I know you would never hurt me and I still believe that. So, please, show yourself!”

Suddenly, there is a loud thud behind you that shakes the entire fortress, and a voice growls, “Who the hell are you? How did you get into this place?”

Relief floods through you at the sound and you release the breath you hadn’t even realized you had been holding. There was never a guarantee this plan would work but now that it has, you smirk. “You gave me a key.” 

Then you turn to face him.

Both you and Clark gasp simultaneously, equally shocked by the visage of the person before you. The man standing looking back at you is not the Clark you remember. He's wearing a dirty T-shirt and jeans. His eyes are bloodshot and surrounded by large, dark shadows. His cheeks are sunken beneath a rough beard you didn’t even know he could grow. He is an utter shell of the man that you knew and loved. 

“Clark…” you breathe as you take a step toward him, but he steps back as you do.

“What are you?” he whispers, his eyes wide as they scan over you, looking for any clue as to how you are here.

You scoff softly, trying to ease some of the stifling tension that had filled the room. “Wow, thanks. It’s good to see you too.”

But Clark shakes his head. “This isn’t possible. I killed you. I felt your heart stop while my hand was still buried in your chest.”

You shiver slightly and this time not because of the cold. Remembering what happened always sent a phantom pain through your chest and left you momentarily breathless. However, you try to ignore it and push on. “Yeah, well, since when has death ever stopped us? Damien called in some favors with his grandfather and Ra’s allowed them to use one of the Lazarus Pits. It was a far from pleasurable experience but I’m back.”

For a moment, you see just a glimpse of hope in his eyes, but then it is extinguished as he shakes his head again. “No. You can’t be real. If you were, you’d hate me as much as the rest of your family does for what I did.” He looks down at his hands and whispers, “You’d hate me as much as I hate myself.”

“No, Clark…” You take a step towards him but his eyes flash red so you hold up your hands as you freeze in place. 

When his eyes dim and return to their usual blue, you take a deep breath and close your eyes. “I know what it’s like to hurt someone you love while you’re not in your right mind. When I came out of the Pit…I didn’t remember anything. What had happened, where I was, not even who I was. I just needed to get away from the pain I was in. My brothers tried to stop me and my hand ended up around Tim’s throat. They got me off of him before it was too late and I quickly came back to my senses, but for the next week or so, I had to stare at the reminder of what I did around his neck. He told me over and over again it was fine, that he knew it wasn’t really me, but it didn’t make it any easier. I still remember the feeling of his throat in my hands, how he struggled and pleaded with me though I didn’t comprehend his words until later, and how he gasped and coughed for air when they finally pried me off of him. I did that to my brother. And even though he’s fine, I have to live with that for the rest of my life. So I can only imagine how you must feel looking at me.” You open your eyes and stare at him. “But it’s me, Clark. It’s really me.”

He stares back at you, your eyes locked. Then, slowly, he walks across the room until he is standing about a foot in front of you. In a trembling voice, he asks, “How do I know you’re real? That what you said is the truth and you’re not just an android or hologram or something?”

“Hmm… good point. I guess this might convince you.” You pause for a beat then, as hard as you can, you drive your fist into Clark’s jaw.

His head doesn’t budge. Instead, you feel all the bones in your hand shatter and you drop to your knees with a howl of pain. Clark is kneeling next to you in an instant carefully trying to examine your injury. 

“What the hell was that?” he mutters as he gently eases your arm away from your chest. 

Panting through the pain, you grimace, “I forgot how much that hurts. You’re worse than punching a brick wall.”

“Why did you do it?” He is staring at your hand in such a way you can tell he is using his X-ray vision on it. Though he doesn’t need to. Your skin is split open at the knuckles and you can visibly see the white of your bones poking through all blood and gore. 

But then your hand begins to tingle and go numb as you look up at Clark. “Because of this.”

A faint green glow spreads across your injuries and you inhale sharply as a new sort of pain tears through your hand. Yet, in seconds, it fades and your hand is left looking as good as new.

Stretching the muscles and wiggling your fingers, you smile up at Clark. “The Pit magic’s been fading out of me since I woke up, but until it’s completely gone, I’m pretty invincible.” He runs his fingers over the newly smooth skin as you ask, “Believe me now?”

Clark raises his head until he's staring directly into your eyes. Reaching out, his fingers brush across your cheekbone as he whispers, “It’s really you.”

You nod, placing your hand on his wrist. “Yeah, it’s really me.”

“And…what I did?” His eyes drop to your chest, where there was once a hole shaped like his fist.

You try to suppress a shiver. “It’s healed. It's all just a terrible memory now.”

“Can you ever forgive me?” he whispers, tears filling his eyes.

“Clark, how many times do I have to tell you, there's nothing to forgive. It wasn’t your fault.” Taking his hand in yours, you squeezed it tightly. “But if you want to do something to make it up to me—”

“Anything.”

“Then forgive yourself,” you plead. “Come back home and let's learn to move on. Please.”

Clark gives you a sad smile. “You might not blame me, but your family does.”

“Fuck them.” Clark blinks in surprise but you continue. “I'm the only one who has the right to be upset about what happened and since I'm not, they aren't allowed to be either. So if they can't move past it now that there's nothing to be upset about, then fuck them.”

A weary smile stretches across Clark’s face. “If your dad heard you talking like that…”

“He'd give me his disappointed glare.” You do an impression of your father's death stare, one you know you have inherited and used on your brothers hundreds of times.

Clark chuckles as the first glint of happiness sparkles in his eyes. Grabbing your hand, he pulls you into a tight hug. You know he is holding back yet even at a fraction of his strength, you feel your bones creaking under the pressure. But you don’t say anything. You just hug him back.

You aren't sure how long you stand there but, eventually, you begin to struggle to breathe so you pat Clark’s back. “Ok, big guy. Time to clean yourself up and take me home.”

He releases you but still seems uncertain. “I don't know. Maybe we should wait for things to cool off a little more.”

“Nonsense. The sooner we rip the bandaid off, the better. Besides, I need a lift. I told my pilot to head back to Gotham because I had another way home.”

You winked at him and he shook his head with a smile. “Of course you did.”

“So, hurry up. It’s freezing up here and I’d like to get home so Alfred can make me some hot chocolate. And if you want, I can see if he’ll make a second glass for you.” 

You both know that it won’t be as easy as Clark walking through the front doors of Wayne Manor with you to smooth things over. A lot of hateful and regrettable things have been said on both sides. But seeing as it’s impossible to be mad while drinking a cup of Alfred’s hot chocolate, it’ll be a good place to start. 

Giving Clark one last smile, you say, “I'll wait for you outside.” Then you turn and leave the room.

Luckily, exiting the Fortress is a lot easier than you had feared and you are soon standing in the icy tundra as snow whips around you. A tightness in your chest that you hadn’t even realized was there has eased and for the first time since your death, you feel truly at peace once more. 

As you’ve said from the start, Clark would never hurt you when he’s seeing clearly and not affected by red kryptonite. Outside of your direct family, there is no one in this world or any other that you trust more. Everything that had happened these last few months had been a terrible tragedy but things are finally righting themselves and getting back to normal. 

As you hear footsteps approaching, you turn and your heart swells as you see the man walking across the ice towards you. 

Clean-shaven, smiling, and dressed in his famous red-and-blue uniform, Clark looks every bit the Superman you have known and loved like family since you were a young child. 

Wrapping him in a hug, you say, “It’s good to have you back, Clark.”

“It’s good to be back.” He returns the hug and then whispers, “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

“You’ve never given up on me once my entire life so why would I do any less?”

Smiling, he lifts you into his arms and says, “Let’s go home.” Then with you firmly in his grasp, he blasts into the sky.

The last time this happened, it ended with your death. Yet as Clark holds you against his chest as he flies towards Gotham, you’ve never felt safer. 

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But as your husband silently walks past you and lays the body on one of the nearby tables, the drawn, pained expression on his face coupled with the tender care he takes carefully arranging it is the final confirmation you need. 

Dropping to your knees, you let out an almost inhuman wail as the truth of the situation slams into you like a nuclear blast. Your baby’s gone. Jason is dead. And you have lost yet another child. 

You collapse forward, your forehead pressing hard against the cold cave floor as another wail tears through your chest. No. It can’t be true. Jason has to be alive. He has to be. Oh please, God, please don’t tell me you’ve taken my baby from me. Not again. Please.

As you continue to sob—worldless howls of grief and pain—you feel Bruce drape himself over you as if trying to shield you from this agony….but it’s too late. The damage has already been done and you have been irreparably broken.

In what seems like hours later, once you have exhausted yourself to the point you no longer have the energy or tears left to cry, Bruce sits back and pulls you carefully into his lap. As you lay curled in his arms with your head resting on his chest, you can feel his heart beating beneath you—so strong and steady—and it hits you that you will never again feel Jason’s heartbeat or hear him take a breath. All of those little signs of life you take for granted are just gone…and so is he.

Lifting your head to gaze up at your husband, you force your words through your aching throat, torn raw from all your screaming, and you ask, “What happened?” 

“The Joker,” Bruce says as he brushes a tear off your cheek. “He used Jason’s birthmother to lure him in, then he placed both of them in a warehouse that was rigged to explode. I arrived just as the bomb went off. I….I was too late to save him.”

The sound of Bruce’s voice breaking and the tears in his voice sends another jolt of pain into your heart and you nuzzle your head into his neck as you squeeze his hand. He silently squeezes back and you have to stifle a groan as you feel the bones in your hand shift and crack in his grasp, but you don’t say anything. You just let him continue to squeeze your hand long after the point it turns numb. 

You haven’t seen Bruce fall apart since the two of you lost the baby. Regardless of what heartbreaks or fights had come your way in the years since, Bruce had remained calm and stoic through it all. It’s just who he was. He was your rock, your lifeline in the roughest of waters, your source of comfort when you needed it the most—so the sight of him breaking adds another layer of grief to your own.

When he finally loosens his grip and you can tell he has regained some of his composure, you whisper, “Did he…. Did he hurt him before…?”

Bruce hesitates for a moment before murmuring, “You don’t need to know the details.” 

Which means yes. The Joker had probably tortured and beaten your baby bloody before blowing him up. Another sob threatens to tear from your lips, but you manage to quell it so it is just a whine deep in your throat. You had cried enough for the moment. Right now, you need answers and to come up with a plan. But first…you need something else.

Untangling yourself from Bruce’s arms, you unsteadily get to your feet and begin walking over to the table. Bruce leaps up when he sees what you are doing and he gently grabs your shoulders blocking your path. “Don’t. Sweetheart, just…just don’t. Trust me.”

“Let me go. I need to see him.”

You try to shrug him off but he holds you firmly in place. “No. You don’t. Don’t let that be the last image you have of him—I wish it wasn’t mine. He’s gone and seeing him like that won’t bring him back. So, I’m begging you, don’t.”

“Get out of my way, Bruce,” you growl as you glare up at your husband. “I need to see our son. I need to see what that monster did to him.”

For a moment, you aren’t sure what Bruce is going to do. His eyes flit across your face, trying to find the slightest hesitation he can grasp onto. But when he doesn’t find any, he sighs and slowly lowers his hands as he bows his head and whispers, “Please…Don’t look.”

But you have already pushed past him before he finishes his sentence.

You approach the table with a determined stride, yet you hesitate once you reach it. Jason was always a slight kid, even verging on scrawny, but he had never seemed smaller or more vulnerable than as your hand hovers over the cape still draped over him. Even that first night Bruce brought him home to you, he had so much fire and spirit in his little twelve-year-old body that his presence filled the room. Now, three years later, that fire and spirit had been extinguished and it hits you all over again how young he truly was—how young he would always be.

You feel Bruce come to stand just behind you but he doesn’t say a word. He has tried his best to stop you so now all he can do is wait for you to live with your decision and be there for the aftermath. Knowing he is right there for you gives you a renewed sense of strength and as you take a deep breath, you pull back the cape to look at your son. 

Bruce was right. You shouldn’t have looked.

Some of the damage you are expecting based on what Bruce told you. Burns litter Jay’s face and neck as well as his hands. In some places, they are light, almost invisible unless the light catches them just so. However, in other spots, the burns are so severe you can almost see down to the bone. His hands are the worst, so charred and blackened that you fear touching them despite the longing in your chest to hold his hand once more in yours. Looking at the burn patterns, it seems heartbreakingly clear that Jason had tried to protect himself from the blast by throwing his hands in front of his face…he had seen it coming.

Yet as horrible as that realization is, far worse is the damage you weren’t expecting to see on your son.

Beneath the burns and debris from the bomb, Jason’s body is broken, bruised, and bloody in ways that an explosion couldn’t have caused. One arm and leg jut out at odd angles and there are dark bruises all over his face, neck, and the parts of his torso you can see through his ruined suit. One eye is swollen and black, his nose is bent sharply to one side, and his lip is split open wide. You have seen enough blunt-force trauma up close and personal to understand what had to have caused all of this. 

Casting one last longing look at your son, you turn to face Bruce. You are visibly shaking, and when you speak, your voice is dripping with venomous fury, “Where is he?”

“Clark is tracking him down and he’ll alert me the second he finds him.”

“And then?” Bruce glances away, unable to look at you. Disbelief washes over you and you step closer to your husband. “Bruce, don’t tell me you are thinking of letting him live.”

“It’s not our place to–”

“He killed our son!” you hiss as you point to the body of the child you both loved. “Jason is—Jason is dead because of that maniac! We can’t let The Joker get away with this!”

“We won’t.” Bruce takes your face between his hands and bends over so his forehead is almost touching yours. “I swear to you, we will find him and throw him back into Arkham where he belongs.”

Wrenching from his grasp in disgust, you snarl, “For how long? A few weeks? A month if we’re lucky? Then he’ll just find another way to escape like he always does and he’ll hurt more innocent people, more people we love. How can you not see that this has to end? That it should have ended years ago.”

“My heart—” Bruce tries to take your hand but once again you snatch it away from him. “I know you don’t always agree with it, but we have a code. A code you agreed to follow when you joined me. And that code means that no matter what The Joker or anyone else does, We. Don’t. Kill. Otherwise, what makes us any better than them?”

“Maybe I don’t care about being better than them anymore. We’ve done things by the book, followed your rules, and where has that left us? Two dead children and a third who barely survived being shot. And you still talk about trusting the same system that allowed it to happen in the first place. Well, who’s next, Bruce? Who will be the next victim in your moral war? Alfred? Dick?....Me? Whose death will it take for you to realize that this won’t end unless we make it end?”

Bruce stares at you as if he is looking at a stranger and not his wife of ten years. Shaking his head slightly, he says, “I understand you’re hurting right now and you’re not thinking clearly. But once some time has passed and the feelings aren’t as raw, you’ll—”

“I’ll what? Forget my son is dead?” you snap.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Well, what did you mean? Give it time and things will just go back to normal? That this pain will fade and I won’t care that my son was murdered?”

“Our son.”

“What?”

“Our son,” Bruce says. His voice has a sharp edge to it that momentarily takes you aback. “You keep saying ‘my son’ like you’re the only one who lost him. I know what you and Jay had was special but that doesn’t mean I didn’t love him too, or that I’m not in agony right now. I had to watch, helplessly, as that warehouse exploded knowing I was too late to save him. Then, I dug with my bare hands for almost an hour through the wreckage praying for a miracle only to find—” Bruce presses his hand over his eye as he takes a long, slow, shaking inhale then continues “And then I had to fly home watching vigil over our son’s body, all the while dreading this moment. Knowing I was coming home to shatter the woman I love. But the only thing that made that thought bearable was knowing we could mourn together and lean on each other for comfort. Yet all you can focus on is revenge and murder!”

“No, Bruce. I’m focusing on keeping the family I still have safe. I’m focusing on protecting this city just as you swore to do. I’m focusing on ending terror and chaos in the streets. And if that means one psychotic clown has to die to make that happen, then so be it.”

“We do not cross that line. Ever. No matter who we think deserves it. That’s just how things have to be.”

“Don’t you get it! Jason would still be alive if you had just—” All of your fury evaporates instantly and you inhale sharply as you realize what you were about to blurt out. Bruce’s expression hardens into a stone-cold mask usually reserved for the most lowsome of criminals and, stumbling back, you stutter, “I-I mean…I—”

“If I had what? Say it. Say it!” Now it is your turn to not meet his eye yet he pushes on. “You were going to say that if I had just killed The Joker years ago, Jason would still be alive!”

“I didn’t mean it. It just slipped out,” you whisper. “I know this isn’t your fault, Bruce. You told him not to go but I encouraged him to do what he thought he had to do. That I would support whatever decision he made.” Your voice cracks as you choke out, “I sent our baby off to his death, not you.”

It is the thought that has been nagging at the back of your head since you saw Bruce lift Jason’s body from the Batmobile. The unbearable truth you’ve been unable to face. Bruce had known something felt off about the situation and he insisted Jason stayed home. But when Jason came to you saying he had found his birthmother and needed to go see her, you put your foot down and forced Bruce to take him. If you had just listened to Bruce, if you had just really examined the facts instead of wanting to show Jason you were supportive, your son would still be alive.

Suddenly, it felt like the walls of the Batcave were closing in on you and you couldn’t catch your breath. Stumbling back a few steps, you say, “I-I can’t do this. I have to get out of here.”

The anger in Bruce’s face disappears as quickly as it appeared. He reaches out to you with a soft, “Sweetheart—” but you continue to back away.

“No. No, I need to go. I-I need to be alone.”

Bruce nods slowly. “Alright. That’s okay. Why don’t you go take a long shower and lay down and I’ll take care of things down here. I’ll come check on you when I’m done.”

You nod back and hurry over to the stairs leading up to the manor. But just as you begin to climb them, you pause and mumble, “I’ll be in Jay’s room.” then flee up the stairs before Bruce can stop you.

Once back in the manor, you move in an almost trancelike state towards the bedrooms. As you pass the kitchen, you hear a soft sniffling and you realize Alfred must have come down into the Batcave at some point and seen what happened. You have been so preoccupied with your own grief, you completely forgot about the butler who loved Jason almost as much as you and Bruce did. 

Part of you wants to go back and join him. After all, Alfred always knows how to fix anything and everything and maybe, somehow, he can fix this too. Yet as much as it pains you to admit, there are just some things even Alfred Pennyworth can’t do. So you continue walking.

When you reach Jason’s room, you don’t even pause before opening the door and shuffling in. In one fluid movement, you collapse onto your son’s bed and roll over, dragging his comforter with you until you are cocooned beneath the blanket. 

It seems impossible that just three nights ago you were sitting on this very bed with Jason next to you as he told you about how he had been tracking down his birthmother. He had been so scared to tell you for fear he would hurt your feelings. But you had just gathered him into your arms and pressed your lips into his hair as you promised him you would always be his “Ma” regardless of what happened on his search. That you would always love him….

Tears you did not think you could still cry began slipping silently down your cheeks. What would you have done differently if you had known that was the last time you would see your son? What else would you have said to make him understand how much he meant to you? How he had saved you from your grief once before and how you still needed him now?

You bury your face deeper into his pillow as you finally allow yourself to ask the question that you know will haunt you the rest of your life:

Could I have saved you if I had been there?

For the next twelve days, little changes. The only time you leave Jason’s bed is to go to the bathroom, but otherwise, you lay curled in the center of his bed wrapped in his blankets and staring at his wall. Bruce and Alfred take turns coming to check on you several times a day, usually bringing food or drinks and trying their best to coax you into consuming something. You take a little nibble here and there or take a few sips of water, but it isn’t long before you return to your near catatonic state. 

Even when Dick arrives a few days after you learned of Jason’s death, it doesn’t make much of a difference. You do allow him to climb into the bed with you where you wrap him in a bone-crushing embrace, afraid if you let go you’ll lose him just like your other children. But eventually, he has to leave and you resume your solitary existence.

On day seven, Bruce slips into bed behind you and wraps his arms around you. For a long time, the two of you just lay there in silence. Then, softly, his lips brush against your ear as he whispers, “Please, sweetheart, please come back to me. I know you’re hurting. So am I. But I just lost Jason and I can’t….I can’t lose you too. Please, let me in. Let us help each other through this….Together.”

You know he’s right, and it kills you to know you are only adding to his heartbreak, but you just don’t have the strength or the will to be what he needs right now. So, you remain motionless in his embrace, your eyes never shifting their unseeing stare at the wall.

Eventually, Bruce accepts nothing is going to change. Pressing his lips to the nape of your neck, he whispers, “I love you. Please never forget that. And I’ll be waiting, as soon as you’re ready.” Then he slips from the bed and you are alone once more.

The next major change in your routine comes exactly two weeks after Jason’s death when Bruce and Alfred walk into Jason’s room holding a simple black dress. Silently, you allow them to put it on you before they lead you downstairs where Dick is waiting with the car. No one has to tell you where you are going. You already know.

For the short drive, Bruce sits next to you in the backseat, holding your hand tightly as he presses his lips against your temple with whispers of encouragement and love. You squeeze his hand back but make no other acknowledgment of his presence or support. You catch Dick glancing back at you in the rearview mirror a few times, concern etched on his face, and you wonder what he sees when he looks at you. That thought makes you withdraw even further into yourself in shame.

As Alfred pulls to a stop, you make no move to exit the car. Alfred and Dick both glance at Bruce for some sort of guidance as to how to proceed, and he motions for them to get out. Once you are alone, Bruce pulls you into his arms. “If I could spare you from this, you know I would. But we have to make some sort of public show or it’s going to look suspicious. And people are already asking questions. But I promise, the second we’re done, I’ll take you back up to the house. Okay?”

You nod, knowing he is right however much you despise it, and he smiles softly. Placing his finger under your chin so he can tilt your head back, Bruce kisses your forehead as he whispers, “That’s my girl.”

Then sliding his hand into yours, he opens his car door and steps out before helping you out. Immediately you are met with flashing lights and the whirring click of hundreds of cameras all pointed in your direction. You try to ignore them as Bruce leads you down the path lined with photographers and reporters, your face a blank mask void of any emotion. 

But that mask becomes harder to maintain as you hear the slight tittering of whispers passing through the crowd. And though you have over a decade of experience being the subject of Gotham’s rumor mill to get used to the kinds of things people say about you, these reach a new level of cruelty: 

“Look at the heartless whore. Can’t even spare a single tear for that poor boy Bruce so kindly took in.”

“I heard she didn’t even want to come today but Bruce insisted. Can you imagine? He deserves so much better.”

“She wasn’t even there when he died. Bruce planned a family trip overseas and she refused to go. She would rather stay here to be waited on hand and foot by that butler of theirs than spend time with her supposed family.”

“I bet she had something to do with the boy’s death. Probably didn’t want to share the Wayne fortune with anyone else. Bruce and the older boy should watch their backs. They could be next.”

You remember a time when you would have gone off on these people. Snapped back about how they didn’t know anything about you or your relationship with your family. Caused such a scene Bruce would have had to sheepishly drag you away while his face glowed bright red. But not today. Today all you want to do is curl up in a ball in front of them as you sob, asking how they can be so cruel or heartless to not see your pain or the devastation at your loss. How they could come here—here of all places—just to add to your suffering.

But you don’t. Instead, you allow Bruce to continue leading you forward until you stop in front of the freshly dug grave with the casket placed beside it.

Bruce (well, probably Alfred) had worked out all the details while you were locked in Jason’s room. A plot had been selected in the small graveyard on the edge of the Wayne estate, right next to where Bruce’s parents were buried. The casket is closed so you can’t see how they dressed Jay, but Bruce had promised you in the car that he tucked Jason’s Robin mask into his pocket like you asked. It was the only input you had given on the whole ceremony but it did make you feel a little better knowing he had it with him. 

To the world, this may just be the funeral of Jason Todd, but in reality, today you are burying two people, and you wanted to honor that.

Dick comes to stand next to you so you are sandwiched between him and Bruce. Though you don’t as much as glance in his direction, you are grateful to have your remaining son beside you. It is a calming reminder that not everyone has been taken from you. At least…not yet. 

As the ceremony starts, you hold your head high and stare straight ahead. It is harder than you thought, the weight of a hundred eyes boring into the back of your head, but you manage to remain calm and composed throughout the sermon.

It isn’t until they begin lowering the casket into the ground that everything goes wrong.

Unable to take your eyes off of the box containing your son as it disappears into the dirt, your body begins trembling violently as your knees give out underneath you. Luckily, Bruce catches you before you hit the ground but his touch does little to ease your trembling. 

Still staring at the casket, you begin repeating, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…” 

Bruce pulls you tight against his chest, allowing you to bury your face into his jacket to muffle to sound. You claw desperately at the back of his suit, your chanting becoming more frenzied by the moment despite no longer looking at the grave. It’s just too much. All of it’s too much. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…” 

Mercifully, Bruce gently lifts you into his arms and carries you back to the car. You cling tightly to him, your arms around his neck, even as you continue shaking and babbling, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…”

“Shhh….” Bruce coos gently. “It’s alright, sweetheart. You did so good. I know he’d be proud of you, just like I am. But it’s over now, and I’m taking you back to the manor just like I promised. It’s going to be okay.”

You nod into his neck as you finally manage to quiet down some. The words are still swirling in your head but at least they are no longer spewing from your lips. You thought you were stronger than this. You thought you could at least hold it together for an hour for your family’s sake, but you were so wrong. 

Even though it had been a closed casket funeral, knowing Jay was in there, seeing it disappear into the ground forever…it finalized everything in a way you hadn’t felt yet. All those days laying in Jason’s room, numb and disconnected from the world, you had distanced yourself from the reality of the truth. But there was no escaping it now. Jason was gone and there was nothing you could do to change that.

When you reach the manor, Bruce once again lifts you into his arms though you half-heartedly tell him you can walk on your own yet part of you is glad when he ignores you and continues to carry you up the stairs. You are somewhat surprised when Bruce returns you to Jason’s room without even asking. For some reason, you had assumed he would try to take you to the master bedroom to be with him.

You expect him to climb into bed or kneel down beside it, but once again he shocks you as he simply turns and walks to the door. He only pauses a moment to say, “I had Alfred put a fresh change of pajamas on the dresser.” Then he walks out and closes the door behind him.

You aren’t sure what to think about this. Has Bruce finally given up trying to reach you? Was he more embarrassed about your behavior at the funeral than he admitted? Or has he finally accepted you need time alone to deal with your loss? 

Still pondering his behavior, you climb out of bed and slip off the black dress you are wearing. Tossing it to the side, you walk over to the dresser to look for the clothes Bruce mentioned. The sooner you get them on, the sooner you can return to your blanket cocoon and lose yourself to your fog of grief once more. 

But as you spy the pajamas and you reach for them, your eyes land on something on the wall. Despite the fact today is May 11, Jason’s calendar is still turned to April. Since he left for Ethiopia on April 25th and was killed on the 27th, he never got the chance to change it. He would never know which classical author’s picture had been selected for May. Instead, Jason ran out of time and now it will forever be stuck on William Shakespeare.

Time….If only you had more time….

Three and a half years. That’s all the time you had with your son. It seems insane that someone who was in your life for such a short amount of time could leave such an impact on you, but there is no denying it. You know deep in your soul that you could not have loved Jason more if you had given birth to him or known him since the day he was born. He is your son just as much as Dick is, as much as the baby you had lost is, and now he’s gone too.

And it’s all because of The Joker.

For the first time since you had crawled into Jason’s room that first night, something besides sorrow stirs in your gut. The red-hot burn of vengeance that you have let your grief extinguish suddenly flares to life in your veins and your hands clench tightly on the edge of the dresser. 

Memories begin flashing through your mind: Sitting next to the bed, begging God to save an 18-year-old Dick as he clung to life after being shot by The Joker while on patrol; Monitoring the Batcomputer in horror as The Joker released his laughing gas throughout the streets of Gotham; Listening to Lt. Gordon’s sobs as he told Bruce what The Joker had done to Barbara;  Watching Bruce lift Jason’s lifeless body out of the Batmobile as your heart shattered in your chest.

He is responsible for all this death and this pain, year after year after year. He is the reason other villains think they can get away with whatever deadly scheme they have up their sleeves. He is why Arkham Asylum has become a swinging door deterrent that no one fears. He is the one who killed your son.

And he’s not going to get away with it any longer. 

Every cell in your body knows what has to be done, yet you also know the consequences if you do it. Is stopping this lunatic really worth destroying what’s left of your family? Can you really give up everything to ensure no one else ever feels this pain you are feeling?

You think about if your places had been reversed and it had been you who had been killed instead and there is absolutely no doubt in your mind that Jason would have burned the world down if it meant stopping The Joker. And if that’s true, how could you do anything less for your son?

With a newfound purpose driving you and a clear goal in your sights, you flip the calendar to May and pin it in place. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stares back at you as you press your finger to May 27th; 16 days from now and exactly one month after Jason’s death. That will be the day. The day you do what you should have done long ago. The day you will kill The Joker.