Chapter Text
I know you're no worse than most men
but I thought you were better.
I never saw you as a man.
I saw you as my father
Red Hood pulled his arm out and declared. “It’s bearable.”
Nightwing ignored that intel. “Bearable” for Jason meant you won’t die immediately upon entry, probably.
Bearable was not good enough for him to send his brother into the torture chamber functioning as a shield outside the alien ship. Bearable did not mean he wouldn’t be picking up traces of DNA off tattered uniforms at the end of this battle, knowing what it had cost him before the computer could churn up an answer with finality.
Bearable meant they were going to find another way to rescue the fifty-one passengers and one driver aboard the school bus behind enemy line.
“I don’t care how tough you Bats think you are!” Kyle Rayner hollered from above, another one of his green beam bouncing off the shield uselessly. “You’ll go into circulatory shock long before you could reach the frigging kids – Dammit!”
They couldn’t get through. Nothing could get through. Nothing unattached to organic beings. Humans had been proven capable of penetrating the force field, and emerging unharmed. You could even make a protective cover out of flesh, stripped of powers. Which was why some of them had been entertaining the idea of diving in as a group and simply grabbing the unguarded hostages.
It wouldn’t work.
The chamber, born of some truly sadistic minds and New Gods technology, was a twisted appendage of the Ghost Dimension. Your nerve endings would feel like they’d been lit on fire. And once an overloaded central nervous system had led to a shut-down brain, your unconscious body would be up for the taking, by the scattering of extraterrestrial carnivores housed within.
It wouldn’t work.
Of course it was Jason who charged in on a bike.
A part of Nightwing was relieved at the disappearance of the shimmering field, the sight of the school bus, the spike of voices over League comms signaling a turning point for them, But that was only a distant, insignificant part. That was the part that never returned home to a freshly dug grave so small it caught his eyes through the tinted window, that didn’t know the sensation of running your fingers over a headstone impossible to warm up even a little bit, even under the coaxing and flower-scented sunlight of May, tracing a name that he hadn’t gotten used to say yet, because he didn’t know. He didn’t know.
That part wasn’t the big brother that Dick was.
He screamed for Hood over the sound of their ensuing victory (his pyrrhic victory) until Hood became Jason and then Jay and then just Please, please come out. Where the hell are you?
Their private channel erupted with chaos, a dozen voices repeating the same question. Batman gritted his teeth through his own silence and swung himself up an unoccupied rooftop.
Jason.
Of course. Of course it was Jason.
He wanted – for a second, a fragment of a second, to be angry. He couldn’t. Beneath him groups of people congealed in fear and blind panic, evacuated crowds who never would have made it. But now they could. Now they would. A mother hugged her children close and screamed in relief, when the stray foot soldier tight on their heels sutmbled and fled, chased off by Hawkman. The predator was put down. And the mother screamed in relief.
Bruce wanted to close his eyes.
Jason.
He wanted to close his eyes and put everything on pause, for just a moment, so he could think and prioritize and analyze the battle situation and – But he couldn’t, because there was work to be done. They hadn’t won yet. They hadn’t won yet. There were other mothers and other children and the world is at risk.
Downtown Metropolis was in ruins. They were at war. On the horizon was a global catastrophic risk.
But that’s his little boy in there.
That’s his son. Alone and unresponsive aboard the alien ship, enclosed by a hell designed without the last mercy of a quick de –
He swung towards the ship.
Nightwing refused to take over and join the combat troops. That was fine.
Nightwing also refused to stand down. Batman growled.
“You,” he bit the word out like he wasn’t talking to Dickie who was once eight years old with a gap in his front teeth and floppy hair and stood on Bruce’s shoulders. “Would make me fight you for this?”
His son did not back down an inch. “The shield just came up!” He growled right back. “Hood – Jason hadn’t responded since he went in. We lost signal of his tracker. I am not letting you follow him just to –”
“You made me a promise,” he interrupted, and watched the domino mask spasm. He hated himself for the relief he felt, not having to stare directly into those summer sky blues. He hated himself for the pang of regret because he wished he could see them again, just once, before going in.
He couldn’t dwell on either.
“You made me a promise,” he repeated, softer, a hurricane dissipating to show the same landscapes that stayed intact, but no matter, he might as well be bludgeoning Dick with a clump of rebars.
“You made me a promise, when you first put on that cape, Robin.”
His little bird stared back at him and Bruce knew he’d won. He also knew that if he ever makes it back, he might not be able to repair what he’d just broken.
“Please,” Dick whispered. The young man knew too. “You cannot ask me to let you walk into the worst fate possible.”
He removed his gauntlet just so he could feel his boy’s face, trembling with life. “It won’t be the worst fate for me,” he told him. “You know it won’t be, chum. You know it.”
More chatters across the League line. Metahumans offering to help, Superman and Wonder Woman louder and faster and converging on them before anyone else, but it didn’t matter. The field had no give for superpowers. His pain tolerance built upon mortal frailty would be his advantage.
And he was right. He thought the pain wasn’t nearly as unbearable once he couldn’t hear Dick sobbing anymore.
In the face of a seemingly dead-end, all you really needed was something very heavy and fast. And the determination to hold on to that thing until you crashed into a room with control panels.
The good news was he managed to send the school bus out before the shield went back up, and the room he was in did not seem to be affected by the field.
The bad news was none of the buttons and switches worked anymore, and there was a bike shaped hole in the wall.
Jason examined the wreckage of his bike. He was feeling a lot less optimistic about his perspectives, having had a taste of the chamber. If a speedrun left him in a writhing pile on the floor next to a puddle of his own vomit, then his chances of making it back out on foot would be slim. Which meant that –
Oh.
Oh.
He took off his mask and sat down next to the bike. If he’d known – Jason swallowed, if he’d known –
In a way they always knew though. In the earlier days you would insist that you know, that you understand the risk, the danger. You roll your eyes and think you’ve got what it takes, that you are ready. Guess what, you are not. Not until that first bullet, that first stab wound, that first time you really knew, when your wings brushed against something dark and scary and from the other side and you think, oh, this is all real. Then, slowly with time, with practice, you get used to it. You become so familiar with that knowledge that you forget again. You wrap your fingers, you pull your boot straps tight, you put on your helmet and you think here we go, and you ride out into the night chatting and joking, and you’ve stopped wondering will today be the day?
He didn’t wonder that day in the Magdala Valley. And he didn’t wonder today.
He might have wondered in the few seconds he forced himself to rush through blinding, white-hot agony, but he wondered more about what would happen to the kids if he couldn’t make it.
Now though. Now he could really see it. Now he was alone and trapped. Now he only had his thoughts.
At least – Jason bit into a thumb knuckle – at least, this time it wouldn’t be – it would be, it wasn’t as stupid, right? He managed to get the bus out. He saved those kids. And people would – maybe they would understand. It wouldn’t be for nothing.
Waiting was the worst part.
Staring at the countdown was the worst. The stark clear, numbered, quantified seconds of life he knew he was left with, and not being able to do anything about it, that was the worst.
Jason stood up.
He wouldn’t just sit here and wait. This time, he still could move, more or less. He was going to march out and if he could find enough flammables, he could take those alien bitch-ass curs with him. In fact – he tightened a hand around his Glock –there looked to be one coming at him now, a dark figure in the buzzing threads of orange light. Are those things supposed to be this big? And it’s growing larger and larger as it came closer, humming an angry, gruff sound. Jason lifted his gun as he moved close to the hole.
Batman slammed into him.
For a while all he could do was holding up as much of the man’s weight as he could while Bruce emptied out his stomach.
“Alright,” he slapped a hand against the broad and twitching back. “Alright. Let’s head on out. This place is looking less and less inviting by the second. We gotta –”
Bruce grabbed his wrist. Jesus, Jason hoped his own face wasn’t this pale. He grabbed Bruce back. “We gotta go, old man. We gotta go.” Why the hell did you even come in here. Why the hell did you follow me.
No time to argue though. They had to go. He pulled on Bruce’s arm. The man didn’t move.
Jason didn’t look back, he just pulled again. Bruce still didn’t move.
He pulled, with all his might now, towards the hole. The out. The light of impending pain and death. He pulled and pulled. He didn’t look back.
“Let’s go!” He yelled, ignoring the sudden wetness rolling down his face. “Let’s go!” He roared. “Let’s go! Let’s go!”
Bruce didn’t move. Bruce wouldn’t move. Because Bruce knew. There was no out. There was only death waiting for them beyond this room. That hole was not a hole of hope. It was a maw, the first one that would lead to many. He could feel it, the lurking monsters.
He struggled towards the orange light anyway. The skin on his fingers sizzled. It screamed at him to stop, but that’s just a lie. That’s a lie. It was just in his head. He had to get them out. Had to get Bruce out.
The hand pulled him back.
He’d yelled Hood over the comms, in the cave, on the streets of Gotham City, scared, worried sick, exasperated.
He’d sighed Jason through pages of Mary Shelley and Arthur Miller and Barbara Pym, trying to find the pattern of a severed bond through the abstract shapes of a broader world.
He’d chuckled Jay over mashed potatoes and rotisserie chicken and braised beef casserole, blessings stacked upon blessings across life and death. He’d said it with a laugh. With tears. Pressed his forehead into stone and dropped everything at the foot of the angel guarding over his boy. He’d said it until he was sure that was the only sound that existed. Until he believed that there was not a world beyond the graveyard. The one patch of soil. Until grief drowned out the echo of Jay.
He’d only said Jaylad twice with such desperation and despair and so little hope because there was not going to be an answer, and so much hope because how could an answer not come, how. Like a prayer. Like a plea.
He’d only said it and tasted bitterness on his tongue twice and the last time he was already too late.
This time he was there. This time he was there and he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t get him out.
”Jaylad,” he told his son. “We can’t. There is no time.”
They wouldn’t make it.
Jason let go of Bruce’s hand.
So this was really it.
He moved towards the back of the room and slumped against the wall, his heart stuttering through the change in pace, one second hummingbird fast and the next weighed down by a force way stronger than gravity. He put his head down on raised knees and squeezed his eyes shut, then he took big, trembling gulps of air and gripped silence with white-knuckled hands. He couldn’t make a sound. If he made a sound it would come out as screams, and he couldn’t scream at Bruce. What would he be, if he screamed at Bruce?
He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch him. To slam him into the wall. To rage and howl and thrash around. To demand. To ask. What was the man thinking. Why did he walk into this guaranteed, slow, excruciating death.
I didn’t mean it, he keened inside, like every other willful child who wished they could take their ill-deeds back. I want to die alone. Just let me die alone. I’ve never been surer about anything than this. I want to die alone.
Not Bruce. Not Bruce.
He couldn’t lift his head up because he’s a coward. He’s a selfish, pig-headed, reckless coward, who always shot first and asked questions later. He was a coward who, despite everything, despite the consequences right in front of his face, still couldn’t own up to his actions. He sat there and he waited, and he believed, that Bruce would walk over and tell him it was going to be alright. Bruce would find a way to make it alright even though he did not deserve it.
He did not deserve the sheer relief at the sight of his father. You are going to get him killed. Don’t you see? He’s going to die here because of you.
But at least we’ll be together, the bastard voice said, tiny, shameless.
He didn’t deserve it. He wouldn’t deserve the arms about to encircle him, any second now. Bruce was up and moving. Bruce would –
He jerked against the restraints nailing him to the ground, curved metal bars tight against his torso, from shoulder to leg.
“Bruce!” He shouted. “What are you doing?!”
Not enough time.
The entire hero community were gathering outside. Given time, they would find a way out for them. But time they did not have. The alien beasts were closer. They would be here in a matter of minutes, and they could tear flesh into ribbons in a matter of seconds.
Bruce gave in and stroked a hand down Jason’s cheek. This was...so much better than he imagined. When he pictured his own death, Bruce was always alone.
“Shhh,” he told him, unable to sooth the horror tumbling through the boy’s body. “It’s OK. Sweetheart. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” I won’t.
Jason’s eyes widened. Clever kid, too clever for his own good. Why did Bruce ever bring him into this?
“No.” The young man bared his teeth, masking pain and fear with ferocity – this was so much worse. “No! Don’t you dare – Bruce! Don’t you dare!”
He backed away slowly and kept his eyes on the child. His child. He needed to back away. There wasn’t enough time.
He wanted to wrap his arms around Jason and hold on.
“Close your eyes, baby,” he instructed. He wouldn’t obey. But if Bruce could find that same voice he once used, spotting backflips and adjusting gloves on tiny fingers – if he could hit the right register and trigger some muscle memories, lure out a trust he’d so long lost, maybe he could spare him.
“NO!” Jason roared, unblinking eyes almost bursting out and tears overflowing. “What are you doing?!”
Bruce kept his features aggressively schooled as he pressed his back into the orange fire. Not quite a fire yet, more hot wick and melting wax than actual blazes. It would get worse the longer he stayed here though, and it’s an interesting sensation, like drawing your finger away from the lit candle, only to stop at the outer part of the flame. The very basic, human instincts in him jumped at that but he wasn’t worried. That part would soon recede. He’d spent a lifetime out training it with reason and discipline.
Help was on the way, and Jason needed time.
Flesh-eating monsters were on the way, and Jason needed time.
The logic was indisputable. The self-control only wavered with regret when he saw his son’s face. Jason cursed and blubbered and strained against the straps. He might hurt himself.
“You are going to hurt yourself, Jay.”
Jason banged his head against the ground. He yelled more things, barely comprehensible. Bruce’s heart ached.
“Honey. No. No,” he called to the boy. “Listen to me, it’s going to be OK.”
Jason answered him with a long and anguished howl, an animalistic sound. Bruce shushed him again, and when that didn’t work, he tried to apologize.
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up!”
Bruce did not reprimand him for the language. He could forgive it this once, if Jason could forgive him as well. The boy finally managed to get intelligible words out. “What are you doing?! Those things are coming!”
Bruce knew.
“Then turn around! Turn around and fucking fight!”
“There are too many. We can’t fight them off.”
“Yes we can! We just need to buy a little time!”
Bruce knew.
His size had been an advantage, on patrol, in the battlefield, carrying people away from danger. It had also been a hindrance at times. Children scrambled away, little boys in frayed red hoodies swung tire irons into his abs. If he focused he could replace the sounds of teeth snapping and hounds snarling with Jason’s voice, that high-pitched little yell. He was so young.
He’d never been more grateful for his size. Bruce lifted his arms to brace against the wall and his cape blocked out the view outside the room. Jason hadn’t stopped thrashing but he couldn’t get the restraints off. Bruce had made sure of that.
“This isn’t your fault,” he made sure to tell him. It’s paramount that he told him this. “You did great. You saved so many people today.”
Jason wouldn’t listen, so he started telling him about the mother and her children. He described what they were wearing and the way she’d hugged her babies. He talked about other people he saw, mothers and fathers and children who would get to grow up now.
Jason would get to grow up. Bruce wouldn’t be there to see it but it didn’t matter because Jason would get to grow up. He’d recover from this and he’d find new books and new friends and new things that would make life worth it. He'd burn his tongue from digging into a tortilla wrap too eagerly. He'd walk under sunlight and see the first strand of white hair in the mirror and laugh at bad jokes. He'd feel all the crinks and twinges of age. He’d meet so many people. He could go anywhere he wanted.
Bruce couldn’t talk about that though. He couldn’t talk about Jason’s favorite things, didn’t want the boy to come back to this moment whenever he drank vanilla and cinnamon tea or smelled the crisp autumn air.
“I don’t want this,” Jason cried. “I don’t want to be worth dying for. You know how it was for me. You know this is worse than dying for me.”
Oh, silly boy.
Silly boy. If only he’d known.
But Bruce did know. He’d held the same boy through grief, all consuming at the time. Bruce knew because he was there too, soaked in blood and down on his knees, convinced that tomorrow would never come. But it did. It did, and life brought him his children. He’d learned through the years that there was only one thing that you could never recover from.
Jason would resent him but that would be OK. He used to, in the most childish way, resent his parents as well. He used to resent them for leaving, for having all his memories of them overshadowed by the one last image, Martha’s spread-eagle statue. Maybe Jason would never come to the same reconciliation as he did, but Jason would live. The impossible pain would light up. One day he’d realize he could smile again.
Even though his boy wouldn’t believe it now.
“Please don’t do this,” Jason begged. “Please don’t take my father away.”
Bruce smiled. He would understand, one day. He gripped onto aluminum alloys as he felt blood gushing out of him.
“Jaylad, it’s OK.” It’s OK. He was the only one that called Jason that. He could take that name with him if it meant Jason would survive. “Fathers are not supposed to outlive their sons.”