Chapter Text
It's not a lie to say that Bruce Wayne is a strong man. He's the Batman, of course he's strong; he has trained his body to peak physical form over the course of several years, and he's blocked out all sense of emotional weakness and vulnerability that could potentially compromise him. He is, by all means, the peak of the human physical form.
However, even the strongest of men break and crumble. Bruce has cracked and faltered many times, all because of his children. His children who he loves so dearly, who seem to be the single reason for his gray hairs and the stubborn wrinkles budding on his face that he refuses to fix just yet (he’s still a young-ish man after all); his children who are all so brave and so strong despite everything life has thrown at them; his children who he’ll never quite understand. Yes, he’s cracked and faltered for his children, his family, but never has he broken down.
That is, until he had to bury an empty coffin in place of his son.
“Have you got something to tell the nice man, Jason?”
That day will forever be frozen in his mind, placed on a shelf deep in his brain, nestled uncomfortably between the day he lost his parents and the day he received video confirmation of his Jason's death; the memory of his mother’s pearls hitting the ground and his father’s blood splattering onto his little face, and the memory of his beautiful boy's face as he finally gave in to his captors taunts, only to be given the relief he was begging for. His boy looked so tired and so hopeless all because Bruce failed to find him.
“My name is Jason Todd.”
Neither of those days had broken Bruce. Broke his heart? Yes. But Bruce himself? No. He held strong as he led that too-light coffin on his weakened shoulders towards the lot right next to his parents. He held strong as friends and family spoke about his son, how wonderful he was, how brave he was, how bright he was, and how unjust it all seemed. He held strong as his boy was lowered into the ground. He held strong as white lilies were tossed over his son’s empty coffin. But the moment the first thlunk of dirt hitting the coffin’s mahogany surface echoed through the cool air, Bruce's sobs did, too. Suddenly, the pain stabbing through his chest was too much to bear and his body grew too heavy for even Superman himself to lift.
“Who do you hate?”
Maybe it hurt so much because he knew Jason wasn't really in there; because he knew he'd never find his sons body; because he knew that his boy will never truly be at peace so long as the Joker is there to mutilate and torture his body and soul. Maybe it hurt so much because in the end, Bruce failed his son, and his son hated him for it. Maybe it just hurt. All he knew was that in that moment, he was inconsolable, and he remained inconsolable even after the strangers who came to witness a celebrity death fled at the sight of human emotion, after the friends who he fought alongside tried to comfort him, even after his remaining children were forced to carry him home.
“Batman.”
God, he was such a pitiful sight, sobbing in the dirt, ruining his expensive suit, begging for his son, for Jason. He was so pitiful that not even Vicky Vale dared capitalize on his pain. All reports of young Jason Todd's funeral showed no evidence of the gossip the Waynes were used to. No, every report showed nothing but pity for the beloved prince of Gotham’s grief at the loss of his son. Bruce Wayne, the man who has everything, loses it all.
“Did you get that, Bats? The kid’s not yours anymore.”
After far too long, only the remaining frays of his family remained at the grave: His two eldest, Barbara, and Alfred, who, Bruce realized, were all so much stronger than he ever could be.
“He’s mine. Mine, mine, mine, to do with as I wish.”
Tim, who idolized Jason, whose reason for joining their family was to help find Jason, stood firmly at Bruce's left with a hand on his shoulder and his teary eyes looking to the ground for comfort. Even drowning in grief, Bruce could see how his son had once again stepped up to do what Bruce failed to do.
“Hey, I never asked! What’s the big secret? His name. Tell me!”
Dick, his eldest, who loved so strongly and protected so fiercely, who saw Jason as his little brother from the start, kneeled at Bruce's right hand, held him and cried with him. His eldest was, as usual, giving everything for someone he loved.
“Of course, sir. It’s–”
Barbara, who was not his child though she was family nonetheless, fresh out of the hospital, sat in her new chair behind them all, with the silent understanding of how much the Joker could destroy you, how much he could take all in the name of a joke.
BANG!
Alfred, the man who raised him, who had lost too much already, who never dared cry in front of the people he was meant to serve and support, wept silently into his palm as he attempted to console his charges.
“Never could stand a tattletale. That’s why I work alone. No one to spoil the punchline.”
Upon seeing the people he loved so fiercely standing on guard around him, Bruce allowed himself to fully sink into his grief. He could feel the way his heart began to crack, like a fake diamond put under far more pressure than its poor quality could handle. Bruce felt that and willingly sank into the crevices and ravines of his broken heart and wept into them, and almost drowned himself within them.
“You should try it sometime. You see what happens when you drag your friends into this crazy little game of ours.”
Bruce was always the pillar of his family, the protector of his city, and the world’s greatest detective, but in that moment, all Bruce is, is a desperately sad, small, weak man who wants to be held.
***
Bruce has no real memory of how he got home that day, so overcome by his pain that he let go of his perfectly controlled mind for a little while. All he knew was that, for one night, in solidarity with Bruce's loss, the city rested. No murder was committed, no bank heist, no petty thieves were caught, not even the rogues dared insult Jason’s freshly buried casket by breaking out. No tires were stolen.
For the first time in decades, Gotham was silent. Not a gunshot resounded and not a peep was made. The city herself held silent to mourn Bruce’s son. Another child who was born into her streets was lost too soon to the city’s darkness. The only sounds made that night were the cries that resounded throughout the long forgotten lead lined room, deep below Arkham Asylum. Cries that no longer begged for help, but for mercy. Cries that only received manic laughter and more pain as a reply.
Not that Bruce knew anything about that.
***
The days that followed were somber and silent. Dick Grayson had temporarily taken up the mantle of Batman. Bruce deserved to rest. In the years that he had known Bruce, Dick had never seen Bruce break down like that before. Honestly, it scared him. Babs and Tim tried talking to Bruce, but all the man did was look over at them and either frown at them or muster up a sad little Bruce smile (translation: grimace) at them before turning away again to stare at the wall. Sometimes he switched things up and stared at a picture of Jason, or his parents’ portrait, or the Batcomputer, but it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t seeing much of it anyways. Dick's attempts didn't go much better. He decided he needed to try calling in some back-up.
"Kal-el."
In an instant Superman was there, "Batman."
"Clark."
"Dick," he said as he pulled his nephew into a hug, "how are you holding up?"
"You know... Bruce isn't great," he began, "I— he won't talk to us. He's— well, he's being Bruce."
"But how are you doing, Dick?"
"I'm— I don't know. Relieved. It's better he's dead than suffering, I guess. Bruce can't know I said that, he's been— y'know, since the funeral. I don't know what to do anymore. All he does is talk about Jason. Cry about him."
“It’s okay to miss him, you know.”
“I know that, it’s just…”
“I know, Dick. I get it.”
Dick was exhausted, and not hiding it well. Bruce would be disappointed in him for not trying to mask his emotions better, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care. Not in front of Clark, at least.
"I'll try to talk to him."
***
Very soon after Clark’s conversation with Dick, Clark makes his way to his old friend’s side for a chat.
Now, Clark was there for the funeral, as a friend and as a professional. Alfred asked him to be the one to write the report of the funeral, and who was he to say no to Alfred Pennyworth? Clark was there, he saw his friend crumble and cry out for his dead son. He watched his respected colleague, the unflappable Batman, dig his hands into the freshly piled dirt, begging for Jason back, halfheartedly attempting to dig his way into the coffin. Clark knew at that moment that whatever happened when he saw Bruce next wouldn’t be good or healthy, but he wasn’t expecting the man he saw in front of him; Bruce wasn’t weeping, or brooding, or wailing out into the ether for the lost soul of his son, he was simply doing nothing. It was like his friend had completely disappeared from the world. Bruce barely seemed present in his own body, trapped behind the walls of grief in his mind that he hadn't yet compartmentalized. None of his usual mannerisms or eccentricities were there. Bruce was just sitting there in his office chair, his head resting tiredly in one hand, not even turning to acknowledge the new person in the room.
“Bruce.”
No response.
“Bruce.”
No response.
“Bruce,” he said, this time placing a hand on the other man’s shoulder.
“What do you want, Clark?” He sounded so dejected and filled with bitter tiredness.
“I need to talk to you about Jason–”
“Don’t. Say his name,” Bruce hissed, displaying the most passion Clark had seen since the funeral.
A heavy silence fell between the two men. Not the type of comfortable silence that so commonly occurred between them, the type that informed years of friendship and trust. No, this silence was nothing but suffocating, uncomfortable, and painful. Stifling. Still, the Kryptonian weaselled his words through the gaps in breath.
“Bruce, I know that you’re in pain, I understand, but you can’t go on like this.”
“How do you think you understand my pain? What have you done to make you think you have even the slightest understanding of the pain of losing a child?”
“Bruce, I've lost people too.”
“Not like this.”
The thing is, Bruce was right. Clark couldn't understand this pain Bruce felt. Sure, Clark had lost his planet and his people, but the pain of that loss had always felt more distant and sinister. He never got to know his biological family, nor did he remember Krypton as anything other than the home he could've had. His grief was entirely retroactive. Clark had never had a child, let alone lost one. There wasn't much he could say to help, but he still had to try to get through to Bruce.
“I loved Jason, too. I cared about him, too.”
“If you really cared about him you would've done more to find him,” Bruce said venomously, “you're Superman, Clark, how could you not find him? How could you have failed him so terribly, yet you’re still prepared to say you cared about him? If you really care about Jason, where the hell is he?”
“Bruce–”
“Get out, Clark.”
“Okay, I'm sorry.”
Clark tried.
***
The next person to try their hand at talking to Bruce was Diana. Clark went to her after he failed to get through to Bruce. She didn’t go to him immediately, hoping that she wouldn’t have to get through to him, praying to Zeus that she wouldn’t have to face the loss of her little warrior, too. Unfortunately, she couldn’t avoid the pain forever. Word from Nightwing of Bruce’s worsening conditions came through and she had to at least try to talk to him.
The air in Gotham was crisp as she pulled up to Wayne Manor. There wasn’t much fanfare as Alfred Pennyworth greeted her at the door and guided her inside. The Manor had always felt cold and empty, but she had intentionally been avoiding it since Jason was taken by the Joker. Without her little warrior’s presence in the manor, it was cold and sad, haunted by the generations of Waynes who died in the house. All of Bruce’s children brought life to the manor, but it only took the loss of one to completely snuff it out.
Alfred guided her directly to Bruce’s study, where he apparently spent all of his time now, not daring to enter the Batcave, but still afraid to stray too far from it. Bruce looked awful. His eyes were dull and lifeless and it was quite obvious he hadn’t slept or showered or eaten in far too long. Her beloved friend looked completely gone from the world around him, solely focused on an image of him and Jason playing baseball. Jason loved baseball.
Diana’s presence in the room was not acknowledged, even as Alfred closed the door and left, not even offering tea or kind words to them before his departure.
“Bruce–”
“Did Clark send you?”
“That doesn’t matter. I’m here to see you,” Diana insisted.
“Here to convince me to feel better?” he asked bitterly, “leave it, Diana. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Jason wouldn’t want you to wallow like this, Bruce.”
“How do you know what Jason would have wanted?’ he questioned furiously, “How do you know? You barely knew him.”
“Jason and I…” Diana cut herself off, teary eyed at the thought of her fallen child and her hurting friend, “I loved Jason very much, Bruce. He was a strong warrior and a good boy. He may not have been my son, but I lost him too, and I miss him everyday.”
Diana took a step back from her friend as he slumped down again, tired out from his minor outburst.
“I don’t tell you this to shame you, Bruce,” she began, “I just want you to know that you're not alone in grieving him.”
With those final words she left, not much else to say to him anymore. She wasn’t even sure if she even got close to getting through to him, but at least she reminded him he wasn’t alone.
***
Over the next few weeks, the silence of Wayne Manor got much louder. It seemed hopeless to even try to get through to Bruce. If his closest friends' visits meant nothing, and his children’s begging for their father was ineffective, then what would get through to him? Jason had been missing for months before the video was sent, but the hope of his possible return home was still present. Unfortunately, the moment the video was sent out, all hope was lost, and so was a part of Bruce’s feeble heart.
The pain of the past few months had worn down on all of them, especially Alfred. Although, through watching the man he raised sink further and further into his grief, Alfred knew he had to do something about it. So, he put his heart back together enough to enter Bruce’s study for longer than a few seconds at a time and decided to speak to the younger man.
Walking into the study, Alfred immediately regretted his decision, but he stood tall despite his shame and fear, just as the old man had throughout his whole life.
“Master Bruce,” he began, “I have a few things I'd like to say and I request that you do not interrupt me, nor ignore me if you please.”
“Fine, Alfred, I'm listening.”
“Master Bruce, I understand that you are grieving, as are the rest of us. This is why I didn't speak to you about this sooner. I suppose I was hoping you would process this on your own. Unfortunately, you haven't managed to at all. Master Jason is gone. He wouldn't want this for you, and you need to start healing.”
Shockingly, Bruce didn't say a word during Alfred’s speech. He waited until the very end to pipe up with his thoughts.
“You can’t possibly understand what I'm feeling right now, Alfred–”
“Sir, I have been on this earth for nearly 70 years. I have fought in wars and been in every situation one could imagine, I have watched dear friends die in front of me, I raised the son of my dead friends just for that boy to turn around and put his life at risk every night for a cause I don't believe I will ever truly understand. I have watched you bring wonderful children into this home that brighten this world so much more than anyone will ever understand. I have watched those children get hurt, and now I have watched one of them die, and you think I don't understand how you feel? Master Bruce, I understand better than you do how you feel. I know you lost a son, but I lost a grandson. Please, don't make me lose a son, too.”
With that, Alfred left without another word. Back to work. Bruce went back to his staring off into the abyss of his grief.
***
Soon after Alfred’s impassioned speech, Bruce began going out as Batman again. If anything, just to give Dick a break to mourn, too. Unfortunately, it did not mean much improvement on Bruce’s part. He rapidly got more violent than ever, and no one had the power or the will to prevent him from taking that dark path.
Finally, on patrol one shockingly warm night, Bruce is the last one out to survey the city when a new presence is felt from the shadows behind him.
“Green Arrow,” he says tersely.
“Bruce,” Ollie says, “I knew you weren’t doing great, but damn,” he exclaims, charmingly insensitive as always, “I was hoping it would be better than this.”
“Have you been sent to talk some sense into me?”
“No, actually,” he says as he sits himself down on the ledge next to his oldest friend, “I just came to see you. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for the funeral. It’s not that I didn’t want to be, it’s just that…”
“Hn,” suddenly, the Dark Knight sat himself down next to Oliver. He knew what this was, he knew it was an olive branch.
“It’s selfish, but it’s hard to see that, you know, as a father.”
Oliver was well aware that he didn’t really deserve the title of father anymore, but it’s hard to shake the instincts, even after you fail that badly at your job. Everyone knows how badly he messed that one up.
“Don’t pretend it’s the same, Ollie. Your son is still alive.”
“Yeah, but I still lost him.”
“But he’s still alive.”
Oliver Queen has known Bruce Wayne for most of his life. They’ve been through loss and death together, they’ve fought alongside each other for years, and it’s probably not an exaggeration to say that Ollie is Bruce’s oldest friend. So it’s quite a shock for the blond hearing his friend's voice now. Over thirty years of friendship, Oliver has never once heard Bruce sound this broken up about anything. His friend has always been a brick wall, but it seems like something in him finally crumbled.
It feels like an arrow to the chest. No matter how hard they deny it, no matter how hard they try, they’ll always be painfully similar. Now, sitting together, they’re both nothing but two sad men who failed spectacularly at protecting their children from the world.
“Last I heard from Roy was after the funeral,” Ollie sighs, “He… he asked me if Jason was really gone now.”
Roy loved Jason so much, Oliver knows. Roy had been slipping for god knows how long before Jason was taken, but Oliver still ignored it, hoping he would sort himself out. It wasn’t until he heard news of Jason’s kidnapping, that Oliver really noticed anything was seriously wrong. Still, he ignored it in favour of helping search for the boy. By the time the first video was sent to Batman, Oliver realized he was too late. He’d tried to do the right thing and check on Roy after the boy ran off to his room in tears after seeing that awful video of Jason’s torture. It wasn't an easy video to watch, the poor kid looked like all the life was gone from his eyes. Just painfully hopeless. Oliver couldn't imagine it was easy for Roy to see his… friend like that, so Oliver decided to give him some time. Unfortunately, by the time he peeked his head into Roy’s room, it was too late for him to look away from the disaster at hand. He walked right in on his son shooting up on his bedroom floor. It felt like the final puzzle piece falling into place. Every argument, every questionable decision Roy made, everything from the past year all fell into place, and Oliver saw red. Looking back, Oliver wishes he could have reacted better, maybe swept the kid up into a hug, or even shipped him off into a rehab, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.
After the fight, Roy began slipping away even more. He left the mansion for days at a time, and never even spoke to Oliver. Anytime he tried to talk to Roy, tried to reach out, it only made the kid angrier. It eventually got to a point where Roy only ever came home when another clip of Jason got sent out. Roy would stay for a couple of days frantically and ineffectively searching for evidence, only to give up, beg Ollie for money and disappear into the night with some stolen bills after Ollie refused to give him a cent.
When news of Jason’s death came, Oliver knew Roy was gone completely. Bruce lost his son and as punishment for not finding him sooner, Oliver lost his, too. Bruce’s to death and mutilation and violation, Oliver’s to drugs and despair and addiction.
“Roy’s as good as gone now. I screwed up too badly to fix it anymore. He doesn’t want me to find him.”
“But your boy is still alive, Oliver,” Bruce exclaims, “that’s the difference. You can get him back, you can still find him, hell, I know where he is. All you need to do is ask me. I couldn’t even find Jason. I don’t even know where his body is.”
Bruce looks like he’s about to cry or beat Oliver up. Frankly, Oliver would prefer to get beat up than to see Bruce cry.
“Bruce,” Oliver says, “I’m not here to tell you how to feel. You lost your kid, you’re allowed to be upset. The fact that you haven’t killed anyone is insane. You’re allowed to be angry, but right now you’re hurting yourself and everyone else around you, too. You lost your son, but you aren’t the only one who lost him. All of the league feels like we lost our nephew, Dick lost a brother, Tim lost his.. I don’t know, his idol, Alphie lost a grandson, and Roy lost his partner. Hell, he probably lost the love of his life. We’re all grieving, so let us grieve with you. Trust me, Bruce, I know you like to do things alone, but it does help.”
Bruce seems to be listening for once. Suddenly, Oliver feels incredibly out of place here on the roof of this building in this gargoyle infested city.
“I need to go now,” he says like the coward he is, “but please, just think about it.”
“--Try to find Roy.”
“What?”
“Your son is still alive, Ollie, he needs you. At least try to find him.”
“...I’ll try.”
And with that halfhearted promise, Oliver reintegrates himself back into the shadows as a blue and black figure appears at Batman's side.
Maybe, just maybe, they’ll be okay.