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The sound of Alfred’s sweeping would be drowned out by any other HVAC system. Not Bruce’s, though.
Jason taps a pen against the paper log on his lap, contemplating when he’ll have to get up. If Alfred still sweeps the same, then it’ll only take a few more seconds for him to make his way to Bruce’s desk and the minuscule dust accumulating beneath.
It’s too late — or early, by Alfred’s measure. The sound of straw bristles against the concrete floor is obscenely loud. The log in his lap is a blurry mess of coordinates and time stamps.
Bruce still isn’t back.
And even now, years later, after years separated, the superstitious, anxious beat of Robin in his chest keeps him in Bruce’s chair, eyes set on the Cave entrance.
The sunrise has a way of clearing out both crime and vigilantes, come morning light. Batman weathers the sunrise about as well as any Gothamite, which was to say he rarely did so voluntarily.
Jason’s eyelids drift dangerously low. A few feet away, Alfred’s broom catches on something on the floor.
“Need me t’move?” Jason lifts his boots up preemptively, but Alfred’s progress seems to have stalled. “Alfred?”
The butler crouches down over where the broom is caught, examining the bristles. “One moment, please.”
Interest piqued, Jason lowers his boots back to the floor, leaning forward in Bruce’s chair.
Alfred’s fingers deftly weave through the caught bristles, prying them from a spiderwebbed crack in the floor. The butler makes a triumphant sound as the broom is freed, pushing back up to his feet.
“Whoah,” Jason says. The crack is three times larger than he would’ve guessed, spreading out across the Cave floor in a rough circle. “When did that happen?”
Alfred’s expression doesn’t change, but the set of his shoulders tightens slightly. “A few years ago.”
Vague. Nice.
The sweeping resumes, but Jason’s attention remains diverted. He sets aside the logs and stands, approaching the crack and nudging it with the toe of one boot.
“I thought Bruce used pretty strong concrete,” Jason muses out loud, because it’s just him and Alfred in the Cave. Him, Alfred, and Bruce’s 65 security cameras. “What the hell happened?”
Alfred’s back is conspicuously to Jason. The butler sweeps a few more times, but it seems half-hearted. “A…disagreement, of sorts.”
“A disagreement,” Jason repeats, eyes flicking back down to the crack. “So what, Superman came and dropped a car on the Cave foundation?”
It’s only years of practice that allows him to see the slight tensing of Alfred’s fingers around the broom handle. “Not a car, per se.”
Oh. That’s anger, delicately layered and apparent to anyone who knows how to look. Anger at Superman? At Clark, the most well-mannered out of all of them, even Dick?
Interesting.
Alfred’s wound too tightly for further questioning to go far. Jason rapidly recalibrates, fingers tapping against his thigh.
“Want me to grab some caulk?” he asks with a shrug. “I could try and patch the worst of it, so you’re not digging shit out of it every time you sweep.”
“A generous offer,” Alfred says, sweeping toward the desk. He doesn’t look up. “But one I’d have to refuse. Master Wayne would prefer it remain. As a reminder, of sorts.”
Bruce, allowing something in the Cave to remain damaged…on purpose? Jason shakes his head, confused.
“Really?” he asks.
Alfred doesn’t reply, sweeping under the desk quicker than usual. Jason lifts his boots obligingly, thoughts circling sluggishly.
Jason opens his mouth to ask another question, only to be interrupted by Alfred reaching across his lap. The butler snags the log sheet and pen he’d abandoned, scribbling something in the bottom corner.
Before Jason can reply, Alfred’s already six feet away and headed for the stairs, broom and dustpan in hand.
A date and time are scribbled in elegant, if rushed, cursive at the bottom of the log sheet.
October 25th, 10:43 pm ET
Jason isn’t stupid enough to look straight up into the nearest one of Bruce’s security cameras, but it’s a close thing.
Glancing back at the crack in the floor, he moves Bruce’s mouse over to the interior Cave footage archive, scrolling back to the date Alfred had given him.
[“Bruce. Please.”]
Bruce is half in and out of the suit, leaning over the same monitors as Jason. Superman — Clark — is behind him in his own suit, agitated where Bruce is painfully still.
The footage is HD, and the sound is perfectly equalized. Jason can see every line on Bruce’s face — the dark circles, the greasy hair not yet covered by the cowl. The stubble flecking his jaw, indicating he hadn’t recently shaved.
[“I know you can hear me,”] Clark says on the recording, taking a step closer to Bruce. [“Ignoring me isn’t going to make me go away. You know that.”]
Bruce, presumably, does know this. And he simply does not care . Whatever he’s looking at on the monitors captivates him entirely, leaving Superman with barely a shred of attention.
His hands are bare, though. That, Jason can see. He can’t use the mouse as easily with gloves, but that’s not the only reason. The knuckles are bruised black and blue, swollen up to twice their usual size. They won’t fit in his normal gloves, even if he wanted them to.
It looks extraordinarily painful, but Bruce’s expression gives nothing away. He scrolls through more data — numbers and addresses Jason can’t parse, this far into the future — and ignores the small god standing over his shoulder.
[“My God, B. Would you sit down? I know you haven’t slept.”] Clark says, growing more agitated the longer Bruce ignores him. [“Alfred says you haven’t eaten. I can see three broken bones in your left hand alone…”]
The feed remains steady. So does Bruce. After a moment, he closes out the window on the screen, reaching for the sized up gloves Jason can see pinned to his utility belt.
First the gloves, then the cowl. Two final steps before Bruce heads for patrol. The routine is painfully familiar, even in a warped context.
Jason can put the date and the bruising together easily enough. Two and two, four.
Two: Bruised hands. Two: Jason died the day before.
Four: Bruce isn’t handling it well.
The on-screen Clark steps in front of Bruce before he can head for the garage, arms spread out to block the way.
[“Bruce,”] Clark begs, expression twisted. [“This isn’t what Jason would want. You have to know that.”]
In the present, Jason lets out a snort. Sure, go on patrol, B. Sure seems fitting.
By all appearances, Bruce had certainly honored that wish. Back to patrol mere hours after Jason was buried, and with a new Robin under his wing in under a year.
On the screen, Clark’s hand reaches out, pressed to Bruce’s sternum. Jason inhales, leaning in.
[“Jason wouldn’t want you to do this,”] Clark repeats, voice pitched low. Bruce’s eyes skirt his face entirely, trained on the wall behind him. [“Killing him. What good would it do, now? What kind of justice is that?”]
Oh. Oh.
Jason freezes in Bruce’s chair, fingers going rigid around the mouse.
[“Get,” Bruce’s voice is a low growl, “your hand off of me.”]
It’s the kind of anger, Jason realizes, that transcends screaming and yelling. Bruce is quietly furious, wound so tightly it looks painful, and Clark seems to be missing that completely.
[“B,”] Clark pleads, [“You’re going to kill yourself. Don’t do this.”]
Bruce steps around Clark, patience run dry. Clark makes a frustrated noise, turning and reaching for Bruce’s—
The fist that hurtles toward Clark’s face on screen is almost too fast for the camera to pick up. Jason only sees the end of it — Clark’s fingers around Bruce’s wrist, holding his hand inches away from his face.
They’re both breathing heavily on screen, chests visibly rising and falling. Bruce looks Clark in the eye for the first time, chin jutting up in challenge.
[“Go ahead,”] Bruce says on screen, monotone. [“Break it.”]
It’s telling, that Clark doesn’t immediately deny the request. Jason’s never seen Clark act less like Superman in the costume — the fear and anger in his face is wrong. Utterly wrong.
[“Let me go,”] Bruce says. His free hand is trembling against his side. [“Let me go, Clark, or you’ll regret this for the rest of your life.”]
The tone, combined with his words — it’s a threat and a promise. Jason believes it. Clark, less fluent in Bruce-speak, hesitates.
It’s enough time for Bruce’s free hand to swing up, glittering with Kryptonite. The punch hits Clark square in the cheekbone, and it looks like it hurts.
Jason swallows down a wave of nausea as he hears the bones in Bruce’s wrist break. Bruce goes down hard as Clark throws his weight on top of him, slamming him down onto the floor to cover the Kryptonite under his body.
The last of Bruce’s restraint seems to evaporate as his body hits the concrete. He bucks up under Clark’s hold with none of his usual finesse, struggling like a wild animal against a heavier opponent.
[“Stop,”] Clark says on screen, voice rising, [“STOP, Bruce! You’re going to hurt—”]
The sound that escapes Bruce is barely human. Grief, anger, fury — it’s a desperate, raw yell that sends goosebumps down Jason’s skin, years after its occurrence.
The ring slips out from a pocket of space Bruce ekes out. Clark grabs the back of Bruce’s skull with both hands, sending one final, anxious look toward the stairs.
Looking for Alfred, Jason realizes. Reinforcements.
Or witnesses.
His stomach drops as Clark — Uncle Clark, Clark — bashes Bruce’s unprotected head into the concrete, splintering the floor underneath him.
Bruce goes limp immediately, eyes closing. A pool of blood slowly spreads under his head, flooding through the new cracks in the concrete.
[“Bruce?”] Clark asks, pulling back. Jason can hear his inhale, clear and crisp. [“Bruce!”]
In the present, Jason clicks off the feed. Suddenly anxious, he pushes to his feet, finding the cracks in the floor Alfred had swept over earlier.
“Master Wayne would prefer it remain. As a reminder, of sorts.”
Jason swallows down bile, sitting back on his heels.
It takes him a few moments to get it together. When he does, he heads back for the monitors, opening the medical logs for the same week.
Suspected grade 4 concussion, possible/suspected orbital fracture. Consult for TBI pending (Leslie). Fractured carpals (all?) and fractured left ribs (6 & 7). Sedated until further evaluation available.
Jason closes the medical log, sitting back in Bruce’s chair. After a moment, he reopens both logs, erasing his access time stamps from the record.
It won’t stop Bruce, if he’s looking, but it’s enough to protect Alfred, at the very least.
One hour and thirteen minutes later, Bruce returns from patrol. He looks both surprised and unsurprised to see Jason waiting for him.
“Rough night?” Jason asks casually, eyeing the mud tracked in from the garage by Bruce’s boots.
“Unfortunately,” Bruce says, reaching up to undo the cowl. “How were the logs?”
Fractured carpals (all?) Jason recalls. Bruce’s wrist seems to work fine now. Seems, being the key word.
“Oh,” Jason says, instead of why didn’t you tell me. why didn’t you fucking tell me. “The usual. You know?”
The corner is Bruce’s mouth quirks up, betraying his amusement. “Yeah?”
Suspected grade 4 concussion, possible/suspected orbital fracture. Consult for TBI pending (Leslie).
“Yeah,” Jason says. “Hey, have you heard from Clark recently?”
If Bruce is surprised at the change in conversation topic, he doesn’t show it. “For League business. Why?”
Jason doesn’t glance at the cracks in the floor beneath them. He doesn’t dare give it away. Not yet.
“No reason.”