Archive of Our Own

Bruce knew he was drunk; he hadn’t eaten enough before this. He didn’t care. He could distantly hear his father warning his 6-year-old self about the dangers of alcoholism and his family history of it. History on which side? Bruce couldn’t care. He just buried his youngest son and a part of himself with the boy. The past few days, he held himself together, but seeing his son, his Jason, in that coffin, hit the last nail in Bruce’s own. He holed himself in the cave with a bottle of far too nice scotch, sealing the doors behind him. He reached back out towards the now two bottles; one of them had to be real. Forgoing a glass, he took a large swig, letting it burn his mouth before swallowing.

He put Jason in that suit, let him think it made him magic. He was a horrible father, with a zero-for-two track record to prove it. God, Dick hates him, and Jason’s dead, he’s dead because of him. Dead because Bruce couldn’t open his mouth and talk to Dick. Dead because he didn’t trust Jason about the Gonzalez case. Dead because the damn batcopter couldn’t fit two people. 

He would never see Jason’s toothy grin as he told Bruce about some silly analyses his classmates gave about whatever book they were reading. Jason would never grow tall just to spite the malnourishment of his past; he wouldn’t even get the chance. He would never be able to take Jason to pick out his own car for his 16th or his first drink for his 21st. He'd never get to nag him to call when he was away at some nice college studying English and literature. 

He would never taste the cookies Jason so proudly made on his own again; they had been slightly burnt and had too much salt, and they had been the best cookies Bruce had ever had.

He would never smell the minty dollar store shampoo Jason was so attached to again. It made his eyes water if Jason hugged him too soon after a shower; he loved it. 

He took another swig of scotch, bumping his elbow into the picture Alfred took after Jason finished training. Bruce had thought it was unnecessary. He cradled it in his hands, finally letting tears fall, dropping onto the glass frame without fanfare. His son's eyes were hidden behind his mask, but Bruce could sense the happiness in them. 

He would never see those bright blue eyes again, sparkling with joy and goodness. Goodness, he killed, snuffed out like an unwanted candle. 

He would never hear Jason’s snide remarks again, both when Bruce was helping him with math homework or when the boy was goading crooks into misstepping.

He thought he could see lights flashing in the cave proper when he lifted his head for another drink; if he squinted, he could almost see Jason standing in the light of the Batcomputer calling him with a breakthrough in a particularly complex case. Saddened to see the nearly empty bottle, he finished it in one go before haphazardly letting it slam down with a loud crash.

The end of a bottle, the end of his son’s life, what difference would it make? It wouldn’t bring Jason back; it couldn’t even numb the wrenching pain in his chest.

The noise rang in his ears. The explosion did that too; if Bruce closed his eyes, he could still feel the heat on his face and the force pushing him back. He was so tired. Closing his eyes, he let himself drift. 

If he were lucky when he opened them, he would be with his son again, and if fate were kind, he wouldn’t wake up from that blissful dream.