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Illusions of Motherhood

The Sheila Haywood Charity for Young Women had quietly been started two years ago. After Jason’s… after Tim had succeeded in pulling him out of his spiraling. After enough time had passed that he had looked back to the tragedy and thought that it ought not end as such a footnote.

Wayne Enterprises sponsored many charities throughout the years. Many of them named for Bruce’s parents. Funds for the homeless, for the sick, for the injured. Security nets cast over the city. Each and every one had been dear to his heart, and he had asked Alfred, early on, if he thought his parents would have been proud.

Decades after their passing, Thomas and Martha Wayne were names that inspired hope for Gothamites. They were plastered everywhere, on every corner, or so it felt to Bruce, who longed to feel their presence still. Who knew only about the void of their absence.

Bruce had thought… however briefly… that perhaps Jason had deserved to be remembered like that.

Even if the very idea of his name, of his face, seemed to rend him in neat bloody halves. Bruce and Batman.

It could have been a library, another free clinic, something, anything, that would be like the boy.

Bruce would have never admitted to the relief he had experienced when the board of directors of his own company shut down the project. PR was unanimous that it would be disastrous. A street rat that ran away from his benefactor with a credit card to fly halfway across the world, to then immediately meet his demise? No, the issue was a wasp’s nest and the company could not afford to bring any attention to this mess.

Bruce had buried the idea, as he had buried the boy’s memories. Yet he was not the only victim, or perhaps even not the most innocent.

Sheila Haywood had been a doctor in a refugee camp. She had grown in the mire of Gotham, and had still chosen to heal. In the moment, when Jason had found her, when she’d hugged him amongst the sick and injured, Bruce had seen another Leslie Thompkins. A woman stronger than him, ready to work on even hopeless cases, for the good of others.

If only… if only Jason had had more time with her.

If he had been more like her, less like his criminal father, how many people could Sheila Haywood have saved? If Jason had not been so stubborn, so disobedient, so… so reckless , then his mother would have lived on to help more people. If he had taken after her, would he have been a better hero?

Was it vile, to blame a boy who had paid with his life for his mistakes? Or was it, as Alfred often told him, an unfortunate consequence of the boy’s choices? What more could Bruce have done when Jason had rejected every hand given to him?

Would Bruce have raised a matricide otherwise?

Jason’s specter had haunted him long before his grave had been defiled. But when he had risen, all of Bruce’s worst fears had been proven. His son had fallen. Rejected every piece of good any of them had tried to give him.

Sheila had died telling Bruce about how good Jason was. And Bruce envied how she had been spared the horror of being wrong about this. Others died, but Bruce had to live with the truth.

With Red Hood.

An angry, reckless man that was a pale shadow of his old self. A violent man, a criminal born of a criminal.

Bruce was glad he had never pushed for charities in the boy’s name. He was relieved to know they’d never be sullied by the wrongs of the man returned. How could he have bore to see them afterward? Even now, past the disasters and living on a tentative truce, Bruce had to fight the ache in his chest at their every interaction.

Tonight, Bruce honored the victim of that tragedy in Ethiopia.

Patrol routes had been reassigned. Reworked to avoid unnecessary risks.

“And where will you be, old man?” Jason had drawled, using a knife to clean the bottom of his boots on the debrief table.

Bruce’s neck had twitched.

“At the Sheila Haywood Charity dinner.”

The glances of his other children had been quite telling.

Jason’s hands had paused, his blade hovering near a piece of gravel.

The very first time Bruce had mentioned the charity, Jason had fallen silent. Gobsmacked. Fully and completely shocked. It was one of the rare occasions where his wayward son had been speechless.

The look on his face had been uncertain, disturbed even. Ashamed, perhaps.

But he had not offered any comment. He’d searched Bruce’s face for something, and had not found it. He’d even glanced at Alfred, futilely. He’d found no ally. They knew about the charity and the traditions Bruce had started.

That night, Jason had fled the manor and had not returned until the next breakout.

Bruce was not certain when he had fallen into the habit. Mentioning the charity was a surefire way to get Jason to quiet down. To stop and reflect on the consequences of his actions. What did he think about then? Had he come to realize how his thoughtlessness affected others when faced with the grave of his mother?

Every time, the look he shot Bruce would shift. Slightly.

Resentful.

Abashed.

Cold.

Tonight, it had been light. Unconcerned and flippant.

And Bruce couldn’t get the glint of those blue eyes out of his head.

Their meaning lingered through his memories of past conversations. How was Jason so indifferent to the charity named after the mother he had gotten killed? How could he not feel the cold that crawled through Bruce’s guts? He could not imagine ever being so distanced from his own mother’s passing. Bruce’s idiocy had dragged his parents to their deaths, and so had Jason’s.

Bruce had made himself into Batman on that guilt. Guilt he did not see in his son. What had the Lazarus Pit done to him?

Tim’s touch would have made him jolt, had Bruce had any less self-control. He blinked himself aware, realizing that the first service had arrived, and that he was expected to give the opening speech.

Bruce stood up, his chair grating against the old tiles on the floor. He smiled his best socialite smile at the two dozens women and their children sitting at the catering tables. They came from lower and middle-class households, mostly single mothers or struggling women. The charity was meant to help finance their career paths in medicine and social services.

“Ladies of Gotham, I wish to congratulate all of you on-”

The door exploded.

The blast nearly had him biting his tongue, but he caught himself on the table, already stable when the dust settled.

This was supposed to be a small and private event! A quiet gesture to help these women along with their lives! Nothing extravagant and liable to attract a supervillains’ attention! Once had already been enough to needlessly ruin a brave woman’s future! There should not have been any reason to attack this venue!

But the man that strode through the smoldering remains of the door had made it his life’s goal to never hold to reason.

“Why, Brucie! My invitation got lost in the mail! But no worries, I know where I am wanted. After all, we’re talking about one of my greatest jokes, aren’t we?”

Joker’s goons spilled into the room, grabbing the women and children with unnerving efficiency. They only moved like that when the clown had a truly twisted plan. This was not meant to be chaos, but the strike of a dagger in the small of Batman’s back.

“It’s a shame I was busy the other years, what’s with being locked up or in the hospital after birdie one gave me a good rattling. But this year! Oh!” Joker let out a laugh. “This year’s gonna be a real one!”

Bruce gritted his teeth, trying to push through the anger bursting in his chest. He could not be surprised that Joker would trample on Sheila Haywood’s memories. The man had no respect for anything. He only thought it made his horrors amusing. Bruce could not focus on that. He had to find a way to intervene without endangering the hostages.

Tim had discreetly turned on the alert on his watch when the goons manhandled him. Oracle would be sending reinforcements soon. It was only a matter of time before another hero showed up to take control of the situation.

And with another villain, that thought might be reassuring. But Joker could not be relied on for anything, not even to gloat. If his production called for it, he’d murder everyone in the room as his opening act, and then make some macabre spectacle for the next people to come in.

“Now, your pal Joker is good, but this is a three person show! I’m gonna need some help here!”

The event was for single mothers. Children had been welcomed to the dinner. Bruce’s regrets tasted like ash in his mouth. As calmly as he could, his body hiding the movement from Joker’s view, he signed to Tim to be on the lookout for explosives. No doubt the Joker had prepared many.

Joker casually strutted down the line of captive women. (If he came any closer, Bruce could take him. A quick takedown to draw all the attention away from the captives.)

“You,” Joker drawled, running the tip of his gloves under the blonde’s chin, “you’ll make a good Sheila. I have a feeling it’s in you. Alright, alright, so let’s start!” He clapped, his henchmen letting out cheers as if on cue. “You, my dear, owe me money.”

“P-please,” she begged, curling on her sobbing child. “Please, we’re not- please, don’t hurt him.”

An oppressive silence suffocated them as Joker stared, blank-faced. His eyes, vivacious and ever flirting with madness, were fully focused on the poor woman, waiting, expecting.

Her trembling frame covered her son, tears falling freely.

“No, no, no!” Joker whined. “You have to work with me, ladies! Don’t you get what we’re doing here?”

The bang was thunderous.

The boy’s wailing for his falling mother was worse.

With a flourish of his sleeves, Joker waved at the picture of Sheila Haywood hanging from one of the banners. “We are honoring a very special woman together! It’s the anniversary of her death!”

Tim’s fists clenched, his glare narrowing on the goons holding Bruce. They had already failed tonight. Another life stolen for no reason at all. They had to try something.

“At celebrations like these, you have to remember what they were like in life. Alright, let’s try again.”

Joker pulled at a brunette in the crowd and yanked her off her feet. She stumbled, her breathing shallow with fear, but her eyes defiant. The little girl in the goons’ hold started screaming her name, and was summarily ignored.

“I’m gonna to threaten you with my knife.” He snatched the woman’s chin, giggling at her flinch. “Focus, Sheila. Remember your role!” His grin widened, a strange spark in him as he played the part of the acting coach. “You were stealing money from the relief camp’s funds. And you get in deep troubles. Right?”

“Right,” she replied, very evenly. “I did that. Stole from refugees.”

Bruce heard the fall of his heart through his chest.

Joker grinned, all too pleased at the woman’s reply.

“Yes. You got it, Sheila. So, a nice jester comes along and begs for a paltry little bit of money. For supplies, perchance, my good madam, I am so hungry for laughs.” - Bruce’s stomach churned with revulsion at the bastard’s attempt at seeming innocent - “But you don’t have anything worthwhile, right? Right?”

She dared not avert her eyes.“No.”

“Now, here, HERE!” Joker suddenly shouted, a finger raised on each hand pointing at every member of the captive audience. “Here, my Sheila, you realize you do have something worth a laugh. Get it?”

And Joker rocked his arms together, as if…

As if cradling a child…

Bruce’s mind buckled.

The brunette paled two shades, landing on a sickly green. “No. N-no, I don’t have anything. Just me. Just my life.”

Joker’s smile slowly slipped off his face. “Urgh! Tonight truly is amateurs’ hours. You really aren’t getting into the role. I threaten you and then… you hand over the b-”

His word died out in a wheeze. His body jerked in sync with the blast of a gun going off. His expression froze for a bit, his eyes moving down to the gushing wounds in his side. Joker chuckled, then toppled over.

Red Hood stood in the doorway, his weapon still smoking. His head tilted to the goons and the delicate hostage situations, then he stepped forward.

The force of his boots on the ground echoed the bullet’s thunder.

“Hey! Don’t get any closer!” some goon shouted, and Tim started crouching, ready to spring into action.

Hood paid them no mind.

“You fucking clown,” he drawled, his voice like a rumbling of thunder through his vocoder. “All this production, you just can’t help yourself.”

From the floor, his smile turning bloody, Joker cheered. “Junior! Came to see mama play her big starring role?”

The kick that knocked out three of Joker’s teeth looked - and felt - all too satisfying.

Hood slowly crouched over him, his helmet almost touching the clown’s face. “Don’t you know better than to ruin the joke? ”

Joker’s laughter erupted, high pitched, rasping cackling that rose and rose and echoed throughout the assembly.

Hood’s hand moved, aiming the muzzle of his gun straight at the clown’s head.

Bruce’s body reacted, and the carving knife on the table flew through the air to knock the weapon out of Hood’s fingers.

Hood stepped back, hissing, flecks of red coming from the tear in his gloves. His head turned toward Bruce, and though the helmet hid the expression, Bruce felt the glare hit him like a punch to the kidney.

Nightwing dropped down from the ceiling then, with Spoiler after him. Everything seemed to become lost in the chaos after that. His children coordinated together to neutralize the goons and evacuate the hostages.

Jason glancing at his discarded gun halfway across the room, at the Joker chuckling in Black Bat’s grip.

Red Hood slipping out when the last of the hostages had escaped.

Bruce’s feet carried him out the back of the community center. He pushed past the pungent smell of decay and garbage warming up, following the clanging of rusting metal, to find his son up an escape staircase off the side of an apartment building. He was three quarters of the way up. He was close enough to the rooftops that he could vault over it and disappear.

All of Batman’s intuition suddenly told him that this might be the last he would ever see of his son.

Why couldn’t you have turned out like your mother instead of your father? Bruce had thought, over and over these past few years. He had bitten his tongue in the past, a shred of unease at using this one weapon. Parts of him, held back by the fear of retaliation. Jason’s tongue was as sharp as his, and he would not miss an occasion to tell Bruce of his failings either. The topic was too raw for anyone to thread there.

And now, he wondered if he should bless his fortune for having never spoken that thought out loud.

‘You hand over the b-’

“Was he lying?” he heard himself ask.

Red Hood paused where he had been able to jump, and turned halfway.

“You trust anything out of that scum’s mouth now?”

Sharp. Dismissive. As if there was nothing to talk about.

As if this hadn’t weighed between them for years.

He forced the accusation out of his mouth. “You never said anything.”

The hiss of the helmet startled Bruce.

Jason faced him fully. No helmet. No mask between them. How long ago had it been? Jason raised an eyebrow, a quirk not unlike Alfred’s. A dare in that gesture.

“You’re a detective.”

And detectives solved mysteries.

There had never been a mystery about Sheila Haywood’s death. Jason had found her, and Joker had found them both. Only the clown had come out of the encounter alive. A woman and a boy, murdered. That was the truth. That… had to be the truth.

‘You hand over the b-’ ‘You have to remember what they were like in life.’

“Why?”

“It’s no water off my back if you decide to sing the praise of unworthy parents, B.”

And Jason’s lips quirked up, just a bit, just the corner, his eyes half-lidded, tired and angry and cutting. He smiled an awful, private smile. Exhaling a silent laugh.

Pinning him with the full force of a reality Bruce had never seen creep up on him.

“It’s rather fitting, don’t you think?”

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