You always had been one to notice things too fast, it was your job as a hero and detective after all, so it wasn't particularly hard to notice the changes within your family. The way Cass eyes linger a beat too long on you. How Dick hugs you a bit too tight, you actually don't even remember the last time he hugged you before that chaotic morning. The constant feeling of Damian watching you and also Tim who began to record videos of you. Videos during patrol, videos doing mundane things, something that would never caught his eyes before. Why now? You don't understand.Â
With all that, the one that bothered you more than the others, Bruce. Your father had never been one to share physical touches with you, and yet now he did. A hand circling your wrist, as if to make sure you were still there. His eyes panicked every time you disappeared for a while. Before, you would have been over the moon having the attention that you longed so much, but this uncomfortable feeling filled your chest and because of that you couldn't be happy about it.
It is strange. Suffocating.Â
It was hard to admit, but he was getting too paranoid. Bruce knew it. Everyone did. But every time he closed his eyes, the image of your body filled his mind.
He saw the blood before anyone else.
He saw the dirty alley.
He saw your terrified expression.
He saw how you were alone.
All that haunted him remained in his mind, but he also remembered what came next.
Your funeral.
Your pale body, devoid of any blood.
Your cold hands.
Your mothers screams of pain crawled through his skull.
So waking up to find you back, was both everything he wanted and feared the most. He could prevent your death now, he should just let you out of the mission. However, this odd feeling wouldn't let go of him. Shivers run down his spine as he thought about the contrast between the you of now and the one who died. He couldn't let that happen again and because of it he is spiraling, mind getting dizzy at the thought of losing you again.Â
And that's exactly what is getting him crazy.Â
When he lost Jason, Bruce himself was lost. Lost in how he could heal. Lost in how to understand how the world could continue without his child in it.With your death, having lost a child for the second time, he should have known what was being taken from him, but he didn't. A parent's grief is often filled with memories, and differently from Jason, Bruce saw all your beginnings.
The first steps. First word. First scraped knee. Your birthday. His absence.Â
Bruce doesn't remember when he began pushing your existence aside, but he did. That night at the mortuary, he screamed his lungs out. He grabbed you by the shoulder, shaking your body, begging you to wake up. God, that hurt so much. A parent isn't supposed to outlive his child, yet your body laid lifeless in front of him. It felt like a joke. A really mean and cruel joke. Still holding onto your cold hands, he barely noticed when the doctor came to the room.
âIm sorry for your loss.âÂ
Despite continuing talking, Bruce didn't hear a thing. Loss. As if he had only misplaced something unimportant, like a wallet or a phone. As if his child didn't lay motionless in front of him.
Passing a hand through his hair, the man exhaled briefly, the air coming out shaking. The memories were too painful for him. Adding to his poor mental state, his phone screen lit up, âDamian is callingâ Â displayed through it. He barely had time to say something when his youngest voice took place in his ears.
âFather! We need help, Y/N is coming here.â
He felt his stomach sink. Damian's voice went frantic as he explained to Bruce about the warehouse he had been and how his older sibling followed him, afraid he might get in trouble going alone. Now, both of them were hiding in the place, as the numbers of goons turned out to be more than they could handle.
It didn't take much time for Bruce to slip into his suit, alerting the other vigilantes about what was happening. He drove his way to the warehouse without waiting for the other, he had no time for it.
The entire dirve, Bruce kept looking at the clock.
Seven minutes.
Six minutes.
Five.
Too long.Â
The feeling in his chest showed no signs of diminishing. His hand gripped on the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles ached.
Hold on. Please.
He got out of the car before it fully stopped. His gut closed tightly at the unusual feeling. The sky displayed an ominous purple color, the clouds circling the city with intensity, he couldn't help but remember the morning he returned to the past. The way your eyes locked in those same clouds. A lightning struck and with it the sound of gunshots could be heard.Â
âY/N! Damian!â.- He yelled, but had no answer.
That's when he saw it. Blood. His eyes spinned, refusing to focus on the crimson liquid in front of it. His hurried voice echoed through the abandoned and rusted corridors. No answer again. He ran harder, not caring if his lungs had enough air for it. And then, at the end of the corridor a broken door caught his eyes, in it a trail of blood. His heart lurched.
âNo, no, no.â- He muttered low and faint, but the other caught, through the comms, the fear in his voice.
Just then he saw his child. For a single glorious second, relief flooded through his mind. The oldest held Damian into a hug, the youngest face hidden between Y/N shoulder and neck.
His children were there, safe. Everything would be okay.
Dropping to his knees beside both and just then he noticed the oddness in it.
âHey, hey, I'm here.â- His shaking hand came to his oldest shoulder.
It was cold. Not cool, cold. The kind of cold Bruce unfortunately knew too well. Under Y/N's body, Damian hyperventilated, noticing earlier what Bruce hadnât.Â
âNo.â- Bruce searched desperately for a pulse. Nothing.- âNo, no. Please.â
Again, nothing. His vision blurred.
âNo!â- He said again, the word reverberating through the room, still, nothing.Â
Y/N didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't laugh. Didn't cry. The silence answered for them. Once more he had found his child too late. Once again he had to hold their cold body. The realization settled over him like a crushing weight. Gone.
Touching his forehead to his child one, Bruce cried.Â
Warning: Death, mentions of violence. Reader is GN.
Bruce, in all his flaws, never thought he would pass through the feeling of losing another of his children. So why? Why was your body in that alley? Why are your blood painting the walls red? Both his knees gave in, hitting the ground with force and despite the foreigner sensation, the only thing he could do was reach for your body.Â
Y/N Wayne for all their life, be it in action or in appearance, resembled Bruce too much. To the point, Bruce couldn't help but drive himself away from his firstborn. The child was everything he hated about himself. But now, as he cradled the child's body in his arms, nothing could get through his mind, except the way he treated you along the years.
Was he even worthy of holding your body like that?
From all of his children, Dick and you would be the ones most competent, so he paid no mind when you were not assigned a partner, he knew you were used to going on solo missions. But it was when your pained scream through the comms that Bruce knew he shouldn't have brushed aside your lack of company. Your ragged breath made a shiver run down Bruce's spine, your siblings voices soon filling the device but you didn't respond.
It wasn't until Barbara's voice came through âThey are going to kill them, Bâ that his legs finally moved, he was the closest to your location and yet when he got there, it was already too late. Your blood was still warm when Bruce hugged your body close, but your heart was no longer beating, the silence of it making Bruce's head dizzy.
It didn't take much time for the rest of his children to gather around the scene, with each of them digesting the image in front of them in different ways. Tim was the one who took it the worst.
âNo, I calculated everything, that was not supposed to happen. They are fine right, B? Please, tell me they are fine.â
Being the one to make the plan, he couldn't help but think that it was because of him that your body laid lifeless on his fathers arms. Dick hugged Tim trying to comfort him, but his tears just made the younger one panic even more. Shoving his older brother's body out of the way, Tim started to vomit, his limbs trembling in fear and guilt.
Bringing his fingers to close your eyes, Bruce finally moved. Standing up with your body, the man hid the sight of you from his other children by pulling his cape over you, he didn't want to show your condition to them. Bruce's face was covered by his own tears,the feeling of your body now turning cold was like a whiplash to his consciousness.
And just like that, Bruce lost you for the first time. He didn't know what was coming for him.
The pain of losing a child is one of the rare things people can overcome. Grief doesn't go away, you just learn how to manage your life around it and because of that Bruce still occasionally had some flashes of it through his mind.
The image of your body in his arms. The sensation of the blood running through his fingers. The stillness of your eyes, as he closed your eyelids.Â
But that⊠It must be some kind of sick joke, otherwise why was he seeing you sitting at the table, eating breakfast as if nothing happened. Your eyes looked at him in confusion of the way Bruce was standing looking at them, but Bruce could only notice the way your eyes were full of life. His legs moved with urgency, reaching for you and embracing your body against his, face tucked between his shoulder and the crook of his neck.
âBruceâŠ? Did you have a nightmare?â- Their voice came cautious, not used to the man displaying any physical affection to them.
âBruce, not fatherâ
Despite calling him by his name, Bruce felt relieved. After your death, he longed so much to hear your voice, the last bits of it being the pained scream that haunted his mind every so often.Â
âYes, baby. It was a nightmare.â- He said, still holding your body.
Looking at him wide eyed, still confused, you gave a few pats on the man's back before trying to get out of his hold, which failed as he kept hugging you. Soon enough, your sibling started to fill the room, each of them having the same reaction as your father.
âWhy are you guys acting like that?â- You said, you were confused,after being hugged in one morning more times than the last ten years.
âThey don't remember.â Was their first thought at their sibling demeanour, being completely oblivious of what had happened. And despite seeing how uncomfortable you were, none of them could bring themselves to stop.Â
Outside, out of the detective's sight, a funnel of purplish clouds was forming. Thunder and lightning occasionally strike between them with loud noise. It was the premise of unfortunate times.
You feel your body tingle, shivers run down your body and as if hypnotized, you shift your attention from your family to the window beside you. Following your gaze, Bruce set his sight at the sky, his hands unconsciously grabbing you and bringing you close to his body. He tried calling you, but you didn't answer. Just like last time, you didn't answer their calls either.Â
It was only when he held your chin and shifted your head back to him, that you stopped looking at the window.
âAre you okay?â- He asked, brows furrowed in worry.
You didn't answer with words, only nodded your head. Your mind felt numb, something scraping your guts. You don't belong here, something said in your mind and you looked again to the ominous looking clouds. Bruce felt his heart accelerate beyond measure as he noticed your eyes hollowing it each time it set its sight in the sky.Â
The same eyes he closed carefully.
His chest aches as his breath fails to reach his lungs properly.
It was in that instant that Bruce knew he would lose you again.Â
warnings: Grief, violence, death, mischaracterization, English not being my first language
Bruce.
Bruce had never known how to properly raise kids.
He spent years improvising.
He convinced Cass to forgive herself.
He accepted and embraced who Jason was.
He still looked to Dick whenever he wasn't sure what the right thing to do was.
Took responsibility for every kid he felt he had failed.
And yet he doesn't know how to fix this.
He takes a few deep breaths and adjusts his grip on the bouquet.
He doesn't really know which flowers you like, but he knows you like yellow.
Right?
Your favorite superhero wore yellow.
Invincible.
Invisible.
Something along those lines.
The boy spent most episodes getting punched, which seemed misleading.
Bruce huffed a quiet laugh.
Maybe when he gets home and you're locked in your roomâas you usually are when he misses big eventsâhe'll order from that burger place you liked.
You always seemed more willing to talk when food was involved.
And then he'll apologize properly this time. No explanations. No excuses. No promises. Just the apology you deserved.
The silence hits him first.
Not unusual silence.
Wrong silence.
The kind that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
No television.
No music.
No footsteps.
Nothing.
Bruce steps inside.
"Alfred?"
No answer.
His grip tightens around the bouquet.
A second later he spots him.
Alfred sits slumped on one of the living room sofas. He's not breathing. He's not taking a break. He's not working. His hands shake as he sweats and even that seems to take a lot of effort out of him.
And beside himâ
Commissioner Gordon.
Bruce stops.
For a moment he thinks someone has died.
Again.
Dick.
Jason.
Tim.
Damian.
Steph.
Cass.
His stomach drops.
"Alfred."
The older man's head lifts.
Bruce feels his pulse quicken.
Alfred looks exhausted.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like someone who has spent hours carrying something far too heavy.
Something is wrong.
Very wrong.
The bouquet shifts in his hands.
"Is everyone alright?"
Alfred opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Bruce turns toward Gordon.
The commissioner won't meet his eyes.
The cold feeling in Bruce's chest deepens.
"Alfred. Is it Dick?"
Silence.
"Jason?"
Silence.
"Tim?"
Nothing.
"Damian?"
Still nothing.
He names every single person except you.
Because it couldn't be you.
You could handle yourself.
You were normal.
You were just a kid.
You had refused to be Robin or Batgirl or any kind of vigilante because you were scared.
Scared of dying.
Of being tortured.
Of breaking a bone.
So no.
It couldn't be you.
Another pause.
Then, quietlyâ
"Master Bruce..."
His voice breaks.
The flowers slip from Bruce's fingers.
Yellow petals scatter across the marble floor.
A drop of water rolls from the crushed wrapping.
Bruce stares.
Alfred never breaks.
Not like that.
Not ever.
"Where are they?"
Alfred closes his eyes.
Just for a moment.
As though gathering strength.
When he opens them again, they look older.
"I am so sorry, Master Bruce."
"No."
The answer comes immediately.
Instinctively.
Without thought.
"No."
"Master Bruceâ"
"No."
Because Alfred is mistaken.
Because you had called him.
Because you were supposed to be home.
Because you were waiting.
Because Bruce still has things to say.
Because there is still time.
There has to be.
Alfred looks away.
And Gordon finally speaks.
Quietly.
"Bruce..."
Bruce's head snaps toward him.
No.
No, no, no.
Not Gordon.
Not sitting in his living room.
Not looking at him like that.
Because Gordon only came here for one reason.
Bruce feels the world tilt.
Because this doesn't make sense.
You weren't Robin.
You weren't Batgirl.
You weren't anything.
You were supposed to be safe.
That had been the deal.
The entire point.
The reason Bruce had spent years arguing with you whenever Gotham came up.
The reason he never pushed.
Never trained.
Never insisted.
You had chosen a normal life.
And Bruce had let himself believe normal meant safe.
"Where are they?"
His voice rises.
Sharp.
Desperate.
Alfred's face crumples.
Bruce hates that expression.
Hates it.
Because he knows it.
He has seen it reflected in hospital windows.
Police stations.
Funeral homes.
The faces people make before they shatter his world.
"Tell me where they are."
Silence.
Bruce's pulse thunders.
"They're at the hospital."
You could survive being in a hospital.
You fought tooth and nail as much as your body allowed you to.
"They're unconscious."
A coma?
Did you pass out on stage again? You had when you were small. You sobbed for an hour until he came to pick you up.
God, you'd hate that.
"They're hurt."
God.
Let that be it.
Anything.
Anything exceptâ
Gordon lowers his head.
Alfred's eyes fill with tears.
And suddenly Bruce understands.
The room goes silent.
Not quiet.
Silent.
The kind of silence that swallows everything.
Bruce can't breathe.
His chest expands.
Nothing happens.
For one horrible second he thinks his heart has stopped.
"No."
The word comes out weaker.
Smaller.
Almost childish.
"No."
"No."
Gordon's jaw tightens.
"Bruceâ"
"No."
The word rips itself out of him.
Louder this time.
Sharper.
"Stop."
Nobody moves.
Nobody speaks.
And somehow that makes it worse.
Because if there was hope, someone would have said it already.
Someone would have corrected the misunderstanding.
Instead Alfred is crying.
And Gordon is looking at him with the same expression he's worn outside morgues, hospital rooms, and crime scenes for years.
"Bruce."
"Stop talking."
For a moment Gordon says nothing.
Then he straightens his shoulders.
Because he knows Bruce.
Knows what happens if he leaves even the smallest space for denial to grow.
And Bruce is already trying.
Already reaching for explanations.
A coma.
A mistake.
A bad identification.
Anything.
Anything except this.
So Gordon forces himself to continue.
"They were attacked this afternoon."
Bruce shakes his head.
"They were found by emergency services."
"No."
"There wasn't anything the doctors could do."
"Stop."
"The injuries were severe."
"Stop."
"Bruce."
Gordon's voice drops.
"They were struck multiple times with a hammer."
The world stops.
Not metaphorically.
Not poetically.
It genuinely stops.
Bruce can't feel his hands anymore.
Can't hear the clock.
Can't hear Alfred breathing.
Can't hear Gordon's voice.
Only those words.
Multiple times.
A hammer.
Multiple times.
His mind rejects them instantly.
Because those words belong in police reports.
In case files.
In photographs he keeps locked away.
They belong to strangers.
To victims.
To people whose names become statistics after a few weeks.
Not you.
Never you.
You were supposed to be home.
You were supposed to be angry.
God, you were always angry lately.
Always rolling your eyes at him.
Always pretending not to care when he forgot something important.
Always saying "it's fine" in that tone that clearly meant it wasn't.
You were supposed to be upstairs.
Locked in your room.
Ignoring his texts.
Making him work for forgiveness.
You were supposed to take one look at the flowers and tell him they were ugly.
Supposed to laugh at him for not knowing what kind you actually liked.
Supposed to complain that he bought too many.
Supposed to steal his food when the burgers arrived.
Supposed to exist.
And suddenly Bruce realizes there won't be another birthday.
No awkward family dinners.
No arguments.
No chances to apologize.
No future conversation where he finally gets it right.
There won't be a next week.
There won't be a next month.
There won't even be tomorrow.
Because while he was driving home thinking about burgers and flowers and apologies, your life had already ended.
You died.
You died.
The thought enters his head and immediately shatters something inside him.
Because death had always been something Bruce fought.
Something he chased into alleyways and abandoned warehouses.
Something he punched and kicked and bled against.
Death was supposed to be the enemy.
An opponent.
A thing that could be beaten if he was fast enough.
Smart enough.
Strong enough.
But he hadn't even known there was a fight.
He wasn't there.
He didn't save you.
Didn't protect you.
Didn't even know you needed protecting.
For all his training.
For all his plans.
For all the satellites and contingency files and years spent turning himself into something impossibleâ
he had still failed the one person who wanted nothing to do with any of it.
And the worst partâ
the truly unbearable partâ
was that the last thing between you wasn't forgiveness.
It wasn't understanding.
It wasn't even a proper goodbye.
Was there even a goodbye?
And in one final act of desperation,
Bruce remembers you had called him.
âNo but they justâ they called me. How could they be dead? They called meââ
He scrambled for his phone, hard shaking as he looks for the voice,ail you sent him.
God, you were such a smart kid, werenât you? You were probably telling him where youâll be hiding until he comes. Heâll pick you up and fix everything andâ
The audio starts to play.
there is silence for a while. White noise.
thenâ
âfuck.â
An immediate gasp from your part. He can hear the door opening as you let out a scream.
a thud.
your scream.
âpleaseâ please donâtââ
another thud as you let out loud, gut wrenching animal sounds.
Bruce looked around the room.
For what? Confirmation? For someone to say that maybe this was a sign that your injuries werenât fatal? That there was a slight chance you were alive?
Alfred flinched at each hit. Stared right at Bruce. Begging him with his eyes to stop it.
Bruce didnt turn off his phone.
There had to be something.
Anything.
And then he looked at the top of his screen.
The voicemail lasted 2 hours.
2 hours you were beat.
2 hours you suffered. Begged. Screamed.
He turned off his phone.
Looked at it for a second.
Five.
Half a minute.
And slammed it against the wall. Once. Twice. Five times.
And stormed out.
Damian
Damian knows something is wrong.
He can feel it in his bones. Thereâs a tightness on his skin, as if there was something underneath it. Heâs pacing on his room, suit now discarded on the corner of his room.
Did he push too far?
Did he truly hurt you that much?
He knows youâre a volatile, sensitive person and yet he still said what he said.
He thought he had grown so much as a person, yet that attitude and behavior of yours could make him regress back into the boy he used to be when he first arrived at the manor. He had worked so much to learn how to be vulnerable. Disciplined. Sensitive. A child.
You were always irritated lately.
Even if he wonât admit it, he had worked so hard to make you feel included. Part of his this family. The same way his father and brothers had. And yet you mocked and ignored him.
Simply because of his age?
Well, as always, he had to be the bigger person.
You were probably asleep by now. He was going to apologize tomorrow. Over breakfast. You seemed more forgiving when food was involved.
It was settled.
He had all the time in the world to fix this. And you had all the time in the world to fix your attitude.
Dick
It was strange, chasing and looking for Bruce late at night.
It was usually him or one of his brothers who had to be chased by Bruce.
What the hell had happened?
For Bruce to react like that, it sure had to be something very serious. The man was so focused on being made of stone when it was so obvious he was actually the most sensitive out of all of them.
This was wrong.
He had tonight to fix this. And Bruce seemed focused to fix this tonight too.
whatever âthisâ was.
Bruce.
At first, being Batman was strange.
Most people thought he was a monster. A spirit. He was an urban legend, chasing down criminals and disappearing right as he took care of them. Most words didnât stick.
Monster did.
Did he look like this right now?
Punching the man who took your lifeâs face again and again?
They said you looked unrecognizable.
Maybe the man needed to be unrecognizable too.
Dick
At first, being Robin was strange.
Most people thought he was just a kid. Happy. Excited. And he was, at first. Then had to be. Even after he found out about the reality of his parentsâ death.
And then he couldnât pretend anymore.
He was angry.
And Bruce looked angry.
Punching some guy again and again.
He grabbed Bruce by the shoulders and pulled him off.
âBruce, what theâ
Bruce
â hell?!â
Bruce looked up at his son. Breathing hard. He knew how he looked right now. Wild. Lost. He could see it in Dickâs eyes, the moment he realized his father wasnât himself right now.
Bruce opened his mouth. Trying to explain. Nothing came out.
Because saying it meant admitting it.
And admitting it made it true.
â[name]âs deadâ
Dick
âDick.â
Bruce had said it so calmly, he thought Bruce didnât say it at all.
You? Dead?
Bruceâs voice didnât shake when he said it, which contrasted with the way he was moving before.
Like he wanted to kill the guy.
â..what?â
Bruce just stared up at him.
You were dead.
But how?
You wereâ you were you. How could your life be in dangerâ be over when they were supposed to take care of people like you?
Civilians.
Kids.
Dick took a sharp breath. And shook his head.
His eyes filled with unwanted tears.
His hands shook.
And with that, he turned around.
If Bruce wasnât going to take responsibility, if he wasnât going to help everybody else process itâ he would.
He takes responsibility. (tell me you get it guys)
For you.
All he did lately was for you.
And now, it included this.
As he rushed back home, his brain refused to accept it.
But he had to.
If he couldnât deal with this, how did he expect anyone else to do so?
Just yesterday, you were in one of your moods. Slamming doors, spamming him to go to your recital.
He had to.
You were munching on your Korean corn dog as they dressed up for patrol.
He had to.
Complaining about no one coming to your recital.
He had to.
Hugging him goodbye and apologizing for being so mean.
He couldnât.
Hugging you back.
How could he?
He stood in front of the doors of the manor.
Saw Jim, who looked like he wanted to talk to him.
And had to.
Duke
Seeing the whole family sitting together was a weird sight.
Even weirder when you werenât there.
Were you mad? It was the most reasonable response, being mad.
Hell, heâd be mad too.
If he played piano.
Or had a recital.
And no one came.
He liked you. He really did. You were a normal person he could talk to. You kept him grounded. The only other person who didnât wear a mask at night. You didnât even wear a mask at all.
So he understood why you were angry.
At least this time it made sense. You always got mad for anything. Wether someone was breathing too loud chewing too much, staring at you.
You were still a kid.
Duke looked up at Jason. Red-eyed. Hands shaking. Breathing too controlled. In. Out. In. Out. As if he didnât control every single part of his body, he would break down.
Dick took a deep breath, as if there wasnât an easy way to say this. There was an attack this afternoon. At the recital hall. It wasn't a Rogue. It was just... a robbery. A mass casualty event. Jim just confirmed the ID. Itâs [Name]. They're dead."
What?
The room went silent.
Dickâs words sounded practiced. Like he had said them over and over until they lost their meaning and became sounds and nothing else.
Duke flinched as Jason kicked a table over, and rushes out the room, taking his gun with him.
Watched as Damian followed after.
Then Tim. Followed by Steph and Cass. Cass held Steph upright as Stephâs legs failed her. Breaking down.
Dick left too.
Every time something happened, each one of the, went their own way. They have different ways to process things. Those ways clashed. Made things worse. Caused fights. So. Yeah. Space.
Duke stared straight ahead. and wondered what to do next.
Raised by detectives, he needed proof.
He sobbed hard, barely breathing as he rushes up to your room and slams your door open.
The first thing he saw was Damian, curled up into fetal position in your bed.
Then he saw your ghost.
Or rather, your thermal signature all over the place.
Of course, the bed was the most noticeable place. You never really got up unless it involved food, malls, or piano lessons. You spent most of the time scrolling.
The bathroom was next. You spent hours getting ready.
What he didnât know, was why there was one on the window.
Did you sneak out constantly?
Or just stood there?
God, there was so much he didnât know about you.
His legs failed him, and before he fell he sat on the bed next to Damian, who didnât flinch when he put a hand on his shoulder. Which was bad.
âItâs gonna be alright, bud.â
Damian didnât reply.
And Duke didnât talk again.
a/n: so⊠that was intense. Anyway. Did yâall like this chapter? I feel like Iâm going way too slow. Like- I feeel like they should be going back to the past now but Iâm trying to develop the story. I feel like the chapter was ass lol. Anyway tell me how you feel about this thingy. For the next chapter Iâm going to incorporate the taglist. Anyway bye
you can download current and past hi-res versions of these over at my ko-fi (ok to print for personal use): https://ko-fi.com/mxmorgan/shop/freedownloads
you can also snag shirts here which go to various orgs: https://mxmorgan.threadless.com/collections/pride
these get reposted a whole lot from here to reddit to twitter to tiktok and on and on, and i don't personally care whether or not i'm credited. i made these for everyone to use, enjoy, and find meaning in them. i appreciate folks who do credit me, but if able, please at least link to the threadless shop in the previous post - folks can get an official shirt where 90% of earnings go to trans led orgs focused on mental health (which is an important matter in general, but very personal to me) and not from a scam bot site selling AI-churned maga garbage where you probably won't get one anyway. i also suggest downloading the files from my ko-fi - they are free/PWYW and you can use them to make your own shirt, patch, embroidery project, whatever. tips are always nice, cuz i do like a pizza now and then, but never required for download.
final thought - breaking the pride tradition and more than likely won't make a new piece. the top one from TDOV is all i'm making this year. i have my focus on other projects currently and i don't want to force a poster design. these came from a specific head space and my current head space is Very Tired lmao so i wanna work on other things. đ
warnings: mischaracterization even tho I tried to consume every kind of Batfam related media ever. Character death (you). Mentions of neglect. Being brutally beat to death. Angst no comfort etc etc. Piano mischaracterization. I have never in my life touched a piano so please donât come after me. This chapter is short cause this is just the beginning. Sorry gng.
You
You donât know why youâre so hurt.
itâs not like this is not a familiar sight.
Yet the row of 8 empty seats and staring right at you made your chest ache.
itâs not like they were mean. Hell, they cared so much about you.
Bruce always made sure you always had whatever you wished for. You even had to ask him to stop buying you so much stuff because nothing fit in your room or closet anymore.
Dick always made sure to text you and check up on you. Before and after each competition and recital. Always chiming in. Everyone talked about how heâd been an angry kid but you really arenât able to imagine it.
Jason force feeds you burgers whenever he passes by.
Tim memorized your likes and dislikes like it was a competitive sport. Helped you out when you couldnât win on those shooter games you liked so much. He had surgical accuracy.
Damian cared⊠in his own way.
Whenever they could, Steph and Cass made sure to take you out on shopping sprees.
You always talked about Tarantino movies with Duke.
And Alfred was the one who always made sure to attend your events. Well, except this one. Big mission or something.
They did so much for you and yet you felt like they were part of a club you didnât belong to every night they went out at night.
And you couldnât even complain because you had refused the invitation to said club.
You were never meant to be a vigilante. You always almost throw up on PE whenever you try to run. You canât dodge shit. You canât throw a punch. You know it. Bruce knows it. Youâre sure everyone in the family knows by now.
So why?
Why does this hurt so much?
Your teacher gives you a sweet smile as she tells you something you donât really hear. Youâre sure she says something about how far youâve come and to try your best. That maybe theyâre running late.
Yeah.
Your hands shake as you make your way up to the stage where the huge piano awaits.
You sit in front of the piano and start playing with ferocity. Smashing the keys with anger as you always do when you get a song wrong too many times. You know it shouldnât hurt. You know they love you. You know youâre used to it. You have no right to be angry. They do. They go out every night and see stuff no kid, teenager or adult should ever see. Should ever tell. They go out every night and risk their lives and yet you feel like youâre the angriest out of the bunch. You feel ridiculous. You feel abandoned. Which is bullshit because they do so much. But they have no time to care about your life when theyâre saving hundreds or thousands out there.
Youâre a selfish person, arenât you?
You stand up and gently take your hands off the keys, and you get ready to bow.
Until a piercing sound echoes outside the doors of the auditorium.
Then another.
Gunshots.
People rush for the doors. You can only stare in shock from the stage as you watch your friends crumple to the ground, wounded.
You want to help.
You really do.
But youâre no hero.
Youâre not brave or bold.
So you spin and rush to backstage, breathing hard and ragged as you hear footsteps behind you. You almost reach the exit until you feel a hand fist the back of your hair.
âWhere do you think youâre going?â He asks with a sick, yellowed smile. His breath is hot and disgusting, reeking of alcohol and⊠was that fish?
Shit. Shit. Shit.
You try to think of any way to escape, and, as if sent by the heavens, you see a hammer just lying on some table.
Maybe the odds were really on your favor this time? Maybe this time, youâll win? (no lol)
You blindly swing the hammer behind you andâ bingo. You hear bone crack and the man letting go of your hair. You wish to turn around and see how much damage you did but you have to run. The footsteps behind you are picking up pace again.
You hide behind some closet and cover your mouth with your hand.
You hesitate on who to call.
The cops? Would they even do shit?
Or your father. Would he pick up? Would he think youâre just insisting he comes? Would he think youâre mad at him and throwing a tantrum? Is he busy? Is he alive? Is he dead?
You decide to press on your dadâs number.
Bruce
The emotion Bruce Wayne feels the most is guilt.
Most people think itâs sadness or anger, but itâs definitely guilt.
He feels guilty about his parentsâ death. He feels guilty about Dickâs parent's death. Timâs He feels guilty about Jasonâs mom dying, about Jason dying, about not meeting Damian or Cass sooner, about Dukeâs family. About your parents dying.
How many children had been orphaned or tortured or dead because of him?
But right now he felt guilty about not attending your piano recital.
He always tells himself thereâll be others but he never goes to those others.
You had broken down last time he didnât come because he had promised. You threw stuff and kicked and screamed.
You felt guilty afterwards, labeled it as a tantrum which he knows itâs not how you really feel about that situation. But he had no time to talk about that with you.
He really shouldnât think about this during a hostage situation.
Barbara was saying something about the amount of armed men inside the building, but he wasnât really paying attention.
His phone rings.
He couldnât pick up. He wanted to with all his might but if he did, it would blow up his cover.
But⊠would you call again?
On that moment, he made a promise.
After this, heâll apologize. After this, heâll attend to every event. Every recital. Heâll take you out for dinner every night and youâll tell him about your piano friends, about your next chess competition, about your next musical and how you shouldnât have gotten ensemble.
After this, heâll be a real dad to you.
you
He, in fact, doesnât pick up.
You canât help but let out a curse. And you immediately cover your mouth. Youâre so fucking stupid, there is an armed man looking for a witness and you just gave up your whereabouts.
The closet bursts open and the man you had hit with a hammer is now staring down at you, breathing ragged. His face is unrecognizable. Cheekbone swollen, eye completely red. The same hammer you hit him with is now on his hand, and you realize, letting out a cry, that heâs not going to have the same mercy with you as he had with the others. Heâs not going to shoot you. The man grabs your face.
And raises his hand.
Bruce
You, in fact, donât call again.
That should worry him, but heâs currently chasing down the criminals as Dick and Damian take care of the hostages.
The door bursts open and the men who had taken those kids are pathetically trying to hide. Begging for mercy. Bruce knows Batmanâs face is now unrecognizable. Not cold. Not serious. Angry. The men realize, letting out curses, that Batman will not have mercy on them. Batman grabs one of the menâs face.
And raises his hand.
you
You have always enjoyed violence. In theory, at least.
You play horror games, shooters, your favorite series is Invincible and The Boys, you watch slashers every time October comes and your favorite movie is Kill Bill,
And yet you canât handle it.
You canât handle the pain. Which is unbearable, you feel your bones crack under the hammer.
You are not brave. You beg for him to stop but that just seems to make him more agressive. You cry. You sob. But, on beat, almost every two seconds the hammer hits your face, your legs, your arms, your ribs.
You wish he would hit you in the head and get this over with, but he seems to want you to die slowly and painfully.
You feel your teeth detaching and youâre sure you swallowed one.
You realize that your wishes now will be your final ones. At sixteen. And no one will be there to hear them or make them come true.
You make them anyways.
You wish you hadnât called Bruce. You know for a fact he will blame himself and the phone call will make it worse.
You wish you had laughed at Dukeâs jokes during movies, not told him to shut up.
You wish you had ordered what Jason told you to instead of that one burger you donât even like that much.
You wish you had bought Steph that shirt she liked. And Cass that one book she wanted.
You wish you had hung out with Damian more, instead of thinking heâs lame cause heâs younger.
You wish you hadnât called Dick cringey.
You wish you had eaten Alfredâs cucumber sandwich.
You wish they could go back and treat you better.
You wishâ
The hammer hits you once again.
And you cannot wish anymore
Wow okay guys this was chapter one sorry if you find any spelling mistakes. English is not my first language. Plus sorry if this is too short Iâm writing from my broken 2016 tablet soo. Please if you think this is shit tell me why so I can write the next parts better also if you think this is the greatest piece of literature pls tell me so I have motivation thank u bye see you in 40 years with part two
(The best of this post and its reblogs, but with links that work)
Here is a website where you can scroll down to all the different levels of the oceanÂ
Here is a website where you can see the future of the universe
Here is a website where you can press a âmake everything okayâ button, over and over, until things really are okay
Here is a website that you can read if you feel like a burden
Here is a website where you can look at strobe illusions (TW strobe/flashing)
Here is a website where you can cut stuff up (TW blood/sh)
Here and here are websites where you can play with sand
Here is a website where you can draw with macaroni and other fun foods
Here is a website where you can paint someoneâs nails
Here is a website where you can grow a garden with emojis
Here is a website with hundreds of videos of people hugging you (rightfully dubbed âthe nicest place on the internetâ because it really is, yâall, it made me cry)
Here is a website that will take you to other useless websites
Here is a website where you can make a tiny cat play bongo drums (and other instruments!)
Here is a website to help give you gentle reminders <3
Here is a website where you can grow a tiny farm
Here is a website where you can take a bunch of scientific personality tests
Here is a website of calm rain noise
Take a breath. Itâs going to be okay, I promise.
The timing of this post is actually insane. Spent the day watching years of family issues explode in real time, getting a surprise front-row seat to a confrontation, and generally feeling like my brain got put in a blender. Add in questionable math scores too, an emergency 7/11 trip, and the kind of day that makes you want to stare at a wall and probably cry for a bit. Well i did cry, fuck my life
Not to vaguepost, but if you had told me this morning that Iâd end the day exhausted from both family drama and math, then find a post full of cat links, virtual hugs, funny videos, and little things to do when life gets too loud, I wouldâve believed you immediately.
Seeing this right now feels oddly comforting. Thanks, Tumblr.
itd taken you 3 days to get from new jersey to cali, itd been atleast 5 weeks since then. the excitement of the west coast was short lived, eventually you were back to your life in gotham. sleeping days away until your body physical couldnt anymore then youd eat or drink until you could again.
cannabis made you too paranoid to consider trying again but trying diffrent more and more expensive types of alchol was more than you could ask for. youd sit and watch tv and eat maybe smoke a nice cigar and down a bottle until you conked out for another 16 hours. you ended up losing track of the days.
you only finally crawled out of the imperial sized bed one night because you felt disgusting enough to bathe. only when your skin was sticky and itchy and your hair was stiff at the roots. then after hours in the steaming bathroom, you realized the bedroom stunk of rotten food and sweat and blood so you asked for cleaning service and they all but forced you out the resort so they could clean your room. leading to another few hours wandering the crowded city streets. you could sit down but you feel bed enough to just keep walking.
its alot honestly, theres so many people and theres absolutely no way to escape if a tsunami rose over the tallest skyscraper or if a shooter decides right here right now would be the perfect opportunity to end their own and so many others lives or if bruce suddenly swung down in that stupid suit and forced you back to his ugly manor. no one would help, theyd just think your another criminal.
you need to take your mind off it all, you cant keep thinking about all this. your throats getting tight and you can feel tears welling, you need to get out of here. get something to take the edge off, a toy or a blade or a drink. you need to get back to your room.
your eyes watch your wringing hands instead of where your going and it makes you bump into the person in front of you, so you jump to apologize, only for someone else to catch your eye.
jason?
your head swivels so fast youd think you heard a gunshot but the glimpse of recognition is gone just as fast, drowned in a sea of people, endless faces like endless waves. violent in its intensity, the constant stream of bumping and pushing and walking. you must have been seeing things.
you manage to get pushed to the outskirts of the walk way before you lurch forward pushing through the crowd as swiftly as itll let you. trying to catch up with that man whoever he was. you push and search peoples faces, they gleam and glare but none of them are the one. you try to search faster, further, more, until all your adrenaline is gone and a lead sits between your ribs, you wont find him like this.
everyone in the family has hallucinated jason, thats a fact you know is true. still you could have sworn it. it probably wasnt your jason. it was probably just a random person that looked like your brother, you assure yourself. even as you sharply turn an alley corner. your hands are shivering. this is insane. your brother is dead. jason is dead. you went to his funeral and saw his massacared body in that gleaming glass case. hes not coming back, yet you dont try to stop your fumble through your pocket to pull out your new phone.
it takes you an unreasonable amount of time to finally get in, theres a security camera on this street and you kept messing up the force bypass. you roll back a few minutes and search the crowds for the person you tell yourself you didnt see but you catch him.
a hulking figure, something you didnt notice before, tall and wide. nothing like your little brother, who was quite the few inches shorter than you and way thinner and sure people change as they grow but surely your brother wouldnt have changed this much, right?
even you dont believe yourself. in your heart of hearts you know it, really you do. which is why you cant believe it. that cant be your jason. people dont just come back to life.....but they could....its not unrealistic...not here, not with meta humans and aliens with superpowers and witches and mutants...surely..maybe...could he have come back to life..? he had to of. theres no way that isnt your brother. your only family left, your little jason after all these years.
your fingers panic to follow him as he moves through the gotham streets, you occasionally lose him in a crowd or an area missing surveillance tech but you always end up finding him, trailing him until he finally slips into an apartment.
you slump against the brick behind you and stare at your phone. hes alive. hes alive and hes here. and jokers still around. he must hate you, all of you. you should go after him.
you can hardly breath as you stand, the air is humid and cold and the moonless sky tells of rain, you gotta go faster, not a second of hesitation is appropriate. if you grab your car you could get there before the rain starts. just dont get too jittery, just keep breathing. hes alive. this is your brother, the sweetest thing youd ever met. is he even gonna like you anymore? is he gonna hate you like the rest of the family? theres no going back now though right?
yeah, yeah. yeah. no going back, his building is in sight, you cant weasel out of this. you park as far as you can while its still in sight and walk past his apartment but only so you can disappear behind another building into the shared back alley. you try to be as silent as possible ascending the fire escape but the metal rattles under your weight. if it doesnt really work.
you turn the corner from the stairs to what would be his level, only to come face to face with a red helmet and a metal barrel to the forehead. "jason?" your words strain painfully, then your name falls just as wearily through his voice modulator. he lowers the gun back to his hip but you can see his fingers fidget around it as he hesitates to holster it.
"how- why?" you choke, tears burning up your eyes, forgetting in this moment everything but him. your composure is whittled to nothing and you dont care how loud you are or where you are. he on the otherhand slides back through his window into the apartment and you follow wordlessly, shutting the pane behind you.
he stands there, his arms crossed, tense like he doesnt know what to do. and you, you are a mess- each step is more clumsy than the last, wiping your tears and snot with your hoodie sleeves. youre so lightheaded, you feel like you could pass out any second but you cant let yourself. your brothers alive, really truly alive, before your eyes, infront of you. you cant let this slip away, you cant let him slip away again.
for all you know he just dug himself from his grave, though his appearance suggests otherwise. hes dirty but not 'broke my way out of my coffin' dirty more like a 'been too busy for a shower recently' dirty. bulky rather than thin as one who hasnt eaten since he was 12 would be. hes covered in scars but not a hint of blood or open wound. how much of your little brothers life have you missed?
you cant contain yourself, you wanna examine him, you want to see everything hes gone through. you want to see his face. you have to force your feet to stay planted so you dont do it for him, "take your helmet off please."
your voice twists just pathetically enough he sheaths the gun, but he doesnt clip it, instead his hands rise to the bikers helmet and then its off and there he is, your little brother.
taller, wider, bigger than you. choppy black hair with a tuff of white, it wasnt your dorky kid brothers ginger dyed black to fit in with bruce and dick, now it looked natrually black. shaved on the sides and long in the back with bangs so short they could be considered micro.
his face, though is what swears to you its him. still so soft, pudgy, sure the shape of his jaw is more refined, less chubby but still him. the scar on his neck hes had forever, the imprint of his nose, the same as when he was a kid. his skin is more tan now, hes got more angel kisses but its still jason.
you want to embrace him but something makes you hesitate, his eyes, you actively notice now. a seething, bubbling, acid green that threaten to burn. youre little brothers eyes were blue, bright blue and now they lacked the life you remembered. no, they roared with a vibrant life unfamiliar to you. a life he wasnt ready to share with you evident in his posture, his composure, how he hasnt said a word besides your name. it makes you want to dig your heel into him more.
before either of you know it your arms are wrapped around his hulking torso, squeezing him as hard as you can and trying to pick him up like you used to be able to. you can only manage a few inches this time.
he laughs in a way you know hes uncomfortable but you cant care. "shut up." you squeeze him harder and rub your face against his bicep, tears already beading through your eyelashes, "where- how-" you choke up so much you have to shake your head and start over, "s' glad youre here."
your elbows suddenly buckle and you drop him back to his feet, still refusing to let go of him, hugging him tighter than you have ever. when he was a kid he was too weak for hugs like this, hes not escaping this one. finally his hands wriggle free enough to hold you back, his arms pinned to his sides by yours and you let up on how hard your squeezing him after a minute more or so, simply holding him.
"..how are you back from the dead?" he hesitates to awnser, his voice is deep without the voice mod, scratchy but its your brothers. "its a long story." youre voice tilits to something curious, "..are you a zombie..?" he smiles down at you, "not like that.. so far.." that gets a chuckle out of you and you rub your eyes dry. "i missed you," you let your head tilt up to meet those new eyes, chin digging into his muscle. his jaw tenses like he tastes poison and you frown, gently pulling away.
he just watches you, his face not baring any emotions you can read besides tension and an ugly thought pierces your chest. "why havent you come see to me?" its accusing and it burns your throat up when he again fails to awnser.
your arms drop and you take a step back, he looks down at you how one would look at a dog before putting it down but he doesnt apologize, instead he mumbles something filler, something you dont care for anymore, something you dont need, something he doesnt mean. "i missed you too."
"where have you been if you havent been dead?" your lips curl into a sneer. you force yourself into his face and he steps back, his hand angles to go for his gun and it makes you so mad you snatch it from his hip and toss it behind the island. you keep backing him up until his back meets wall, his hands, trying to calm you down, put in front of his chest in a defenseless manner despite being able to rip you in half if he so wanted. why doesnt he just overpower you if he doesnt care that much? "where have you been if you haven't been with me?"
your hearts on your sleeve, while his is staying buried beneath his chest and it hurts. he doesnt look angry, he doesnt look sad, he isnt even scared by your behavior. he just stares with that- that- that regret! on his face that makes you want to punch him, really fucking punch him.
his hands push you back to your heels by your shoulders, your name sounds absolutely disgusting on his tongue in this moment. he keeps biting his tongue, hesitating to say and do the things he wants and its making you sick. since when did he have to hide from you?Â
why does he just stand there like that? does he hate you? he looks so- just absent. does he not remember how much you love him? that hes your little brother and he means everything to you? do you need to remind him?
then he hugs you and you cant do anything but let him. his arms practically engulf your head and he digs his nose into your hairline. you can feel him breathing and every little shake and hesitation. it feels so good and just as much soul crushing. eventually you start calming down and he waddles your softening body to the couch sitting down with you and you curl up into his side. your body morphs with your breathing up and down and in and out and around and over him.
all you remeber is your eyes burning and your heart hurting and how badly you wished for him to just say something but he never does. all you get to listen to was the pace of his heart uncomfortably set, even as his hands rubbed over your sides and his lips pressed to your crown with an empty kind of presence, devoid of kiss.
the next morning you wake up to bliss. your body feels light, airy and refreshed, the bed under you is cushy, soft and perfect and everything is so, so very warm. you stretch out into the fat pillows and silky blankets, about to fall back asleep when you realize, this is not your bed. this is jasons bed. you found jason, your safe and hes safe.
you let your gaze wonder over his room, its not much. two doors leading out, an en suite and a living area. a bed and a bedstand and on the bedstand theres a small duffel bag and a note. you sweep your legs off the bed to read it, 'i was getting stronger.' simply drawn in his pretty hand writing. it makes you smile, your fingers running over its crease before you decide to pocket it. gentle hands now fall to the file underneath, flipping through it, a page on a 'roy harper', a few on big criminals and the back full of members of the family, just like before his death then.
what really intrests you is the file on yourself, its not blank, infact its as full as everyone elses. lists of things you enjoy, your achievements, the fact youve been missing from the manor for 2 months, it makes heat rise to your face. you didnt think anyone cared about you that much.
his duffle has a box of injections and a couple bottles of pills at the top, along with some clothes and other miscellaneous items. the kitchen has a bar counter into the living area and which is completely barren save for a couch pushed up against the wall. his kitchen is almost just as empty, just a couple to go boxs.
you feel weird waiting for him to come back, so you snag a blank sheet and jot in as legable writing as you can manage, your phone number, the resort youre staying in and your current license plate if all else fails. before straightening up and deciding to leave, deciding he wouldnt want you there when he got back.
its a short walk to where you parked and you slide into the drivers seat and fall forward against the wheel, your forehead digging into the handle. your eyes uselessly drill holes into your knees. your brothers alive so why do you feel so empty? you pull the note out of your pocket and look at it, 'i was getting stronger'. you want to throw up. thats why hes been gone? because he wanted revenge on the joker? he didnt visit his family after he was reborn so he could train for years- no thats not what angers you. no, not ever as much as how angry you are that bruce and dick have had the opportunity to kill joker time and time and time again. had him in their hands and havent.Â
you find yourself feeling justified that jason wouldnt want to visit them. but you? selfishly, hypocritically, you cant see, why hadnt he come see you? youre his big sibling, his. you would have mourned him forever and he wouldn't have cared to tell you he was alive at least? do you matter that little to him? would he have ever told you? or would you grow to not matter to him just as you had for everyone else? even if he has a file on you, he has a file on them too. are you on the same level as them? this whole time have you been? does he hate you just as much? maybe you should have taken matters into your hands, that's what he would have wanted right? you really do deserve it huh? to be on the same level as your siblings that refuse to kill? its just as much your fault that joke is still alive as it is theirs.Â
wait. do they all know that hes alive? was it just you left out again? you should know, there's no way they'd know and not you. you listened to their comms like background music, if they knew you'd know. but you stopped listnening a few days before you left the manor and it's been two months, did they know now? and they just let him get away again? no way, Bruce would get possessive over him right? hed force him to stay in the manor until he calmed down, he loved the family again. so there's no way they know, atleast you really hope not. you really hope its just you.
a/n : i am not immune to the mullet jason propaganda YOU CANT TELL ME HE WOULDNT HAVE A CHOPPY MULLET PLEASEEEEEEEE AND YOU WANNA KNOW WHY SUBCONSCIOUSLY HE LIKES THAT STUPID HAIRSTYLE BECAUSE WHEN HE DIED DICK HAD IT (although his was alot slicker and longer and elegant in general) also cuz its punk as fuck
i started hating this fic for like 3 days and couldn't work on it BUT that means theyll be crumbs for another fandom.. soon :)
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