Goodnight not good night
Jason and Bruce angst? I think
GUESS WHO’S BACK. I told you I wanted to come back and just had writer’s block. It may have taken me four months, but I have been successful, it may be very short but I’m here. Anytits, you’re not here for me, so enough of my rambling.
I’ve noticed many writers portraying Jason with PTSD or more likely CPTSD which is understandable. However I rarely see others writing about (C)PTSD for other characters so I present Bruce with PTSD after Jason’s death specifically. I have done a little research for this fic but I’m not all too knowledgeable on ptsd so I’m sorry if this is shit but I tried my best.
Warning: ptsd, panic attacks, night terrors, it may touch on self harm a bit im pretty sure it counts as a form self harm and the shit name i gave this fic.
He could see it – right there, just in front of him – he’d made it. He could practically hear his son’s voice, so close. Just a little further and he’d be there. The warehouse was right there.
Bruce’s heart thumped in his chest. He could feel it. He’s so close. Jason is just inside, but suddenly Bruce’s bike isn’t going as fast. The speedometer drops, down lower and lower and lower. It was once going at 250mph. Now it’s barely breaking sixty. His heart sinks. His breath picks up. It’s almost like the warehouse is getting further instead of closer. The path stretches longer, thinner. Moments ago, Jason’s voice had been loud in his ear, calling for help in a low, broken voice. His son was in pain, needed him, and now it’s quiet, a whisper of a whisper.
Bruce reaches the warehouse anyway. Almost instantaneously, he’s there. He gets off the bike and lets it fall. It scrapes on the concrete, loud and grating. It hurts his ears, but he pays it no mind. He’s at the foot of the building. He gets right to the door.
Then it’s gone, nothing but a bright, piercing light stabs into his eyes, blinding him completely. He feels a wave over him, a force, then nothing.
Concrete, his body slams down on it, despite the thick layer of Kevlar he donned. He felt it, his body stung, heavy but he didn’t care. Smoke and dust invaded him, all his senses. His eyes burned and watered; he could make out a thick blur of shapes at best. He could taste the smoke as well and something metallic. It rotted away at his taste buds and set fire to his throat. He could smell the chalk of the concrete, even through the smoke.
His head spun, but he didn’t care; he had to get Jason. He stumbled forward, one step, then another. Every breath burned, but he pushed on, stumbling, his throat aching from screaming Jason’s name at the top of his lungs, not Robin. Jason. Right now, in this moment, he didn’t care about Robin, about a mantle or legacy; he just cared about Jason. His son. He’d burn Batman and Robin if it meant Jason was okay right now. But now, there was no answer; the smoke seemed to swallow his own screams, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, nothing but the burning within him, like someone set a fire in his lungs and he could do nothing but let it travel upward, through his chest, up his throat, into his nose, eyes, and head; everything burned. He had never experienced such agony, and yet he could feel nothing at all.
Everything seemed to stop. He was still screaming for him, for his son, but nothing seemed to come out. “Two minutes, two minutes, and I could have saved him.”
“Two minutes.”
“Two minutes.”
“If I had been two minutes faster.”
It was all he could think, all he could feel. Two measly minutes could have saved his son’s life.
His eyes snapped open. Jason.
Bruce lurched from the bed, his shoulders tensed instinctively, his body preparing for a fight that wasn’t there before he even realised there was no smoke. No fire. No warehouse. No Jason. Just darkness. His pulse didn’t seem to agree. His lungs refused to fill. His hands shook as they tightened into fists, his nails dug into his palms pressing crescent moons into his skin so deep it started to bleed, he couldn’t see it but he didn’t have to, he felt the wet, warm blood coating his fingertips, he only pushed harder using the pain to try and ground him, bring him back to reality.
It didn’t work. His breath still shook, his eyes still darted between the door and his window. He was breathing, but it felt like no oxygen entered his lungs. He could feel his heart racing in his chest. Any faster, and it may well implode. He could no longer feel the blood on his fingertips. In fact, he could feel nothing at all in his hands, but he could see them shaking. It was all he could see. He forced himself to slow his breathing and he forced himself to get up. He staggered to the bathroom, pulling himself, forcing himself to stumble forward, and bracing himself against the sink. His numb, shaking hands struggled to grip the tap.
The water ran. He forced himself to focus on the sound, to really listen to it. He splashed his face clumsily. He missed most of it running down his neck, soaking his sleep shirt. He didn’t care. He focused on the feeling, the cold water soaking his top and dripping down his neck. His hands stung as feeling returned to them, slowly. He pushed his fingertips against the broken skin on one hand. The blunt force of his calloused fingers stung further. His other hand splashed more water to his face with better aim than before. He used the dual sensation and the sound of the running water to ground himself and focus on controlling his breathing.
Slowly, he stopped shaking. His breathing slowed. His chest stopped aching, and his heart rate dropped. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Turning off the tap and going back to his room, he glanced at the clock. 05:24. There was no point going back to sleep, even if he did want to. So instead he would do what he always does, he would get up, he would get dressed and he would have a coffee.
Every night. Eight months, nothing had changed. Every night. Then they loosened their grip, became less frequent. Now Jason was alive. Now Jason was angry. Now they were back. Two minutes. If only Bruce had been two minutes faster.
