hi, how is it going? :)
something gave me an angst thought. although it sounds unlikely on the one hand, what if bruce and jon started living together and lived to a ripe old age, but bruce was diagnosed with an incurable disease? how would jon react to that? how quickly would he give up (and would he?), realizing he couldn't cure bruce?
i think bruce might have tried to hide his illness at first, believing he could find a solution, a cure somehow. what if he had kept his condition a secret from jon until the very end and finally confessed when he couldn't pretend everything was fine anymore, or if jon had seen the signs himself and directly asked bruce about it, what would it have been like?
hey there! i’m doin’ fine! picking at things slowly an’ wish for a spring to come. so sick of the cold outside, haha. either way, i hope, you are doin’ good as well!
an’ oh, it’s funny that you said about those two in their old age. i actually, headcanon that in rare cases, where they both make it to this stage, they end up married. mostly bc they are both retired from their superhero an’ supervillain careers respectably, an’ also bc bruce is too old to really care about his public image *nor he technically needs to anymore* an’ jon who always had a rather odd view on marriage didn’t cave in until they were already both greyhaired old men, haha. but then again, i’m pretty sure, that inside crane’s mind they were pretty much married for years, just without rings an’ formal vows lol.
but welp, i thought that it might be more suitable if i wrote a little smth in order to respond to this question! so be warned as one angsty ficlet comes this way.
༻❁༺
The truth was that Jonathan didn’t want to have this talk.
In fact, he had wished — so-so desperately — that they would have never had it. That there would be no reason to, and that perhaps, in the end it turns out to be nothing of importance. That all this time, he was just worrying over some obscure, silly notion.
For a bit, he even deluded himself into buying all of Bruce’s excuses. Pathetically wanting to believe that everything was fine, that he had no reason to feel on edge about those small, seemingly insignificant things. Yet, as if against his will and tiny beat of hope, his mind drifted and he disliked the places it picked to drift to.
It all had started innocently enough, like most things do.
And who could blame Crane for not seeing the pattern right off the bat, considering that neither he or Bruce were spring chickens anymore. If anything, Jonathan would argue that he somehow managed to be the more active one, despite being older than his spouse.
But even then, deep down, he knew that he was partially choosing to avoid facing the uncomfortable facts.
And Bruce, oh his brave and considering darlin’ was just too great at lying. Always keeping a facade, just so that he could shield others from potential hurt. Even after everything, making sure that if he could hide upsetting things from Jon for as long as he could.
But yes, it did start small.
‘Nothing happened, Jon. I’m just tired’, Bruce would say during the days, when he would go to bed earlier than usual and his tone, and his expression suggested nothing drastic. Just a slight deviation from their usual routine.
‘It’s an old scar acting up again. Don’t worry.’ he’d offer next, when lifting one of the boxes and shoving it into the attic proved to be difficult.
And for awhile, Jonathan didn't comment on it much. He let himself be fooled.
Both of them bore certain reminders of their previous dangerous lifestyle. Both were understanding of it, sharing the same history and knowing all the ropes and most of all the costs, which came with leading double-lives. However, those occasions, far in-between as they occurred, had sparked a gleam of doubt inside Jon’s mind. People might have accused him of being insane and impulsive, but no one would ever accuse Jonathan of being inattentive.
He was a smart, educated man, after all. And even if he still denied it, even if he still wanted to be wrong, so very-very badly, a part of him knew, that it wasn’t just Bruce feeling under the weather. It wasn’t just him slowly succumbing to downsides of old age.
It was something much-much worse than that. And each passing day, it was only getting closer and closer. Until inevitably, Crane could hear gentle, yet unmistakable steps circling around their house, patiently waiting for the moment it would be let inside. Attempting to claim what Jon held so painfully dear.
(Death had never asked to be let in. It just did.)
And this was why it had come to this. To them sitting opposite of each other inside the large living room; an old radio playing in the background and light spring breeze crawling though the open windows, yet not succeeding in making the atmosphere any less suffocating.
Jonathan allowed himself a few long minutes to compose himself, to swallow down his nerves and anger and something else. A sort of feeling, that he had been accustomed to for the majority of his life, yet let one single man drive away, just for the sake of being together.
So very romantic and poetic.
(It was such a rotten irony, that even after all of it, Crane - hence, turned Wayne - still couldn’t have his classic happily ever after. Only happy for as long as it’s allowed.)
“You wanted to talk with me about something, didn’t you?” Bruce asked, voice lower and more gruff than it used to be, but still charmingly pleasant in its delivery.
“Yes, I…” Jon sucked in a deep breath, hands clasped at his bony laps so tightly, that he could feel a slight sting from his own nails, “I did want to talk to you about something.”
And he hated that he had to do it and he hated, that they both knew what this discussion would be about. After nearly forty years together — half of which they spent fighting one another on opposite side of the law, — you learn to know another person so well that intentions are felt before words are voiced.
“After all those years, I had assumed that you would stop doubting my intelligence, Bruce.” Jon began and it was hard. It was tortuous even. “But it seems like old habits do die hard, are they not, my dearest?”
He pointedly stared down at his clenched hands, unable to actually face Bruce just yet. Both afraid and already annoyed at what he might see in his gaze and expression. Or maybe, at what he might not find there instead.
“Ahh.” Bruce drawled out, calm and measured, as if he saw this coming for a long-long time. And knowing him, he most likely did. Probably, knew it before Jon had a chance to, “You know, then.”
It wasn’t a question and this hurt too. The sheer fact, that it was openly confirmed. No ‘you got it all wrong’ throw-away line. Because he got it way too right, and isn't that just dandy?
“Yes.” Crane forced out, pressing his lips together briefly, feeling bitterness filling his tone, “I had —” he swallowed again, attempting to sound collected, when his whole world was pretty much collapsing in real time, “I had my suspicions for a while and then, you had went to the doctor last week and told me nothin’ ‘bout it and I —”
“Jon.”
Jonathan’s posture tensed up more, wound up like a twig that was bent backwards too far and was about to snap at any moment now. He didn’t want to hear him say his name like this. With a gentle undertone, that was too understanding and a bit too serene for what was happening.
(As if he had already accepted it, while Crane was yet to catch up with cruel reality.)
Breath in, breath out. Repeat and repeat, so that the room will stop feeling like a tidy Arkham cell. Oppressive and isolated, “Just tell me, Bruce. When were you about to inform me that you…that you are…” he paused, trailing off, unable to even say the word, despite thinking it. But just like that anger comes. Sudden and explosive, hissed out in a way, he used to hiss curses at his Dark Knight all those years ago, “Or you were about to wait it out, until I’d be at your — at yer literal d-d-deathbed, and then you were about to tell me!? Is that it!? Think, I’m too old to figure this out on my own!? Think I'm a bloody idiot!?”
He wanted to throw something. To rage and kick and scream. He wanted to dig his fingers into something, that could be hurt and not be him. He wanted more than anything in the world for this to not be true. Be a mere nightmare. The kind after which you feel immense relief, once you are awake.
But seconds dragged by and the despair clawed at his insides with renewed urgency.
(As it was no nigthmare.)
“I’m sorry, Jonathan.” Bruce said finally, and there was a genuine sorrow in his voice. “I suppose, I —” he let out a low chuckle, the kind which made Jon’s throat close up on itself, “I just thought, I would have more time.”
Stunted, Crane looked up at him. Eyes wide and expression stricken. Such a twisted mirror to Bruce’s sad smile and gentle, knowing eyes.
“It’s true, then…” Jonathan muttered, gaze slowly leaving his lover and focusing on some middle distance instead.
All noise seemed to be muted out and any resemblance of enjoyment, which might come on such a nice, sunny spring day ebbed away, like it was never there. Because it was true.
His dear Bat was dying.
༻❁༺
There were many things, that Crane wasn’t proud of. Some of them were smaller actions and lesser words. Some were simply reckless or influenced by whatever delusion he was under at that point of time, but what he was truly not proud of was his reaction to the news Bruce delivered to him two days ago.
In short, he didn’t take it well. He stormed out after throwing a few angry words at his better half, and considering that he was too emotionally stung up, he couldn’t even remember what exactly he had said. But he knew, that it was something he would need to apologize for later.
And as it goes, he holed up inside his home-lab.
Bruce was kind enough to give Jon his own space, where he could continue his research and experiments. Hence, none of those were lethal or possibly harmful. It was more of an outlet, than anything else.
Or rather, it was this for years now.
Crane - yes, he still called himself that inside his own mind, at times - had published many papers and even given a few lectures, after his supposed return into sociality. None of his crimes were forgotten and none of his victims were discredited, but most of Gotham’s citizens must have thought that it was better if he remained ‘reformed’ and hung on the arm of local soft-hearted billionaire, than having him back in his costume, running around and spreading terror on the streets.
Somehow, with time and a lot of reassurance from both Batman and Bruce Wayne — who were the same man, as he later found out — Jonathan was reluctantly accepted as the first living prove, that perpahs, even the worst of the worst could change for the better. As Wayne’s latest pet project by whatever means looked promising to say the least.
Ha.
What a good memories!
Seeing all those snobs grossed out, yet trying to play nice with him, because he managed to get in bed with Bruce Wayne. First, figuratively and then, quite literally.
Not that many knew that last bit, but he supposed, that his open possessiveness of Bruce gave it away in one way or another. At least, the Bat’s little bird-brats sniffed it out embarrassingly quickly. And the reactions were various, even if not all of them were as explosive as someone might have pictured.
There were some dumps in the road so to speak. Of course, there were. It wasn't like Jon suddenly became a different person and it wasn't like he didn't pretty much bully some of Batman's annoying helpers in the past.
But eventually, they had to make peace with the fact, that Crane was there to stay. And he had to make peace with the notion, that he had to kind of co-parent all of those meddling kids now, considering they weren't going anywhere either.
In some ways, it wasn’t too different from raising a flock of baby crows. But it was certainly more tricky and messy, when it came to navigating their emotions and silly needs, that they for some reason began dying to discuss with him, specifically.
‘It’s your natural charm of a teacher,’ Bruce had jeered, having the nerve to have fun at his expense like that! Cheeky smile and all.
Alfred had added his own teasing comment. Not as passive-aggressive as it used to be. But still slightly biting. And Jon had —
He had a rather good time, all things considering. It was nice to be part of Batman’s world, where he didn’t have to go extra miles to get his attention. And it was rewarding to be able to study his expressions and see him smile. Be a reason why he’d smile.
He grow somewhat fond of the Bat's brats too. Some more, than the others. But it was rather calming. In a way, home should feel, he'd say.
Chaotic and annoying as it got sometimes, he wouldn't deny that something inside him, a broken, wounded thing, had gone quiter once he realized that he wasn't used or mocked for once.
(That he could just remain here. With Bruce.)
And even years and years after as he sat there in front of his latest formula and bunch of chemicals, that he technically wasn’t supposed to mix together, he had to wonder why it felt like he was back at square one, then.
A lot of people had died during his lifetime. Enemies, both new and old. Random victims. Temporary allies. The different villains and the heroes, that he barely had a single conversation with, but had enough presence of mind to notice their absence.
They all were long gone, and usually, he barely cared. Even when a couple of Batman’s little birds died, Jonathan couldn’t say that what he felt was grief. He'd argue that it was more ugly, than that. It was something parentally possessive, sure, but not born out of love for them. Instead it was anger, that someone took something important from Bruce again and they also took something that Jon grew to view as his own too.
In the end, it was always territorial for him and it had always tied up back to Batman foremost. Always.
He used to live a solitude life, devoid of compassion and passion and care. And it was fine by him back then. Or at least, he was good at telling himself that.
Then, there was Batman and after a while, there was nothing else, but him.
The mere idea, that he was about to be separated from him by pristine wood of a coffin and layers of dirt —
Crane had no idea how to even begin to cope with that.
So, he refused to even entertain the thought. Readjusting his glass, and focusing on his work yet again. Ignoring the tremor in his hands, just like he ignored a slight sting in the corner of his eyes.
There was still a way to cheat fate, he was sure.
༻❁༺
“I’m glad, that you are talking with me again.”
Jonathan scoffed, lazily bouncing his foot as he moved slowly to and fro in his rocking chair, “What are you on about? I wasn’ — I was talkin’ to you for weeks!”
It wasn’t like he could just wail and steep in his own misery for more than a few days. Finding his way back into his and Bruce’s shared bedroom every night to silently curl in his usual place next to sleeping Bat, trying to process the heaviness in his chest as he watched the other man rest.
“No, I mean —” Bruce let out a sigh, “I’m glad, that we can talk like we used to.”
Talk as if I’m not one foot in the grave, was what he was really saying.
“Of course.” Jon replied, not breaking the rhythm of his rocking, yet feeling a familiar pang of irritation sizzling inside his tired, sleep-depraved brain, “You know, I can’t stay away from ya even if I tried.”
He grew too addicted to Bruce’s company. There was not a single thing, that he didn’t grow to adore about him. For better or for worse, remaining hopelessly smitten with this man to his very bones even decades later.
“The weather is good today.” Bruce commented idly, watching the setting sun next to him. The porch was big enough to host not only Crane’s favorite rocking chair, but a cozy little bench too. He and Bruce took upon a habit of spending their time here on especially nice and windless days.
A very typical and perhaps boring old people’s activity, but you’d grow to appreciate such things with age. He certainly did. It reminded him about the late evening in his youth. Back in Georgia, when he was sitting on the porch of his childhood home with a few books and muddy thoughts about the future. Imagining himself in place far away from here. A place, where he'd be safe from mean words of his peers and his parent's apathy.
A somewhat bitter-sweet kind of nostalgia, maybe, but once he angled his face to look at Bruce, watching his profile bask in reddish light, with his grey hair and aged features, he felt like he must have done at least something right in this life.
“What are you doing in the attic?"
Jon blinked, slowly and unbothered. He was expecting Bruce to bring it up at some point. The Bat was old, but he wasn’t any less keen. A worsened eyesight aside, he was never unaware about those things.
“I’m…working.” Crane offered, outstretching his arm, letting it hang loosely from the armrest, “And I think, I’m onto something.”
Bruce hummed. Not quite an acknowledgement of the elephant in the room, but a clear sign that he knew what it was about. And that he had —
“You don’t believe me?” Jonathan asked, before he could help it.
“I never said that.”
“What is it, then?” it came out more bristly, than he wanted it to, “I thought, you wanted me to act like nothing happened.”
“I had never said this, either.” Bruce reported back, still way too collected for Jonathan’s liking, “Don’t put words into my mouth.”
This was ridiculous. Why was this their life now?
“I won’t just give up, y’know.” he said to cut the chase short. There was no reason to beat around the bush, after all.
“Jon —”
“No. No, Bruce. Jus' - jus' don’t ya start!” he snapped, turning his face away with a small sneer, “I won’t — I can’t give up. You can ask anything out of me. Just not that.”
He had never dabbed into this specific field, when it came to chemicals. But surely with enough trials, he can create a goddamn miracle. He literally has no right not to. Not when so much was at stake. Not when everything else was useless, and certanly, not when they were running out of time.
The doctor said, that Bruce only had one year left at best, and it was the most positive prostect. The most realistic one was six months.
And six months was a hiliriously small amount of time, when you needed to make a vacine or medicine or —
He flinched hard, when familiar fingers closed around his own, holding his hand with what could have been described as an attempt at support. But instead was another empty comfort, that made Crane feel like he was the one dying here. As if it was him, who was burning out from the inside, wasting away like an old candle.
“We should go to the city tomorrow.”
“What?”
He wasn’t sure what disoriented him more the jarring change of the topic or the way Bruce’s gaze smoldered into something less thoughtful and more so, oddly melanholic.
“I need to deal with some unfinished business. Company’s documents and such.”
Jonathan narrowed his eyes at him, bony fingers automatically coiling tiger around Bruce’s hand, “Why? Isn’t it — I thought, it was dealt with a long time ago. Damien is the head of the company now. He can —”
“I still own a small share, and besides,” he winked at him, as if they were young again, or well, younger in Jon’s case, “I want to stroll down Gotham’s streets for an old time sake.”
There was so many things unsaid in this one single sentance, that Jon had no idea what to do.
“Oh.”
It was all that he could manage in the end. The sinking feeling inside his guts grew stronger and his mind reeled back to the times, when both of them would spend their nights chasing after each other. The battle of wit and fighting skills. The thrill of being on top of the world, even if just because everyone else looked so small and insignificant in comparison to their violent dance.
Well, this was how it felt from his perspective, at least. Batman, for his part, always found time to worry about others and lecture Jonathan about his wicked ways on a peaceful day and drive a fist into his face on an ordinary one.
And he had to admit, he missed it sometimes. Being this bold and daring, and positively scary. But then, he also missed all the things, that came a bit later on. The sort of dance, that you don’t do vertically and some other perks, that followed with it too.
“You will accompany me, right?”
“Mm, I can' say why not.” Jon anwsered, giving him a lopsided grin, “We can even drop by Saint Louis and pay good ole Jerry a visit. I’m certain that he just might remember me this time!”
"Really, Jon? You still insist on this?"
"Why not? It's not like anyone else visits him."
"I guess you're right, but seriously," Bruce laughed a little, shaking his head, “it were years, Jon. You need to stop terrorizing that man. He paid for his crimes."
“You mean, he forgot all of his crimes! Dementia would do that to a man, I suppose.” well that and the amount of fear toxin that Crane had dozed him with after the bastard tried to literally lobotomize him that one time, “But the last time, he did call me Scarecrow!”
“I'm pretty sure, he had called you a strawman.”
"Ehh..." Jonathan flickered the wrist of his free hand in lazy dismission, “Close enough. I'm too old to be picky.”
They fall into silence, which wasn't as comforting as it usually was. But it was given, that every moment will now be spoiled with knowlege of Bruce's condition.
Still —
“You really can’t let it go, huh?”
“No.” he confirmed, still keeping Bruce’s hand entrapped within his, “Ya should have learned this a long time ago."
༻❁༺
If he had to pick his least favorite child out of Bruce’s little improvised collection of adopted misfits, it would have been this one.
“Still look like an imposed in that suit, I see.” Jonathan commented dryly, without looking away from his notes.
“Still think you can hurt my feelings, I see.”
“Hardly.” Jon pressed one finger onto his nosebridge, driving his glasses further up his face, “I don’t think, that you have those to begin with, child.”
There was a gruff scoff, the sounds which were eerily similar to his father. Even if it's a bit deeper. “It’s nice to see you too, old man.”
Crane slowly turned around on his rolling chair, coming face to face with Damien Wayne, or as Gotham knew him as, the new Batman.
It wasn’t like they didn’t see each other often, – Damien visited them frequently and somewhat consistently — but Jon was still marveled at how fast the boy grew. Or more so, how fastly he turned from an annoying little brat into an oversized, six foot tall one.
It felt like he was glared at him from the other end of the table just yesterday, barely tall enough to reach Jon's chest, but already giving him and everybody - but Bruce - a lip.
(It was as if every relatively bad trait that the original Bat ever had somehow gain a body of it's own.)
“If you are here for your weekly dose of heroic wisdom, I have to disappoint you. Your dad is —”
“Asleep, I know.”
In any other situation, this would have sounded comical. As Bruce never took daytime naps before. However, lately, he was getting tired faster and slept more than usual. The painkillers and medicine made him sluggish and as much as Bruce tried to downplay it, Jonathan knew that he was feeling worse than he did before.
Yet, they still didn’t directly address it.
Crane preferred to spend all the valuable time inside his lab, trying to find a way to fix this. Win just a bit more time against all the odds.
And Bruce, well, he most likely just didn't bring it up for his sake. Daring to be so caring and patient, even when he was the one suffering.
“I see. Are you here for me, then?” he asked, when it became clear that Damien won’t speak out of turn, “If so, I can’t phantom why.”
“Just checking on you. Is it not allowed now?”
Crane couldn’t help, but smirk crookedly at that. “Y’know, this is what he used to tell me, when he would pay me a visit in Arkham. Those exact words.”
Jonathan knew this whole song and dance by heart. Knew what intentions were there behind a rather polite, even if vague sentence.
“And I’ll tell you what I told him. Time an’ time again…” his accent got more noticeable, but nowadays, he sometimes didn’t even notice it anymore, “There is no reason for ya to ask after me. I’m as right as rain.”
Damien tilted his head a bit to the side, gaze trailing off him and skipping alongside Jon’s working table instead. “When was the last time you slept or ate?”
Well, this one was easy enough. “I had dinner with you father this evening. It was lovely.”
A sigh. Barely a noise at all.
(And this was just like his father too.)
“Crane. It was yesterday.”
Damien’s voice wasn’t accusing, if anything it was a somewhat soft thing. Understanding and way more gentle, than usual.
Anf for his part, Jonathan didn’t know how to stomach it, so he put his chin onto his palm, watching the other impassively, “It’s Wayne now. I reckon it was so for years. Have you forgotten?”
He was hesitant at first, but eventually he took Bruce’s surname. Partially, because it was easy on the tongue. And also because Bruce Crane sounded like a mouthful, while Jonathan Wayne sounded nearly pristine. And as Jason once pointed out, it made more sense too, since Jon was the ‘woman’ in this relationship, anyways. And ah, he remembered giving the brat an earful for that.
What he and Bruce did in the bedroom was no one’s business. Even if literally everyone and their mother seemed to know all about it, and all about who was the dominant one in their strange ‘duet’ on top of it.
He supposed in some ways, it was given and it wasn’t untrue, either. But —
“Dad still calls you this too sometimes.” Damien shrugged, “It’s like your family nickname at this point.”
“Touche. But it doesn't explain why you are here.” he rubbed his face, attempting to focus on conversation at hand and not on another hit of nostalgia for the times, when things seemed to be less loaded, ironically enough, “If you want my input on something, then it will have to wait. I have a lot of work to do.”
If Damien was anyone else, they might have shot him a pitying look. But this man was built differently, even if he was raised by Bruce.
When he spoke next, his voice was even, if there were some underlying emotions roped into it too, “You need to stop doing this.”
“Hm, stop doing what, my boy? Be more detailed here. What exactly you want from me, hm? Stop skipping meals and staying till dawn?” Jon jeered, even with a more noticeable amount of agitation.
“Jonathan, you can’t —”
“LIKE HELL I CAN’T!” he slammed his fist onto the table making it rattle. “Don’ come ‘ere an’ tell me what I can an’ can’t do! I’ll do what I damn please! I had brought the likes of Superman onto their knees! I had made a toxin strong enough to make the whole Gotham almost lose its mind! Ya can’t — y-ya can’ jus' tell me that —” he voice broke, pathetically and suddenly so, “...y-ya can’t tell me that I can’t save him, godammit! Ya — ya have no damn right to tell me that, you insufferable brat! Ya jus' don't!”
He had done things, which would have given the less wicked soul a power trip. He had fought different kinds of enemies. He had made different alliances. Some of which were made with creatures, who weren’t even humans. And yet, once he had to face the foe of all living things, the one true reincarnation of all fears, he felt impossibly small. Borderline hopeless.
The more time, Jonathan spent with Bruce lately, the more noticeably he could feel it. Under the smell of medicamentions and cool breeze, there was something else too.
“I don’t want him to die, either.”
Jonathan angled his frame away from the pointy eared shadow, clenching his jaw with stubborn resolve, “Then, stop thinkin’ about him kickin’ the bucket and instead do something about it.”
“He told me not to.”
The whole world seemed to dim out for a second. Jonathan could hear his own voice, but he couldn’t feel his mouth, “What…?”
“He said, that it was —” Damien’s expression, as limited as it is in this modern mask of his, still betrayed hesitation, and perhaps, something even deeper and more troubled than that, “That he’s alright with it.”
He didn't mean to bark out a laugher. He really didn't. But it came out. Dry and misarable and enraged. Because of course, of course, he'd say a nonsense like that.
And to his own bilological child, no less.
“Well, I’m not.” Jon said to both himself and Damien. To the world at large, it seemed.
The second Bat offered no comment to that, but he didn’t leave right away, either. Instead, he remained close by, watching and straying in the shadow.
Truly, a bitter-sweet reminded of all the holy and dear ghosts.
༻❁༺
Among everything else, another rather uncomfortable truth was the madness had never quite left Jonathan.
He was never actually cured or pardoned from it. He wasn’t a changed person, at the end of the day. Even if he did let one single man change how he went about it.
There was a rather cruel irony to everything in his life.
His existence was always marked to be a miserable one. Looking the way he did. Acting the way he was. And desiring things, which back in his time would have put him into a specialized institution, even before he decided to use his talents in chemistry for questionable purposes.
But where the tragedy struck, the real treasure that he got always shone the brightest. And not just in comparison, but amiss everything. Batman was more than a symbol of justice. He was a symbol of hope. And to see this very man not expanding the same courtesy toward himself —
Well, it was very in character. Even if it didn’t make this any less frustrating.
“You ought to tell him, that this is getting ridiculous.” Jonathan complained, making sure to tuck the blanket with the presentation of a trained nurse, “Anywhere I turn, he’s right there!”
Bruce smiled at him, looking thinner and paler than usual, but somehow still radiating warmth, that Jon grew so accustomed to over the years, “He’s just looking out for you.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t ask him to.”
Lately, Damien was hanging around the mansion with more persistence, than he did before. And if Jonathan didn’t know better, he’d decide that the brat just wanted to give him a heart attack by taking upon the habit of appearing out of thin air.
But there was more to that. Of course, there was.
In short, Damien was now pretty much babysitting him. Forcing Jon to eat two times a day and dragging him out to ‘fresh air’, when it was apparent that otherwise, he would just stay indoors for weeks to come.
And this was almost funny. As Crane had no reason to go outside any more. Bruce was bedridden for nearly a month now. Making Jon paranoid to leave the house, fearing that he might not be there when he would be needed.
“Ya had asked him to do that, didn’t ya?”
Bruce didn’t deny it. There was no reason to.
"I can't say, that I told me to do all of that. But I talked with him, and I wanted someone to be there for you, when I —”
“You won’t.” Crane cut him out, refusing to listen to this garbage any futher, “Not before I do, at least.”
“Didn’t you tell me, that you refuse to die, before Jeremiah Arkham would die first?”
“Yes, and I will keep my word. There is no way, I would bite the dust before that demented charlatan!"
It didn’t matter that Jerry’s brain was basically dead at this point, and couldn’t really remember the beef they used to have. But Jon still went and paid him the rare visits. Mostly to gloat, but also he might have felt a bit sentimental too.
A lot of people, who he and Bruce used to know were long gone. A lot of them had died before their time too. Meanwhile, Crane and Arkham were still clinging to life, basically eldritch in comparison to Gotham’s newest bunch of Rogues and unethical doctors.
And speaking of those, “Damien told me, that there is some kind of…fanat of mine which is…” Jonathan cringed, recalling the brat's exact words, “...got inspiration from me an’ now goes around and scares people with some kind of holograms and synthetic gas.”
Bruce’s light smile widened a bit, his eyes crinkled as if they were talking about something somewhat endearing, “How dreadful.”
“It is.” Crane agreed, “He doesn’t understand the art of fear at all!”
“And he killed at least twenty people by now.”
They both turned to see Barbara Gordon standing in the doorway. She was out of her police commissioner uniform, but somehow still managed to hold the air of non-violent authority. A true Gordon though and though.
“Sorry to interrupt.” Barbara smiled way less than she used to, when she was younger, but she always made sure to save her warmest expression for the small family, she still had. Bruce was basically like a second father to her at this point. “Hello, Bruce. Hello, Jon.”
“Hello, child.” he greeted back, still perching on the edge of bed right next to Bruce’s side, “I thought, you come later today.”
A lot of Bruce’s friends and children - sometimes even the children of said children - had come around to chat with them. But mostly with the old Bat. And even if they all acted like it wasn’t anything special, and as if this was just a normal exchange, Crane felt that it wasn’t the case.
It was pretty clear, that they weren't there to merely see Bruce. They were there to say their goodbyes in case they won’t have another chance later on.
And it stinged more, than anything else. Just how everyone were already accepting Bruce’s death like something, that was unpreventable.
(The open knowledge, that the world was already moving on. As if it had any right to do so.)
He kind of missed most of the conversation, barely paying any mind to anything, but the tone and tenor of Bruce’s voice, but almost unable to focus on the words itself.
And it was like that a lot lately. Jonathan’s mind will begin to drift. And then, suddenly he will find himself in the middle of something he had no memory of doing.
It was as if an invisible hand had flipped a switch inside his head, and things got misplaced and discussions were bleeding into one another and he had no control over any of it.
In the worst scenario, this could have been the beginning of his cognitive function declining. It could have been an early sign that he just might spend the last two to three years of his life being no better than Arkham, and struggle to recall even the simplest of things.
But it was so similar to the state, that he used to be in, when he was the sinister Scarecrow. When his mind was working in ways it only did, when he was next to the chemicals and had a very wicked idea that inspired him beyond any measure.
He supposed an attempt to find a key to possible immortality fit very perfectly into that category. Even if Jon would have argued that this was the most good thing he had ever attempted to do in his entire lifespan.
It was no secret, that Crane was always careless, when it came to the fates of others. He could fairly easily swallow the notion, that came with deaths he had caused or witnessed over the years.
But this —
If there was a life worth saving, using every possible trick in a book, it was Bruce’s.
He merely wished, that he just knew how to use those cheats without risk of killing him, before the disease did. And the time —
It was no longer the resource he could nourish naturally.
But considering, that Bruce was yet to call him out on how funny his food tasted sometimes and how while he had more energy lately, he also got headaches, perhaps there was still a small chance that Jon would do something impossible.
Maybe, just maybe, he could drawl it out for as long as he himself was alive.
༻❁༺
Some might say that Crane was delusional. That he crossed the line, which separated a desperate man and lunatic around two months ago. As the rats he had experimented on stayed dead. The formula that he tried to create wasn’t any closer to perfection, than it was before and newer chemical burns on his fingers had barely made him react anymore.
And it also seemed like Bruce, who he hoped didn’t know about 'strange' ingredient that nowadays was added to his drinks and food, had decided that enough was enough. And today was the day, when he acknowledged it for the first time.
“So you were just humoring me, then?” Jonathan asked, keeping his voice even, “You didn’t actually believed, that you get better on your own.”
“Jon, we both know, that it’s useless."
“Useless? What do you mean useless!?" he protested, gesturing wildly between them, “This formula stalls it! it does somethin’ right, Bruce! If we only —”
“You think I didn’t try all I could before?” for once, Bruce didn’t look sad or calm or melancholic, he looked very-very tired. Like a man who done impossible for years and then, finally ran into challenge that he couldn't overcome, “I spent a whole year attempting to find a cure. I had thought, that maybe there was something I’ve missed.”
Crane’s jaw compressed shut, quivering slightly, before the words pushed out, angry and stuborn, “There still can be something.”
Bruce shook his head slowly, “No, Jonathan. This time, I’m afraid, that’s...that's just it.”
“You don’t sound too damn upset about it.”
Maybe, it was unfair to accuse a dying man of such a thing. But Jon didn’t care. Standing next to their bed and watching Bruce being so disgustingly okay with all of this —
“What do you want me to do?” it was a genuine question, calm and patient, “To spend my last month scared of what to come? I would rather you remember me in a different way, Jon.”
Oh, for god's —
“I don’t want to remember ya! I want ya to stay, you absolute fool!”
What was he doing wrong? Surely there was something that he could do, if he only tried harder. If only he could surpass his own ability and then —
Then, he wouldn’t have to even entertain the idea, that sooner than later Bruce will no longer be there. That he wouldn’t be able to talk to him or even look at him. That all he would have would be a memory.
“I want that too.”
Jon sucked in an ugly breath, feeling his lungs collapsing on itself as the annoying sting in the corner of his eyes began to make itself known. He lost count of how many times, he spent hours pathetically weeping over yet another set back or failed result.
He didn't think that he had ever cried so much since his youth.
And golly, would he have given his soul up to the devil itself, if only he could cry over some stupid bully again, rather than crying over the fact, that he was losing the only truly good and important thing in his wretched life.
“It’s not like I want to die.” Bruce continued, or perpahs confessed, “I think...sometimes, back then, when it was getting bad, when I felt too tired, I didn’t mind the thought of it. It sounded peaceful. And I also thought, that perhaps I was better off this way. It seemed like no matter what I did, the tide would shift and if I beat one enemy, the other one would take their place. It felt like I could never win. Like I was in an open sea, and there was no shore in sight.”
Jon shifted his footing.
It wasn’t like hearing this was new. He had seen Bruce at his lowest, both as his enemy and then, as his lover. But it never got easier to know, that even someone like Batman had come very close to the literal end of his rope.
He didn’t help it, either. Crane was self-aware enough to admit, that he was one of the people who had their hand in Dark Knight's torment. However, he had never crossed certain unspoken boundaries and had rarely aimed to actually kill, rather than wound.
Looking back at it, he came to realize that some of it was him attempting to express his love as well. As horrible and messed up as it was, till a certain point, he completely lacked a frame of reference of how those things worked. Bruce had to pretty much teach him about that whole ‘romance’ thing. A subject, that he read so much about, but had zero idea how to reenact.
He had no idea what to do here, either. What else he could do, besides slowly slicking closer to the bed and hope against it all to somehow make Bruce attempt to do the impossible with him.
“You feel like you can’t win here too?”
The other man gave it a thought, before humming softly, “I think that it’s not as scary as it sounds, when you know that you have a lot of things to look behind on and feel that it mattered. It’s way scarier to die alone. To not have anything that you wanted to live for.”
“Very poetic, darlin’...” Jon spat out, “And what I’m supposed to do with all of this, when you are gone? T-to reflect on the good times?”
“I would have liked it, if you did.”
Crane let out a bitter cackle, “You are impossible. Absolutely impossible.”
“And here I thought, you find this charming.”
“Oh yes, I do. C-charmin’ indeed…” Jon sniffed, angrily whipping his right eye with his sleeve, “And what the hell would I do, when you take all of your charm away, hm? When I will have to w-wake up an' - and...”
(You won't be next to me anymore.)
Life without Batman was a scary prospect before they even came to be together. And now, the idea of Bruce going away somewhere he couldn’t ever hope to follow, this was enough to steal any reassurance in the ground under his feet.
“You won’t be alone. Damien will be with you.” Bruce tilted his head a little, the sunlight catching in his grey hair, illuminating his expression in gentle narely angelic hue, “He’ll keep you company in my absence."
“Yer absence…” Jon muttered with twisting and quivering lips. Heart sinking into his very guts. "W-what a gentle way to put it."
It was supposed to sound reassuring, to give him some sort of comfort, but it all felt so hollow. It seemed like even after so many decades Crane was never able to fully show just how much his Bat meant to him.
"It's be alright." Bruce said in a voice of someone, who had to bury a lot of people he had loved, and who had been able to live with it. Who knew that specific pain like the back of his own hand, and refused to give up. "Each time, when you think that it's the end. The new day will still come."
“It’s not the s-s-same.”
Nothing will ever be the same after that.
And Crane didn’t trust himself enough to not go completely mad with grief and not to dig Bruce's body out later. It felt blasphemous to just accept this in any way. That the death will finally claim Batman after so many times, he had managed to narrowly escape its grasp.
Perhaps, it was a blessing on its own. That Bruce didn't end up dying a way worse death. That he could at least, die inside Wayne's manor. In their bed. But it did nothing for Crane.
For a man, who still couldn't accept this.
“Come here, Jon.”
He shook his head stubbornly.
A beat of silence, and then quiter, “Please?”
His lips thined in pained, woobly line, but despite the denial and despite the anger, Jonathan’s feet moved as if on their own. He slowly crawled onto the bed, right into the waiting embrace. His own hands wrapped around Bruce’s arm, as he pressed his shamefully tear-striken face into his chest.
He knew, that he should be the one trying to be supporting and comforting, but somehow, the Bat always knew how to act and what to do in such situations.
“I can’t promise you something, that we both know won’t happen.” Bruce’s hand rested on the nape of his neck, “But I can promise to try and stay as long as I can.”
Jonathan made a muffled noise, not having it in him to look at him yet. It was a slight relief, that Bruce basically agreed on continuing taking the medicine Crane made for him, but it was a temporary solution.
It was only slowing the process down, but not getting rid of it.
“You have to promise something back to me, though.”
He shifted, blinking away the tears. He hated crying and he never looked good, while doing it, “I can’t promise you something, that we both know won’t happen, either.”
“Well, then it seems like we have our final stalemate., professor”
“Yeah…” Jon pressed closer to him, listening to Bruce’s heartbeat, clinging to him with resoluteness of a man, who still delusionally believed like his love might ward the death away from his Knight for one last time. “Seems like we do, Bat-fool.”