Bruce sobbing until he throws up in his room one night after he finds out in Flashpoint that his baby would have been a priest, had he never met him.
Instead of growing up surrounded by guns and blood, Jason might have been taken in by the local church and raised as the pastor's son instead of his own. He would have had plentiful food and attended Sunday mass, clutching crosses and Bibles between his little fingers instead of batarangs. A cross would have danged around his neck, and the distinctive 'R' of the Robin uniform wouldn't have been plastered on his chest. He would have slept throughout the night, safe in those stained-glass walls, in his bed instead of out fighting crime.
He could have graduated high school, and all the church clergy would have sat in the stands to watch, cheering on their boy as he walked up to the podium to receive his diploma.
Jason would have gone to school—college—and become a man of the community. He would have found solace in the Lord instead of tucked away under a cape and cowl after long patrols. His boy would have inspired all those who stepped foot into his church, helped hundreds, and saved dozens of souls.
Depending on his branch, the boy could have gotten a wife and had kids. He could have been happy.
Yet, curse Bruce and his infinite charity, he couldn't bear to see a boy alone on the streets, left in the same situation he had been all those years ago. What man in his right mind wouldn't of taken Jason in that night?
He can't bring himself to think about it. His baby boy could have been alive and well this entire time, and Bruce wouldn't have ever known him.
The guilt he feels over that is worse than the guilt he felt when Jason died in that warehouse, knowing that he damn well could have prevented it, had it not been for his stupid, shadow-covered, bleeding heart.
