Archive of Our Own

As soon as the door closed, Jason cleared the coffee table with a sweep of his arm, sending the still-open medical kit tumbling onto the floor and scattering all its supplies.

“Fuck!” He screamed, holding his head in his hands as his chest heaved heavy with each shuddering breath he took. 

Why did he say that to you? What fucking possessed him to open his stupid mouth and say something that would hurt you like that? 

“It’s like you don’t even want me to stay!” 

He did. More than anything.

‘I don’t want this for you,’ was what he had thrown at your face. Your sad and vulnerable face. You did everything right by him, and he still couldn’t keep his stupid insecurities to himself.

Jason threw himself onto the couch and stared up at the ceiling, trying his hardest not to cry even as he felt his eyes sting and go hot.

Just another thing in his life for him to ruin.

He thought…He thought this time, it would go right. That he could have something nice, just for himself, that proved he could be normal. Gentle. Someone worthy of loving and being loved.

But he didn’t deserve it. Deserve you.

So instead he hurt you. Gave himself a convenient excuse for why no one had stayed before.

Now you were probably out there on the Gotham streets, at night, crying your eyes out while heading towards Steph’s. 

Alone.

Dozens of awful scenarios played out in his head in an instant: You being mugged. Being stopped by a gang. Being assaulted.

Heart stuttering at the panic-inducing thought, Jason stood up in a flash. He was halfway to inserting his arm through the sleeve of his jacket when he stopped, and found himself faltering at the front door, one foot on the welcome mat. 

You didn’t want to see him right now. Had all but ran away from him.

Thinking about how you would rather be out on the dangerous streets of Gotham instead of at home here with him made his chest wither.

Falling limply back onto the couch, Jason snatched up his phone and typed a message, asking anyone who was still out on patrol to keep an eye out for you. That he couldn’t right now.

He could already feel the judgmental eyes of his ‘family,’ knowing they could read between the lines. If he wasn’t out there doing the looking, then he was the reason why you needed to be located.

He had never thought of himself as a coward until he got into this relationship with you, but nowadays, it’s all he can think of himself as.

Fuck, he was pathetic.

A few seconds later, his phone vibrated with a reply. 

Seeing that Bruce had confirmed your location, Jason let his phone fall out of his hands and onto the couch, then dropped his head into his hands. 

His side throbbed fiercely.

Exhaustion and pain pulled at him, and his mood darkened even further until he felt nothing but defeat. He wanted to lean back into the couch and let it eat him alive, to feel the bliss of emptiness so that the guilt gnawing at his fucking heart would stop hurting so much.

Maybe he shouldn’t have ever gotten into a relationship again. None of his previous ones had lasted, after all. This had been the most successful one. Two years.

Two whole years with you. Full of smiles, soft touches, and warm safety. 

Full of worry, arguments, and tears.

And he had probably ruined it after tonight. One final straw to break the camel’s back. Carrying his ungrateful ass until it couldn’t anymore. Until you couldn’t take it anymore.

His nose grew hot, and he sniffed, trying to clear his sinuses to no avail. 

Always hurting you. Fighting you tooth and nail every inch of the way in this relationship.

Fuck, why hadn’t you dumped him already?

His first instinct at the moment was to hit up Roy and find something to do, some cartel to kill. Maybe ask Kori if she’s got something in space so he could run with his tail between his legs and lick his wounds before coming back to beg you for forgiveness.

But you already knew he would do something like that. Because this wasn’t the first time.

And maybe, Jason thought as he stared dully at his own reflection in the TV screen across from him, he was sick and tired of running away.

He clenched his hands, feeling one of his knuckles pop.

He thought about the item he had hidden in his bedside drawer, underneath the fake panel. Thought about why he bought it in the first place. How you deserved a partner who could be there for you, to understand you better, to compromise. Support you in your career. Comfort you when you’re in pain. Protect you from the evils of this city.

You had already been doing so much for him, after all. Moved apartments. Changed your shifts to match his lifestyle. Learned first aid and gun maintenance of all things to help him. Watched him risk his life every night.

His feet brought him over to the bathroom, and he splashed his face with water, the cold temperature helping to offset his fried mental state. 

Jason stared down at the sink, water dripping off his nose, and took in the view of all your skincare products littering the counter. Hair treatments. The fancy hairdryer he bought you last Christmas. His toothbrush next to yours. Your hairbrush next to his comb. The two little matching towels that you insisted on, because it was cute for couples to match.

He didn’t want to give this up.

Maybe he could be that man for you. If he let himself try. 

He could fail. Or, he could succeed.

It was better than stewing in his own guilt and sabotaging himself.

Looking up in the mirror at his reflection, Jason took a deep breath and slapped his cheeks red. “Get a fucking hold of yourself and get your girl back,” he told himself.

Easier said than done, but he was nothing if not a stubborn bastard.

Chest swelling with determination, Jason headed back to the living room for his phone, intent on checking your tracker for your location—

A loud explosion echoed from a distance outside, and the apartment building itself shook from the force, shaking dust from the ceiling. Jason stumbled a bit, planting his feet wide, and his head swerved to look out the nearest window. 

His heart stuttered, and blood roared in his ears.

Green.

Nothing but horrifying neon green filling the air in plumes; a disgusting, familiar shade that had him breaking out in a cold sweat.

That fucking clown.

He…He needed his mask. His guns. Real fucking bullets.

His phone blared, along with his discarded comm, and Jason hurried to pick them both up. 

“—need all hands on deck NOW!” Oracle shouted, voice urgent and full of fear; so unlike the usual, calm mastermind of information. “There’s been multiple reports of explosions throughout Gotham, at least one in every borough! Dozens of casualties on the cameras already, they need to be contained! GCPD is deploying now to help with evacuations.”

“On the way,” came Red Robin’s voice, solid and firm.

“Backing up,” was Batgirl’s reply, simple and resolute.

“Breaking out the emergency gas masks protocol,” said Spoiler, determined.

Jason was already halfway suited up, ignoring the pain in his side and the still-healing bruises on his arms. He slotted in his 9mm, a glock, extra gas masks from the closet, his two favorite daggers into their holsters, and made sure the filters in his mask were working.

“I will also head out—”

“Don’t you dare, little D,” Nightwing interjected firmly. “This isn’t something you should take part in. Signal, can you back us up?...Signal?”

“Oracle!” Batman’s rough voice came through the channel, and Jason stopped, eyes wide and unseeing. Something in him screamed at him to listen. “I need you to track someone’s location!” 

Your name was said, and Jason slowly turned to stare out of the window at the chaos.

“What?!” Oracle sputtered in outrage. “She was right next to you! I just saw! I don’t have time for this—”

“She’s gone!” Batman roared.

Jason couldn't breathe.

“What..?” He croaked out, and the comm fell silent for a moment.

“Jaylad…” Batman murmured, sounding unsure for once. “She’s—”

“What do you mean ‘she’s gone’?” Jason spat into the comm. “You were keeping an eye on her, weren’t you?! No— you know what, don’t answer that! Where are you right now?!”

“...I’m on the Sprang Bridge.”

That was only twenty minutes away, five with a grapnel, two if he was desperate. And he was very desperate. 

The next minute was a blur of wind ripping through his hoodie, filtered smells, and a burning in his lungs. 

Before he knew it, Red Hood landed onto the Sprang bridge where one of the large plumes of green continued to drift into the sky. Even with the superior Bat quality filters in his mask, he could taste the acrid smell in the back of his throat and a sting in his eyes.

Just as he said, Batman was there, focused on a certain spot that looked out onto the river, where the concrete and metal railing looked like it had been annihilated at impact.

“Batman!” Red Hood roared as his boots slammed onto the concrete. “Where is she?!”

Batman only looked up at him, his cowl doing nothing to hide the pain in his expression. “...She’s gone.”

With a snarl, Red Hood grabbed him by the collar of his cape, yanking him close. “You keep saying that! What do you mean?! Her tracker showed she was here! You were supposed to protect her! You promised!”

“She’s gone!” Batman shouted back. “I’m sorry, son, but I don’t know what happened. One minute she was here, and the next, the Joker Toxin exploded, and took her with it. I’m…” He slumped, and said gravely, guiltily— not as Batman, but as Bruce, his father— “I’m sorry.”

Sorry.

Jason didn’t even get to say sorry to you. To make it up to you.

His grip slackened, and Jason stumbled back a few steps, dazed. “...Gone?” His voice sounded small, cracking in the middle of the word.

A haunting laughter echoed throughout the city, and Batman regained himself. “I’m sorry, son, I have to go. The Joker is out there. Help the others!” He ordered, shooting his grapnel toward the nearest building.

Amidst the screaming, the sirens wailing, and the insidious hissing from the never ending supply of Toxin, Jason’s head was quiet. 

Silent.

A tinny noise reverberated through his ears.

Three hours.

There was no funeral procession.

Encased in seal-proof glass, Bruce’s unresponsive corpse was beheld by all in the Batcave. His body was too corroded with Toxin, even with multiple doses of the antidote, but he had taken the Joker down with him.

It took his father dying to finally make it up to him.

Dick was sobbing, holding a trembling Damian in his arms.

Cassandra had gone nonverbal hours ago when the body had been retrieved.

Stephanie could barely choke back her tears, holding Tim’s hand in a death grip.

Barbara bowed her head, the shadows hiding her face as her hands clenched the handles of her wheelchair.

Duke gazed at the coffin, looking lost and not all there.

Kate stared into the distance, tired and haunted.

Alfred…No one had seen Alfred since.

Jason? Jason stayed silent, only helping to load the body of his father into the incinerator with his brothers. 

He was the only one who stayed in the end, watching the fires crackle and bend.

He hadn’t been able to find you. None of them could. None of them had the time.

The citizens were ordered to bunker down in the underground shelters for now, and only those with a good quality gas mask were allowed out to help with evacuations. The GCPD was limping; crippled by the surge in crime, the dead bodies piling on the streets, and the laughter.

The god damn laughter.

The Joker’s body was currently rotting in its own pool of Toxin.

And yet, despite how elated he should feel, Jason only felt numb.

The Toxin persisted, no matter what they did. It just wouldn’t. Dissipate. And now Bruce was dead, and Jason was an orphan again. Abandoned and left behind, no matter how hard he tried.

Jason took out his phone, and like habit, dialed your number. A photo of you smiling illuminated his face.

He held his breath.

“The number you have dialed is not available. Please try again later.”

Not even a voicemail.

The call disconnected, showing a long list of his attempts from the last two days.

All failures.

His lips trembled.

Two days. Fourteen hours.

“You need to take a break.”

Jason didn’t answer her, eyes trained on the machine in front of him. Bright lights flashed as they slowly generated his project in front of him.

“Jason,” Barbara’s tired voice called out from behind him. “You need to stop and rest. It’s been a week. She wouldn’t have wanted you to—”

“To what?” Jason asked, voice low. Dangerous. “To keep trying to find her? Do you even hear yourself?”

“Look at you!” Barbara snapped, rolling her wheelchair closer until the footrest bumped into the back of his legs. “You’re a mess. You haven’t slept properly in days, and you’ve barely eaten. You’re of no use to her in this state!”

Jason whirled around, rage coursing through his veins. “At least I’m trying!” He roared. “For all I know, she could be out there somewhere, starving and scared! Maybe even trapped! I have to try, for fuck’s sake! What have you been doing all this time, Barbie, huh?!”

Barbara glared up at him, hurt and anger shining through her eyes. “I’ve been trying to keep everyone here alive, and coordinate with the GCPD, and gather allies from the government and the Justice League.” Her voice was stone cold. “Trust me, Jason, I haven’t just been sitting on my ass like a useless invalid.”

Jason faltered, and he looked away. “...That’s not what I meant,” he murmured, jaw tense. “...Sorry.”

He heard her let out a deep, exhaustive sigh. “...I get it, okay? We’re all really worried about her, but…” Her breath came out shaky. “I can’t…I can’t prioritize her right now, when we have nine million people, all needing our help. I’m trying, I am. I have scanners looking for her, I have an algorithm matching her face on the city cameras, but there’s only so much we can do right now, and…” 

She grew quiet. 

“You heard Bruce, that day. He saw her die—”

“Don’t say that!” Jason shouted, fist slamming on the metal table with a loud bang, echoing through the Batcave.

A minute passed before the cave fell silent once more.

“...Don’t say that,” he whispered, a shudder going through his chest as he bowed his head low. “Please.”

He didn’t look up as he heard her wheelchair moving further away, until it was just him and the whir of the machine in front of him.

One week. One day. Five Hours.

Jason hadn’t wanted to come here.

It felt wrong to be here without you, in your shared apartment. But he had to. 

Because maybe you had come back. Maybe you had found your way back here, somehow evading all the cameras and I.D. checks in the bunkers, even if it was dangerous to be aboveground now.

But you weren’t here, and when Jason had found nothing had changed, no sign of you within the last two weeks, he felt another part of him wither.

He closed the windows. Sealed the foot of the front door. Covered the vents. There was no way for the Toxin to make its way in here now.

And yet, as Jason despondently looked around, it was still ruined by a tinge of green that had gotten in during the first week of the chaos.

You would hate to see the furniture dirty like this. All over the counters and tables and shelves and clothes and. Everything. 

Jason didn’t want you to come back to such a sorry state. He wanted it to be a relief; for you to be able to relax and feel safe at home, with him.

This was your home. His home.

But it felt empty. Abandoned. Stained, like coffee spilled over a photograph. Like whatever had been good, and loving, and warm here, had been ruined.

And it was his fault for driving you away, for being such a stubborn asshole.

Jason forced himself to swallow the lump in his throat, and he reached for the cleaning supplies.

Four hours later, the apartment was almost restored to its original state. All the Toxin particles had been vacuumed up and sealed away in a special disposal bag. Everything was back to how it should be.

Except.

You were still missing.

And home would never be home again, not unless they could get rid of the Toxin. Not until he could breathe again.

But at least it was clean and ready for you when you would be back.

Jason ignored the voice in the back of his head that said ‘if.’

Three weeks. Four Days. Six Hours.

Jason gazed down at the new helmet in his hands.

Covered head to toe in kevlar, armor, and hard leather, he took in his reflection with a bitter curl in his gut.

All those months of arguing and it took you dy— disappearing for him to finally upgrade his suit.

No longer would he bare his skin to the outside. No longer would he be covered only by the flimsiest hoodies and t-shirts. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t.

The city was in ruins.

Stores looted. Businesses broken into. Rot and mold and violence breaking out everywhere, either on the streets or in the underground shelters.

The bodies continued to pile up.

People were dying too fast for Sanitation to get rid of.

The laughter persisted, shrieking with wide grins until their faces tore apart and life left their eyes. 

Black smoke from the furnaces tainted the air.

The green continued to haunt the city.

Red Hood wasn’t enough. 

None of them were enough.

It needed Batman.

Batman was dead.

Jason had been dead before. 

Buried with no heartbeat. 

Came back up six months later crawling through the mud and the remains of his coffin and his body still broken by a crowbar.

The city needed Batman.

Batman was dead.

But Batman could come back from the dead. 

Like Jason had come back from the dead.

Alive enough to get this city under control.

Until…

Until.

Until they found a way to rid the Toxin.

Until they could deem the city safe again.

Until he found you.

At least a body, he begged as he forced back a sob.

Two months. Four days. Sixteen hours. 

“Jay.”

Jason didn’t pause as he meticulously carved something from the wood he had foraged from inside the manor.

He could feel Tim’s eyes glaring daggers into the back of his head, at the blood splatter on his armor. 

“We can’t do things like this. We can’t operate like this,” Tim declared strongly, even as his breath faltered in his last words, and his exhale became wheezy.

He was of course referring to the fact that Jason had resumed killing.

If he had done so as Red Hood, that was one thing.

But killing while using the mantle of Batman was another story.

It was the only way to get things under control, though. Before the Toxin could claim more victims.

Before those infected would claim their own victims.

As Batman, he had been able to establish some form of stability again.

He was saving the city.

He was saving your home.

He was saving something.

“And what would you suggest?” Jason whispered dully, his knife slicing through another layer of grain. “What solutions have you thought of, using that big brain of yours?”

Tim leaned heavily against the table, while one hand struggled to keep his cane upright. “I…” Tim hesitated, eyes downcast. “I haven’t figured one out yet, but—”

“Then don’t fucking bother me,” Jason cut him off, angling his knife to create a point. He then held it up to the light, noting its balance and length. It would do.

“I have schematics, plans,” Tim argued, stumbling closer to where Jason was sitting. “I just need to get my hands on a material strong enough to withstand the Toxin’s corrosive radiation.”

Jason’s gaze slowly slid to him, taking in the sight of the other man.

At the sweat shining on his brow.

The pallid quality of his skin.

The dark circles that sunk into his eye sockets.

The pale blue veins that circled his throat, dark against the silver scar at his jugular. 

The tremble in his limbs.

Something in Jason ached at the sight. 

His little brother was dying.

“...Tim, you should rest,” Jason voiced instead, standing up to bundle the younger man in his arms.

“I’m fine,” Tim insisted, even as his breath stuttered. He couldn’t fight back even if he wanted to. “I-I need to work.”

Jason shook his head and carried him up into the manor. “You should conserve your strength.” Tim barely weighed anything at this point. “Don’t make things harder for Alfred.”

Tim quieted, and he bowed his head, his long hair shielding his face. 

Jason said nothing as his younger brother trembled in his arms, and warm tears hit his hand.

There was no cure. There was nothing strong enough to take out the Toxin. The radiation coming off of it meant it was self-sustaining.

And without a spleen? Tim was a goner.

This was their life now.

What was left of it.

And with Bruce dead, the Justice League had left them to fend for themselves. They were never going to find a material hardy enough to withstand being near the Toxin generators without the League.

They were left to rot in what was essentially their own fault.

His own fault for not taking out the Joker sooner.

Jason dimly wondered if you were rotting somewhere. 

Maybe in the river. The sewers. A collapsed building.

He wondered if he would recognize your body.

He wondered if he could bury you with his family.

Five months. Six days. Nineteen hours.

Swallowing another gulp, Jason reveled in the burn in his throat and leaned his head back against the fridge, letting the cold metal surface cool his heated skin.

Several glass bottles were littered around the kitchenette, emptied of their contents into his body.

Today was your third year anniversary together.

Eight months since you died.

One month since Tim died.

Two weeks since Alfred died.

Swinging the Black Daniels up into his mouth, Jason blearily glared up at the ceiling light and wondered, not for the first time, why he was still alive.

“Happy third year anniversary, babe,” Jason whispered with a sneer. “Couldn’t even show up on such an important day, huh? You’re missin’ all the booze.”

His chest was on fire. Burning from all the alcohol he had consumed. 

Searing with frustration. 

Resentment.

“Where the fuck did you go...?” He huffed, letting the bottle fall back down to the floor. “Couldn’t stand me a moment longer, huh? Had to fuckin’- fucking duck out as soon as it was convenient, right? Leaving me to deal with this fuckin’ mess?”

His grip tightened around the neck of the bottle.

He knew, absently, that he would never say something like this to you. Never would think of something like this about you.

But you weren’t here.

And he hated it.

Hated that he missed you.

Hated that you had left him in your shared apartment with all these reminders of you.

Hated that you were nowhere to be found, dead or alive.

Hated you for making him so miserable.

Hated that he couldn’t breathe without you.

Tears began to blur his vision, and with a grit of his teeth, Jason violently rubbed at his eyes. “Damn it…Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

With a shout, he threw the bottle in his hand, hearing it impact and shatter somewhere. 

Why was his life such a dumpster fire? Did he do something to deserve this? To be robbed of everything he held near and dear to his stupid heart? 

Was he truly so detestable that his own fucking girlfriend would rather die than to come home to him?

Was everyone around him destined to die an awful death?

Sniffling, Jason squinted through one eye, trying to find where the bottle had landed, and froze.

He had knocked down a vase full of dried flowers. 

They had been flowers from the first bouquet he had ever gotten you. You had teared up over them because he had been the first boyfriend to get you anything so sentimental.

It was also the bouquet that he had gifted you while confessing his love for you.

And it was one you had meticulously dried out, intending to keep forever.

“No…no, no, no,” Jason whispered frantically, almost crawling on all fours in his addled attempt to rush over to clean up the mess. To fix this, to make it perfect for you.

Because if he didn’t make it better, you wouldn’t come back.

Willis didn’t come back.

Mom didn’t come back.

Bruce— Dad didn’t come back.

Jason had to fix this; had to make it perfect.

He ignored the dull throbbing in his hands as the broken shards cut into his skin, as red lines seeped from his flesh. He tried to pick apart the stems from the mess, tidy it up from what had to be swept later.

But he was drunk. His vision was blurry. His coordination was off. 

He was panicking.

In the end, his clumsiness was his downfall; in trying to pick up the scattered flowers, he ended up crushing one of the bulbs in his hand, grinding it to dust.

Jason stopped, gazing down at the remains of what was once a beautiful flower. One that had made you smile so wide, your eyes sparkling with unbridled happiness.

A sight he’d never get to see again.

The dust in his hand moistened, clumping together.

Another drop fell, and another, and another.

The first sob out of his mouth was choked; stuck in his throat, robbing him of air. The second made it out of him in a strangled cry, tearing free with a bitter tang. 

His hand enclosed around the remains, and he held it close to his chest, as if its proximity would heal the yawning chasm that ate away at his insides. The tears came fast and ferocious; leaving him blind to everything but his own grief and anger.

He was never seeing you again, was he. 

He was never going to see your smile, or hear your laughter, or hold you in his arms again. He was never going to be able to kiss you again. Touch you again. 

He would’ve been okay if you had just left him. It would’ve killed him on the inside but at least you would’ve been alive. He would’ve recovered eventually; forced himself to be content with the knowledge that you were out there somewhere, safe and sound, even if it wasn’t with him.

But this?

There was nothing.

Nothing but an empty void where you were supposed to be.

You were dead.

Killed by the Joker’s Toxin attack.

You weren’t coming back.

Jason had no choice but to accept that fact.

His girlfriend— his fucking soulmate was dead.

He thought about the ring he had bought a year ago. 

How he had planned to wine and dine you, get you a bouquet of your favorite flowers, take you out of Gotham for a weekend getaway. Propose to you in a private place, just you and him, because it’s always been you and him, together against the world.

He was supposed to marry you. He was supposed to make you happy. You were supposed to be happy. Alive. Safe.

And yet, in the end, Jason hadn’t been able to achieve any of those things.

He failed you.

He failed everyone in his life.

God, it hurts.

It hurts so bad.

Just kill him again so the pain would stop. Please.

“Please…” Jason heaved in between gasps, face wrecked with tears and his hands scarred with the shattered remains of what had been a reminder of your love. It was all he had left of you. “Come back…Please…”

.

.

.

At some point, his tears dried up. 

His knees ached from kneeling on the hard wood floor, and his hands throbbed from the various cuts that would soon join the scars littering his skin.

He robotically cleaned up the mess. 

Made sure all the glass was thrown away. Placed the dried flowers in a new, temporary vase, until he could find one that could replace the one he broke.

Then, taking a look around your apartment— your home, he tidied it up. 

Dusted the surfaces. Picked up all the empty beer and vodka bottles he left on the floor. Wiped the counters. 

Looked at the bedroom, at the bed where your comforter was still bundled up the way you left it that morning, eight months ago, and quietly closed the door.

If this was all he had left of you, then he would at least keep these memories as close to reality as he could.

He didn’t have much left.

Eight Months.

“Duke, I’m giving you one last warning.”

Duke didn’t answer him; his gaze was held upward toward the night sky above. 

Despite the open air, it felt suffocating. Green. Toxic.

Normal.

Batman dismissed it from his mind. Everything had Green on it now.

His only objective tonight was to corral his remaining brother home, where he would stay safe until he passed.

Like all the others.

“Duke,” Batman called out again, voice lowered into a warning growl. “We’re leaving. Now.”

The teenager in front of him slumped, and a heavy sigh hissed through the Bat gas mask he had on.

“Jayce, c’mon…” Duke turned around with a weary look. “I can’t even have one night to myself?”

“Not outside,” Batman said firmly. “This isn’t your first time sneaking out, either.”

The first time he had caught him in the Narrows. Then on top of a co-op. Now on top of the GCNN building, Batman found his temper growing short.

Duke let out a derisive snort. “Sorry I didn’t ask for your permission first, bro. At least let me finish watching the dome get done.”

The dome he spoke of was a thick glass layer that encapsulated the city of Gotham. Built with the last of the previous Batman’s nanotechnology, it was the only solution they had come up with. The last thing they could do to save their home.

Your home.

A splash of color stood in his periphery, one that Batman studiously ignored.

Despite his earlier warning, Batman allowed his younger brother this one request. They both looked up as the glass slowly filled in at the top of Wayne Enterprises headquarters, until not a single iota of air could escape out.

No more of the Toxin would leak out of the city. 

The citizens had been evacuated.

The warnings had been posted.

No one was getting in.

No one was getting out.

Batman had swore this.

But, as he watched the last of his family resign himself to coming home with him, he wondered how much longer he would live.

If he could call this living.

Eleven months. Three weeks. Four days.

The city was silent.

Empty.

Lights on but no one was home.

Except him.

Time passed.

He moved away from the manor.

Into the only place he deemed enough.

Arkham.

The air filters made it livable.

Even if it was stale and dead and cold.

Batman had no real way to tell the passage of time.

Nor did he want one.

And yet…

Lately.

He was seeing things.

Somewhere in his periphery.

Never front and center.

If he moved his head, it stayed in the corner of his eye.

He had finally lost his mind.

Because he was seeing you.

But he knew it couldn’t be you.

You were dead.

Gone.

Never to come back.

And yet.

Every time he saw it— saw you, his heart leaped.

Your name on the tip of his tongue.

But you never said anything back.

And his chest would shutter closed again, cracking cold.

You never came closer. Or farther.

Always nearby but never enough.

Batman wearily sat down on his cot. He stared down at the ground, at the space between his legs. Hands holding his head. Holding his breath.

Hoping you would disappear.

Because this was worse than you being dead.

You weren’t real.

He was being haunted.

Two years.

Batman held a pistol to his temple. 

He stared dully out through the prison halls, eyes bloodshot and tired.

The silence was killing him.

The weight of his oath was crushing him.

The absence of anything humane was draining him.

A bullet would be a blessed sound. Relief. Letting go. Something to feel other than the all-consuming numbness.

You stood in his periphery, like always.

Never saying a thing. Never moving.

He held his breath.

Took the safety off.

Pressure on the trigger.

But even a glimpse of you had him hesitating.

Because you would never want this for him.

You had harped on him for so long about being careful.

To stay alive.

To stay.

The gun trembled in his hand.

His arm fell limp.

He fell to the ground, back bent and head bowed. 

You stood next to him, like always.

The last thing you had wanted, before dying, was for him to stay.

Did you think it would be like this, though?

A cruel promise that puppeted his body around?

But he had always been weak for you.

“...I’ll stay,” Batman whispered, defeated, voice hoarse from disuse.

It felt like a noose around his neck.

Not tight. Not loose.

But there.

It didn’t let him breathe.

You said nothing.

Two years. Ten months. Five days.

He went back to your home.

Dusted.

Cleaned.

Sat on the couch in silence, gazing at the bouquet of dried flowers. 

Fiddling with the ring box in his hands.

You stayed next to him.

Three years.

He went back to the manor.

Paid his respects to his family.

Deactivated most of the cameras.

Sat at what used to be his grave, and cried for the last time.

Mourned what his life had become.

Rain gently bounced off the top of the dome in a quiet pitter-patter, drowning out his own sobs.

You stayed next to him.

Three years. Eleven months.

He plated enough food for two, even though he was the only one to sit down and eat.

"Dinner time," he quietly announced.

You stayed next to him.

He kept his gaze down.

Four years.

Slowly, so slow he didn’t care to notice, the plants grew.

Wrapped themselves around his city.

Like an embrace.

He didn't remember what that felt like anymore.

You stayed next to him.

Five years.

You stayed next to him.

Seven years.

Nine years.

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty.

He was tired.

So tired.

It was the same thing every day.

Nothing to live for.

Nothing to die for.

Stuck in purgatory, propelled by blood and oath.

You stayed next to him.

A stirring out in the city was caught on one of the cameras.

A target to eliminate.

No one in.

No one out.

And then, another noise.

Another target.

A futile chase.

One bullet to the leg.

His crossbow out and aimed.

His hand gripped a delicate throat, ready to crush it.

Instead, she spoke.

You spoke.

And Batman—

Tore off her mask.

It was you.

You were no longer next to him.

You were front and center.

His eyes drank in your features.

The flare of your nostrils as you tried to breathe.

The struggle from his grip.

The sweat dotting your forehead, sticking your hair to your skin.

Your blood pounding through your arteries beneath his hand.

The desperation and panic in your eyes.

Life.

Your hand reached out to touch his helmet.

Your thumb on his cheek.

“Jay…?” You whispered.

An oasis in a desert of silence.

A wretched noise escaped his mouth.

And he.

Batman—

Jason shuddered as he took his first real breath in twenty years.