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Chapter Text

Fear.

One of the most critical points in Batman’s war against crime. The driving point, the method and the outcome. Fear was what Batman was on a fundamental level, the concept twisted in a false banner of hope in order to garner favour with the people of Gotham. It started that rainy night, fear paralysing a young boy as his parents were shot in front of him, hope draining from his eyes as pearls scattered across the alleyway. The terror moved into all consuming rage, then a burning need for vengeance. To make those that cause harm feel that same bone shaking horror that he’d felt that night. So a cape was donned and Bruce had used the animal that he had childish nightmares about to strike fear into Gothams criminals.

Strangely though, Jason had never been afraid.

Batman was hope, had been ever since he witnessed the Bat stop a robbery at the corner store that always gave him a free chocolate bar when he was nine. When he was older out of desperation he took a tire iron and attempted to steal the wheels off the Batmobile and instead of his heart racing and panic firing across his synapses, Jason felt a surge of hope when Batman swooped down. As time passed, Batman represented a slurry of things. Hope, warmth, kindness and compassion. He was given a second chance. A family. Batman became Bruce Wayne and Bruce Wayne became Bruce and Bruce became B. And though he’d never say it aloud, B became Dad.

Even as suspicion and rage and teenage angst clouded their relationship, Batman wasn’t one to be feared. How could he be? Robin was a beacon of light that humanised the Dark Knight. Taunting jabs and stupid puns were thrown into the playing field, all in an attempt to make Batman’s mask crack and for the brooding to give way to smiles and covert snorts. Robin could always count on Batman to be there, even as his own fear rose when facing the villains of Gotham City, there was implicit trust that he’d be fought for tooth and nail. Even in nightly reports, as distrust began to fester when ideals clashed and voices carried through the Cave in scathing tones, Robin had never feared Batman.

Batman always gave way to Bruce when the dawn broke, with hands ruffling hair as breakfast gave way to chatter about school projects. Even as he was scolded for getting into mischief, there was never fear, just sheepish smiles and promises to stay out of troubled way. When fever and illness gripped him, Bruce took the time to look after him, reading Pride and Prejudice to help him sleep, fingers carding through damp hair in an attempt at comfort. Stuffy suits and false smiles at charity Galas, interrupted as Brucie Wayne, famous for being an airheaded womaniser, kicked wealthy patrons out for daring to make disparaging remarks about his son. Fear was never even in the cards, only love.

Anger and resentment ended with a benched Robin and a frustrated Batman. Words were said and the air felt ripe with tension. A fruitless search ending with shattered bones and fractured hope. Fear reared it’s ugly head but trust in Batman prevailed. Yet as the timer reached its final moments, the hope that kept Robin alive, the belief in his Dad, the belief in Batman, gave way to cold acceptance as Batman didn’t make it in time.

Waking up was unexpected.

Waking up was, well impossible.

Burning hatred coursed through his being. Amplified by the green rage of the Lazuras Pit. He was no longer Robin, evolving into a new beast and playing into the intense disgust he felt as a new kid pranced about in the red, green and yellow. As he watched reports of Arkham breakouts, with a whole motley crew of villains roaming the streets. He’d never been scared of Batman and it was clear now that no one would be, not if the Bat would leave the man who killed his son alive. Elaborate schemes had always been one of the fun parts of being Robin, but now he’d work on the other side. Finally bringing justice to the hundreds of people hurt by the revolving doors of Arkham.

Confrontation was always part of the plan, forcing Batman to finally enact justice. The manic laughter of the Joker forced him to bite back memories of another life as he stared at his former mentor. It should have been as easy choice. The Joker, an insane clown who has wrecked havoc upon Gotham for over a decade, the clown prince of crime who killed Batman’s son, or him. The Red Hood, a vigilante who wanted to stop crime from repeating, who actually struck fear into the hearts of gangs and criminals by dealing in absolutes, Bruce’s son.

As the Batarang slit open his throat, his voice leaving him and turning into choked gurgles, blood steadily flowing down his neck as his knees buckled, he finally understood. The Joker triggers the buildings explosives and the situation is eerily similar to to that of his previous life. However, instead of that cold acceptance, for the first time in Jason’s lives, he looked at his father, he looks at the Batman, and feels nothing but fear.

Chapter Text

Hope

The swish of a crowbar, a maniacal laugh, the ticking of a timer steadily counting down. A race against time, a dare to hope, the knowledge he could make it time, determination that justice would prevail. The blast was earth shattering, debris and rubble clamoured to the ground as panic rose and clogged his throat. Hands desperately clawed through rubble, hope fading at the sight of tattered yellow. It felt like two lives ended that day, that of a young boy and that of the father who cradled the body close to his chest. Rapidly cooling skin at odds with burnt flesh, a blazing sun and steady tears.

No words could describe the anguish Bruce felt the day he lowered his son into the ground. The bright light, the spark, the magic of childlike wonder being swallowed by cold, damp dirt. There wasn’t a cloud in sight and yet water trailed down his face relentlessly. That night, as he donned the cowl once more, he saw the tattered Robin uniform and the plague. Disgust curling in his gut, he pointedly avoided mention of the display.

Bruised knuckles and broken bones, blood speckled boots, whispers of fear and blackened eyes. The haunting laugh of a child high up in the sky. Late nights where yellow, red and green disappeared around corners, forever just out of reach. Sleepless nights and empty days blurring into one. It didn’t work, Batman didn’t work. The second chances, the rehabilitation, the compassion didn’t work. He’d strayed too far from the goal of vengeance. The rotting corpse of Jason Todd taunting him as he continued to fail his mission.

Bruce felt he was drowning, yet time moved on anyway.

A new child took the mantle of Robin, tenacious and eager, not accepting inaction nor the destruction of the legacy of Gothams heroes. Red and yellow and green took to the skies once more. Taunting jabs and sarcastic jokes rang out during patrols, all in an attempt to ease tension and terror and bring a sense of lightness alongside the darkest knight. He wasn’t a replacement or a placeholder, Tim Drake was what Bruce wasn’t. Batman was fear, the cloying dark that loomed and terrorised those that hurt others. Robin was childlike wonder, the spark of new beginnings and the warm glow of comfort. Robin was hope.

When whispers of a new rogue arose, carrying the alias, the legacy, of the man who killed his son, he became obsessive. Uneasy familiarity in the way the gang leader moved and fought, rhetoric spewed that sounded familiar and a sinking feeling deep in his stomach. The haunting laughter returns at the discovery of an empty grave and he loses control of his stomach at the nail marks embedded deep into splintered wood, guilt bubbling in his throat. When he sees his boy, grown up and filled with rage and so very alive all he wants is to convince Jason to stop his crusade, to come home. He’s angry, god is he angry, at himself for not being fast enough, at Jason for this god awful plan, the murder and crime, just for his attention, at whatever sick God brought his son back only to have him stray so far. Still, as the helmet beneath him went to explode, he could almost grasp a future where his family were together again.

All hope of a peaceful reconciliation despite the violence, of holding his son tight in his arms and mumbling apologies and prayers and desperate words of love, shatter as he gets the report of the attack against his youngest.

The confrontation was messy. It should have been an easy choice. The Joker, an insane clown who’d wreaked havoc upon Gotham for over a decade, the Clown Prince of Crime who killed Batman’s son, or him. The Red Hood, a criminal who thought he could fix crime through murder and absolutes, Bruce’s son and the boy who once called Robin magic, who curled into him as he read Pride and Prejudice to help Jason sleep. The consequences of allowing Jason to kill the Joker, of letting his son continue to murder people, the power vacuum, the crossing of a line he never could return from, the reinforcement that Gotham is innately corrupt. The consequence of killing The Red Hood, allowing the stain that is the Joker to live, the crossing of a line he could never return from, the reinforcement that Gotham is innately corrupt, losing his son again when he was right there due to a god forsaken clown.

Head fogged with panic at the decimation of Blüdhaven, with fear for his eldest’s safety, placed in a situation where all outcomes lead to destruction, he made a choice. The Batarang arched and was supposed to hit the other’s shoulder, but instead he watched in horror as Jason gurgled, blood spurting from his neck and knees thudding heavily into the ground. The Joker triggers the buildings explosives and as the dust settles Bruce desperately claws through the rubble, the situation eerily similar to that of a previous failure. Though this time there’s no body to hold onto and against all rationality, Bruce lets himself feel a sliver of hope.