Chapter Text
While most days in Gotham brought nothing but cold, damp despair, there were occasional exceptions. Today was sunny, beams of light breaking through the gray smog. As it was nearing the end of the rainy season, the common-place mud puddles that covered the streets were beginning to dry up. Nice days like this didn’t come by often, so they were something to be cherished. It was a welcome break from the usually gloomy atmosphere for most Gotham residents.
For Jason Todd, it was a cruel joke.
Stood in the Wayne Family Cemetery in a stuffy suit, he cursed at Gotham for wasting one of her prized sunny days on such a sad occasion. It should be raining. He should be shivering in his expensive suit, with mud all over his shiny dress shoes, maybe even wielding a dramatic black umbrella to finish the look. Maybe if it had rained, he could sink into the mud and pretend he was somewhere else.
Instead, he was dry. The ground was solid. He couldn’t be anywhere but where he was, staring at the open grave in front of him. From this distance, he couldn’t see inside. He could almost act like it was just an empty hole, if he hadn’t watched the casket sink down into it only minutes prior.
He lifted his gaze to the top of the grave where the headstone stood.
Here Lies Richard Grayson
Fly High, Little Robin
The words taunted him with the horrible reality of the situation. He read the words again and again, waiting for the moment when it would click, the moment when his brain would wake up and recognize that Dick Grayson was dead. His older brother, if he allowed himself to call him that, was dead before even having the chance to turn 20.
Someone was saying something. A prayer, maybe, but the words couldn’t reach him through the noise in his head. All he could do was stare at the headstone and continue reading those words. He blinked, and the speech had stopped. He blinked again, and the grave was being filled with dirt. He blinked once more and the crowd had begun to disperse. A strong hand on his shoulder was pulling him away. He vaguely recognized that the hand belonged to Bruce, but the thought felt too faint and far away to latch onto.
He let himself be led into the manor, up the stairs, and into his bedroom. It wasn’t until he felt someone tugging his suit jacket off that the fog surrounding his brain started to clear. He was looking down, he realized, staring mindlessly at his shoes. He forced his eyes up until his gaze met Bruce’s.
Bruce was crouched in front of him, gentle hands pulling off Jason’s jacket and folding it neatly before setting it aside. Bruce looked to be in a world of his own, going through the motions of helping Jason out of his suit without being truly present for any of it. Jason was 14, he could undress himself just fine, but he made no move to do so. His limbs felt too heavy to move, and the kind touch was such a welcome distraction that he was almost disappointed when Bruce stood up with the suit pieces in his hands.
“Bruce?” Jason spoke up. Only then did Bruce seem to snap out of whatever trance he had been in, humming his acknowledgement as he dropped the clothes into the hamper and moved to the dresser.
“Why would he…” Jason continued, only for the words to get stuck in his throat. He noticed the way Bruce’s hands froze and considered dropping the subject entirely, but questions ran rampant through his mind, demanding to be asked. “There’s something else, right? Dick wouldn’t do that…Would he?”
Bruce didn’t answer right away. He rummaged through the top drawer of the dresser, taking his time picking out pajamas and walking back to Jason. He acted as if he could ignore the question if he only moved slow enough. It wasn’t until he was passing the clothes off to Jason that he cleared his throat and attempted to muster a response.
“I investigated the scene myself,” he choked out, his voice hoarse, “there were no signs of foul play.”
It wasn’t the answer he wanted, but Jason knew it was the truth. He had seen it with his own eyes.
Only days earlier, he had watched as Bruce rushed into his gear and out of the Batcave, giving no explanation other than something had happened with Dick, and under no circumstances was Jason supposed to get involved. That had lasted less than a minute. As soon as he could no longer hear the roar of the Batmobile, he was throwing himself at the computer and pulling up the live footage from Batman’s cowl.
He saw the entrance to Dick’s apartment. He saw the police officer standing outside, who quickly moved away from the door when he saw Batman approaching. He saw the state of the living room, untidy but not filthy. It looked the same as when Jason had visited, just barely a week before. Everything looked normal, until the bathroom. He saw glass on the floor, which he realized was from the shattered mirror on the wall. He saw splatters of red on some of the shards. He saw empty orange bottles and little white pills mixed in with the mess.
And finally, he saw Dick. He was fully clothed in the bathtub, slumped limply against the wall. His hand was bleeding. The red was far too noticeable against his unnaturally pale skin. It was the last thing Jason saw before Alfred came down to the cave and saw the footage for himself, hurriedly shutting off the screen and pulling Jason away.
Bruce’s voice saying his name pulled Jason out of the memory.
“Are you with me, Jaybird?” his gentle voice urged.
Jason hummed his response. Words felt impossible in the moment. He looked down at the pajamas in his hands. A white T-shirt with Wonder Woman’s symbol on the front and matching pants. Any other day he would argue that 14 was too old for superhero pajamas. Today, he would take any small comforts he could find. He slipped the clothes on and silently climbed into his bed.
The bed dipped where Bruce sat on the edge. He pulled the comforter up over Jason, the same way he would when he comforted the boy after a rough patrol or a night full of nightmares. He pushed Jason’s hair back from his forehead and began running his fingers through the strands.
“Why would he do that?” Jason said in a pathetic, wobbly voice.
“I don’t know,” his foster father answered in a similar tone.
Jason’s face felt wet. When he had started crying, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t stop himself now. He sniffled and choked. His body shook with painful cries.
“Why would he leave us like that?” he continued on, asking questions that he knew had no answer.
“I don’t know,” Bruce said again. His calloused thumb wiped the tears from Jason’s eyes, only for them to immediately be replaced with new ones. He leaned down to place a soft kiss on the boy’s temple. His voice turned to a whisper, “I’m sorry, Jaylad, I don’t know.”