“Jason is…”

Bruce has never been so utterly lost for words. His throat has closed up with nothing but emotion, and his hands are shaking at his sides. When he left Wayne Manor, it was in search of the Joker. He didn’t know Jason had left to find his birth mother at the same time. Maybe if he had known, he could’ve done something. Maybe he’d still have his son.

The sound of the explosion is still engraved in his mind. The sickeningly sweet smell of copper lingers in his nose and the back of his throat. He swallows it thickly and forces his gaze downwards. He can’t think. He can’t breathe.

“He’s..” he tries again, but the words die on his tongue when he looks at his hands. The blood of his boy is still coated on the gloves of his suit. He can still feel the weight of Jason’s lifeless body in his arms, the lack of any expression on his bruised, charred up face. His fingers curl in on themselves. He chokes. He’s tempted to put his cowl back on so that the heartbreak isn’t visible on his face.

“He’s gone,” the Batman finally manages to spit out, lifting his gaze so that it meets you. He almost doesn’t want to see the look on your face. “He died to the hands of the Joker.”

The prince of Gotham; murdered for the crime of being Batman’s son. He wonders if Jason was counting on him to save his life.

He wonders if Jason hated him when he knew that he wouldn’t.