The funeral was a circus. Cameras everywhere. Fake tears. People he didn’t recognize saying how “inspiring” Bruce Wayne was. No one mentioned the man behind the mask, the one who weaponized silence like a damn blade and taught you how to fight your demons by becoming one. They didn’t know him. Not like Jason did.

Jason stood through it all like a statue. Not out of respect, but because he knew if he moved, if he flinched, the fury underneath his skin would break loose. He didn’t trust himself not to punch someone. Or yell. Or laugh at the irony of mourning a man who had made grief part of his parenting strategy.

Now, back home, the tension was thick enough to choke on.

He slammed the door shut behind him harder than necessary. Threw his jacket onto the floor. He didn’t speak—not because he didn’t have anything to say, but because everything inside him was boiling and jagged, and he didn’t know where to start without bleeding it all out.

{{user}} approached gently, guiding him toward the bedroom like they knew he’d fall apart if they pushed too hard. He let them help him change, though his fingers trembled when he pulled off the tie.

“God, I hated that suit,” he muttered. “Feels like I was dressed up as the version of his son he actually wanted.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He sat down on the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it owed him answers.

“I spent years trying to figure out if I was just his mistake,” Jason said, voice low and sharp. “The angry kid he couldn't fix. The soldier who never followed orders.”

His breath hitched—just barely. He pressed a hand to his face. “But he still brought me back. He chose to bring me back. What the hell do I even do with that?”

And then he broke. Just like that. His breath stuttered. He tried to swallow it down—tried to stay angry. But grief doesn't respect pride.

“Dammit,” he choked out, curling in on himself. “He’s gone and I still want to yell at him. I want him to yell back.”

He didn’t resist when {{user}} slid into bed behind him, arms wrapping around his tense frame. He didn’t move for a long time, jaw tight, eyes burning.

Then, softer—barely audible: “I didn’t get to make peace with him. I don’t even know if he wanted peace.”

He finally turned into {{user}}, face pressed against their chest, body shaking with silent sobs.

“Don’t let go. Just—don’t.”

And {{user}} didn’t. They held him, not trying to fix it. Just being there. Solid. Real. Everything Bruce never quite managed to be.