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Bruce broke into a sprint towards the warehouse, towards Jason. He was only a few more strides away when it exploded. Heat rushing over him, pushing back, away from his son. He needing to get there to get him out of the rubble he’d need medical attention surely.
Hauling scrap after scrap searching (begging) for his son. Finally a spot of red and yellow amid the wreckage, Bruce cleared the mess with newfound strength. That’s not the right red, no. He’s not moving, not breathing.
“No, Jason!” Bruce cries kneeling to hold his son. “Please, no…” he squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could will this away.
A hand lands on his shoulder, but he couldn’t turn from his son, his son’s body.
“It’s your fault.” A familiar voice comes from behind him. Finally, managing to pull Bruce’s gaze from Jason. He turns to find Dick.
But instead of the lively 22-year-old old he sees a decaying face, skin peeling away to reveal the bone and muscle underneath, maggots squirming around glazed-over eyes. His Nightwing costume was in shreds, and his mask was half-broken. His neck snapped to the side as Bruce stared.
“You did this to us.” The body in his arms speaks, no longer an unmoving corpse but a now standing reminder of his failure. His youngest son stood there next to his brother, a pair of decomposing statues.
“Jason, son please come here.” Bruce rose as he spoke, “I can help you, help you both, please.”
He wanted his son back more than anything. He reached for the boy, and reached, and reached.
And then his eyes fluttered open to a bedroom ceiling, his old room, before he moved to the master bedroom, before it became Dick’s. He put his feet down on the floor as he sat up from the now too-small bed. He put his feet down into something warm; it was a growing puddle of blood. His eyes traced the liquid to its origin in the center of the room.
Three bodies, three shots each, two in the chest and one in the head, Bruce, unable to bear the sight of the unseeing faces of his parents and son again, looked down at his too-small hands and the still cooling gun they held. His whole body shook as the truth dawned on him. The warm pistol fell out of his hands into the pool of blood, sinking like he’d thrown it into the sea.
“No, no nonono, not again,” He cried, his hands pressed against his head.
A sob wracked through his too-small body as he stepped toward them. An orphan holding his parents and a father holding his youngest son.
He had single-handedly killed one son, destroyed his relationship with the other, and ruined his parents' legacy. Some detective he was, he couldn't even see the disasters Batman would bring not only to his life but also to those around him.
He gently closed his son’s vacant eyes. Bringing the boy's forehead to his, he lets the tears flow freely.
If only that were enough.