Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne was a very intelligent man. Not only had he crafted the perfect public persona, but he had graduated with over six PHDs. He was Batman, the World’s Greatest Detective. All that to say, Bruce was confused as to why he could not find the answer to his question: How do you move on from your sons death?

Unfortunately, there was no straight answer. After Jason’s death, he’d started therapy for it, though the woman who he had gone to was not specialized for vigilantes, so it was hard to speak about his true guilt and regrets. He stopped only two months after Jason’s death.

It had been a little over four years since then. Since the bomb, the blood, the bruises and the soulless blue eyes of his son. Oh, Bruce would never forget his sons eyes. They had always been so wide and bright, but seeing them dull and red from his own tears, the swirling bright blues turned into a dull stagnant color. It seemed every time Bruce closed his eyes he could see them.

Tim and Dick were good kids. They were his sons too. Tim was fifteen, turning sixteen soon. He had lived longer than Jason had. Wore the suit in Jason’s honor and held his sons memory with pride. Tim had known Jason a little. Tim had watched Jason swinging through the streets his entire time as Robin. Dick was a good kid too. He was about twenty-five years old now, and was going steady in his multiple careers and in his personal relationships.

Bruce had two smart, kind, intelligent, alive sons, so why did he want Jason back so bad? All he wanted, all he truly wanted, was to see Jason’s smile and his big blue eyes and his flushed red cheeks once more. He didn’t think about the coffin all the way in the Wayne Cemetery, not even when he was in the cemetery himself.

He wasn’t there for Jason. He was there for the other children, the ones long forgotten. He was there in the dark, in the pouring rain. He stood there with a shovel, looking at his work: the mounds of dirt that used to cover dead children and their coffin. Bruce ended his nights locked away in his cave, huddled over the stitching of skin and the snip of scissors. It took so long, and so many children, but soon, Bruce Wayne had the body of Jason Todd laying in his cave, as untouched as the day the two met. There were no cuts or bruises from crowbars and no blood and no splayed limbs torn by bombs. This creation, this boy, his son, was perfect.

Gently and slowly, Bruce cupped his hand on Jason’s chin, feeling the soft skin beneath his fingertips. Once Jason got some blood in him, he would be warmer and less pale, but for now, this wondrous creation was pale and blue. It’s eyes, open, stared emptily at the sky. The shade of blue was a little off, and one of his eyes was a slightly different shape than the other, but it was okay. The stitching connections on Jason’s skin wasn’t even noticeable unless you looked hard.

“You’ll be home soon, son,” Bruce whispers to the body, bending over and pressing a kiss to the cold wet skin.

It isn’t until the next evening that Bruce brings Jason to life. With a gentle and loving hand, he connects the wires and cords to his son, and then, with a quick prayer to whatever god wanted to listen to him, Bruce flips the electric switch.

In short, he blew the power out and the entire house went dark. Jason lay still in his watery pool, eyes closed this time. Bruce had closed them the night before. His sons arms did not twitch from where they lay floating in inches of water, and his knees did not bend. Bruce frowned.

“Master Bruce?” There’s a knock on the metal screens. The screens that have hidden this project from anyone who dare look. Bruce looks up in a small panic. In the making of this project, he hadn’t thought of what Alfred might think of this. Before Bruce can send him away or step away from the body himself, Alfred steps past the screens.

There’s silence as the mans eyes wander the scene. Alfred’s gloved hand comes up to his mouth, which begins to fall open.

“Bruce,” The old man chokes out, “What have you done?”

Bruce is silent as he looks over his work. He sighs, but still can’t speak. “I,” He tries to start. “I need him back,” He chooses.

Alfred looks to the ground. “Not like this, Master Bruce,”

And like magic, maybe it was really, there’s the sound of breathing. The two men look at the watery pool of a bed, where the creation, the Jason, it’s chest moves. It’s slow, slower than normal breathing as though it can’t breathe well (Which is a possibility), but it’s breathing.

It’s alive.

Jason is alive.

Bruce’s son is alive.

Bruce is at the creation’s side in an instant, just in time to see his beautiful blue eyes open for the first time. It’s slow like his breathing, his lashes slightly stuck together from the humid air and wetness around him. It’s hand raises as it breathes and begins to look around, fingers twitching before falling and splashing back in the water.

“Jay,” Bruce breathes out, looking at the lights and colors reflecting off of Jason’s eyes. There’s a dribble of regret in Bruce looking at this: Jason’s eyes aren’t that color. The creation groans, but it’s more like a pitiful whine. Bruce practically rips the cords off the child, scooping him out the pool and into his arms, where he falls limp.

Jason’s eyes close and it’s breathing slows further, and he’s asleep.

“What have you done?” Alfred says, and then swiftly turns around. Anger is clear in his stature and in the way the man rushes from Bruce. Bruce could care less when he looks down at the long forgotten sleeping face of his son.

Chapter Text

The world… it’s funny. There is noise, and light. When hands touch thing, he feels. Is this what it feels like to be alive? He’s not sure, he’s never been alive before.

“Jaylad,” That’s his name. Jason. Dad shortens it to ‘Jay’ or ‘Jaylad’ a lot. He’s not sure what it means, but those words are also his name, so he replies. He replies by turning and looking to the voice. He can’t recognize the voice by the sound of it, not yet, but the only person he knows that calls him ‘Jaylad’ is Dad. Alfred doesn’t really like Jason. “Are you enjoying the sun?”

Jason nods and smiles at his Dad’s gentle face. His dad has shoes on, but Jason doesn’t like them. He likes to feel the touches and things beneath his feet. He looks down and wiggles his toes in the short grass. It’s wet in the morning sunshine. It’s green, which is a color he doesn’t see often. Home is mostly brown and black, and sometimes red. Dad shows him colors in books, books with words. He thinks he’s supposed to say the words that are on the pages, but he’s not sure how. He likes when he eats and sees different colors, but it’s mostly red. Jason doesn’t like red.

“I have something exciting planned today,” Dad says, and Jason lets his eyes go wide and he grins further. “Lets go inside, okay bud?” Jason lets Dad take his hand and begin to walk him back to home. Home is big, really big. He has never walked in all of the rooms because it’s so big.

Inside, Dad takes a rag and wipes the morning dew off Jason’s feet, and leads him to the eating room. When Dad says ‘something exciting’ and leads him here, he knows there is going to be a new food. Last time, he ate an orange. It was messy and wet and left Jason sticky but it was yummy and he liked it. Today, there’s a bowl. Inside of it is tiny little red things. Jason frowns at the red, but sits in his seat anyway. Dad sits next to him and shows him how to eat it, taking one of the little red things and putting it in his mouth, then a few seconds later, taking an even smaller little brown thing out of his mouth and setting it in a second bowl.

“It’s called pomegranate. Go on, try it,” Jason takes the little red thing and puts it in his mouth, and it pops with sweetness. It’s a different sweetness than the orange and it’s different from waffles as well. Like magic, Alfred walks into the room with a little plate with waffles on it, with a slice of orange on the side of the plate and a cup of milk. Jason smiles at Alfred even though the man doesn’t make eye contact with him.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says, “Master Timothy and Master Dick are home from vacation and waiting in the foyer for you,” This is the first time that Jason is hearing about these people. He’s been alive for a month now, Dad says, when he points to the calendar on his bedroom wall. “I suggest you prepare answers for the boy,” Alfred only calls Jason ‘the boy’. It makes him feel left out, knowing he isn’t as valued as Dad to receive the ‘Master’ label, though he doesn’t know what ‘master’ means.

“They were supposed to be gone for a few more days,” Dad pales, a hand coming to cover his mouth. He turns to Jason, who is quietly eating his waffles. “Jaylad, you stay here, okay?” Jason’s eyes go wide, and he drops his food back onto it’s plate, hands going to grab his Dad’s arm. He whines, not wanting to be alone. Dad’s face gets softer, but he still leaves. And Jason cries. There is no one to hold him as Alfred and Dad leave the room to speak to the strangers, so Jason just lets the noise spill from his mouth and lets the water spill from his eyes.

Jason’s food is forgotten as he stumbles out of the chair at the breakfast table and begins to walk the halls. He doesn’t know what a ‘foyer’ is, but he’ll find it. He can hear, so he’ll listen for Dad or Alfred or the stranger’s voices.

He finds them after a moment of searching. “I’m telling you Bruce, Red Hood is dangerous! I know I’ve been standing in for you as Batman, but you need to get out there and see this. I can’t keep doing this on my own,” The voice sounds kind of like Dad, but it’s not him.

“I have to go somewhere else,” Another voice, but this one sounds like the kids in the shows that Dad shows Jason. “He’s tried to kill me twice, and he’s just getting more brazen about it. I don't want to be another Jason,”

His brows raise at the mention of his name. Do these strangers know him? He’s never met them before, so why would they? He’s hidden behind a wall, but at the mention of his name, he rounds the corner and walks into the room. His Dad’s back is to him, so he grabs his Dad’s hand to get his attention. Dad turns around quickly, a look of panic on his face, and as the two strangers gasp, Dad grabs Jason and pulls him into his arms.

“Bruce,” There’s a tall person wearing a tight shirt and loose pants. His skin is darker than dads. His eyes are blue, like Jason’s. Jason catches the strangers eyes, and the strangers eyes only get wider. They seem scared and angry, and Jason cowers. “Please tell me I am not seeing what I’m seeing right now,”

Jason whines and leans into Dad’s touch; his hands run through Jason’s short black hair. He doesn’t like the way the stranger is talking. “Dick, calm down, you’re scaring him,”

“I’m scaring him? Bruce, you’re scaring me,” The stranger grabs the other’s shoulders, a shorter one with thin black eyes and straight black hair, pulling them close. “What is that?” That? Jason’s a he, rude stranger.

Dad turns to Alfred, setting Jason on the floor and pushing him to Alfred. Jason begins to sob. he just got back in Dad's arms, he doesn't want to be out of it so soon. He’s scared and confused and doesn’t know why the strangers are both looking at him so meanly. Why wont his Dad hold him? “Alf, take him to his room,”

Alfred grabs Jason’s hand, and leads him out of the room as he sobs. As a last ditch effort, he grabs Dad’s hand, but his grip is weak and doesn’t hold, and soon Jason is being led down the hall to his room. Jason screams and collapses onto his bed, kicking his legs and hitting his pillow. He screams until his throat hurts and he can’t move his limbs anymore. In the end, he’s left laying on his bed pathetically staring up at his ceiling as tears dry on his lashes.

The door to his bedroom opens. It’s the tall stranger from before. There’s a softer, more gentle look on his face, not the anger and fear from before. “Hey,” Jason frowns. “Do you know me?” Jason shakes his head no, pushing himself to sitting on his bed as the stranger makes his way to the end of the bed. “My name is Dick. I’m your big brother,”

Jason’s eyes go wide and he can’t help the tiny smile that begins to form on his face. He’s heard about brothers before; does he really have one? Dick comes closer, cupping Jason’s face gently in large hands. “You can barely see it,” Dick mumbles. Jason raises his brow. What does he mean?

Dick’s hand goes to trace a line across his forehead, and then he pulls back, hand pulling back the top of Jason’s shirt to look at his chest. Dick closes his eyes and takes a breath before drawing all of his hands away.

“Oh my god,” He breathes out, and Jason looks down at himself in confusion. Was there something wrong with him? He knew that his hands looked a little funny. One of his fingers was longer than the others and a bit darker too, but he was sure his face looked normal. Dad told him he was beautiful and perfect, so why was his new brother acting so weird?

He makes another noise, holding his arms out to be held. Of all the things in his short life, he knew about being held. It was one of the only things he ever did. Always, Dad would hold him in his lap as they watched TV or read or sometimes even when they ate dinner. When the two sat in the garden, Jason found his way into Dad’s lap. It was safe, being held. It was comfort and warmth, something Jason did not have when he was alone. Dick obliges, pulling Jason into his arms. “You’re so cold,” Dick remarks, and Jason hums. He’s always been cold, even though he has blood pumping in him. He was always cold.

“Hmm,” Jason hums, probably the most real words he’s ever spoken. He wants to speak, but its so hard and his throat hurts when he uses it too much. Jason wraps his thin arms around Dick, hugging him back. They sit like that for a minute, and then Jason pulls himself away. Dick is quiet as Jason slides off the bed, watching as the little one ran over to a shelf and pulls out a book.

“What’s this?” Dick asks, raising his brow when the book is shoved against his chest. “The Giver? Aren’t you a little young for that? What are you, ten?” The words have a little sass, but they’re said like they're kind, so Jason doesn't let himself feel hurt over it.

Jason shakes his head, holding up ten fingers then closing them all until it’s just two. He smiles. He’s very proud of the fact that he is twelve (He knew he was really only a month old, but his body was twelve, so wasn’t he?).

“Oh, you’re so old! Almost as old as me,” Jason’s eyes widen with question as he climbs onto the bed again and leans against the man’s side. “I’m twenty-three,” Jason’s eyes go impossibly wider. His new brother is really old, probably older than Dad.

Jason, after his shock, points to the book. He opens it to the middle, pointing at a paragraph. “Do you want me to read it to you?” Jason nods. “Well, alright. "Giver," he asked one afternoon following a day when he had been sent away, "what causes you pain?"

When the Giver was silent, Jonas continued. "The Chief Elder told me, at the beginning, that the receiving of memory causes terrible pain. And you described for me that the failure of the last new Receiver released painful memories to the community. "But I haven't suffered, Giver. Not really." Jonas smiled. "Oh, I remember the sunburn you gave me on the-” Jason falls asleep against his new brother’s side before the chapter ends. He feels a new emotion as he fades, one that is warmer than the emotions Dad gives him. It is sharper, yet softer. Jason doesn’t know what it is, but he knows he feels happy.