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https://www.instagram.com/p/B6CQDU3ngcK/?igshid=sz94zafpadk30Not Anymore
First Jason is alone. Then you. Then Bruce. But no one deserves to grieve alone. 
This is based on several days of planning with my girl @faralasunita and our mutual love for batman, black women in fiction, and deep emotional writing. This came from a lot of personal places, but I am super sick so if there’s typos apologies in advance.  
Some background information by the way. My interpretation of Jason is Argentine, you/batmom are implied to be black or at least dark skinned, and this is basically a story of Jason’s adoption and death amidst Bruce having an affair.
Prepare for the Angst. I’m always down for requests, not just on Batman but a lot of different things. On with the show. 
Jason heard some strange murmurs at the door and rubbed his pale face, his hands calloused as they messed with his curly black hair.
After the experience that was last night, he hadn’t slept a wink, even with the bed and shower provided to him in the rinky-dink white room of this charity building the Batman has dragged him to.
He had seen the Batman! He had even touched the Batmobile! And his head buzzed around with ideas; either kids wouldn’t believe him and would beat him up, or they would believe to try and go back for money.
But being in presence of the Gotham myth itself hanging over him meant that plan was a no-go.
Shaken as he was, Jason Todd was convinced he was hearing things.
“He’s right this way? This one here?”
“Yes. Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany you? Children in this situation can get out of hand near strangers.”
“I’m sure thank you.” A low, melodic voice drifted through the heavy door between them. He couldn’t tell if it was a man’s voice or a woman’s, but he was intrigued.
The worker opened the door rushing the cold air inside of his little chamber and in followed immaculately dressed person he has ever seen. His muscles tensed across his hungered body, ready to put up a fight.
“Jason Todd? You’ve got a visitor.” The worker scurried as the other walked in at the sign of his tentative nod.
“Jason. Can I sit beside you?” You, the visitor,  inquired shooing away the shelter aid. 
“I don’t know can you?” Upon realizing it wasn’t really what he wanted to ask, Jason shuffled back and patted the spot beside him with a nod.
“You certainly have a fight in you.“ The voice was soft and charming. “Who’s your mother? Or father?”
“You don’t know ‘em,” he said, letting his quiet mutter replace the clipped vowels that had started to creep into his speech. He didn’t look up from his book.
“So you’re a little boy all on your own?”
“I’m not -” He broke off and looked up, fully aware that he sounded exactly as violent as they probably thought he was. Looking up and finally seeing you, dressed impeccably in a white suit that looked impossibly bright against your dark skin, Jason saw the need to apologize. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
“None taken. So you do have politeness in you. Do you have anyone in the city?” You responded with a gentle and toothy smile.
“I’m not going to another group home.” Jason responded with an absolute harshness.
“I’m not from a group home.” You kept up your smile with the shake of your head.
“You a social worker then?” He sucked his teeth.
“No. I am not a social worker. Can I put my arm here?” She gestured to his shoulder.
He leaned into her arm very, very tentatively, feet still poised to kick and thrash and run. He clutched something tucked into his overly bleached T-shirt; a rosary, red beads and cross in a twisted pulled-at black string.
You glanced at the crimson string of beads with admiration. “Oh, look now. It’s beautiful Jason.”
“My ma got it from church. My second ma.” He stared at her and their blank awkward gazes showed her to be inquisitive but not pressuring. So he continued to mumble, “she died. Got sick from cocaina. Probably got it from my pops before he left. He was a dealer. Got caught.”
Your eyes widened at the little boy expressing such horror in a quiet monotony, “I’m sorry to hear that Jason,” was the response that hit his ears. “You said second mom. May I ask…”
“My first ma? Gone. Left my pops cuz they fought. Guess she went back home.” He cut you off, saying it as quickly and staunchly as possible giving the impression it was something he didn’t want to talk about in detail.
“Home?” was the next inquiry.
“Argentina.” The name rolled off of his tongue with a Spanish inflection. ”They were both from there. I don’t know anything else.”
“Well, at least with a son like you, you know they were beautiful, Jason.” That brought a shocked expression to his face, to take in a bag to actually for a smile or ‘thank you’ at your compliment. He couldn’t process it because another question came.
“And where do you live now? Who brought you here?”
“I live alone. In Central Park. Sometimes the piers. I break boxes at a bodega down in the Narrows, sometimes I sleep in the back. You wouldn’t believe me if I told ya who brought me. You’d think I’m crazy. See me as a loony.”
The look in your eyes was soft and bright. “I see you as a very talented boy, who just needs some help. Same as anyone else.”
“You don’t know me.” He shuffled away averting eyes, back now facing this foreign kindness.
“I would like to.”
Jason hesitated. He’d run away from here anyway and obviously this well dressed aristocrat wouldn’t spend time blabbering off about Batman to nobody street thugs who would otherwise go after him. What was the use in hiding it? The streets would kill him anyway eventually.
He gave a hefty sigh. “You know The Batman?”
“Yes. Everyone in Gotham does.”
He took a deep breath. “I saw him. His car. I was tryna strip the wheel. Just so I could make some money for something to eat! I swear I wasn’t gonna cause trouble!”
“I believe you Jason. And Batman found you?”
“Mhm. He dragged me down here.” There was something in his voice and you couldn’t tell if it was fear or anger as his hair darkened out his eyes.
“Were you roughed up, Jason?” He touched his cheek and adjusted his hair after a bit of pregnant silence.
“….only a little, miss.”
“Then,” there was a great bound of confidence and power added to you voice as you shot up, crouching down to Jason’s level and grabbing his arm, looking directly into his green eyes, his frantic blush bringing out his numerous freckles, “how about I get Batman to apologize and make up for it? Would that help?”
Jason shook speechless at your smirk. “What…what do ya mean?”
You let out a breathy laugh. “I know the Batman, Jason. He and I are very close. He told me to find you here. Do you believe me?”
Jason gave up barely visible nod his mouth hanging open in surprise.
”Jason.” You started again, “I would like it very much…if you would come and stay with me. Do you think you’d wanna do that?”
The question surprised him, as did the sudden arrival of tears in his eyes. ‘I am not crying in front of this beautiful woman in her beautiful suit.’
“I don’t understand,” Jason stuttered out, as you took his hand and tugged him up, out of the bleak room’s door.
You ruffled his hair with a kind smile and a wink. “That’s okay, sugar. I’ll explain everything over breakfast.”
————
As Jason awoke to a cold sweat and soft shake his body just barely recognize that the hand on his shoulder wasn’t yours.
“Ma….I hadda dream ‘bout when we first met.” he rubbed his eyes seeing that the figure was in fact not you, but far more svelte and boyish. It was-
“Dick? What the hell! What time is it?” The entire room and windows were totally sheathed in blacks and dark blue. The red numbers on his alarm clock said 4:00 AM.
“Why-“
“Bruce just came in from patrol. Get dressed.” Dick’s voice was far more serious than usual which surprised Jason more than the fact that Dick had even bothered to come to the mansion. He was dressed as Nightwing but the corners of his sleeves and neckline had obviously been nipped at by his fingers. His blue eyes looked angry, and remained so even as Jason threw off his red bedsheets and began to get dressed in the clothes Dick had thrown on his bed.
Jason didn’t know what Dick was going to lead him to but Bruce having an affair was the last thing he could’ve thought of and the last thing he could’ve ever wanted.
Everything after that was anger.
Anger at robbers whose collarbones he’d shattered. Anger at
hisfather,Bruce, Batman telling him what to do. Anger at how tightly he had to hold you when telling you that Alfred, he and Dick were always there for you no matter what. Anger of the idea that there could be a woman better than you, who was so beautifully brown and royal and caring.When his life flashes before his eyes, and he smells blood and smoke, Jason can’t quite tell if the memory of him yelling “Let me go! I’ll beat his ass myself!” was him yelling at Bruce
(the cheater, the traitor, how could he do that to you!)or at The Joker(The maniac, the murderer, he took your son!)—————
Gotham had heard its fair share of explosions, shattered windows, car crashes, maniacal laughter, and just about every natural disaster you could think of. But the screeching wail of utter despair that echoed from the stairs of Gotham Trinity Church on a summer night was incomparable.
Bruce Wayne moved slow and sullenly. For once in his life the press seemed far away, and though he heard a few camera clicks, there was no murmuring and every reporters stood back. His entire being was an emission of anger, grief, pain, and despair and his expression, had you been in a good enough state to notice, made him look scarier than Batman ever could - as if an utterly terrifying screech of pain wanted to rip through his chest. Getting any nearer to him would feel like throwing one’s hand on a blade.
Alfred walked quietly. Standing by your side, astute as always. There was an unlikable and familiar pain that he’d hide until privacy came from the service and burial. His eyes were bleary and as he held up your hand to walk up the stairs, you could feel him shaking ever so slightly.
And Dick? He didn’t know what to do. The Gordons stood on either side of him, and he’s surprised he hasn’t broken their hand with how hard he squeezed. He could just barely choke out an audible “Babs…” and he didn’t really know if the flood of tears started with the realization he had to bury his little brother, or that on any other happy day, you should be complementing him on his handsome suit rather than draping you’re entire body over a casket crying and screaming for what felt like an hour, as the preacher spoke. Your crying simmered only when the Scriptures started being read in Spanish.
You must have been doing it subconsciously because you definitely weren’t able to think straight enough for it to be intentional.
Maybe the Spanish brought to mind something comforting. Maybe you were remembering the way Jason’s bright green eyes lit up when Alfred made him locro or choripanes. How excited he was to watch soccer, or read you Garcia-Marquez, or call the someone a “boludo.” His genuine frown when Bruce rejected his request for Robin’s cape to be an Argentine flag.
Maybe your soul was silent because it respected the way that every Sunday, rain or shine, no matter the language of the church or the amount of people in it, Jason would get on his knees, grasp his rosary tight, do sign of the cross and pray.
His knees and head down to the floor; you never bothered to ask him what he prayed about. But he‘d pray for you, for Bruce, for things to be amended, for him to live up to being your son, for the little poor kids of Gotham who were just as bad as he was. He would especially pray for the end of the crime that made them that way.
—————
He was buried on the estate, a smaller grave than that of Martha and Thomas that read Jason Pedro Wayne de Todd. You hadn’t spoken truly Bruce for weeks. But the two of you stood there, looking at the inscribed stones and crosses representing his parents and your son and none of it mattered anymore.
Not the screams about you not trusting him, not the kiss marks of somebody else on his collar, not the way you would avoid standing within inches of him, not the bottles that both of you had drowned your sorrows in.
The only thing of importance was the memory of a little boy, your little boy, bloody and bruised and gone, and his father – your husband
“I should’ve never been happy.” He choked out. “ it was a happy child and I lost them. I was a happy father and I lost him. I was a happy husband and I…”
“You’re not losing me Bruce. Not anymore.” It was the first thing you had said in weeks. It was the last thing you would say days, but he heard it, and he held onto it.
Bruce Wayne had lost many things: parents, friends, a child, and an attempt at marriage but maybe just maybe he had kept one thing.
A chance to rebuild.
10
“Time is the substance from which I am made. Time is a river which carries me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.”
[Jorge Luis Borges]
5
Alejandra Bartoliche, A protester in San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina, June 18, 2010
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