Well all know by now what happened to Jason in Ethiopia, but we have to wonder if Bruce called Alfred to tell him. So, yeah. There's angst here.
A/N: This is the kind of stuff that happens when I'm in a funk and can't quite snap out of it.
A/N #2: I always wondered what this conversation would have been like..
Bruce sat in a deserted office in the American embassy in Addis Ababa, watchful eyes staring out into the pre-dawn darkness. The desk lamp and overhead lights were off, since nothing he was doing required any light, and he sat motionless in a plush, high-backed arm chair. In his left hand, a glass of the expensive bourbon the ambassador kept in his desk went unnoticed, the ice all but melted. His right hand rested atop the landline receiver still in its cradle on his lap. His cell phone was likely in the car down in the parking garage, completely useless, as the embassy didn't allow civilian mobile devices anywhere near the ambassador's office.
He'd been sitting there for over an hour and hadn't moved a muscle. His joints were growing stiff from the inactivity and the wounds hidden by his bespoke suit itched beneath cheap gauze bandages. His body had been on autopilot and his mind on overdrive after the events of the last twenty-four hours, and the numbness was just starting to ease, bringing with it pain and grief he hoped he would never experience again.
The stillness was shattered by an ear-splitting alert from the building's messaging system. It startled him, his body flooding his bloodstream with a surge of adrenaline. The glass of watered-down bourbon slid from his fingers and fell to the carpet, the last of the ice cubes clinking against the glass. The announcement referenced the protest, which began late last night, had travelled too close to the embassy, and they were going into a sort of lock-down mode as a precaution.
Had he been in Gotham, there was no doubt he would have been monitoring the situation from afar while keeping an eye out for anyone who might try to take advantage of a stressed police force. Tonight, however, was a very different night. And he was certainly not in Gotham.
Instead, he was thousands of miles away, sitting in the U.S. ambassador's office while Jason lay dead on a gurney in the basement. Medical personnel and government officials were waiting for Bruce's flight plan and mortuary arrangements, and the security staff had yet to obtain clearance to leave the compound via the helicopter that would take both Bruce and Jason's remains to the airport for repatriation.
He used his now-empty left hand to pinch the bridge of his nose before running it through his hair. He forced his right hand to lift the phone from the cradle and he began dialing the number to the Manor. Before he dialed the last two digits, he glanced at his watch. Ethiopia was seven hours ahead of Gotham, so Alfred might still be awake, even though Dick wasn't in Gotham and there was no one patrolling the city.
A robotic voice interrupted his thought process and advised him he'd have to re-dial the number, making sure to use the correct country code. The longer he waited to make this phone call, the more difficult it would be. He tapped the switchook with a fingertip, resetting the call, before dialing again, hesitating a moment before tapping the last number. After a slight delay the line began to ring.
A tired, yet professional voice answered after the third ring.
"Wayne Manor, Alfred Pennyworth speaking. How may I help you?"
Upon hearing Alfred's voice, Bruce closed his eyes and sunk further into the chair.
"Alfred, it's me."
He cursed the delay in Alfred's reply due to using the landline. His nerves were shot, and he was too frazzled to be able to handle this right now.
"Master Bruce, thank heavens. Are you alright?"
Bruce closed his eyes to stop the tears from falling, only to see images of the wreckage from the explosion: a torn, bloodied yellow cape peeking out from beneath a pile of concrete and charred wood. He fought the urge to be sick and forced his eyes open, focusing on the empty glass and bourbon stain on the carpet.
Absently, he realized he'd have to remember to reimburse the embassy for the cleaning costs.
"I'm… I'm alright."
Alfred's worried reply came through several seconds later.
"And Master Jason? Did you find him?"
He looked down at his bandaged palms and fingertips, only then being aware of the burns on his hands. He hadn't realized he'd removed his gloves before digging Jason out of the rubble, only remembering he wanted Jason feeling his hands against his skin, not the leather of Batman's gloves.
In the end it hadn't mattered anyway because once he'd dug Jason out, he was able to see Jason had been burned so badly he wouldn't have been able to feel anything, anyway.
He choked back a sob.
"There was a complication. The Joker was involved and Jason…" He paused and cleared his throat, wincing at the irritation from the smoke inhalation. "He's gone, Alfred. Joker killed him."
Whatever Alfred said next was drowned out by Bruce's muffled sobs as everything he'd been trying to hold back broke loose. He leaned forward until his elbows hit his knees, and still holding the phone in one hand, the other tangled itself into his hair.
Once Jason settled at the Manor, he thrived. He'd gone from a life spent hungry, cold and alone on the streets of Park Row to having everything he needed with Bruce and Alfred. He was supposed to continue growing and learning and realizing his potential, not spending his final moments looking at up Bruce through the shredded remains of his domino, bloodshot blue eyes trying to focus on Bruce's face while his last breath rattled in his chest.
One last thought went through his mind as he told Alfred he had to hang up and get ready to leave.
It wasn't supposed to end this way.
Jason had probably thought so, too.