Author's Note: The aftermath of Bruce and Jason's struggle with terrorists on Gotham Bridge some weeks after previous events. Bruce's POV. If you want the actual events preceding this to be added in (e.g. battle on the bridge with crazy terrorists) please say so. On a Jason kick at the moment. Expect a few more stories with him being featured as Robin.

Enjoy.

After the Fall

I manage to stop myself from collapsing on the living room sofa by the barest of margins. Tonight's activities were…I believe the word has yet to be invented. They happened. Everything happened. The city just about survived the fallout. I think. Moments later, Jason joins me on the sofa. He is already in workout sweats but has yet to venture anywhere near a shower. Smoke, blood and dirt pepper and dash his skin like abstract art. A brief appraisal of my hands give no clue of the latest battle scars accrued, the benefits of wearing gloves and a full-body suit. We sit in reflective silence for several minutes, not even bothering to glance in each other's direction.

"Was it my fault?" The boy asks without much conflict. He knows the answer to that. I shake my head.

"No."

"Was it yours?"

"No."

"Really?" Jason checks turning to me, "No crucifying yourself on this one?" He knows me well. Perhaps a few years ago, I would have blamed myself. Now, I understand the truth of the situation. I turn my head and return his gaze.

"I…couldn't save those people. No-one could have, given the circumstances."

"We saved everyone else though. How many on the bridge?"

"The final count was…one hundred and eighty…two, I believe." I say, mindful I struggled to comprehend Jim's initial figures in the immediate aftermath. There was still a lot of disorientation.

"And we lost, what, like thirty?"

"Twenty-six. Twenty-six in the bus. Eighteen children and eight adults." I say, recalling those details with unwanted clarity. The boy nods.

"Right." He returns to staring into space. I join him. A lengthy silence follows. "GCPD did well though, huh? Really walked through the fire at the end." Jason says jostling my elbow before audibly sucking through his teeth. Alfred said it was just a shoulder strain. I am hoping it is nothing more serious. I nod in agreement.

"They performed beyond the level required. It was…a good sign of things to come."

"Yeah." We lapse back into quiet. More minutes pass by. "Terrorists are real assholes, huh?" I smile. I am wholeheartedly in agreement with that opinion.

"Without question."

"Think we got the whole cell on the bridge?"

"No. But we have the addresses of those who did not join in the suicide bombing. The GCPD and Anti-Terrorism Units are converging on them as we speak. This will be over by tomorrow…at least in terms of legitimate threats." I say with admittedly more confidence than I thought I would muster at this point. The boy does not offer a verbal reply. He nods. I sigh.

"Bed, I think."

"Yeah, for a long-ass time." Jason says grabbing hold of my knee for purchase as he tiredly rises back to his feet. I watch him pad to the door with bare feet. I have no idea if Dick would have performed as well as his successor did this evening, given the same stakes. The boy is like granite and just as difficult to break down. "Night, big guy. Hey, wake me up in the morning? I'd like to spend some time with you, just chilling, you know?" He says without looking back as he disappears through the doorway. I would like that too.

"I'll bear it in mind, Goodnight son." That makes him pause for a fraction of a second. Then he continues and I am left alone. Thirty minutes of sombre reflection evaporates. Alfred enters the room sometime around two a.m. The old man stares at me wistfully.

"Not carrying the cross up the hill again, are you, Sir?" He asks with only the slightest trace of humour. He knows me very well. I dismiss it with a wave of my hand.

"That is somewhat close to sacrilege, is it not, old friend?" I say, having finally regained the strength to get to my feet. Alfred scoffs.

"Not even close, Master Bruce. This is merely a very evocative metaphor for the Messiah Complex." The old man says switching off the table lamps.

"Did you hear how many lives were saved this evening?" I inquire leaving the room. Alfred follows close behind, turning off the main light as he does so.

"Of course. You and Commissioner Gordon should be proud of your combined efforts."

"And that boy was…remarkable. Stunning." I tell him gesturing upstairs. "I could not be more proud of him than I am at this moment."

"Have you told him as much?"

"The terrorist cell did interfere in the festivities somewhat. This city has enough lunatics with agendas without adding fanatics that have nothing but thinly veiled religious rhetoric to explain mass murder and destruction." I comment as we enter the parlour.

"You sound almost jaded, Master Bruce. Are you ready to call it a day?" He asks as I begin to scale the grand staircase. It is now my turn to scoff.

"Hardly. This is the third major terrorist attack this year and had the lightest casualty list for the past decade. No, I am simply tired. Tomorrow will be a better day." I say firmly.

"Yes, Sir. It after all cannot get worse from here." Alfred calls from the base of the stairs before footsteps signal his own withdrawal to bed.

It is nine a.m. I am stood in front of the television, nursing a mug of black coffee. All media outlets and all news coverage is dominated by the bombing at Gotham's North Bridge. Terrorist mugshots, grainy video footage and full-colour still photography paints an unsettling picture of the night's events. The narrative, such as it is, heavily features the GCPD and their stellar efforts. However, there are several videos of Batman and Robin flooding the market as well. A cell phone apparently captured the instant I caught two people destined for a watery grave and led them to safety. There are also copious images of the boy standing toe-to-toe with some of those individuals responsible before dispatching them. We could do without the publicity. Outcry over Jason's age as well as speculation on my training methods to spawn his level of ability are also heavy talking points this morning.

I abandon my monitoring in favour of waking the boy sometime after nine-thirty. I neglected to wear my wristwatch this morning. I knock once, get no response and enter the room. As usual, he is sprawled in some ungodly shape on the mattress whilst bedsheets and blankets fail to provide either modesty or dignity while he sleeps. They currently lay in an untidy limbo, halfway on the corner of the mattress and halfway on the floor as I approach. I retrieve them in rounding the bed and cast them over him before venturing further. He has showered off his evening's workload and looks tame enough to wake. I shake his shoulder.

"Jason?"

"Mmm?"

"How much more sleep do you require?"

"A hundred years." He mutters whilst turning away from me and huddling down further into the bed. I understand the sentiment. I sip my coffee.

"So, I should leave then?"

"Nah. I guess I'll sleep when I'm dead." The boy announces turning back over and propping himself up on one elbow. "I got eight hours." He adds running a hand down his face, "Now I'm ready to chill."

We sit on his bed and eat breakfast whilst watching more media coverage. They have now graduated to the lives lost from the night's attack. School photos are shown in sets of six with names underneath. Then the teachers' portraits are displayed. Both of us continue to eat despite the trauma of witnessing the bus plunge into the water whilst only inches away. We must carry on regardless. Jason gestures at the screen with his spoon.

"Fuck this guy." He says as Jack Ryder delivers another rendition of the now well-trodden story of last night. "He was there. He was there and he did nothing to help anyone but himself. Fucking asshole." I agree Ryder was not the epitome of self-sacrifice or bravery, but neither were many other people. Even officers in the GCPD were tentative in lending aid in the beginning.

"Not everyone is like us." I remind him. He somehow audibly rolls his eyes.

"No excuse for being a coward, not on a night like that." The boy says letting his spoon rattle in an empty bowl to project his finality on the subject. "Anyway, fuck him. And fuck the news. Let's watch something interesting, huh? No more dead schoolkids or splattered bits of terrorist." I like that he's blunt. I like that he's not afraid to speak freely. I just wish he would agree to wear some clothes. Even buried up to his navel in sheets, I still find the scenario awkward. Still, I get up and put on one of his preferred DVDs, The Best of the Three Stooges.

"Are you going to get some pants on at some point?" I ask after an hour has elapsed. Jason shrugs.

"At some point. It's not like I'm waving it in your face. I don't know why you care."

"I don't. I just want an excuse to change the DVD."

"No Marx Brothers. Hate them. Not funny." The boy tells me in no uncertain terms. I also like that he is opinionated and that are usually against my tastes. I sigh.

"Well in that case, neither are the Three Stooges."

"We're not having this argument again. This is supposed to be a chilled-out day, not a bitch-fest." He retorts sharply. This could become heated with remarkable speed if I do not diffuse the tension. I nod whilst placing an arm around his shoulder.

"You're absolutely right. You deserve a reward for your efforts last night." Jason responds to this act of contrition by adjusting his position until his head is resting on my side. Secretly, he enjoys this type of quiet affection. I like it too. Any subtle emotional cue with him is rewarding. He sighs.

"It's fine. I know you're only breaking my balls. How about we watch something you like? I could go for some Clint." The boy offers. Clint Eastwood would be preferable to this farce. Concessions of this nature by him are rare. It means a great deal to me. I squeeze his shoulder in gratitude.

"That would be nice."

An hour passes. Lunch arrives and is devoured. Alfred is more than happy that we are confining ourselves to one space for such a prolonged period of times: he says it allows him to conduct proper and thorough cleaning of our usual haunts, including the cave's main areas. We do not impede him by changing tact. A Fistful of Dollars is put on and we remain unmoved on the bed. Jason does not offer any further affection than resting his head on my side, but does not resist my attempts. Stroking his hair is met well, as is the single occasion I dare to kiss him on the scalp.

It's always strange to see the contrasting sides of him so close in succession. Jason has a concrete bunker for a mind. No matter the trauma or the pressures hitting him, he will never break. Last night was a prime example of how much strain he can handle. When that bus disappeared under the water, the initial impact killing off rescue hopes in the process, the boy did not flinch. He merely shrugged his shoulders and continued to help those he could save. Twenty-six lives lost. He could just block that out. And that is why being here with him now is so surprising.

The door to the bunker is deliberately left open for me to wander through. No second line of defences, no distancing whatsoever. He can be lovely when he chooses, almost domestic at times. And this is my reward for the previous evening. His affection does deaden my feelings of guilt and culpability. I imagine it has something to do with him being a bigger cynic of this city than anyone else I have met. And yet, he is still willing to fight for it. If a jaded pragmatist loves me enough to continue battling for a city that has brought him nothing but misery, not because he wants to but because I want him to, I think I can bear some casualties without complete self-flagellation.

"Another?" I ask when the film's final credits disappear from view. Jason considers then shakes his head.

"Nope. I just want to lie here for a couple of minutes. Maybe then we put something on."

"Whatever you please."

The boy closes his eyes and breathes deeply. This lasts for almost exactly two minutes. Then he opens his eyes, pushes away from me and gestures to the blank screen. "Cue up number two, big guy. Need something sizeable to plug this awkward silence." I respond my handing him his favourite pair of board shorts from the bedside drawer.

"Why don't you put these on and do it yourself? Unless you prefer awkward silences that is." I suggest, trying to kill two birds with one stone. The boy sizes me up and my suggestion. He knows I will not move. He knows he must put on the next disc himself. He also knows I am uncomfortable with his nudity. That is why his next move likely seems obvious to both of us in hindsight.

"Oh no. I hate awkward silences, Bruce." He declares whilst haphazardly throwing back the covers and hopping out of the bed, leaving his shorts behind. "Keep the eyes above my waist, huh? I'd hate to have to brand you a pervert too." He adds with a lopsided grin that signals his amusement at this crude showcase. I direct my gaze to another part of the room, far away from him. "Do you want to just roll through them in order?" He asks whilst crouched in front of the film collection situated below the television. I glance up at the ceiling.

"I have no objections either way. Do you have a favourite?"

"A Few Dollars More. Which is convenient since it's next in the series. Happy with that?"

"Certainly."

I hear the box open and disc being taken out. Then there is a pause. "Ever think it's weird?" He says. I frown.

"What are you referring to?"

"How we just kind of move past all the terrible things that happen in this city? Only my body remembers how hard we worked last night: I can't remember half of it."

"Perhaps even terrorism is becoming routine in this place." I reply whilst directing my eyes down from the ceiling. Jason is sat on the floor with the disc on his finger. Nothing is showing at the current angle. "Does that aspect of the job bother you, Jason?"

"Not me. I haven't been at this long enough to really get scarred by it all. I was talking about you. How come you haven't been driven nuts by it? You've been at this what, nearly ten years? Stuff like last night, doesn't it just compound the PTSD?" He asks with genuine curiosity. I pride myself on my memory. But even I have lost count of the similar incidents encountered over my career as Batman. I will admit my heart is harder now. My abilities to suppress or even bury all the pain my lifestyle has forced me through is also augmented to startling levels. I shrug my shoulders.

"I doubt I would recognise more PTSD now, even if it fell on top of me like a brick wall."

"Ever think about help?"

"Rather ironic coming from you, isn't it?" My tone is not snide or cutting, merely factual. Jason accepts it in the same vein.

"Probably." The boy admits with a shrug of his own before feeding the new disc into the now empty tray. I catch sight of his back's many scars. He stands up and casually wanders around the side of the bed to return to his position beneath the covers. No embarrassment. No shame. The film's opening credits play over the spaghetti western riff. Jason elects to cuddle against my side. I return to stroking his hair. Silence resumes.

"You missed a spot." I say with less than twenty minutes of the feature left to run. I have just brushed behind his right ear and found a smear of wet ash. He smirks.

"I missed a lot of spots. I've been sneezing ash the whole morning." It had not escaped my notice. He has also been coughing soot. Thankfully, it is beginning to clear. I smile back.

"Diving into fiery wrecks will produce such an affectation. How many lives did you save?"

"Almost everyone you didn't. We could be sweepers on a hockey team with coverage like that."

"Perhaps you should play on a team. We could look for a league if you like." I suggest to make him audibly mull it over.

"Don't think I'm too aggressive for it?"

"Hardly. As long you refrain for breaking bones every week, you could be very effective for any sports team, including hockey. Would you be interested?"

"Yeah, actually. Sign me up for hockey, big man. I'd like to make some guys cry like girls." It would be good for him to vent. The first sign of trouble though and I will pull him. That will likely be the end of his competitive sporting career. I warn him as much.

"Just so long as lawsuits do not follow you home." I say. He laughs.

"You've got a deal."