The Batmobile came to a silent stop outside Ma Gunn's School for Boys, its sleek form blending into the shadows of Gotham's dilapidated streets. The air was heavy with the scent of oil, salt, and the faint tang of rain that had passed earlier in the evening. Bruce stepped out, his cape swaying slightly in the cold breeze, his jaw set with the grim determination that always accompanied nights like this.
Beside him, Dick—Nightwing—landed softly, adjusting his escrima sticks as they approached the decaying building. It was a place Bruce had known well from his years of tracking Gotham's criminals. For all its history, it still stood as a beacon of corruption, a home for those like Willis Todd.
As they slipped inside, the familiar stench of mildew and rotting wood hit them, mingling with the stagnant air of the old building. The hallways were eerily silent, save for the soft creaking of floorboards under their feet. They knew where to find him.
Willis was waiting, slumped in the same grimy chair by the window, looking out at the city he had run from so many years ago. His shoulders sagged with the weight of the years, and his face was etched with guilt and exhaustion. He looked older than Bruce remembered, worn down not just by time but by regret.
When the two figures appeared in the doorway, Willis turned slowly, his eyes betraying the mix of fear and anticipation he had carried since they left him earlier.
Bruce wasted no time. "It's over," he said, his voice low but firm. "Black Mask's operation is dismantled. Rico's men are in custody."
Willis blinked, processing the information. For a moment, his expression softened, and he let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. "Thank God," he muttered. "Thank you… for everything. I know you didn't do it for me, but… Jason… He's all that matters now."
Bruce didn't respond. His eyes remained focused on Willis, studying the man who had abandoned his son to Gotham's streets and now claimed to care.
Willis shifted in his seat, suddenly looking small and uncomfortable. His voice cracked when he spoke again. "I need to see him."
Bruce's brow furrowed under the cowl, though his expression remained unreadable. Willis's voice, raw with desperation, filled the quiet room. "Please. I need to see Jason. I know there'll be cops at the hospital… that I might get arrested the second I show my face, but I don't care. I just need to know he's okay."
Dick took a step forward, his posture tense, but it was Bruce who spoke first. "Jason's condition is… critical. You wouldn't be able to speak to him anyway. He's sedated." The last part of the statement was more of a guess. Bruce didn't know the exact details of Jason's medical treatment, but he knew the boy would be in no condition for visitors.
Willis swallowed hard, his throat tightening as he absorbed the information. "I figured… but I just want to see him. Even if he doesn't know I'm there. I need to know he's still here. That I haven't completely lost him."
There was a long silence. Bruce could hear the man's desperation, the pleading in his voice that had been absent earlier. It wasn't about redemption or fixing the past—it was about a man trying to make peace with the one thing he had left in this world.
"I can't make that decision for you," Bruce said, his tone hard but not without understanding. "There are officers guarding Jason. The hospital controls who visits, and they're not likely to let you in. Especially not after your record."
Willis's face crumpled with frustration. "So that's it, then? I can't even see my son because I'm some screw-up ex-con?"
Dick crossed his arms, leaning against the doorway. "It's not that simple, Willis. You abandoned Jason years ago. You made choices that put him in the situation he's in now. Showing up at the hospital won't change that."
Willis's fists clenched, his knuckles going white. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't regret every damn second I wasn't there for him? I know what I did. And I'm not asking for forgiveness. But I need to be there now when it matters."
Bruce exchanged a glance with Dick before speaking again. "If the police won't let you in, there's nothing I can do. But I'll let you know how Jason is doing. Beyond that, you'll have to handle it."
The frustration in Willis's face didn't ease, but his shoulders slumped in defeat. "So you're saying Wayne wouldn't even give me a chance, huh? Some billionaire with a perfect life doesn't want scum like me near his adopted kid."
Dick's expression hardened. "Wayne's done more for Jason than you ever did. He's been there for him, helped him, protected him."
Willis opened his mouth to argue but then stopped, the words dying on his tongue. He let out a long breath, his eyes dropping to the floor. "You're right," he said quietly. "I don't deserve it. I don't deserve to see him after all I've done."
Dick's voice softened as he stepped closer. "It's not that simple, Willis. Jason's in bad shape. I told you, he's sedated, and even if he wasn't, he wouldn't be ready for this. He might not be ready to see you."
Willis swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he processed the words. His hands trembled slightly, and he balled them into fists, trying to keep his emotions in check. "I know I screwed up. I know I don't have the right to ask for anything, but I need to be there. Even if he doesn't know I'm there. Just to see him."
The room was heavy with silence for a long moment. Bruce could see the desperation in Willis's eyes. It wasn't just guilt—it was the raw, painful need to do something for his son, even if it was too late.
Bruce took a deep breath, weighing the options. He understood all too well the need for redemption, for a chance to make things right, even when the odds seemed impossible. And as much as Willis had failed Jason in the past, Bruce knew that denying him this final chance might do more harm than good—for both of them.
"There's a way," Bruce said finally, his voice even and calm. "I can get you into the hospital."
Willis's eyes widened with surprise and hope, his gaze snapping up to meet Bruce's. "You mean it? You'll let me see him?"
Bruce nodded, his mind already forming a plan. "I'll arrange for you to see him from outside the room. Jason's sedated, and the doctors won't allow visitors, but you'll be able to see him through the observation window. You won't be able to stay long, and you'll have to keep your distance. No one can know you're there."
Willis's face lit up with gratitude, a flicker of relief crossing his features. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, his voice cracking. "That's all I need. Just to see him. Just to know he's… still here."
Dick raised an eyebrow, looking between Bruce and Willis. "You're sure about this? What if Jason wakes up? What if this does more harm than good?"
Bruce's jaw tightened. He had thought about that. He didn't know if Jason would want to see Willis, and this could complicate his recovery. But he also knew that denying Willis this moment would leave a wound that might never heal. Jason would have the final say when he woke up, but for now, Bruce could give Willis something—no matter how small.
"I'm sure," Bruce said firmly. "This isn't for Jason. It's for Willis."
Willis's voice cracked as he spoke again, his emotions barely contained. "I don't care if he doesn't wake up. I don't care if he hates me forever. I just want to see him, just once."
Bruce turned to leave, his cape sweeping behind him as he made his way toward the door. "Meet me at Gotham General tomorrow night. I'll make the arrangements."
Willis nodded, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Thank you… I don't know how to repay you for this."
"You don't," Bruce said coldly, his voice hard as stone. "This isn't for you. This is for Jason."
With that, Bruce and Dick disappeared into the shadows, leaving Willis alone in the dim light of Ma Gunn's office. The old man stared at the spot where they had stood, his heart pounding in his chest. Tomorrow, he would see his son—the boy he had abandoned, the boy who had been hurt because of him.
As he sat back down in the chair, the weight of the coming day pressed down on him like a storm. He didn't deserve this chance. He didn't deserve Jason's forgiveness. But he would take whatever small piece of redemption he could get.
It was all he had left.
The next night, the sterile, white hallways of Gotham General stood in stark contrast to the darkness of the streets outside. The faint beeping of machines and the soft murmur of hospital staff filled the air, the sterile smell of antiseptic lingering like a ghost.
Bruce led Willis through the back entrance, using his influence as Batman to avoid any run-ins with the police stationed at Jason's door. They moved quickly, their footsteps echoing softly against the linoleum floors until they reached the observation window of Jason's room.
When they reached the glass, Willis froze. Jason lay still on the hospital bed, his face pale under the harsh glow of the monitors surrounding him. The machines beeped rhythmically, keeping track of every breath, every beat of his heart.
But the Jason lying there wasn't the boy Willis had once known. He wasn't even the young man Bruce had come to see as a son. This Jason, the one reduced to nothing but instinct and a fragile body, was a hollow shell of the person they both cared for.
Willis froze at the sight of his son, his hands trembling as he gripped the edge of the window for support. His breath caught in his throat, the emotions crashing over him like a tidal wave. Jason looked so fragile, so broken—nothing like the boy he had once known. The guilt hit him like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe.
"That's him…" Willis whispered, his voice cracking. "That's my boy."
He let out a sob. "He's gotten so much bigger than when I last saw him. But, he looks so fragile." He let out another sob.
Willis gripped the edge of the observation window tighter, his knuckles turning white as he fought to control the wave of emotions crashing over him.
The reality of seeing his son like this, connected to machines, lying motionless and pale, hit him harder than he could have imagined. He felt the weight of years of absence, the weight of every mistake he'd made, bearing down on him all at once.
"He was always strong," Willis murmured, his voice barely audible. "Even when he was little, he'd fight back against the world. I used to brag about how smart and tough he was. My boy, Jason. Now look at him…"
His voice broke again, tears threatening to fall, but he wiped at his eyes furiously, unwilling to let the emotion fully take him over.
Bruce stood beside him, silent, his presence heavy with the tension of the moment. For all his own pain at seeing Jason like this, Bruce remained focused. He wasn't here to offer comfort; he was here to give Willis what he'd asked for—a glimpse of the son he had failed. Maybe it was crueler than not letting Willis see Jason at all. A small vindictive part of Bruce, the part he tried to hide, hoped son.
"He's still breathing," Willis murmured, tears welling in his eyes as he tried to take in the sight of his son, tethered to machines that kept him alive but unable to bring him back. "But he's not there, is he? He's… gone."
Bruce stood beside him, silent. There were no words to soften the blow, no platitudes that could ease the reality of Jason's condition. He had seen it before, the empty, haunted look in people reduced to their most basic instincts. He had seen it in the eyes of victims, in the aftermath of trauma, and now he was seeing it in Jason.
Willis let out a shaky breath, his voice thick with emotion. "I did this to him, didn't I? I made him a target. I left him out there, and now…" He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
Bruce's jaw clenched beneath his cowl. He wanted to say something, to tell Willis that Jason's fate wasn't entirely his fault, but the words caught in his throat. There was truth in what Willis said, and Bruce couldn't deny it. They had both failed Jason in different ways, and now they were both paying the price.
"He's still here," Bruce finally said, his voice low. "But Jason's mind… his cognitive functions… they're gone. His body's running on instinct now. He can't recognize you, can't understand what's happening. He's… only operating on survival."
Willis recoiled at Bruce's words, the reality hitting him like a physical blow. He pressed his forehead against the glass, tears sliding down his face unchecked. "So, he's nothing but… an animal now. Reduced to this because of me."
Bruce remained silent, watching as Willis struggled to accept what had happened. Jason was alive, but he wasn't Jason anymore. The boy who had fought with fire in his heart, who had taken on Gotham's worst with a grin, was gone, replaced by a shell of his former self.
"I should've been there," Willis whispered, his voice barely audible. "I should've been there for him, protected him… and now he's like this. Nothing but an empty shell."
The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Bruce didn't argue. He knew that nothing he could say would change the truth of it. Willis had failed Jason, just as Bruce had. And now, Jason was paying the price for both of their mistakes.
"I'm sorry, Jason," Willis whispered, his voice breaking as he spoke. "I'm so damn sorry."
Bruce watched as Willis continued to stand there, tears falling freely as he stared at his son. The man had come here for some semblance of redemption, but there was no redemption to be found in this room—only pain, only the harsh reality of what Jason had become.
Bruce suddenly felt horrible. He was projecting his own pain onto Willis, but that wasn't right. What had he always told his boys? Justice, not vengeance! It wasn't right to do this to the man. Even if he perhaps deserved it.
"We can't stay here," Bruce said quietly after a long pause. "This won't help Jason. It won't help you."
Willis didn't respond for a moment, his eyes still locked on the motionless form of his son. Finally, he nodded, stepping back from the glass, his face a mixture of grief and defeat.
"I just wanted to see him," Willis said, his voice barely above a whisper. "One last time, before…"
Bruce didn't respond. He turned toward the exit, his mind already on the next steps. Jason's battle wasn't over, but it wasn't one that Willis could fight. If there was a way to bring Jason back, it wouldn't be through vengeance or regret.
As they made their way out of the hospital, Willis's footsteps were slow, weighed down by the knowledge of what he had lost. Bruce glanced at him, knowing that this would be the most challenging part of the journey for the man who had failed so many times before.
He took a deep breath. "Willis," Bruce said, stopping just before they reached the door. Willis looked up, eyes hollow. "I won't stop until there's an antidote." He said calmly.
"If Jason ever wakes up—if he's ever… Jason again—you'll have to let him decide what happens next. You can't force your way into his life. You can't fix this with apologies."
Willis nodded, his face etched with sorrow. "I know. I just hope… one day, he'll know how sorry I am. And maybe, maybe he'll let me try to make it up to him."
Bruce's gaze hardened. "If he does, you don't get another chance to fail him."
Willis swallowed, the weight of those words sinking deep. "I won't," he whispered. "I swear."
As Bruce and Willis neared the hospital exit, the weight of their silence felt even heavier. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the sterile floors. Willis had said nothing since his quiet plea at Jason's window, but Bruce could feel the emotional storm raging just beneath the surface.
Suddenly, Willis paused. His footsteps faltered, and Bruce turned slightly, sensing that the man wasn't quite finished.
Willis's hands fumbled inside the pocket of his worn-out jacket, trembling slightly as he pulled something out—a crumpled, worn piece of paper. He held it gingerly, as though it were something fragile, something precious.
"Here," Willis whispered, his voice barely audible, thick with emotion. "I… I know you're the one who'll see Wayne. I've never asked anything from him, but I… I need you to give him this. If," He sniffled, "If Jason wakes up. I want him to have it."
Bruce didn't reach for it at first, his eyes locked on the crumpled piece of paper. "What is it?"
Willis unfolded the paper, smoothing it out with trembling hands. It was a photograph—creased from being folded and unfolded countless times. The edges were worn, and the colors had faded slightly, but the image was still clear. It was a moment frozen in time, a memory from before everything went wrong.
In the photo, a much younger Jason grinned up at the camera, a big gap-toothed smile on his face. He was holding up a used book in one hand and a cotton candy cone in the other, his expression full of joy and innocence.
Standing beside him was a woman—Catherine, Jason's mother—smiling warmly. And there, beside her, stood Willis, his arm draped around them both, trying to smile for the camera but betraying a roughness that even happiness couldn't fully erase. The three of them were standing in front of an old library, its brick façade faded with time.
Jason's excitement was unmistakable. It radiated from the photo, capturing the purity of a boy who hadn't yet been hardened by Gotham's streets or his father's mistakes. His clothes were a little too big, hand-me-downs, no doubt, but the joy on his face overshadowed everything else.
Willis's voice trembled as he spoke again, barely holding himself together. "This was before everything went to hell. Before I messed it all up. We were at a library… Jason loved books, even back then. We couldn't afford new ones, but he'd always find something in the used section. They were giving them away for free that day. Had food trucks and everything. All for free. We never usually could afford luxuries like that. Jason was so excited."
He chuckled weakly, though there was no humor in it, just the remnants of a life long gone.
"I've carried this with me ever since I left,"
Willis continued, his voice cracking. "Every time I folded it back up, I told myself I'd do better… that I'd make things right. But I never did. I want Wayne to have it. He's… he's been more of a father to Jason than I ever was…" He paused. "I want Jason to know that I loved him. That his dad was a piece of shit, but he loved him. Can you do that for me?"
Bruce stared at the photograph for a long moment, his mind racing. The image in front of him wasn't just a piece of Willis's past—it was a reminder of everything Jason had lost, everything he had once been before Gotham twisted his life into something unrecognizable.
With slow, deliberate movements, Bruce reached out and took the photo. The paper felt fragile in his gloved hands, crinkling slightly under his touch. He looked down at it, his heart heavy with the knowledge that Jason might never see it, might never remember the moment it captured. But he also knew that, despite everything, there was still hope—there had to be.
"I'll make sure Wayne gets this," Bruce said, his voice low, the mask of Batman slipping for just a moment.
Willis nodded, the relief evident in his tired eyes. "Thank you… I don't deserve it, but… thank you."
Bruce gave a curt nod, carefully folding the photo and tucking it into his belt. He could feel its weight, not just as a token from Willis but as a symbol of what was still at stake. Jason wasn't just a casualty of Gotham's darkness—he was a part of the city's future if he could ever come back from this.
Without another word, Bruce turned and led Willis out into the night. As they stepped into the cold Gotham air, the shadows seemed to stretch farther, the city's ever-present weight pressing down on them both. Bruce knew their battles weren't over, but for now, one small thing had been given—one small piece of closure for a man who had lost so much.