Bruce sat idly at the Batcomputer, staring at the screen, but his mind was far from the data in front of him. His fingers' usually precise and controlled movements were absent; instead, they trembled too much even to attempt typing the report. He'd already thrown up three times, twice in the Batmobile and once more in the cave, shortly after recounting the horrific events to Alfred.
Alfred, the epitome of composure in the face of countless crises, had paled with each passing word as Bruce recounted what he had seen. His usual calm demeanor cracked, his face ashen as the reality of the situation set in. When Bruce finished his harrowing tale, Alfred had quietly excused himself, retreating upstairs to maintain his own control, leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts.
Bruce had been sitting in front of the Batcomputer for the last two hours, staring at the same screen. The cursor blinked at him mockingly, a silent reminder of the words he couldn't bring himself to write. It was driving him mad—just sitting here, waiting. The need to act, to do something, was overwhelming.
Yet, he was trapped in this torturous limbo. Batman showing up at the hospital could raise suspicion. While it wasn't unheard of for Batman to appear in unexpected places, following a civilian to a hospital would certainly raise eyebrows, especially considering his usual modus operandi. On the other hand, Bruce Wayne was no option either—not until the police contacted him. Any premature action would compromise his identity and potentially worsen the situation. So he had to sit here, waiting, while Jason suffered.
The helplessness gnawed at him. The thought of what might have happened had he dismissed the lead altogether made his stomach churn again. He had nearly brushed it off, considering it just another false lead in a sea of them. But something had tugged at him, a gut instinct that refused to be ignored, pushing him to investigate further.
The Batcave, usually his sanctuary, felt suffocating now, filled with echoes of his past failures and the looming fear of another. He needed to move, to do something—anything—to break free from this paralytic state. But all he could do was wait.
The only thing he had been able to do was look up the warehouse. It was lined with lead, Which answered why Clark had been unable to find Jason. Jason hadn't been dead, wasn't dead now, but Bruce thought of the drug and shook his head.
Nobody had snapped out of it yet. It had been weeks since the drug had hit the streets and still, none of the victims had been anything more than a creature of instinct, all hindbrain and no higher function like a permanent state of rut or heat. The implications were terrifying.
Jason consumed his thoughts. The image of his son, huddled on the warehouse floor, bruised and broken, played on a loop in his mind. The scent of his fear and pain lingered in Bruce's nostrils, a constant reminder of the horror he had witnessed. The sight of the IVs, the feeding tube, the stark terror in Jason's eyes—it all haunted him, gnawing at his insides like a ravenous beast.
The uncertainty was the worst part. Not knowing the extent of the damage, not knowing if Jason would ever recover, was a torture unlike any other. The drug had stripped Jason of his identity, reducing him to a shell of his former self. Would he ever come back from that?
What if the light that made Jason who he was had been extinguished forever? The thought sent a shiver down his spine, and he clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. Would Bruce ever see the light in his son's eyes again? Would he ever walk into the library to see Jason engrossed in a thick book? Would he find him in the kitchen with Alfred's face dusted with flour, the pair of them laughing?
There was no question of him ever being Robin again. Even if he recovered. Vigilante life was dangerous for a young alpha. The idea of an omega on the streets was absolutely terrifying. Imagining what a thug with an alpha voice, what a true supervillain might do, was horrifying. There was a reason omegas stayed in the house unescorted, as outdated and alphanistic as it might be. No matter what, even if he could reverse the changes from the drugs, there was no reversing the other change. No case of it ever being reversed, not one.
He tried to focus on the facts, to approach the situation logically. But emotion clouded his judgment, turning his thoughts into a tangled mess of worry and despair. He felt helpless, a sensation he hadn't experienced in years. Not since that night in Crime Alley, when he had watched his parents die and realized there was nothing he could do to save them.
Finally, Alfred came down the stairs. "Mr. Gordon is here to see you, sir." Bruce sighed, standing up. At last, it was time. At last, he could be with his pup. His pup, not Willis Todd's, no matter what the thugs thought. Jason was his, and he'd never let him out of his sight again.