The sterile quiet of the hospital room weighed heavily on Bruce as he sat beside Jason, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his son's chest. Hours had passed since Alfred left to gather information on Willis Todd, and each tick of the clock felt like a cruel reminder of the time slipping away. He wanted answers, but more than that, he wanted justice—vengeance for the hell Jason had been put through.
The sterile quiet of the hospital room weighed heavily on Bruce as he sat beside Jason, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his son's chest. The weight of the room's silence pressed down on him, punctuated only by the soft beeping of the machines and the occasional adjustment of the IV. Every sound reminded him of how fragile Jason's condition was, how much had been taken from his son.
Bruce remained tense, even though he had prepared himself for this. The doctor had been clear earlier: Jason's injuries were severe, and the risk of infection, especially considering the assault, was incredibly high. The initial examination had been necessary, but now came the part Bruce had been dreading the most—the internal check for any complications, infection, or unseen damage.
A nurse entered, her face set in a professional calm that did little to ease Bruce's anxiety. She was followed by the doctor, who nodded to Bruce before approaching the bed. They had been through this before—explaining what needed to be done, the risks, the careful monitoring Jason required. Bruce knew it had to happen, but the thought of Jason enduring any more made his stomach twist.
"We'll begin the examination now," the doctor said softly, not wanting to disturb the already fragile atmosphere in the room. "We need to check for infection and ensure there's no internal damage worsening."
Bruce nodded, his throat tight. "Just… be careful."
The doctor and nurse moved carefully around Jason, their hands steady and practiced. Bruce gripped Jason's hand tightly, his gaze locked on his son's pale face, still serene under the effects of the sedation. His mind raced with a thousand thoughts, but none of them could take away the reality of what was happening.
The doctor began the examination, and almost immediately, Bruce could see the concern on his face. His brows furrowed, his movements more deliberate and focused. The nurse handed him a tool, and Bruce could hear the faint murmur of medical terms being exchanged between them, their voices hushed but laced with unease.
Something wasn't right.
Bruce's stomach dropped as the doctor continued, his expression growing more serious by the second. The silence in the room felt suffocating, and Bruce's grip on Jason's hand tightened as the moments stretched on.
Finally, the doctor stepped back slightly, exhaling through his nose. He looked up at Bruce, his face filled with a solemn gravity.
"I'm afraid it's not good news, Mr. Wayne," the doctor said, his voice low and measured. "There are clear signs of infection. The damage is more extensive than we initially thought. There's significant internal trauma, and some of the tissues are beginning to show signs of necrosis."
Bruce felt the floor drop out from beneath him. His heart clenched painfully in his chest, the weight of the doctor's words crashing down on him with brutal force.
"How bad?" Bruce asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He could hardly bring himself to ask, but he had to know. He had to understand what Jason was up against.
The doctor sighed, exchanging a glance with the nurse before looking back at Bruce. "The damage from the assault was severe. The purification procedure… it was poorly done, leaving a lot of trauma. The infection has taken root in several areas, and we're going to have to be aggressive with treatment. It's not just a matter of antibiotics anymore. We may need to perform surgery to remove the damaged tissue."
Surgery. The word echoed in Bruce's mind like a death knell. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself, but the thought of Jason enduring any more pain, any more suffering, was unbearable.
"Will he recover?" Bruce asked, his voice rough with emotion.
The doctor hesitated, which was all the answer Bruce needed. "It's difficult to say right now," the doctor replied carefully. "We'll do everything we can to fight the infection and repair the damage, but the trauma was extensive. Jason is strong, and his body is fighting, but it's going to be a long and difficult recovery—if he pulls through."
Bruce's chest tightened as the doctor's words settled over him. If he pulls through. The phrase lingered in the air like a cruel reminder of how close Jason was to the edge. This wasn't just about physical recovery anymore; it was a fight for Jason's life.
"We'll start him on a stronger course of antibiotics immediately," the doctor continued, "and we'll prepare for surgery. We'll do everything we can to save him."
Bruce nodded, though his mind was elsewhere. He could barely process the words—the infection, the damage, the uncertainty. All he could think about was Jason, lying there, helpless, and how all of this was because of a man who might not even be dead.
The doctor stepped back, motioning for the nurse to gather the necessary supplies. "I'll let you know as soon as we're ready for the surgery," he said softly. "But time is of the essence. We'll need to act fast."
Bruce didn't respond, his hand still resting on Jason's. The doctor and nurse quietly left the room, leaving Bruce alone once again with the overwhelming weight of the situation.
He looked down at Jason, his heart breaking as he saw the fragility in his son's still form. Jason had always been so full of life, so stubborn, so determined. And now, here he was, at the mercy of doctors, fighting an infection that might take everything from him.
Bruce took a deep breath, trying to hold back the surge of anger and helplessness that threatened to consume him. He had faced many enemies in his life, many battles that seemed impossible to win. But this—this was different. This was his son's life hanging in the balance, and no amount of training, no amount of planning, could fix this.
"I'm not losing you, Jay," Bruce whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I swear, I'm not going to lose you."
The door creaked open, and Bruce's eyes darted up, instantly alert. Alfred stepped into the room, his face grim. He crossed the room with quiet footsteps, stopping at the foot of Jason's bed. Bruce could feel the weight of whatever Alfred had learned before the older man even spoke.
"I have news, sir," Alfred began, his voice steady but tinged with an unusual gravity. "It appears the situation regarding Willis Todd is not as straightforward as we once believed."
Bruce's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Alfred drew a breath, as though steeling himself for what he was about to say. "According to the records I was able to uncover, Willis Todd's death may have been… fabricated. There are indications that he survived the incident we believed had taken his life."
Bruce's heart thudded heavily in his chest. Willis Todd, Jason's biological father, had been presumed dead for years. The idea that Willis might still be alive hit Bruce like a punch to the gut. He leaned forward, gripping the edge of his chair.
"Are you telling me Willis is alive?" Bruce asked, his voice sharp, the anger beneath it barely controlled.
Alfred nodded gravely. "There are records that suggest as much, sir. Police reports, witness statements—they indicate that Willis may have gone underground, disappearing from Gotham's streets to avoid retribution from certain criminal factions. It's unclear how he survived, but there are whispers that he's been operating in the shadows."
Bruce's mind raced. Willis Todd alive? The thought was incomprehensible. Bruce had taken Jason in after his father's death, after assuming there was no one left to care for the boy. He had never questioned Willis's fate, but now the idea that Willis had been alive, hiding in the shadows all this time, left him reeling.
"If Willis is alive, why stay hidden?" Bruce muttered, more to himself than to Alfred. "Why not come forward? Why not try to reach out to Jason?"
Alfred's gaze darkened. "It's possible, sir, that Willis didn't want to be found. And if these rumors are true, it's even possible that his resurfacing may be connected to what happened to Master Jason."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence, and Bruce felt a surge of anger rising within him. The possibility that Willis Todd could be tied to Jason's current suffering, that he had allowed this to happen—or worse, orchestrated it—was something Bruce couldn't begin to stomach.
"They mentioned Willis at the warehouse," Bruce said, his voice tightening as the pieces began to fall into place. "They said this was payback—revenge. But I assumed they were just talking about old debts. If Willis is alive, and if he's been involved in something bigger…"
Alfred nodded, his face as grim as Bruce's. "Then it stands to reason that someone may have used Master Jason as a pawn in a game to get back at Willis."
Bruce's fists clenched, his entire body tensing with the need for action. "He should have come forward," Bruce growled, the rage boiling inside him. "If he's still alive, if he knew—he let Jason suffer for his mistakes. He let this happen."
Alfred placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder, a steadying force in the whirlwind of emotions. "We don't yet know the full story, sir. But it seems likely that Willis's enemies targeted Jason as part of some vendetta against him."
Bruce stood abruptly, his eyes flashing with fury. "This isn't just about Jason anymore. If Willis Todd is responsible for this, I will find him, and I will make him answer for it."
Alfred didn't flinch at the intensity in Bruce's voice. He had seen Bruce like this before—driven by the need for justice, for vengeance. But this time, the stakes were even higher. This wasn't just another criminal or corrupt businessman Bruce was going after. This was personal. This was Jason.
"I will continue to search for any leads regarding Willis's whereabouts, sir," Alfred said, his voice calm but resolute. "If he is alive, we will find him."
Bruce nodded, the storm of emotions swirling within him barely contained. "I need to know everything, Alfred. Every possible connection, every person who could have helped him stay hidden. If Willis is involved in what happened to Jason, if this was done to punish him, I want to be ready."
Alfred gave a solemn nod before quietly stepping out of the room, leaving Bruce alone once again with Jason. The beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room, but it did little to soothe the rage burning in Bruce's chest.
Willis Todd. The name hung in his mind, heavy with betrayal. If Willis had allowed this to happen—if he had stood by while Jason was hurt, violated, and left broken—there would be no mercy. No redemption.
Bruce looked down at Jason, who lay motionless in the bed, still lost in the haze of sedatives. His heart clenched painfully. Jason had been through enough. He didn't deserve this—not the pain, not the horror, and certainly not the betrayal of his own blood.
Bruce sat back down in the chair beside the bed, his hand finding Jason's once again. He squeezed gently, as if trying to will strength back into his son, as if his presence alone could somehow erase the damage that had been done.
Bruce stayed beside Jason, the weight of everything pressing down on him like never before. He had faced Gotham's worst, battled foes beyond comprehension, but nothing compared to the helplessness he felt now. Jason, his fierce, brave son, lay before him, fragile and broken in ways that Bruce had never anticipated. The room's oppressive silence felt as if it was closing in on him, but he refused to move.
Hours passed with only the steady beeping of machines and Jason's slow breaths to break the silence. The distant sounds of the hospital seemed like a world away, as Bruce remained locked in his thoughts. Alfred had left quietly, promising to uncover any truth about Willis Todd. Bruce wasn't sure what would be worse—if Willis was alive and complicit in this, or if the revenge had been exacted on Jason for something his father had no hand in. Either way, the betrayal, the possibility that Jason had been hurt for something he had no control over, gnawed at Bruce's insides.
He gently stroked the back of Jason's hand with his thumb, lost in his thoughts. The idea that his son had suffered because of someone else's sins, that Jason had been used as a pawn in a twisted vendetta, was unbearable. It was supposed to be over when Bruce had taken him in. Jason was supposed to have been saved from the darkness, from the streets, from everything that had weighed him down. But now, the specter of his past had come back in the worst way.
The door opened again, this time with the soft creak that Bruce had begun to associate with the nursing staff. A nurse walked in quietly, her movements efficient and practiced as she checked the various machines monitoring Jason's vitals. She nodded politely to Bruce, her expression sympathetic but professional.
"We're preparing everything for the surgery," she said softly, not wanting to disturb the quiet too much. "We'll take him down shortly."
Bruce nodded, his throat tight. He had known this was coming—the surgery was inevitable given the infection's progression—but hearing it aloud made it feel more real. Jason wasn't out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot.
As the nurse adjusted one of the IV lines, Bruce glanced back at Jason's pale face. His son, always so strong, always ready to fight, now lay still, completely dependent on the doctors and nurses who surrounded him. It was a fight Jason couldn't face alone, and that terrified Bruce more than anything. This wasn't a battle against some criminal on the streets of Gotham. This was a battle for Jason's life, and Bruce couldn't just jump in and save him this time.
"We'll take good care of him," the nurse added gently, offering Bruce a small smile as if trying to reassure him.
Bruce nodded again, barely able to find the words to respond. "Thank you," he managed to say, his voice hoarse. He appreciated the gesture, but it did little to ease the storm of emotions raging inside him.
As the nurse left the room to continue preparations, Bruce sat back down, his eyes never leaving Jason. He felt the anger bubbling up inside him again, the helplessness threatening to swallow him whole. But there was no time to indulge in those feelings. Bruce had to remain steady, had to focus. For Jason's sake, he couldn't afford to fall apart.
"I'm not going anywhere, Jay," Bruce whispered, gripping Jason's hand a little tighter. "I'll be here the whole time."
Minutes later, the door opened again, and this time, it was the doctor. He entered with a quiet but firm demeanor, his expression one of calm focus. Behind him, two nurses pushed a gurney, preparing to transfer Jason to the operating room.
"Mr. Wayne," the doctor began, "we're ready to proceed with the surgery. The infection has spread, and it's critical we address it immediately. We'll do everything we can to remove the damaged tissue and stop the infection from progressing further."
Bruce stood, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew this was the only option, but the thought of Jason undergoing surgery—another trauma on top of everything else—was almost too much to bear.
"How long will it take?" Bruce asked, his voice tight.
"It's difficult to say exactly," the doctor replied, his tone measured. "It depends on how extensive the damage is once we begin. But we'll move as quickly as possible while ensuring we're thorough. I'll keep you updated throughout the procedure."
Bruce nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Just… make sure he's okay. He's been through enough."
"We understand, Mr. Wayne," the doctor said gently. "We'll take every precaution."
With that, the doctor and nurses carefully transferred Jason onto the gurney, the machines following in a slow procession as they wheeled him out of the room. Bruce watched, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, his heart heavy as he followed them down the hallway.
He stopped just outside the doors to the operating room, where he could go no further. As Jason disappeared behind the double doors, Bruce felt an overwhelming wave of helplessness crash over him. His son's fate was now in the hands of others, and all he could do was wait.
Bruce hated waiting. It was not in him to do so. He was patient. Could case a place for hours for signs of activity, but he was also a man of action. He never just stood by and let things just happen, not since he was an eight year old in the alleyway behind the Monarch Theater.
He walked outside, to the back of the hospital, where he was sure no press would be waiting. He was needed here. He would not leave Jason. Not now, not again. But that didn't mean he could let nothing be done about the situation in Gotham. Not when it had bled so carelessly into his personal life and endangered his son.
Bruce stood outside the hospital, the cool night air doing little to calm the storm of emotions raging inside him. Jason was in surgery, and there was nothing more he could do right now but wait. That thought gnawed at him. He hated waiting, hated the helplessness that came with it. He needed to take action, to move forward, to do something.
And that meant calling Dick.
Bruce's hand hovered over his phone, thumb poised above Dick's contact. They hadn't spoken much lately, at least not about anything important. Things between them had been strained—more than strained, if Bruce was honest.
Their last few conversations had been tense, full of unspoken frustrations and disagreements about how to handle Gotham, about the path Nightwing had chosen for himself, away from Bruce and the mantle of the Bat. But right now, none of that mattered.
Jason mattered.
Bruce knew he couldn't handle this alone. He needed someone he could trust on the streets, someone with the same drive and dedication to uncover the truth. And despite their strained relationship, there was no one Bruce trusted more for that job than Dick.
With a deep breath, Bruce finally pressed the call button. The phone rang twice before he heard Dick's voice on the other end, a mix of surprise and concern in his tone.
"Bruce?" Dick's voice was alert, as if he had been waiting for this call. "What's going on? Any word on Jason?"
Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the question, the worry in Dick's voice. He had known Jason was missing, of course. Bruce had told him the moment he'd confirmed it himself, even though he hadn't asked for help then. But now things were different.
He signed. "Batman found him and brought him to Gotham General. It's…" He'd have to say the words again. Those dammable words. He didn't realize he was crying until Dick asked softly.
"Bruce, your crying." his voice was calm and quite. "Jason is he… Is he dead?
Bruce wiped furiously at his face and tried to take a calming breath. No Jason wasn't dead, but he might as well be and very well could still die. Slowly, ever so slowly Bruce told Dick everything the doctor had said.
He was still crying when he continued, a broken man, a broken hearted father.
"He's in surgery," Bruce said, his voice low and rough. "The doctors are doing everything they can, but it's bad. The infection has spread, and they're not sure if he'll—" He stopped himself. He couldn't say it out loud. He couldn't let that thought take root. "They're doing what they can," he finished, his tone firm, though it was clear how much it pained him.
There was silence on the other end for a moment, the weight of Bruce's words sinking in. "I'm sorry, Bruce," Dick said, his voice quieter now, filled with genuine concern. "I should be there."
Bruce took a deep breath, fighting against the instinct to brush off the sentiment. He appreciated it more than he could say, but what he needed from Dick wasn't at the hospital. "I need you on the streets, Dick," he said, his voice hardening with purpose. "There's something bigger going on, and I can't afford to waste any more time. I need Nightwing."
Another pause, this time more focused. Bruce knew Dick's mind was already racing ahead, putting the pieces together. "What do you need me to do?" Dick asked, his voice all business now.
"There's a new drug on the streets, the one connected to Jason's case," Bruce explained. "It's been tearing through Gotham, and I think it's part of something bigger. I need you to find out where it's coming from, who's behind it. And there's more."
Bruce's hand tightened around the phone as he continued. "The men at the warehouse where I found Jason… they mentioned Willis Todd. They made it sound like he's still alive."
"Willis Todd?" Dick's voice sharpened. "Bruce, that doesn't make sense. We both know he's—"
"Dead. I know," Bruce interrupted. "But there are records Alfred found—things that suggest otherwise. I don't know if it's true, but if Willis is involved, if this is all connected to him, then we need to know. I need you to track down any leads on Willis. Anyone who might know if he's alive or where he's been."
The silence on the other end stretched for a few seconds. Bruce could almost hear the gears turning in Dick's head. "You think Willis is connected to the drug?" Dick finally asked, his tone filled with disbelief but also understanding. "And what happened to Jason?"
"I don't know," Bruce admitted. "But I won't rest until I do."
Another beat of silence. Then, "I'm on it. I'll start asking around tonight, see what I can dig up. The drug, Willis… whatever it is, I'll find it."
Bruce felt a small sense of relief, though it was fleeting. He nodded, even though Dick couldn't see him. "Thank you."
Dick hesitated before speaking again, his voice softer this time. "Bruce, I know things haven't been great between us. But I'm here. For Jason. For whatever you need."
Bruce's throat tightened at the words. Their relationship had been fractured for a while now, but the fact that Dick was willing to set that aside for Jason—just like Bruce knew he would—meant more than he could say.
"I know," Bruce said, his voice low. "I know."
"I'll be in touch as soon as I find something," Dick promised.
Bruce nodded once more, the weight of the night pressing down on him. "Be careful, Dick." He paused. "I love you son." He didn't often say the words. Not enough to Dick, to Jason. Why didn't he tell his boys he loved them?
Dick was silent for a moment. Maybe his words had angered him or seemed like a lie. After all, all he and Dick did latleyl, sometimes coming to physical blows. It hadn't always been that way. Dick had been Bruce's Robin once, his light. There had been a time when they'd been inseparable.
Dick's voice was soft, warm. "Love you too Bruce. I'll get to the bottom of this. You take care of Jason. Tell him… tell him Big Bird says hi."
With that, the call ended, and Bruce was left standing in the quiet of the hospital corridor, the weight of the situation heavier than ever. He stared at the phone in his hand for a long moment before slipping it back into his pocket.
Nightwing was out there now, tracking down leads, searching for the truth in the shadows of Gotham's underworld. But even with that, Bruce couldn't shake the feeling that the truth, whatever it was, would come with a price—a price they were all going to have to pay.
And Bruce was ready to make sure that whoever was responsible for this paid with everything they had.