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Death in the Family	By : angelgirl1242 Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 1198 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters, and I do not make any money from these writings.

Chapter List
- 1-Death in the Family
- 1
The part in italics is from: James Robinson and Lee Weeks. “A Great Day for Everyone,” Legends of the Dark Knight #100, New York: DC Comics (November 1997).

Prologue: 6 Pm, Saturday

Part of me recalls him putting on his costume that first time...the look on his face...his smile...as if it were yesterday.

He reaches out, grasping the hand that was, only hours ago, still warm.

That first time, I must keep it alive…the memory of it. Alive in my heart so that the memory of this…here now…doesn’t destroy me.

Alfred’s hands, gentle and old, pull the sheet back over the face of the still frame. The body looks so small. I feel tears sting my eyes, but I’m determined not to let them fall. Despite the promise I just made to myself, thoughts of vengeance overshadow the grief.

The Joker will die for this.

I lovingly pat the arm of my dead partner through white linen. My other hand reaches upward, pulling my mask over my face.

The Joker dies tonight.

48 hours earlier: Thursday

High heels hit hard-top with the confident rhythm of a woman who walks the same stretch of sidewalk daily; the type of woman who knows exactly what she’s worth. She walks steadily through the poorly lit parking lot, unmindful of any danger lurking in Gotham’s shadows. Shelia Haywood is a level headed woman and she knew the area well enough not to be intimidated by it.

She hasn’t been afraid of the dark since childhood and she has no intention of starting now.

She unlocks her car with familiarity and ease. Before starting the engine, the doors are relocked and her make-up carefully examined in the rearview mirror. It is while looking over her lipstick that she first notices a flash of movement somewhere behind her. Her heart races and her palms become sweaty. Her adrenaline is pumping, something that hasn’t happened for a long time.

Quite along time, considering that she can’t remember the last time she felt this worked up.

She takes several deep breaths. She’s convincing herself that she didn’t see anything other than a stray tomcat or the wind tossing around litter. She’s still repeating this while her eyes scan the rearview mirror, attempting to see something. At this point, she only wants her heart to slow down.

She almost breathes a sigh of relief when her eyes do not immediately catch on anything. The sigh dies in her throat, however, when she realizes that that something is in the backseat of her car.

Reaching into her purse, she rummages for her can of mace. She doesn’t get very far, a hand shoots out from between the front seats and clamps on her slender wrist.

“Don’t do it, Doctor.”

Shelia gasps, her eyes narrow slightly, “Who-”

The stranger leans forward and Shelia can clearly see his face; at least the part of his face that isn’t covered by a small black mask, she doesn’t need anything else to recognize him though. She knows that Robin sits patiently in her car. Shelia obviously pales, where Robin is, the Batman can’t be far behind and Dr. Haywood has her share of secrets.

“Dr. Haywood, we have to talk.”

She has no choice but to turn in her seat. The position makes her feel vulnerable, but the only alternative is to continue the conversation while staring at her mirror. She isn’t a stupid woman, when she’s cornered she wants to see who managed it.

“You’re in some trouble with the Joker.”

It’s a fact. She is. She has been for quite sometime. Quite simply, she gave herself an unapproved raise and Joker has been blackmailing her because of it. She can’t stop because she has to pay him. He won’t stop because she’s keeping him in style.

“Are you going to turn me in?” there is fear in her voice.

“I’m going to help you,” his voice is confident, a direct contrast to hers. “Batman and I, we can help you. All you have to do is tell us where The Joker is. You can walk away from this.”

“Why? You don’t need me to get him. Batman always finds him; it’s only a matter of time.”

“Because, just because.”

She studies him, taking in as much of his features as she can. She studies his dark hair, his set mouth, the angle of his jaw. In a moment of terribly clarity she understands. Something clicks inside and she suddenly knows who the young man in the rear seat of her sports car is…

“Oh my god,” her breath hitches, “Jason? You’re alive?”

“We can help you,” he ignores her questions. “Think about it.”

He is gone as quickly as he came. Her eyes drift to the mirror in an effort to sort through her muddled thoughts, when she glances back towards the back seat, he’s already gone.

“Jason,” the word dies on her lips.

7pm, Saturday

Monk isn’t the brightest fellow, but he is an easy target and I knew it. Someone has to know where Joker is and Monk is my best bet. That explains why I’m holding him over the edge of the roof, his feet dangling far above the unforgiving cement. The fear on his scarred face suggests that he finally realizes that the cement under him is a lot more merciful than I’m feeling tonight.

“Where is he?” Monk is trapped between me and air. It’s hard to tell which one he fears more. I deepen both my scowl and my voice. “This is the last time that I’m going to ask.”

Monk’s eyes roll widely in his head. His feet kick uselessly even as a dark spot appears near the crotch of his filthy trousers. He pales, teenage acne scars the only blotches of colour on his ugly face.

“If I tell you, he’ll kill me.”

I want to drop him for that comment alone, instead I pull him slightly closer to me, “If you don’t tell me, you won’t live long enough for him to kill you.”

Monk starts babbling, tears flow from his eyes. Any other night, Robin would have pulled me off of him by now. Any other night, Robin would be reminding me that he wasn’t worth it, that Batman doesn’t kill. Any other night, my Robin would be alive.

This wasn’t any other night.

“Crime Alley…” his voice breaks. “He hangs out in an abandoned building there. I’m not sure which one…Please…Sweet Jesus, don’t drop me…”

Suddenly feeling guilty, I drop Monk on the safety of the rooftop. He lands with an audible “oof” and I know that I hurt him. I jump. I want nothing more than to put as much space as possible between Monk and I.

What am I doing? Who am I becoming?

Thursday

“Joker?” her voice breaks with guilt, but she can see no other option.

The Joker steps out of the shadows, Shelia jumps. Her heart pounding, she wonders how many frights she’s going to have before she sees her bed. In her mind’s eye, she’s already safe, tucked in between cool satin sheets.

“I told you never to come here,” his voice is harsh and she recoils.

“It’s important. It couldn’t wait.”

“What is it then,” his voice is impatient and threatening. Not for the first time, Shelia wonders if he’ll kill her soon.

“I know who Robin is.”

The smile that lights up The Joker’s face chills her blood.

8 pm, Saturday

Pushing away the guilt and the shame, I scan Gotham’s streets for signs of The Joker’s hide-away. He is going to die tonight.

The Batmobile glides down litter-filled streets, past pimps and drug dealers. I would have kept going if not for the motorcycle that suddenly jumps my car. It lands hard in front of me and swerve to avoid hitting it.

I get out of the Batmobile with impatience. Nightwing sees me and fear crosses his features before being replaced with determination. My anger partially melts under that fear.

“Get out of my way,” it’s an order and he knows it. I’ve trained him too well. He’s obeyed me for too long.

“No, you’ll get yourself killed.”

“Get out of my way now,” my voice comes out as a bark and I’m afraid for my ex-ward. I’m afraid that, after all these years, I’m going to be the one to hurt him.

But I’ve gone too far to stop…Lost too much…

“When you’re pissed off, you make mistakes,” his voice is rational, but I ignore it. The last thing that I want to hear right now is reasons why I can’t tear The Joker limb-from-limb with my bare hands.

“Please, I know what happened,” he’s pleading with me. “We’ll go back to the ‘cave and we’ll plan this. If you’re going to take Joker down, you can’t do it like this…”

“Move.”

I briefly consider running him down with the Batmobile. I push that thought quickly aside. I don’t want to hurt this man. I love him too much.

“Batman, killing him won’t bring Robin back…Killing him won’t make the pain away…” there are tears flowing under his mask. I can see the mask dampen and I’m proud of him. He could have been cold from all that he’s seen…all that he’s done…he could have been cold…

…Cold like me…

I set my jaw. I have to do this. Even if it means that I can never look at myself again, I have to do this…

Early Friday morning

Batman watches Robin transform into the teenage boy who daily pestered him for permission to pierce his left ear. As always, he is amazed at the difference. It seems that as the costume hits the floors does the attitude. The over-confidence and self-determination still sets the jaw, but those qualities are softened around the edges. Looking at him, Bruce Wayne can’t help but wonder if it’s a similar transformation for himself…if that’s what Dick Grayson always means when he says, “I don’t want to talk to the Bat, Bruce. I want to talk to you.”

Bruce watches his eighteen-year-old ward pester Alfred. Alfred’s eyes state his amusement, even as he continues to insist that Jason is slowly driving him to an early grave. He smiles, it’s good to have a boy in the house again.

“How about some milk, Al?” a mischievous smile on his face, “Maybe with a good dollop of brandy…”

Alfred pretends to look horrified, even though he knows as well as I do that Jason’s only teasing. He has come home intoxicated, but he knows better than to bring alcohol into this house. Eighteen or no, Alfred would tan his hide.

Bruce laughs. Watching then is the highlight of his night. At times like this, Bruce feels like part of a family and the ache that continues to torment him dulls for a few precious hours.

“Bed.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Jason walks confidently and rapidly. He knows the area well. He walks up to his room, shutting the door quietly behind himself.
Plopping on the bed, Jason rummages through a drawer. Pulling out several black-and-white pictures of Shelia Haywood, Jason studies her face. One finger comes up and lightly touches the photograph. A tear drops, leaving a splatter of wetness where it lands.

“Mom…” he whispers into his darkened room.

He’s so absorbed in his thoughts that he jumps when a knock sounds on his door.

“Come in,” the pictures are back in the drawer the moment the words breach his lips.

The door opens and Bruce walks in. There is no readable expression on his face.

“What’d I do now?” the words are spoken with a smile even though both men know that, more often than not, it is the usual reason for Bruce being in his bedroom this late at night.

“Nothing. Just thought that I’d tuck you in.”

They both know that Bruce misses Dick. This attention is his way of ensuring that Jason and him will never end up in the mess that Dick and Bruce are in now. Jason knows this, but his own hunger for affection prevents him from feeling too much like a replacement.

Bruce brings the blanket over the obediently still boy. Jason accepts it and the paternal kiss that brushes his forehead a moment later.

“Goodnight Bruce.”

“It’s morning,” He laughs knowing that it may be morning, but it’s just barely able to actually qualify as such. “See you in a few hours.”

Bruce leaves, blissfully ignorant of the fact that the next time he sees Jason, the young man would be barely conscious; fighting for his life amidst the clutter of broken bones and purple bruises.

9 pm, Saturday

I know where he is. The Joker. I know where he is.

I laugh. I can hear insanity in that laugh, but I ignore it. How many times have I felt like this? Like I was becoming the very scum that I fight against? I know that I should stop now, but the memory of Jason Todd’s linen covered face is too fresh in my mind. The Batmobile comes to a smooth stop in front of Joker’s hide-out. I know what I have to do.

I take a deep breath and exit the car.

Forgive me, mom and dad.

Friday night

Robin is, once again, stalking his mother. He watches her enter her house, a neat and modern brick on the corner of quiet streets. He watches the light in the living room go on, and with the aid of binoculars, he watches her drape her jacket over the back of a chair before moving to toss her high heels into her front hall. He watches this with a certain measure of longing, knowing that he should have known this woman long before now. He should have had a room in that tiny home.

Pushing those thoughts away, Robin drops the binoculars and jumps to the ground. He has to talk to her. In all honesty, he wants to touch her, to feel her skin under his gloved hand and assure himself that she really is alive…that she really is his mother.

He pushes those thoughts away too.

Carefully and efficiently, he enters her home. He settles behind her, knowing that she’s not yet aware of his presence. Batman has trained him too well…

But not well enough, the emotional high is too strong and he doesn’t notice that the trap is closing in on him…

“Dr. Haywood…”

She doesn’t turn around, she can’t. She’s afraid that he’ll see the guilt in her eyes, “I’m sorry. It’s been too long. I can’t be your mother.”

These words would have crushed him, had he had time to process them. As it was, Monk dropped the butt of his pistol down on his head. He didn’t have time to register anything before the neatly vacuumed carpet came rushing up to meet him.

Shelia turns around then. Anger flashes in her dark eyes. HE voice comes out as a hiss.

“You fool, that’s a new carpet.”

Monk shrugs, “Lady, you have a lot more problems than a little blood on a new carpet.”

There’s a flash of pain before Shelia crumbles. Her body lands heavily next to her son’s.

9:15 pm, Saturday

I enter the building, crashing through the nearest window. There is no finesse in my movements; there is only the shower of broken glass and the greeting flares of gunfire.

I dodge the bullets out of instinct. No thought is wasted on the action; my thoughts are only concerned with one task; finding and killing Joker. I want my bare hands wrapped around his scrawny neck as the life drains slowly from his wiry frame.

“Shit, someone get the boss. The Bat’s gone crazy.”

No one has time to move. My arm acts on its own accord and the owner of the statement hits the floor. I don’t know if he’s alive and I don’t care.

Friday night

Robin regains consciousness on a cold cement floor. Only one window is visible and it’s far enough above his head for him to feel comfortable with the assumption that he is in a basement. He doesn’t know how he got here and he doesn’t care. His thoughts fly to his mother. Even as footsteps echo outside the locked door, he hopes that she’s okay.

The door opens with a high-pitched “creek.” Robin looks up. The expression of anger dies on his face as fear takes over. The Joker stands in the doorway, his arms raised above his head. Faint light from a streetlight reflects off the crowbar he is holding.

“Shit,” Robin stops moving. Fear has paralyzed him to the spot.

His mind races, trying to plan an escape. All his training is wasted; he’s never felt quite so helpless. Only when the crowbar comes down, a flare of pain accompanying it as his shoulder breaks, can he break through the panic.

Robin doesn’t make it to the floor. Two of Joker’s thugs have come up behind him. It is one of these men who successfully puts an end to any of Robin’s escape attempts. A heavy fist in the gut doubles Robin over even as a boot comes up, impacting with his face. Two teeth free themselves from the confines of his mouth even as his body crashes down to the floor. He is unconscious when the crowbar falls the second time.

9:30 pm, Saturday

I see him; a flash of purple between debris. There’s broken glass and upturned furniture everywhere. I’m not certain how much is from me and how much is the result of the buildings deteriorating condition.

“Come out, Joker.”

I lunge, grabbing him on my way to the floor. I roll with him, regaining my balance before rising. I pull him up with me. He looks up at me with huge terrified eyes. I briefly wonder if Jason looked at him like that. I smash my fist into his face, feeling his nose break under the contact. Blood pours out of his nose and some of it coats my right glove. I pull my fist back, ready to strike again.

When I do, Joker’s jaw breaks under my fist just before it is pulled away from the Joker’s upturned face. It doesn’t hurt, but the grip is strong. I don’t have to pull away to realize that the hand around my wrist resembles an iron clamp.

“Let go of him, Batman,” Superman’s voice is firm, but compassionate.

I drop Joker, Nightwing moves from somewhere behind me. His movements confident, he ties the Joker quickly. Joker’s legs and arms are bound tightly and I know that he isn’t moving until the police pull him away.

“We have to move before the cops get here,” he stands.

The Joker sits there, blood dripping from his face. His eyes are blackened and swelled close. I take that in.

I don’t feel anger. I don’t feel pride.

I only feel alone.

I let Superman lead me out of the building. Nightwing doesn’t touch me. He lags behind us. As soon as he touches sidewalk, he’s on his bike. The motorcycle revs and then he’s gone. I want him to stay with me, but the request is lost, drowned in the sounds of oncoming police sirens.

Friday night

Robin is barely conscious when Joker ties him t a chair. Another chair sits directly behind him, but he doesn’t notice. Hs head is down and his body language clearly shows that if he wasn’t tied, he’s be slumped over.

The occupant of the other chair has no such luxury. Her eyes are frightened, but alert. Despite her own injuries, and they are many, she is clear-headed enough to realize that they’re tied above one of The Joker’s special bombs.

“Jason,” she tries, in vain, to get his attention.

Robin doesn’t even look up. In fact, he doesn’t do anything to suggest that he’s even heard her. Shelia closes her eyes and waits. The knowledge that she will die is somehow almost calming. Her heart slows within her chest and she sings softly to herself (or to Jason) to fill up the empty minutes. Somewhere far away, despite the rational part of her claiming that the “far away” is more likely to be under her chair, a bomb goes off.

10:30 pm, Saturday

Superman helps me out of my costume. Emotional exhaustion has taken its toll; I can’t seem to work the simple mechanics of zippers and clasps. Alfred, amazingly, isn’t in the Batcave.

The cape and cowl drops to the floor. In a matter of minutes I’m Bruce Wayne again. Bruce Wayne, standing vulnerable and weak, which is ironic considering that The Man of Steel is standing behind me. Superman’s hands are resting on my shoulder.

“You can stay in one of the guest rooms. Batman isn’t going back out tonight.”

I can’t help it. Tears roll down my face, leaving behind their trails of wetness. Sobs rack my frame. Clark Kent pulls me gently towards him until I’m pressed against him. I cry shamelessly. My head is on his shoulder; his strong hands are rubbing my back. Gentle circles that make me think of Alfred’s comforting hands in the days following the deaths of my parents. I cry until my eyes are irritated and my throat is raw. There are no more tears to cry, although the grief still eats at me.

Weak, I let Clark lead me to bed. He tucks me in, a similar routine to the one I have used for years, first on Dick then on Jason (minus the paternal kiss). There’s a small pat on the thick blanket then he walks slowly toward the door. I stop him just before he turns off the light.

“Clark.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for breaking down on you.”

He saves my dignity by not shrugging off my apology. He merely nods before flicking off the bedroom light. He shuts the door behind him. I lay there in the dark listening to the sound of Clark walking down the hallway and trying to forget that there wasn’t a young man sleeping just a few doors down.

I thought I was out of tears. I was wrong.

Saturday morning

Bruce had been up all night, first searching frantically for Jason and then holding his hand as he lay unconscious in the Batcave infirmary. Jason regains consciousness only once, but there is no clarity accompanying it. Bruce is almost thankful. He doesn’t have to lie because Jason isn’t going to be asking about his mother.

Dr. Leslie Tompkins quickly examines her patient before giving Bruce a moment alone with his ward. Bruce can’t find the words to say so he mutters the standard “it’s going to be okay” while squeezing Jason’s clammy hand.

Jason only babbles incoherently. His head moves from side-to-side and his mouth, puffy and bruised, never stops moving. Occasionally Jason cries out in pain and Bruce’s heart breaks at the sound. Although he’ll never admit it, or forgive himself for it, it is while listening to Jason’s’ soft mewling cries that Bruce is thankful that Jason lying here instead of Dick.

And so it goes. Jason lies unconscious while Dr. Tompkins scurries around Bruce and Alfred, doing what she can to keep Jason alive. By that afternoon it becomes apparent that she’s fighting a losing battle.

Epilogue

I’m standing in front of Jason’s grave, one finger lovingly tracing the engraved letters. I always visit my parents’ grave, so I’m used to talking to gravestones. Jason Todd is hearing a lot more of me now than he ever has before.

“I miss you, Jason.”

I touch the top of the tombstone. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. It’ll never happen again though. I can’t do any more for Gotham. My parents would understand. I hope that you find some comfort in that.”

There’s a noise behind me, but I don’t turn around. A hand touches my shoulder and I can tell that it’s Dick.

“It’s okay Bruce,” this is the longest conversation that we’ve had in days. “He knows.”

I turn to him, not knowing how to accept the comfort that he’s offering me. When our eyes meet, I realize that it doesn’t matter anyway. That one moment of eye contact communicates everything.

“I’ll take you home.”

Dick turns, presumably to walk to the waiting car. I stop him with a gentle touch to his hand.

“Stay here for awhile?”

He stops walking and for a brief moment I can see him as the child he had been only years before. There’s affection in his eyes. Standing next to me, he’s my silent support as I say my goodbyes. Goodbye to Jason…and goodbye to Batman.

The end
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Death in the Family