The LAST PART of 'A Psalm of Grief and Anguish,' following "Yea, Though I Walk," "Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death," and "I Will Fear no Evil." Links can be found in my profile if you don't want to scroll through all my works.

I genuinely have no idea how this thing was written. It was like someone else took over my fingers as I typed, but you know what, I'm just going to roll with it because I'm tired of looking at this piece.

Bruce hadn't moved in six hours.

The medical wing of the Cave smelled strongly of antiseptic, iodine, and blood. The air wasn't stagnant, thanks to an advanced circulation system Alfred had insisted on, but the sharp, metallic stench still lingered. Jason laid on the medical bed, parallel to Bruce's chair. His head was tilted slightly on the pillow towards Bruce, black-and-white bangs falling over his closed eyes. Thick tubing protruded from his mouth, secured by a clean white strap. He seemed, to his father's weary eyes, much younger than his twenty years.

Bruce looked down at the black jacket clutched in his lap. The leather beneath his palms had long since grown slick with sweat, but he didn't bother to adjust his grip. He remembered looking at the bloody, discarded garment shortly after Jason had been stabilized. He remembered lifting it and realizing, quite suddenly, why he hadn't recognized it on his son. Bruce hadn't seen the jacket in years, not since he had passed it down to a 15-year-old Jason. The leather was butter-soft with wear, despite the fact that it had been only half broken-in when gifted. Jason had never had a chance to wear it, and the Red Hood had, to his knowledge, never worn it openly. Not until it was too late. Not until it meant something.

Bruce lifted the garment and pressed it briefly to his lips, breathing in the scent of gunpowder, blood, and Jason's favorite aftershave. An old leather jacket passed from father to son. Jason had clearly worn it often, despite their ongoing fight, and that meant something. It had to.

He remembered when Tim had gone to retrieve the helmet and handgun—or rather, when Tim had approached him in the Cave, pale and shaken, and whispered "blanks, Bruce. The chamber—it was only blanks."

Jay didn't want to hurt me, he had thought with profound relief, sagging against the desk. Then, he just wanted to hurt himself. It had felt like his chest had caved in, dissolving into a fathomless black hole of grief and guilt.

The feeling hadn't lessened in the intervening hours.

Bruce raised his eyes back to Jason's peaceful face. On impulse, he stood and carefully laid the jacket over his chair. He closed the distance in two long strides and settled on the edge of the bed. Hesitantly, awkwardly, he carded his fingers through Jason's hair, pushing it back out of his boy's eyes.

"How did I let it get this far, Jay," he whispered into the silence. "How did I fail you so badly?" He knew the answer to that; it wasn't really a question. But still, something within him ached for a deeper understanding. Was there anything that would have reconciled Jason with them, short of Bruce killing the Joker himself?

If there was an answer to that, he couldn't even guess. 'World's Greatest Detective' indeed.

"Please come back to me, son," he said. "He's dead. You're alive. Come back to me."

The door opened with a gentle swish. Bruce didn't have to look up to know who entered. The hand that landed on his shoulder was broad and gentle, as capable of kindness as of violence. That hand had saved Jason from plummeting to his second death—had saved Jason from the consequences of Bruce's many, many mistakes. He closed his eyes and thanked the heavens for blessing him with his eldest son.

"The same?" Dick asked quietly, leaning past Bruce to gently lay his other hand across Jason's fevered forehead.

"The same."

"Alfred's worried. About you, I mean. You need to sleep, Bruce."

"Hn."

A sigh. "You're going to be stubborn about this." It wasn't a question.

"I'm going to be here when he wakes."

"Bruce…"

He relented with a tired exhale. The fight wasn't worth it. Not today. "Tell Alfred to bring a cot, then."

Dick leaned down and pressed his forehead against Bruce's temple. "He's going to be ok," he whispered, the words brushing across his father's aching shoulders. "I feel it." Then he straightened and walked out.

Bruce felt the absence of his son's hand keenly. "I wish I could believe that," he said to no one in particular.

By the third day, it was clear that Jason wasn't going to wake up any time soon. Patrol could no longer be ignored either. The Joker's death had given them a reprieve, but they needed to be seen again if the relative peace was to last. Bruce leaned down and kissed Jason's forehead before pulling his cowl on and reluctantly leaving.

It was Alfred who stayed by Jason's side, two cups of steaming tea on the side table. "It's rather difficult to share tea when one is unconscious, young master," he commented quietly. He didn't precisely expect Jason to wake at that, but there was still a twinge of disappointment when the boy didn't so much as twitch. He sighed. "By all means, take your time. But please, do come back, hmm?"

Jason felt like he had been hit by a truck when he woke up. He groaned and shifted, but the groan came out muffled and distorted. His eyes flew open in alarm as he registered the sensation of something filling his throat and mouth, choking him, preventing him from breathing. Memories of wet dirt and wooden splinters filling his mouth overwhelmed him, and he didn't realize he was thrashing until two sets of strong hands came down on his arms.

"JASON," a familiar voice yelled in his ear. "It's alright, calm down!"

He stilled, forcing his eyes open, though he didn't remember closing them. It was bright, not dark, and smelled strongly medical, not damp and earthy. He wasn't in the coffin.

He wasn't back in the coffin.

Jason's breathing slowed, and he finally became calm enough to realize he was intubated, not choking. He blinked, squinting in the bright fluorescent light. A man leaned over him, blocking the glare, and when Jason's eyes adjusted he realized it was Bruce. The name fell reflexively from his lips, garbled beyond comprehension by the tube, but Bruce still seemed to understand.

"It's alright, son," he soothed, pressing his bare hand to Jason's forehead. "It's alright, I'm here. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere, ok?"

Belatedly, Jason realized that tears were streaming down his cheeks. He blinked rapidly, trying to get his turbid emotions under control, but they seemed to slip from his grasp. Suddenly Alfred was there too, reaching for the strap that circled his head.

"We're going to remove the tube now, Master Jason," he said. The butler's implacable calm did more to ease Jason's fear that he could ever have done himself. He nodded, holding still as the unpleasant procedure began. Despite the discomfort, his heart rate slowed further as lingering terror melted into the hazy contentment brought by unshakable security.

By the time the tube was removed completely, he had fallen into a deep, natural sleep.

When Jason woke up again, there was something attached to his arm.

No, scratch that, it was attached to his entire body, and it was warm, heavy, and irritatingly familiar.

"G'off, you dick," he mumbled, shoving weakly at the weight and not bothering to open his eyes. The weight stirred, shifting off him a bit, and snuffled sleepily. He shoved again, this time managing to hit a nose. The weight yelped and vanished suddenly, followed by a painful-sounding thud. Jason snickered, curling up on his side and drawing the blankets up over his head. "Serves you right, Dick."

"Jay?" Dick's voice came from the floor, breathy and full of hope. "Jay? Can you hear me?"

"Yeah I can hear you! Shut up and let me sleep!"

"Oh my God." There was a sob, and suddenly Dick's bulk was once more sprawled across Jason's torso. "Oh my God, Jason… Jason!"

Alarmed, Jason forced Dick off him enough to roll back over and look his brother in the face. The older man's expression was twisted in agony, reddening at the eyes, nose, and cheeks as tears streamed from his eyes.

"Don't do that," Dick sobbed, leaning down and pressing his damp face into Jason's vaguely aching chest. His shoulders heaved as he choked on another heartbroken cry. "Don't you dare… ever… never again, Jason!"

"Dick, what—" in a flash he remembered what had happened the last time he had been fully conscious. "Oh," he finished lamely. Something twisted uncomfortably in his chest. "Uh. I'm… sorry? That I almost traumatized you?"

"THAT'S NOT WHY I'M UPSET, YOU ASSHOLE," Dick yelled, words muffled by Jason's body. Another violent shudder ran up his spine. Jason felt it in the pit of his stomach.

The younger man flailed for something to say, and fortunately at that exact moment the door opened with a soft hiss. "Alfred," he cried in relief, signaling frantically for help with his sobbing older brother. The old man's eyes widened as he beheld his grandsons.

To Jason's infinite horror, Alfred promptly teared up.

"Oh, my boy," he breathed, circling around to the other side of the bed. He leaned down and pressed his forehead against Jason's crown. A tear seeped into Jason's hair, and suddenly he felt lower than dirt. He'd made Alfred cry.

He'd made Alfred cry.

Overwhelmed, Jason shut his mouth and closed his eyes as they prickled involuntarily. No, he thought viciously. No! Not now. Not over this.

"My boy," Alfred repeated shakily, kissing the top of Jason's head. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I wanted everything to stop," Jason whispered roughly, throwing his forearm over his eyes and gritting his teeth. "I just… I just wanted it to end." Then, before he could stop himself, it slipped out: "I'm sorry."

He wasn't sorry, not really. Not for wanting to die, or for killing the Joker, or for scaring them. If anything, he was sorry he had failed. He was sorry he came back, sorry he gave them hope, sorry he tried. But that line of reasoning was confusing even in his own head. Jason didn't want to die per se. He just wanted the pain to stop.

"Then let us help you," Dick pleaded, raising his head and entreating Jason with his red-rimmed eyes. "You don't have to—to just endure this alone!"

Anger flared in Jason's chest, hot and familiar, and he embraced it without thinking. "I don't want your fucking pity!" he snarled, trying to shove Dick away.

But Dick refused to be pushed back, setting his jaw obstinately. "It's not pity," he snapped, keeping ahold of Jason's shoulders. "It's love, dipshit! We love you!"

Jason went deathly still, staring at his sort-of brother with disbelieving green eyes as he processed the words. "Don't… don't fucking lie to me," he said, but the fury in his voice was tempered by uncertainty. "I know you, Dick. I know exactly how much every man I killed hurt you. I did it to hurt you. Don't bullshit me. No one can love someone who's done what I've done."

Dick's expression crumpled. "Is that what you think?" he asked. "You think love stops just because we disagree? You think love stops just because you do things I think are reprehensible?"

Fury rose again in Jason's chest, fueled by betrayal. "YOU TRIED TO PUT ME IN ARKHAM," he screamed, finally managing to shove Dick away and off the medical bed. "Don't you fucking lie to me!"

"And do you believe that I do not love you, Master Jason?" Alfred asked quietly from where he had moved out of range of the boys' tussle.

Again Jason stilled, and again he felt lower than dirt. He closed his eyes and turned away from his adopted grandfather, unable to even look at him. "No," he admitted in a hoarse, quiet voice. The rigid muscles in his shoulders relaxed. "No, Alfie, I could never doubt you."

Dick opened his mouth to add something, but Alfred gave him a look and he thought better of it. Without a word, he stood and left the room.

Alfred's shoes tapped softly against the floor as he walked closer. Jason stared at his scarred knuckles as if they held the secrets of the universe. The bed dipped slightly. Worn, wrinkled hands grasped Jason's jaw with infinite gentleness, coaxing him to look up. He reluctantly raised his eyes.

"Jason," said Alfred with sad, understanding eyes. "I have killed men too."

"Not like me," the boy whispered as Alfred's face became a tannish smear. He closed his eyes and tears rolled down his cheeks. "I killed to hurt B. I killed to make people fear me."

"You also killed to protect people," Alfred countered. "You thought you were doing what was right, didn't you?"

Yes, he wanted to say. "Not all the time," he said.

"I have news for you, my boy. Neither did I." When Jason opened his eyes, disbelieving, he went on. "I too have killed out of anger and the desire for revenge, and I would have killed that monster just as readily as you did."

"Alfie, that's not…" he said helplessly. "That's not the same."

"Is it not?" he asked gently.

"You weren't a crime lord!"

Alfred sighed, his warm breath ghosting across Jason's chilled skin. "My point is not to say that you haven't done terrible things, or that those things may simply be written off. My point is to say that you are not past the point of no return." His soft gaze turned hard and unrelenting. "You are not past forgiveness, Jason Peter Todd."

More tears spilled over the young man's cheeks. "How could I ask for that, Alfie?" he whispered, voice cracking. His chest ached. "I did it to hurt him. How could I ever ask…?"

"By asking, Master Jason," Alfred said firmly, his withered thumbs brushing over Jason's face.

The door opened again and Jason didn't have to turn to know who had entered. His very presence hung like a cloud full of lightning waiting to be discharged. Alfred stood, released his face, and Jason felt a spike of panic.

"Alfie, wait, don't—" leave me alone.

Alfred leaned down and kissed the top of his head again. "Ask, my boy," he whispered, and left.

Jason swallowed hard and shut his eyes. He felt more than heard it as Bruce came closer and settled on the edge of the bed. Ask, Alfred said. How could he? Forgetting everything he'd done before their final confrontation, he'd almost made Bruce watch his suicide.

Surprisingly, it was Bruce who spoke first. "Jason," he started, then stopped.

The younger man gathered his courage.

They spoke at the same time: "I'm sorry." Jason looked up, shocked and met Bruce's equally shocked eyes. Again, they spoke in tandem: "what did you say?"

Bruce laughed, dazedly shaking his head. "I—Jason, I'm sorry. Really. I never wanted… if I thought that you thought, I—" He stopped rambling, running one frustrated hand through his hair. "I love you, Jason!" He blurt out, blue eyes intense and desperate. "You're my son, of course I love you!"

Jason's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Much to his irritation, his eyes started to sting with tears. "I—" the statement dissolved into a choked sob despite his best efforts to contain it.

"I'm so sorry, Jason," Bruce said, reaching out and wrapping his arms firmly around his son. "I'm sorry I let it get this far. I was a coward."

"I'm sorry," Jason choked out, giving in and burying his face in Bruce's shoulder. "I'm sorry too, dad. All those—I just—I was trying to hurt you. I'm sorry."

"I forgive you, Jason," he said without a second's hesitation, and Jason sobbed in disbelief. "Please, forgive me too."

"I do. I do forgive you. I just want it to stop. I'm so tired of fighting…

"I am too," Bruce whispered, rocking them slowly back and forth as he cried silently. "But we can make this work. We will make this work, I promise." He exhaled shudderingly, pressing his cheek against the top of Jason's head. "I love you so much, son."

Jason, lost in the grief and emotional turmoil that he had suppressed for so long, couldn't do anything but cry and press closer to his father. Bruce, for his part, held him as tightly as he could without hurting him, as if he could hold the shattered pieces of his son's heart together through sheer force of will.

And for the first time since his resurrection, Jason wanted to live.