ProTesting, Bruce's POV

So I wore the kid out and put him to bed.

Batman wins.

The end

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Oh, fine, if I have to be more descriptive than that, I suppose I could take valuable time out of my schedule to define exactly what happened. I've trained myself to think on different levels of relaying information. One way is the brief bullet points of a report. Another way is long, descriptive narratives. (I have at least fourteen more levels of detail/description, but I don't have time to explain them all.)

I like Jason. He's fine. He's good. Could be better at hand-to-hand combat.

Do I feel guilty for letting him die? Yes, but I feel guilty for everything. I have never spent a day where I didn't feel guilty over Dick, Tim, Damien, Alfred, Steph, Barbara, Cas, Gordon, all of Gotham, Mom, and Dad. Jason is just one in a long line.

I might have perhaps been avoiding him . . . a little.

In that warehouse five years ago, I held his broken body years ago, his blood making my gloves slippery. I had lost my parents but I had never lost a child before that.

Later that night, in the quiet of my Cave, I had seriously considered going to join him, Mom, and Dad in whatever afterlife would have me. I couldn't bring myself to kill Joker, but I could be brave enough to end myself.

Alfred had saved me then. He was relentless about taking care of me, of forcing me to get back to work, of arranging for Dick to visit. He slipped anti-depressants in my coffee, bullied me into eating and taking showers, and scolded me endlessly because he knew if he was lecturing me I would stop beating myself up inside.

Everything felt raw back then, painful, hoarse breathing, knife cuts, agony.

So I should be glad now that Jason is here and alive, but I just had trouble looking at him.

My mistake. My error. My guilt walking around.

I didn't know about Damien then. And yes, Talia and I birthed a sociopath, but I only share half the DNA burden of that, and I've only have known about him for a little over a year so I bear approximately 5% responsibility using that math. My son is completely subservient to me but a monster to everyone else, except Dick, so . . . work to be done there. Work has never scared me, and I can handle my son.

Dick's on his own now. A little too goofy and joking for my taste, but to each his own.

Tim's in high school. I was going to make the adoption official, but he hasn't mentioned it so I haven't bothered getting lawyers to draw up the paperwork.

Steph comes and goes. Pretty girl, probably too pretty to be around so many boys. Would I have liked her when I was a teenager? . . . Way too pretty now that I think about it. Could I invent something to control teenage hormones? Note to Batfile #47, Family Issues, research later.

Cas, reformed assassin, but has killed, still can't/won't speak much. Attacked me in the Cave after trying to seduce me. Need more monitoring on her. Tag her clothes with a tracking device, put Nightwing and Batgirl on watch. Create an instrument to stop her – temporary deafness or blindness – long enough to keep her from killing in case she goes rogue.

Ah, I can't stop profiling.

I should have been profiling Jason. He's been acting out to get my attention, just like he did when he was a child.

I notice all the signs of impending problems, but I can ignore them just as well as the next man, probably better. He had been begging for me to take him in hand for weeks, but I hadn't responded. Despite what the children might think, I don't like being the heavy, the bad guy, the disciplinarian all the time. Ideally, people should just do what they need to do and with minimal fuss. But ideally, my parents should still be alive, and then I wouldn't be Batman so that's all a moot point.

I was on my way to dinner and was starving after a three-hour intensive training. I'm hungry most of the time from all activities, but I've learned to monitor it. (The worst is those cocktail parties where Bruce Wayne, CEO, has to attend and sip champagne and nibble on finger-food for hours. Halfway through, I'm usually so hungry I could clear all the silver trays in a matter of minutes. Yet, I have to stand there and stay things like, "Oh, there's cake? Just half a slice for me." I could eat that entire cake. But it's good to suffer under these conditions. Suffering is good for Batman.)

I went by the family room. (Technically, each room has a proper name like the East Sitting Room or the Front Parlor, but we don't use all the rooms. The kids tend to hang out in the family room when they're here and I use one of the "parlors" to have guests when Bruce Wayne, CEO, is trying to impress investors in his company.)

Jason was there, sitting on the sofa, with Cas standing over him. The proximity of their bodies, the stance of Cas over him, Jason sitting, alerted me as to something off.

That's the difference between everyone else and me. I notice more because I've honed my abilities to notice, to watch, to discern between important and menial, and to erase any useless information. If you conceive of the world as patterns, millions and millions of patterns, intersecting, dividing, spinning out into violence, rejoining other patterns to infect them – the world becomes so much easier to understand. It's just a matter of finding the patterns.

Having Cas in the house was unusual, sort of. Girls have stayed over before; I've lost track of the times Dick snuck Barbara into the house before her accident. (That's not true; he brought her in 57 times, but I only pretended to catch him and lecture him 13 times. Just because I don't comment on activities doesn't mean I don't notice them.) Teenagers have their hormones and their impulses, but as long as they don't get out of control, it's fine. I could forbid sex, but they'd just sneak around, so I frown on it and they are cautious to be discreet.

I learned from Dick. When he was fifteen, I forbade all dating or interest in girls. In response, he was so distracted in hiding his feelings for Barbara that he got sloppy in fighting and made so many goofy mistakes that I eventually eased back and allowed them Saturdays to see each other. Almost instantly, his fighting and detecting skills snapped back to their sharp precision.

In ways of depravity, Cas was more learned and experienced than Jason. I felt sick when she had stood in front of me yesterday, naked, and careful to enhance the feminine features of her small body. She was obviously trying to get me to look her sexual zones, but in the awfulness of that moment, I only saw her skin marked with scars and bruises. Even when she reached downward, I saw only her small hands that had delivered death, acting on her father's orders.

But she stood over Jason protectively now and reached out to him. He knocked her hand out of the way, an annoyed action without much heat behind it. But he rubbed his eyes, and I finally looked at him.

I admit I have kept Jason in the peripheral, choosing deliberately not to look at him, not to talk to him, to act like he didn't exist.

I can picture Dick's face if I were to say that out loud – that shocked look at an actual truth from me, the recognition that I'm a monster. I've never pretended to be anything less than a monster, a shadowy figure to inspire fear, but I can already hear Dick's protest:

"Yes, to criminals. Not to us."

I knew that Jason belonged in the "us", in the group, in the family that had formed, but I had trouble acknowledging him because he was my failure.

All this flashed through my mind as I stood there in the doorway, and I wanted to leave. I wanted to go down in the Cave, put on the suit, and just go into the night to forget. I would rather go two rounds with Bane than deal with Jason because, when all is said and done, I'm a coward when I have to feel something. I have buried most feelings with my parents, locked them up and hidden them in dark places that I do not open.

I forced myself to step into the room, and I made myself say, "Jay-Lad, are you all right?"

A small part of me hoped he would get angry at the old nickname. He might get up and storm off, swearing at me, and I would have no choice but to leave him alone.

Jason blinked, a raw look of vulnerability, but he immediately shrugged. "I'm fine. Cas made me sleep. I didn't want to . . ."

Maybe he would try to fight with Cas, and I could throw him out. "For how long?" I made myself say.

"Not long," he was huffy and annoyed, but he wasn't leaving.

Cas was holding up fingers, and I frowned at her.

"Six minutes?"

Cas shook her head. Jason scowled (was he about to run? Maybe, just maybe, a slight glimmer of hope that I wouldn't have to deal with him, wouldn't have to face the past, wouldn't have to feel anything . . .)

He hunched down, his scowl now resentful at having Cas tattle on him.

Why couldn't this happen in the Cave? Batman could deal with this, but I would have to do this as Bruce, which meant feeling. Fine, fine, let's just get the whole wretched thing going.

"Six hours?" I lowered my voice, not quite the Batman growl, but definitely the angry father voice that seemed to scare the children so much. "You slept for six hours in the middle of the day?"

Jason snapped his gaze up to me and began blaming Cas in short sputters.

Right then, if I left, I knew the rift between Jason and me would widen, perhaps be permanent. I even allowed myself a brief fantasy of a time when I wouldn't have to face my failure with him, when I could ignore his pain and hurt, but I was already moving across the room.

I lowered myself to his level and put my hand on his forehead. He felt warm, and I scanned his eyes for possible concussion. Jason liked to play rough on patrolling so he might be covering injuries.

"I'm fine," Jason said, but he didn't move.

"Have you been sleeping?" I asked, keeping the stern tone. "You don't look good. Stick your tongue out. All the way out."

Jason complied immediately, protesting that he was fine.

"You're shaking," I schooled my face as disproving. "Are you cold? It's February and you're running around in a T-shirt. Have you been sleeping?"

"Yes," Jason looked away.

I looked at Cas, but she gave a knowing smile and shook her head.

These children push me to the limit. Always trying to hide and sneak around.

I looked back to Jason, and he said, "A few hours here and there. But I can take care of it –"

I felt it then. Not guilt, not regret, just frustration with this boy for taking such poor care of himself. He had been brought back from the dead, and he used guns and fought carelessly and smoked, and now he wasn't sleeping. Mom and Dad didn't get second chances, but this rebellious brat did.

I didn't even realize what I was doing, but I grabbed his arm, yanked him up, and spun him to the side. I walloped him on the right side of his rear and then on the left side, cupping my hand slightly to make the noises loud.

I saw Cas flinch, but Jason didn't move as he protested, "Ow, B!"

"You know the rules," I turned him to face me. "You report all injuries. I had those rules since you were twelve and they are still in effect – I don't care how many Lazarus Pits you jump into."

Jason let out his breath, scowling, but he stayed still.

This close, I could see the fatigue on his face and his red-rimmed eyes. I would have get through to him like I did when he was younger, wear him down to exhaustion, to the near breaking point, and then he would finally behave.

I began lecturing him, telling him we were about to go down to the Cave and put him through a battery of tests. He gave small objections, but they were weak, the same he had given as a 12-year-old after a punishment when he had wanted to save face. However, I ignored them because you could not back down with Jason once you started in on him; Dick and Tim could admit when they had screwed up and were able to readjust fairly quickly. You could never take it easy on Jason because he came back twice as spiteful.

I ended with barking, "Get some water and meet me down in the cave. And another thing," I turned him again and spanked him with two more wallops.

"B!"

"Don't you ever talk about my parents again. I don't talk about yours. Mention them again, and you won't sit for week. Cave – two minutes. Cas, go get dinner."

I went down to the Cave and began setting up. Someone else might have pointed out that Jason could leave if he wanted, but I didn't even consider that the boy might try to escape. He wanted attention, and I was about to give him plenty.

I called Alfred on the phone in the kitchen. "Yes, sir?"

I gave up years ago in trying to get Alfred to stop calling me sir. It felt silly, especially since he had raised me from the age of ten and made most decisions in my teenage years. All the children showed him the utmost respect, but he kept those professional manners, using a title before each of the children's names: Master Richard, Master Damien, Miss Cassandra.

"Jason and I won't be up for dinner. I'm going to run some tests on him."

"Is he hurt?" a respectful tone, but with an edge of worry.

"No, but I just found out he hasn't been sleeping. I'm going to check him out, and then I'll set up a series of escalating tests, mostly physical, but some psychological."

"If I may suggest, sir, perhaps you should leave the psychological tests to the end. The young master often needs to be tired out before he can lower his defenses."

"Is that your way of saying I should break the kid before getting him to think?"

"Master Bruce," Alfred's tone was calm, but warning.

"I'm sorry," I relented. Alfred tended not to tolerate my sarcasm. "Thank you for the suggestion."

"Of course, sir. I will put food aside for a late dinner for you."

Ten minutes later, I was setting up the medical bay for a physical. Jason changed into running shorts, and he came out in them with socks and shoes on. I grabbed a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on.

Most of the physical was for show, getting his height and weight and scribbling down on a clipboard. Other than looking tired, Jason appeared fairly healthy. The Pit had healed all injuries he had endured before, and other than the white streak in his dark hair, he bore no lasting marks. He had a few bruises on his arms, but those could have resulted from hard training rather than fights on patrol.

Years ago, I read about the 5 love languages, getting past the sentimental title to understand the psychology beneath. I recognize that mine is acts of service. Dick's is quality time, Tim's is words of affirmation, and I'm worried Damien's might be receiving gifts as he attaches too much importance to anything he is given and won't throw anything away. The last one, physical touch, is Jason's.

If it were social acceptable, Jason would sprawl over all of us on the couch every night like a dog, eager for someone to pat his head. The only reason he gets along with Dick, Tim, and Damien is that they will fight with him in hand-to-hand combat on the training mats; I've noticed that on the days we combat train he's the first one there and the first to volunteer. He would never initiate a hug, but he jumps all over them in fighting.

I admit I haven't touched him since he came back. Before, when he was Robin, I used to handle him physically: pulling him back from danger, yanking him up by the collar when he disobeyed, correcting his pose when he trained, even spanking him when he showed defiance.

He had been a boy then; he came back as a young man with homicidal rage. Maybe if I had confronted him when he returned, we wouldn't have spent so many months estranged.

I kept my hands firm and insistent through the physical, turning his head on way and then the other to check his ears, feeling his ribs while he flinched in ticklish agony, and generally acting as if I had the right to do whatever I liked to him. This was the second step in dealing with Jason; you first had to confront him, then you had pretend like you didn't care what he thought or felt. The next step was putting him through grueling training.

I got him covered in wires and running on the treadmill while I kept making notes on the clipboard. I didn't have to write anything down, but he watched me so anxiously that I kept my face serious as I jotted down vitals. I kept frowning, both at my notes and him, and he responded by jumping into action at my short commands.

He ran, and the others came down and confessed to eating the cake. I don't care if the children indulge in sugar occasionally, but I had committed to the role of strict taskmaster for the evening so I smacked Tim and Damien and was ready to smack Cas except she brought Jason a piece of cake. (Cas could also be kind – make a note of that in her file.)

After pushing Jason to run 10 fast miles, I set him to doing pushups. I put metal disks on his back and then put a foot on them to add more pressure. He made short gasps as he went up and down, but I stayed on him, stern and unbending.

Next was the ball pit which the children had named Ball Pit Hell. I don't think training was harder there than other training areas in the Cave, but the children seemed to like the drama of fearing the place so I let them call it that. Tonight I purposefully made the task impossible: balancing on a board on a lacrosse ball while holding a full teacup and saucer and using a bat to ward off the ball.

Jason looked tired and hungry, limp from being pushed so hard already, and once I flipped the switch to make the floor tilt, he fell over. The china broke, and Jason looked at it.

I saw regret in his face, but the resentment was still there. He hadn't been pushed far enough yet.

"That was part of my mother's china set," I snapped at him as I entered the titling pit. It wasn't (I would never take my mother's china to the Cave where it could be broken), but I smacked him across the rear to keep up the charade. "Pick up the pieces, and I'll get another one. You break that one, and I'll whack you with a sparring staff while you balance."

He got back into position, I gave him another cup, and he tried again.

I watched him try to balance and bat off the flying balls, missing more than he hit. I kept barking out commands to pay attention and stop fooling around, but I was waiting for the moment he broke.

I remembered it in stark detail. He had been eleven and right in the middle of his Robin training when he developed a sullen, rebellious streak. He had argued with me at every turn, muttering under his breath and glaring at me whenever I corrected his stance or fighting approach. I almost thought about removing him as Robin and sending him off to boarding school, but in a way, I was as stubborn as he was.

One night, after a rough patrol where he argued constantly with me, I had brought him back to the Cave and started drilling him. I had even fought him hand-to-hand, knocking him down over and over again. He had been sore and tired, but I had not given up, working him hour after hour with my voice and face stern. He had just reached 234 pull-ups when his grip slipped and he tumbled to the floor below.

I had stepped forward then, but he had just laid there, and when I stood over him, he had given a small cry and nodded as tears slipped down his face.

I had scooped him up, and he had wrapped himself around me, hands gripping the back of my neck. I had started for the elevator, and he had put his head on my shoulder with a sigh, exhausted but accepting. By the time I got him upstairs, he had fallen asleep, still clutching me tightly.

After that, he had changed his attitude and was willing to dedicate himself to the role of Robin. His rebellion had returned about a year later; then I should have gone through the grueling night of breaking him again, but I had put it off. He had encountered the Joker in the warehouse three days later.

I was guilty for that, but I was not going to be guilty of neglecting him again.

Jason tripped again, falling to his hands and knees, but keeping the china from hitting the ground. He looked up at me, and it was that same look he had worn as an 11-year-old once all his defenses were down.

I took him to sit, ready to start the psychological tests, but I could tell that he wouldn't hold out for long. He swallowed every few seconds and blinked his eyes hard.

I felt like a monster, but I put the remaining cake on the table and said "You pass this and you'll get this cake. Otherwise, I'm eating in front of you while you do more push-ups."

His eyes went shiny with tears, but I gave him some water and then started word association. I pretended to read off the clipboard, but I was making words up as we went. He answered quickly at first, but then I made the words more personal.

"Run."

"Escape," he stared down at his hands.

"Fight."

"Live."

"Batman," I said the word quickly, waiting for his response.

"Dad," Jason said the word before he could stop himself. The stark agony of his realization was painful to see.

"Just a few more. Keep breathing. You're doing real well, Jay-Lad."

A tear rolled down his face, but I pushed on.

"Family."

No verbal response, but he shook his head while two more tears followed.

"Family," I repeated.

He made a low sob and gave into tears.

After that, it was all very easy. I finished up, let him eat, showered him off, and then started toweling him dry. He was standing so close that I had him lift his arms and let him put his hands my shoulders. Eight years ago he was a skinny kid who didn't reach my shoulders; now he stood only a few inches shorter than me, body chiseled from years of superhero training. But he still put his head down on my shoulder and sighed.

I wanted to say something to him. I'm sorry? Forgive me? I never meant to leave you? But the apologetic words felts too simple to describe the intensity of my feelings.

I settled for affirming words. "You did really well tonight. You took everything I threw at you. I don't know why you have to fight me so much the rest of the time, Jay-Lad. You are an impressive warrior and valuable member of this team."

He didn't move, just hugged me tight.

Once I got him into warm pajamas and onto the cot in the medical bay, he couldn't keep his eyes open.

I reached out to brush his hair back, touching for the first time the white streak of hair. It didn't feel different from his dark hair, but the streak was there, proof that he had been in the Lazarus Pit.

His face relaxed into sleep, and I was finally able to say the words that I had avoided for so long.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for what happened to you. It was my fault. I'm going to make this up to you. I love you as much as the others, and I haven't shown that. I'm so, so sorry."

Jason made no response. I had to check up on Tim's patrol, but I reached for a tablet to connect to the screens in the medical bay so I didn't have to leave. Jason probably would wake, but in case he did, I would be there.