Author's Note: Not my best work, ripe for critique from the right reviewers, but have decided it doesn't work as a one-shot, not unless it was tacked on the end of Forge.

Set several months after the previous chapter's events I.e. Jason's departure from the house. Jason returns home in his usual unconventional fashion. Bruce's POV.

If it's any good, great, if it's not, at least I feel better about ending it this way.

Enjoy.

Forge Epilogue

The Visit

Bruce

I am in the chapel, standing over his body in the box. His face is bruised and marred by a half-frown. I have been here before. Many times before. It is a place where my guilt always drives me. What happens next used to be surprising. Now, I take a half-step back in anticipation of the twist. The boy, still clad in his funeral suit and flash burns, fires at me with twin pistols. Unfortunately, I am out of range. He is forced to exit the casket and fire from the ground. I have learned his firing patterns. I dodge left, then right before barrel-rolling to my left to avoid his increased rate of fire. Suddenly I am in front of him, too close to hit. I take his guns and slap him across the face. He rolls his eyes and shoves grey hands into his trouser pockets.

"You know how this has to end, big guy." He says with an almost regretful sigh. His left eye is bloodshot. It is a familiar detail in this landscape. I nod.

"I do. Shall we?" I stand to one side and allow him to lead the way to the chapel's exit. Jason inclines his head and begins to walk. I shadow behind him.

"Your mind sucks, you know that?" He mutters as we reach the double doors. I push them open for us. Now we are wandering through the cemetery at night. It is an overgrown, crumbling ruin. Bats fly ceaselessly overhead. The boy stops to look up at them. "Do any of them ever shit on you during this part?" He has begun to ask this question every time now. I put a hand on his shoulder and steer him eastwards.

"Kindly stick to the script. Otherwise this will be a long night." I caution him. He sighs again, deeper this time.

"Wardrobe change?" He checks as we stop just to the right of his gravestone. I nod.

"Yes. You know this scene." Even my subconscious is tired of this particular nightmare. The boy has become less a prop of torment in this place and more of a reluctant actor in a morality play. This is the most 'Jason-like' he has ever been. He huffs and turns to me in exasperation.

"But I'm not even dead anymore! This is fucking stupid!" He yells before seeming to tear off his skin to reveal his Robin costume, wholly intact. "You're in complete control here! You don't have to rehash this shit all night while you sleep! You can do anything you like! So, how about we go fight some bad guys? Rehash some of the glory days? Before Ethiopia and this morbid junk, you call penance. You're not Catholic and you never will be." The boy is right, to a point. However, he misses why these scenarios exist at all, if a psychological construct that exists purely in a metaphysical realm can miss a point, that is.

"You know you're a murderer, Jason. We can never recapture what we shared before your death." I explain only for the boy to roll his eyes and put on his domino mask.

"Yeah, but I'm a figment of your imagination? How about, 'fuck reality' and enjoy the fantasy here? That's what a dream is supposed to be, Bruce, a fantasy."

"I have no interest in fantasies."

"That's bullshit."

"How so?"

"You're dreaming about me, aren't you? You're dreaming about who I used to be. How's that not a fantasy?" That is one of the most compelling arguments my subconscious has ever put forward to sway me. Normally I must convince it to curb its enthusiasm in tormenting me. However, I am in no mood to shatter the status quo that keeps me grounded.

"I am not going to argue with you. Get in the ground and come out as a rotting corpse." I instruct him only for the boy to spit in my face.

"Fuck you. I'm not playing anymore."

I wake up in a state of confusion. I believe I was just rejected by my own apparition. I have no time to speculate on this further though. Jason is in the bed with me. Not a corpse. Not as Red Hood. Just himself. And he is awake. I am not yet convinced I am awake though. I look for the totem of the bat-signal I use to determine lucid dreaming. It is not present. I reach across the very narrow divide between us and touch his face. It is warm. He bats my hand away.

"Still not dead again, big guy." He tells me with a lopsided grin. A slight trickle of blood escapes the corner of his mouth. When it threatens to drip on the fitted white sheet of the mattress, I reach over and catch it. This is still a strange coincidence, one I am not yet willing to dismiss as just that. I rub the blood between my thumb and forefinger, analysing its consistency and texture. It shares all the genuine markers of actual blood. I wipe it away and lift the duvet. He is naked underneath them. I identify and recognise all his major scars. Then I scrutinise his minor scars. There is a fresh puncture mark to the left of his sternum. He smells of wet ash and stale cordite. I am willing to accept this is reality. He audibly scoffs. "Do you actually know the length of my dick or are you just memorising it for next time?" I am very willing to accept this as reality. I let the duvet settle back down.

"Where have you just come from? The last I heard you were..."

"Asia?"

"Yes."

"Cargo plane ride from Laos. Large-scale drug trafficking operation."

"It was coming to Gotham?"

"No. It was going to New York. I kind of made it crash into Lake Edel? You know, near..."

"The western city limits?"

"Yeah. Anyway, several tons of heroin landed at the bottom of the lake...along with the plane crew and some cover vehicles for transport. Oh, and the most of the plane." He dismisses the loss of life as casually as the narcotics shipment. It would be chilling if I were not so used to hearing speak in such disparaging terms. I indicate the puncture.

"And?"

"It was pretty cold in the lake. Nearly went into shock, even with the survival suit. So, I bit the bullet, shot adrenaline into my heart..."

"And then you ran here, broke into my bedroom, stripped naked and got into my bed to sleep?" I say. He smirks at me.

"You're not selling disbelief here, Boss-man. It kind of sounds like exactly what you'd expect I'd do." Of course, it is what I expect from him. Irrespective of his faults, the boy is the ultimate survivalist. If dying once was not sufficient to deter him from continuing to exist, hypothermia is hardly a concern. Neither is the distance between here and that lake on directly administered adrenaline. I reach over and gently comb through his hair, which is still palpably moist. He seems receptive enough.

"Did you run here from Lake Edel?" I check.

"Yeah."

"All the way?"

"All twenty-one miles. Did it in like two-and-something hours."

"Are you injured?"

"A few impact bumps, but nothing big. I bailed into the water before it went crazy."

"Why my bed? Without taking a shower?"

"Thought I might snuff it. Knew I didn't want to die anywhere else but next to you. You know, not in a gay way. Just because you'd pay for the funeral." He intends it as a joke, as he does anything bordering on truth. He should not have injected epinephrine directly into his heart. It could have, and perhaps should have, triggered a cardiac arrest. Maybe he knows that. I hope he knows that. His being here unharmed now is either luck or, yet another effect of the Lazarus pit. I am inclined to the latter. I grunt.

"I see. Well, the adrenaline seems to have worn off without adverse effect. Am I to infer you have simply thrown all your clothing on my bedroom floor?" I ask continuing to stroke his hair. He grins sheepishly.

"Better than in your bed, right?"

"Very true. Come here then." His eyes light up. This is where I show our relationship has changed for the better. I am willing to hug him, just as he is, and despite the trouble he has just caused.

"Yeah? Even though I've hijacked your bed and thrown an international incident in your lap?" He teases, again trying to hide whatever he's feeling under the guise of humour. I grunt again.

"I'm going to change my mind if you don't." He shuffles over and lets me embrace him against my chest as we both lay on our sides, heads still resting on pillows. It has been months since I last saw him. I know what it means. The body count will be higher. He will be more jaded. I will likely disapprove of his choice of target. But while I cannot dismiss his murderous brand of vigilantism or the victims it creates, I can now look past it. Yes, he kills. Yes, I wish it was otherwise. But I will take him as he is – an ally – than force us to opposite corners. We have battled each other too many times before. But more than anything, more than my guilt over his death or his crimes, is my comfort in knowing he could be so much worse.

"Sorry I killed those drug-running scumbags, big man." He says after I have held him in silence for some two minutes. He has no regrets about his latest victims. He is apologising to me, not his conscience. I sigh.

"Did you kill them?"

"Well, technically I didn't save them from drowning, so...tomato, tom-mato." Another joke. Do I expect anything else? The answer is 'no'. I gently cinch up my grip on him. He is not as unpleasant to hold in his current post-battle state as I had anticipated. His skin is relatively dry and warm to the touch. It is almost nice.

"Who were their intended distributors in New York?" I ask. I hear him smirk.

"Who do you want them to be? Pretty much every big-name in the city would've got a piece to sell. Now they won't."

"Why were you working alone on this?"

"Look, it's the weekend, big guy. Can we not talk about work in bed?" I roll my eyes but do not break our embrace just yet. I do not think I have held him like this since his return. Even when he was still a child, I struggle to clearly recall such intimate contact between us. "How come you were all, like scientific about me when you woke up? You been having dreams about me dying and killing again?" He asks pushing away slightly so he can look in my eyes. During his last stay in this house, I admitted his presence in my nightmares. He admitted I am a mainstay in his. I never believed we would ever admit such vulnerabilities, much less to one another.

"They were supposed to be. Your avatar was not willing to cooperate with established narratives."

"Shit. It was a good dream about me?"

"Good is a strong word. It was an... interesting dream, that happened to feature you."

"Isn't me being totally buck bothering you?"

"I'm thankful to be wearing my pyjamas, but no. There is nothing sexual about you in this position."

"Ouch. That stings. I thought I was hot."

"You always sleep naked. That penchant, combined with trying to warm your body from developing hypothermia, makes your current state of undress..."

"God, you take the fun out of being naked in Batman's bed!" He interrupts with an exaggerated sigh I cannot help but smile at. I have wanted to hate him in the past. For what he has done. For who he has done it to. But I can't. He is my son. Nobody else would take that responsibility, but I will. And... despite all the pain and anguish he has caused me and others...I love him. I thumb the scar on his neck from the batarang I threw. It was a good hit. I have never seen it this close when he is conscious.

"Admiring your handiwork, big man?"

"It is nothing to admire." I shift my hand from his neck to his cheek. "You must be hungry after your impromptu marathon."

"I'm fucking starving. Can we go for breakfast?"

"After you get a shower. You know where the towels are." I did not speak. I raise my head to look over my shoulder. Damian is stood in the doorway, still in his own pyjamas. He looks unimpressed with the spectacle in front of him. Jason immediately sits up and smiles.

"Hey, Psycho Ninja Brat! Your old man is...just awesome in bed. Well, I was staring up at the ceiling most of the time, but..."

"Even if my father was a practicing homosexual, he can do so much better than you for a partner." Damian retorts with a smirk that surprises me. He seems to be enjoying the opportunity to exchange barbs with Jason. The older boy flings his arms outwards.

"Love it. Come give your brother in blood a hug!" Damian reacts by folding his arms and scoffing.

"Still delusional I see."

"Nah, probably just concussed from the plane of drugs I crashed into Lake Edel, drowning every bad guy on board like rats." The younger boy's eyes shine with an interest in death I still find disquieting. He unfolds his arms and ventures to the foot of the bed.

"How many?"

"Crew of ten. I'll give you the all gory details if you give me a hug. What do you say?" Jason still knows how to manipulate Damian into being almost child-like, it appears. The younger boy offers me a brief glance for confirmation it is an acceptable exchange. I sit up and shrug.

"Do you want to know?" I ask him. Damian sucks his teeth and redirects his gaze to Jason's still open arms. We all know what he is about to do. He cautiously pads over to the older boy's side of the bed, just out of touching distance.

"No tricks?" He checks. Jason shakes his head.

"Never with a kid as toffee-nosed and violently unhinged as you, Dami. Come on, I missed you." I hear the sincerity and know I am about to witness something truly remarkable. I lean back against the headboard and fold my arms in fascination as Damian mounts the bed until his knees are almost in Jason's lap. The older boy wraps his arms around him in an embrace that is shockingly natural. Damian reciprocates far easier than he does others.

"I have...noticed your absence too, Jason." The younger boy offers before immediately finding something else to add. "You stink." Jason snorts at this without breaking his hold. He rubs his companion's back affectionately.

"Love you too, short-ass."

Breakfast is dominated by Jason, both in his presence and his voice as he narrates the entirety of his mission from start to finish. Neither Alfred or I mind this, despite how much graphic detail he goes into on his kills prior to boarding the cargo plane. This is not because we approve of his methods, but because Damian is an active and willing participant at the breakfast table. He never speaks during meals unless addressed and, even then, prefers to ignore us. He poses questions relating to blood volume and spatter patterns whenever Jason mentions a headshot and seems legitimately impressed with how clean the older boy's kills actually are. I know this admiration is just a legacy of his upbringing. However, whenever I sense Jason is selling his way of life with too much fervour, I rein him in gently. He is settled enough to oblige me.

"Where is your operation going to take you next?" Damian asks once all the crockery has been cleared away. "Can I go with you? If I promise not to kill anybody, Father, can I go along?" A tempting offer, but that would be beyond irresponsible with what Jason is chasing. I shut him down. Softly.

"No, you cannot. However, Jason is not going until the day after tomorrow. So, if he promises to use rubber bullets, he can accompany us on patrol this evening with our own drugs problem." Damian has never truly wanted anything he does not already have. But his eyes tell us all that he wants the older boy's company. He directs his gaze on Jason.

"Promise him, Jason. I have new shuriken to show you. I can nick an artery without the target bleeding out. It is the most effective non-lethal method I have ever encountered. The target goes into shock immediately before going limp..."

"We have discussed this. That technique may be non-lethal, but it is banned from conventional patrols. One day you will miscalculate. A nerve strike allows room for error in technique without significant cost. A partially torn artery does not. Understand?" I say to rein the younger of my boys back into line. Damian takes it well. He now responds well to being told 'no' consistently. But only by me. He nods.

"Yes, Father."

"It's okay, Devil Spawn. I'll use rubbers and we'll find other ways to have fun." Jason assures him with a phrasing so inappropriate Alfred feels compelled to speak.

"Never say that to an eleven-year-old ever again, Master Jason. It is beyond unsavoury."

"That is literally why I said it, Al. But sure, so I don't corrupt the grandson of a power-hungry dictator, I'll keep the innuendo to a minimum."

It is eleven hours later. We are in the city, heading towards Gotham Docks to intercept another maritime import of Class-A narcotics. Jason and Damian spent the majority of the day following breakfast in one another's company. Alfred monitored their interactions closely. His report to me in the afternoon suggested that far from being a caustic influence on my youngest son's ethics, Jason was no more destructive than most older siblings are with their younger brethren. They sparred, trained in the gymnasium, watched horror movies and ate ice-cream. No time on the shooting range. No sharpening or comparing knives. Just borderline normal activities for this family. Apparently, on several occasions, Damian both laughed and giggled at Jason's jokes. Usually such displays are deemed beneath him. Not today. I am glad he came to visit.

Intercepting the drugs shipment is run using the same drills as last week. I take point as the ship docks into port. Damian and Jason deal with the boarding party as I go below decks to locate and identify the merchandise being transported. Radio contact between us is maintained at all times. They neutralise all immediate threats in the time it takes me to find the narcotics and set the C4. The ship has been impounded before. The crew all have priors, exactly the same as the last crew. Our research has been meticulous. I know how many there are aboard at this very moment. Ten. All of them must be cleared of the vessel before I detonate the charges. I radio for Jason and Damian to join me.

It takes less than eight minutes for us to find and subdue all ten members, four above deck and six in the bowels of the ship. Only half of them are armed. Only two of them are competent in weapon usage. I take them out myself. Damian disables four, tied with Jason who uses his fists more than his rubber bullets. Once everyone is evacuated, the C4 is detonated, ripping a hole in the ship's side that immediately begins to flood. Less than ten minutes later, the vessel has sunk beneath the water. GCPD are radioed for pickup. I already know Jim will be flustered by my decision to sink the ship instead of preserve its cargo as evidence. That is why the cargo manifest, a sample of the narcotics themselves and the tuna can used to conceal it were also recovered. It should smooth relations somewhat. I hope. In total, tonight's operation has barely amounted to two hours toil. Damian is unsatisfied with such a relatively light workload. So, we go deeper into the city.

When we arrive home, Damian wishes to stay up late. It is already one-thirty in the morning. I send him to bed. He shoots me a sour look, but he goes just the same. The older boy and I retire to the living room where a gentle fire burns in the hearth.

"That was impressive, the way you got him to go to bed like that." Jason says sitting on the sofa opposite my armchair. "He's almost like a real boy. Well done." I smile at this.

"I have been spending more time with him in recent weeks. It has proven...most effective. Did you call Sasha?"

"Yeah, but she's busy doing stuff with Tim. She says she'll come by tomorrow." The boy says staring into the flames. "Got any booze? I kind of think a scene like this goes well with a good scotch or half-a-bottle of vodka." He asks with a hopeful smile. There is no need for hope. He is an adult and therefore inclined to adult vices. I gesture to the far cabinet in the corner.

"There should be a twenty-five-year aged whiskey and some tumbler glasses in the cabinet. Please, help yourself." He gets up immediately and retrieves the bottle along with two glasses. I hold up a hand. He rolls his eyes. "Not talking about getting wasted here, Boss-man. Just a tipple. It's not like I come home every day." He has poured two measures whilst speaking. I reluctantly accept the glass offered to me.

"No, I suppose not." I say before looking into the fire myself. "I don't think that we've ever sat here like this before."

"Not without the TV on anyway. It's nice, right?"

"Yes, it is. You really like Damian, don't you?"

"Only because he reminds me of me as a kid. He acts like he doesn't care, but he's got a big heart."

"He is quite taken with you too."

"Must be an only-child thing. We all like having brothers." Jason sips at his whiskey, lounges back against the sofa cushions and sighs. He rests the tumbler on his stomach and taps the glass. He has more to say it seems. "You know, that means something, the dream about me you were having."

"Oh?"

"If even your subconscious version of me doesn't want to point fingers, maybe it means...you're finally at peace with everything that's happened between us. I mean like, really at peace with it, instead of just, you know, playing diplomat." He takes a bigger gulp of his drink. Mine has yet to move from the armrest I hold it on. His analysis scares me, largely because it may actually be true. I knew I could tolerate his behaviour now, because he has a code of ethics. For the sake of peace, it was the best solution. It still is. But I never imagined I could be at peace with him, inside myself. Not after his death.

"Your death was still my fault. It is not something I should brush to one side." I tell him with the same honesty that has defined all our exchanges since his return to this family. He responds by rolling his eyes, as expected. We have discussed this matter before. Neither of us are willing to do so again, not at such length. There is blame on both sides. We both acknowledge we could have done better. He shrugs.

"My death was the best thing that could have happened for our relationship." This is not something we discussed. The statement itself visibly shocks me. The boy sees this and smiles. "How can I say that? I know we both want to believe that if I hadn't died in that warehouse that I would never have killed anybody going forward. Because of what you taught me. Because, I was a good soldier. But, the truth is, even if Ethiopia had never happened, if I had never found my birth mother, I would've still wound up a gun-toting killer vigilante. Sure, the name and look probably wouldn't have been as bad-ass and the violence wouldn't have been as extreme, but I'd still be on the other side of the fence. Because who am I now is exactly who I was always going to be. Death or not, Lazarus Pit or not, I'd still be a murderer. Because I always believed what you did, what we both tried to do, was never going to work. Not really. I wanted to, but I couldn't." He takes another sip, emptying his glass. His eyes ask if I want him to finish his explanation. I gesture for him to continue. He clears his throat.

"If I hadn't died on your watch, you wouldn't have had any qualms about banishing me from this family forever, the instant I killed another human being. It's because I did die that you felt any sympathy at all for what I've done as Red Hood. It's because I was a corpse that you forgave me. My death on your conscience is the only bargaining chip I've ever had with you. It made us being here now possible. You holding me this morning, after every horrible thing I've done, only happened because you remember my funeral and putting me in the ground. Without it, we'd be at each other's throats right now. I'd never be able to hug your kid if I hadn't died. I shot him in the fucking chest. Tim nearly bled to death when I cut him. Without your guilt, he wouldn't be training my girl. Not in a million years. My death is the best thing that ever happened to us. Without it, I'd be a mistake instead of a sob story."

His lack of bitterness astounds me. He spoke candidly, but without any spite whatsoever. That is his opinion. He is entitled to it, but I view the situation very differently. To state he would have always become a Red Hood figure is a hypothesis that holds no weight with me. Just because our relationship at the time of his death was beyond salvage, it does not mean he would have experienced such a reversal of principles. I imagine he would have operated independently of me elsewhere, but not that he would immediately turn into a cold-blooded killer. Voicing such opinions here and now will not help sway him. He believes it to be true. He is happy with it as fact instead of conjecture. I will not be the one to upset him, not now. If he can view his demise as a positive instead of the senseless tragedy it was, I can only admire him further.

"Would you care for another?" I ask indicating the still open bottle. He shakes his head.

"Nah... I'm trying to curb my drinking. I even vape instead of smoke now."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. I lost my thing in the lake though. You know, the replacement cigarette tube, whatever?" I nod in vague understanding. He returns the gesture in the same way. We both bob our heads for a while. It is difficult to know how to rescue a dialogue that has crossed so many unwanted lines. Jason frowns. "You know I love you right? You told me last time, but I was too much of a jackass to say it back. Or hug you once."

"I don't need you to say it. I know you're not that kind of person."

"Neither are you, but you made the effort."

"It was more important for me to say it than for you. It wasn't just your death that made this possible. My behaviour towards you as a child..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, no need to open those wounds back up. They heal better if I don't think about them." Awkward silence follows this remark. I do not let it kill the conversation by waiting too long to say something apt, without being offensive.

"Do you still have nightmares about me?" I ask. He offers a pained smile.

"Oh yeah. The only time they go away is when I'm actually with you. I slept like a log this morning, adrenaline rush and all." I am his mind's most persistent bogeyman, above even the Joker in status. The nightmares he described where I served as the devil were horrifying. Hardly any of them are to do with events since his resurrection. He views his teenage years with me as some of the worst years of his life, towards the end. His arm is draped over the sofa's armrest, within touching distance of mine. I dare to reach across and squeeze his bare forearm. He sighs deeply.

"I am still sorry." I tell him. He smiles and nods.

"I know. I'm still sorry too."

"You are welcome to stay longer if you like. Damian would be glad of..."

"I can't. I'm not done running yet. I know they're not you anymore, the guys in my dreams. Even if you're at peace with me, I've still got some hard yards to do before I join you." I respect his position, even if I do not wholly agree with it. Atonement is never an easy process. I know that all too well. "You going to hit the sack or are you game to watch a movie?"

"I would like that. I certainly do not want to miss the opportunity. Do you have a preference?"

"Mark of Zorro?"

"I... have actually grown tired of seeing that recently. Perhaps a Dirty Harry feature?"

"Okay. The first one?"

"Excellent choice."

I join him on the sofa after putting on the film. Despite his age and cynicism, it only takes Jason forty minutes to settle his head on my chest. I reciprocate his affections without forcing any greater action. I simply rest my hand on his shoulder, thumbing it with hardly any pressure. I know most people would think me insane to treat someone who has killed more than one-hundred people with such open affection. But they do not know him like I do. Nobody does. We cannot change the past. No-one is asking anyone to forget his crimes. I only ask for context. He has never killed to amuse himself. He is not the psychopath everyone bar Alfred has painted him as. And he has never murdered an innocent. It does not justify the death tolls. It just offers perspective. I maintain he is a good man. I maintain his existence is necessary without being excessive. I comb his hair.

"You know why I got the plane to ditch in the lake, right?" He asks. I smile.

"Yes."

"And it's cool if I don't just say it out-loud, right?" I nod my head.

"Of course. Just enjoy the picture."

He missed me. That is why Lake Edel. It was obvious the moment I ascertained his reality. There is no need to explicitly state so…

I missed him too.