Sins Of The Father Chapter One: The Father, The Son & The Unholy Ghost. (Part. 1.1.)

Hello, hello and Happy Holidays! I guess you can call this my Christmas gift, but it hopefully won't be my last post of the year. However, I must apologize for the length. I wanted to do a longer update, but I think all the plot points wouldn't have their due breathing room that way. So think of this like a prelude to the angst, lol. There will be a recap of the last part in the comments. As always, I hope you enjoy.

Tw: Swears, horror-like elements.


















By the time he realized the small feet behind him had stopped, Jason had already slipped into the shadow-riddled hallway. Ashen threads split off from the steady birdcage-like imprints beneath his feet. Those dramatic slopes, now carved into stone, wrapped around marble parapets, staking their claim against the interweaving ivy and moss. Its spindly vines seemed to flee from the quiet panic that carried on below through terse conversations, still clinging to the corners of the foyer. Although it did not seem happy with this respite, as it spilled across the floor and consumed the ornate sculpture overlooking the spiralling staircase at the end of Jason’s path.

There was something about the sight that invited hands to play with his heartstrings. It was a being that stood in silent observation, while streaks of green reclaimed carved limbs not crumbling away, but snapped. Any judgment was hidden behind the masterful wrinkles of flowing silk or the tight blindfold wrapped around their stoic features. Once curling arms unfurled around its back like wings, now it was nothing more than a single set. Their grip forever presented uneven scales where roses of Jericho reached out for him in a soft embrace. Whoever this used to be was caught between an echo of gothic spires and a fragment of ivy-covered angels as they mourned through lightning-struck graveyards. Even if that was a foreign memory to them, compared to the rising voices and the hasty steps of servants as they disappeared down corridors. However, the small taste of home refused to cover buzzing nerves like the earthy tones that smothered fading myrrh.

Maybe he was still a bit insane, but it was nice to have something thriving to send him off. Even if it was as creepy as this whole damn place, not that it mattered much in the end. He had that bridge to burn, finally, and an old man to yell at for more reckless child endangerment. Although that might have to wait, as there was one set of footprints...

For a second, his forced breaths evaporated in place of the contradiction that shattered his thoughts. It rose through his knotted stomach and burning lungs as if the air itself was stuck in a silent debate. One caught between being a last attempt for Jason’s mind to cleave from reality or some undying fragment of training born into him by rain-soaked streets. All the same armoured steps were deceptively light as they slipped past cracked doors. No amount of moss could soften the lump in his throat as it formed and tumbled.

It was real; he knew those steps, but why was there only one set? No matter how shaken he was, the Bat was never quite one for tenderness, even if it was the sane choice. This was pity? Tact? Some fear that those tossing waters would cause him to rip the kid limb from limb?

The echoes of his hands hitting emerald-tinted wood joined in with the other possible memories. It was as familiar as the pounding of his heart and the growing whispers not voiced by him. Even as the honeyed anger wormed its way into his bones, with whispered promises of blood-soaked fists, the steps drew closer. If it wasn’t for the cool steel underneath his fingertips, he might have allowed the burning waters to replace the antsy blood that rushed in his veins.

Maybe he was enough of a monster to do it... that kid who was lured to his death sure didn’t feel like this. Whatever was in there, that pit put his broken pieces together wrong, but did it matter? He was going home, and no one was going to hurt him again. Not Bruce, not Talia, not even that death-worshiping piece of shit.

Once, slumbering halls seemed to tangle into strands of noise that slipped from Jason’s grasp. His hissing breaths merged with whispers and the distant fragments of conversation that slipped from his straining fingers. In a way, it was foreign to his ears, save for those deeply tired words flittering through it all. There, in a few agonizing minutes, he stood as a spectre with waves of white noise lapping at his feet, watching other ghosts. All the while, half-formed sentences slipped past door cracks.

“It does not matter how fond the Al Ghuls are of you; only a fool would risk their head to let you in,” came the harsh but low words from one of the sparse guards.

Those contradicting footsteps seemed to both fall silent and morph. Where the grim heaviness once was, there was now something lighter. For a moment, those unseen hands returned to pull at his heartstrings underneath the waves of white noise.

“Only a fool would take the gamble of not letting me in.” Bruce’s voice was not a ghost. “I know how this place works — no going in or out without his word, but you don’t want to get in the way of official business. “

" I know of your code detective, and if you so much as take a step, you’ll be reminded that it does not bind me.”

For a second, there was only the sound of snow against heels as those sweet, vengeful whispers consumed the rising march of his heart. Even as it was pushed to the corners of his mind, that white noise threatened to pull him under, filling his nerves with burning flashes of green and the smell of rotting moss.

“Nor are the Al Ghuls.” Bruce’s voice remained steady, even if there was a touch of tired snark within the words.

He was too calm even for Bruce. No, this wasn’t Bruce nor the bat. Both at this point should have been tearing these halls apart for his ward, for his son. Why wasn’t he when he’s right here, Bruce! He’s right here, and if the roles were reversed, he would do the same, unless...

The thought refused to form in bitter fullness on his tongue. Instead, it seemed to push a frantic bubble of air against his heels, with a silent prayer to move. This silent prayer would find an answer in the scrap of those stone scales and the whispers in his veins that borrowed his vocal cords to speak in a voice not his.

“Tell me, little mourning dove, why is it we meet whenever you try to flee? Perhaps if I spoke on my own, the words would cut hard enough to let my help sink in.”

Those words buzzed in the back of his skull as if it were the aching memory of steel and blood bound to fill the dried remains of his throat. One that even now may choke on the growing mix of simmering anger and the desperate paranoia that settled in his limbs. Those bubbles of air begged to be acted upon through harrowed steps carried away from the slight spin of the world by the emerald glow of an already fading fog. Leaving him in its wake with the hurried shards of thinning breath and delirious fingers that craved to tear that lingering voice from his flesh.

No, he wasn’t running. He doesn’t run. Why else would Bruce have waited this long? He did everything he needed slowly and methodically, as he always was. Everything and everyone is put into its place; that’s all. The old man damn well knew this was his fucking second try. Why else would he?

Both words and feet went silent for an instant, allowing doubts to roam the halls like once-made-believe spirits. The omen from barely an hour ago came knocking, not in the form of a storm against the cliffs or the giggle of a child. It was light steps freed from the armour of the cape and cowl. Steps that seemed to slip past weary sighs or grabbing arms that planted themselves in the space between Jason’s aching ribs. If it wasn’t for the metal under his fingers, those growing bubbles may have won long before voices rose and nimble feet shook the doors.

Jason knew those steps not in the way he knew Bruce’s. It wasn’t some hallmark of home that filled the space between his thoughts. Rather, it was ingrained in his muscles. Those were his steps from what felt like decades ago; had it only been three years? Did it matter how long when that didn’t change the fact that it was good if he brought him? He wouldn’t bring him if it wasn’t a simple homecoming... right?

The echo of old pleas slipping past broken lips now turned pale and bitten rang in his bones. Flashes of green-tinted memories threatened to play behind Jason’s eyes as the world seemed to spin, lost to the damn in his veins that began to spill over. Where his blood once pounded against his skin was now a coursing onslaught of glimmering fog and water. It closed the words within his throat, leaking out from slowly opening wounds and old, crawling scars. An emerald twinge stained skin, steel, and gauze like a treasured possession as a stone blindfold crept close. Those snapped limbs seemed to reach out in an embrace still amidst the chaos as moss-covered lips appeared to move.

“He didn’t come in time; swooping in to play the hero won’t change the bruises or the blood on the snow. Shouldn’t you know better by now, not blindly chase ‘parents’ into the unknown?” whispered a voice that was pulled from the non-existent throat of the once-silent statue as it pooled white-hot in his temples.

It seemed to consume the walls, but not quite the sound of a body hitting the snow and battle-worn gloves wrapping around the door.

“Oh, you poor delusional child, he even brought a mimicry of the years you lost, and you still won’t give in. I didn’t bring you back just to sit and weep in fear when you should be fighting tooth and nail against that damn city, or should I have let you suffocate in your simulated grave?”

For a second, those stone scales refused to scrape, like the heaves from his lungs or the words pressed against his skull. Rather, they seemed to be in an even deeper bow while tangles of ivy or limbs tried to brace Jason’s stumbling form. Leaving only his grip to loosen around the once-promised safety of his helmet. A returned silent witness to how his hands fought to both grasp the unforgiving parapets and dig into now sweat-soaked temples. They traced the slick skin, and the curls smeared against it like an all too familiar grime, looking for an entry point. Dull nails hesitated to break through muscle and blood in hopes of relieving the burning flood in his veins. All as the shadows spun along with his head, dragging both his doubled form and the creak of heavy set doors into its pull.

If they wanted him to follow orders, they should have just left him there... He’s got a home to return to, delusional or not...

The thought formed from the warmth leaking from shredded wounds and white knuckles. Even if it refused to settle near the approaching stairs, the creak was as uneasy as his struggling breath. Snow-chilled air both soothed the rush of angered water under his skin and dug into his knotted throat like a freshly sharpened dagger.

It was too late to run even if he wanted to, anyway...

Every nerve burned as if it caught under the cool streams of winter sun, now dancing amongst still white stone. Although the halls no longer bared fangs or growled with the rumble of engines, the jaws still poised to snap his heaving form whole rung out with footsteps. They seemed to be carried by the slight groans of the wind in a tangle of nearing armoured memories long past and the sound that filled his current days as it mingled with low tones soaked in amber. There as shadows far stronger than the birdcage-shaped lattices keeping him up, graced the doorway; so too did the distant click of heels. However, they felt as far as Jason’s sucked in breaths through grinding teeth as the edges of his vision filled with shades made from tattered capes and red cheeks set against black curls.

It took half a second for the smell of sea salt to stiffen his muscles into old stances, as if his nerves still leapt at the name echoing through the halls. The ache in his lungs melded into a haze of rain, thick streets, and the flood in his veins into fading adrenaline, drowned in the murky hues of sunrise. Those fragments of the past seemed to call out with the voice of a broken man, far too tired. Even then, it seemed to strain against reality as if it did not belong in this memory, out of his grasp. Much like his tightening grip and half-hunched form holding on to incomplete breaths.

“Robin! For the love of Lady Gotham, rushing in is how you get kil- hurt.” Although Bruce’s voice remained the same course lecture, a twinge of warm hesitation threatened to unravel his words,” I had it handled. Quick in and out, remember.”

Delusional or not, home seemed to have come for him.

Even though Bruce’s voice was real, Jason’s gaze refused to meet it as if knowing the truth would seal his fate. For once, his nerves would rather have this be another long-running dream because neither of them belonged here. After all dreams ended and the rolling tides within him would calm, but one glint of the whited out stare that should be reflecting streetlights or curl of powdery breath against scared skin couldn’t slip away so easily. Rather, it would cling to his muscles and bone like the snow-drenched chill seeping into his now too thin jacket.

He could forgive Bruce for not saving him; that was an anger he could swallow, but looking him in the eyes was just cruel.

Why, now? Why make him wait for three goddamn years only to face the mask and not the man? He died in that costume, and all he got was a replacement and the blurred memory of a cryptid.

No matter how deep the chill dug into his skin, a warm wave of that relentless water crested against his veins. It intertwined with his blood and sharp and the sharp echo of steps as if to drag out words in place of stone vocal cords. “The answer is simple. His mask is one of fear, and he’s horrified of the monster you’ve become. However, it does not have to be like that.

"There are other ways to exac-”

“Exactly, B! In fact, you should be thanking me; if I let you handle it, we would still be freezing on the side of a mountain. At least Victor unthaws us after with less chastising. “Robins’ whine hidden behind a faint smirk pulled Jason’s eyes towards the familiar onslaught of yellow and green. “That’s beside the point; it is my job to rush in. How else can I stop you from getting killed?”

For a second, those words hung heavy, coated in whispers of moss and sea salt, as Bruce let out a long, worn sigh Jason did not need to see. After all, it seemed to lodge in the corner of his brain, even as the shadows shifted to pinch the bridge of their nose and those footsteps threatened to overtake the silence soon to be shattered by the thunderous roar of doors slamming shut. However, in those few short moments before it all shattered, came in hard-set muscles as stubborn as the black plate that stood at permanent attention while white mesh hid darting eyes whose blue hues no doubt spiralled with new paranoias.

“Firstly, you could do as you’re told and actually stay put, or, since that seems like a pipe dream, help Oracle with intel. However, if you truly care about my heart, maybe stow away with the proper insulated costume next time…”

A half-smothered snicker came in response, but it did not flee from the shallow inhales that fled from his tensed jaw. Instead, it came from the somewhat detached memory before him. The almost haughty glee seemed to drive home the roundness of still wind marked cheeks, the normal paler returning to an almost unnaturally stoic face. Even the kids’ somewhat lithe form shifted not quite with an acrobatic grace, but rather a rehearsed restraint only meant for fragments of galas Jason’s mind chose not to recall. However, there was in some ways a passed down amusement in how Robin poked a finger into the salt and pepper fur trim where metal met cape.

“Ha! You’re finally learning that rule number one of being Robin is you can’t stop a Robin. Don’t give me that look. I don’t make the rules. There was a second small laugh as Robin moved his finger towards some unseen earpiece, allowing the slight tap to ring out.” He does, he started it after all!”

Jason’s nerves rammed against his burning lungs like some wounded bird aiming to break his pounding heart out of his chest. Those complex shadows spun as his heavy tongue and brittle vocal cords shifted into a bitter, misshapen laugh. One that seemed far more cynical for what it was, like it belonged to the scrap of a tire iron against slick back alleys. Rather than the grainy chuckle that escaped from the metal against his palm, the curve of his helmet seemed to enjoy the tacky flood of warmth that seeped into the gauze.

“For the love of … please do not encourage him, or do I need to sit both of you down when we get back. I don’t care if you don’t live there, Chum. You did in fact start it.” Although his words were light, there was a heft in how Bruce’s muscles pulled taut in place of his searching gaze.”Have you two forgotten how dangerous this place is? You can’t even trust your senses. You can not out-joke the shadows when they lie to you. Just stick close in and…”

Of course, under his gaze, everything would fall flat. Why wouldn’t months filled with half-lucid visions just like this only now crumble?

Even the laugh wilted on his tongue as Bruce’s stare moved past shadows and lattices. Gray curves pressed against sunken features and a dusting of patchy stubble like a cage trying to contain its prisoner. However, it seemed this one would refuse to flee as that familiar stare took in the hunched form before him, every scar seeming to deflate the once stoic cryptid. In fact, it tore the man apart at the seams as one hand hurried to shove the small frame behind him and the other rested on the sharp edges of a weapon. An unspoken terror betrayed how the symbol on Bruce’s chest hitched while a streak of old blood burnt a faded scarlet amongst the slightly shaking fur.

“Out. They have outdone themselves, as that can not be my … my, Jason? “