Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The smell hits him in the face like a fist when the door opens. It's not the typical smell of incense, melting wax and humid stone walls most churches have, but the smell of come, blood and sweat. The smell of a brothel. The sounds are even more confusing, a mix of both places: the rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh and panting breaths, interwoven with the low, mumbled echo of religious chanting.

Bruce stops walking, horrified at the view. At the center of the church, past the transept, a man is bent over a large altar table, holding desperately to the base of the altar crucifix while another man fucks into him at a brutal, frantic pace.

The scene is made even more grotesque by the rood hanging over the altar, a life size crucified Jesus looking over the fornicating men. The corpus doesn't even have a loincloth, and Jesus's exposed cock, as life size and detailed as the rest of Him, is visible to everyone in the church, as unholy and depraved as the act happening right underneath Him.

Thomas pushes Bruce further inside, and closes the heavy wooden door behind them. No one pays them any mind. The members of the congregation sitting in the pews are too entranced by the men fucking on the altar, chanting some odd version of the Kyrie Eleison to bother with them. Thomas crosses himself, facing the rood, as though everything happening in the church is normal.

Is it normal?

This world is so different from Bruce's own reality. It's crueler, more brutal. Deadlier. A world on the brink of destruction. Could its religions be different, too?

Bruce wishes desperately to be back home. His home. His Manor. His cave. To leave behind this strange mirror reality where nothing is as it should be.

"They're almost done," Thomas whispers in a low voice close to Bruce's ear, the same way one would talk not to interrupt a sermon during mass.

"What's going on here? " Bruce whispers back, and immediately regrets the stupidity of the question. The answer is obvious enough.

"The man is confessing his sins so that he can atone and be forgiven," Thomas explains in a low voice.

That's not what the man is doing.

The hymn rises in volume and speed. The pounding of flesh on flesh grows faster, too, matching the rhythm.

"I have sinned against you, Father, whom I should love above all things," a rough voice says, when the chanting pauses, each word punctuated by the squelching sound of sticky fluids and sweaty bodies fucking. It echoes loudly within the walls of the church.

Is there a microphone at the altar? Something is transferring the noises to the speaker boxes discreetly placed all around the church's nave.

"I firmly intend... with your help, to-to do penance...." The man moans and sobs, stilling for a second. He is fully dressed, his back to the church, but the lewd movements and wet, sloshing noises following every thrust of his hips leave little to the imagination. He moans and shudders, his panting breath labored, as he tries to control himself to finish the prayer. "...To sin no more," he continues, every new word followed by a slam of his hips. "And... and to avoid whatever leads me to sin."

Another pause, longer this time. His whole body is trembling, and his voice sounds anguished when he adds, "Our Savior Jesus Christ suffered and died for us."

He pounds brutally into the man bent over the altar. "In his name, oh God Almighty, have mercy on my soul!" he shouts the last words and screams, slamming his hips one final time into his partner, and then comes, sobbing loudly, "Father, forgive me! Father, please, forgive me!" again and again.

The hymn picks up once more, its volume rising, drowning the sobs of the man. It rises further and further, only to stop abruptly. The church falls into silence. Two altar boys dressed in white albs and gold embroidered surplices come forward. Long, red stoles hang from their necks. One of them is holding a silver chalice and Bruce gasps when he recognizes Tim, much younger than he is in Bruce's universe, twelve or thirteen, but definitely Tim.

The man steps back on unsteady legs and his cock makes a sloshing noise as it slips free. The wet sound is captured by the microphone, travelling around the nave of the church embarrassingly loud.

His partner is completely naked, faced down on the white marble table of the altar. His legs are spread wide and– Are those shackles on his ankles? Bruce unease grows. The man is shackled to the altar with thick iron chains bolted to the floor. His wrists are shackled, too, keeping him in place, spread open and available for everyone to use. The backs of his thighs and buttocks are covered in red, angry welts, layered with deep cuts still oozing blood. White streams of come leak out from his torn asshole.

Bruce's eyes dart to the parishioners, but they are still in their pews, their prayer books open in their hands, waiting. This is normal for them. This is just… Bruce's skin crawls queasily. He's never been to church after his parents died, but he remembers mass. This isn't a mass. It's all wrong. Everything in this world is wrong.

Tim walks forward and kneels between the man's spread thighs. He gathers the leaking come into a chalice, while the other boy kneads the man's buttocks, opening and closing them, coaxing the thick liquid out. They're just children, barely in their teens. They shouldn't be part of this at all.

Disgust and shame coil in Bruce's gut, but he's rooted in place, unable to move. Thomas stands behind him, close enough that the wet warmth of his breath ghosts against Bruce's exposed neck.

Bruce wants his suit, the strength that comes with being Batman, of hiding every flicker of emotion behind the cowl of the Bat. Here, right now, he's just Bruce Wayne, and Bruce Wayne is and has always been a simpering, useless idiot. Bruce Wayne cannot fight his way to the altar and free the shackled man. Bruce Wayne cannot voice the stop lodged in his throat. Bruce Wayne stays exactly where he is, appalled by what he's witnessing, yet unable to stop it.

After what seems like a small eternity, Tim stands up. Come is still leaking out, drenching the man's inner thighs and balls, mixing with the blood of the open cuts. There's too much of it. This wasn't the first man to fuck him today, that much is obvious.

Tim brings the chalice to the bound man and helps him raise his head to drink from it. Bile rises in Bruce's mouth, but like in a nightmare, he's frozen in place, unable to move, watching uselessly, unable to help.

When Tim steps away, his hand lingers on the man's sweaty hair for a moment too long, before he disappears behind the shadows of the altar with the other boy.

"Five strokes of the cane for stealing," a raspy voice interrupts the heavy silence that has fallen over the church. It comes through the speakers and echoes on the stone walls, impossible to pinpoint.

"Amen," the parish choruses. Behind him, Thomas, too, says the word.

"Five lashes for beating your wife," the raspy voice adds, sounding a bit stronger. "Atone and repent, and God shall forgive your sins, my son."

As the parish and Thomas chorus together, "Amen," once again, Bruce realizes with dawning horror that the naked, bound man is the priest. He's the one speaking. The microphone must be on him. That's why the panting and grunting of the man fucking him were so loud. Every breath and moan captured and transmitted for all parishioners to hear and partake.

The priest is not a victim, but part of it all, the leader of this perverted cult. But why? None of it makes sense.

The Jesus on the rood watches over it all, silent and judging, as naked as the priest. Bruce can't unsee the parallels. Both of them naked and bleeding, both of them bound and helpless, while their believers watch and rejoice in their suffering.

The second altar boy reappears from the shadows, a cane in his hand. He kneels, offering the cane up: thin and supple, at least three feet long, the kind of cane that will leave brutal marks and break skin if not wielded with care.

The man who fucked the priest steps forward again, crosses himself and takes the proffered cane. Bruce can see him better now: a middle-aged, podgy fellow with a bit of a pot belly, but thick, muscled arms that betray a good layer of muscle underneath the fat.

He stands behind the priest again, slightly to the side. The first strike of the cane falls before Bruce understands what's about to happen. The walls vibrate with the priest's loud, anguished scream.

The parish chants, "One."

Thomas grabs Bruce's arm, holding him back. "Don't," he says, stopping Bruce from trying to put a stop to this disgusting parody of a mass.

The priest's voice rises through the speakers, laced with pain, but firm. "May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, through the grace and mercies of His love for humankind, forgive you all your transgressions. As He suffered for our sins, so I, too, an unworthy priest, suffer for yours. Let my pain cleanse your soul. Let my sacrifice wash away your sins."

"Amen," all say, and Thomas joins them.

The man raises his arm again and the cane falls, leaving a red line on the priest's back. "Two," they all chorus together.

The priest screams again, but immediately afterwards, his voice–steady despite the agony he must be in–repeats, "May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, through the grace and mercies of His love for humankind, forgive you all your transgressions. As He suffered for our sins, so I, too, an unworthy priest, suffer for yours. Let my pain cleanse your soul. Let my sacrifice wash away your sins."

Another strike and another. The same litany falling from the priest's lips as the members of his cult count out loud and chant, "Amen." After the fifth strike, the man steps back and the altar boy comes forward to take the cane away from him.

Bruce sighs with relief, his shoulders easing, glad that is finally over. Thomas is still holding his arm, keeping him in place.

Tim appears from the shadows behind the altar and kneels before the waiting man, a cat o' nine whip in his hands. The rest of the sentence, Bruce remembers appalled: Five lashes. It isn't over yet. No! Bruce can't allow this to continue.

Thomas's grip on his upper arm hardens, fingers digging deep into his flesh. "Don't interfere. Watch. The Father is willing. No one will thank you for interrupting the ceremony."

"This isn't a ceremony," Bruce hisses at him. "It's torture. It's monstrous!"

"It's our religion, son," Thomas insists. "And it brings us miracles in a world that desperately needs them. It brought you to me. Long have I prayed for the chance to see you again, and here you stand today, tall and strong and healthy, despite my failure to save you. My brilliant, perfect son. How can I deny the strength of God, when He brought you here? Watch."

The man takes the cat o' nine from Tim's hands and Tim rises to his feet and walks to the altar. He holds the priest's head in his hands, pressing it against the white marble table.

The priest says, "Proceed, son." The words resonate clear and loud in the silence of the church.

"Thank you, Father," the man whispers and crosses himself again, before he raises the whip and brings it down across the priest's back with brutal strength.

The priest howls and thrashes against Tim's hold and the chains rattle as he jerks. Blood splashes on the marble table and drops of it fall on Tim's face.

"One," the parish chants as if in a trance.

The low, keening sobs of the priest are like nails scratching against stone. Bruce shudders at the horror unfolding before his eyes. Thomas's fingers dig into his upper arm as strong as the manacle holding the priest in place.

Everyone is quiet. A heavy, pervasive silence covers the church like a fog. Only the panting, pained gasps of the priests are heard.

At last, the priest's voice rises again, slightly shaky but clear. "May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, through the grace and mercies of His love for humankind, forgive you all your transgressions," the priest starts.

After every prayer, the church throbs with the chorus of, "Amen." The faith behind the word is undeniable, its presence an invisible beast taking shape, rising from the chanting congregation, as huge and monstrous as the act of brutality giving birth to it.

It goes on forever. An eternity of carnage. The priest screams and blood sprays from his back with every strike of the whip, splattering over the altar and Tim's white alb.

"Let my pain cleanse your soul. Let my sacrifice wash away your sins," the priest beseeches again and again, his voice weaker and shakier with every lash. The air in the church vibrates with every "Amen. Amen. Amen."

Bruce is keeping count, too, unable to help himself, willing with all his might for it to be over. Three. Four. His lips shape the last "Five" out loud, his voice one more among the chorus of the cult members. The relief of it being over is so strong that it's physical, the tension in his shoulders and back melting away with that final, "Amen."

Tim comes forward, face and alb bloodied, and takes the whip back from the sobbing man. And the man is sobbing, faced drenched in tears, shoulders shaking, as if every strike had fallen on his skin instead of the priest's. He walks away slowly on unsteady feet towards the pews, and takes his place among the congregation.

Tim disappears with the whip. The other boy opens the shackles chaining the priest to the altar and helps the man stand up, steadying him.

A moment later, Tim returns with a black cloth in his hands. The priest's bloodied, naked back is the only thing they can see while the boys help him dress, carefully slipping the black cassock over the priest's back. They adjust the collar and slowly close the long row of buttons at the front, before fitting a short, black cape over the priest's shoulders. They button it up, bow respectfully and step away once more.

With his body completely covered by the black cassock and his back to the pews, the priest looks deceptively holy. If it weren't for the cloying smell of come, blood and sweat swamping the stale air of the church, Bruce could almost pretend nothing had happened. The cassock hides all signs of the torment and horror: the torn, brutalized skin, the oozing blood, the leaking come.

Slowly, the priest turns around to face the congregation, the altar boys hovering close behind, ready to help him if he falters.

Bruce's world shatters into a thousand pieces when he sees the man's face.

That's Jason standing on the altar. The priest is Jason.

The same white tuft of hair at the front of his head, the same angle to his jaw, the same shape of his lips and nose. Even though he's smaller and thinner–the body of a clergyman and not that of a fighter–Bruce recognizes his wayward son immediately.

The priest is Jason.

Chapter Text

Bruce's knees falter and he takes an unconscious step back, colliding with Thomas's chest.

"Are you alright, son?" Thomas asks in a low whisper, steadying him.

No. Bruce isn't alright. The priest might not be his Jason, the same way that Thomas isn't truly Bruce's father, but he is a version of Jason. A version of Jason who....

His mind recoils from the memories.

Jason, on the altar. Jason, letting men use and brutalize him while Bruce stood there and watched.

Bruce has to leave this cursed church, this sick, twisted world.

Jason's eyes hover over the congregation and they stop briefly on them. Bruce stills, expecting something, but Jason isn't really looking at him, he's looking at Thomas. He nods slightly, acknowledging their presence, before he climbs the steps to the pulpit slowly.

His hands hold onto the railings a bit too hard as he forces himself to move. Twice, he stops briefly. His panting, labored breath carried by the speakers through the nave of the church. The seconds stretch, but the congregation waits patiently, quietly, for him to climb all the way up and face them.

Jason's steady, melodious voice rises and falls harmoniously as his son reads the holy Gospel. It hides the pain Jason must be in, the same way the black cassock hides the come and blood on his body. He's eloquent and passionate.

Convincing.

He speaks of forgiveness and mercy, of God's love for the world and His children, of sacrifice and pain. He connects the words of the Gospel to mundane, everyday things, making every act of existence seem like a service to God.

He reminds Bruce of a younger Jason: the one who was a member of the debate club and read every book he could get his hands on; the one who wanted to study literature and make the world a better place. He reminds Bruce of the Jason he lost.

The Jason Bruce let die.

The parish hangs on Jason's every word, watching him with the fervent, absolute reverence of true believers. They chant and respond in chorus. The amens fall from their lips filled with hope and wonder. With faith.

It'd be so easy to forget what happened before. For a moment Bruce almost does, but a soft, low moan, wanton and lewd yanks him back to reality. The man closest to them, sitting on the last row of pews, is masturbating while he listens to Jason speak. A glance around the nave makes it clear why no one seems to care. They are all doing it. It's the most obvious with those closest to the main aisle–Bruce can see their hard, leaking cocks peeking from their open flies–but now that he pays attention, he notices the all too familiar way in which every one is moving, the tell-tale motions of their arms.

It's not just the men. The women, too, are shifting on the pews, hands hidden beneath their skirts, little broken moans escaping through their lips. They are part of it, all sitting and praying together while they masturbate to Jason's sermon.

The horror and surreality are mesmerizing in their own way. Bruce licks too dry lips and swallows. His throat is too tight and his breathing is hard, too.

Thomas's chest is still pressed against Bruce's back and his breath tickles the shell of Bruce's ear, hot and wet. "Hush, son, it's almost over now," he whispers, holding Bruce steady, lips brushing against Bruce's temple. His groin is flush with Bruce's buttocks and Bruce shakes his head in denial when he feels the bulge pressing against him.

Maybe this is just a nightmare? All of it, just a nightmare. A strange new mix of fear toxin and sex pollen, interweaving horror, arousal and disgust so tightly together that it's impossible to tell one from the other. Bruce is trapped between Thomas's body and this parody of a mass that shouldn't exist at all.

Jason's voice echoes through the halls. "Repent, sinner!" it calls, "and God shall forgive you! No matter how horrible your sin, His door will always be open to those willing to search for it. But it is you who have to undertake the journey. God has sent me to guide you, but it is you, who must open your hearts and soul to Him. All that you are, you must be willing to give. Let Him shine His light in the darkest corners of your soul! Hide nothing from Him, for He sees it all." Jason's voice rises. "Give yourself to God! For there's no part of you He does not love or accept."

"Amen," the congregation whispers, their movements more frantic now, as they near their orgasms.

Bruce expects them to come on the pews, dirtying the church in one final orgasm, but they don't. They stay still, waiting, cocks held tightly in their hands.

Jason steps down from the pulpit and walks to the front of the altar. He stops beneath the rood, at the center of the church, where transept and nave cross.

"Brothers and sisters, let us share in the divinity of Christ!" Jason shouts.

Jason kneels and opens his arms wide, imitating a cross. "Pray with me, my children, that my sacrifice may be acceptable to God, the almighty Father."

"May the Lord accept the sacrifice at your hands for the praise and glory of His name," all chant. They are no longer touching themselves, but the men's cocks are still visible through their open flies, rising and straining against their lower bellies.

Tim and the other altar boy appear again, carrying an athame and a chalice each. The handles of the athames are made of black onyx. The chalices are golden this time, with large ivory crucifixes embedded on them.

They move in tandem, each taking one of Jason's extended arms and slowly unbuttoning the long sleeves of the cassock. The black wool falls away, revealing the skin of Jason's forearms until the crease of Jason's elbows becomes visible. The red, mottled skin on Jason's wrists is a sharp contrast against the otherwise pale flesh, creating the illusion that Jason is still bound by the manacles.

They slash Jason's wrists with the athames and blood starts to drip into the waiting chalices.

There's a choked, protesting noise. Thomas's hand crushes Bruce's upper arm, and only then does Bruce realize the noise came from him. Everyone else in the church is silent, witnessing this new form of torture with avid hunger.

"They are going to kill him," Bruce protests in despair. Why is Jason letting them do this to him?

"Of course not," Thomas whispers reassuringly, "it takes much more than a simple mass for Father Todd to die. He'll be fine. The ceremony needs to end. Watch."

An older man, sitting near the back of the church, turns to glare at them, but when he glances at Thomas his expression shifts. He nods respectfully and turns his attention back to the altar, where the boys are methodically slashing Jason's forearms, peeling away pieces of skin with the athames, and placing small, bloodied squares of it on a gold paten.

Blood keeps dripping down Jason's wrists into the chalices and the white sleeves of the boy's albs are stained with it, too. Bruce can't tear his eyes away as the sharp athames carve off piece after piece of skin, revealing the layers of muscles in Jason's forearm, turning his arms into a grotesque version of a human anatomical model.

Finally, it stops. Tim puts the athame away and the other boy follows his lead. They take off the red, silk stole hanging around their shoulders and use it to dress Jason's wounds, coiling the red silk around his bleeding arms again and again, stopping the blood from dripping further. Then, they redo the buttons of the black cassock and hide the ends of the red stole beneath the black sleeves.

Jason stands up slowly, aided by the boys. He sways in place but steadies himself somehow. Tim picks up the gold paten with the pieces of Jason's skin and the other boy picks up the chalices filled with Jason's blood. They stand a step behind Jason, their heads bowed.

Jason takes the paten and lifts it above the altar to the crucifix hanging over it. Then, he does the same with the chalices of blood. He then washes his hands in a basin filled with holy water, before turning to the congregation and guiding them through the words of the Sanctum.

It's so similar to other masses, and yet so different. After the chanting ends, they all kneel. Thomas pulls Bruce into the very last pew and pushes him inside. Bruce sits down, feeling uncomfortably out of place while everyone else kneels, including Thomas. Only Jason remains standing, still in front of the altar.

"Before our Lord entered willingly into his Passion," Jason says. "He shared His Body and His Blood with His disciples. In His name, today, I offer you this sacrifice." His voice rises. "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, who through His Passion and Death gave life to our world, make holy these gifts, I beg of you." Jason blesses the flesh on the paten and the blood in the chalices. "Send your Spirit upon them like dewfall, so that they may become for us Your Body and your Blood."

"Amen," the parish chants.

Bruce remains quiet while they all sing the hymns, guided by Jason.

"We offer you, Lord, this sacrifice, giving thanks that you have held us worthy to be in your presence and minister to you," Jason chants when the hymn ends. "Partake of the Body and Blood of Christ!" His voice raises. "Let us humbly pray together that in doing so we may be gathered into one by the Holy Spirit."

"Amen."

Silence falls upon the church after the final amen and they all pray quietly, kneeling in the pews. Bruce's eyes dart to Thomas, who is praying too, his face peaceful. The sense of displacement, of wrongness rises. Bruce isn't one of them. He is glad for it, and yet, there's a yearning in him, something that wonders at the mystery of the faith, and wishes he could be part of it, even while he recoils from the mere idea.

At a signal that Bruce doesn't see, everyone stands as one, moving out of their pews to line up in the aisle of the nave.

Jason takes a piece of the flesh on the paten Tim is holding and says, "The Body of Christ!"

The church echoes, "Amen," and Jason brings the raw, bloodied piece of his own skin to his lip, chews on it and swallows.

Then, he takes the golden chalice and chants, "The Blood of Christ!"

"Amen," all sing, and Jason sips his own blood. His lips are red and wet with it, when he gives the cup back to the boy.

He kneels between Tim and the other boy, and that, too, seems to be a signal. For the first man in the line moves forward and stops in front of Jason. His hard, leaking cock bobs up and down when he walks. The man takes it in his hand and starts stroking it, fast and desperate.

"I give myself to God fully, Father," the man pants, "and through you, ask that the God Almighty forgive my sins. Lord, have mercy on my soul!" he shouts, and comes all over Jason streaking the black wool of the cassock and Jason's face with his come.

There's a blessed, peaceful expression on Jason's face when the man comes. He prays, "Lamb of God, take away the sins of the world. May God give you pardon and peace. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen."

"Amen," the man whispers back, tears on his face.

"Behold the Lamb of God," Jason chants, "behold Him who takes away the sins of the world. Blessed are those called to the supper of the Lamb!"

Tim raises the gold paten and Jason says, "The Body of Christ!"

The man answers, "Amen," before he takes a piece of meat and puts it in his mouth. Bruce's stomach churns with bile as the man eats Jason's flesh.

The other altar boy steps forward, the chalice in his small hands, and offers it to the man.

"The Blood of Christ!" Jason proclaims.

"Amen," the man answers and takes the proffered chalice. His hands are trembling, but he brings the cup to his lips and drinks the blood.

"May the Lord be with you always until the end of the world," Jason says.

"Amen," all chorus, and the man falls to his knees in front of Jason, sobbing.

Jason puts his hands on the man's head, and blesses him. "The Lord is with you, son. Eternal life awaits His Faithful. You have given of Yourself and our God Almighty shall open the doors of Heaven for you. Go with Him and sin no more."

"Thank you, Father! Thank you!" the man cries, looking at Jason with pure devotion. His eyes gleam with a fanaticism bordering on madness. It reminds Bruce of Joker, and he shudders.

The next man in the line comes forward, cock already in his hand, and takes his place in front of Jason. He, too, jerks himself off in front of the congregation, his hand a blur. He barely makes it through the words of ritual, coming all over Jason's face and robes. Spending his seed before the final words, "Lord have mercy on my soul," are out.

He takes the flesh and drinks the blood. The man doesn't cry, but he kneels in front of Jason to receive the final blessing with reverence as Jason promises him eternal life and forgiveness in the name of God.

A woman follows. She hikes her skirt up, revealing the bare skin of her shaven vagina. She pants and moans, chanting the words of the rite as she fucks herself in front of Jason's face with a big, black, curved dildo as thick as her wrist, ramming it in and out her cunt in fast, practiced motions. She shouts and squirts. Her juices gush all over her hand and drench down her inner thighs, almost as if she's pissing herself.

She falls to her knees in front of Jason, still moaning, chasing the aftershocks of her orgasm as she continues to fuck herself all the way through it, the ritual words almost forgotten. She keeps shouting, "Father! Father!" convulsing as if possessed. Finally, she pulls the drenched silicon toy out of her cunt and wipes it on Jason's hair and chest, adding her juices to the mess the other men left before her.

Again and again, men and women come forward, cocks hard and leaking, hungry cunts stuffed with dildos and vibrators. They eat Jason's flesh and drink his blood as if they were God's, basking in Jason's words as if they were holy, while they desecrate his very presence with their every act.

Bruce doesn't understand what he's witnessing. He doesn't want to. And yet, he can't deny that it's real. This isn't a sick game or a strange role play. These are all true believers. There's faith behind those acts. It's a palpable thing, that faith. It charges the walls and the air of the church, making the skin of Bruce's back prickle with unease.

And Jason, Jason believes in it, too. He's part of this madness, a willing participant.

His words resonate with conviction, with an eerie, otherworldly touch that makes everything more real. When he speaks, people want to believe. Bruce isn't immune to it.

Time and again, he catches himself, leaning forward, entranced by that moment when Jason whispers, "You are forgiven."

Bruce's heart aches with longing. If only forgiveness was so easy.

By the time the last parishioner finishes this morbid, perverted version of the Eucharist, Jason's swaying as though he's about to faint. Drops of blood are starting to drip from his arms to the floor–the stoles used as makeshift bandages are not enough to stop the bleeding from the brutal damage done to his forearms for long.

Jason doesn't look like a priest, but like a whore. It's disgusting. All of it.

The smell of come and blood is heavier than it was before, impossible to escape in the much too small church. The filth of the acts, the depravity, claws at Bruce's sanity. That's his son being used by everyone. Yet, it gets to him somehow, like a contagious disease, a plague Bruce can't escape.

He's terrified that Thomas will ask him to step forward and participate.

Bruce can't. He won't.

But even as he thinks about it, his cock twitches. Thomas remains still at his side, never joining the line of cult members waiting for the Eucharist. Bruce is pathetically grateful for that small reprieve.

After the line is finished, Jason rises from his knees. His cassock, face and hair are drenched with the spend of every church goer, and yet everyone looks at him with reverence, as though he is the Messiah himself, pure and holy. They all kneel down, fingers interlaced, listening avidly to his voice and worshiping at Jason's feet.

"May this sacrament strengthen us on earth and bring us to eternal life," Jason says. "Father, look not on our sins but on the faith and devotion of your Church. We ask this in the name of Jesus our Lord."

"For the kingdom, the power and the glory are yours now and forever," everyone chants.

"Amen," Jason says and all chorus, "Amen."

Jason speaks his final words to the kneeling congregation and blesses them a final time, bringing the mass to an end with a final plea for them to go out and spread the true word of God and find others who might need help to find their path towards salvation.

They all bow a final time and cross themselves, and slowly, the church begins to empty. Bruce catches glimpses of conversations as they walk away. Normal, mundane things, the health of a grandfather, a child's pending schoolwork, errands they still need to run, a bit of gossip. All horribly normal, as if none of them had spent the last hour gang-raping and defiling a priest.

Is it even rape if Jason is a willing participant?

Bruce's head hurts and his heart pounds loudly in his ears. He's dizzy and nauseous. He doesn't know if it's that intense, pervasive smell of incense or the stink of sex and blood, or the mix of both. Maybe it's just what he has been witness to? Or just being here, in this world? Where's Wally? They need to fix the timeline. They need to fix it and go back to their own world, a world where things are as they should be.

A world in which Jason would never allow others to abuse him like this.

Chapter Text

Bruce follows Thomas dazedly, mind still reeling. The church has emptied for the most part. Jason is still talking to some members of the church who remained behind, while Tim and the other altar boy moved through the pews, putting the Bibles and prayer books in their right places.

Thomas pulls Bruce to the side, guiding him through the aisle and the ambulatory to a large wooden door that ends in a small chapel. Thomas pushes him into one of the padded pews at the center of the chapel and Bruce sits down, still nauseous.

It takes all of his concentration not to be sick, and his head swims when he closes his eyes. The air is cleaner here, less drenched with the stench of sex, even though the pervasive, cloying incense isn't doing anything to ameliorate Bruce's pounding headache.

The wooden door behind them creaks open and startles Bruce. He must have dozed off at some point without realizing. That isn't like him at all. His mind is groggy and slow. Forcing his eyes to open is like walking through molasses.

Jason steps through the door and into the chapel. His eyes skirt briefly over Bruce, but there's no recognition there. Why would there be? Bruce died in this world when he was a child. Jason has never seen him before. And yet, despite knowing this, it still hurts, that casual dismissal. Bruce's Jason might not be on the best of terms with him, but if there's one thing Jason has never been towards Bruce it is indifferent.

This close he seems younger than Bruce's Jason, despite the fact that he has the same white streak of hair brushing across his forehead.

Bruce shudders with disgust at the crust of come visible in Jason’s hair. He reeks of it, too, the same smell the church had. The stench wafts from him, polluting the air of the small chapel. He's wearing the same dirtied cassock. Couldn't he have at least changed before coming here? Doesn't he have any shame?

"Lord Wayne," Jason says, eyes only for Thomas. He'd never spoken like that to Bruce, not even when he was Batman's Robin. His Jason was always filled with mischief and bravado, a bit too brash, a bit too bold, a bit too plucky.

There's respect in Jason's voice when he addresses Thomas, but fear too. Fear is not an emotion his Jason ever carried well. This version of him is different. He kneels in front of Thomas and then continues to go down, until he has prostrated himself at Thomas's feet. His lips kiss the edge of Thomas's shoes.

"Don't dirty my shoes with the remains of other people's sins, Father Todd." Thomas's lips curl with disgust.

"Forgive me, Lord Wayne," Jason pleads, and laps at the leather of Thomas's shoes, licking them clean like a well trained dog.

"Maybe," Thomas says, a hint of approval in his tone. "Today might be the day when God finally forgives you for your sins, Father. You might have finally atoned enough. Up!" he commands.

Jason rights himself but doesn't leave his knees. His face is filled with wonder and hope when he asks, "You think it's over?"

Thomas's eyes land on Bruce, and his face softens into something that Bruce almost wants to call love for all that it seems foreign in the harsh lines of Thomas's face.

"This is my son, Bruce," Thomas says, pointing at Bruce with pride.

Bruce's heart flutters as the long forgotten memory of a much younger version of this man, holding Bruce's hand and kissing his forehead, looking at him with the same softness and pride, after Bruce managed to spell the letters of their joint last name in his shaky child's hand.

"Your son, Lord Wayne?" Jason gasps. There's no indifference now when his attention shifts to Bruce, but a desperate hope. Tears well in his eyes. "He's been brought to you? The ritual worked?"

What ritual?

"It would seem so," Thomas replies, still studying Bruce with that same wonder, as though afraid Bruce will disappear if he takes his eyes off him for so much as a moment. "At last."

"That's wonderful, my Lord," Jason says. His attention shifts back to Thomas. "Does that mean that... you don't..." He swallows. "...don't need me any more?"

"Only God can answer that question, Father Todd," Thomas says.

Jason's shoulders slump and he lowers his eyes. "Of course, Lord Wayne."

"There are many people who need your services, Father Todd." Thomas's voice is harsh, displeased. "Only God can tell you when His work is done. Would you abandon His children like that? What about those who travel from afar to listen to His word and atone for their sins? How can you claim to be a man of God, if you don't want to serve Him as He intended you to serve?"

"Of course not, Lord Wayne." Jason's voice is drenched in terror. "I exist to serve God. That's my calling."

Thomas presses his lips into a thin line, and his forehead creases. "Sometimes even holy men need to be reminded of their way or they falter. This world is ripe with temptations. Fear not, Father Todd, for I will not let you stray. We both know what happens when you do. You don't want that, do you?"

"No! No!" Jason prostrates himself again. He doesn't kiss Thomas's shoes this time, but his forehead presses against the stone in front of them and he keeps repeating again and again, "No! No! Never that, Lord Wayne. Never!"

"Thomas?" Bruce asks tentatively, and stands up to move closer to them. He's unsure about what's going on, but he doesn't like it. The suspicion that there might be more to this than just a strange cult grows. He's only ever seen Jason this terrified under the effects of fear gas.

"Don't interrupt, Bruce." Thomas's voice is soft, but there's an underlying firmness to it that freezes Bruce in place. His father had used that same tone whenever Bruce burst into his office at an improper time. Bruce had forgotten it, but the memory flashes through his mind, blindsiding him.

"That's enough, Father Todd. Stand up," Thomas orders. "My son is new to this world. He doesn't know our ways yet. Why don't you explain to him the history of this church? He wants to understand."

Bruce doesn't... want to understand.

But when Jason stands up, and his full attention shifts to Bruce, the words of protest die on his lips. Jason's eyes are blue. He hadn't noticed it before, too taken by... Bruce wishes desperately that Jason would at least get into a clean cassock. He focuses on Jason's face again, ignoring as best he can the dried come painted across Jason’s features.

Jason's eyes are the same blue they were when Bruce first met him. There's no hint of green in them. Bruce... had almost forgotten that color, warmer and darker than Dick's or the more grey-blue tone of Tim's eyes.

The church had been built by Lord Wayne, Jason tells him, going on and on about Thomas's kindness. His father had donated a part of the Manor's land to build the church, paying for all the expenses. "It's been a blessing," Jason explains. "A refuge from the dangers of the city. Many come here to worship, confident they'll find peace." He seems proud.

The terror Bruce had heard in his voice isn't there now. Had Bruce imagined it?

Bruce watches Thomas surreptitiously, but he, too, seems equally at ease, jumping in every now and then to provide details about the architecture and the artists that carved the statues of the saints and painted the murals.

"Your methods of worship are very different from ours. We don't..." His attention wanders to the sleeves of the cassock, before he forces himself to look back at Jason's face.

Jason's eyes dart to Thomas, who nods at him. "I died," Jason confesses, refusing to meet Bruce's gaze. "Not for a second or two to be revived in some emergency room. I died. I was buried. I... died. I should still be dead, but God chose me. I was sent back to Earth, and I knew here," he touches his chest, "that it was to serve Him."

Bruce startles at the parallel to his own Jason. That wasn't what he'd been expecting. "Does your world have a Lazarus Pit?"

Jason frowns, uncertain. It's Thomas who answers. "It does, but that isn't how Father Todd gained back his life. He wasn't put in the Pit. God himself sent him back here with a purpose."

"Yes," Jason agrees. "God sent me here to help others find salvation."

Ah, the similarities don't run so deep after all. His Jason was corrupted by the Pit. The green tint in his eyes a constant reminder of the Pit’s taint. The biggest proof was that this Jason, innocent of the Pit, chose to help others while Bruce's Jason chose to kill them.

"I became a priest," Jason continues. "I finished my Master of Divinity at the seminary and managed to be assigned to a small parish in Crime Alley. Not many want to work there." He smiles ruefully.

Bruce's chest twists when he sees it. His Jason used to smile like that, too. Before. When things between him and Bruce were still good.

"I don't see how letting... " Bruce trails off. "What I saw today... where I come from, that's not something... Our religion would never allow that."

"Lord Wayne helped me understand the true purpose of my resurrection," Jason says. "God sent me back for a reason. I was squandering His gift by following the ways of a corrupt church. Religion has lost its way in our world.

"It's easy to confess your sins where only God can hear them, and then go on with your life knowing that only the priest and God know the dark parts of your soul." Jason's voice raises with passion. "There's comfort in that, isn't it? In knowing that no one else will ever know?

"And what happens next?" Jason waves his hands, blue gaze boring into Bruce. "You repeat the same mistakes over and over. You ask for a second chance to do it better, and when God in His mercy grants it, you squander it once more. The flesh is weak, after all, and God's mercy and compassion infinite." Jason's lips pursed in displeasure. "But we should be better not just try to be. We owe God that! We owe our community that! Don't you agree?"

"Yes," Bruce answers tentatively, and the ache in his chest deepens. His Jason used to be just as passionate. He wanted to change the world, too. Make it better. But he came back from death angry and jaded. There's so little compassion left in his Jason, just anger, and the desire to see the world burn.

Bruce tried to contain him, to help him, but it was a losing battle. The more he tried to bring Jason to heel, the harder Jason pulled away.

"It was Lord Wayne who made me see the truth," Jason says. "Confessing your sins to the priest, in the privacy of a confessional is too easy. There are no consequences. No true atonement. For light to shine in the darkness, it needs to get in. Sinners need to purge the darkness in their souls, yank it free and show it to all. No more hiding!"

"Many shy away from it," Thomas agrees. "Most aren't brave enough to give everything they are and keep nothing back. To want others to know their darkest deeds, their biggest regrets." Thomas stares at Bruce. "Would you?"

"What?" Bruce fights the urge to recoil.

It's Jason who explains it. "Would you confess your deepest regret out loud? Not just to God, but to every person you know? Would you share your sins with the world?" Somehow his expression makes it clear that he's judging Bruce and finding him lacking.

"No," Bruce admits quietly. "I'd never..." The memories of that man fucking Jason while everyone watched, how everyone had... "No." Never.

"It's easy to judge what you don't understand," Jason says, "but easy doesn't mean right."

"Maybe you can help my son find his way to salvation, Father. You have already helped so many before," Thomas suggests. "I want Bruce to open his eyes and see."

Jason pauses. His attention is solely on Thomas, a silent conversation happening between them which Bruce isn't privy to. "Of course," Jason says at last. "With God's help, I can guide your son to the truth." He turns to Bruce then. "Follow me, please."

"I don't think that–" Bruce protests.

Thomas interrupts him. "You don't have to do anything you don't feel comfortable with, Bruce. Father Todd just wants to show you more of our beliefs so that you can understand our world better." He places a hand on Bruce's shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. "Learning the difference might help you find your way back faster. Please, son, let us help."

Bruce swallows and exhales. "Alright," he agrees. It's hard to say no to Thomas when he speaks to Bruce like that. Please, son. And Thomas is right, Bruce needs to figure out how their two worlds differ if he wants to make it back.

He follows Jason out of the chapel back to the apse. They cross the church and stop at a narrow wooden door that opens onto a tight spiral staircase. Despite the small lights embedded in the walls, the stairs are dark, the weak yellowish glow barely enough to be able to see the steps.

Bruce isn't claustrophobic, but the space is so narrow he keeps brushing against the walls with his shoulders. With Jason in front and Thomas so close at his back, he feels trapped. Jason takes the stairs slowly, stopping every now and then to just breathe. The smell of blood and come wafts from him, a painful reminder the boy should be lying in bed tending his wounds.

The stairs lead to a small, spartan room in the middle of the bell tower. It's not much larger than a monk's cell. A narrow, barred window lets some light inside. There's a tiny kitchenette squeezed into the far left corner with two old electric burners on top. A small table at the center of the room and four uncomfortable looking chairs take up the rest of the space.

There are two doors on the right-hand wall. A wooden crucifix with a silver corpus, about a foot long, hangs between them. It's the only decoration in the otherwise bare room.

"Please, take a seat." Jason points at the chairs. "Tea?" he asks Thomas.

"Yes," Thomas answers at the same time Bruce says, "There's no need."

"Nonsense." Thomas dismisses Bruce's protest with a wave of his hand. "Didn't you say Pennyworth raised you? He must have taught you to appreciate tea."

Bruce's lips twitch. "Yes, he did." He picks the seat closest to the window and sits down. "Tea would be lovely."

Jason nods. He gets an old kettle from a cupboard, fills it with water and puts it on the stove.

Thomas sits down next to Bruce and remains quiet as they wait for the water to finish boiling. Bruce is thankful when the kettle finally whistles, interrupting the awkward silence. Jason pours the water into a teapot and dunks four tea bags in it, moving them up and down to speed up the steeping time. Bruce's Jason would never have done that.

"Do you live here?" he asks, when Jason brings the teapot over and starts pouring the dark tea into cups.

Bruce misses the books. Surely the church has some somewhere, but it's odd to be in a place any version of Jason lives in and not see a book anywhere. Even his Jason's most disposable safe houses have books lying around.

"Yes," Jason smiles, and sits down. "I like living close to the church. It makes everything easier."

The tea is a bitter blend with a citrusy aftertaste. It’s awful, but he sips at it anyway, glad to have something to occupy his hands with.

"You want to know why I let them use my body," Jason says. It's not a question.

Bruce blushes, suddenly realizing that he'd been staring at Jason's come crusted face with a displeased frown.

It's not like him to lose track of his expressions like that, but he can't help it. That's his son–a version of him–dressed like a priest and covered in the juices of dozens of men and women. He can't ignore that the way Thomas and Jason himself do.

"I... Yes," Bruce admits.

One corner of Jason's lips curve up. "New members always want to know."

Bruce isn't ever going to be a member of this church, but he wants to understand. His Jason... With his past, he'd have hated letting others use him like that.

"God's mercy is infinite. Me being here, alive, is proof of it. And yet, even those who believe in His mercy lie to Him." Jason pours more tea into Bruce's cup. "Not on purpose. They lie to God because they lie to themselves and believe in those lies.

"They can't lie when they're inside my body." Jason leans closer, his blue eyes bright with passion. "God granted me that gift. There's no hiding then. They give themselves to me, and I–with God's help–see into them."

Bruce can't stop looking at Jason's eyes. He'd forgotten that shade of blue. How could Bruce have forgotten the color of his son's eyes? Jason wets his lips and uses his teeth to scrape away a dried crust of come still clinging to them clean. He swallows and licks his lips again.

Bruce drinks the bitter tea to distract himself from that tongue.

"Everything they are is exposed," Jason continues hypnotically, as though he's weaving a spell. His Adam's apple bobbles up and down as he speaks, pressing against the white of the clerical collar. There's come there, too.

"Every desire, every thought, every sin. I see them all," Jason whispers. "They cannot hide from me, and they cannot hide from themselves. That's the path to redemption. Only those who admit their sins and ask God for forgiveness can be saved. There's no place in Heaven for liars."

Jason's hand closes over Bruce's on the table. Bruce startles, but Jason's fingers squeeze his hand, keeping it in place. "You are a man with many secrets, Bruce. May I call you, Bruce?"

"Yes," Bruce gasps out. "I... Everyone has secrets," he defends himself.

"Yes, everyone does," Jason agrees much too easily. His hand is unnaturally hot, burning against Bruce's skin. Is he running a fever? "But yours are bigger than most. Your secrets. Your regrets. You have plenty of those, too. Who do you share that burden with, Bruce?"

Bruce closes his eyes, a wave of exhaustion swamping him. "No one," he admits, chest tight with pain. Alfred is the one who comes closest, but only because he knows Bruce so well. Bruce has never willingly shared any of his fears or regrets with him.

"Doesn't it weigh on you, carrying that heavy burden all by yourself every single day of your life? No respite. No help." Jason's voice coils around Bruce's chest like a serpent, squeezing tighter and tighter.

The room spins around Bruce, and the only thing holding steady in all that chaos is Jason himself. "No man can travel a desert forever without water. It's all right to wish for a small respite. To wish for peace. Maybe just for a day. Don't you wish to be free of that burden for just one minute?"

"Yes." The word is yanked out of Bruce like a knife. It hurts. The wound was there before, killing him slowly, but somehow Bruce could still function. Now, with that knife gone, it's impossible to deny how deep the wound truly runs.

"I can help, if you let me," Jason offers. His lips brush against Bruce's cheek.

When did he move? Bruce sways as he tries to move away, dizzy.

"Easy now, son," Thomas whispers into Bruce's ear. His hands press on Bruce's shoulders, stopping him from standing up. "Just breathe."

"You look thirsty." Jason brings the cup of tea to Bruce's lips. "Have some more tea."

"I–" He is thirsty.

Jason tips the cup and Bruce swallows. The hot, bitter liquid travels down his throat, warming him. The room spins faster. Did Jason put something in the tea?

Bruce turns his head away, when Jason tips the cup once more, but Thomas stops him. His hands are firm and cold against Bruce's sweaty skin. "Drink, Bruce," Thomas orders, and Bruce obeys. "That's my good boy."

"I can bear some of that heavy burden, Bruce," Jason offers. "You don't have to do it alone. Let me help." He kisses Bruce's forehead.

The smell of blood and come is cloying, but instead of pulling away in disgust, Bruce leans closer, breathing it. Heat pools into his stomach and radiates in waves through his body down to his cock. "What's in the tea? What did you put in it?" This is... The sensation is vaguely familiar. Ivy's pollen... Bruce needs an antidote.

He needs...

"Hush," Jason whispers, and kisses Bruce's forehead. "It's scary at first. First times always are, but God is with you. He brought you to this world so that we could help you. Let us."

"I don't need help," Bruce slurs. "Let me go."

Thomas's grip stops Bruce from rising. "It's all right, son. I'm here. Daddy is here."

Jason tugs at the buttons of Bruce's shirt, slowly opening them while he laps softly at the exposed skin of Bruce's collarbone. The voice telling Bruce that this needs to stop fades. It's difficult to remember why this is wrong when his body shudders with pleasure.

"My precious boy," Thomas whispers. "Daddy's got you. I won't let anything bad happen to you."

That voice. It awakens so many long forgotten memories: Thomas holding Bruce's hand and smiling encouragingly at him, telling him to jump, to run faster, to be brave. "That's it, Bruce. I know you can do it. Daddy's here."

Bruce's head spins. He doesn't know what's the past and what's the present. It's a lie. It's all a lie. Thomas died in front of Bruce, leaving him alone. Alone and scared. He wasn't there to save him. Bruce had to learn how to save himself.

But his dad is here now, isn't he? He never left. Thomas is here.

"I don't feel good," Bruce protests.

"Hush, everything is fine. I'm here." Thomas's hands pull Bruce up from the chair and steadies him when his legs refuse to hold him. He helps Bruce unbutton Jason's cassock, when his fingers keep missing the tiny buttons.

Bruce wants the cassock gone. It's dirty. Jason shouldn't be wearing it. He... Jason isn't a priest. He is.... "You're my son," Bruce says. It's important that Jason knows.

"You're my son, Jason. I adopted you," Bruce explains. Why wouldn't Jason know that? "But I failed you, Jay-lad. I failed you."

"Your son," Thomas gasps. "Oh."

"It's all right, Bruce," Jason says. "It's fine." The cassock slips down his shoulders, leaving him naked, except for his forearms which are bandaged with the red silk of the stoles.

Right they ate Jason's flesh and drank his blood. They... "You're hurt," Bruce says. "They hurt you."

"Father Todd is a holy man," Thomas says. "His destiny is to suffer so that others can be saved. He's a martyr."

Calloused hands tug Bruce's fly open and Bruce frowns. Those are his hands. How can that be? He places his hands on top of them to stop them. They are the exact same hands: the shape and form of the fingers, the width of the palm, even the half-moons on the finger nails are the same.

"We have the same hands," Bruce says, surprised. He hadn't known that he had his father's hands.

Thomas smiles at him. "We do." Bruce's cock is only half hard, when Thomas pulls it out.

Mesmerized, Bruce watches as hands that are his and yet not, stroke him to hardness. The image is so familiar, but the sensations are different. Bruce can't anticipate what Thomas will do and the feedback loop of feeling his own cock is missing. It's not really his hand, but his father's.

Bruce moans and pants, pushing his hips against the incredible sensation. He needs more of it. Jason's mouth covers his, swallowing Bruce's noises, his tongue dancing across Bruce's. His father touching him and his son kissing him.

Bruce pulls away. "This isn't right." He doesn't remember why. It feels so good. So perfect. They fit together so well. How could this be wrong? They are a family. They are meant to be together. They are meant to...

Bruce pushes Jason against the small table and lifts Jason's legs over his shoulders. They aren't as strong as they should be. This Jason isn't a fighter. Right, he's a priest.

Jason hisses when his back hits the hard wooden table, and Bruce forces him back down on it, when he tries to move away. "You aren't my Jason," he says, feeling betrayed. "My Jason isn't a priest."

"Father Todd is my Jason, but you can make him yours. Everything I own is yours by right, son." Thomas pushes Bruce forward, his chest pressing into Bruce's back, and his hands guide the tip of Bruce's cock into the waiting, loosened hole of the priest.

The puffy, red rim stretches easily around Bruce's cock. The flesh is swollen and hot, but it opens for Bruce's cock as if it was made to take it.

"It is meant to take it," Thomas says darkly, startling Bruce. Did Bruce speak out loud?

"Father Todd was a dirty street whore before he died the first time, willing to spread his legs for anyone with a dollar to spare, isn't that so, Father?" Thomas shoves Bruce's hips forward.

"Yes," he answers, squeezing his ass around Bruce's cock. "God cleansed my soul of sin and sent me back... so that I... ah... could help others."

Bruce shudders, hips stuttering. He sounds so much like Bruce's Jason.

He is Jason. Bruce is fucking his son. A possessive wave of desire shoots through him. Bruce thrusts harder, grabbing Jason's hips and pulling him closer. A mix of lube and come sloshes out of Jason's ass when Bruce buries himself balls deep, dripping out of his hole and drenching Bruce's dark pubic hair with a wet squelching sound.

"I believe my Jason was a whore, too." The words spill out of Bruce's mouth without him meaning to. Bruce had never shared that suspicion with anyone, not even Alfred, but he remembers the way Jason flinched away from him as a child. Jason's compassion towards sex workers, his hatred of those that abused them, all of it had confirmed Bruce's suspicions. Bruce had never out right asked, but deep down he'd always known.

"You hear that, Father Todd?" Thomas says in a harsh, dark voice. His fingers push into Jason's stretched hole alongside Bruce's cock. "No matter the universe, you're a whore everywhere you exist."

Jason keens, a little broken sound that gets to Bruce's heart. He shakes his head from side to side in denial, and his hands open and close uselessly.

Bruce caresses Jason's rib cage soothingly, wanting to ease some of the despair visible on his face. "I tried to save him, my Jason." He pulls out slowly, watching the way Jason's rim clings to his cock.

Bruce's length is covered in other men's come. "I tried to save him," Bruce repeats angrily. Pain and rage war inside of him. At this Jason, or at his? There's no difference. He rams his cock back into the priest's waiting, hungry hole.

The tight clutch of the hot, swollen skin gripping his cock like a vice whites out his mind. Bruce does it again, and again, and again, thrusting harder and faster. It feels great. It's better than thinking, than remembering.

An oasis of pleasure when everything inside Bruce is drawn in pain and despair. "I gave him a home. Shelter. A home. Love!" He rams his cock with every word, rocking the small table with the force of it. "I tried to save him!"

The priest yelps out a choked sob and clenches around Bruce's cock, meeting his every thrust, milking these little confessions out of him.

"I loved him like a son," Bruce admits. "More than..." He wants to keep that secret to himself but it spills out too. "More than any of the others. I never let myself love any of the others as much." The pleasure grows inside of him, clouding his mind and judgment. It's so easy to say it out loud, all these secrets he's locked inside himself for years.

The priest is just there to be used, to be fucked, a piece of flesh, a hole that was made to swallow all of Bruce's confessions the same way it swallows Bruce's cock.

"I made him my Robin. I taught him to fight and defend himself. I adopted him." Bruce's voice breaks and tears well in his eyes. "I made him my son. He was my son. I gave him everything. Everything! And he still ran away from me. He ran away and I couldn't protect him. He was killed. He died! My son died!"

Bruce rams his hips into the priest, a hurricane of anger raging inside his chest, ripping its way out. There's so much pain in him, so much rage. At himself, at the world, at Jason. It's cathartic to let it out, let it all out.

Bruce slams it all into that fucked out hole, and the words spill from his lips. "He left me! He disobeyed! And he died! The Joker beat him to death with a crowbar, and he died choking on smoke and his own blood, unable to breathe, in pain and alone. Terrified. He died, and I couldn't protect him. I failed him! He died because I failed him. It was my fault. I got him killed. I got my son killed. I killed my son!"

Bruce is crying and coming, burying himself as deep as he can into the priest's body, wanting to disappear into him. Tears run down his face, the tears that he never let himself shed the first time Jason died, because it was easier to blame the Joker, to blame the world, to blame Jason than it was to admit the truth.

"It was my fault," Bruce sobs and spasms as he comes, the orgasm so intense he blacks out.

He comes back to himself with his face half-pressed into Thomas's neck and his father holding him close, his strong arms hugging Bruce protectively.

"Oh, my darling boy," Thomas whispers against Bruce's hair, "I'm so sorry, my boy. No one should have to bury a son. Of all the things I wanted to share with you, that was never one. No one deserves to carry such pain, but I understand you, Bruce. I understand how deep the guilt runs. I understand the helplessness. I understand you, my boy, and I'm here now."

Bruce buries his face into his father's chest and cries. It's as though he's seven years old again and still believes that Thomas has the power to keep the monsters at bay and make everything right.

"Hush, my boy," his father says, and kisses Bruce's sweaty brow. "Let Father Todd speak your penance. I know how much it hurts, Bruce, but if you repent, God will forgive you, too, as he forgave me."

"I don't deserve forgiveness," Bruce says in a hollowed out voice.

"Everyone deserves forgiveness," the priest says. Jason. It's Jason. He's sitting on the table, thighs spread, Bruce's fresh come dribbling out of his hole onto the wood. With his fingers, he takes the come leaking out and brings it to his mouth, savoring it. He'd drunk the come from the chalice, too, before he gave the man his penance.

"God forgives all sins," Jason says, "but you must atone first."

Bruce's heart races, and his ears pound with it. Bruce leans forward desperately. He wants to touch Jason, but can't bring himself to do it, too afraid he might do or say something that will destroy this moment. Jason is telling him that Bruce can be forgiven.

"I'd do anything," Bruce says, even as despair drowns him, "but it's impossible. Nothing would be enough."

"There is always a way," Jason insists and moves forward, enough that he can cup Bruce's face in his hands. His blue eyes shine with a faith so deep that Bruce can almost taste it. "If you are willing to walk it."

Bruce wants to believe him. "What could possibly be enough?" If this Jason tells him to kill the Joker... But this Jason is a priest, he wouldn't–

"You have to die, Bruce." Jason's voice cuts like a knife, shredding Bruce's heart. "You have to feel the crowbar shattering your bones over and over again, until they're broken beyond repair. You have to learn what it's like to have the life beaten out of you, knowing that no one will come to save you. You have to die like your son died, choking on your blood, trying to breathe one more time and unable to. Die like he did, in pain and terrified. Only then will God truly forgive you."

Bruce trembles and shakes his head. Jason looks back at him harshly. There's no mercy in that gaze, only determination.

"I can't," Bruce says, "That's not... I can't do it. There has to be another way."

"There is no other way," Jason says. "And deep down you know it, too."

"No," Bruce pleads.

"I'll help you, son." Thomas's arms squeeze reassuringly around Bruce. "I'll help you atone and be forgiven. God's mercy is infinite but you must pay for your sins first, Bruce. As I did, as everyone does. Your son died because of you." Thomas's words are like a punch.

Bruce can't hide from them. There's no more hiding now. He’s told them the truth. The guilt that has been eating at him for years. There's no taking it back. Jason died because of Bruce.

"You must pay, Bruce," Thomas insists.

Bruce shakes his head, trying to clear it. The room is spinning again, or maybe it never stopped spinning. Trying to think is like treading water in a hurricane. No matter how hard he tries, he can't escape his fate.

They are right, and Bruce knows it.

Jason watches him mercilessly. Bruce can't stand the intensity and coldness in those blue eyes. The eyes of his son. The eyes of the boy he let die. The eyes of the boy he killed.

Bruce needs to pay.

Chapter Text

Bruce's mouth fills with sour, bitter bile and his head keeps spinning. Jason's eyes bore into him. One last confession rips its way out of the darkest part of Bruce's soul. "I don't want to die." He's shaking, and if it weren't for Thomas hugging him, he'd fall apart at Jason's feet, begging for a forgiveness he doesn't want to pay for.

"I did want to die," Thomas says in a low voice, and his arms tighten around Bruce. "I held your broken body in my arms. The bullet had pierced your tiny skull. Blood was everywhere. Yours and Martha's. Years studying medicine, decades saving other peoples' children, other people's lives, and I couldn't save the ones that mattered to me the most."

Thomas kisses the top of Bruce's hair and breathes in. He turns Bruce's head with a gentle hand. There's so much pain on his face, a mirror of Bruce's own. "I couldn't save you, Bruce," Thomas says and his voice breaks. "I couldn't save you, and I wanted nothing more than to die there with you. A part of me did." His hand brushes the sweaty bangs from Bruce's forehead away. "Didn't you want to die the day your son died, too? Didn't the pain of losing him kill something in you that's still dead today?"

"Yes," Bruce says. Another confession. His mind shies away from remembering, the pain of holding Jason's broken, dead body in his arms is too much to bear even after all these years. "Yes."

"If you want forgiveness," Jasons says from right behind Bruce, "what started that day needs to end today. Here, take it."

Cold metal presses into Bruce's hand, and he jerks away when he sees the crowbar. Where did Jason find it? It falls to the floor with a loud clattering. Jason kneels down and picks it up. "Take it," he insists, pushing its handle into Bruce's numb fingers.

Bruce shakes his head, trying to move away, but Thomas is behind him. "No. No!"

"Hush," Thomas whispers. "It's all right." He closes Bruce's hand around the crowbar and keeps his own hand on top. "It's all right, Bruce. You don't need to be afraid. I'll hold your hand. Do you remember the first time you rode your bike? How scared you were? I held your hand the whole time until you could do it alone. Do you remember?"

Bruce does. This isn't the same.

"This is the same," Thomas cajoles him. "We'll do it together. I won't let go." His fingers squeeze Bruce's reassuringly and he helps Bruce stand up.

Jason is kneeling in front of them, still completely naked. His blue eyes watch Bruce without fear. "Atone and repent, and God shall forgive your sins," he says.

"Amen," Thomas replies. Then, he pulls Bruce's arm up.

Thomas's hold around Bruce's hand is like a vice. Like moving in slow motion, the arm with the crowbar rises painstakingly slowly, while everything in Bruce screams in despair. He wants to let go of the metal bar, but Thomas's grip is too strong. He wants to fight, to step away, but he's paralyzed, trapped between Thomas's body and Jason's expectant, waiting face.

This is Bruce's nightmare, his nightmare, unfolding in front of him. How many nights did he dream of this? How many times did he wake up drenched in sweat, shaking, tortured by the memory of Jason's horrible death.

The crowbar slams into Jason's upper arm and Jason loses his balance under the impact. There's a scream, loud and piercing.

It's not Jason's. The scream is Bruce wailing, "No!"

"Hush, hush, son. It's alright. It's alright. You did so well," Thomas whispers comfortingly, holding Bruce tighter.

Jason rights himself, coming back to that perfect kneel. When his blue eyes settle on Bruce's they are calm. There's no anger there, no condemnation.

"May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ," Jason prays with a clear voice, "through the grace and mercies of His love for humankind, forgive you all your transgressions. As He suffered for our sins, so I, too, an unworthy priest, suffer for yours. Let my pain cleanse your soul. Let my sacrifice wash away your sins."

"Amen," Thomas says, and guides Bruce's arm up.

The crowbar falls again. This time on Jason's other arm. The muffled sound of a broken bone. A red, angry welt is already forming Jason's other arm, where the crowbar hit first.

"May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ," Jason repeats his litany.

"This is wrong," Bruce cries, hating the words that fall from Jason's mouth. "It's all wrong. It should be me. You're my son. You're my son."

Jason ignores him, finishing his prayer as though Bruce hasn't spoken. "Let my pain cleanse your soul. Let my sacrifice wash away your sins."

"Amen," Thomas says.

Bruce struggles this time, when Thomas brings the crowbar up. "Please, no! No more! I'm the one who has to be punished. I'm the one. Not him."

"This is punishment." Thomas's voice is sharp, brooking no arguments. "Of course it'd be easier to suffer instead of him. That's what you want, but punishment is not meant to be easy. It's meant to hurt. It's meant to cleanse. You have an infected wound in your soul, son. The infection needs to be scraped away. Of course it hurts, Bruce, but you must endure it."

"But it should be me atoning," Bruce protests.

"And you are atoning," Thomas insists. The crowbar falls again, hitting against the side of Jason's head. The skin of his temple breaks and blood sprays out.

Jason sways on his knees and struggles to right himself. The words are slurred he speaks. "You want to… You want to be… the one to suffer. For that alone it needs… needs to be me." He sways again and catches himself with one hand. "This isn't… isn't about what you want but what you must endure." At last, he manages to kneel up once more. His voice becomes firmer. "As God suffered for our sins, so I, too, willingly suffer for yours. Let my pain cleanse your soul. Let my sacrifice wash away your sins."

"Amen," Thomas says, and lifts Bruce's arm again.

The crowbar falls, metal hitting the other side of Jason's face, shattering his cheekbone. Jason crumbles to the floor and it takes him two tries to straighten up again. He tries to speak and coughs blood instead. Two teeth fall to the floor followed in a mess of red blood and spit.

"As God suffered for our sins," Jason says, still swaying slightly. The words are mumbled and less clear. "So I, too, willingly suffer for yours. Let my pain–"

The crowbar slams into him before Jason can finish that horrible prayer. Jason stumbles and tries to go on anyway, "... cleanse your soul." Another harder hit. Jasons still tries to finish, "...Let my sacrifice–"

The crowbar slams into him. The blood hits Bruce's face, coppery and bitter on his tongue. Jason tries to come back to his knees, opening his mouth to say, "...cleanse–"

He can't finish. The blows fall faster and faster. Jason's collarbone breaks and pieces of shattered bone tear through his skin. Another hit dislocates the bones of his jaw and more teeth fall out, but he still keeps trying to say those hated words, even though his body refuses to obey him.

The crowbar hits him, again and again, shredding the skin, shattering bones and organs until Jason stops trying to kneel back up, trying to move, trying to speak. He lies at Bruce's feet, twitching and spasming, silent at last. He can't ask for Bruce's forgiveness anymore. Bruce doesn't deserve it.

"Look at you, Bruce, look at you," Thomas says, his voice coming from so far away.

Bruce turns to look at him, and realizes that Thomas isn't standing next to Bruce anymore. He isn't holding Bruce's hand any longer. He hasn't been for a while. Bruce... Bruce has been doing it alone.

The bloodied crowbar falls from Bruce's suddenly numb fingers. Pieces of skin still cling to it. Slowly, Bruce turns back, horrified. He knows what he'll see but he prays that it won't be there.

Jason's dying body lies on the floor, his broken, caved-in chest, barely moving. There's blood everywhere. The tiny, spartan room is drenched in it. And Jason is... he's dying. His son is dying.

It wasn't the Joker who did that. It wasn't even Thomas who did it. It was Bruce. He recalls Thomas letting go of his hand a while ago. When was it? After the third blow or the fourth? How many times had Bruce hit Jason himself? Dozens? Hundreds?

He did this. Bruce did this!

"Jason, oh, god, Jason." Bruce falls to his knees next to Jason and gathers his son's broken body into his arms. It's the same nightmare from Ethiopia. The same.

Jason's still breathing, just barely there, and fresh blood spills from his mouth as he breathes out.

"Jay-lad," Bruce cries, tears running down his face. "Please, Jay-lad, please." He rocks his son's body softly back and forth. The pain is too much to bear. No one should go through this twice.

Jason raises a bloody hand and clasps Bruce's weakly. He tries to speak, but more blood spills out as he does.

"Hush, it's alright. It's gonna be alright," Bruce lies, rocking him.

"L-let..." Jason stutters, and more blood spills from his mouth, "s.. fice... away..."

"Shut up! Shut up!" Bruce snarls, feeling trapped, cornered.

"...sins..." Jason still keeps trying to mumble.

"Amen," Thomas says, kneeling next to Bruce. He takes Bruce's hand once more among his and places Bruce's broad fingers around Jason's fragile throat. "You need to finish it, son. Finish it."

Bruce looks up into Thomas's face and sees only determination. "L...l-t my...sa..." Jason is trying to speak once more. And Bruce can't stand it.

He can't stand it.

Bruce squeezes that fragile throat. One of Jason's eyes manages to open a bit, despite the swelling, and Bruce watches the clear blue become glassy as Jason tries and fails to breathe, choking under Bruce's hand.

"Amen," Thomas says, using this hand to close Jason's eyelid.

Chapter Text

Bruce wails, the pain needing to get out somehow. He kisses Jason's lifeless face, mindless of the blood, and cradles his broken body.

He chokes on his tears and regrets, unable to breathe. He'd been scared of dying before, but he craves it now. Death is the answer. No one can be asked to bear this much pain and live. The despair brings everything into sharp clarity. Bruce needs to end it all.

"It's all right, my boy." Thomas's arms come around Bruce and rock him. "Let it all out. It had to happen. This is atonement. It's meant to hurt. You have to feel the regret down to the marrow of your bones or God will know it for a lie."

Bruce cries until he has no more tears left. He cries for Jason and for himself. He cries for all his children. For all those times when Bruce should have been there for them, and he failed them instead. He cries until there's nothing left in him: no tears and no pain.

His heart is a hollow, bottomless abyss. There's a void where his soul should be. Bruce doesn't feel human. He doesn't feel alive. He feels nothing. He might as well already be dead.

Father Todd had been right. By killing Jason, Bruce killed himself, too. This is his penance, to continue his miserable existence for decades on end knowing that he's already died.

"You are forgiven," Jason's voice says. "God forgives you."

Bruce's heartbeat races and he pulls back and looks down at.... Jason is alive. His eyes are open, both of them, as blue and sharp as before. His face is covered in blood and pieces of brain matter are clearly visible on his hair, but his skull isn't caved in any more. The places where the crowbar shattered the bones of his jaw and cheeks are whole.

With trembling fingers Bruce touches Jason's face. Beneath the blood and gore, the skin is intact, not even bruised or swollen. "You're alive," Bruce gasps, unable to believe it. His hand goes to Jason's chest. There's a heartbeat there, steady and loud, pulsing strongly beneath Bruce's fingers. His ribs are no longer visible.

"How?" Bruce asks. "How is that possible?" There was no Talia here. No Lazarus Pit. Jason shouldn't be alive. "You died! I saw you die. I felt you die. I killed you!"

Jason caresses Bruce's cheek with the back of his fingers. There's no condemnation in his gaze. No fear. No hate. No blame. "You didn't kill me," Jason says. "You killed your guilt, your sins. You opened yourself to God. You fulfilled your penance and He, in His eternal mercy, forgives you. You are forgiven, Bruce."

You are forgiven.

Jason saying those words to Bruce. It doesn't matter that this isn't Bruce's Jason. The words are still a balm.

Jason is alive once more. Alive in Bruce's arms. He has forgiven Bruce even though Bruce... Jason is alive.

It's a miracle.

Bruce thought he'd ran out of tears before, but there are so many more. Tears of gratitude and joy. Tears of happiness.

"Thank you, Father," Bruce says fervently. "Thank you! Thank you!"

Jason pats Bruce's head, pulling him closer, holding him while Bruce falls apart once more under the onslaught of emotion. "God is with you now. His mercy shines upon you."

"Amen," Thomas says, and his hands join Jason's.

The two of them hold him close, protecting him from the world. Bruce feels safe. At peace.

"Amen," Bruce echoes. The word is hope and promise. To Jason. To Thomas. To their God. This God of theirs, who witnessed Bruce's darkest deed and granted him forgiveness anyway.

Softly, Thomas drags Bruce's head away from Jason's neck. He cleans the blood smearing Jason's face and brings red-stained fingers to Bruce's lips. "The Blood of Christ," he chants.

"Amen," Bruce says.

Bruce opens his mouth and laps at his father’s fingers until they’re clean. It's Jason's blood. The blood Bruce himself spilled. It tastes like Jason. The blood of his son. The Blood of Christ.

He craves more of it. Bruce leans down and kisses Jason's face, again and again, licking the blood still clinging to his face.

He's careful, oh so careful. The last thing he wants is for Jason to hurt on Bruce's account. Never again. Underneath his tongue, Jason's skin is soft and unblemished, as perfect and soft as a newborn's.

"You've been healed," he says in wonder. Of course. Jason is alive again, alive after Bruce killed him. And yet, every inch of new, unblemished skin is a revelation. Another miracle Bruce is blessed enough to witness. Proof that Jason is alive. Proof that Jason has forgiven him.

"God is merciful to us all," Jason whispers.

"Father Todd's work on Earth isn't finished yet." Thomas and Jason stare at each other, Bruce is still held safely between them, but he might as well not be there. "He sent you back to us again. To me. Isn't that right, Father."

Jason leans forward as if pulled by a magnet. He and Thomas are just inches apart. "There's still work to do, yes. I shall continue to serve God until the day He allows me to finally rest."

"Good," Thomas says. "I'm glad you haven't forgotten. Your purpose is to guide sinners to salvation, but my purpose is to help you stay on the path God chose for you. Fear not, Father, for as long as I live, I will never let you stray."

Jason lets his forehead rest on Thomas's. "I know, Lord Wayne," he whispers, "and for that I thank you."

They break apart, and Thomas's eyes land on Bruce. His expression softens immediately. "The flesh is weak," Thomas explains. "Sometimes Father Todd needs help, too." Thomas rises up and holds out his hand.

Bruce glances at Jason, unsure of what to do. Jason takes Thomas's hand and stands up slowly. He sways, but Thomas is there immediately, supporting him until he finds his legs.

The two of them bring their joined hands towards Bruce in a silent offer. Bruce eyes them warily, but in the end takes them, letting himself be pulled up.

"Will you help me clean the Father?" Thomas asks.

It takes Bruce a moment to reply, still reeling from the rollercoaster of emotions that ran through him: disgust, guilt, rage, pain, and finally the addicting high of forgiveness.

"Yes." How can the answer be anything but yes?

Thomas opens one of the doors on the right-hand wall and turns on the light switch. It's a small, cramped bathroom that barely qualifies as a broom closet. There's not even a window in it. It looks more like a moderately sized shower stall that somehow happens to hold a toilet and a small wash basin.

"Take off the Father's bandages," Thomas orders, pointing at the red silk stoles Tim and the other boy had put on his forearms. "We need to clean him."

Slowly, Bruce peels the red material away, mindful of the damage. However, when the final layer comes undone, to Bruce utter amazement, those wounds are gone too. Jason's forearms are covered in scabs, but the skin underneath has been healed.

"The wounds are gone," Bruce whispers, amazed. He walks around Jason, letting his fingers trail over the muscles of his back. The bruises and lash marks, the cuts and lacerations, they are all gone as if they were never there.

"Yes," Thomas says. "The Father takes our sins on his flesh and carries them to God. He takes the sins away and returns Father Todd to us healed."

Bruce helps Jason cross the room, towards the small bathroom. Thomas is waiting there with a thick black hose in his hand. "His flesh has been healed, but it still needs to be cleaned before morning mass."

Jason gets into the bathroom and squeezes himself against the far corner. He's trembling slightly. Thomas points the hose at Jason and tells Bruce, "Pull the lever of the faucet as far as it goes."

Water gushes out of the hose and slams into Jason, making him stumble. Bruce tries to close the lever slightly but Thomas barks, "Leave it as it is. Father Todd needs a thorough cleaning."

The force of the stream pushes Jason against the tiles, forcing him to brace himself against them to keep from falling. The pressure of the water washes away the grime and dried fluids clinging to Jason's skin. A couple of times, Jason falters, losing his footing under the savage pressure, but Thomas is relentless, chasing him down with the water, aiming the brutal stream against his face, stomach and legs.

"Hands off! Up on the wall where I can see them," Thomas snaps, when Jason tries to protect the soft tissue of his groin. "God might have cleansed your soul and healed your wounds, but your body is a filthy mess. It needs to be clean, too. You know this."

Jason shakes his head and whimpers, but he raises his arms up and closes his eyes. "Yes, Lord Wayne," he agrees miserably.

Thomas aims the stream directly at Jason's cock and balls and ignores the scream it rips out. The skin ripples under the pressure and Bruce has to fight the instinctive desire to cross his own legs in sympathy pain. And yet, Jason bears it, he whimpers and closes his eyes, shaking with his whole body, but his hands never leave the tiles, obediently up where Thomas told him to put them.

When Thomas is satisfied, he lowers the hose and orders, "Turn around."

Jason turnen on shaky legs, bracing himself against the wall. The water hits his back and legs full force, and Bruce watches fascinated as the grime and blood disappears leaving behind pink, smooth skin.

Thomas signals Bruce to cut off the water and Bruce leaps to do it, glad that it's finally over. Jason's visibly shaking, but he doesn't leave his position on the wall. Instead, he spreads his legs wider apart and pushes his ass out towards them. Pressing his forehead against the tiles for support he awkwardly spreads his ass open, presenting the pucker of his asshole to them.

Reluctantly, Bruce opens the faucet when Thomas orders him to do it. "All the way," Thomas says, when Bruce stops, but Bruce shakes his head, glaring at Thomas defiantly.

Thomas rolls his eyes and snorts, but lets it slide. He steps closer and aims the water directly at Jason's hole. Jason jumps, but doesn't let go, just spreads his asscheeks wider.

"Come see," Thomas tells Bruce, beckoning him closer. He lowers the hose slightly and aims the water at Jason's taint and balls. He takes Bruce's hand and guides his forefinger to Jason's hole. There's barely any give. The pucker is tight and small. Bruce's finger looks huge against the tiny, furrowed hole. "As good as new."

Thomas's thumb joins Bruce's forefinger, pressing against Jason's hole teasingly. "Looking at it, no one could believe the good Father took over a hundred cocks in last Sunday’s mass." He sounds wistful. "You should have seen him by the end. This same hole was gaping and red, insides peeking out like a flower, his belly visibly swollen with the come inside him."

Thomas ruffles Jason's wet hair fondly. Jason doesn't speak, shaking underneath them. His toes curl against the wet floor of the shower and the fingers of his hands dig painfully into the flesh of his ass as he shifts, trying to get away from the water hitting his balls, only to force himself back into position and taking it.

"He was delirious by the end," Thomas reminisces. "He begged us to send him to God with tears on his face, so we filled chalice after chalice with the Blood of Christ until the Father ran dry. Over hundred believers and they all partook.

"We knelt and prayed while we waited for God to send Father Todd back to us, and He did."

Thomas pushes his thumb over Jason's hole and presses in, forcing the thick digit past the tight entrance. When he pulls his thumb free, it comes out stained with white and pink fluids.

"See." Thomas shows his thumb to Bruce, grimacing in disgust. "His body might be that of a virgin, but that hole of his is as dirty as it gets. A thorough cleaning is essential. It'd be negligent to let Father Todd's body stew in sinners' fluids after God was merciful enough to clean the stains from his soul."

Thomas aims the hose back up. He presses its tip against the puckered hole and shoves it in, ignoring Jason's sobs. Then, before Bruce can stop him, he pulls the lever of the faucet as far as it goes.

Jason screams and thrashes, but Thomas must have been expecting it. He holds Jason's head down, trapping him in place. Jason's belly expands and grows as the water rushes into him.

"Please, please, please," Jason begs, crying. "It hurts."

"I know, Father, but pain is part of your atonement." Thomas closes the faucet when Jason's belly seems as if it's going to explode. He looks as though he's six months pregnant, the flesh of his belly stretched thin and taut.

"You see, Bruce," Thomas says conversationally, keeping the hose in place, even though the water is no longer rushing into Jason. "Father Todd is a man of God, sworn to forgo all pleasures of the flesh, but deep down he's still the same dirty whore who died in Crime Alley with a cock down his throat. And as long as the good Father enjoys being used by sinners, God will keep sending him back until His work on this Earth is done."

"Isn't that so, Father?" Thomas pulls Jason's head back, yanking at the wet strands of hair.

"Yes," Jason sobs. "God have mercy on my soul! Yes."

Thomas yanks the hose out and the water rushes out of Jason, stained with blood and the come of all the men who fucked him that day. Bruce's come is in there, too. With sick fascination, Bruce watches as the dirty water runs down Jason's legs and disappears down the drain.

Thomas opens the faucet once more and hoses Jason's legs clean, washing away the dirty water. He closes the faucet and lets the hose fall to the floor.

"Turn around," he orders.

Jason hesitates. He closes his legs and straightens slowly. He turns around, head lowered. His hands twitch against his thighs as though he's trying to stop himself from covering his half-hard cock.

Thomas tsks disapprovingly. "Really, Father, I thought you were over this."

"I'm sorry." Jason's cheeks are pink with embarrassment still refusing to meet their eyes. "I tried, but–"

"I don't need your excuses, Father," Thomas snaps. "We both know your shortcomings." He grabs Jason's chin and forces his head up. "You help others find their way to salvation by carrying their sins in your body, but your soul is mine to save. I will rip away every lewd sinful thought out of you, if it's the last thing I do."

Tears well in Jason's eyes. "Thank you, Lord Wayne, for your patience with me. Thank you! I will do better."

"Yes, you will!" Thomas snarls. "Get in position. You will spend the night in contemplation so that your thoughts are pure for tomorrow's morning mass."

"Yes, Lord Wayne," Jason whispers. Still wet and shivering, Jason walks outside of the bathroom and kneels in the small living room, next to the pool of blood left behind by his death. He places his hands on his thighs, lowers his head and waits.

Thomas moves to stand between Jason’s spread knees and pulls his cock free from his slacks quickly stroking himself to full hardness. He's methodical about it, as though this is just a bothersome task to him. He grabs Jason's head and pushes into his mouth in one harsh thrust all the way down Jason's throat.

His hips snap forward again and again. There's no finesse to it, not built-up, no mercy. Thomas uses Jason like a rag doll. He thrusts his cock down Jason's throat, fucking his face as deep as he can go, pulling almost all the way out, granting Jason barely enough time to breathe, only to shove his cock back in brutally, setting a vicious, ruthless pace.

It doesn't take long before Thomas's pace falters. He thrusts one last time, forcing Jason's face closer to him, as though he wants to disappear down his throat and stills, clutching Jason's wet hair. "Swallow it, Father!" He stays like that for a moment until Jason starts shaking, unable to breathe.

Thomas pulls out slowly and tucks his softening cock away. "Once a whore, always a whore," he tsks.

He's right. Despite the tears running down his face and his little hiccuped sobs, Jason's rock hard. Harder than he was before. His cock is straining against his belly, clear beads of precome gathering at the tip.

"You will spend the night praying, Father," Thomas says, "the taste of my come in your mouth, so that you remember where you come from while you ask God to deliver you from temptation."

"Yes, Lord Wayne," Jason says meekly.

Thomas levels a stony glare at Jason. "We will have to make sure you don't touch yourself." He turns to Bruce. "There's some rope in the bottom of that cabinet over there. Bring it."

"I–" Bruce starts to protest, but Thomas cuts him off.

"The Father helped you find forgiveness, Bruce," Thomas says. "Don't you want to help him find his way to salvation, too? He might not be your Jason, but surely you want him to succeed."

Bruce opens the cabinet and finds a black rope coiled there. He picks it up and brings it to Thomas.

"Hands," Thomas tells the kneeling Jason.

Immediately, Jason presses his palms together in front of himself and raises them above his head.

"Tie Father Todd's wrists and forearms all the way to his elbows," Thomas says, stepping away to give Bruce room to work. "Tighter," he corrects, and pulls the rope tighter, before handing it back to Bruce. "Loop the end around his neck and make a noose. If he tries to lower his hands, the nose should tighten and choke him."

"But if he..."

"The point is to help him resist the temptations of the flesh," Thomas explains patiently. "If he chokes himself trying to find release, God will send him to us once more. Death isn't an escape. Father Todd knows it, isn't that so, Father?"

"Yes, Lord Wayne," Jason agrees.

Thomas sighs when Bruce's hesitates and takes the rope, tying it around Jason's neck and tightening the noose until Jason's gasps, straining to breathe. "There, that should do the trick," he says.

Thomas steps aside and opens a drawer in the kitchen pulling out two thick pillar candles. As soon as he comes back, Jason spreads his hands open. Thomas lights the candles and tilts them, waiting for the wax to start melting. After a brief moment, white drops of wax start to fall steadily into Jason's open palms.

Jason twitches slightly and tries to move his hands away on instinct, but the noose tightens and he stills.

Thomas places the lit candles on the open palms of Jason's hands and waits for the wax to cool down, fixing the candles into place, before he lets go.

Jason looks like a living chandelier. His wet, dark hair clings to his face and the beads of water on his skin gleam, illuminated by the dancing candlelight. His cock is red and hard, still straining against his lower belly. With the lit candles held in his hands he looks both holy and debauched. Otherworldly.

Thomas pulls down the wooden crucifix hanging over the wall and lowers himself behind Jason. "Steady now, Father Todd," he warns. "Don't let the candles drop to the floor."

The crucifix is large. The longer part of the cross is almost as thick as Thomas's wrists. Bruce's eyes widen when Thomas brings the thick, square wood to Jason's hole.

"What are you doing?" he gasps.

"Father Todd enjoys the touch of sinners a bit too much," Thomas explains. "It's my hope that using a crucifix, the representation of God's suffering, to breach his virgin asshole will teach him some measure of control."

He shoves the handle of the crucifix into Jason in one harsh thrust, and Jason's screams. The candles tip perilously and wax spills falling down his hands and forearms. Bruce moves to steady Jason, helping him to right himself up.

Thomas has rammed the crucifix all the way into Jason. Only the crosspiece with Christ's outstretched arms and head is still visible. A trail of blood from Jason's torn asshole drips down the cross onto Jesus' head.

"He's bleeding," Bruce protests, glaring at Thomas accusingly.

Thomas laughs meanly. "The point is to help Father Todd stop enjoying carnal pleasure. If I were to finger him open with lube, he would come on the spot. He's a whore, Bruce. Despite all God has done for him, he's still just a dirty Crime Alley whore. Look! Look!"

Jason's cock is still hard. It hasn't flagged at all, despite the abuse. It twitches eagerly under their gaze as if begging for attention.

"Tell him the truth, Father," Thomas says. "My son doesn't know you like I do. Tell him."

"Lord Wayne is right," Jason sobs. His hole clenches around the crucifix as he shifts and more blood trails out. "I enjoy it. Everything they do to me, no matter how much it hurts, I still enjoy it." He's crying. "God owns my soul, but the Devil has my body. If it weren't for Lord Wayne's mercy and persistence I'd have succumbed to him long ago."

"Hush," Thomas says, and pets Jason's hair, placing a kiss on the top of his head. "I'm here for you. I will not let the Devil take you. Tonight, you're to stay here, just like this, praying for strength. One day, you will be strong enough to resist temptation and God will allow you to finally rest at His side." He cusps Jason's head lovingly. "Until then, there are many souls that need your guidance."

Jason closes his eyes. "Yes, Lord Wayne," he whispers, before he starts mumbling the words of a Pater Nostrum.

Thomas pets his hair once more and then stands, pulling Bruce after him. They leave the room, and Thomas turns off the lights and closes the door behind them. Jason is left alone in the shimmering twilight with only the candles to provide light during the night, and whatever solace his prayers will bring him.

They descend the stairs back to the nave of the church. As they walk, Thomas tells Bruce, "I hope you're still here on Sunday. We're expecting over two hundred members to come to mass. A new record. Father Todd might have to take two confessions at the same time, or we will never finish before sunset. I'm sure the Father will love the suggestion. He tries to deny it, but the good Father is never happier than when he's stuffed with the big fat cock of a sinner. You should see the videos."

"The videos?" Bruce asks.

"When I first found him, he truly believed that God sent him back to earth to be a normal priest. He even claimed he'd been a virgin when he died the first time. A likely story," Thomas snorts. "It took months, but I finally managed to pull the truth out of him. Lying little whore. After that, it was just a matter of time before he understood and accepted his calling. I filmed his training. I've never shared the videos with anyone, but you are my son. And you have your own Jason, don't you? God sent him back to you as well."

"Yes," Bruce admits.

"He must be so lost," Thomas says. "Father Todd was the same. It's hard to question your life's purpose and find no answers. Your Jason needs you to guide him, son, the same way Father Todd needed me to guide him. They are the same."

Bruce thinks of his Jason, and his refusal to stop killing. There's so much anger in his boy. He claims he wants to change and Bruce believes him, but he's weak to temptation, the same as Father Todd.

The thing with Cobblepot was proof of it. Jason killed the man in front of the TV cameras. It was a miracle Cobblepot had survived at all. God's hand at play? Maybe God wanted to open a new, better path for Jason. If Bruce had been strong enough that night to capture Jason and rein him in, his boy might have found his redemption already.

"How long did it take you to train him?" Bruce asks, curious despite himself.

The idea of turning Jason into a whore for others to use sits wrong with Bruce. He'd never let others use his little boy like that. But Thomas's methods could be adapted. They could be refined.

If there was a way to bring Jason back into the fold, to help him overcome his rage and put his thirst for vengeance behind...

You are forgiven.

The words echo in Bruce's mind, and his heart twists with longing. What wouldn't Bruce do to have his Jason say those words to him and mean them, the same way Father Todd had.

He'd do anything. Everything.

"Two and a half years, give or take," Thomas says. "The Father is a very stubborn man, but it was worth it. All things worth having are worth fighting for."

Stubbornness, yes, another thing the two Jason have in common.

"I'd like to watch the videos," Bruce says.

"Of course, son. Of course." Thomas grins at him, and clasps his shoulder with a wink. He used to do that before, when he was about to let Bruce get away with something he knew Martha wouldn't approve of.

Bruce smiles back. Something cold and forgotten melts inside of him. Thomas is right. Bruce's priority should be to bring his family together and savage the bonds that tie him to his children.

Jason was the one Bruce lost, and he will be the one Bruce wins back first. Even if it takes years, it doesn’t matter.

You are forgiven. He will have those words out of his Jason, whatever the price.

THE END