aftermath (i love you)

by SolaceInSpace

Summary:

Bruce didn't stick around for the aftermath of his death in 'granules of sand'. How could he? He's dead. Here are some of the immediate reactions to Bruce dying.

(exploring how the family reacted to Bruce dying since I couldn't do that in the original fic)

Notes:

• Inspired by granules of sand (we refuse to let slip) by SolaceInSpace

Chapter 1: Dick

"I love you."

If Dick wasn't already crying, he would have burst into tears that instant.

The golden words fell out of his dad's mouth in a feeble whisper, like dust thrown into the wind. Dick could scarcely hear it over the sound of his horrid weeping. He wished Bruce would stop talking, stop acting as though he wasn't going to survive. Dick didn't need a whole damn speech about how much Bruce loved and appreciated him -- he already knew -- Dick just needed Bruce to focus his energy on surviving.

“N, can you hear me? The Batmobile’s been—”

The Batmobile was going to arrive soon. Just a few more minutes and they could rush him to medical. Bruce would survive and Dick would tease him about how sappy he got and he'll hold Bruce to his promise and steal his cookies and-

Bruce's chest wasn't moving.

…

…..?

Bruce wasn't-

Dick removed Bruce’s chest plate and placed his palm flat over his heart.

His breath hitched.

Dick pressed his ear to Bruce's chest.

He held his breath.

The normally easy task felt Herculean. Tears poured down his face in rivets, accompanied by hiccups that wracked his body, making it impossible to be still when Dick just needed one moment to listen.

“N, his vitals—please tell me the suit is malfunctioning,” Babs begged, the whine in her voice incongruent with the altered voice of Oracle.

Dick turned his comm off. He didn’t need any distractions. Dick just needed to listen.

He waited for the ta-thump of Bruce’s soothing heart, its easy rhythm never skipping a beat.

And waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

"Dad?" he said, sounding awfully small. He felt nine again, staring down at his parents from the platform above, uncomprehending of the blood and the bent-out-of-shape bodies and the screams and the snapped wire. Dick could almost feel the heat of the lights illuminating the tent against his skin, could smell the popcorn and caramelised peanuts, and feel the chalky powder stuck between his fingers. The same confused panic that overwhelmed him then bubbled up in his chest and commandeered his body.

Dick pressed shaky fingers to Bruce's neck. He couldn't feel a beat. Dick tried Bruce's wrist instead. Again, no beat. Bruce was still and pale and-

‘His vitals—’ he remembered Babs trying to say.

Dick pulled up Bruce’s vitals on his wrist computer.

“No,” he gasped.

Bruce was dead.

“Nonononononono,” Dick babbled.

He sat up and dragged Bruce from his inclined position against the wall to flat on the ground.

Dick turned his comm back on.

“O, ETA on the Batmobile?” he asked, voice terse with exertion as he pushed against Bruce’s chest to the beat of Stayin’ Alive. “It was supposed to be here already!”

“Two minutes,” Babs reported back, her voice thin with an emotion Dick did not want to name. “It got delayed by an explosion by the docks.”

Dick bit back a curse and continued his resuscitation efforts. “Who’s in it?”

“Hood and BB.”

“Tell them to prepare the defib.”

“He’s already flatlined. You know that’s not how-”

“Prepare the defib!” Dick interrupted. He didn’t need Babs’ logic right now. He needed his dad alive.

Dick pushed harder and felt Bruce’s rib break under his weight.

He flinched and choked on a half-crazed laugh.

Bruce and his fucking fracture-prone ribs. He was so proud of being free of cracked ribs for once in his adult life and Dick just broke one. It happened; one was often too focused on keeping a heart beating to mind their strength during CPR. What was a broken rib or two compared to a beating heart?

Dick continued to press against his dad’s chest.

Bruce wouldn’t make a fuss about the broken ribs; his life was more important.

What happened next was a blur to Dick.

Jason and Cass had rushed in at some point and rolled Bruce onto a stretcher while Dick continued to administer CPR. They tried using the defibrillator on Bruce sometime between the factory and the Batmobile but it had no effect except shocking Bruce’s broken body because-

He’d already flatlined.

How long had it been since Bruce stopped breathing? Stopped pumping blood through his body?

This wasn’t a fucking movie. CPR and defibrillators didn’t revive dead people and how long had Bruce been dead for?

Dick broke a corpse’s ribs. They’ll never heal again.

Bruce was dead.

Dick collapsed against on his dad’s chest and sobbed.

“Dick?” Cass quietly murmured. She might have placed a hand on his shoulder too. Cass must’ve known Bruce was dead the moment she saw him. His baby sister was too observant to have missed it. But she let him carry on anyway, breaking more of Bruce’s ribs and bruising his body in his futile attempt to revive him.

“I broke his fucking ribs. He’s gonna have eternally broken ribs.”

Dick wrapped his arms around Bruce.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Dad. Please. I love you.”

Dick pressed a kiss against Bruce’s forehead just like his dad did to him that morning. How quickly the day had gone from fantastic to a fucking tragedy.

"Dad, I love you," Dick sobbed, begging Bruce to open his eyes and say it back.

Bruce did not.

"I love you," Dick croaked, repeating Bruce's last words.

His last words.

His fucking last words.

And Dick almost missed them because he was crying too loud. Too caught up in his emotions to pay attention to his dad in his final moments.

Dick didn’t think he could ever hear those words again and not think of Bruce. They were his words now. Golden words stained with blood. Dick wondered if Bruce would’ve said them if he knew how painful hearing them would forever be for Dick.

Dick couldn’t imagine him saying anything else though. Bruce was a man built on contradictions but if Dick had to condense him down to one thing, then it was that he was full of love; for Gotham, for humanity, for his family.

“He wanted us to know he loved us. Said being our dad was the best thing he ever did.”

His family broke down around him but all Dick could do was curl around his dad’s body and keep whispering, “I love you.”

---

It wasn’t a dream.

It wasn’t a fucking dream.

Dick let his guard down. Of course he was stuck in the time loop; his life was full of shitty nightmare scenarios come to life, of course he’d have eventually stumbled into a time loop.

He should’ve expected this. Shouldn’t have dismissed the signs so readily. If he hadn’t—If only Dick had been more vigilant, then Bruce wouldn’t have fallen.

Of all the shitty ways to die, why did Bruce have to fall? Bruce promised—

And Dick couldn’t catch him. He was so close but Bruce slipped through his grasp anyway.

This time, they weren’t surrounded by a screaming crowd, a spotlight revealing his parents in all their gory glory, broken on the sandy ground. This time, it was just Dick and Bruce in a shadowy alleyway. But Dick thought he could hear the screams anyway. He could still hear it even now, despite Bruce calming him down from the fucking panic attack. And who did that anyway? Bruce was dying—why couldn’t he concentrate on himself for once in his goddamn life?

‘I love you.’

It had to be the same last words this time too. Did Bruce seriously commit to ruining those golden words for Dick? How could he hear it again without seeing his dad’s broken, battered body?

“Nightwing? Batman? Someone fucking respond to me,” Babs demanded.

“He’s dead,” Dick croaked, throat dry as if deprived of water for three days. He’d had preferred that to the reality. Reporting it wasn’t easier the second time around. “He’s dead.”

Bruce’s ribs were broken again and Dick wasn’t sure why that upset him more than the fucking pipe in his gut but-

Dad was so happy about his crack-free ribs.

But it was okay. Because Dick knew this time. All he had to do was go to sleep and he’ll wake up, back to that beautiful morning where kisses weren’t bloodied and love wasn’t whispered through mountains of pain.

Bruce could get back his non-fractured ribs.

Dick would make sure of it.

---

He failed.

He failedfailedfailedfailedfailed—

Jason and Bruce were trapped down there, underneath tonnes of rubble. Out of reach. There was just static on the other end of the comms. Jason’s vitals were heightened but stable and Bruce’s… they couldn’t access them. The only way for that to be possible were if the suit was so damaged that all the sensors broke.

Bruce’s ribs were probably broken again.

Dick hadn’t even learnt anything useful. He even got Cass to help and all they did was run around learning nothing while Bruce and Jason—God, Jason.

It was Ethiopia 2.0 with an extra topping of parental death and survivor’s guilt.

Fuck.

Was it bad that he was glad they couldn’t access their comms? Dick didn’t need to hear Jason’s cries; his nightmares were realistic enough on their own.

The loops were getting worse. Bruce and now Jason.

Would it continue to get worse? If Dick failed again, would he have to watch more of his family die?

Dick needed to sleep. He needed to wake up. He needed his dad.

Dick walked away from his siblings’ desperate rescue efforts and trudged over to the Batmobile. He didn’t have to stay to watch his family break with grief again. Dick could undo all this. He’d make it all right again.

No Ethiopia 2.0. No more parental deaths.

Dick would die in his stead if he had to.

As Dick injected a sedative into himself, he vowed, “I swear I’ll fix things this time.”

Chapter 2: Jason

It was quiet.

Quiet like it was before Bruce regained consciousness. (Quiet like that abrupt deafening silence that followed Bruce’s horrid scream, audible even through his helmet’s noise damping systems.)

There was just the ringing in his ears and the sound of him panting through his mouth.

Jason could still smell it though. Could almost taste it.

Covered under concrete dust, and whatever the fuck the non-regulation Gotham parking garage was made of, was the suffocating scent of smoke and burnt flesh and melted Kevlar.

There was no way he could forget it. It haunted his dreams and followed him into his waking hours. On particularly bad days, Jason didn’t smell the smog of the city. No, all that filled his nostrils was the combination of smells that had filled his senses, along with the crushing pain of crowbar-beaten bones and rubble-leaden everything. He had been buried, choking on that scent, hallucinating Bruce’s voice calling for him, all the while knowing that he was going to die a pointless death. He was going to die betrayed and alone.

Jason remembered it hurting so much he almost couldn’t think. But despite the old man being in the same situation, he was relaxed, muscles loose, frame tenseless.

The tension had leached out of Bruce once he placed his ear on Jason’s chest again, listening to his heart beat like the weirdo he was. But Jason couldn’t deny the effect it was having on Bruce, so he made a conscious effort to keep it calm, and quelled the panic he could sense building up again.

It wouldn’t do to disrupt the old man’s efforts so soon after he calmed Jason down.

But it was quiet, and Jason couldn’t stand the silence.

“Bruce? Hey, old man, say something.” Jason nudged Bruce’s shoulder gently. “Dad?”

Bruce was unresponsive.

“I know you’re embarrassed after all that sappy shit you said but it’s fucking rude. Alfred raised you better than this.”

(Deep down, Jason knew. He knew when they were talking earlier, and he knew now. But just because he knew, it didn’t mean he accepted it.)

“C’mon, don’t do this to me. Please. I’ve already lost—you fucking bastard, you’re seriously going to make me lose four parents?”

Silence.

“No. Nuh uh. This isn’t happening.”

Jason was hallucinating. Fear gas made its way through the cracks of his helmet and, being the idiot that he was, he took it off so now he was just huffing in that sweet, sweet nightmare fuel, high off his ass, enjoying a flashback of his death and imagining the dead weight of his dad on top of him.

Because this had to be a fucked up hallucination.

If it wasn’t and Bruce was really here, then, well…

Well…

Jason didn’t fucking know.

What is the appropriate response to being trapped under tonnes of rubble, reliving your death with the extra addition of your dad’s dead body pinning you to the ground because the self-sacrificing asshole shielded you from the blast that would’ve killed you and fucking died a horrific death in your stead?

There wasn’t one.

So Jason was just going to keep crying and pretend that none of this was happening.

Bruce didn’t shield him from the explosion when he could've hidden behind a pillar. He didn’t lose consciousness for too-fucking-long while Jason battled with his traumatic flashbacks. Bruce didn’t calm Jason down from his trauma-induced panic attack either. And he certainly didn’t tell Jason he was proud of him while actively dying from some combination of third-degree burns and internal bleeding.

They weren’t trapped and none of this was real.

Just a hallucination.

A nightmare conjured by a hell-matched combination of fear gas and Jason’s fucked up brain.

(If this was fear gas, then logically Jason should be hearing him too. It was so quiet. His nightmares were never this quiet.)

Shut up, shut up, shut up. It’s not real. Not real.

Jason choked on a sob.

Fuck. This was really happening, wasn’t it?

Why did he look so peaceful?

Bruce was Batman. The Bat was a stubborn bastard. He never gave up.

So why did Bruce just… go?

Quietly, without a fuss, slipping away like a cat in the night.

“Dad? I lied. We won’t be fine without you. I won’t be fine. You can’t go. You can’t just give up, you fucker.”

Jason wept unabashedly, tears washing away the concrete dust coating his cheeks.

“Why’d you have to shield me? Why’d you have to die on top of me?!”

He howled in anguish and held Bruce tightly to his chest, ignoring the heat of melted Kevlar and burnt flesh. What he didn’t tell the dying man, he told the dead man.

“You selfish, paranoid, bastard. You don’t get to- you don’t get to- to—fucking cunt, rich asshole, son of a bitch! You think that just because your last words were that you’re proud of me and love us, that that makes it all okay?! It’s fucking worse, you shithead, so much fucking worse… But I’ll forgive you if you wake up. Hm? Pretty good deal, don’t you think? You just gotta open your eyes, B. Open your eyes.”

Naturally, Bruce did not open his eyes. He would never open them again.

“Did you actually know that I love you?” Jason chocked out through his tears. “You weren’t lying for my sake, were you?”

They were just getting back what they had – before Ethiopia, before Joker – it wasn’t fair that their time would be cut short like this.

‘I love you. Every new day I spent with you was a blessing.’

Why couldn’t they be blessed with more days?

“Dad, I love you… You’re supposed to say it back. C’mon, ya big boob, say it back. Wake up and say it, hm? Please, wake up. I love you.”

Jason uncovered the cowl footage from that night once and promptly drank so much he passed out in a pool of vomit. In it, Bruce cradled Jason’s broken body like it was something precious and whispered with so much tender care and desperation, Jason cried at the mere sound of it. If they clipped the audio and weaponized it, Jason believed no crime would be committed in Gotham ever again. Everyone would be too busy hugging their loved ones.

‘I love you, please wake up,’ Bruce had begged.

Like father, like son.

Notes:

Jason doesn't remember being rescued from the rubble in this timeline. He falls asleep before he's unburied and then wakes up 'today'. So he doesn't know how the rest of the family reacted to him and Bruce. Dick, as we all know, sedates himself in the batmobile. Everyone else spend the rest of the night digging through rubble, and when they do find them, they're too busy tending to Jason to properly digest the fact that Bruce is dead. Or more like, they're focussing on Jason to avoid the reality of the situation. Grief is present but it's a monster hiding in the closet; maybe if they pretended they couldn't see it, it would disappear. Maybe if they didn't acknowledge Bruce's death, if they didn't grieve, he wouldn't be dead.

Chapter 3: Cass

‘Close your eyes, close your eyes, close your eyes.’

Cass kept her eyes squeezed shut and held Bruce’s hand (limp—don’t think about it, don’t think about it—) in both of her own as if in prayer.

David Cain’s thought experiment made reality wasn’t religious. It was a mere weapon. Weapons had no need for faith.

But Cass.

She had faith.

Cass had faith that her siblings were going to find them soon. Cass had faith that they would be able to help Bruce. Cass had faith that Bruce was going to survive.

It was for this faith that she kept her eyes shut as Bruce had instructed.

(Not the last, not the last, not the last—)

When Dick had made that joke about Cass being the knight to Bruce’s damsel, she had played along because she thought it would be fun. And it was. Bruce had taken a backseat to patrol for once and dutifully played princess while Cass took down criminals. She gleefully soaked up his admiration.

It was good.

But then Bruce stopped playing and he wasn’t princess anymore. He didn’t let Cass be his knight. He didn’t let Cass protect him.

The entire time they were under attack, Bruce shielded her and took blows meant for Cass in her stead. She got away with a mere dislocated shoulder and minor cuts while Bruce was hurt all over, bleeding from wounds he didn’t let her take care of.

Cass might be angry about that. She thinks she’ll yell about it later.

‘If only you let me help you, you wouldn’t be dying—!’

Bruce wanted the family to take care of each other, take care of themselves, so why didn’t Bruce take care of himself? Why did he have to take injury after injury for Cass? Why was he dying?

Why?

There was warm-wet-sticky thing at her knees. Cass knew what it was. She could smell it. Touched it with her hands before Bruce stopped her.

Cass tightened her grip around Bruce’s hand and kept her eyes closed.

She let out a shuddering breath and let go of her anger before it could truly ignite. How could Cass be angry when all Bruce wanted her to think of was family and love?

He loved her—Dad always said it with his body, his actions, but very rarely with his words. Cass had to focus on the love, just like he wanted her to. Just as he did before he fell silent.

Cass choked on a sob. The last time she saw Bruce, just moments earlier (or longer, how long had she been waiting?), flashed through her mind. She would never forget what she saw.

Pain. Anxiety. Uncertainty. Exhaustion. Panic. Fear. Sorrow. Guilt. So much guilt.

But the love stood out the most.

There was so much love, Cass could’ve drowned in it. Love so all-encompassing that everything else was insignificant.

It was for this love that she kept her eyes closed (despite the cold hand and the faded-no-more breaths). Bruce had looked at her with that warm—so warm—love in his eyes and forced smiled and asked with pain-fear-tender-love. So Cass closed them. And they stayed closed.

“BB! Batman!” Hood - big little brother - sounded like he jumped down from a hole in the ceiling.

Bruce said she could open her eyes when someone came.

She kept them closed anyway.

Jason gasped and cursed and cursed some more. “B?” he called in a too-small-voice. Cass heard that voice from victims they rescued at night. Jason shouldn’t sound small like that. It was wrong.

(Wrong was the slack hand she was holding.)

Cass should open her eyes to check on her little brother.

She didn’t.

There was a dull thud and a wet squelch. She heard Jason gasp his denials.

Cass cried with him but still didn’t open her eyes.

“Cass?” Jason called to her, wobble in his too-small-voice. “Are you hurt?” Jason asked her.

Cass shook her head. Her shoulder throbbed with pain at the lie. “He told me to close my eyes,” she whispered. “I- I don’t—”

“K-keep them closed. It’s alright. I can- I can do this.”

Despite his words, Cass knew what Jason wanted. He was calling for her help, her support.

Cass opened her eyes and very carefully did not look down.

Panic. Fear. Disbelief. Anger. Sorrow. Grief.

“Little brother,” she whispered.

Jason tore his eyes away from Bruce and snapped up to meet Cass’.

Denial. Denial. Denial.

She released Bruce’s hand with her uninjured arm and extended it towards Jason.

He trembled and leaned over - over Bruce - into her embrace.

“Don’t- don’t look,” he pleaded.

That was the second person telling her not to look. But Cass couldn’t leave her little brother to deal with this alone.

She looked down.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Cass sobbed and closed her eyes again.

Wrong. This was wrong. She saw wrong. Bruce wasn’t supposed to look like that. Even when unconscious, he didn’t look like that!

Cass couldn’t read anything from Bruce. Not that warm, gentle love; like sunspots and hot baths and sheets fresh from the dryer. She couldn’t see the ever-present protectiveness in his shoulders, always ready to shield them like the armoured cape he wore. The exhaustion that always presented itself in his neck, gone.

Everything. Gone.

There was nothing to read from a sack of flesh.

She shouldn’t have opened her eyes.

Notes:

Cass is very hard to write :(

Chapter 4: Tim

Tim regained consciousness as they began to wrap the chains around him. Thick, heavy things, rattling as they clinked noisily in the false serenity of the night. He kept his eyes closed and feigned unconsciousness, waiting for an opportunity.

Now!

Tim shot forward, head colliding with the thug that dared to chain Red Robin. He felt the other’s nose crack with the harsh contact and swept his feet across the floor, finally knocking them to the ground. Then, with practised movement, Tim jumped back to standing position.

He shrugged the chains off and flicked his birdarangs into the rest of the scattered men.

“Where’s Batman?” Tim demanded, holding a birdarang threateningly.

One of the mobsters barked a harsh laugh. “Where do you think?”

Tim glanced at the harbour and fear gripped his heart.

Fuck!

“Assistance needed at the docks. B’s in the water. I don’t know for how long!” he shouted on the comms.

He made quick work of the remaining men before strapping a rebreather on his face. Tim secured another rebreather in one hand and a lock pick in another before diving into filthy water.

There were bodies everywhere. Which one was Bruce? Which of these chained figures was his dad?

Tim didn’t time to search. Bruce didn’t have time.

Why the fuck were there so many chained bodies in the harbour?

Tim had to be quick.

He couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.

Black blob. Wrong. It was just a black coat. (How long had she been here? It was the middle of summer.)

Pointy ears. No. It was cat ear headphones. (Oddly nice of the mobsters to leave the man with his accessories.)

Glowing white eyes. Not him again. (Which sick fucker glued googly eyes on a corpse?)

Damn it.

There he was!

Black blob? Cape.

Pointy ears? Cowl.

Glowing white eyes? Lens.

Hotel? Trivago.

(This was no time for jokes, Tim.)

No air bubbles were coming out of Bruce’s mouth or nose. Tim hoped that meant Bruce was conscious enough to hold his breath. He held onto his dad’s shoulders and pulled himself closer to Bruce. Tim wrapped his legs around Bruce to steady himself and then strapped the rebreather onto him.

There might be water already in Bruce’s lungs but this would buy them some time while Tim got to work on the damned chains.

Hn?

Bruce was squeezing Tim’s foot. It was definite proof that he was alive!

Tim sped up the lock picking. Those motherfuckers put ten fucking locks on B. That was just excessive. Like, yes, he’s Batman but still! Ten? He should’ve made them bleed more.

The squeezing continued in what seemed like an intentional rhythm. Tim committed it to mind in case it meant something.

B must be trying to tell him something important in...

Morse code!

The fast consecutive squeezes must’ve been dots. The slower ones with slight pauses between squeezes were dashes.

That was dash, dot, dash, dash.

Y.

What was that before then?

Tim waited for Bruce to repeat the squeezing. Bruce’s grip slipped from Tim’s foot instead.

No!

Tim’s hands sped up and he moved onto the next lock without pause.

Four down, Six to go,

He was so slow. If Tim was on land, he’d have freed Bruce by now. Tim regretted not paying attention to B’s advice about practising underwater lock picking. He only hoped that it was not too late.

That was the fifth lock.

He should decode what Bruce was trying to say once they were back on land.

Sixth lock.

Tim was cold. Was Bruce cold too?

Seventh lock.

The harbour tasted disgusting. Like rotten fish and toxic waste.

Eighth.

He was bound to get sick after this. But that’s okay. His dad would be stuck in bed rest with him.

Ninth.

How did CPR work again? Thirty chest compressions, two breaths, repeat.

Tenth!

Thank fuck.

Tim freed Bruce from all his chains and shot his grapple gun up at the direction of the harbour, relying on pure luck that it would latch onto something solid enough. He felt the familiar tension from a successful shot and pressed retract. The wire mechanism pulled them forward, faster than if Tim swam, but he still kicked his legs, hoping to resurface even a fraction of a second earlier.

His shoulder hurt.

Bruce was heavy, too heavy. He was over three hundred pounds of pure muscle and soaking wet armour. Tim couldn’t drag him onto the land.

He needed someone to help. But no one was here. It was just Tim.

“ETA on the docks?” he asked, words muffled by the rebreather still strapped to his face. “I can’t pull him up.”

“Three minutes.” Oracle’s calm voice was a balm on his rising panic, but Tim felt himself breaking under the weight of the situation. Bruce wasn’t responding to his attempts to pull him to land. His face was grey. His chest was still.

“He’s not breathing, Oracle,” Tim sobbed. “I can’t do CPR in the water.”

“Detach his armour and cape. Leave it in the water, it doesn’t matter.”

In normal circumstances, Tim would’ve thought to do that too. But all he could think of was Bruce not breathing and that message in Morse code. A message that he still didn’t know.

Squeeze-squeeze. Squeeze-squeeze. Squeeze-squeeze. Squeeze-pause-squeeze. Squeeze-squeeze. Squeeze-squeeze. Squeeze-pause-squeeze. Squeeze-squeeze. Squeeze-pause-squeeze. Squeeze-pause-squeeze.

Dot. Dot. Dot. Dash. Dot. Dot. Dash. Dot. Dash. Dot. Dash. Dash.

Something, something, Y.

He detached Bruce’s cape and then his chest plate, arm guards, every piece of armour that Tim could easily get a hold of. That was probably at least fifty pounds.

Tim recalled his grapple hook and wrapped it around Bruce’s torso. He then hauled himself onto land and made a makeshift pulley with his grappling gun. With great difficultly, Tim began to pull. His dad’s life depended on it. Even if he ripped all his muscles in the process, Tim would pull him up and out of this disgusting water.

Yes. Yes!

Alright. CPR.

He laid Bruce flat on his back and removed the useless rebreather, making sure to tilt his head back to keep his airways clear.

Heel of my hand on the lower half of his breastbone, centre of his chest. Hands interlocked. Arms straight. Push with body weight. Should compress a third of the way. Yes. Doing good, Tim. Release pressure. That’s one compression. Twenty-nine to go until mouth-to-mouth.

Tim kept count in his head and robotically administered CPR.

Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Repeat.

Dot. Dot. Dot. Dash. Dot. Dot. Dash. Dot. Y.

Dot. Dot. Dot. S?

No, Bruce had left a longer pause between the second dot and third. Longer than the pause that laid between the squeezes that made up dashes. That same long pause separated the first dot in Y from the last dot in the yet undeciphered sequence.

Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Repeat.

Dot. Dot. Long pause. Dot. Dash. Dot. Dot. Dash. Long pause. Y.

Two dots. I

Dot. Dash. Dot. L.

Y.

That was I and L and Y.

ILY.

Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Repeat.

I love you.

Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Repeat.

Tim sobbed and he messed up the breath.

Bruce hadn’t coughed up any water yet. Tim couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.

“Move over, Red.”

Steph shoved a breathing apparatus on B’s face. When had Steph arrived? She looked like she had taken a minute to set everything up.

They took turns doing the compressions.

The pale parlour of Bruce’s face showed no improvement. He wasn’t coughing up any water. His body was still cold.

They continued doing CPR.

Dick, Jason, and Cass arrived. They also took turns doing CPR.

Time passed. Bruce still wasn’t breathing by himself. He was looking grey.

“Stop. We’re breaking his ribs for no damn reason,” Dick cried.

Tim kept doing the compressions.

“Damn it!” Jason screamed. “I’m going to kill those bastards. I’m going to kill them!”

“I- I- s-ssupposed to be… to be- pro-protecting him,” Cass stuttered through heavy sobs.

Why were they crying? They had to save Dad. There was no time to be crying.

“We’re not killing anyone, Hood,” Dick sternly told Jason. “Bruce wouldn’t want that.”

“If I had been here to help Red, then this wouldn’t have happened,” Steph whispered.

No. It wouldn’t have happened if Tim didn’t distract B by carelessly letting a goon hit him in the head.

“There’s no point assigning blame.” God, could Dick sound anymore like a self-help book? “We need to- we need to…”

“Stop it, Red,” Steph told him. “It’s been hours.”

100 to 120 compressions per minute for hand-only CPR.

“Red.”

Tim was tired. But the others weren’t substituting with him and B couldn’t afford even a moment of zero compressions.

“He’s dead.”

Tim was shaking. He was still wet from the nasty harbour water. The chilly wind did nothing to help the situation.

“Red Robin!”

B had called him Robin in that moment. Had he meant a short form of Red Robin or did mean Robin?

Did it matter?

Squeeze-squeeze. Squeeze-squeeze. Squeeze-squeeze. Squeeze-pause-squeeze. Squeeze-squeeze. Squeeze-squeeze. Squeeze-pause-squeeze. Squeeze-squeeze. Squeeze-pause-squeeze. Squeeze-pause-squeeze.

Dot. Dot. Dot. Dash. Dot. Dot. Dash. Dot. Dash. Dot. Dash. Dash.

In his final moments, this was what Bruce dedicated his time to.

I.L.Y.

I love you.

Tim wanted to say it back.

That’s why.

That’s why Bruce had to breathe again.

“We need to get back to the Cave, Red Robin. We need to bring him home.”

We can go home after Dad is breathing again.

“Pull him off.”

Hands grabbed Tim and dragged him away from Bruce.

“No! No!” Tim screamed. Bruce needed compressions to keep his heart beating. Without them, he’ll die. Didn’t they understand? “B! Dad! Dad!”

Tim struggled but the arms around him held on tight and he was tired.

“I need to save him! Dad!”

It was hard to breathe. Maybe there was water in Tim’s lungs too.

Tim kept fighting the hold.

“Sedate him. We’re going home.”

“Dad…”

I love you. I love you too. You know that, right?

Notes:

Didn't expect Tim's pov to be this long but hey, he didn't get much time with a dying Bruce so I guess this makes up for it.

Also, I don't really know much about CPR and how the whole 'resuscitating a drowning victim' thing works. Like, realistically, the Bats would probably have machinery for that, instead of just relying on CPR given how tiring it is. Whatever EMTs have, they probably have in the batmobile. They probably would've moved him into the batmobile and tried to revive him there instead of at the docks too but story's gotta story and this is how it wanted to go 👍

If you were wondering, Damian isn't there because he was back at the Cave for a sprained ankle and Alfred didn't let him go help.

Chapter 5: Damian

Summary:

You've been told of your father, the hero, your entire life. He fights alongside gods and monsters and comes home victorious. You meet him and he's more and less than everything you thought he was. He's stronger than anyone; he trips over his own feet. He is righteous and just; he steals your cookies and ruins your hairdo. He's a hero; he's your father.

Now, you don't look at him and see the hero. You look at him and he's the man that tucks you into bed despite your protests.

Your father doesn't die a hero's death. Your father dies a father's death again and again and you are forced to bear witness to it.

You hate him for dying but you have never felt more loved.

Baba wasn’t breathing anymore, even though Damian had begged him to. His chest was still and Baba wasn’t hugging Damian back. Baba always hugged him back.

He wished he had sliced up the gunman that stole his father’s breath. That had caused him pain. He wished for a lot of things.

Damian used to be indifferent to the pain of others. Getting hurt just meant you weren’t fast enough to dodge. It meant you were weak and you had to be better. He never used to understand the pinched look on his mother’s face when she tended to his wounds. It was only after he arrived in Gotham and saw those fools he called family get hurt again and again that he finally understood what his mother felt.

Similarly, Damian had seen many people die before but never felt anything but a distant sorrow for the life ended too soon. Surrounded by death though he was, it was still an abstract concept. He may have seen people die but Damian had never felt them die.

On some level, Damian knew grief. He grieved the simplicity of the life he had before, though he came to appreciate the shades of grey in Gotham after a lifetime of black and white. Most of all, Damian grieved the absence of his mother. He had taken for granted what it was like to see her everyday, hugging her and smelling that jasmine and rose taif perfume she favoured.

He could not imagine what it was like for his siblings and his father to have permanently lost their parents. Damian’s mother visited as frequently as she could but he still missed her like a limb when she had to leave again.

When Father ‘died’ the first time, Damian had not known him well. He was still an idea in his mind, made of stories Mother told him about. She made him sound like a character from myths and legends. Damian could not believe that the same man who stubbed his toe on the dining table on the way to his morning coffee was the same man that had impressed his grandfather so much that he had chosen him to be his heir. He could not believe it and so he subconsciously distanced that man from the ‘Father’ Mother had told him about.

Thus, when Father had ‘died’, Damian had grieved but he had not mourned.

He had not understood his siblings’ grief, the way they had fallen apart so easily… he thought it pathetic. Surely, the children of Batman were trained not to allow their emotions control them. Surely, they knew not to neglect duty over fallacies such as pathos. Surely, they were better than this.

Damian understood now.

He wished he didn’t understand.

All of Damian’s training went out of the window. He neglected to ensure the surroundings were secure. The downed enemies weren’t even tied up. Damian didn’t drag Father to a more advantageous location and remained in their vulnerable location. He didn’t stand guard for potential dangers.

Damian just curled up on his father’s chest and wept.

It was hard to believe that ‘Father’ from the legends and myths his mother told him about would be taken out so easily. At least last time, Father was lost fighting for the world. Tonight, he had succumbed to a single bullet whose path he was in solely because he was protecting Damian.

Damian was so insignificant compared to the world. He was not worth it. Father’s life was meant for grander things. He’d already saved the world half a dozen times. He could save it a dozen more.

But Batman didn’t die a hero tonight. He died a father. The same one that had kissed him on the forehead this morning just because. The man who was a hero and a father before that. Damian’s Baba was gone now and he’d never before felt loss quite this cutting.

His siblings shouted for updates on the comms and reassured him that the Batmobile was soon to arrive. Damian ignored them. He remained as he was and wept and wept and wept.

Because Baba had taken a bullet for him.

Because Baba loved him.

The least Damian could do was mourn.

So he wept and he wished for another miracle. Let this one be a clone too. Let Father be lost. Let him be found.

---

Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.

Damian wept but he did not mourn.

Everything would be reset again. It’s just a dream. Everything would be alright. Baba is not gone.

Damian would fix this. His siblings need not be caught between caring for Damian and mourning their father. Tears need not fall from disbelieving eyes. All will be alright. Baba would be back.

He had died as Batman twice now. Both times, gone to a bullet. Both times, shielding Robin.

Damian’s wish came true last time and he had squandered it. Next time, he would ensure Father’s survival. Damian would not bend to the prophecy’s desires. Because he was selfish and he did not wish to wake up to grief and learn what it is like to mourn forever.

Batman was doomed to fall tonight so Brucie Wayne must make an appearance instead. There was a gala scheduled tonight. Damian knew it ran without a hitch. Should they attend it, they shall be fine. There would be no Batman to kill. Father would survive. Baba would live.

Damian held onto that belief even as everyone grieved once more.

All will be fine.

It had to be.

---

Was it hubris to believe he could go against Fate and win?

This was the third time.

Batman did not die. Baba did.

It was more gruesome than the last two times. Longer too. Baba went painfully despite the morphine Todd administered him. Damian could hear it in his voice, the way he had gripped Damian’s hand (so very weak, as if holding it was more than he could manage).

Once again, Baba spent his last moments professing his love and gratitude for them. Once again, all he cared for was his children.

And all Damian could think about was his own weakness and failure. The same one that put that look of horror and guilt on Baba’s face before Damian held his hand and he drifted away.

His siblings were mixed between disbelief and tentative hope. They were counting on him.

Damian had to save Father. Failure was not permitted.

“You have to tell us, Damian,” Richard implored. Damian knew for a fact that had their situations been reversed, Richard would keep this to himself, if only to spare the family from the horror of the situation. He would repeat the day indefinitely until tomorrow would come and they would be none the wiser how many times they lost their father.

“And Bruce-” Richard’s voice cracked on the name- “Dad will fix this.”

Damian wished he didn’t spill the beans. Now he had the burden of this timeline’s hope on his shoulders. Should he fail the next timeline, it would be them and this family he were condemning. It would be Damian’s fault that they were orphaned once more.

When they heard the sirens wailing in the distance, half of his siblings left so that they may arrive at the hospital as their civilian selves. Cassandra remained as she was, still cradling Father’s broken body tenderly, as if it made a difference to the dead man.

Damian had no right to judge. He was still grasping Father’s hand in his own. Unlike Richard, warm against his side, Father’s hand provided no such warmth.

The paramedics loaded Damian onto a stretcher. It was unnecessary. Baba had ensured that Damian wouldn’t bear the brunt of the crash. But such was procedure and the burden of civilian life. Damian was in the ambulance, surrounded by strangers and his father’s sheet covered body.

Pennyworth arrived a ghost. He kept Damian company as he received treatment for his minor wounds and then they went down to the morgue together. Seeing Baba’s pale body, even knowing that this could all be undone, caused bile to come up Damian’s throat. He forced it down and tried to comfort himself by explaining the time loop to Pennyworth.

Pennyworth wasn’t listening. Damian could tell.

Something in him resented that it was him burdened with this responsibility. That it was Damian who was forced to watch and remember the moment Baba drew his last breath.

Selfishly, he wished someone else would do it. Take the burden from him and let him remain ignorant of grief and what it is like to mourn.

If, in the morning, Damian told them what was going on, and they believed him (and he knew they would), and he failed again, his family would be crushed with the knowledge that they had failed Damian and Baba both. It would be selfish to share this burden. But Baba told him to be more selfish in the last timeline. His siblings also told him to ask for help. So, Damian would be selfish. He would not stick to this timeline and he would skip forward back to this morning and let Baba fix this. Damian would not bear this alone.

“Put me to sleep,” he told his siblings once they arrived at the hospital. Pennyworth was still keeping vigil in the morgue.

“Okay,” Todd softly agreed to Damian’s surprise. He was the one that expressed the most doubt. “Go to sleep, habibi.”

Damian went to sleep and hoped that today will be a better day.

Notes:

Next is Alfred's chapter! Excited for it but I'm not sure how I want to approach it. By which I mean I don't know how many deaths I want him to react to 💀

Chapter 6: Alfred

Much of Alfred’s time was spent waiting for Bruce. He had not anticipated all this waiting. In his youth, Alfred had occupied his time doing any and everything. He travelled with a small theatre troupe, constantly on the move, honing his craft and relished in the passion of those surrounding him. He joined the military, appreciating a life of regulations and a lack of ambiguity. Alfred thought his time with the Waynes would be yet another career he picked up and abandoned, yet, once the little Wayne tyke was born, Alfred knew that that was it.

And so, he stayed. And he settled. And he waited.

Alfred waited for Bruce on that faithful night. And he waited for him when he disappeared to ‘find himself’. Then he waited nightly, patrol after patrol, with either a medkit or a wet towel in hand for Bruce once he was home.

He had always known that one day, his waiting would end. That one day, Bruce would not come home.

It was an eventuality that bore heavily on his mind since Bruce started his foolish crusade. It was not a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’ and Alfred had known he would have to bury Bruce just like he had buried his parents long ago.

Alfred had prepared himself for it.

He thought he had prepared for it.

Alfred was more foolish than Bruce in that regard.

There was no preparing for death.

Alfred began to clean up the prepped med-bay to the backdrop of his grandchildren crying, the sounds of grief echoing from the Batcomputer’s speakers. He put away the surgical instruments, the blood packs, the bandages, everything he had thought he needed to save Bruce’s life. He kept the clean sheet on the cot. Bruce would need it when he—when the children came back.

Tearing off his gloves, Alfred made his way to the Batcomputer and inputted the codes Bruce shared with only him. His boy had made contingencies for his death in the suit. Alfred did not have to think about how to conceal the nature of his departure… Bruce had already done all that for them. All Alfred had to do was enact the plans.

Death by gunshot:

Remove the armour. Conceal the calibre of the bullet if necessary. Dress in civilian clothes, taking care to make a round tear in the same location of the bullet wound. Stain the clothing with an appropriate amount of blood. Create crime scene.

Alfred closed the Batcomputer, cutting off the children’s mournful cries, and sat before the darkened screen. The old man staring back in the reflection had tears trailing his cheeks.

“Oh dear,” Alfred whispered, wiping away at the tears with his hands, too flustered to remember his handkerchief. How many times had he chastised Bruce for doing the same in his youth?

He always lost his handkerchief, Alfred remembered fondly.

Head in hands, Alfred’s body trembled with sobs. “My boy… Oh, my boy.”

No matter what he told himself, there was still a large part of Alfred that believed, hoped, that Bruce would outlive him. That Alfred would draw his final breath, and Bruce would be there by his side to send him off.

After all, Bruce defied death on multiple occasions. He had been declared dead for over a year and still made his return.

But this was no alien invasion with fancy energy beams. This was a fool with a gun and a father with a son to protect.

Was Bruce with Thomas and Martha now? Were they proud of him? Alfred could not imagine them being anything but. His own heart always swelled up with pride when he thought of Bruce. He had accomplished so much, had helped so many people, and was the father to such wonderful children.

Children who were now orphans and sorely in need of someone to take the reins for them.

Alfred would take care of the cover-up. He would deal with the will and the funeral preparations. And he would help the family with their grief.

He had done it for Thomas and Martha. He had done it for Jason. Then for Bruce.

And now, he shall do it for Bruce once again.

“My poor heart cannot handle any more of this, Bruce,” Alfred whispered into the silence of the cave.

He gave himself a minute and then cleaned his face.

There was a cover-up to organise and children to comfort.

This old man would just have to… soldier on. For now.

“Pennyworth, have Father and the others returned yet?” Damian asked from atop the stairs. He hobbled down with the help of Steph and Tim and came to a stop before Alfred.

“Sorry, Alfred, I tried to stop him but you know how nosy Damian can get,” Tim sheepishly explained.

Damian’s nostrils flared with outrage. “I am not nosy. I am simply informed.”

Steph snorted and exchanged a cheeky look with Tim.

Alfred wished he did not have to tell them. Let them keep this peace for just a moment earlier.

“The Batmobile is on its way back with everyone. Master Bruce has-” Alfred came to a stuttering stop. His voice was failing him in a way it hadn’t in a long while. “Bruce was shot and was unfortunately unable to be saved.”

“What?” the three uttered in stunned disbelief.

It was hard to imagine that someone like Bruce could die on such an ordinary day. He carried himself with the confidence of a Greek hero. Heroes didn’t die to common crooks and their paltry weapons.

“Bruce is dead.”

It hurt to say it. Alfred wasn’t sure how he could keep living on in a reality where this was true.

“No,” Damian blurted. “Tell me it isn’t true.”

Alfred shook his head.

“You’re lying!” he screamed.

“Damian,” Steph murmured.

Damian shook Steph’s arms off of him and limped forward. “He can’t be dead. He can’t.”

The Batmobile rushed into the Cave, saving Alfred from having to answer. No one walked out of the vehicle, the usual rush of post-patrol activity absent. The Batmobile remained in its customary parking spot, and her passengers stayed inside.

Damian, Tim, and Steph all stared with trepidation at the car.

Alfred opened the doors and looked mournfully at the sobbing vigilantes. He purposely did not look towards the still form laying across the seats. There was no time to break down.

“My dear children, let’s get your father inside.”

Grief-stricken faces stared back at him, and all Alfred could see was that same face on a young boy decades ago. He banished the memory from his mind. Alfred had a job to do.

Jason was the first to get out. His limbs were heavy and stiff, moving not unlike a puppet with tangled strings as he climbed out of the driver’s seat. He didn’t make eye contact with Alfred and refused his offer of a handkerchief.

Cass was the next to drag her body out of the leather seats, her usual grace absent in the face of grief. Alfred shifted his legs and she crashed into his arms, head cradled against his chest. Out of the corner of his eyes, Alfred could see another head cradled against another chest. Only, this wasn’t an embrace, and was instead a prayer that shall never be answered.

There were bloodstained bandages strewn about the interior of the Batmobile. Oxygen mask tossed carelessly to the side. Defibrillator equipment littered around the seats.

The children fought to the bitter end to save Bruce’s life, and yet, it wasn’t enough.

Damian, Tim, and Steph crept forward. They peered into the car. Tim sucked in a harsh breath and paled.

“Richard? Is Father…” Damian asked hopefully.

Dick shook his head, forehead anchored to Bruce’s still chest.

Damian chocked on a suppressed cry and Steph took it upon herself to console their youngest member. “He can’t be dead,” Damian repeated.

“Dick,” Alfred said, because this wasn’t the time for formalities, “let’s get him cleaned up.”

Dick raised his head from Bruce’s sunken chest and shuddered on a sob. Alfred lifted one arm from Cass’s shoulder and beckoned Dick forward. Dick shook his head.

“Come here, lad.”

Dick shook his head again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Whatever for?”

“He shielded me,” Dick choked out. “It’s- it’s my fault.”

Jason stomped forward with renewed vigour and grabbed Dick by the lapels. “Don’t be a fucking dumbass, Dick. You don’t get to distort Bruce’s death like this. What were his last words?”

Dick whimpered.

Angry tears streamed down Jason’s face as he shook Dick back and forth. Perhaps Alfred should have stepped in in case Jason’s grief-fuelled rage found the wrong target but he just tightened his embrace around Cass and watched.

“What. Were. His. Last. Words?” Jason cried out.

“I love you,” Dick sobbed. “They were ‘I love you’.”

The crying echoing from all around increased in volume.

“That’s right, you muppet. He fucking loves us. Don’t use him to hurt yourself. B doesn’t deserve that.”

Alfred very consciously did not look at the empty spot where there used to be a glass case. They had used Jason to hurt themselves for too long.

“I broke his ribs,” Dick said. “He was so proud of not having any broken ribs. And I broke them. After he already died.”

“Bruce wants his body cremated,” Jason voiced weakly. “The ribs don’t matter.”

Bruce wanted to eliminate any possibly of someone taking his body after death. His ashes were to be scattered on the manor grounds.

Alfred pressed a kiss to Cass’s temple and released her. “Let’s get him onto a bed,” Alfred suggested.

The children nodded and helped Alfred load Bruce onto the bed.

Under the harsh lighting of the medical section of the cave, Bruce’s face had looked drawn and pallid. Doubly so when contrasted by the darkened blood streaks on his face.

He ought to strip him of his suit, but Alfred distracted himself with fixing Bruce’s hair instead.

“I can handle it from here. Would you all head upstairs and fix yourselves a cup of tea?” Before anyone could protest, Alfred added, “Please, I insist.”

Cass was the first to move, ushering her siblings up the stairs. As usual, the others followed her lead without protest, leaving Alfred alone with his son’s body.

He stood in silent vigil at Bruce’s bedside for a long moment. What was the last thing Alfred said to Bruce? He couldn’t recall. It hadn’t seemed important. Tonight was supposed to be just another night.

“My dear boy,” Alfred cried. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Bruce’s forehead. “You stubborn thing. Must you leave me in the same manner your parents did? How could you do this to me?”

Alfred had to remove Bruce’s armour and dress him in civilian attire. He needed to find a suitable location to create a false crime scene. He had so much to do in so little time.

But Alfred’s son was dead, so for now, Alfred held his body to his chest and he wept.

Notes:

Alfred is a bystander and a caretaker. I think it makes sense that his grief is quiet and takes a backseat to everything else. He's the original stiff upper lip of the Batfamily after all. But he's still the man who watched Bruce grow up. His son is dead and no amount of British stoicism can shield him from that fact.

Chapter 7: Alfred

Summary:

Alfred's POV of Damian's loop

Notes:

Okay, I originally was going to leave it at 6 chapters, but I changed my mind.

This chapters not really heavy on the hurt (in my humble opinion) and filled with weird metaphors instead. Enjoy <3

Alfred hummed to himself as he prepared Bruce and Damian’s favourite post-gala snacks. Instead of a radio, he had the comm on loudspeaker for background noise—the idle patrol chatter almost identical to the children bickering as they waited for dinner to be served. On a usual night, Alfred would never dare to be so relaxed. He would be down in the Cave, coordinating patrol with Oracle, ready with a med-kit just in case something happened.

However, tonight was not a usual night. It was a gala night.

Alfred would never admit it aloud, but he did not force Bruce to attend galas for paltry things like reputation and family image. It was but for the simple fact that nights Bruce attended galas were nights Batman didn’t patrol. Which in turn resulted in the children taking it easier as well, due to the fact that they subconsciously lingered around the event hall whenever their father was out as a civilian.

Tonight, they were more overt about that lingering, but that came with the added bonus of Alfred being informed that Bruce and Damian had left early. Which Bruce had neglected to notify Alfred.

Good grief, all that talk about thinking ahead and he still forgets things like this, Alfred thought fondly to himself.

An alert sounded on the Alfred’s phone, harsh and demanding.

“Alert received from…” the artificial voice of Oracle faltered and trailed off breathlessly. Barbara continued shakingly. “B’s car just—”

Alfred wiped his hands on a tea towel and hurriedly unlocked his phone. His fingers slipped and pressed on the wrong number. Alfred cussed crudely to himself, the soldier in him rushing to the forefront as his body screamed that there was danger. He tried to take a calming breath and unlocked his phone.

… Alfred unmuted his comm.

“Master Bruce’s car has just alerted us of a collision. Its last known location was on the corner of Vernda Avenue,” Alfred reported on Barbara’s behalf, relying on his decades of theatre training to keep his voice strong and steady.

There were sounds of cussing and panicked scrambling as the children all rushed to the site of the collision. Alfred muted the mic again and swiped through his phone.

Please, he begged.

He phoned Bruce.

The dial tone followed by Brucie’s silly message answered him.

He called Damian next.

Alfred was once again sent to the voicemail.

“I’ve eyes on the scene,” Dick reported. “It looks like a truck rammed into the left rear end of the car. The car spun until it hit a street pole. Windshield’s totally smashed.”

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Jason swore.

“Smell,” Cass observed.

“Shit, the gas tank’s leaking. We gotta get them out of there before anything happens,” Tim cursed.

“Okay. Okay.” Alfred could hear Dick taking in calming breaths. “We’ll do quick checks to make sure they don’t have spinal injuries, then we’ll take them out. I’ll get Damian. Hood and Red, you two get Bruce. Spoiler-”

“I’ll check on the truck driver.”

“Right. The truck driver. BB, you find somewhere far away enough that we can do first aid in. Shit, ambulance. Did-”

“I’ve called the ambulance. ETA fifteen minutes,” Barbara informed.

That was how much longer it would have taken for Bruce and Damian to arrive home.

Alfred dug his nails into his palm and rushed out of the kitchen. He needed to prepare. This was not Batman and Robin, it was Bruce and Damian Wayne. They were civilian. There was no doubt that they would be hospitalised. They would want the comforts of home with them. Alfred had to pack their belongings for them.

---

It was a kind young lady that broke the news to Alfred. Her sweet dulcet tones dripped with compassion, thick like honey, and suffocating all the same. Alfred was almost choking on it—such voices did not belong in a city like Gotham, much too soft and precious for such a hardened place. It wasn’t so much what she said, but how she said it. Had the same message been delivered with the same world-weary voice most experienced EMTs in the damned city inevitably developed, perhaps it would have been easier to swallow. Perhaps he would have been able to respond in an equally world-weary manner, entirely professional and collected. Instead, Alfred felt as though he was drowning in honey, trapped in this stranger’s sympathy, as it invited his tears and his grief and all that nasty business.

(Lies. Lies. Lies. News of his son’s death would have destroyed Alfred, no matter the manner of delivery.)

He was afraid he responded rather rudely, merely hanging up with nary a word. Because another expression of compassion from this gal would have led to yet another car crash, and Alfred simply could not do that to the children. Because Bruce Wayne was dead, and Damian Wayne was injured and alone in a hospital that housed his father’s corpse.

Alfred’s grip on the steering wheel tightened and he pulled into the hospital’s parking lot with a sharp turn. In a move reminiscent of Bruce’s brutally efficient driving, he reversed into a car spot without slowing down, and then… and then Alfred just sat there, white-knuckling the steering wheel, staring at nothing at all.

‘We regret to inform you that Mr Wayne…’ the young lady’s voice echoed in his mind.

Alfred choked on a breath and clenched his jaws tightly.

It was his job to drive whenever Bruce made an appearance at galas and other such events. It lent well to the pampered Brucie image, while also giving Bruce an opportunity to rest, or take a moment to get into character. However, tonight’s gala had been so insignificant and Bruce wanted to spend one on one time with Damian and-

Alfred should’ve driven.

He got out of the car and marched into the hospital just as the ambulance arrived at the ER. There was a stretcher covered entirely by a white cloth, a big lump that was all too familiar hidden under that thin layer. Damian sat on another stretcher, thin cuts along his face, hair stuck to his forehead with blood, and tears running down his cheeks.

It wasn’t often that Damian allowed himself to cry.

Alfred signed the paperwork and sat by Damian’s side as he received treatment for his wounds. They were, thankfully, rather minor, and aside from the slight concussion, there was not much they had to look out for.

Damian likely sat in the passenger seat beside Bruce. Had they both been in the rear seats instead, would they have both escaped the accident relatively unscathed? Perhaps there would have been two seated on these hospital beds, instead of one here, and another in the morgue.

Perhaps.

Alfred snapped out of his thoughts when he felt a weak tug on his sleeve. Damian whispered to him, voice fragile and trembling, as he requested to see his father down in the morgue.

And off they went, where it was cold and harshly lit with glaring fluorescents, the smell of death disguised and hidden by hospital grade disinfectants and chemicals.

Off they went, where a son and a father lay, bloodied and broken.

A tired and quietly sad attendant led them to Bruce, before exiting and leaving them to their grief.

Bruce’s handsome face was littered with tiny cuts and already grey with death. Alfred could recognise Jason’s handiwork in the bandages wrapped around Bruce’s torso. It only told him that Bruce had not died on impact, that he had been alive to suffer through the lacerations and bleeding and fractures.

Alfred should’ve driven.

Damian tried to tell him a tale of repeating time and undone deaths. It was a fanciful story, and maybe Alfred should not have been so quick to mentally dismiss it—he definitely should not have been ignoring his grandson in this delicate moment—but Alfred was an old man. Hope was ambrosia, invigorating for the god and hero types, all of which Alfred was not. Should he dare reach for ambrosia, for hope, then Alfred would be Tantalus, condemned to an afterlife chasing after a fruit hanging just out of reach.

It was not fair to Bruce, who laid in front of him, on a cold metal slab, pale and rigid, never to wake again. Someone should mourn him instead of chasing after fantastical tales. It was the least he deserved. Alfred would gladly fall upon that blade. Let the children have their ambrosia. Alfred shall hold onto this all-encompassing grief as mortals do.

“I’ll save him,” Damian quietly cried. “I- I failed the first two times, but next time I’ll- I won’t let this happen again. Baba will live to see tomorrow. I swear it, Pennyworth. Baba will survive.”

If time was really repeating, and everything was really being undone, let this him be erased, along with his failures and mortal emotions. Let tomorrow never come for Alfred of this reality. The reality of here and now, where Bruce was dead.

Why hadn’t he driven?

Notes:

A nugget of comfort for those of who made it this far (skip this if you're the hurt no comfort crowd):

It had been a little over a month since the time loop debacle. It felt… dismissive to label it as such, reducing eight timelines of deaths to three simple words. But words were, Bruce found, oft inadequate, and one just had to make do with what they had. The entire situation began and ended with a stupid bigot anyway, so perhaps ‘debacle’ wasn’t entirely inaccurate in describing the event.

Bruce had been showered with, what he felt to be, unearned affection and attention the entire month. He had sort of expected it, having been the central figure of this debacle. The only time the attention shifted was when Alfred officially adopted Bruce, and everyone had given him ‘Congrats! It’s a Boy!’ gifts. They even threw a little party and framed the certificate with all the others decorating the living room wall.

Without the distractions of celebrations, the children had been anxious to let Bruce out of their sights. He had at least two kids at his side at all times, with the others frequently checking in, disguising their nerves with inane requests for ice cream or other such banalities. It was difficult explaining their sudden attachment, so Bruce simple elected not to. Gotham was used to the eccentricities of the Waynes anyway and simply presumed the Wayne children were playing another strange game, while the hero community assumed Batman had done something reckless again and had been grounded of sorts by his children.

Bruce would admit to chafing a little under the attention, but he endured it because he could tell it helped his children. He tried to see the silver lining in it and used the opportunity to bond with his kids. Besides, the kids checking in with him so frequently allowed him the opportunity to do the same. Bruce had never before been so in-the-know about his children’s activities.

Gradually, the children make a conscious effort to curb their separation anxiety and stopped lingering around his person. However, they still texted and commed him frequently, and ended up in his bed every night.

One day, the children will be able to sleep through the night in their own beds, but, Bruce thought, he wouldn’t mind a cuddle buddy every now and then.

Notes:

sometimes you wake up and choose violence and that's okay