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It always started the same.
One word too many and the screams came after, the harsh words and accusatory tone.
"You're infuriating! I hope you know that- 'cause I sure as hell don't know why I bother!"
Dick, his ward, his first and eldest son, spat the words at him during their argument. Bruce didn't know how it came to be. He thought they were getting better, much better, it had been a while since their last screaming match and Bruce was proud of that- at least he had been. All he could do was stand there, listening Dick’s anger spill out.
"I didn't think it was relevant to-"
"Relevant!? Of course you didn't! You never do! They could've died Bruce! You could've died and I wouldn't have had the time to help!" Dick was gesturing his arms in frustration. "I'm tired of you keeping things from me during missions, and I'm tired of feeling like some- some pawn for you to manipulate!"
Bruce tried lifting his hand, wanting to reach his son, cup his face- reassure him.
"I wasn't trying to-"
"To what? Huh? What is it this time!" He screamed, bitter.
"I just wanted-"
"Stop it. I'm so tired of you Bruce."
"Dick, I-" He faltered, stilling his movements.
"I don't wanna know. You made it clear, I’m not good enough for you. What a fucking joke." He started heading towards the exit, his back to Bruce and mumbling under his breath.
"No.."
No, it's not like that.
Dick was one of the partners Bruce trusted most- on missions, in life. He's competent, capable, admirable. Bruce hadn't told him about the hostages because he knew the pressure it would put on him, especially near the end of a mission, when everything hangs in the balance. That's why Bruce has contingency plans, backup after backup, because losing even one life is, unacceptable- hard.
He just wanted to put all the chances on his side, Nightwing's side, and spar him of more pressure. And Bruce was taking care of them, he took care of the traps and lead the victims to safety, what was wrong with that?
"I'm not your fucking kid anymore."
The words landed like a blow, but before Bruce could say anything -before he could find the right words- Dick was gone.
After that, Bruce was not able to catch a glimpse of Dick. Like he was avoiding him- and if Bruce was honest the boy- man, was probably doing exactly that. The confirmation came fast; Dick ignoring him at the manor, speaking only to Alfred, to Damian, to anyone else in the room, really. Bruce tried, at first. Opened his mouth, only to close it again when Dick walked away. And the worst part?
He didn’t know how to fix it.
Not anymore.
Too much time had passed, too many words left unsaid. He didn’t know how to begin- when to speak, when to hold back, when his voice would even be welcome.
So, after a while, he stopped trying.
When his- when Dick was here, he tried to leave before he could feel the tension in his chest. He didn't acknowledge the looks Alfred started to send him and pretended (or at least tried) that everything was fine.
Instead, he patrolled. He let Batman take over.
Bruce Wayne may not know how to fix what's broken, but Batman could still do something. He checked in on the people they've rescued, sometimes stepping out of the shadows just long enough to offer reassurance. He kneeled down to help children, tells them they're strong, that they should never doubt themselves.
Because they deserve to hear it.
Because maybe, if he said it enough, someone will believe it.
Even if it's never him.
*******
With Jason it came differently.
It's build up frustration. Disagreements left unresolved, scoldings met with a glare and the endless debate over Gotham's worst criminals are enough to let the tension take over.
Like that night.
"Why would you do that!? Are you out of your damn mind!?"
Jason's voice cut through the cave, following Bruce to the med bay.
They were only supposed to apprehend a criminal. Just some lowlife who was trying to carve out a name for himself by hurting and abusing people. And Batman had wanted to make him feel the fear he inflicted on others before dragging him to Arkham.
But things went south fast and had Red hood drawing his gun, aiming for the bastard's head. And Bruce, refusing to have his son getting attention from any kind of authorities, had jumped in front of the bullet. He took the hit and let the criminal escape at the same time.
And Jason was furious.
"It would've been wrong." he simply replied, peeling off the damaged armour.
"Wrong? B he would've gotten what he deserved!"
"Jason. You tried to kill him-"
"So what!? The bastard deserved it!" Jason stepped forward. "Do you actually think he should be alive? Do you want him to be? Walking free and terrorising the same people he already hurt?"
"That's not what I-"
"Oh yeah, I forgot. Your one rule" Jason spat the words like venom. "'No killing'! Like these people are worthy of walking among us!"
"It's not-"
"Because that's what it is, right? You'd rather let a murderer breathe than carry the weight of a death on your conscience!"
Bruce stopped in his track.
The tension hung heavy. They both knew what this was really about.
No matter what, Bruce seemed unable to escape that fateful night. They always came back to it.
His breath got caught in his throat, distress clutching his body, he could feel the guilt creeping in.
"I don't-"
"Don't you fucking dare. Don't you try to justify yourself- or worse, don't defend him."
Bruce flinched.
"You were supposed to be on my side! Instead you just- just go around doing god knows what, while that fucking clown still walks free! People are gonna get hurt- die, because of you and your stupid rule. And when that happens I won't be there to witness you pretend to care. You'll hold on that thing for as long as you'd like and I will be gone."
Jason had already turned around, gear still on, and was heading out.
"Jason, wait-, I-" Bruce reached for him.
"Talk about a fucking dad." he heard him scoff, already walking away. "A noble hero, they say."
He knows. Bruce knows he's not doing enough. No matter what, Batman wasn't as competent as he should be- needed to be. And Bruce? A feckless fool, stumbling where he couldn't afford to fail.
He tried to be better, he tried with all his might and went to hell and back to make him pay, he did everything- ..or at least he thought he did, just for a descry of justice, of peace.
And yet once again-
Since then Bruce hadn't heard from Jason.
This time, it's worse.
Because this time, Bruce kept replaying that night. The alley. The blood. The grave. The unbearable, aching grief. It clawed at his ribs, left him gasping for air when he awoke from the nightmares.
It never got better.
He told himself it should. That grief is supposed to fade. But it never did. Each time this happened Bruce would be stuck in it- pain, flashbacks, mourning. He spent days like this, barely breathing, barely functioning, drowning in his own mind.
Sometimes- God, sometimes he wish he'd done it, he'd crossed the line. He wish he killed the joker. Just to see Jason smile again, even if it meant losing himself. Nothing was ever worth more than his child's happiness; the sunshine that Jason was, still is in Bruce's eyes.
He'd give anything to bring it back.
But Bruce was stuck, and nothing seemed to help.
So he’d just wait.
For Jason to come back, for a chance to fix things.
But it never happened; much like Dick, Jason had taken a like to ignoring him. And Bruce didn't push. The tension was palpable anytime he was in the room.
The feeling of being the reason for their pain was unbearable. All he wanted to do was ease it. So, if Bruce keeping his distance was the best for them he'll stay away for as long as they needed him to.
Until then, Batman did what he always did.
He patrolled.
First, to track down the rogue who got away; to make sure the bastard wound up in Arkham, security waiting for the second he crawled out of his hospital bed. Then, to remind Gotham's criminals- all of them, what it meant to play this game.
Batman made sure they understood the price of a life in crime.
And if, in the process, he hit a little harder than usual, if the shadows stretched longer, the fear ran deeper- well.
No one dared to question it.
And Bruce spoke no word when Alfred came to tend to his fists and injuries, despite the older man's worry.
*******
Third time's the charm, or so they say.
Tim was.. different. He didn't do full-blown arguments.
"I'm not like you, stop treating me like that!"
Well, it happened here and there- but it's never hard to move on, they talk it out, move past it and things were fine.
Even though fine included Tim exhausting himself, stretching himself too thin, -which was often the reason a dispute was taking place. Bruce only started noticing, seeing the toll of those habits on his son too late. Too late to stop Tim from becoming another overworked soldier in this war. And Bruce, much to his own dismay, didn't want Tim turning out like him.
So, he tried coaxing him into resting. Encouraging sleep, taking breaks, anything to slow him down before he burned himself out.
This time though, Tim seemed to have had enough.
"I'm not- I just want to look after you."
"Yeah, 'cause you don't have the other two to pester. I can take perfectly good care of myself!"
"What? Tim I just-"
"You just what? Think that I wouldn't notice the way you're acting since Dick and Jason started ignoring you?"
Bruce stiffened.
Had he really? He's been monitoring Tim's behavior for months now, not just because the others were pulling away- but, maybe Tim saw it differently. Maybe, to him, it felt like misplaced concern, like a desperate attempt to latch onto a son who would still let Bruce care.
"Chum, you have it all wrong, I-"
"Do I? You don't have the boys to take care of, so you start directing your attention towards me, like I'm some kind of- of replacement for your worry! And don't try to deny it. The worst part? You actually think I'm turning out like you!"
"What..?"
"I was here Bruce! I know what your tendencies were like, I was the one saving your ass! So stop it- whatever you're doing. I don't want you trying to "be a dad" when I'm busy. Especially when you think I'm going to develop some kind of self-destructive habit."
Bruce felt his heart drop.
Frozen in place, he took the words like a bullet.
Weren't they past this? He thought- they talked about it. He thought- he thought he had made amends; he apologized, did everything he could to prove that he understood what he put Tim through, that he was sorry.
But it seemed like nothing changed.
Tim's words cut deep- not just because they hurt, but because maybe he was right. Maybe Bruce wasn't actually doing better. Maybe he was just a pathetic excuse for a father, redirecting his failures instead of fixing them.
Tim didn't say anything else. Just packed up, left Bruce standing there in the wreckage of another conversation gone wrong.
And as requested Bruce stopped trying to "be a dad" to Tim. To any of the older boys, because he couldn't stop failing them.
It was for the best. He didn't want to cause a fight with any of them. He couldn't do the right things and wasn't as great as he thought at this whole "parent" thing.
He wasn't even good enough as Batman. How could Bruce think he'd be good at anything else ?
He felt so pathetic.
The days went on and he tried to do the same, to no avail of course, but it didn't hurt to try.
(It did. He just didn't want Alfred to notice.)
Instead he has Alfred leave food in Tim's workspace, subtly removing cases that could push him toward overwork.
Batman, on the other hand, buried himself in more cases—taking on extra work, subtly lightening Red Robin's load. Ironic, really, considering it was all in an effort to get Tim to rest.
*******
Cassandra didn't storm in. She never did.
Her anger wasn't loud. It wasn't like Jason's, burning bright and explosive. It wasn't like Dick's, all sharp words and wounded disappointment.
"You lied."
Bruce knew this was coming. The words weren't sharp, but they were heavy- dragging down the air between them, weighing on him before he even turned to face her.
His coffee sat half-finished on the table. He set it down without drinking.
She stood in the dim light of the room, arms crossed, expression unreadable to most. But Bruce knew better. He could see the tension in the way she held herself, the restraint in her fists, the way her breath sat tight in her ribs.
She didn't need words to accuse him. The weight of her presence was enough.
Still, she spoke.
"You promised."
Bruce exhaled slowly. He had, in fact, promised. That he wouldn't take certain cases alone. That he would let her- not just the boys- help.
And yet, he had gone off on his own. Again.
"That case was-"
"Not different." She cut him off with a sharp movement of her hands. "You say that every time."
Bruce didn't have a defence.
Cassandra stepped closer, fists clenched.
"I watch you." Her hands moved with precision. "I know when you're lying. I know when you're tired. I know when you push too hard. And I know-" her fingers slowed, deliberate, "when you think I don't notice."
Bruce swallowed.
"You trained me to see. To read people. To know what they mean, even when they don't say it."
She took another step forward, closing the space between them. Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke again.
"So why do you still try to hide from me?"
Bruce had no answer.
Cassandra's hands curled into her sleeves.
"You don't trust me."
Cold sweat was rolling down his back, her words held the same impact as her punches.
Bruce's instinct was to deny it. To tell her that of course he trusted her- he had trained her, raised her, believed in her.
But-
Had he not done this exact thing to her before? Had he not brushed her aside, told her she didn't have to worry, that he would handle it?
Just like everyone else did to her before she had a voice to fight back.
Cassandra turned away first, shaking her head.
"I trust you." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I just wish you did the same."
She left him there, silent in the wake of her words.
Bruce had half a mind to call after her, to try something- to fix this, but the clock was already swinging shut behind her, sealing the space between them. Whatever excuse he might've had died in his throat, swallowed by the silence she left in her wake.
And then- she was gone.
Not just from the room.
It wasn't immediate, but it was noticeable.
She stopped waiting for him in the cave when she finished early. The quiet companionship they once had, the comfortable silence that had always been theirs- it was gone.
At first, Bruce thought it was his imagination. Cassandra wasn't one for idle chatter, after all. But then he saw it.
The way she gravitated toward Dick when they all gathered for missions. The way she let Tim pull her into his quiet corners when she needed space. The way she leaned into Jason's shoulder, watching the city from rooftops, talking in murmurs that Bruce was no longer privy to.
She wasn't alone- she just wasn't with him.
And that was what made it hurt.
He had expected Jason to avoid him. Had expected Tim's clipped responses, Dick's measured distance.
But Cassandra?
She had always seen him clearer than anyone. And now? Now, she wasn't looking at him at all.
Bruce didn't sleep most nights after that. Not that he ever really did. Cassandra's words, her absence; it sat in his chest like lead, heavier than any wound, any loss.
So he did the only thing he could do.
Batman moved through Gotham like a ghost, a shadow even darker than the city itself. He wasn't just patrolling, he was searching. Not for criminals, not for cases or unfinished fights.
For the people who fell through the cracks.
The ones they all tried to protect, but who were always overlooked. The ones Cassandra had taught him to see the way she did.
A young girl, no older than ten, curled up outside a boarded-up shelter; Batman left his cape around her shoulders and ensured she'd wake up somewhere safe. A teenager caught between two gangs, trying to escape a life he never asked for; Batman made sure he would escape. No loose ends, no debts to settle. Just a chance. A woman at the docks, bruises hidden under long sleeves, waiting for a man she didn't want to meet; Batman was there first. The man never arrived.
It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
But maybe- maybe it was something.
*******
Bruce started to think a pattern was taking place.
The next time it got rough with one of his kids, it's also after a mission. Once again in the cave, he found himself at the receiving end of Duke's anger.
"Why are you so opposed to it!? I could finally get my parents back!"
Batman had intercepted a new.. substance going around and Signal had volunteered to help him dismantle this new soon-to-be drug ring. A supposed miracle cure, marketed to those who had lost loved ones to the joker's gas.
It was a scam of course. A deadly one, at that.
"It could save them!"
"Or have no effect, or even worsen their state."
"You don't know that!"
"I'm pretty sure the bodies piling up say otherwise."
It was a hard truth; a lot of people who acquired the product, had a relative affected by the gas that suddenly died; it was the first thing that brought Bruce to investigate.
"What if they did it wrong? There has to be something we can do!" Duke asked, desperately angry.
"Kid.. I thought we were past this-"
"Past what!?" he snapped at him. "Did you really think that if I ever saw an opportunity to save my parents I'd just ignore it?"
"Of course not, but-"
"But what!? I want my parents back Bruce! And if there's even the slightest chance, I'm taking it!"
Bruce's chest tightened, knowing all too well what Duke was feeling.
"I know-"
"No you don't! You always let everyone die and do nothing about it!"
Bruce didn't respond.
Because Duke wasn't wrong, was he? Bruce has let so many people die, so many loved ones suffer-.. and he's doing again, isn't he? He's the one making them suffer once again, he's standing in the way.
He didn't have the strength or confidence to reach Duke this time. He just let him go, watched him storm out of the cave and then collapsed on a chair, anguish taking over him. He stayed in this chair, in the silence of his own failure.
And of course Duke started avoiding him. Just like the others. Bruce didn't try to disturb him, he just made sure he was alright -from afar- and let the boys do whatever they wanted without interfering.
At some point, Alfred seemed to get worried- if not irritated, disappointed, in him. But Bruce didn't know what to tell him.
Instead, Batman did what he always did.
He hunted. He tracked the drug. Run every test, every analysis. And when the results came back -when the truth was as devastating as he feared- he kept it to himself.
Because it wasn't their business.
Because it wasn't their burden to bear.
*******
Without a fail, Bruce managed to get another one of his kids angry at him.
It's Damian's turn. And his anger was painfully familiar.
"Do you even see me as your son, or just another one of your lost causes?!"
Bruce had messed up (again); he had hoped to keep the peace with his youngest son, did his best- and yet. Perhaps he had gone about it the wrong way; keeping his distance, making excuses to keep Robin at home during patrol..
He definitely did. He should've known Damian wouldn't be okay with that. The kid wanted nothing more than to go out, and a change of scenery from school. Despite everything, Bruce was very involved, or as much as he could, in his son's life -like all of his children. He wanted to know how they were doing, what was going on for them. Especially when it concerned school. Bruce was aware of how kids were with each other. He knew how other parents perceived his child, and how that impacted their brats' opinion.
But that wasn't the issue; Batman had effectively restrained Robin from taking a hit -that in his son's words "would've not been that bad"-, that led to Bruce "spoiling" Robin's fun.
"You're my son Damian, they're all my kids why would you call them that?"
"I'm calling you out on your failures!"
"Damian-"
"I was trained to kill before I could read, and you think I need your protection?"
How had it come to this? Why had every attempt to protect Damian only driven him further away?
"No, Damian, you have to listen to me-"
"I have heard enough!" He was turning away, getting away from Bruce.
"No! No please! Damian-"
But Damian was already exiting the cave, ignoring him. Bruce has to bear the strain of the torment, the weight of his failure pressing down on him, threatening to pull him under. He clenched his fists, locked his knees- forced himself to stay upright, even as everything inside him was crumbling. He could feel his eyes water- and Bruce decided to retrieve further back into the cave, training his mind off. And while he could, make the most of it to plan a course of actions to take against the school, and ensure that Damian would feel more comfortable.
Bruce wasn't feeling great.
The days were unkindly slow, letting Bruce simmer in his distress. Uncomfortable at the manor, he found asylum in his office at Wayne Enterprise or in the streets as Batman. The cave didn't offer its usual comfort- even Alfred, ever the patient observer, said nothing.
It was a silence Bruce had earned.
So he let it settle in his bones, let it weigh on him as he roamed the city, chasing Gotham's ghosts.
His city and her endless cry for help.
At least here, his purpose was clear.
However, despite all his efforts to drown himself in work, exhaustion crept in.
It started small; sluggish movements, a miscalculated punch, a missed step on the roofs. The nights fading into one another, and the weight in his chest never living. He barely registered when his knuckles split open during a fight, or when his vision swam after taking a hit he should've dodged. The bruises seemed to last longer. The aches settling deeper. The cape felt- heavier.
Batman works alone.
And when he stumbled back to the cave one night, blood dripping from a gash on his temple, he caught his own reflection in the monitor. He looked miserable.
A small part of him thought about calling one of them, any of them (all of them). But his fingers never moved toward the comm.
So, instead, he'd suit up, ignoring the way his hands shook, ignoring the sharp pull of torn muscle, ignoring everything; because Batman didn't have the luxury of falling apart.
By the time he'd realize his mistake, it'd be too late.
The fight wasn't anything special; just a gang of thugs moving stolen weapons. He'd taken on worse. But the night had already been so long, and he was slow. Too slow. A knife he should have dodged buried itself deep into his side, and before he could regain his footing, a pipe cracked against the side of his head.
The ground met him in an unforgiving embrace.
He tried to get up.
He had to get up.
But pain pulsed through him in time with his slowing heartbeat. His sight flickered in and out of darkness, and the sounds of the city blurred into something distant.
The thugs had run. Smart of them. Not that it mattered- he wasn't getting up anytime soon, but they didn't need to know that.
He should call someone, anyone really- but instead he just sent a signal, coordinates, something he usually did when he needed simple backup, then waited for a response.
He waited.
And waited.
..
Bruce realised- he knew no one was coming. And he stayed in the dark, into the shadows, bleeding into Gotham's streets.
His breath came out shallow, and for the first time in a long time, he let his eyes slip closed.
Then-
A gust of wind. A shift in the air. And a voice, quiet and firm but afraid, cut through the haze of pain.
"Bruce."
Against all odd, he felt his eyes water, and let his head turn to the voice- the softest of all when calling his name.
"Rao- Let me take care of you."
Please.
Please.
A hand, tender and soothing, pressed against his back, supporting him just as consciousness threatened to slip away. Clark lifted him, impossibly gentle, and Bruce found refuge in the crook of his neck as he carried him.
A sob broke out of him, and though tears may have fallen, Bruce was too far gone to notice. And Clark -oh, Clark- didn't say anything. He only held him tighter, and made sure to get him to safety.
Bruce had passed out fairly fast once in his arms.
Clark was worried- more like terrified, but he held him steady, making sure that the trip to his apartment was as smooth as possible. He had thought of the hospital but quickly dismissed it. He knew Bruce, and he also knew the press, the way they would only make things worst. And Bruce didn't need that. He needed to be taken care of. And Clark, he could do this. He knew how to do it.
When they finally got inside, he laid Bruce down on the couch, hands careful as they brushed over him, assessing the damage. The knife wound was probably the worst; deep and slowly bleeding out, staining the fabric of the suit. He'd take care of it first.
Clark got ready, retrieving the aid kit he kept there for him, and began.
He worked meticulously, peeling away the layers of torn Kevlar, cutting through fabric where needed, exposing bruised, broken skin. He cleaned the wound first, working with practiced efficiency, knowing that even unconscious, Bruce's body would tense at the sting. Then the stitching;
Kryptonian strength wasn't helping; he had to be careful -always-, but Bruce was vulnerable, battered. His breath was shallow, each inhale a struggle and Clark could hear it all.
Despite all of it, Bruce stirred only once, a slight flinch, but his eyes never opened.
"Shh, I've got you." Clark murmured, soothing without second thought a hand over him.
Once that was done, he carefully wrapped him, securing the bandages before taking over the rest of his injuries. Cuts and bruises blooming beneath pale skin- some were days old if not fresh, and he couldn't help but ache at the sight of it all. These were the signs Bruce had been pushing himself, again and again, without a care for resting- without anyone to notice. Or stop him.
Clark swallowed down his frustration; patching up Bruce was all that mattered.
He eased him onto the bed as soon as he was finished, adjusting the blankets, making sure he was comfortable. And then, he sat back, beside Bruce, listening to his heartbeat. Clark let the rhythm comfort him, like it always did.
"I got you, love." he whispered, taking his hand in his own.
Bruce awoke at dawn; at least Clark found him sat on the edge of the bed, eyes unfocused, after he went to make coffee- for himself.
He knelt before him, worry settling deep in his chest.
"Bruce." No response.
"Bruce, what's wrong?" Bruce barely reacted.
A beat passed. Then another.
Bruce blinked, slow and dazed, as if surfacing from deep water. His lips parted, but no words came. Clark wasn't sure if he was struggling to find an answer- or if he even had one. He placed a hand on Bruce's knee, grounding him, but he barely acknowledged the touch. There was an exhaustion in his face that went beyond sleepless nights.
Clark recognized this. Knew this. The weight of ghosts, of guilt, of something Bruce refused to put into words regardless of how many times it resurfaced.
"Talk to me," Clark urged, softer this time, his fingers curling slightly against the fabric of Bruce's sweatpants.
Still, Bruce said nothing. But the way his jaw tensed, the way his hands curled into faint fists at his sides, told Clark everything. Bruce was stuck. Stuck in his pain, in his failures, in the echo of silence his children had left him in.
Bruce's head hung low, it was hard to make eye contact with him but Clark still tried. He could feel, before he could see, the tears gathering in the other's eyes. His chest was starting to falter when inhaling and-
"I-.. I don't know.. what to do."
The words barely made it past his lips and his voice cracked. But it was a start.
"I don't know why, I keep hurting them-.. I don't want that-" Bruce choked on a sob, his body trembling.
He sucked in a breath, but it hitched, turning jagged in his throat. His shoulders shook, and Clark was getting concerned.
"I don't-, I really don't-"
He was coughing -choking really-, as he clung to his words, desperately honest, desperately trying to get someone to believe him.
"I know darling, I know, but I need you to calm down. Please Bruce, you have to."
Clark got up, delicately wrapping his arms around Bruce, attempting to calm him down, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear for a while.
He held him close, pressing his cheek against Bruce's disheveled hair, the warmth of his touch grounding them both.
Clark's heart ached as he felt the tremors wrack through Bruce, his breath erratic- he pulled him closer.
Every so often, he'd press a soft kiss to Bruce's temple, whispering reassurances that no one else could hear. Bruce's weight felt heavier in his arms, but Clark didn't mind. Slowly, the tension in Bruce's shoulders began to ease, though his breath still hitched.
"You have to be strong, sweetheart," Clark murmured, his voice warm. "I'm gonna check your wounds."
He was careful, ensuring that nothing had worsened. Relief settled in when he found everything stable; no fresh bleeding, no reopened wounds.
Before Clark could finish, Bruce blacked out again, his body finally surrendering to exhaustion. Clark let out a quiet sigh, brushing a hand through his sweat dampened hair. "It's okay," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "You need rest."
Alfred was worried, to say the least.
He'd gone to bed last night, a bit later than usual, waiting for Bruce to come back, but it never happened. There had been some times like this already; Bruce pushing himself harder- ruthless, unrelenting, punishing. The criminals of Gotham felt it, the city whispering of the Bat who no longer left room for escape, whose presence loomed heavier than before. But Alfred saw it for what it was. Desperation. Guilt. A man trying to outrun his own failures.
Bruce wasn't just chasing criminals. He was chasing mercy.
And if he couldn't make amends with his children, he would settle for punishing himself instead.
Alfred sighed. He knew better than to believe Bruce could be reasoned with when he was like this. But he also knew how this ended, he had seen it before. Worn knuckles, blood-stiffened fabric, injuries ignored until they became impossible to push through.
And the children -his children- they were watching. Even if it was from afar.
They were all waiting for him to break.
And Alfred.. Alfred feared that moment had already came.
He hadn't heard from Bruce all morning. The cave was empty, his room untouched, and a call to Wayne Enterprises confirmed he hadn't shown up at his office either.
No one had heard from him.
At least no one since the signal.
The weight of regret hung heavy in the air. They all felt it; the gnawing guilt, the crushing realization that they had ignored him. The signal had gone out last night, a silent call for backup, for help, for them. And none of them had answered.
Now, Bruce was surely out there somewhere, wounded, alone, and it was their fault.
Tim's fingers drummed anxiously against his thigh, his usual calculations lost in the haze of what-ifs. Jason paced, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache, replaying the moment he'd seen the alert and chosen to turn away. Damian stood rigid, hands curled into fists at his sides, anger warring with something far worse- fear.
The shadows of the living room seemed darker as Cassandra tried to hid in them.
Dick looked hollowed out, arms crossed too tightly, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. Duke kept checking his phone, over and over, as if somehow, some way, the screen would show a message from Bruce that he had missed, something to undo the reality of what had happened. But there was nothing. Just the notification from last night, timestamped and mocking, proof that he had seen it- and ignored it.
Alfred moved around them with quiet efficiency, his worry evident in the tight set of his shoulders, the way he kept glancing toward the clock as if expecting Bruce to walk through the door at any moment. He had made tea, set out a tray of biscuits no one touched, and had taken to standing near the window, looking out into the morning fog with a deep frown.
"Master Bruce has gone radio silent before," he mused aloud, mostly to himself. "But this feels.. different."
No one responded.
No one could.
Because Alfred didn't know. He didn't know about the alert, the signal, the lifeline Bruce had sent them. He didn't know that they had seen it and made the choice to stay away. If he did, his disappointment would be unbearable.
So they stayed quiet, drowning in the weight of their own remorse.
The shrill of the phone ring cut through the tense silence, snapping everyone to attention.
"Yes? Master Bruce?" Alfred answered immediately, his voice steady, though his grip on the phone was tight.
All eyes locked onto him, the room holding its collective breath.
But something was wrong.
The change was subtle but unmistakable- Alfred's face shifted, his brows drawing together, his shoulders stiffening. His expression smoothed out too quickly, forced into neutrality.
"Oh- I understand. Yes, I will let him know."
The call ended with a quiet click.
Alfred didn't turn to them right away. Instead, he busied himself; reaching for a paper, a pen, something, anything- his movements oddly mechanical.
"Who was it, Alfred?" Duke finally asked, his voice edged with something close to fear.
"It was-" A pause. A breath. Alfred's fingers curled against the desk. "Mr. Fox. He wanted to inform Master Bruce about an upcoming meeting."
His tone had changed, clipped and cool, the disappointment beneath it carefully masked but not entirely hidden.
Silence followed. No one moved.
Because they all knew.
It wasn't Bruce.
And worse- Alfred had answered with hope. He had expected Bruce.
The realization settled in, a cold weight pressing down on them. Because if Bruce could call, he would have by now-
The phone rang again.
Everyone startled, some flinching at the sudden noise. Alfred's hand was steady as he reached for it, but there was a sharpness in his movements now, a tension he couldn't quite suppress.
He answered without hesitation.
"Yes?"
Alfred's breath hitched, barely audible.
"Master Clark?"
The shift was immediate. Whatever neutral mask he'd forced himself to wear before shattered, his expression darkening as his fingers tightened around the receiver.
The room was deathly quiet, waiting.
"Where is he?"
The words came out clipped, controlled, but there was an urgency behind them that made Duke straighten in his seat, Tim and Damian glanced at each other, and Jason's jaw tighten.
Alfred listened, eyes flickering shut for half a second- just long enough for dread to settle in everyone's gut.
"How bad?"
Silence. Then a slow, unsteady exhale.
"I see. Thank you, my boy."
He ended the call with the same careful deliberation, but when he turned to face them, the truth was already written in the way his shoulders sagged, in the way his lips pressed into a thin line.
No one spoke. No one dared to.
Because they knew.
And the guilt hit harder than any blow ever could.
"Your father" Alfred's voice cut through the room, "isn't in the greatest shape, to say the least."
He looked.. strained. He slumped on the armchair, a hand over his face to cover the dread on it.
"I know he can be hard to deal with.. but for god's sake, he is your father." Alfred sighed another time, exhausted.
No one spoke. The weight of Alfred's words hung heavy, pressing against their chests like a vice.
Jason shifted first. Arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched like he was biting back something sharp. "How bad is it?" His voice came out rough, too loud in the oppressive quiet.
Alfred hesitated. And that hesitation- that made something twist in their stomachs.
"Mr. Kent has him in his care for now," the butler answered, his usual composure fraying at the edges. "He found him, barely conscious, might I add, bleeding out in an alley."
"And none of you answered," Alfred added, quieter this time, as if the words physically pained him.
Damian's fists curled at his sides, trembling. "He should have been more direct," he bit out, though the usual venom in his voice faltered. His father had called. He had ignored it.
"That's not an excuse," Alfred snapped, the exhaustion bleeding into his voice now. "He reached out. And not a single one of you could bother to check."
The silence returned; thicker, heavier.
They may have thought that Bruce had it under control. That the man who never seemed to falter was just doing what he always did: handling it. Alone.
Except this time, he hadn't.
Duke rubbed a hand over his face. "Can we- " His voice cracked, too soft. "Can we see him?"
Alfred hesitated again.
"You will, soon enough." He said, but there was no comfort in it. Only the ache of a man who had seen too much, lost too much- and was terrified of losing more.
Jason scoffed under his breath, but it wasn't anger- not really. It was fear, stitched into every syllable. "So what, we wait until he wakes up? Just sit here like a bunch of idiots while Clark plays babysitter?"
"Do you believe you deserve to see him now, Master Jason?" Alfred's words were cold. Not cruel, but close enough. "After leaving him to bleed alone?"
That shut everyone up.
After a couple of minutes, Dick got up.
"We don't." he replied to the unanswered question. "At least for now. But we will, and we gotta make it happen. We have to make it up to him"
After a glance at each other, they nodded, determined to be worth of their dad's presence again, to feel deserving of Bruce's affection. Even if he never made them feel like they had to prove him anything, they had something to prove to themselves.
And Alfred, as much as he wanted to stay angry, only let out a long, tired sigh.
Cassandra moved first, stepping closer to Alfred's chair. She didn't speak- she didn't need to. The gentle touch she placed on his shoulder said enough. Soon, they were all beside the older man, ready to plan- and most importantly: ready to apologise.
Clark had called the Daily Planet right after the manor. He needed some time to take care of Bruce and tend to his injuries, and Perry had given him the week (not without difficulty), so he had to make the most of it.
The apartment was quiet- too quiet. The usual hum of the city outside barely made it past the thick windows, leaving nothing but the sound of Bruce's uneven breathing to fill the space.
Clark had left him awake after checking his wounds again; none had worsened, but Bruce was still pale beneath the bruises, too still for someone usually so restless. It wasn't just the physical damage. Clark knew that the wounds ran deeper.
He returned from the kitchen with a glass of water, kneeling beside the bed -once again. "Bruce," he said softly, brushing his fingers over his knuckles. "You with me?"
For a moment, there was no response. Then, a barely perceptible twitch of his hand.
"I'm here," Bruce murmured. His voice was hoarse, strained, but the words sounded distant. Hollow.
Clark almost flinched at the sound. He gently guided the glass to Bruce's lips, but the man only took a few shallow sips before turning his head away. He didn't fight Clark's touch, but he wasn't really leaning into it either.
"You need to drink more," he urged, trying to keep his voice steady.
"I'm fine." Came the predictable reply- automatic, absent.
Clark didn't argue. Instead, he set the glass down and rested a hand against Bruce's arm, the warmth of his palm meant to ground him, though he barely reacted.
That wasn't normal. Even when exhausted, Bruce was always present- watching, calculating, tense in every muscle. But now..
Now, he looked lost.
"You haven't said much since you woke up," Clark said quietly, watching him carefully. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
Bruce was silent for so long that he thought he wouldn't get an answer. But eventually, his lips parted.
"I called them," he said, so soft Clark had to strain to hear it. "And no one came."
The words weren't angry. They weren't even bitter. Just.. empty.
Clark's heart sank. He'd suspected as much; but hearing Bruce admit it cut deeper than he expected.
"They love you," he said, as firmly as he could without pushing. "You know that."
"Do I?" He whispered disbelieving.
The rawness in his voice startled Clark.
"I trained them to survive without me," Bruce continued, eyes fixed on the ground. "I wanted them to be independent. And they are. They don't need me anymore."
"That's not true," Clark said instantly, a quiet desperation creeping into his tone. "They need you, Bruce. They're worried sick- they just-" He exhaled sharply, trying to control the frustration bubbling beneath his ribs. "They made a mistake. That doesn't mean they don't care."
Bruce didn't respond right away. His breathing hitched, just slightly, and Clark's super-hearing caught it.
"I shouldn't have expected them to care," Bruce finally said, more to himself than to Clark. "I failed them too many times. This is just.. the price."
Clark's heart twisted painfully in his chest.
"Don't," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Don't do that. You didn't deserve to be left out there- no one does, least of all you."
Bruce's expression didn't change, but the slight tremble in his fingers against Clark's hand betrayed him.
"You're not alone," Clark promised, squeezing his hand gently. "Not while I'm here."
For a moment, Clark thought Bruce might shut down entirely- but then, almost imperceptibly, Bruce turned his head toward him. His face was pale, exhausted, but his eyes- those were full of pain.
"I don't know how to fix it," Bruce confessed. The words cracked at the edges, like admitting it broke something inside of him. "I try. But I only push them further away."
"I just want to be a good father to them- why can't I do it?" His voice trembled, thick with tears he couldn't quite hold back. He brought his hands to his face, as though shielding himself from the weight of his own words.
Clark leaned in, pressing a feather-light kiss to his knee.
It was hard, getting him to calm down, to eat and let himself be looked after. The day blurred with the same fragile dance; he'd check up on Bruce, coax him into eating something and it'd end up either in tears before he'd pass out or simply shut down.
Each attempt only seemed to bring Bruce closer to breaking, his exhaustion pulling him under like an unseen current.
But Clark stayed, did his best and more each time.
And while he held his lover together behind closed doors, Gotham moved on without her protector.
The Cave buzzed with restless energy.
One could barely decipher the silhouettes of vigilantes despite the light of the computer's screens, going round and about, getting ready for the night.
Gotham didn't have the Bat,- her greatest myth to care for her, so his children would rise. And with that, their desire for revenge.
Whoever had left Batman for dead would pay the price.
Oracle and Spoiler had also joined the scene. For all his flaws, Bruce had given them more than just training. He had given them a home, a purpose, and a family. To all of them.
They weren't just his protégés. They were his legacy.
And anyone who thought Gotham was defenseless without Batman was about to learn just how wrong they were.
Roaming the streets of the city, the bats were ruthless.
Oracle was operating from the Cave, her voice was steady through their comms, weaving every moving piece of the city into a plan. Agent A and Signal were beside her -the daylight vigilante stayed behind, to prevent suspicions from the rogues and take care of the older man.
The three of them were monitoring the different teams; Nightwing and Red Hood, Orphan and Spoiler, and Red Robin and Robin. Each pair took a route, covering Gotham in its entirety, dismantling crime syndicates, breaking up smuggling operations, and taking down gang leaders. But most importantly, for their father, they were protecting the vulnerable, the ones caught in the crossfire of Gotham's endless war-
Until they found it.
"You think we really let him for dead? I don't see a body anywhere."
"I can't believe we escaped Batman! The Batman, man!"
"Whatever. The bastard ain't here, didn't get us last night, I'd say we threw in a lucky punch."
"Talk about a lucky punch! Didn't you hear his head crack after I hit him with the pipe? That was awesome."
Jason and Dick froze. The voices drifted up from below, carried on the stale air of the Narrows. A group of thugs, loitering like they had nothing to fear.
"What the hell." Red Hood's voice echoed on the roof.
"Guys," Nightwing called through the comms, "I think we found the last ones who saw Batman."
"I'm gonna blow their heads-" Jason's voice was low, vibrating with fury.
Dick grabbed his arm before he could move. Not yet.
"Damn," Spoiler's voice crackled in their earpieces. "Am I glad the night's ending, we'll be able to regroup soon. Make sure make sure these assholes regret ever laying a hand on him."
The fight was over before the thugs even realized it had begun.
A well-placed bo staff sent one sprawling, while a thrown batarang disarmed another mid-swing. Robin struck fast, calculated, a sharp elbow to the ribs dropping his target with a wheeze. Orphan moved like a ghost, silent and precise, taking down two in the time it took Spoiler to land some brutal kick.
Jason didn't hold back- he fought with purpose, with anger, sending one of them crashing into a dumpster with a force that made the others hesitate.
By the time the last one hit the ground, groaning and dazed, Nightwing dusted off his gloves and exhaled. "Well, that was easy."
"Too easy." Tim returned with a somber expression.
How much had Batman endured to fall before those low-life criminals?
They had what they needed.
And with that, they moved- off the streets, out of the cold night, back to the manor, back home.
Hours after their patrol, as the sun was high, the family was gathered in the living room. The kids were sprawled on the sofa, barely fitting in all as Jason and Stephanie were on the floor, but it was the place Bruce would usually sit in; more often than not when comforting one of them.
This time however, they were the ones discussing a way to comfort- to apologize to Bruce.
The ideas were bouncing all around the room, and yet they couldn't settle; nothing seemed good enough or it would take too much time- time they couldn't afford with their dad/father figure in poor health.
"Why is this so hard? We're crime-fighters for fuck's sake!" Stephanie desperately cried.
"Language Miss Stephanie." Alfred gently reprimanded. The butler was seated in his armchair, tea in hand and watching over the "intervention". "You should keep it simple. Master Bruce has waited enough for you and shall receive your visit as soon as possible." He calmly suggested.
Stephanie groaned, dropping her head onto Jason's shoulder dramatically. "Then someone come up with something that isn't stupid."
Jason nudged her off him. "Hey, all my ideas were solid."
Tim scoffed. "Buying him a bottle of expensive whiskey is not an apology."
Jason smirked. "Did I say it was an apology? No. It's a peace offering."
Cassandra, who had been listening quietly, shook her head. "No. He needs us."
A hush settled over them at her words.
Dick exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Cass is right. We've spent so much time being angry, pushing him away. What if we just.. stopped? What if we just showed up?"
Damian frowned, leaning forward. "And do what? Stare at him?"
Duke, who had been unusually quiet, crossed his arms.
"What if we bring him a bouquet?"
Everyone turned to him.
"..What?" Barbara blinked.
"Dude. He's Bruce Wayne, not some suburban dad recovering from the flu." Stephanie added with a look.
Duke shrugged. "So? It's not about what he thinks, it's about the gesture. It says, 'Sorry we messed up, we love you'"
Barbara leaned forward, considering. "Actually, that's not a bad idea."
Tim raised a brow. "You wanna bring Bruce flowers?"
Barbara smirked. "Not just any flowers. Black roses and purple lilies."
"It fits perfectly." Cassandra nodded.
Damian hummed, tilting his head. "Symbolism?"
"Black roses can mean strength, rebirth, or even devotion. Purple lilies represent admiration and respect."
"Sounds too sentimental." Jason scoffed.
Cassandra shook her head. "He'll understand."
Alfred, still seated with his tea, gave a satisfied nod. "A fine compromise, I'd say."
Dick clapped his hands together. "Alright then. We're bringing Bruce a moody bouquet. Anyone object?"
No one did.
"Perhaps.. may I suggest one final present?"
Alfred had spoken up, after a silence deep in thought.
Days had passed, and Clark was distressed.
He could feel despair clinging at him as Bruce's mental state seemed to deteriorate.
Despite Alfred visiting daily, the man couldn't bring himself to talk- to communicate properly. And Alfred, ever the caring soul, the fatherly guardian to Bruce, promised -each day- that the others would visit. That his kids, his children would come to see him.
"I just- miss them so much.. Why can't I let them go?" Bruce had cried to him one night. Clark had lulled him to sleep, unable to comfort him, to stop the tears- to stop the pain.
But today was different.
Today, they will be here. Clark called, ever the polite one, to confirm with Alfred, to make sure that everything would finally be alright.
It was barely past ten, Clark was in the kitchen, cooking some food; for the guests, for Bruce- who hadn't eaten much even when Alfred was the one bringing it.
He got startled out of his mind as a crash came from his room. Quickly, faster than believable, Clark was opening the door to check on his loved one.
"Sweetheart, are you alright?" He inquired, crouching down by his side.
Bruce had fallen against the bedside table, knocking over some glass.
"Sorry."
It was a quiet whisper. But Clark was getting used to it.
"It's okay, here, let me help you up." He replied before doing so. His fingers brushed something wet, warm- and much to his dismay, they returned red. "I'm gonna have to check your wounds darling."
Fortunately, in the end, it wasn't serious. An awkward position and the fall had slightly reopened a simple but deep cut.
He had finished bandaging when Bruce spoke.
"I'm sorry." He simply said. Clark looked at him confused. "I'm sorry for burdening you." He clarified after the silence.
"You are not burdening me Bruce." Clark pleaded. "Please, don't think like that. Taking care of you is the greatest thing you allowed me to do. It's never a burden."
"I'm sorry."
Clark was also getting used to hearing these words. It wasn't pleasant. It was dreadful, knowing what the meaning behind them was- no, it was dreadful not being able to do anything to help it.
"It's okay, you don't have to be," was all he said.
After that he put Bruce to bed again, as his body started to feel heavier by the second. He would wake him up when the time came.
It didn't take long after that for Alfred and the younger bats to arrive.
It was.. unusual to receive all of them. His apartment clearly wasn't meant for that much people and yet; the flock of kids always made it seem like they'd fit perfectly together in any space and make it look comfortable. They had placed a bouquet -such a pretty and carefully chosen one- on the table, a card attached to it and a little box beside.
"We would like to see father." Damian cut straight to the chase.
"Master Damian."
"Yeah brat, where are your manners?" Jason teased.
"And where are yours?" Tim retorted with an elbow to Jason's side.
"Obviously, not far from yours Timmy." This time, Stephanie had stated.
Alfred hemmed, rather loudly, effectively shutting them up.
"Sorry for that Clark," Dick finally said on behalf of his siblings. "And of course, we apologize for the trouble. We are sincerely grateful that you took care of our dad, so thank you."
They nodded in unison, signaling their appreciation.
"How is he?" Duke asked first.
"Is he okay?" Questioned Barbara after, grabbing the attention of the others.
"Can we see him?" Cassandra added quietly, as they turned to watch Clark with hope in their eyes.
"I- uh, yes, he just-"
At the same time, a sob broke through the door.
The bedroom door.
The room froze, only a slight exhale was heard, and Clark was out of the living room.
Some, like Dick and Cassandra were ready to rise, as others, like Jason or Damian were rooted to their spot.
"We wait." Alfred announced as voices, mainly one, were perceived.
Misery downed on each of them. The sorrow they afflicted on Bruce, they could feel it all.
And never had they heard it like that.
Bruce Wayne had cried before, at least some of them had witnessed it; quiet, restrained grief buried under years of control.
But this? This was something else.
It was raw. Unchecked. Another one cut through and sent a shiver down their back.
Clark hadn’t closed the door all the way behind him, and through the sliver of space, they could hear his voice, low and steady, trying to soothe.
None of them spoke.
Jason clenched his jaw, fingers curled into a fist against his knee.
Tim ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose, eyes darting to Alfred as if waiting for permission to move.
Dick and Cassandra were still tense, ready to step in, but Alfred's quiet dismiss kept them still.
It was suffocating.
Minutes passed, maybe more, before the sound quieted. Before Clark’s voice turned softer, less urgent.
Then, finally, the door creaked open.
"You can come in- you should, really." Clark told them after he stepped out the room, offering a small but reassuring smile.
No one wasted time.
They filed in, hesitating only at the threshold before entering.
Bruce was sitting up, back against the headboard, a hand pressed against his face, trying to rub away whatever was left of his breakdown. His eyes were red-rimmed, jaw clenched, but as soon as he looked up at them, his expression softened just a little.
No one knew what to say.
What words could ever be enough after being the cause of your parent's deepest heartache?
And yet-
"What's wrong Damian?" Bruce asked first, voice gentle but hoarse.
At his name, the youngest felt hurt, deep in his chest.
How- how could he still care about him that much after what he'd said- what he'd done to him?
To everyone's surprised, Damian jumped into his father's arms, as careful as he could be while huddling in, hiding his tears.
"You're an idiot.." he muttered, as Bruce smoothed a hand over him after despite being caught off guard.
"I know." He admitted.
"Can we-.." Tim started, shy, ashamed, to ask something from him.
Without a word, Bruce spotted the place at his side with a hand, the one that wasn't holding Damian, inviting them in.
That was enough to break whatever wall had been keeping them afar.
They followed Damian's lead, hugging, holding and sitting as close as possible to Bruce.
"We're sorry!" Duke said, voice muffled as his face was pressed against Bruce. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry- I said some awful things to you. And I was just so embarrassed, I couldn't bring myself to-"
"Me too," Dick cut in, lowering his head, mortified. "We all said things we deeply regret."
"And we did- we'll do everything to make it up to you. Because you didn't deserve it." Jason continued and rested a hand against Bruce's, without looking at him.
Bruce turned his palm up, curling his fingers around Jason's.
Cassandra had her head prompted on his, cheek on soft hair, breathing in the comforting scent of her dad. "Nobody does.."
"We're sorry too," Barbara announced with Stephanie. "We shouldn't have just ignored the problem- we didn't even try to check up on you or arrange things when we could see them fall apart.", "We thought everything would return to normal without doing anything."
"It's okay," Bruce simply responded. "You are here now." He whispered softly. "It's okay.."
Alfred brought in the bouquet, which had been forgotten in the living room, and Jason quietly thanked him as he and Clark watched from afar.
"We got you flowers," he nervously announced as Cassandra had gotten up to get them.
They all pulled back as he reached for them, taking in the composition and the card.
"We love you. Even when we mess up, we always will." could be read on it.
After a silence that seemed to last too long, Bruce smiled.
He smiled at them. All of them.
Despite be aware of how unkind they could be, and have been to him- despite everything, he still smiled at them.
And Bruce did it like they brought the moon to him.
"Thank you.. they're truly beautiful."
The same thought seemed to pass through the kids' head, and with different levels of tears in their eyes they either got back into his arms or by his side to envelop him in a warm embrace.
"What-"
"Just shut up, let us hug you." Jason uttered, holding him tightly.
"Never thought I'd see you crying big Red," Stephanie said whilst sniffling.
"Shut up."
Although very pleased with the hug, Bruce was struggling with the bouquet, and with a pleading look sent to Clark, the flowers were safe again.
"Thank you, dear." He smiled with a relived sigh before holding back the kids.
It was simple, but Clark had missed him so much that he felt blessed with it.
"Anything for you, sugar."
It was received with a united grunt from the puddle of youngsters, making Bruce chuckle.
He was grateful.
Even if his recovery and his relationship with the children would take time to mend, having them here was enough for now.
Later that day, when the stars were shining on Metropolis, Bruce would notice a simple black box on the nightstand.
A picture was inside, one with all of them, beaming, curtsey of Clark taking the shot, insisting that they had to have a family photo during this particular outing.
It was never developed, forgotten even.
"For the man who taught us that family never dies" was scribbled on it.
And behind it, a simple and thin leather bracelet. A small bat was engraved on the back of the metal clasp on it.
Clark, always the steady presence, helped him to attach it.
"Thank you." Bruce eventually said after admiring his wrist.
He would thank him again when they'd get to sleep, finally together, with a soft kiss to the corner of his lips.