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Bruce always had trouble talking.
Sure, he could talk– matter of fact, he had an impressive vocabulary and he understood how to form his sentences and he could pronounce things just fine. The issue wasn’t his physical ability to talk. The issue was, for some reason, sometimes, he simply couldn’t. Certain situations or topics, even people would close his throat, leaving him to only managing a hum or grunt.
It was hardly a problem when he was a young child. Back when conversations were lighthearted and no one ever second-guessed him when he only spoke to his parents and one or two of their friends, such as the family butler: Alfred, or his father’s college friend and colleague, Leslie. Even Lucius Fox from his father’s company.
When he didn’t talk to anyone at the galas or the gatherings he was dragged to, it was easy to turn away their scrutinising eyes with a light laugh from his mother and her fond voice saying, “Oh, don’t worry about it; Bruce is just shy. You know he doesn’t see you often.”
Not long after, he started school and it was only a matter of time before his assignments required a presentation of sorts. This was when the issues started.
Students would stand in front of the class, proudly holding their drawing books as they flipped through their crayon scribbles and eagerly talk about their process, yet when the finger landed on Bruce and the eyes stared as they waited for him to open his mouth, his voice would just… stop. He tried to never let it bother him– presentations weren’t everything and didn’t dictate his intelligence, but when people laughed at his quietness and awkward stalling, his brain would get foggy and whatever words he did want to say were lost behind a veil of static.
It’s no surprise that Bruce didn’t get really good marks for his speaking-related assignments.
Then, after a night out at a theater, Thomas and Martha Wayne were shot dead by a mugger in Crime Alley.
Bruce saw the moments the bullet pushed into their heads and how their bodies limply fell on the dark, filthy pavement where the city rats scattered from dumpster to dumpster. He didn’t look up at the man who took off– the man who took off with Bruce’s parents’ lives in his hands– and his chest heaved as he stared at the blood and brain matter that speckled the tips of his shoes.
He wasn’t much use to the detectives when they coddled him at the police station with a warm hot chocolate in his hands and a shock blanket over his shoulders as they nudged him with questions.
“What did they look like? Was it a man?”
“Did you see where he came from?”
“Did he say anything to you?”
I don’t know, he had shook his head and buried it under the blanket as he tried to swallow the choking lump in his throat, I don’t know.
On the days that followed, speaking was no more than a fleeting thought. Hell, even thinking of potential sentences he can string together were impossible. Alfred, bless his heart, knew he shouldn’t keep his feelings inside, especially something as witnessing the death of his parents… if the nightmares that kept him awake at night were anything to go on about.
Although, nothing worked. Not even when Alfred tried to teach him sign language after they first spent long hours sitting across each other at the dining table in silence in hopes of the smallest peep from Bruce, who began to grow frustrated and repeatedly clenched then unclenched his fists under the table to pass the time.
But their communication just didn’t happen. Bruce just had more words he couldnt use.
Well, not for a long time.
Eventually, during conversations with Alfred that were trivial enough, like what was on the television or how the vegetable patch was fairing, Bruce managed a couple words here and there. When Alfred caught on that it was all they would talk about together, the easier words flowed out. But the conversations were never particularly substantial.
Bruce did want to talk to Alfred about more. He wanted to talk about his plans for the future, how the crowded hallways at school still felt isolating, how he still didn’t know how to make friends with the other children. He wanted to talk to Alfred about his parents, but his throat closed up with all the words he wished he could say.
Yet not everyone could understand his way with words, or rather his lack of it. Despite a note placed next to Bruce’s name on the attendance sheet that gently reminded his teachers of his silence, one must’ve read over it as she then selected him to read a passage out of a book during popcorn reading.
Following the already typed out text in front of him was manageable– not easy, still stilted and awkward– but manageable. And just like that, a plan was formed. If he had a prepared script, he could talk to people other than Alfred. He could talk to people! Bruce had to make sure someone else wrote it for him (and he had tried writing it himself but it hadn’t worked), but now he could talk!
Eventually, after practice with Alfred, Bruce could read sentences and paragraphs to crowds. Perhaps his future wouldn’t be so daunting anymore.
College was different from high school.
It was apparent the broody emo loner who never talks to anyone reputation followed him, but college had a freer environment. It quickly became apparent that sitting in the same spot in the study hall every day was a valid strategy for making friends. Sure, the only people’s attention he attracted were the weird ones, but if he’s being honest, they were probably the best ones.
Harleen “Call me Harley” Quinzel was probably the one who truly stuck out to Bruce.
She would walk in after a lecture and sit next to Bruce while she sipped on a sugary concoction of caffeine and cream that Alfred would turn his nose up at. They would work in silence and occasionally asked each other for help until they finished up their required papers of the day or another lecture started.
When they’d rise to leave, Harley would fill Bruce’s silence with her excitable chatter that jumped from topic to topic like a dizzying spiral. So much so, she landed on inviting Bruce to grab some drinks with her, and it wasn’t long until he, too, was developing a sweet tooth for the caffeine and sugary cream blend. With every meet and greet in the study hall, the flow of conversation was natural between them and Bruce managed it much smoother than he ever had since he was eight years old and excitably gushing about Zorro and Gray Ghost to his parents.
He had a fling with Oliver Queen at one point, who first inserted himself into the duo’s friend group because he was curious how the broody student from high school was turning out, but then he stuck around when he realized that Bruce and Harley’s fun presence was actually very welcoming.
Bruce thought Ollie was an idiot and a moron–watching the blonde’s failed attempts at flirting really solidified that–but it was funny. Intriguing.
Their relationship stood over a friendly rivalry that had a constant fire of insults and digs aimed at one another, but it was alluring, like riding the high fun of a thrill. However, they both agreed to never mention those awkward, drunken nights in bed together.
Drinking in college was inevitable, and it could’ve been a pleasant surprise to learn how looser his tongue got with alcohol in his system, if it were not discovered during those nights where he laid next to Ollie with a sheen of sweat over his skin first admitting how he thought the idea of hot people beating him up sounded sexy then twisted into him crying how much he missed his parents and how he still believed he was at fault of their deaths because it was Bruce who nagged to go to the movie theatre. It was horrifying to think back on.
He wouldn’t feel proud of himself in the following days, but as Ollie looked at him with the gleam of the Sun that reflected in his eyes, Bruce was more grateful than he may ever be able to tell him as their mutual agreement finally settled in the dust: they would never speak of those nights again.
And Then Harley had to take a year off from collage to deal with some issues at home, and Bruce dropped out. Then like a string guitar being plucked, an idea rang in his head and as it grew harder to ignore their echoes, he disappeared off on a journey to train himself for the better, and when he returned to Gotham, the Batman debuted.
With the help of pre-written scripts, Bruce retook Wayne Enterprises and rekindled his relationship with Lucius.
He made a new reputation for himself as Brucie Wayne, the flirty playboy himbo philanthropist. It was easier to speak to others when it was a persona as the flirting and idiocy was carried out by reciting the snippets remembered from Ollie’s hilarious but somehow successful attempts at flirting in collage, as well as lines borrowed from TV and film. They weren’t his words, so they didn’t get stuck in his throat or turn into a static that clouded his brain as easily.
For something that hindered him for years, his difficulty speaking only enhanced his image as Batman. See, when Bruce didn’t talk, he was shy, stressed, depressed, or the traumatizing events that haunt him had stolen poor Bruce’s words, or whatever else was shared in the hushed whisperings of what people said about him. As Batman, however, he didn’t talk because he never deemed any conversation necessary enough. It was exhilarating, for his silence to be a boon rather than a curse.
One year into being Batman, Bruce ended up taking in Dick Grayson.
Having a child under his care was understandably strenuous and novel; it was different to anything Bruce had ever done before, but it opened an opportunity of conversing with Alfred, like a slow blooming tree, their once stunted talks of the television and the vegetable patch and work finally grew a branch that was all about how Dick was doing. He asked Alfred for help and advice, even mentioning how Dick was doing in school and his latest science projects
Dick was the complete opposite of Bruce, as hilarious as it could be. Where Bruce couldn’t get things out, Dick couldn’t keep things in. He could talk and talk and talk about his day, how Math Class went, how he felt about the miniscule things he encountered, and what he wanted to do later after dinner.
If there was something Dick was holding in, it would only take a participation in his waiting game as it simmered and then eventually exploded. Sometimes, frustratingly, into a rolling boil of an argument.
With the emotions running high and clogging up the words before they reached Bruce’s mouth, arguing with Dick never ended well– and at first, it didn’t bother Dick since he understood that Bruce struggled, but when Dick realized that there would be no change, he grew frustrated at facing his issues alone. Dick needed words and Bruce couldn’t use them.
After Dick’s thirteenth birthday, Talia came into his and Bruce’s life.
And for the most part, everything was going alright. At first.
Dick didn’t like Talia that much; he felt like he was competing with her for Bruce’s affections, but Bruce tried his best to explain to him that there was plenty of room in his heart for both Dick and Talia, and anyone else who may come along.
Bruce knew Talia’s past as well as she knew his secrets. He knew Talia wanted away from her father and he wanted to help in any way he could. Somewhere along their journey of healing, they intertwined much closer and by the time they noticed, they already fell deeper in love.
So much so, they wanted to create a life together and try for a child.
But their mosaic of jagged edged pieces of themselves that was once smoothly fitted together… cracked within a few months of her pregnancy. He didn’t know what it was–maybe Talia had second thoughts or couldn’t tell him (and he wouldn’t know what of those would hurt him more), but she finally sat down with him and her warm hands held his as her low voice calmly said, “I lost it, Bruce. I lost it.”
No matter how hard he tried to rejuvenate their wilting bond, she withdrew from it entirely and her departure let the mosaic come crashing down, and Bruce felt himself get cut up under the glass that seemed to only sting brighter every time he thought of her.
Searching through the mixed pieces of him and her, he managed to put himself together. For Dick’s sake.
It was a tough period in his life.
Even the once prepared scripts that Bruce relied on for an untroubled communication with strangers became a nuisance and failed him from time to time.
The formation of the Justice League was not easy on Bruce.
To start off, he didn’t involve himself directly. Nevermind the fact he gave them tons of funding for equipment or the watchtower or lending his help with larger crises– it took him ages to actually begin working with the team and doing mediocre tasks with them, such as nominating new members, showing up to meetings, and his favorite, watching the socializing from the far outskirts.
It took him even longer to join in on the socializing. It was difficult, in a persona where he didn’t have a collection of lines he could recite to strangers to get the desired outcome of friendship. He just didn’t know how to socialise with these people.
He never managed to tell them his identity– at first, it was the lingering Bat patented paranoia that festered within him from the moment he became Batman, but then the awkwardness in bringing up such a broad topic had him freezing up and backing down from going through with it– he felt like he missed his opportunity.
Bruce stalked all the members in the League, figuring out their identities and interests to try and find ways to bond with them since it was easier than asking them directly. And while the League initially thought it was creepy, they found it somewhat endearing with the amount of effort Bruce put into them. Especially when he started to manage somewhat casual conversation with them.
Ollie showing up was a pleasant surprise.
Bruce found it easy to slip back into the playful push-and-tug from their college days, much to the Justice League’s shock. Ollie didn’t understand where he was coming from, but when the creepy vigilante who stalked his team didn’t have any intention to kill him–only to rile him up and bite mischievous digs when professionalism wasn’t important. When Bruce’s professionalism fell–Ollie was passionate to respond back.
The first to find out who was under thee cowl was Superman. He ended up working out the kinks in Batman’s identity during his day job as a journalist by chance, really. Clark had been sent to cover an event that was held by Lex Luthor and Brucie Wayne was there making a show of himself with his flaunting acts, and a fool out of Luthor (which Clark not-so-privately thought was hilarious).
Then something happened.
A rogue showed up a bit far from home and demanded money from the rich to do… something. What that something was, Clark had no clue as to what. But it was like a switch flicked and Brucie’s mask dropped. Clark most likely only noticed what was under that mask because he knew Batman on a personal level rather than just as something that existed –beside, he had a career in connecting the dots and identifying patterns with whatever supporting evidence he found.
So afterwards, he confronted Batman about it and left back home with Bruce Wayne’s personal number secured in his contact list that came with an invite to meet for a coffee or a meal at a diner in either Metropolis or Gotham to ‘hang out’ (and the minor fact that Bruce had suggested to hang out like they were young college teens rather than the working adults they were was surreal, yet something about that detail felt fitting for the socially awkward man Clark was realizing Bruce really was).
Selina Kyle and Bruce Wayne definitely had the hots for each other. To some degree.
Bruce’s relationship with Selina Kyle, or more specifically, Batman’s relationship with Catwoman may be stranger than his involvement with the Justice League.
Selina Kyle was the kind of token criminal Bruce would put away, but she didn’t have the reckless disregard for life that the everyday rogues did. Instead, she had a good cause to fight for and her… unusual way of funding it.
Yet somehow, she had seen the awkward, standoffish man underneath the cowl, and he had seen the kindhearted woman that formed the basis of the playful, sharp-eyed burglar. Although she didn’t know his name nor did Bruce know how he could bring it up naturally, they were falling head over heels with one another.
The stiffness and fiddly air continued to hover over their meetings through the years, and it seemed to spread and affected those around them as Dick mysteriously developed a habit of leaving whenever Catwoman showed up in the middle of their patrol.
And honestly? Bruce couldn’t blame or reprimand him.
It was a step up that Dick wasn’t antagonising her like he had done with Talia.
Over the years, Bruce had miraculously managed to make quite a few friends.
Not that he had been able to maintain many of those friendships as they fell out of casual contact for far too long and trying to reconnect after long intervals only make it harder and harder to talk with no ulterior motive, like there was a window of opportunity for a chance and Bruce had missed it, but for others? He had lost them due to other means.
Gotham was a dangerous city– it was grueling on the psyche and not everyone coped enough to recover or stay afloat.
The painful loss of his friendship with Harvey Dent was finalized into stone when Two Face first appeared, and it hurt him even more when Harley showed up after all this time with The Joker’s Girlfriend being in the same breath as her name by those who talked about her boisterous laugh and clicking heels.
That—that fueled his drive for Bruce to push forward his efforts as Batman.
Barbara Gordon joining his cause as Batgirl was a godsend.
She was ridiculously perceptive, and for all her skills with computers and mathematics, she was even better at people, more attuned with them.
And she was unafraid of calling Bruce out on his bullshit, even managing to decipher him to a sense. While she didn’t understand him perfectly, she got further than Alfred ever did. That could be because she came to the manor to hang out with Dick, but Alfred had been with Bruce his whole life and still, to this day, continued to struggle with connecting with him.
Don’t twist his words, though. Bruce loved Alfred dearly, but there was so much left unsaid, too much Bruce couldn’t get out and pairing with Alfred not knowing what more to do in talking to Bruce about anything more surface level than the garden plants, the distance between them only pushed them into a professional standstill that remained dormant until fate pushed them into the same room.
Bruce felt awful for burdening others, children especially (and at only two years older than Dick, Barbara was a child as far as Bruce was concerned), with the complexities he came with, but the relief that followed when Barbara understood enough to get through to him after Dick had stormed out of his life the moment he met his limit with facing the difficulties of their communication (and the niggling insecurities the lack of adoption brought) swept over Bruce like a wave.
That relief only grew when she stayed. More and more when she told Bruce off, told him what he did wrong when she didn’t have to.
Bruce would understand if she left. He would understand if what happened with him and Dick would happen to him and Barbara– it was as if he had the impending doom of driving his people away– but she remained, and Bruce couldn’t be more thankful of her.
A child tried to steal the tire irons off the Batmobile.
Then he called Bruce a Big Boob.
When Bruce found the child trying to expose the hurtful behavior of those who ran the group home he was from and throwing himself in the eye of danger in the process, well, Bruce felt he had no choice but to take in the child as one of his own—
—and Jason was such a joy in his life.
Now, at 29 years old, Bruce was a much more experienced and prepared man than his 22 year old self had been. In fact, the larger age gap made it easier to parent Jason rather than being persistently stuck in the weird situation with Dick where Bruce was young enough to have been his older sibling instead of being the proper role of a parent.
Bruce hadn’t noticed it seven years ago, but having Jason now really shone a bright light on it.
Unavoidably, Dick noticed how differently Jason was treated compared to how he was once raised. As soon as he realized it, it ignited a one-sided shouting match as Bruce’s inability to explain himself during an argument only strained his and Dick’s relationship further.
Yet, Dick adored Jason– oh, he definitely adored Jason. There was no question about that, but his adoration for Jason and the current status with Bruce clashed together as being with Jason meant being near Bruce, especially when Bruce had adopted Jason but seemingly forgotten to do so with Dick. Bruce didn’t even know how he would explain that to Dick even if he could get a word in edgewise during Dick’s barrages of insults and accusations.
And for the next four years, Dick and Bruce’s relationship strained and bowed under a suffocating weight that began to choke those around them.
Worst of all, as a result of the tension between Bruce and Dick, Bruce and Jason’s relationship wore heavy with fatigue until the string that once held them together snapped, and Jason impulsively ran off to the woman he and Bruce had identified as a potentially being Jason’s biological mother and like a blink of an eye, Jason was gone. Murdered.
The boy who exploded his heart with pure affection was cruelly taken from him, and along with him, the strength Bruce had to hold himself together.
The working cogs of Bruce’s voice box ceased altogether.
In the bitter frustration to express himself of the mourning pains that infected his thoughts like a virus, and the desperation to crush the hollowing emptiness that nestled deep in his chest, Bruce turned to the warm comfort of alcohol. Far, far too much alcohol.
With every sip, every memory that left him bothered in pain came forward: the grief of Jason’s absence, the tatters of his relationship with Dick, the betrayal he felt from his first best friend, Harley, who still walked with the man who murdered his son (even if he knew rationally that Harley was trapped in the relationship, not there willingly).
And with each sip, he stopped caring.
Bruce didn’t care that Alfred’s Good Soldier memorial made his stomach twist at the sight of it.
He didn’t care that he should have postponed the funeral so Dick could attend–he just desperately wanted to get it over and done with to retreat from the public’s unforgiving eye and back into the lonely confines where he can grieve in peace.
He didn’t care when the Joker attacked Barbara in her own home. He didn’t care when the Joker’s helicopter crashed into the ocean in a way that would have anyone see from afar with a grimace and think, no one would survive that, yet he didn’t care when Superman couldn’t find a body. He didn’t care when he learned that Dick had actually killed the Joker before, but he had been revived before the helicopter ever took off.
He didn’t care when he returned home with more and more injuries that he should’ve been able to avoid once upon a time. He didn’t care when he sent simple petty criminals to the ICU.
Bruce didn’t care about anything anymore, other than the possibility that if he stepped out the Cave one night then someone might come around and stop him in the most final way possible…
…and then Tim arrived.
Like a speck of light at the end of a long tunnel that shrouded Bruce with a darkness he felt as if he had been walking under for eternity– stubborn, amazing, wonderful Tim who guided Bruce out of the dark and into the light.
Tim who dragged him back from the brink of what could’ve been no return. Tim who had patiently worked with Barbara in plans to get him sober, and stay sober. The boy who was steadfast in his efforts to bring Dick back into Bruce’s life, and who showed him the photos that held Jason’s wide smile that invoked the warmth of pleasant memories Bruce once thought was lost.
Bruce doesn’t know how he will ever thank Tim properly–nevermind knowing where he would start– but he hoped Tim would be able to understand how much he and his actions truly meant.
After Bruce regained a more solid grounding on his recovery, Barbara introduced him to Cassandra and the two instantly clicked.
Cass needed someone who would let her help and assist her in making a difference using her skills, someone who wouldn’t force her hand to kill, someone who would make an effort to be a parent and love her as one of their own.
On the other hand, Bruce relished in the idea of having someone he didn’t need words to communicate with, someone who had an easier time reading his actions and behavior without the worry that one day, they would meet the end of their tolerance and go on somewhere far without him.
Bruce didn’t need Cass to translate for him– but the quiet, mutual understanding that Bruce cared and loved so deeply, that just because he struggled to say it didn’t mean it wasn’t true, it was a breath of fresh air.
Cass had been appreciative at how patient Bruce had been with her shortcomings in the process of bettering her communication skills. That for every effort Cass made to try in a way that Bruce and the rest of the team could understand, she was met with a genuine attempt in understanding her meaning, and whatever frustration they might have had, she could tell it was never directed at her, only at their own shortcomings. She understood that she was not the problem.
The thing is, Cass remembered it. She remembered it even far after she was robbed of her skill to read people more easily than others understood their words, and she did her best to relearn it, despite now being able to use and understand words, she did her best because she wanted to continue her understanding to people who couldn’t use words.
Tim brought along Steph, a bright and lively young woman who seemingly made it her life mission to infuriate and bully Bruce with every chance she got.
Now, Bruce found her company enjoyable… but he’d prefer it to only be in small doses.
But if the hospital where Crystal Brown worked received more funding to hire more staff and reduce the work loads or Crystal’s health insurance now covered her for any mental or physical issues she may have been having– well, nobody needed to know that.
Steph didn’t deserve to lose her mother the way Jason did, and Crystal didn’t deserve to go out the way Catherine did either.
Nobody deserved that really, but with the corruption having its roots impossibly deep in Gotham, there was only so much Bruce could do until he was inadvertently funding more criminal enterprises than he was shutting down.
Bruce loved how Cass, Tim, and Dick grew close. It was an amazing to him how they stuck around, how Cass and Tim helped Dick see past his discontent to understand Bruce better, and how Dick looked out for Cass and Tim when Bruce couldn’t.
Oh, how much it squeezed his heart when they were hurt. More so how he couldn’t force comforting words past the excruciating lump in his throat and the freezing numbness in his hands and the fogging static in his head when the stress and emotions became overbearing.
But he tried, and he hoped that was enough.
And then it wasn’t.
Steph died.
Bruce had snapped– fired her in a fit of anger and didn’t watch her leave as she stormed off… and she had died, like the circumstances for Dick and Jason had combined. Cass and Tim weren’t doing any better than the older vigilantes. Bruce nearly relapsed into his alcoholic stupor from before, and like a faraway memory, it was Tim and Cass who pulled him back after only one bottle of scotch.
In another turn of events, Harley had gotten out of her relationship with the Joker.
Bruce probably needed to thank Poison Ivy for that. Hopefully redoubling his efforts on making sure Wayne Enterprises was as eco-friendly as possible would be enough.
The upside came when he ran into Harley more at coffee shops and started to rekindle their friendship, like nurturing a once flickering flame. She really did seem… happy. Harley would gush about Dr. Pamela “Pammy” Isley and her new freedoms she got to share with the woman. She reminisced about their college days that seemed to have been lifetimes ago as she tried to dig into what Bruce was up to after he dropped out.
Bruce told her about his kids.
He told her about his fondest memories with them and carefully stepped over the sad undertones with herculean effort, but like in collage before, Harley never forced him when his words failed. He told her of the few friends he made and managed to hold onto, and he laughed with her when she teasingly smacked his hand and said, “That right? You already far along with replacing me?” but he could tell she was proud of his hard work. He told her about more casual things, like what his favorite movies and television shows were.
When the barista finally called her name and Harley offered him a sip, he could’ve laughed at the familiar taste of caffeine and the sugary cream blend, much like the ones he’d been ordering for himself all these years since collage.
Jason was back.
He was the Red Hood and he hated Bruce and the fact that the Joker was alive, so he had hurt Tim horribly, but he was back. Yet, like every time when it really mattered, Bruce’s words just wouldn’t come out.
Then, Bruce had accidentally struck Jason’s throat with a batarang.
When nightfall came and all Bruce thought about were those moments, he accepted the crack of vulnerability when the nerves of what he’d done settled and he broke into the locked alcohol cabinet. Somewhere along one drink between the others, he must’ve called Harley and told her everything since he awoke the next morning to a text message thanking him for telling her and promising to keep quiet about it all, just for him.
He stared in looming regret, but he replied with a need of advice on how he could finally tell Selina of his alter ego, and while Harley had been swift to help him, it didn’t solve his initial problems with Jason.
Still, it was nice to finally tell Harley.
Only the passing of time brought tranquility between him and Jason.
Enough that Jason was no longer barking up a shouted insult or jumping his gun at Bruce from the millisecond they were in the same vicinity. He was even accepting help with tedious cases, wore the bat across his chest, and pulled back from killing everyone at any minor inconvenience.
Bruce figured it was the best he was going to get, but he blindly held onto the hope Jason would engage in a conversation that consisted of a topic that let the words come to Bruce at least somewhat easily.
At least Jason got along with the rest of the kids a little better. To everyone’s surprise, Tim had been willing to tentatively forgive Jason for what took place at the Titans Tower that day… and it worried Bruce at how quick Tim offered his forgiveness.
So much so, that when Jack Drake died, Bruce made it his mission to take Tim into his home fully and seal it with the act of adoption.
At the same time, he and Dick finally went to sign the papers he should’ve signed all those years ago. It didn’t matter that Dick was much older, now legally old enough to drink, but it felt needed. It felt right to do, and for once, it felt like things were healing.
They wouldn’t slot into place with perfect ease, but they were healing.
That had to have count.
Telling Selina was one of the best things Bruce could have ever done in his life, in his personal opinion.
They still didn’t start dating with a steady course, but they began a sort of on-and-off thing rather than spontaneously getting frisky behind a ventilation unit on the rooftops after a chase across Gotham every once in a while.
And… It was nice. Bruce hoped, if they ended at all, he hoped they would end better than he and Talia did.
Talia’s miscarriage had been a lie, and Bruce… didn’t know how he felt about it.
The turmoil was far too great to mold into mere words. Betrayed? That didn’t seem justifiable enough. Maybe he was concerned Talia had seemingly turned back to her father after being so desperate to escape?
Now, though, he has his child here. Ten years older than the night Bruce thought he lost him, and he was incredibly complicated to make sense of. As a parent, Bruce knew his love should be unconditional, but Damian did not make it easy for him.
Damian was just too deeply entrenched in his grandfather’s teaching, and for all that he had a truce with Ivy, Bruce didn’t agree with eco-terrorism, dint believe in eco-facism, and he certainly didn’t believe in bloodline exceptionalism nor did he subscribe to the idea that just because a child was adopted, it didn’t mean they were any less deserving of love.
Damian, however, believed otherwise.
He stood by the beliefs that being “useless” or having all the privileges of being someone’s child without being related to them by blood were offences punishable with death.
No matter how hard Bruce tried to unravel the knots that confined Damian to a barbaric path in life, it was as if they were all for nothing, and before he could regather his thoughts and hopefully create a plan to finally make a breakthrough, Bruce got lost in the timeline.
When Bruce returned, it had been only natural to find some things improved… and some worsened.
On one hand, Damian had learned a lot from Dick. Talia appeared to be breaking from her father and began to change the League for the better (and as angry as Bruce was for her hiding Damian from him, he couldn’t deny that he felt happy for her).
Cass sprouted into an independent young woman who stood tall with confidence and an easy-going smile. Jason had more since calmed down with more control of his rage and readily worked alongside his siblings. Steph was alive and ready enough to begin her playful antagonising with Bruce once again.
Then on the other hand, Tim appeared to have drifted from the family, lost the trust he had in the Justice League, and as confused Bruce had been with those facts, it still pained him all the same that they got to this point. Bruce wasn’t blind— he knew there surely had to be things that Tim wasn’t telling him or anyone else about the quest of Bruce’s arrival.
Gotham was hectic as ever, possibly even more so than before his disappearance.
Ollie had finally learned Bruce was the one under the Batman cowl and had been laughing up a storm at Bruce’s self-inflicted suffering. If he ever brought up those nights in college, Bruce would stab him.
The conversations with Alfred were lacking in emotion as ever before.
Things shifted forward and back, but Bruce was ready to work and make his and his family’s lives strive for the better.
A few months after his return and spending the morning drinking caffeinated sugar and cream concoctions (that Alfred now accepted his disapproval would not matter anymore) as he drowned deep in nostalgia of the past with Harley, Bruce felt his phone buzz.
It was a text message from his best friend herself that read, Saw this and thought of you. XOXO <3, and directly under was a link.
When Bruce clicked it, it took him to a diagnostic criteria for something called Selective Mustism, and the more he read through it… the more the puzzles in his life started to make sense.