Work Text:
He doesn’t know how he makes it back to the cave. His head is spinning, his hands are trembling around the wheel, everyone’s screaming at him.
We thought you were better than this, his mother says.
You made a promise to us, is this how you keep it?, his father asks.
Bruce grits his teeth, doesn’t answer. Fighting with the dead is never a good idea, they have nothing else to lose, so they always win.
He stumbles out of the car as soon as it stops, he meets the cave floor with his hands and not with his face just out of a combination of good reflexes and sheer instinct.
That’s pathetic, Damian comments, clicking his tongue in disappointment.
Give him a break, kiddo, Dick scolds him. He’s getting old.
Old, Cassandra repeats with a knowingly tone.
“Shut up”, Bruce growls, propping himself up on his elbows. The walls of the cave catch his voice and send back echoes of it at him, taunting him. Shut up, shut up, shut up.
You shut up, old man, Jason retorts. I’m not above kicking you while you’re already down, you know.
Bruce, the poison is acting faster, Tim butts in, always the voice of reason. You need to find the antidote now.
“I know”, Bruce replies with another growl. It’s a lie. He had forgotten about the poison. Just for a moment.
He raises his head, looking for his children. They may not always be on the best of terms, but they would always help him in a crisis. He knows that.
He’s alone.
Empty house and empty shadows. All the kids are gone. Flew the nest long time ago. Dick has his own city, Tim his own life, Jason his own battles. Bruce never really had a choice with them. As for Cassandra and Damian, well. Cass had always done her thing, and Damian’s just starting to understand what is like not to have a destiny, what life tastes of when you can shape its course and not just follow orders. Bruce’s choosing to let them go.
Right, Damian snorts, leaning towards the computer’s console and looking at him trying to get back on his feet. Because otherwise you would definitely have a say in what I decide to do, Father.
Be nice, Little D, Dick cuffs him lightly on the back of his head.
Yeah, kid, don’t you see he’s dying? Show some respect for the fucking dead, Jason snickers.
You are gonna die if you don’t act quickly, Bruce, Tim agrees. Cassandra only hums.
“I know”, Bruce repeats. His head feels light, his legs are not working correctly. He knows he has an antidote somewhere, but he has to force his mind into focussing on remembering where and what it looked like. He wonders where Alfred is, and if he’s going to find him in time.
He blacks out somewhere between the car and the stairs.
*
He wakes up in a bed, surrounded by darkness. He barely has the time to recognize his own bedroom, then both body memory and instincts set in and he’s running towards the bathroom before he even realizes his stomach is turning inside out.
He throws up on white marbles and fine porcelain indiscriminately. Alfred is going to be mad at him even if he’s not going to say it. Normally he would clean up after himself but he feels hot, like he has a fever, and he feels weak, weaker than he’s been in years.
You don’t look good, beloved, a woman’s voice agrees.
Bruce raises his head and Talia’s there, standing in front of the sink, long red dress and bare feet, leaning towards the mirror, a tube of mascara in her hand.
Perhaps we should cancel the dinner, I’m sure the Major will understand.
She does her eyes slowly and with great care, mouth slightly open, lips as red as her dress. The bracelets on her wrists jingle everytime she moves, and she looks so beautiful and so real Bruce has to run away from her.
His bedroom is still dark, but he can see a lump on his bed. Selina blinks back at him from under the linen sheets and she yawns and stretches in that cat-like way she does everything.
‘Morning darling, where were you?, she smiles.
Bruce sways on his feet, reaching for the wall for support. Closes his eyes, tries to separate reality from hallucinations.
It’s not easy.
The click of the light switch and a hand on his shoulder makes him turn. In the soft light of their bedroom Talia looks at him with concern in her eyes.
Bruce, do you want me to call a doctor?, she asks.
Bruce looks back at the bed, but it’s empty now. Selina’s gone. He notices other things, though. A wedding ring on the nightstand. Woman clothes on the chair. An open box of jewelry on the dresser.
“I’m fine”, he answers.
Talia looks at him dubiously, but she doesn’t insist.
He watches her sitting down and start brushing her hair, and suddenly he remembers hundreds of nights just like this one, getting ready for dinners and parties, and how she would always let him choose the necklace to go with her outfit.
(His parents used to this, Bruce remembers. And his father always chose pearls. Said he just loved them so much. It drove his mother crazy sometimes, but she would always wear them when he asked, because she loved him so much.)
He moves towards the jewelry box to indulge into their ritual one more time, but then he hears the laughing of a child and the sound of tiny bare feet running on old, polished wood. He remembers this too, and he knows it’s Damian even before the toddler barges in the room. It was only three weeks ago when Damian took his first walk without their help, but now he’s already running around the manor, giving heart attacks to everyone.
“Mama, mama!”, he screams.
Talia immediately turns towards her son and catches him with a laugh, scooping him up in her arms and spinning him around, making him giggle in that bubbling way that never ceases to amaze Bruce.
Damian is such a cute baby too, all chubby cheeks and big blue eyes, and Bruce knows that every parent says so, but he’s secretly convinced that his son is the most beautiful child in the entire world.
(He knows what Damian looked like as a baby because Talia showed him a photo, once. Refused to give it to him when he asked, told him he didn’t deserved it, that Damian’s childhood was hers, and hers alone.)
“Sorry, little guy’s faster than I expected”, another known voice says.
Jason looks at them from the doorframe, an indulgent smile on his lips. He’s sixteen - seventeen at most - all long hair and clothes getting too short for him day by day. He’s growing tall, almost can look his father straight in the eyes. Bruce doesn’t like that.
(Bruce never saw Jason at sixteen. He only knows the child and the man, not what was in between. Teenager Jason belonged to Talia too.)
“It’s okay”, Talia says, Damian still wriggling on her lap. “I wanted to give him a goodnight kiss anyway.”
Damian babbles something at her and keeps playing with her hair. He’s fascinated with her earrings but by now he knows better than to try and pull them. Talia smiles down at him and cradles him closer so she can pepper his little face with big, smacking kisses, making him squeal in delight.
“If I tried that he would pull all my hair off, the little demon”, Jason huffs, and he doesn’t even bother to hide the fondness in his voice.
Talia only grins and gestures for him to come closer. When Jason comes standing beside her she stands up and brushes a kiss on his cheek, making him blush.
“Thank you for babysitting him tonight, Jason”, she says, handing Damian over to him.
“It’s fine”, he dismisses her. “I really don’t mind.”
Jason takes the child easily, with the familiarity coming from years of experience. Damian settles in his arms with the same confidence, and as if on a cue, he reaches for Jason’s hair and pulls, loving the sound of his big brother’s yelping.
(No white-streak in Jason’s hair, Bruce notices. This Jason has never died, this Jason grew up here, in this house, with loving parents and a bunch of brothers who refused to leave him alone. This Jason is happy.)
*
His heartbeat is slowing too much. Bruce is usually able to control it and adjust his body function accordingly, but now he’s too weak to fight both the poison and his heart’s mutiny.
That’s why he has Alfred, he supposes, as he watches his old friend moving around him with not so much as a frown. He’s always envied that calm.
You weren’t there, he tries to say, but Alfred shushes him like he would with a child.
In my other life, you were the only one missing.
He doesn’t know if he’s speaking or only thinking those words because he can’t tell the difference between the two things anymore. Speaking and thinking. Reality and hallucinations. Fears and hopes. Nightmares and dreams.
Alfred doesn’t answer anyway. Just strokes his cheek with his hand the way he used to do when Bruce was a kid.
Long, long time ago.
*
He’s blind.
He can’t move his hands, he can’t speak.
(By now his blood has completely absorbed the toxin, so the effect of the poison must have reached its peak, Bruce reasons. It’s going to take an hour or a little less from the last inoculation for the antidote to start to work, but it’s going to be a long, long hour.)
He’s not alone.
He feels lips on his chest, hands on his hips. Can’t feel his arms or his own face, but he knows there’s a rope tied around both of his wrists and a piece of something soft and expensive covering his eyes.
“Surprise”, a woman’s voice whispers, soft and full of laugh.
It could be Selina, or Jezebel, or Talia, and Bruce hates that he can’t tell them apart. He should be able to. In another life he would be able to.
“We need to celebrate, Bruce.”
Celebrate what?, he wants to asks, but he can’t speak. He bites down on the piece of leather between his teeth, tries to imagine himself right now, naked and blind and tied up to his own bed, completely defenseless. Thrown at the mercy of the woman he loved (Selina, Jezebel, Talia) and who loved him back (maybe, and not really, and once upon a time).
“Love it’s the best way to die, don’t you think, darling?”, she says.
Warm fingers make him arch and moan and fight against the bonds that force him to suffer this assault without being able to to defend himself or attack back. And he likes it. He loves it. The complete lack of control. The trust. Because he trusts her (them) in a way he never considered possible. In a way that was never possible before.
(Before what?)
There are teeth against his neck and he thinks he recognizes Talia’s mouth, but then long, sharp nails come down scratching his shoulders, and that’s Selina’s way to touch him. Kisses and bites and whispered words in his ears, and he doesn’t know anymore, and he likes the idea of not knowing too.
She tortures him for an hour or a little less.
Then he dies.
Finally.
(Something’s beeping in the distance. Someone’s talking. It’s all white noise, though. He really doesn’t have the strength to pay attention to it. He’s a dead man, he has nothing else to lose now.)
*
The white flash of a sunbeam hits his closed eyes and Bruce jolts wide awaken. He didn’t even know he was sleeping. There are voices around him, all raised in excitement. But it’s not fear. Nothing bad is coming.
The door of his bedroom swings wide open with a little bang of expensive brass knocking against equally expensive wood, and a reproach automatically comes to his mouth, but before he can speak another voice beats him on the spot.
“I’m home!”
And Bruce smiles, scratched furniture completely forgotten. It’s some sort of reflex when Dick’s around.
“Dick”, he calls, standing up to welcome his oldest son.
“In flesh and blood”, Dick grins, as he spins on his heels and bows his head. “Ta-da!”
Bruce laughs and hugs him to his chest hard, like he’s never letting go, and Dick hugs him back with equal determination.
(There were discussions with this Dick too, Bruce knows that much. Shouting matches and weeks of silence, lots of angry words that were never supposed to be spoken. But this Dick never left this house slamming the door behind him. This Dick always knew that Bruce was his father and that he loved him.)
“How’s college?”, Bruce asks after a moment, slowly untangling himself from the hug.
“Good. Not as hard as you pictured it and not as easy as I hoped”, Dick answers, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Nothing I can’t fix”, he adds quickly when Bruce frowns. “I just need a little time to adjust.”
Bruce opens his mouth to offer him his help, but in that moment a delighted screech pierces his ear.
“Dick!”, Cassandra shouts, smiling and showing off her new shiny braces.
“Hey princess!”, Dick shouts back, turning towards his sister and opening up his arms.
Cass doesn’t need further invitations, and she launches himself into his brother’s embrace. She barely comes up to Dick’s chest, but that’s never been a problem for his oldest son. Bruce watches them spinning around the room three times, laughing like crazy, and then the rest of the flock appear on his door.
“Welcome home, Richard”, Talia greets him, Jason and Tim at her side. In her arms Damian squeals happily, reaching for Dick, who reaches right back at him with a big smile, Cassandra still pressed into his side, and Talia promptly holds out the baby for him.
Dick picks Damian up with one arm, fist-bump Jason with his free hand and kisses Tim’s forehead when the kid wraps himself around his waist.
“Hello, family. I’ve missed you”, he laughs, and he’s clearly so happy to see them that Bruce’s heart hurt a little. But it’s not a bad kind of hurt and he approaches the little group from behind, absently ruffling Tim’s hair before placing a hand on Dick’s shoulder.
He looks at Damian, who’s sitting on Dick’s hip, making grabby hands at his face.
“Dada”, he calls him, trying to reach his hair.
“No”, Dick laughs. “I’m not your dada.”
“Dada”, Damian insists.
“Well, okay then. Whatever you say, little guy”, Dick yields, then he tilts his head and submits himself to Damian’s vicious hairpulling, much to Tim’s disdain.
“You really shouldn’t let him do that”, the kid protests, frowning and looking remarkably like Bruce in doing so, even if he’s only eight years old.
“I know, I know”, Dick answers with a sigh, but he doesn’t do anything to stop his baby brother who, for his part, just keeps pulling his hair calling him dada, dada with genuine contentment.
Dick doesn’t try to correct him again, so Bruce pulls a face and Talia laughs. She knows he’s jealous, and it’s easy for her to laugh it off. Damian never calls anyone else mama but everyone except Tim is dada. Bruce, Dick, Jason, sometimes even Clark, when he comes visiting. There is really no difference for Damian.
Bruce’s suspicion is that Damian does it on purpose. They all find it so cute when he calls them dada, so they’re all incapable of refusing him anything when he addresses them like that, and Bruce thinks that’s exactly why Damian doesn’t bother with using their real names, even though he knows them very well by now. Then again, Damian is only fourteen months old and maybe Bruce is reading too much into it.
(He and Dick never talked about it, and Damian would deny there’s even something to talk about. But Bruce remembers the first time he saw them together, remembers how his first thought was that Damian looked different from how he remembered him. A lot less like him, a lot more like Dick. It was a crazy thought, but also a legitimate one. After all he knows better than anyone else that fatherhood doesn’t have anything to do with blood.)
*
“Master Bruce?”
“Mh?”
“Would it be too much of an inconvenience for you to wake up?”
“Mh.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to wake up anyway.”
“Mh.”
He keeps dreaming.
*
Lowered head, tensed shoulders, fingers pressed against his eyelids. He must look like a living dead. Which is fair. The migraines are killing him.
The floor creaks under familiar footsteps, and when he raises his head from the work on his desk, Cassandra is sitting on the floor of his bedroom, fighting with the ribbons of her pointe shoes.
“Need space”, she only says, and Bruce doesn’t protest. He knows she loves to dance in a lot of strange places and he’s not surprised to learn that his bedroom is one of them.
“Do you also need the stereo?”, he asks. She shakes her head no, and again, he’s not surprised at all. Cassandra is the only one of his children who shares his love for silence. She could do anything without emitting a sound, from running to dancing. It’s quite disturbing sometimes, but he tries not to let her know.
(But she does know. Always. Even - especially - without words. That’s probably why she understands him better than her brothers.)
The quiet lasts all but five minutes, then Tim gently knocks on the door, shy smile and big eyes hidden behind a mop of hair.
“Hi. Sorry”, he starts, then he bits his lips. “Are you busy? If you aren’t, can you help me with my homeworks?”
And Bruce smiles because yes, that’s something he can always do. Would always do. Be there for them, take care of problems too big for his children.
(If only they would let him do so.)
“Of course”, he answers, pushing away the papers from his desk to make space for Tim’s math book.
He spends the entire afternoon that way, with a migraine threatening to split his head in two, Tim sitting on his lap, and Cassandra dancing quietly around them.
(This Tim shouldn’t be here, he knows that. He had parents, and a home, and Bruce had no right to call him his son, not back then. Same goes for Cassandra. “Father” at this age was a word for another man, not a good one, but still not Bruce. They all came to him through tragedies and heartaches, but a dream is a dream is a dream. He’ll remember this as one of the nicest day-that-never-happened he ever had.)
*
It’s morning. A new dawn’s shining over Gotham, and Bruce is alone again, standing in the wet grass. The side effects of the poison are getting weaker by the hours, the antidote worked. The fever is almost gone, the headache is still there, but he’s healing faster than expected, so he’s not going to complain too much.
The new day didn’t take all remnants of the night away from him, though. If he closes his eyes he can still see them. Dreams or hallucinations, he can’t really say anymore, but they were real for a few hours. Few hours worth a lifetime.
He feels Alfred approaching more than hearing him.
“You should be in bed, Master Bruce”, he only says.
Bruce shakes his head.
“Sorry, Alfred. I needed to get out of there.”
Too many people in that bedroom, he wants to say, and he could actually say it. As crazy as it’d sound, Alfred would understand it in his usual mysterious, sort-of-omniscient way.
But Bruce just doesn’t want to share it. Not yet.
*
It’s night again, and he’s wandering the halls of his own house like a ghost. Patrol is out of question at least for a few days, and Bruce doesn’t know what to do with himself in the meanwhile. So he walks. And he listens. There are always a lot of noises in old houses, and Wayne Manor is a very normal house on that regard.
The creaks of old wood and the ticking of the ancient clocks. Tree branches brushing against the windows, the distant calls of the owls hunting, and then something else. Feeble whimpers behind a closed door.
Bruce stops in his tracks and frowns. The hallucinations should be totally gone by now, his blood is clean, is head is finally clear. Even the migraines are gone.
He sighs and opens the door of Damian’s room anyway. Real or not, he could never turn his back on a child crying alone in the dark.
And Damian’s right there, of course. Holed up under the covers, tiny fingers gripping the sheets as hard as he knows how. He’s older now. Four, maybe five years old, blue eyes round with fear, his bottom lip is trembling, and tears are obviously on their way.
“There’s a monster under the bed, daddy”, he whispers to him, and Bruce knows it’s true. Knows what it looks like too. Because there’s always a Batman to a Bruce Wayne, and hallucinated worlds make no exception. It makes sense that he would refuse to be set aside and forgotten, even if only for a night.
He sits on the bed and carefully strokes the child’s cheek in attempt to reassure him. He’s not good with it, even if he should be. After all he’s seen this Damian’s birth, he was there through all his life. His first laugh, his first word, his first steps, his first day of school.
(Never for his first kill, or for the first blow that showed him what happens when you are not up to expectations.)
He helped changing diapers and singing lullabies, soothing temper tantrums and kissing scratched knees better. He was there for all the little things, bedtime stories and night terrors and the first time in the snow. He taught him how to ride a bike and how to tie his shoes, how to count up to ten and how to write his own name.
(How to disarm a man three times bigger than him, what bones are easier to break and what spots hurts the most when hit in a fight.)
Damian looks up at him, scared and defenseless, and the only thing he can think about is that Damian never called him daddy and he never would, not even under torture.
This Damian is Bruce’s son, not Batman’s.
...and Bruce doesn’t know what to say to him.
So he doesn’t say anything.
He closes his eyes, feeling a little guilty, and when he reopens them the bed is empty. His Damian was never there.
Empty house and empty shadows. All the kids are gone.
Not too far away, though, he thinks with a smile.
He can always visit.
And most importantly, they can always come back.