Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

            It hadn’t gone well.

            It had ended well, Bruce would give it that. The bomb was defused, Tim had been there on time and Dick and Damian hadn’t suffered any major injuries during the fight – Bruce could swear he had seen the catharsis lighting up his youngest’s features when he arrived at the scene, but he hadn’t lingered too much to verify it nor had he been in the mood to dwell onto the fact that ending with the robots’ activity caused such feeling in the current Robin. He wasn’t in the mood now, either. He did what he usually did now in these situations, let Dick handle it so it wouldn’t get worse.

            Maybe that was what he should have done with Jason, too, just let the older brother take care of it. In its day, Bruce would have counted on Alfred for such task, but that was no longer an option.

            In retrospective, Bruce thought that maybe he shouldn’t have spilled that salt in an open and re-open wound.

            Above them, people continued their lives as usual, unaware of the sudden death they had just escaped by a hair’s breadth. Bruce couldn’t hear anything apart from the quick flow of the blood in his ears, his heart punched his ribcage viciously as he ran to where Oracle had found the explosives. He had to blink various times to finally see his two middle sons standing in front of him, gasping in relief and slowly coming to the same realisation that they had made it by mere seconds. A couple of metres separated Bruce from his children, but his legs couldn’t move as his lungs tried to get enough air; Bruce had felt such automatic task extremely difficult since Jason’s voice had rung through the comms, saying he would handle Joker’s last scheme.

            It happened in a quick blur that moved as if in quicksand. He had left Schott tied up with the promise that Superman was on his way to apprehend Joker’s ally for the night, got in his motorcycle and driven straight to the address Oracle had sent them. He didn’t hear anything nor anybody during the route, he just drove, as he had had all that time ago, against the clock. And against the traffic, which he dedicated a few chosen words to that none of the drivers had been able to hear. And, once he had been in front of the building complex, he had jumped out of the bike and run to the basement, driven by pure adrenaline and despair.

            Despite the distance, the impossibility of it, he would always swear on what he loved the most that he’d been able to hear the clicking, as taunting as its owner’s laughs always sounded, as it especially sounded when he rejoiced in his clearest victory against Gotham’s Bat.

“Batman, he’s gone,” someone informed, cautiously in his left ear.

            Bruce didn’t respond, the words taking more time than usual to register in his brain. His eyes went from left to right, to Jason from Tim. The latter nodded in his direction before kneeling in front of the device once again, inspecting more closely and slowly. His muscles burnt for the sudden sprint he had put them under after a very difficult night, his ears cleared and his ragged breathing reached them, filling him with untameable shame. He blinked away the stinging sensation on his eyes, swallowed the dryness on his tongue and breathed out the inexistent smoke from his nostrils, all while he, discreetly, under the cape, tried to shake off the ghost of a dead weight on both his arms.

“Are you two okay?” he asked, the hoarseness in his voice coming out naturally. He cleared his throat as silently as he could as the younger son answered.

“We’re good. Joker’s getting better at this…” he added, a tint of worry underneath his flat tone, as he took the useless bomb in his hands.

Jason made a face at that last remark, commenting: “Or his evilness is bigger than his ego and gave Toyman the honour.”

“Where’s the Joker?” asked Bruce, some control regained, some control lost at the subdued sight of his second son, arms crossed across his chest, head and glare lowered, body stooped over.

            Jason was taller than him nowadays, but in moments like these it was easier to imagine him as the kid he once knew, the kid whose body he once carried easily in his arms, for he was so little, so fragile, so young… Just fifteen. Fifteen years of life stopped abruptly because of him.

            Five years of second chance almost stopped abruptly because of him.

“He escaped,” a voice said behind his back. Turning, he saw Nightwing and Robin standing there, both eyeing him warily, blending in so easily Bruce’s stomach turned. They kept their distance and their posture remained rigid, and Bruce wondered if it was a reflection of his own. “O just told us,” added Dick before his heavy silence.

            There was a grunt in the back of his throat that didn’t reach his mouth and that did little to minimize the weight on his sons’ shoulders. On his own.

            He felt hotness going up his neck to his face, and he thanked the dimness basements always had worldwide, because he could feel it spreading across his cheeks, the only skin visible while on his suit.

“To the car,” he ordered, jaw tense, clicking shut hurtfully. “Now,” he basically growled, not allowing a negative.

            They all had spent enough time with him to know where to let it go and just listen, and his kids did just that: listen and go outside, as their father commanded the Batmobile to come to their location through his gauntlet.

            It took him more mere seconds than usual, Bruce doubted any of them had noticed, especially after such tiring night; but he did and would always remember because the reason behind the tardiness was the trembling of his hands which just made his face feel ironically hotter.

            The eminent silence of the Cave received them. None were still accustomed to that, to not hear a British accent giving them some earful or sassy comment for one thing or the other. Bruce, especially, hadn’t grown used not to be stopped by the sound of wisdom, not be greeted by the solitude he had unsuccessfully tried to put himself into just to be pushed into it when his guard was most lowered.

            And this, this vacant space, this lack of sound, was the most horrible one, for its counterpart had been a constant all throughout his life, since he first came into the world.

            And it had withered slowly before his eyes and yet he still hadn’t grown used to it, still he disrespected it by committing the same mistakes he had sworn not to make, he had assured to have learnt from.

            He felt disgusted, felt the burning feeling of bile coming up his throat.

“B,” Dick called, resting his right arm on the roof of the car; the domino mask was gone and he could see the tiredness on his eldest’s eyes as he looked down at him, the only one still in the car, hands still on the wheel. “Come on, let’s patch you up. Were you hurt?” asked the acrobat, easily, out of habit.

            He shook his head and got out, passing by his son’s side without another direct look. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold it.

“Bruce. B?” called his oldest son. He could feel Dick’s hands hesitating inches away from his arm. “Do you need to take a seat?”

            Another shake of head and, that time, he heard his rapid breathing. It was quiet, through the nose only, but Dick had always had a gift to read people and that small facial interaction from seconds ago had been enough for him to pay extra attention to his mentor.

“B, if you don’t need to patch up or anything of the sorts, go up and rest. Babs is taking care of the Joker right now alongside her dad.” There was an urge in Dick’s voice. He walked closer, stood by his side, a hand stretched out just in case.

“Where did the Joker go?” he asked, and he didn’t understand the deep frown in Dick’s face until his words rang with déjà vu.

“He escaped. Babs is trying to locate him and so is Gordon. Bruce, please, get off this and—”

“We can only pray the guy has gone on vacation, God knows it’ll be the only way to have some peace in here,” said Jason, frustratedly. Bruce finally looked at him, looked at his son properly; his eyes were as tired as Dick’s, but he had some extra exhaustion in the rest of his body, basically slumped down on one of the nearest chairs, and his hair was stuck to his forehead, bathed in sweat. A bitter taste pursed his lips and, in a soft whisper, he rasped out: “Not the only way, but I don’t think adding twenty more corpses to the sum is going to change anything.”

            It was funny, how two people that had been like the sun and the moon to raise could be so alike at the same time. Even in their similarity, Dick and Jason were so different: Dick was a supernova while Jason had shown himself a great shooter since a young age without the need to carry guns yet.

“Jason—” began Dick, massaging his temples in irritation.

“Shut up,” interrupted Bruce, harshly. “Shut the hell up, do you hear me? I don’t want to hear anything from you tonight.”

            All his kids were watching him in different levels of shock, which would have soothed his upcoming outburst any other day, but Jason’s incredulous huff of a laugh pushed him back to square one.

“And I want to hear you criticising somebody’s way of acting even less.”

            He felt his cowl out of his face, his hands still numb to him. The only thing Bruce felt completely was the boiling ire, the indomitable anger he had fed by fighting crime refusing to go to sleep that night.

“Yours, you mean,” argued Jason, offendedly.

“Anyone’s,” insisted Bruce, squinting his eyes in annoyance. “After what you did tonight—”

“What did I do? Oracle asked for who was the nearest to the bomb, it was me and I did as I had to. What else was I supposed to do?”

“To listen to me,” stressed Bruce, taking one step closer to his angry son.

“I saved innocent people today,” argued Jason, getting up and also walking closer.

“Tim did,” corrected Bruce, coldly, obtaining an irascible shade of green on Jason’s natural blue eyes. “If he hadn’t been there on time—”

“Yeah, we know. Replacement is the best shit to ever happened to you—”

“At least, he listens to a direct and clear order.”

“I did most of the job by the time the kid got there,” almost screamed Jason, frustratedly, pointing at the brother in question. Tim just turned his head back to the computer, pretending to be too busy working to take place in the fight. “If I hadn’t ignored you, he couldn’t have had time.”

“How come you didn’t have time either?” cornered Bruce. “You know you can’t—”

“You don’t get to tell me what I can or cannot do—”

“As if I ever got to.”

“You used to. Constantly. Repeatedly.”

“It didn’t feel like it.”

“After a lifetime you haven’t changed one bit.”

“Guys, let’s calm—” tried Dick, walking to be between the two.

“You’re not the only vigilante in Gotham,” continued Jason, ignoring his brother as blatantly as his father also did. “You can’t train us like—Like fucking little soldiers and then be upset because we do what we must—”

“I prepared you so you wouldn’t get yourselves kill—”

“Oh, yes, you do a great job at that, don’t you?” reproached Jason, furiously. He looked at his father up and down before spatting: “I was not nearer to death tonight than any other night; any could be our last, you included.”

“I decided to do this and know how to take care of myself in almost any foreseeable situation,” reasoned Bruce, his voice volume decreasing a bit, his tone turning firmer.

“Same as us,” shrugged Jason, stubbornly. “You trained us, prepared us, whatever the fuck you want to call it these days to make yourself feel like less of a shitty father,” Bruce swallowed thickly at that, “trust our judgment for once and for all. It’s not like you were of much help tonight; if your dear Replacement hadn’t showed up, you’d have found nothing but a massacre. So, maybe it’s you the one who should—”

“I trusted you enough to come with us, to be part of this, to wear that on your chest despite going around the city shooting to whomever that might be a threat to you,” interrupted Bruce, at the edge of screaming.

            He seldomly screamed; he never needed to to hurt somebody, to be heard, so, when he did, that happened: no one, no matter how angry or upset they were at him, interrupted him as shock washed over them. Even himself when he felt his throat hurting.

“Which I saw was a mistake because you learnt nothing,” he basically spat, lividly. “I not only would have seen a massacre, but would’ve had to carry your body and your brother’s, and it’d have been your goddamned fault! Because you, again, ignored a simple command and acted as a reckless, stupid and useless child that I should’ve never trusted with any of this to begin with.”

“Bruce—” called Dick, voice choked, matching to Jason’s watered eyes as his rant progressed.

Bruce didn’t acknowledge his son, just emphasised his anger with a screamed: “Get out, I don’t want to look at you right now. Out of here!”

            A dropped pin would’ve been heard apart from his laboured breathing in the seconds that followed. Tim refused to turn on his chair, eyes glued to the screen, contrary to Damian, whose eyes went from his older brother to his father as if they were a tennis match. Even with so many metres separating them, Bruce could tell the kid was holding his breath.

Jason nodded; moved his tongue and clicked it. “Alright,” he managed, grabbing his helmet and trotting out, grazing Bruce’s arm slightly as he made his way out.

“Upstairs,” Dick ordered to his remaining brothers once Jason’s bike’s noise was barely heard. “Now,” he added, severely, when Tim turned at the same time Damian opened his mouth to protest.

            The two boys just shared a look and did as they were told, not minding they were still suited up. It wasn’t as if somebody would reprimand them for going to their rooms with the suits. Not anymore.

“Are you feeling better?” asked Dick as soon as his brothers were gone.

            Another shake of head, his neck stiffened. He felt lightheaded at the movement, his words falling on the top of him as he remembered them, one by one.

            Bruce felt as if he were going to be sick.

“I didn’t want—”

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t do it or say it,” interrupted Dick, harshly. There was no judgment in his voice, but no trace of unconditional support or understanding either. Not that Bruce deserved it right now.

Dick sighed and walked to him. “This is being hard on us all and we all grieve differently,” he began, “but I know how you grieve and I won’t have that. Not anymore.”

“I know,” nodded Bruce, not daring to make eye contact.

There was a moment of silence, Dick’s tension dissipating. “You need help, B. You always bury yourself with work or lash out at every opportunity. You don’t know how to deal with this, Bruce.”

            Before undeniable truths, there was no better response than silence, and that Bruce gave to his son. His heart was squeezed and his eyes stung again. Dick was younger than him, not for much, but still younger. He was supposed to be his little brother, his son and he was taking Bruce’s role, making it his own, as he had had to do when he was allegedly dead, when he didn’t have to anymore.

“Why don’t you talk to Dinah?” suggested Dick, finally placing one hand on the top of his forearm. “She helped you a lot back then,” he reminded after receiving another unyielding silence from his part. “I know you don’t like opening up much and she’s a League member, but—”

“I’ll go,” promised Bruce. He swallowed, feeling his throat closing in. He exhaled slowly. “I’ll call her tomorrow morning.”

            Dick scrutinized him and Bruce felt disgusted at how his son was looking for any evidence of lie on his face, in his tone. Eventually, he seemed content and nodded.

“Alright… Thank you. In the meantime, we’re here, B,” he reminded, as if necessary. Bruce just nodded and received a pat. “I’ll call Jay. You get some rest, okay? It’s been a long night.”

            More like an endless night, he thought, numbly, bit the words on the tip of his tongue so his son could finally go change and rest himself.

Chapter Text

            Not only people changed throughout time, some places had that characteristic, too. Dinah’s growth was all over her office, it was easily breathed the moment one put a foot in there. Bruce was curious to know if he’d have been able to tell all the differences and feel the hit of unfamiliarity had he followed Diana’s advice and kept seeing Dinah on a regular basis to then change to once a year, if he was lucky.

            He wondered if he had changed alongside the blonde woman and her workspace, thought if any of his children had ever felt like this when going back to the Cave after a long period of time.

            It wasn’t even the same room; as any beginner of their careers, Dinah started in a small cubicle that counted with a small window on the top of the wall on her backs; it had never felt claustrophobic or dark, as Dinah always made sure to have it open by a crack or entirely – depending on the noise from the street – and had made sure to buy some lights of relaxing colours that helped her patients’ anxiety soothe. Still, it was a great contrast to the large window that basically took the entirety of the wall across from him now. The natural light entered freely as well as a soft breeze, that made its way in through a slim crack.

            Old habits die hard, he guessed.

            Apart from that trivial change, Dinah had made this place like her second home. At his left, she had placed a modest, white bookcase that served its purpose on a 70%, leaving the rest to small decorations. The ghost of a sad smile tingled on his lips when he recognised the plastic hibiscus Oliver had gotten his former partner a long time ago in one corner, watching over her despite the breakup. In the middle, however, there were true lilacs that impregnated the room with its natural perfume.

            Dinah gave him permission to take a seat as she did as much, going directly to type something on her computer, the monitor reserved for her eyes only due to the L shaped desk she had gotten.

            Bruce walked straight to the chair next to the wall, leaving his coat and bag on the vacant one by his left. Dinah, in the meantime, hadn’t casted a glare in his direction as she finished with the computer and turned to open one drawer, from which she got a used notebook – she would have to get a new one soon, Bruce noted – and a pen, without even looking in the pencil case’s direction but doing it with great mastery as she passed the pages quickly.

            Her neutral face welcomed a warm and inviting smile when she finally reached a blank page and clicked her pen twice. Bruce was glad to see something familiar, at last, in that new place.

“So, Bruce, how’re you doing?” she asked, too natural for how automatic that opening line surely was.

            He took a moment to answer. He knew she would ask that, she had had all that time ago, when she was hurting herself, when he had reached rock bottom, when her office was as tiny as their farsightedness. And it was funny how much humans and situations can vary while keeping their essence intact, for Bruce’s first instinct was to lie as he had done that time, to deflect, to waste the hour and never come back.

            But then he remembered Dick’s ultimatum, remembered how fed up he had sounded, remembered the unshed tears forming in Jason’s eyes because of him, remembered he had screamed and blamed his son for something none of them had any control over whatsoever, had pinned the blame on Jason unfairly as Willis had surely done when his son was just a kid that knew no better, when Bruce had saved Jason from the streets but not from his father’s ghost, whispering words Jason never shared with him after another night of stolen sleep.

            Bruce swallowed sand; his tongue, sandpaper against his palate.

            Everybody knew Bruce had bonded with Dick over the tragedy of parents being taken away from you as you watched helplessly.

            Few, close to none, knew Bruce had managed to do the same with Jason, over another of the many things a kid must never have to experience.

            His throat started to close in again as his nostrils fought to get some air through; he had never seen Willis at his worst, but he had been a victim of a man similar to what Jason had dared to tell in its day, although very little. Just because the house was bigger, the economical struggle was non-existent and there was never a trace on his skin meant Bruce didn’t understand why Jason would surely never open up about what he had been through before he had had to learn to tame Gotham’s coldest streets.

“I’ve been better,” he finally answered.

            If Dinah was surprised by his supposedly intent to do this right this time, she didn’t show it. She had that thing Bruce admired, of being an opinionated person who wore her thoughts on her sleeve and also this analytical professional when she needed to. He would never do that. He pretended to be shallow as Bruce Wayne, pretended to be cold-hearted and borderline inhumane as Batman; Dinah, just like Dick, was like this: a mix of fire and wind that learnt to dance in harmony throughout the years.

“Thank you for giving me an appointment in such short notice,” he added.

“My door is always open to you, Bruce, I told you,” she reminded, kindly. “If I may, what made you reach out to me?”

            She knew about Alfred. Everyone in the League did. The butler had earned the League’s respect faster than Batman ever did and would ever do. He had been a background constant to them, too. They had been genuinely shocked to hear the news of his passing. Sometimes, Bruce thought he should have just told them in advance, as it had been Clark and Diana’s cases; other times, most of the time, he was satisfied with his decision. Alfred had been a part of their lives, but he had been Bruce’s life and world, and, as selfish as it sounded, he hadn’t wanted external eyes watching him slowly fading away.

“I—” he began, put one leg over the other, placed his hands firmly on his lap in order to prevent Dinah to see them shaking when the moment would inevitably come, swallowed and sighed deeply. “I lost… I think I lost my son for good, this time.”

            A small crack, a slight sign of frown. Dinah tilted her head to the side, taking in his words.

“Do you mind elaborating on that?”

“I—I said something to Jason and I can’t take it back nor will I ever be able to make up for it.”

            His explanation was ambiguous at best, but he supposed that was part of Dinah’s job: dissect her patients’ explanations, dig slowly but resolutely until the shovel hit the gold.

“Do you want to talk about that today?” she asked, patiently, before his long silence.

“We had a… rough night the other day. Two nights ago. He… He got himself in harm’s way and I… I lost control.”

“In what sense?”

“What I told you earlier. I said some things that… That I should have never said.”

“Now that you’re calmer and cold-headed, do you know why you said those things?”

            It was an easy question, which didn’t mean it wasn’t difficult to answer.

            He did it for the same reason he had orchestrated all this life since Joe Chill shot the starting gun. For the same reason he pushed Dick farther and farther away, for the same reason he had gotten rid of anything that reminded him of Jason, for the same reason he had ignored Clark’s attempts at friendship, for the same reason he shut himself off any time he felt Clark or any other person getting too close, for the same reason he had refused to confront the Red Hood when all evidence shouted at him what he dreamed of but dared not to admit in reality.

“I was scared.”

“Of what?”

            The question was soft, almost whispered. A test of his waters.

            It drowned him momentarily.

“The Joker had allied himself with Toyman, placed an elaborated bomb under a building complex. Jason was the one closest to it and went straight to try and defuse it. I—” His sight wandered around the room, fixated on the opened crack, as if all his eloquence was about to come in through there and help him spit out the words faster, more easily. “I told him not to go, to wait. Tim was in the zone, too. I told him not to go there by himself, to—"

<<Take no action, I repeat: no action. Just for once, Jason, please, listen to me—>>.

“—To evacuate the building, anything but go there on his own.”

<<Do not tangle with the Joker alone!>>.

“But he went in anyway and… I know he can. I know how capable he is, how much he knows, the training he went through, how intelligent he is, but—But I know about the nightmares, too.”

            Jason had woken up soaked in sweat, once, screaming his name, calling him Dad as he used to, asking for him, for Bruce to go to him, help him, comfort him, assure him everything was going to be fine, promise him he would fix it all.

            They never talked about it. The experience alone had cost Bruce not seeing his son around for nearly half a year. They walked back so many steps, Bruce didn’t dare to take the first one in fear the ground wouldn’t be steady enough and everything they had built would crumble down.

            But wasn’t that what had happened?

“I just can’t win,” he found himself speaking his mind, his eyes still not returning Dinah’s attentive glare. “It doesn’t matter what I do, how I approach it, I always do it wrong.”

            If he took action, he was too controlling and not trusting enough; if he stood still, just letting it all unfold naturally, he was a heartless asshole who didn’t care. It was a lose-lose, always. In six years, he had managed to learn several combat skills, copious ways to escape any kind of restrain or trap and learnt about many drugs and their correspondent effects and how to fight them and create their antidotes, but in more than two decades he still didn’t get how to parent.

            There was always something missing, an expectation he wasn’t able to reach, a necessity he couldn’t read right or not at all. He didn’t know where the middle ground was. He couldn’t tell ‘too much’ apart from ‘too little’. He was unable to adjust.

            He had tried, with all his might, only to always lay defeated, under the shadow of a corpse, an abuser or a neglectful parent.

            Bruce was never enough, there was always someone better to look up to, someone his kids – the ones he swore to love, protect and take care of – trusted more in, someone they would turn to to tell them their secrets, their insecurities, their worries, someone whom they would call when things went south while praying Bruce wouldn’t know.

“I doubt it’s always, Bruce,” comforted Dinah, gently.

            He finally looked up at her, saw her expression had fallen, mirroring his inner turmoil. This was all he did: swallow whoever got too close in his never-ending darkness, even when he had tried to light up their lives by doing what he had longed for when he was younger, what he still hoped somebody else would do for him.

            What nobody else would ever do for him now that Alfred was gone for good.

“I never talked to you about how Jason died.”

            Bruce would’ve bet all his fortune Dinah had also prepared herself mentally to face his usual deflection, his proneness to change the subject when he didn’t want to address something he was told, but she had never expected him to give her a cue to discuss the darkest part of Bruce’s biography.

“No, you didn’t,” she nodded, cautiously.

“His mother – his biological mother – died with him in that explosion. I buried her by his side, to honour his memory; it was his mother, at the end of the day.”

“It was very thoughtful.”

“She stood there while Joker almost beat him to death,” was the response her nice comment got. “I buried my son next to the person partially responsible for his passing.”

“You didn’t know,” excused Dinah, as many others had done, as uselessly as all those time before.

“That woman looked at me and told me Jason had protected her, that he had shielded her from the blast. That killed him instantly.”

            Sometimes, he could still feel it, although not as vividly as Jason’s dead weight. The laboured breathing, the words slurred, the blank stare, the raw regret, the limpness that put an end to it all. He’d had her last words on repeat for the days that followed, had suffocated in them in one of his episodes of self-punishment.

“She told me he had turned so good despite her, despite his father,” recalled Bruce, again looking at the floor in remembrance. He thinned his lips, bitterly. “And she was right; my—Jason was always a good boy, troubled, but not bad by any means,” he nodded, surer of himself than he’d ever felt. “Despite what his parents put him through, despite how everyone turned a blind eye to him, he wanted to be good, do good, he kept his good heart intact. And I—” He took in a trembling breath. “But I managed to break him. I managed to do what the abuser of his father and his neglectful mothers never got to do.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I told him it was his fault he died,” he confessed, after two beats of silence. “That night. I don’t think that, I don’t know why—” He clicked his jaw shut, corrected the lie he was about to say. “I wasn’t angry at him, I was angry at me. I should’ve never let him be Robin.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Not in this connotation. In the context of our convers—Argument, it held the opposite meaning.”

“Hm-hmmm.”

“I—This isn’t the first time. When Dick—” His throat constricted and he cleared it, discreetly. “I almost lost Dick when he was Robin, too, and I tried to take Robin away from him. But I couldn’t. Can’t. It’s not mine to take.”

<<How would you feel if I took Batman away from you? This emblem, all this is for your parents’ memory, Bruce. Robin is my parents’ legacy, what my mom called me. But you’d never know that, because I’d rather die than be Batman>>.

            Bruce was never able to shake that argument off his mind, was forever tattooed in the front of his brain when he was back, when he saw Dick wearing the Batsuit, when he heard Dick referring to Damian’s Batman, in between laughs, with a nostalgic smile spread across his face.

            His blindness towards his youngest son watered his guilt; Damian had been an excellent Robin, for he had been able to soften Dick’s burden the suit carried. And yet it had cost him a lot to see that, to be convinced of what Dick assured him time and time again. Distrusting his partner, his Robin, his son’s words.

“They always… I always make them think it’s that I don’t want them, never did. That I regret having them in my life, when it has nothing to do with that.”

“What do you regret?”

“I regret they have me in theirs,” he explained, without hesitation. “I—I’m regretful they got stuck with me instead of with someone better.”

“Do you think they think that of you? That they don’t want you?”

“Jason died because I did it so wrong that he trusted a total stranger, went crazy looking for… For that woman.”

“Has he ever told you that?”

“He showed me. I—” He averted his stinging eyes once more. “I still see him, as I found him,” he admitted, felt his hands starting to shake on his lap. He refused to look back at the therapist. “I didn’t want to live that again.”

“The situations were very different, Bruce.”

“I know.”

“Jason is no longer a kid and you’re no longer on your own with everything on your plate only.”

“He could’ve still died, despite all that,” he argued, and it was sad that was the only response he always had for any helping hand: fight their reasoning and shut them up with what he knew it would hurt them the most. “He can’t take care of that, he—I saw it when I had him in front of me; he had panicked, he would have—”

            He had dreamt that night. He had heard Jason calling for him, terrified, as he’d done that fateful night when his secret had been discovered by the family. He had heard his son hoping, to the very last minute, for Batman to come get him, for his father to come on time to get him to safety, just to be followed by an endless succession of smoky scenarios where the aftermath was always Bruce carrying a child twice the weight he remembered.

“It’d have been my fault,” Bruce said, instead.

“Why?”

            He shouldn’t say it to a League member. Dinah would swear all she wanted that whatever they talked there would stay there, but she was a person, flawed as any other, judgmental as any other.

“I should’ve killed the Joker the moment I had him in front of me. Almost did.”

            Dinah didn’t have questions or anything to comment. He dared to look at her with the corner of his eye, and found nothing more than a poker face.

“I got him long after Jason’s funeral took place,” he recalled, more for the pressure of an inner force than an exterior one. It happened in front of his eyes in flashes, as if he were there again, on the edge, at the end of his rope. “They sent him to Arkham and I headed home. I wanted to head home.

“I was this close,” he admitted, after a short pause; his index and thumb fingers almost touching if not by mere inches, “to go get him when it happened. I was after him, he knew, he passed by my side and I was this close to go after him, but at last minute decided to go to see if Jason was alright. And just two seconds after I got off my bike the warehouse blew up right in front of me, with my son inside.

“He was at the door.” His voice choked and he blinked the water gathering in his eyes away. “He was at the door. Just… I don’t know, just one minute before, and I would’ve opened the door for him and took him out, protected him from the explosion. He could’ve recovered from his injuries, but the explosion killed him, because I was too late.

“And he knew. He’d wanted to kill him, he could’ve, but he left my son inches away from death on purpose. He confessed it, told me as he laughed. I left him in the hospital for six months, but he laughed until I was gone, while I hit him. Because he knew he had won and there was nothing I could do to change that.”

            It haunted him each night after facing the clown, he was reminded every time the criminal laughed, every time they fought, every time he heard the madman talked. The clacking taunt. <<Forehand or backhand? Your fallen bird never answered. I think I’ll go with—>>. Bruce never let him finish, he broke his jaw, which stopped the rambling but not the laughing. But he remembered the question, thought about it constantly when the Red Hood had the rotten luck to be involved in some case that had to do with the Joker.

“He made me choose, when he came back. Jason,” he clarified quickly, lost in thought.

            His hands couldn’t stop trembling, they felt as cold as Bruce had felt the gun Jason had thrown at him. He’d worn gloves, as usual, but the coldness got through them somehow, it weighted as much as Jason’s body had had.

“I—” He closed his eyes before admitting: “I should’ve let him just go on with it.”

            He hadn’t chosen the Joker over Jason. Jason was his son. He would’ve stayed crazy, a murderer, a criminal, a dangerous monster and Bruce would’ve always loved him the same, would love him unconditionally even if Jason had decided to go after him instead of the clown. Jason would always be his kid no matter his sins or crimes.

“But I can’t let my kid carry that weight just because I’m too much of a coward to do it myself,” he continued, softly. “I’m sorry, this is all over the place,” he dismissed, sighing shallowly.

“You’re doing good, Bruce,” promised Dinah, her voice untensing his shoulders. “Have you talked to Jason about any of this?” He shook his head. “Maybe you should.”

“He won’t believe me.” And after what he had done, what he had said, he doubted Jason ever would.

“It would help that you pave the way before you do so,” suggested Dinah, leaning back on her chair. “Your emotions, what you felt that night, was totally warranted. Bruce, you might have PTSD yourself. You weren’t there, but you witnessed it, saw the aftermath of what Jason’s own PTSD is about. That just means your triggers differ; he freezes in front of a detonating bomb and you ‘lose control’, as you’ve put it, before the threat of losing your son again.

“If Jason had almost died because someone had shot him, you’d have reacted the same way.”

“I did to Dick,” he confessed. “I—I fired him. Again, with no authority whatsoever, he was sixteen, he’d been doing that since he was nine, and I fired him at sixteen because a bullet grazed him.”

“Did you react the same way as you did the other night?” asked Dinah, curious.

“No, the other night it was… I snapped. With Dick, it escalated.”

“Why do you think that was?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

“I hit him,” he confessed, after a long pause in which Dinah started writing something down.

She stopped abruptly. “Jason?” she asked, after processing his words and resumed her notes.

“Dick.”

“Oh. When you fired him?”

“When he visited after Jason died.”

            His hand burnt with the dusted sensation of Dick’s cheek against his palm. He balled it into a fist.

“Was there a reason why?”

“We fought. I—It was my fault. He said something that upset me but it was my fault, because I started it, I made him feel bad about the whole thing, when it was my responsibility.”

“Have you two ever talked about it?”

“He told me I was forgiven. I wish I wasn’t.”

“Why?”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I didn’t want children. I knew— I always knew what I wanted to do, after my parents…” He let the sentence hanging there. Dinah nodded, knowingly. “It was not a life I pictured kids in. But somehow I have them and—My uncle hates kids. My mother’s older brother. I went to him when…”

“For how much time?” Dinah was fast to ask.

“About a year. Almost.”

“How old were you again, sorry?”

“Eight. I didn’t tell you.”

“Alright. Did he hit you?”

“No, never.”

“Why did you remember him while talking about that occasion with Dick?”

“Because back then I still didn’t know how I wanted to fix what had happened. I remember myself swearing I would never act the same way if I ever had children.”

“What way? Do you want to tell?”

“Just like I acted the other night. Like I acted when Dick came to comfort me, when it should have been the other way around, while he grieved a brother he couldn’t get to know properly, whose funeral he’d missed because I couldn’t dare to pick up the phone and admit what I had done.”

“Did your uncle ever mention your parents?”

            Just a nod.

“My mother—He said my mother wanted—Had tried. Sorry,” he cleared his throat and blinked away the blurriness of his vision.

“It’s alright.”

“I’m not… People assumed it all has to do with what happened to my parents, but I was born being introverted. I—Social skills were never my forte. I pretend they are, learnt how to, because I had no more option.”

“Okay. I assumed so, that’s alright.”

“But that happened after. Before that night, I remember… I have a few memories of my parents, and most of them are about them discussing this. My father didn’t like the idea of doctors, and less… Less this.” He pointed at the whole room vaguely with one hand.

“That’s the main reason Alfred never—”

            He cleared his throat for what seemed like the zillionth time.

“But your uncle did?” helped Dinah, changing the focus of the conversation.

“My mother tried to convince my father and my uncle used it, weaponized it—I don’t like the idea of people bossing me around; maybe you’ve noticed.”

“A tiny bit, yes,” she mirrored his attempt of a smile.

“With Alfred, I knew he would do what my father thought was best, but my uncle would’ve still been my guardian even if I was taken away.”

“Why would you be?”

“Because there’s something wrong with me,” he answered after a long time; so long Bruce was afraid Dinah would redirect the conversation again due to reading his silence wrongly. “My mother saw it, and—”

“With your permission,” Dinah took the sudden interruption of his choked throat to talk, “and with all due respect, your mother wanted to help you, her son; it’s what a good parent does. What your uncle did, from what I’m gathering, was a total abuse of power. He abused you while you were grieving, even if he never put a hand on you, Bruce, even if his way of abuse was not as horrible as others of the same kind.”

“I took his pills,” he confessed. His inhaling turned irregular as he recalled. “I remember taking his pills in one moment, and waking up in a hospital bed in the other. And I was terrified, because all I could think about was: ‘That’s it; you’ve proven everyone he’s right: you’re crazy’.”

“You’re not crazy, Bruce,” corrected Dinah, her tone harshening slightly.

“And I thought I was going to be taken away right after being discharged, while my uncle did only God knows what with what my parents had built,” continued Bruce, pretending she hadn’t talked at all. “Do you know what was the first thing he told me when he saw I was awake?” He waited, more to gather his courage to talk properly without his voice breaking at any point of his quoting than to hear a response from Dinah’s part. “‘Congratulations: you’ve called the attention of the whole fucking hospital and put me to shame. I hope you’re happy now, once and for all.’”

“He made that moment about himself?” asked Dinah, in disbelief. She passed a hand through her forehead and hair. “Sweet Jesus…” she muttered.

“Well, that’s basically what I did to Jason the other night. What I always did,” he pointed out. “My mother—She was worried about me, so you were right; but, sadly, I took after her heartless brother instead of her. When things like what I did the other night happen, I wish I would’ve never woken up at all that day.”

            He turned his head entirely now, felt the dam breaking and warm rivers going down his face as the memory of his mother hung upon his head, as he imagined how disappointed she would be.

“I think putting a happy and peaceful life aside in order to be what nobody was to you when you needed it the most is something only someone with a big heart would do, Bruce,” assured Dinah, after giving him some time to calm himself. “The hour’s about to end,” she informed, sounding genuinely sad. “Do you want me to tell you what I’ve got so far or do you want to leave it here?”

“Tell me; it’s basically what I’m about to pay you for,” joked Bruce lamely.

Dinah smiled, nonetheless. “I’ve got the notes I took when you first came to see me,” she said, taking an even older notebook from her drawer, the page in question already bookmarked.

“You kept that?”

“I think I’m able to dispose of it, it’s been a lot of time, but I held onto hope,” she shrugged. “I’ve read this before you came to see me and do you know what I noticed?” she rhetorically asked, as she placed the two notebooks so Bruce could read them properly if he wanted to. He didn’t move, though.

“That it doesn’t matter what you talk about, you always end the story by blaming yourself. Any situation, any argument, anything that didn’t go according to what you thought about, you blame it upon yourself instantly. You’ve got this habit, and I think you should be aware of it, because it’s not getting better. I’ve heard you blame yourself more in this session than the first one, Bruce; you came because your son and best friend had died, now because you had a great fight with your very alive son.”

            Bruce swallowed, listened closely. He took a rapid look at the notebooks, not reading what Dinah had written on them.

“What you just told me about your uncle, in the hospital,” she continued, seeing no movement on his part, “what he first told you as soon as he saw his eight-year-old nephew who had tried to commit suicide while on his watch was awake… I told you back in the day you might have OCPD, and I stand by that, but I think your uncle helped to develop a lot of what’s going on with you and how you decide to react when things go wrong.”

“I’m taking medication,” he said, not knowing what else to say, digesting her words.

“What for?” she asked, blinking a couple of times in curiosity.

“That. OCPD. I stopped, but I might go see Leslie again.”

“It might help. Did it help the first time?”

“A bit.”

“That’s good.” She closed her two notebooks and kept the old one back in the drawer. “Well, Bruce, it’s been a pleasure. Thank you for what you’ve done; I know it’s not easy and I appreciate the trust.”

Bruce nodded. “When do I come to see you again?”

Dinah looked back at him, frozen for a second. “Do you want another session?”

“If that’s okay.”

“It’s more than okay. This is your house, you decide.”

“I’d like to come again.”

“Next week, every two weeks?” asked Dinah, turning to her computer.

“Next week, if that’s okay.”

“It is, Bruce,” she nodded, smiling reassuringly at him.

Chapter Text

“Is everything alright?”

“Hm.”

“Did you go to see Dinah?”

“I promised you I would.”

“Didn’t—” A heartbeat of hesitation. “Didn’t it go well?”

“It did. I think.”

“Ah, I’m glad. It’s just… You haven’t talked much since you were back.”

“Am I usually talkative?”

“Well, not exactly, it’s—Never mind.”

“It’s just been an hour”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

“I’m going to see her again next week.”

“Oh. That’s… Cool.”

“It’ll be on Tuesday, at two. I don’t know if I’ll make it to pick Damian up.”

“I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.”

“Thank you.”

            Dick returned his attention to his hot cocoa, steaming from his Superman cup. A smile stopped halfway to his lips. There was no sound in the Cave other than the chirping of some distant bats. Upstairs it’d been a bit better; after the following day spent in tense silence, Bruce came back home today to a house full of sibling fighting and teasing.

            He always liked the tranquillity the silence owned, but he’d found out he liked the life having kids around brought a bit more. A lot more.

“I went to Jason’s house today,” he commented, off-handedly, lightly, as if the action didn’t mean worlds.

            Dick stopped his drinking, registered his words – registered Bruce had told him such thing – and then took one last gulp before placing the cup back down. He looked at him, waiting patiently for him to continue, if there was anything else Bruce wanted to add.

“The coaster,” he reprimanded, softly.

“Sorry.” Dick winced as he put the cup where it was supposed to.

“He didn’t answer. I think he wasn’t home.” I want to think that, at least. “I…”

            He remembered Dinah’s last tip, as he took his belongings, a million thoughts per minute running inside his head.

<<Nobody is born with all learnt. If you find yourself struggling, just ask. Think about when you trained your children, you’d have wanted them to ask you their doubts so they could go on their own safely, right?>>.

“Is trying again tomorrow too much?”

            Dick’s eyes squinted. He looked at his mentor up and down, as if taking him in. This was not an unusual view, just them half-suited up, an intimate touch that few had gotten to see with their own eyes outside their family. Dick’s glare stopped in his eyes, read them. Bruce hadn’t put on the cowl on purpose, despite how much he hated to be read so easy and openly.

            He was trying. He was more than willing to go the extra mile.

            He had to.

“I think it’ll be easier if you just go to his room,” answered Dick, almost as a joke. “He’s been here all day.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. In fact, he has to come down here any minute, he has something to take care of,” his son added, at last minute.

“Has he—” He bit his tongue. Space. Jason was no longer a kid. “Have you talked to him?”

“I have. He’s… chill. Indifferent, at best. Less angry than I expected,” he stumbled over words, trying to find the best one during his speech without pausing.

Bruce nodded. “Do you think I should go and talk to him or just let him be until he comes to me?”

“Have you really just asked for my opinion two times in less than a minute?” asked Dick, amusingly, cocking an eyebrow. “I didn’t know Dinah was that good.”

“He doesn’t want to see me, does he?” asked Bruce, reading between the lines with the mastery of years.

Dick’s expression fell as well as his glare. “It was unpleasant, B. His death is something we’ve hung over his head too many times.”

“I know. I just—I don’t want him to think I want to move on as if it were nothing.”

            Whatever Dick was about to say, was interrupted when the talked about Devil descended through the clock device. Jason walked straight to the table where their gadgets and equipment lay, waiting for another night of work. Just a nod towards Dick while Bruce was completely ignored. His eldest turned and pointed at his brother with his head, like giving a blessing.

            Bruce found getting up from his chair way too difficult, but not as much as approaching his second son. His legs felt to be made out of iron while his lungs filled with oil.

“Jay—”

“Comms are on, I fixed the night vision on the helmet last night and Oracle has access to my location through my holster,” he listed, boringly.

            Bruce blinked, saw him taking one gun resolutely and placing it in its place, as if daring him to say something about it. Bruce just swallowed and looked back at Jason.

“Alright. Thank you,” he simply said, sincerely; Jason’s motions stopped abruptly, his hand frozen centimetres away from one gas ball. “I… About the other night.”

“Save it, Bruce,” interrupted Jason, moving freely – angrily, at some degree – once more.

“I think we need—”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t want you—”

“Bruce,” called Jason, finally turning to look him straight in the eye. “I don’t care,” he repeated, a bit more slowly, almost condescendingly. “I don’t care about your half-arsed apology that will only blame my death for how much you’ve changed for the worse. So, save it.”

Bruce’s temples hurt, but he couldn’t stop gritting his teeth. “It was not,” he rasped out. “That was my f—responsibility, Jay,” he corrected, rapidly. “You’re not to blame for the way I acted when you weren’t here anymore and when you were back.”

Jason’s features softened slightly; he scrutinized his former mentor before asking, dead serious: “Did you have a stroke?”

“No, I—” He sighed. “I never intended for you or siblings to think you’re at fault for what I do wrong.”

“You’ve done a crappy job doing so.”

“I know,” he admitted, seeing a small spark of surprise flashing through Jason’s eyes. “I… I don’t want to excuse my behaviour, either; what I did was inexcusable and undeserving of forgiveness, but I think you deserve to hear a proper apology from me.

“I’m sorry for screaming and especially for what I said; none of that is what I think of you, but of myself. I—You could’ve died because of me again, because I’m never fast enough. Or just enough in general. And I could’ve lost two of you that time and I… My mind betrayed me, and I took it out on you, which I should have never done. To you or to any of your siblings. Ever. I’m the adult and you’re the child.”

“I’ll turn 21 in less than three months,” reminded Jason, not knowing what else to say.

“You’re my child, nonetheless,” corrected Bruce. “Even if I barely act as a proper father most of the time. I worry about you, and I’m working on showing that worry correctly.”

Jason huffed, sceptical. “What is it? Like the 80^th time you’ve tried to do as much?”

“I thought you deserve to know. I don’t want you to think I was ignoring what happened because I didn’t care.”

“Yeah… It’s kind of difficult not to when you do this five times a week.”

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to do better.”

“You’ve been trying to do better since I was twelve, Bruce,” snapped Jason. He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and took a couple of breaths to calm down. “Do you know why I never apologise to you for how I operate? Not only because I don’t owe you anything, bat on chest or not, but because I know that if, the situation requires it, I will shoot, and if I kill, I kill.

“And I live with that because it was my decision and I wouldn’t do it without thinking or running out of options first, despite what you think of me.”

“I don’t—” tried Bruce, but clicked his jaw shut when Jason raised one hand.

“But you always find somebody else to blame. Now you feel bad, but as soon as I forgive you, you’ll go back to it again. You’ll say I didn’t try enough, tell Damian he isn’t doing his bit, tell Tim he could’ve done better, tell Steph she did it wrong, no matter how hard she tried because your option is always better and superior.

“And then, you’ll just leave Dick to pick up the broken pieces. It’s just who you are. If the rest of this sect you call family wants to stand it, that’s fine, but I’m tired. You can’t lash out and make people feel little just because you’re hurting. Get your shit together or leave us alone.”

“I am,” promised Bruce.

“Yeah, until it starts to be too demanding, because only you can demand crazy shit from the rest but you’re too special to do the same.”

“I just don’t want any of you to be hurt.”

“I hear that a lot for a man who give Dick’s family colours away without permission, and who keeps getting little kids fight a war he started because he got stuck at the age of eight and can’t handle his emotions like a proper adult. I just—I can’t, Bruce. I can’t forgive you anymore.”

“That’s okay,” assured Bruce, although deflating. “You deserved to hear an apology, but you’re right: you don’t owe me anything.”

“Whatever,” dismissed Jason, shrugging one shoulder and turning his head back to the table. “Dick and Tim are coming with me tonight. Stay out of this. I don’t give a fuck if you trust me or not, this is my case, my territory, I don’t want you messing with it.”

“Alright. I—I do trust you, la—Jason.”

His son straightened, apparently ready to leave. He bit the inside of his cheek before saying, so soft that Bruce almost missed it: “I waited for you. In Ethiopia. I listened. But it was my mother, Bruce, as shitty as she was.”

“I know,” nodded Bruce, stiffly. “I know you did and are good, Jay. I’m sorry,” he apologised again, despite the knowledge it would have no effect and be not believed.

“She was a civilian, it was a life. You’d have done the same in my position, you big hypocrite,” continued Jason, eyes squinted in contained anger.

“That was what scared me the most,” admitted Bruce.

            Jason just nodded, curtly and sniffed. He turned around, with nothing else to say.

“I’ll keep an ear out in case you need anything,” promised Bruce. “You’ll always be my children, even when I don’t deserve to be your father,” he stated.

“You would be if you acted like one,” said Jason, after a moment of tense silence.

            He put on his helmet and drove away on his bike, the sound getting farther away by the second. He heard Dick walking by his side, felt him waiting until silence surrounded them completely to talk, his voice barely above a whisper.

“He needs to see it more than hear it, B.”

“It’s normal he feels that way,” defended his mentor.

“I know you want to do it right this time; it’s never too late. You taught us that.”

“I think for this it is, chum.”

            Dick nodded, the dusted nickname able to paint a soft smile on his face.

“Well, think about how when I was that age, I asked the same thing for you and here we are, sweetheart,” comforted Dick, squeezing Bruce’s shoulder reassuringly.

            His smile fell immediately when his father turned and threw himself into his arms, holding him close. Bruce rested his forehead in the gap between his shoulder and neck and it didn’t take long for Dick to feel it getting wet as his mentor cried silently. Instantly, he wrapped Bruce with his own arms, hugging him close.

“I’m sorry, Dick,” whispered Bruce, words barely audible as they collided against his suited skin. “I’m sorry for everything.”

“It’s okay, Bruce. I forgave you, it’s all right,” he assured, resting his chin on his mentor’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to manipulate, it’s just—You shouldn’t be doing this.”

“What are friends for?” laughed Dick, unenthusiastically.

“You’re my son, too, Dick. I’m sorry I’ve failed to make you feel like that.”

“You haven’t,” assured his eldest. “Is this you after just one hour of therapy? Just imagine how you can do after a few more sessions,” he cheered up in a joke. “I have faith in you, Bruce. And Jason does too, he’s just hurt.”

“Rightfully so.”

“But he hasn’t stopped loving you just as you haven’t stopped loving him. So, you’ll be able to do this. Everything will be fine. Give it time, you’ve just started,” he promised, as optimistic as always, pressing one soft kiss to Bruce’s temple and letting the older man vent.

            Dick and Tim had moulted feathers a long time ago, but they had something that nobody could take away from them: they both had chosen to be Robin. Dick would always be Mary’s chirping and happy little bird just as Tim would always be the light at the end of the tunnel Bruce had needed, the net to catch their family when they couldn’t keep on going on the tightrope and fell.

            Bruce had been Dick’s when he tried to jump so many times after his parents, and he’d gladly be Bruce’s now.

            People often forgot Jason’s had been Tim’s hero, the Robin he looked up to just as much as he had Dick. He had seen the good in Jason that everyone seemed to obviate. Maybe it was Jason’s bad habit of just give free reign to his emotions when nobody was near or maybe, it was Tim’s gift of seeing the smallest of details around him. Whatever the case was, he decided it didn’t matter; what mattered was to hug his older brother close as he let it all out, saying the overused expressions he’d heard and said time and time again.

            Dick and Tim weren’t very much alike personality-wise, but they were Robins to the core: always with hope to spare in case someone dear to them needed to be reminded that dawn always followed even the darkest of nights.