Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The death of The Batman was a frequently imagined event by heroes and villains alike, some sort of foretold prophecy like the second coming. He was, after all, simply a man. Well– as far as most knew, anyways. There'd been rumors since the inception of The Bat, rumors that he was some sort of ancient demon protector of Gotham, or an immortal wraith sent to punish evil and reward good (what was he, Santa Claus?), but those who knew him well– or at least thought they did– knew that in fact he was merely flesh and blood, and that truth be told the only thing keeping him alive thus far into his chosen career was skill, determination, the convenience of friends with the power of flight, and sheer unadulterated luck. 

Though now, it appeared his luck had finally run out. 

It all started with a street tip, something small. In hindsight, that might've been slightly poetic; in some sense, it ended with something small too, in the dirt and grime of Gotham’s filthy streets. Perhaps, Jason had considered, if it was something he'd noticed in a book, it would've made him smile and jot down in the margins that the author had been clever for such a parallel. 

Then, of course, Bruce would scold him for writing in his books, and Jason would tell him to fuck off, and they'd banter back and forth in their usual dance around the words ‘I love you’.

Red Hood had been helping a Crime Alley meth head get to a local shelter when the man had spoken in a daze of ‘ninjas’ hiding in Gotham's sewers. Jason had nearly dismissed it out of hand. Gotham was full of paranoid delusions and urban legends, most of them cooked up in crack dens and dive bars. What was Gotham without a bit of paranoia? A bit of mystery? That was why people came here, wasn't it? But something about the man’s tone… an edge of fear that cut through the haze… it made Jason Todd pause, something he rarely did. And so, on a gut feeling, he filed it away in the back of his mind.

He mentioned it casually when he came home for dinner that weekend, and of course, Bruce had been more concerned than Jason felt was strictly necessary, but that was beside the point. 

“It’s worth investigating,” Bruce had argued, his voice carrying that unshakable authority that always made his second eldest roll his eyes.

“It’s a junkie’s fever dream,” Jason countered, reaching for another slice of Alfred’s garlic bread. 

“If that's really all you thought, you wouldn't have brought it up,” Bruce countered, and to that his son had no answer. “We all know what it could mean,” he continued. “And I’m not taking that risk.”

Dick leaned back in his chair, smirking. “B, The League isn’t in Gotham. If they were, we’d know.”

“Would we?” Bruce’s gaze was sharp, a warning against complacency. 

The tension at the table thickened. Jason set down his fork, narrowing his eyes. “Don't tell me you're actually going to waste time chasing shadows because of this? I told you, I don't think–”

“It’s not a waste of time if there’s even the slightest chance it’s true,” Bruce said, his tone low and final.

“You’re being paranoid,” Jason shot back.

“I’m being prepared,” Bruce corrected. He glanced around the table, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “We’ve seen what happens when we ignore small things. They become big things. I’ll check it out tonight. We can’t be too careful when it comes to Ra’s.”

His tone left no room for argument. The table fell silent for a moment, the subject dropped, before they returned to their usual conversation, unknowingly eating their last full family meal for quite some time.

Bruce wouldn’t return from patrol until seven the next morning. He stumbled out of a manhole in Robinson Park, exhausted, his cape torn, his armor dented, and his body screaming with the ache of a man who’d pushed himself far beyond the limits of his middle age. The rising winter sun stung his eyes, making him squint as he grappled himself up to the nearest building, moving with the calculated precision of one who had done this far too many times, yet the sloppy desperation of one who wanted nothing more than to stop, if only for a moment.

The early risers of Gotham– the dog walkers and the delivery drivers and the rare jogger brave enough to tread the streets of his city– caught brief glimpses of him; a shadow darting between rooftops, a flicker backlit against the pale orange and pink and gray of an urban morning. Most paid little mind. They were natives, after all, no tourist was awake at this hour (not that Gotham had many, to begin with). The people of this city had learned long ago that the more questions one chooses to ask, the fewer answers one will have. 

Bruce ignored them all, of course. His focus was singular: get back to the cave. He swung between rooftops and radio towers, his grip steady despite the shaking in his arms and the exhausted weight in his shoulders. By the time he reached one of his offsite entrances to the Batcave, his breath came in harsh, uneven gasps.

Slipping inside the hidden passage, Bruce let the tunnel's cool, damp air wrap around him as he leaned against its stone walls. He felt, for a fleeting moment, like a teenage boy sneaking back into his room after a night of rebellion. Only this time, Alfred would not be waiting to scold him (hopefully), he had no curfew to break– only the crushing responsibility of being The Bat. The weight of another night spent bleeding for a city that never thanked him.

He moved as quietly as he could, but the uneven steps of boots echoed against the stone floor. In his state, he couldn’t fool Cassandra (not that he often could, even at the height of his awareness). She appeared in front of him without a sound, her presence sudden and startling. He nearly jolted, his fatigue eroding the razor-sharp instincts that usually guided him.

“It’s seven in the morning,” Cassandra signed neutrally, her hands swift and flowing in their movements. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes, as always, betrayed a flicker of something deeper: concern, exasperation. Bruce tried to ignore it.

“I noticed,” Bruce grunted bitterly, his voice rough and gravelly from hours of silence and exertion. He tore his cowl off and let it drop onto the nearest surface without a second thought. It landed with a dull thud, smearing blood and grime across the polished console. He didn’t look at it. Didn’t care. His muscles screamed with each movement, and truthfully the only thing he could think of was how nice it would be to tuck himself into bed and sleep for the next three weeks-- but God knew he didn't have time for that. When did he ever?

“I’m getting in the shower," he grunted. "Get your siblings down here. Emergency meeting in ten... fifteen minutes.” His tone was clipped, brooking no argument, but there was a weariness beneath it that Cassandra caught all too easily. Bruce, of course, knew she would. His daughter was remarkable, and if he wasn't so damn tired he would've been proud of how easily she saw through him. 

The raven-haired girl hesitated for a moment, her lips pressing into a thin line and her brows knotting slightly as she watched him turn away. Her hands moved again, sharper this time, the gestures imbued with urgency. “Signal and Nightwing already left,” she signed quickly, stepping forward slightly on instinct as if to physically hold her father in place. He had already gone, though, his cape swiftly disappearing around the corner as he stalked off to the decontamination chambers in the medbay.

Thankfully, the eldest Robin hadn’t gone far, and Duke was still in the middle of his morning warmup before beginning his patrol, so when Cassandra sent out the comm, neither of them hesitated for long. Begrudgingly, they returned to the Batcave.

Jason was the first to arrive, thudding down the stairs with heavy, irritated steps. He was still wearing his Wonder Woman pajama pants, his hoodie hanging loose over his shoulders, and his hair a rumpled mess that made it clear he’d been dead asleep when the call came through. "What the fuck do you want?" he groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as he shuffled into the cave, slumping into Bruce's chair at the Batcomputer. His voice was thick with annoyance, but there was a flicker of worry beneath it. He’d learned long ago that Cass didn’t raise alarms lightly.

Cassandra stood near the console, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her posture stiff and unusually tense. She didn’t respond immediately, her gaze flickering between the stairs and the faint light spilling out from under the medbay door.

“Dad home late,” she spoke softly in reply, her words clipped and precise. “Something wrong.”

Jason’s expression twisted, frustration flashing in his green eyes as his thick brows furrowed. “That’s it? He’s late? Cass, come on, he’s always late. Be glad he came home at all, you know how he gets.” Jason had intended to reference Bruce's tendency to stay out on one case for days on end. Still, suddenly the image of his father's body, crumpled and forgotten somewhere in the city, meanwhile they awaited his return forced itself to the front of his mind, and he cringed hard, turning away slightly as if to physically avoid the thought.

Before Cassandra could respond, Damian descended the stairs with far more precision than his elder brother, his steps measured and purposeful, his arms tucked neatly behind his back. He was already in his training gear, his posture rigid, and his face drawn into a faint frown of irritation at being pulled from his routine.

"Cassandra, if your only concern is that Father has only just returned from patrol, I fail to understand why you used the emergency comm system," Damian said coolly, his tone short.

“Would you just trust me, Damian?” Cassandra signed sharply, her movements quick and deliberate. Her tone was sharper than she’d intended, but she didn't acknowledge it. “Something is wrong. I can feel it.”

Jason and Damian both froze for a moment, surprised by her tone. It was rare for Cassandra to push back so forcefully, and it caught them off guard.

Duke arrived a few seconds later, pulling off his helmet as he entered, still in his suit. “What’s going on?” he asked, glancing between the group. His gaze landed on Cassandra, and he immediately noticed the tension that hung low in the room like a plague. “Cass?”

She didn’t answer at first, her focus shifting back to the medbay door. “He’s been gone too long,” she signed, the movements slower now, deliberate. “And when he came back, he didn’t say anything. Just went straight to the shower. He seems exhausted.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, crossing his large arms. “Okay...? Still not exactly new for him.”

Oracle’s voice crackled over the comm system then, cutting through the growing strain. Her image appeared on the Batcomputer’s massive screen, her face illuminated by the glow of monitors in the Clock Tower. She was perched in her chair with a box of Chinese takeout in her lap, one eyebrow raised in mild curiosity.

"Hey. Someone break something, or is this just the usual Batfam drama?" Barbara asked, her tone light but tinged with concern.

Cassandra’s lips pressed into a thin line, her shoulders stiffening. “It’s not drama,” she signed seriously, glancing at the screen. “Something is wrong.”

Barbara’s expression softened slightly as she looked at Cassandra. She set the takeout aside, leaning forward in her chair as she reached back to put her hair up. “Okay, let’s figure this out. Where’s Bruce?”

Cassandra gestured toward the medbay. “Shower. Barely looked at me. Didn’t put his cowl back in the case.”

That caught Jason’s attention. He straightened slightly, his irritation fading into concern. “Wait, what? With his new suit? The fancy dermaplated one? He's been obsessed with that thing, it's--" he was cut off by Cass pointing to the cowl's place on a nearby console, left exactly where it had fallen as if evidence in a crime scene. "...That’s... yeah, okay, that’s... That's weird.”

Even Damian’s frown deepened, his sharp green eyes flicking toward the medbay door. “Father is meticulous with his equipment. If he failed to return the cowl to its proper place, it suggests… distraction.”

“Or exhaustion,” Duke added quietly, stepping closer. “Maybe he just had a rough night. Gotham’s been worse than usual lately.”

“Maybe,” Cassandra signed, her movements slower now, more contemplative. “But I don’t think so. It feels… different.”

Before another word could be spoken, the medbay doors hissed open with a soft pneumatic sigh, breaking the tension in the room. Bruce emerged, dressed in a fresh set of clothes, his shoulders slumped slightly under the weight of exhaustion. A towel hung loosely around his neck, damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead, but he didn’t bother to fix them. His movements were stiff and methodical, each shuffling step seeming to weigh a thousand pounds.

He didn’t speak as he made his way to the Batcomputer. Normally, the kids would have probably made fun of his slippered feet or the way he glared ahead like a man on a mission, but it seemed clear that to do so would be a mistake. Without a glance at the others, he moved Oracle’s window to the side, the display flickering slightly as he accessed the files he needed. His fingers moved across the keyboard with uncharacteristic hesitation, a faint tremor in his hands betraying his calm exterior.

The others exchanged glances, the unspoken question hanging thick in the air. Cassandra’s sharp eyes flicked to Bruce’s hands, the way they shook ever so slightly, and her frown deepened. Jason stood up from his place in the chair and moved to lean back against nearby the wall, crossing his arms but saying nothing, while Damian’s usual scowl softened, his gaze narrowing as he watched their father carefully.

It was Dick who finally broke the silence, his voice cautious and laced with concern.

"... B?" he asked, stepping forward just enough to be noticed. "You okay...?"

Bruce didn’t respond, his icy blue eyes fixed on the screen in front of him. His jaw tightened, the muscle twitching slightly as he finally located the footage he’d been searching for. With a muted crackle, the video began to play, filling the cavernous silence of the Batcave with its distorted audio.

The footage was grainy, the kind of quality they all recognized as standard for the cowl’s recordings when signal interference was involved. The timestamp in the corner read 2:03 AM.

The screen was dark for a moment before it suddenly began to glow with a sickly green hue as the cowl’s night vision was switched on with a soft click. It was a labyrinth of sewer tunnels, the walls slick with moisture and coated in grime. The faint sound of water dripping from the ceiling and the occasional splash of Bruce’s boots echoed through the tunnels, but apart from that no more noise could be heard. 

On the video, Bruce’s gloved hand reached up, briefly adjusting the cowl’s positioning before he continued forward, his steps careful and purposeful.

The sound of the water seemed louder in the stillness of the Batcave, reverberating in the quiet as everyone’s attention was drawn to the screen. Jason shifted uneasily, his usual bravado muted.

On the screen, the image shifted as Bruce rounded a corner, the tunnel narrowing. The dripping intensified, almost like rain-- but amongst it there was a sound that didn’t belong—a faint chatter of voices, low and incoherent from a distance.

“Did you hear that?” Duke asked, leaning in slightly, his brows furrowed.

Bruce gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Keep watching,” he muttered, his voice rough from lack of sleep. It wasn't uncommon for Bruce to, rather than explain something he'd encountered on patrol, simply show them the recording he'd gotten from the cowl's security footage-- but something about his energy on this particular morning was... off. Often, when he showed them footage like this, it was simply because he preferred it to a lengthy explanation with words; today, however, it seemed instead that words couldn't have been possibly enough to explain even if he'd wanted to. 

The video footage moved forward, Bruce’s steps slowing as the sound grew louder, more distinct. It was unmistakable now-- a low, tense conversation spoken in Berber. Damian tensed visibly hearing his native language-- though he and Bruce were both fluent in it (and Jason speaking just about enough for an interrogation or a restaurant order), it was a tongue they largely avoided. Then, a faint splash, too big to be his boots, as though something-- or someone-- had just slipped into the water nearby.

"That’s not creepy at all," Jason said dryly, though his arms remained crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes glued to the screen.

Bruce stopped walking in the video, his body tensing as his hand moved to his utility belt. The camera angle shifted slightly as he activated a thermal scan. On the display, faint heat signatures began to glow through the tunnel walls-- small, skittering shapes that might have simply been rats... but further ahead, a larger, more humanoid shape was crouched low, waiting just out of sight.

“Jesus,” Duke breathed, his voice barely above a whisper.

On the footage, Bruce didn’t hesitate, he couldn't. He reached for a batarang, his stance shifting slightly as he prepared for an attack. The humanoid shape didn’t move. It simply sat, watching, waiting, ready to pounce in an instant. The conversation somewhere ahead in the tunnels had ceased, and out of a crossroads further down the way came the swift approach of more heated figures, seeming to appear out of nowhere. The camera-- Bruce, really-- flinched, just slightly, almost imperceptibly.

In the video, Bruce froze, the silence pressing down like a physical weight. The others watching the footage seemed to hold their breath, tension coiling in the air. Slowly, the bat seemed to sense a presence, a new one, and turned slowly. Another figure stood behind him, still, stalking, illuminated only by the heat vision of the cowl. But still, they could see that he wore a sinister, thin smile.

Damian's breath hitched slightly. "... Is that--"

"Hello, Detective." 

It was. 

Bruce paused the footage there, though there was clearly more to watch. Whatever it was, it wasn't needed. They'd seen all they needed to. 

"... They are here..." Dick swallowed, running his hands through his hair. "Jesus Christ..." 

"What were they talking about...?" Tim asked hesitantly. Damian and Bruce shared a short look. 

"... They're planning something," Damian choked out finally. 

"Something big."

What Jason thought made him the angriest was that Bruce hadn't even gotten to finish the case. His last one. They never found out exactly what the league had been planning in Gotham. They never got to stop them, to save the day, not the way they usually did. It wasn't like they'd never lost a battle, it happened all the time-- but not like this. Never like this. They always came back, always got back up-- he always got back up. Always. It's what he did. 

Fighting a battle like this in the sewers was awkward. Claustrophobic. The air was thick with the stench of mildew and decay, and every sound seemed amplified; the slosh of his boots in the shallow water, the faint drip of something unseen, the sharp clang of metal striking metal. Jason gritted his teeth, gripping his pistols tightly as he pressed his back against the curved wall. He could hear the fight echoing further down the tunnel, but he couldn't see any of them. It was a strange sort of loneliness. One he didn't know very well. The thick ground above was preventing their signals from going out to reach Oracle, eliminating any chance at a tactical advantage. This was a test of skill, wit maybe. Brute strength. He was firing blind, each shot guided by instinct rather than sight, relying on that searing green flame that still curled deep in his chest-- a gift from the Lazarus Pit. 

Jason clenched his fists at the memory, his knuckles turning white as he sat numbly in the alley, staring at the crumbling brick wall ahead of him. He barely noticed the way the mortar seemed to shift under the soft light of a flickering streetlamp or how the cold, damp air cut through his suit like a knife. His stomach churned, bile rising bitterly in his throat as he replayed the fight over and over in his mind, each frame seared into his memory with an almost sadistic clarity. Where did it all go wrong? Where did he go wrong? What should he have done differently? What could he have done differently? The mistake, the wrong step, the missed shot-- It had to have been near the end. Or maybe it was the beginning. Hell, maybe it was somewhere in the middle. Who the fuck knew anymore? Jason sure as hell didn’t. The only thing he knew for sure was the weight pressing against his chest, suffocating and cold, like someone had reached inside him and ripped something vital out.

"Where the hell is Bruce?!" he’d yelled into the comms, his voice choked and desperate, even though he knew there’d be no response. The static in his ear was deafening, their comm system still hopelessly jammed. He swung around a corner, barely dodging a blade that glinted in the dim green of his HUD, firing a shot that hit nothing but stone. His heart was pounding in his chest, the sound almost drowning out the chaos around him. The League had chosen the terrain perfectly. They were like wraiths in the dark, moving silently, appearing only to strike before vanishing again. Jason couldn’t tell if they were outnumbered or if it just felt that way, the enemies slipping in and out of the shadows and smoke too fast to count.

And then he’d seen him-- Bruce, his father-- locked in desperate combat with one of Ra’s lieutenants, their movements brutal and calculated, each blow striking with bone-shattering force. Bruce was holding his own, but Jason could see the weariness in his posture, the slight hitch in his movements. He wasn’t as fast as he should’ve been, wasn’t right.

"Dammit, old man," Jason muttered, charging forward to help. He fired off a shot, the sound echoing distantly like something out of a dream, but the enemy dodged, twisting away like smoke. Jason gritted his teeth and followed, adrenaline surging through his veins.

He’d just dragged himself out of a sewer at five in the fucking morning. That much he could knew for certain. The cold sludge clinging to his boots, the rank stench sticking to his armor like a second skin-- the battle itself lingered with him now, haunting him like a ghost. Alfred had to call Lucius to come airlift most of them out-- the ones who were too broken, too bloody, too unconscious to move on their own. Kids. His little siblings, lying in the muck of the sewers, saved from death only by the sacrifice of their father.

Jason swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he brought them up to rub at his face. He could still feel the burn in his muscles, the ache in his joints from carrying them out two or three at a time, even Dick, who was heavier than he remembered. His arms had been numb by the end of it, every step in those tunnels agony, but it didn’t stop him. He wouldn’t let it. They’d been so still, so quiet. He couldn’t stop glancing down at their faces as he carried them, his heart lurching in his chest every time he caught sight of pale skin or the faintest trace of blood. And there had been so much of it—blood on his gloves, blood on his armor, blood seeping into the cracks of the sewer floor. He wasn’t sure whose it was that stained his suit anymore. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

"Get out of here!" Bruce’s voice had been hoarse but commanding, cutting through the chaos as Jason closed the distance between them. Bruce didn’t even turn to look at him, his attention fully locked on the fight in front of him. "Now!"

Jason ignored him. Of course he ignored him. He wasn’t going to leave Bruce to handle this alone, not when it was so obvious he couldn’t. 

And then it happened. A blade flashing in the dark, too fast to track. The lieutenant had faked left and struck right, the blade slipping past Bruce’s guard and sinking deep into his side, slipping between the plates of his armor in just the right spot. The sound was sickening. A wet, visceral schhlk that seemed to echo even louder then the fight itself. Time had slowed.

"BRUCE!"

Jason’s shout had been raw, desperate, that of a little boy who'd only just been given his magic, watching his father go down, down, down... and before he knew it, he was already moving, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. He tackled the lieutenant, his fists slamming into the man’s face with enough force to shatter bone-- but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Not when Bruce crumpled to the ground behind him, his hand clutching uselessly at the wound, blood pooling around him in a dark, steadily spreading stain.

Jason’s breath hitched in his chest as he sat there in the present, his head in his hands. He could still feel the sticky warmth of Bruce’s blood on his gloves, the way it had soaked through the seams, the metallic smell clinging to him even now. He had tried to stop it, tried to keep Bruce’s eyes open, but nothing he did was enough. This isn't how the story was supposed to end. 

"G-go get your siblings..." Bruce had croaked out. Jason tried to argue, but he couldn't. He was still that little boy, and Jesus Christ the magic was slipping between his fingers. His vision came in flashes, like a slideshow. Like something unreal.

"I’ve got you," he had muttered under his breath, his voice shaking as he hoisted Tim’s limp body into his arms. The younger boy’s head lolled to the side, blood trickling from a gash on his temple, and Jason had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep himself together. “I’ve got you, kid. Just-- just hold on, okay? Don’t you fucking dare—” The words caught in his throat as he stumbled over the uneven ground, his boots splashing through the shallow water. Every step felt heavier than the last, his legs threatening to give out beneath him, but he kept moving. He had to.

Jason let out a shuddering breath, dropping his hands to his lap. He didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath until the pressure in his chest forced him to exhale in a shaking groan. The cold brick wall in front of him blurred as tears pricked at his eyes, and he blinked rapidly, willing them away. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. None of it. Bruce was supposed to make it. He was supposed to get back up, like he always did. That was the deal, wasn’t it? Bruce Wayne-- Batman-- The Batman-- he didn’t die. He survived. He endured. He always found a way, no matter how impossible things seemed. He conquered death again and again, he didn't yield to it. He didn't yield to anything. 

Momentarily, Jason wondered if this was how his father had felt on that boiling hot day in the dry Ethiopian desert, all those years ago. He hoped not. It wasn't a good feeling. 

Slowly, that one final moment seemed to finally come back to him, that last thing he'd seen. It was as if he'd only just received the image, as if it hadn't come through until just that second. 

The others had all been lifted out by then, one by one, back to Alfred, back home. Jason could still hear the faint roar of the jet engines in his ears, could still feel the cold metal of the grapple in his hands as he watched them disappear into the sky. He had been the last one left. The League was gone by then. For whatever reason they’d emptied out. The sewer tunnels, once filled with chaos and death, were now a graveyard of blood and silence. Behind them, they left nothing but empty corridors and the unconscious bodies of their own soldiers. Jason knew those men would wake up eventually, just as he knew what they’d do when they did. The League didn’t forgive failure. It didn’t tolerate loose ends. Those assassins would slit their own throats without hesitation.

Jason couldn’t find it in himself to care. Not for them.

He was already running before the thought could fully form, his boots splashing through the shallow pools of filth and blood. He turned corner after corner, the sewer walls closing in around him like a vice. His heart pounded in his chest, louder than the echo of his footsteps, louder than anything else. He knew where Bruce had been. This wasn't his first body recovery mission. 

Jason’s breath hitched as the memory sharpened in his mind, the edges clearer now, no longer blurry or indistinct. His eyes widened, panic blooming like a cold, spreading ache in his chest. “Oh, God,” he whispered under his breath, his voice trembling. “Oh no.”

He had turned the corner, right where Bruce had been.

Bruce, clutching at that gaping wound, blood pouring between his fingers like water, pooling at his feet.

“Bruce…?” Jason’s voice had been quiet, tentative, the word catching in his throat. “... Dad…?”

It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this.

Jason stumbled forward, his breath ragged as he reached out, but the scene didn’t make sense. Something was wrong.

Back in the present, Jason’s hand shot to his mouth, his fingers trembling as he fought back a wave of nausea. His thoughts were racing, his mind skipping like a scratched record as it replayed what he had seen—or what he thought he had seen. He'd seen Bruce, hadn't he? When he was evacuating the others? Laying there? Still? Pale and lifeless? He'd wanted so desperately to stop, to see him, but the adrenaline in his chest and the desperation to get his siblings out he'd run right past.

The sewer floor was barren.

Bloody, yes. Wet and slick with muck, yes. But empty.

No body.

No Bruce.

He was gone. 

Chapter Text

"It will be my job to break him," Ra's had said, his voice calm and deliberate, like the desert winds that cooled the evening air. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, silhouetted against the Moroccan dusk. The ambers and amethysts of the setting sun played across his sharp features, painting him like the prophets of ancient, like stained glass.

Talia sat quietly beside him on her knees, the pillow beneath her oddly firm and the table between them holding her tea untouched. Evening tea with her father had been a tradition for as long as she could remember...But tonight something about it felt off, like the air before a storm, like the tide pulling out before a flood. 

"And it will be your job, my dear child," Ra's continued, his gaze unwavering, "to rebuild him in my image."

Talia had returned to that conversation countless times in the weeks since. The words haunted her, echoing in her mind with an eerie persistence. She had always prided herself on her discipline, on her ability to compartmentalize, to act without hesitation or doubt-- that's who she was, who she was born and raised and molded to be. But now... it was as if those words had planted something in her; a seed of unease that had begun to grow, twisting its roots deep into her bones, crawling up her ribcage, her spine... 

She had been distracted. Everyone around her could see it, though none dared to comment, lest it be their last. The Daughter of the Demon was untouchable, above reproach in the eyes of her father’s loyal followers. This was known. This was fact. This was respected. Yet the signs were there, undeniable.

Her morning meditations had grown shorter, each session interrupted by thoughts she couldn’t quiet, images she couldn’t banish. Her sparring sessions had become careless, her movements a fraction slower, her precision dulled. During training sessions with the younger children, she caught herself drifting, her mind wandering to places she couldn’t afford to go.

Ra’s, of course, had noticed. He always noticed. He noticed everything, he always had, that's who he was. His gaze would linger on her for a moment too long, his expression unreadable but heavy with unspoken judgment, with consideration. She would catch the slight narrowing of his eyes as he watched her from across the training grounds, or the subtle tightening of his jaw as she faltered during a demonstration.

And yet, for the first time in her life, Talia found that, somehow... she didn’t care.

It was a startling realization, one that she didn’t know how to reconcile. For the first time in all her life, she could feel the flame of disappointment in her father's gaze and she had not shifted to avoid its burn. That of course meant, however, that her skin began to blister. 

The final insult came not from her father’s own lips but from the mouth of a chambermaid, who delivered the news as she placed Talia’s breakfast before her; as if it belonged perfectly alongside reminders of that day's schedule and her bowl of fresh fruit and her cup of warm chai. She would not be accompanying her father on the mission to retrieve Bruce Wayne of Gotham City. 

The words seemed to linger there in the air for a moment, even as the chambermaid shuffled away, it hung like a nameless, unknown plague. When it finally seemed to settle in, it stung like fire in her chest, and her hands clenched into maddened fists, her sharp nails piercing the skin of her palms. Talia philosophized that perhaps it was because she had dared to critique his plans during their strategy sessions. But no, that couldn’t be it-- Ra’s had always encouraged her input, even as a child. Her insights had always been valued, even sought after. So why now, of all times, would she be excluded? Had her father not once said that she herself was their most valuable asset against The Detective?

She resented that statement. She always had. Namely, because it was true.

She confronted her father that evening, cornering him in his study. But Ra’s, as ever, was impenetrable. He dismissed her questions with an ease she recognized as the tone he'd once used to scold Damian when his childish whims grew the better of him, the tone he'd once used with her. His words were measured. Final. 

When she returned the next morning, determined to demand answers, she found his chambers empty. He and his specialized team had already departed, slipping away into the night like shadows, leaving her behind.

Talia stood in the empty hall for a long moment, her fists clenched at her sides, lip trembling with rage. She should have noticed their departure. She should have heard something, sensed something. But she hadn’t.

Because her focus was elsewhere. Because she was distracted.

And now, for the first time in all her life, Talia al Ghul, Daughter of The Demon, the one true weakness of the bat... felt powerless.

It was quiet here. Calm. Peaceful. The weight that had sat upon his shoulders for nearly four infinitely long decades seemed to have melted, dissipating in a way he could not quite name, gone like the seeds of a dandelion or the petals of a flower. It wasn’t as though it had been taken from him, forcibly removed, but rather as though it had simply ceased to exist, vanishing into the ether like a forgotten dream. He realized, with some detachment, that he knew very little about this place. And yet, at once, his mind felt vast, unending, like the limitless skies he had once glimpsed as a child but never again truly seen.  

There were no more existential concerns to labor his chest, no worries gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. Pain, too, had vanished-- gone even from the side of his ribcage, where he vaguely remembered it had once ached so desperately with the presence of something sharp and foreign. Instead, there was nothing. No sensation. No fear. No urgency. Only darkness.  

An infinite expanse of black stretched out around him, more profound than shadow, deeper than night. It wasn’t oppressive, as darkness often is, but strangely soothing, like the soft embrace of an old, familiar friend. It held him, weightless, suspended in its infinite depths. Time no longer seemed to matter here, no longer pressed forward in its relentless march. There was only the stillness, the quiet, and the vast, endless void. For a brief moment, had his senses been real, he could have sworn he could smell his mother's perfume, feel her cold hands pressed into his own. 

And then, all at once, like the flame blown from a candle, like a stone through stained glass, like a bullet through the chests of two innocent people in an alleyway a millennia before... it was shattered.  

In an instant, his flesh ignited as if set aflame, searing and all-consuming. His lungs filled with air-- not the soft, steady breath of life, but something raw and punishing, hot and dry, carving its way into him like a blade, like wind through a canyon. His chest heaved, the primal instinct to survive kicking in as his body spasmed, writhing against the sudden violence of sensation, of a soul forced back into its vessel. 

A scream tore from his throat, a vicious, guttural sound that echoed into the space surrounding him, filling it with the cries of an infantile man reborn. It was an unearthly sound, raw and fractured as if the weight of all that had ever been and all that would ever be had forced its way out of him in that singular moment.  

Talia watched with wide, unblinking eyes as Bruce was pulled from the sickly green waters of the Lazarus Pit, his body wracked with violent spasms. The cavern seemed to tremble under the force of his resurrection, the waters churning and hissing as if rejecting what they had created. And there he was: risen again like something sacred but screaming like Iblis.

She wanted-- desperately, almost feverishly-- to feel something, anything resembling joy. She wanted to fall to her knees and offer thanks to God for returning him to her, to feel the flood of gratitude that his chest once again rose and fell with breath, that his bright, icy eyes were open and all-seeing... but as she gazed upon his broad-shouldered form, which had never looked so small, as he dragged himself out onto the sandy floor of this Holy Sepulchre, as he gagged and wretched and groaned... she found only grief.

His movements were erratic, desperate, like a creature fighting to survive. He gagged, his body convulsing as he retched violently onto the ground, the sound of it reverberating off the cavern walls. He groaned, a guttural, raw sound that struck her like a dagger. This was Bruce Wayne, the man she had loved, the indomitable Dark Knight who had once stood unyielding against the forces of hell itself. And yet, what crawled before her now was something else entirely.

Talia had witnessed the resurrection process countless times before. She had stood by the pits as warriors were brought back to life, their bodies restored, their spirits intact. She herself had endured the pit’s embrace, feeling its fire burn away death and return her to the world. But this...

This was not the man she had loved.

This was not the living Bruce. 

This creature that growled and whimpered at her feet, who howled with pain and grief and fear-- it held a soul, undoubtedly, but Talia found that she could not bring herself to believe it was that of her beloved. His eyes, once sharp and calculating and icy blue, now stared ahead with a wild, unseeing frenzy, a stinging green now having enveloped his cerulean irises like an infection. His hands clawed at the ground, fingers digging into the sand and stone, the muscles in his arms trembling as he struggled to find stability. There was no light in him, no recognition. He was alive-- but only in the most basic, textbook sense. Something was missing, something vital and intrinsic to his spirit.

Talia’s heart sank, weighted with an unbearable sorrow she could not articulate. Her throat tightened. The Lazarus Pits always exacted a price, that much she had known since childhood. But to see him like this, stripped of his essence, his humanity, reduced to something raw and broken... it was almost more than she could bear.

She stepped forward hesitantly, her hands trembling as she reached out to him, lowering herself to her knees. “Beloved,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. Her vision blurred with the hot sting of tears, as if her sorrow wished to blind her from that which had caused it. “Can you hear me...?" Talia could feel the eyes of her father and the others fixed on her, and she surprised herself with a sudden flare of rage. She wanted to lash out, to scratch and fight and force them to leave the two of them alone, to leave her to care for him, to allow the man to return to something warm and familiar and not the cold gaze of those who'd struck him down.

Bruce’s head snapped up at the sound of her voice, but his gaze didn’t soften. It didn’t recognize her. It was cold, feral-- like an animal cornered. He bared his teeth, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps, and for the first time in her life, Talia felt something she had never before associated with him.

Fear. Her own, or his, she couldn't distinguish.

"Do not speak English to him," Ra's commanded in a low, stiff voice. "He speaks our tongue, we both know this. Ensure he becomes accustomed to it." Without another word, he turned on his heel, his movements precise and unyielding, his robes shifting behind him with an equally uncaring flourish. His small entourage of servants followed closely behind, their soft footsteps echoing faintly against the stone as they ascended the stairs and left the cavern.  

Talia remained, her father’s words hanging heavily in the air. She was alone now, save for her own attendants, who stood like statues against the cave walls, and Bruce. He sat slumped near the edge of the pit, his gaze locked onto her with those unsettling green eyes, their brightness unnatural, their expression unreadable. Her vision began to blur with hot, stinging tears, as if her sorrow yearned to blind her from its own cause.

She forced a smile, though she felt the tremor in her lip. Steeling herself, she moved closer, her steps slow and deliberate. When she reached him, she raised her hands to his face, her graceful fingers brushing the edges of his jaw before cupping it tenderly. His skin was clammy, his breath uneven, but he didn’t flinch at her touch.  

“How do you feel?” she asked softly, her voice almost trembling but steady enough to carry warmth.  

He blinked at her, as if trying to process the question. Then, after a long moment, he spoke, his voice low and hoarse, crackling like fire. “...Talia...”  

Her name fell from his lips slowly, not as a question, but as if testing its weight, its familiarity, on his newborn tongue.  

She smiled again, nodding gently. “That’s me, Beloved,” she said, her voice soft and coaxing.  

A pause lingered between them, heavy and fragile. Then, she saw it—the quiver of his chin, the way his shoulders tensed before sagging under an invisible weight. His breathing hitched, and the tears came, slowly at first, glistening trails down his face. His anguish rose unbidden, a sound low and broken that clawed its way from his throat.  

Talia’s heart twisted painfully in her chest, her breath hitching with each attempted inhale. She had seen this expression before, long ago, this same hollow sorrow, the same unfathomable grief, when she had told him their child had not survived... when she'd lied to him... It was a face that had haunted her for years, and now it returned to her in the dim, flickering light of the Lazarus Pit, wrenching at her soul.  

She watched as he folded forward, his strength seeming to give out entirely, his body trembling with the weight of abomination. Gently, she guided him down, cradling his head against her chest. Her fingers wove into his hair, brushing through the new, strange white streak that arched across his left temple. It was rougher, more textured than the rest of his silky, inky locks, and she wondered silently if he and Jason would've laughed over having something that matched so closely, only a few inches off.

She pressed her lips to his forehead, a featherlight kiss meant to soothe and promise. “It’s alright,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over his quiet sobs. “I’m here, Beloved... I’m here.”  

Her words were soft, rhythmic, spoken as though she were comforting a frightened child or a wounded animal. She stroked his hair, her other hand resting lightly on his back, feeling the shudders that wracked his frame.  

Talia wanted to believe that her touch could ground him, that her presence could anchor whatever fragments of the man she had known still lingered within him. But even as she whispered reassurances, even as she held him close, a shadow of doubt gnawed at her. Even The Daughter Of The Demon couldn't work miracles.

Chapter Text

Alfred was giving him that look again-- the one that made Jason feel like a rebellious teenager caught sneaking in at dawn, even though he was well past that phase of his life (thank god). Jason tried his best to ignore it, pretending he didn’t feel Alfred’s piercing gaze fixed on the back of his head as he shoveled scrambled eggs into his mouth, straight from the pan he’d cooked them in, occasionally reaching over to grab the nearby bottle and douse them in another layer of hot sauce.

Usually, at this time of morning, Alfred would be bustling around the kitchen, juggling a dozen tasks: preparing an elaborate breakfast for the family, scolding Bruce for another sleepless night, ensuring Damian was properly dressed and ready for school. But today, the house was eerily quiet, and Alfred’s normally packed schedule was uncomfortably free. Jason knew exactly why, and the weight of it pressed down on his chest as he ate in silence.

Finally, Jason broke the tension, his voice low and rough with sleep. “...How are they?”

The words seemed to hang in the still air of the kitchen, echoing faintly against the polished surfaces as Jason turned his head slightly to glance at Alfred. The butler stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He didn’t even bother chastising Jason for his lack of table manners.

“Asleep,” Alfred replied quietly. “I sedated them to ensure they rest. Despite the pain, they’ll recover. They are Waynes, after all.”

Jason let out a humorless laugh, the sound more a sharp exhale than anything resembling amusement. “That they are,” he murmured.

Alfred took a step closer, his sharp eyes flicking down to Jason’s leg. “And how is your injury?”

Jason followed Alfred’s gaze to his boot, laced tightly over the bandages wrapped around his calf. The makeshift dressing was already beginning to stain through in places. He shifted uncomfortably, the dull throb of pain spiking as he moved.

“...It’s fine,” Jason lied.

Alfred sighed, his expression softening just slightly. He knew Jason well enough to recognize when he was downplaying an injury, the same way he as able to tell if his father or siblings were. “You’re lying, but very well. I suppose you’ll deal with it in your own time, as always.”

Jason didn’t respond, turning back to his rapidly cooling eggs. After a moment, Alfred spoke again, his tone casual but probing. “You’re dressed for more than breakfast.”

Jason huffed, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Shit, and here I thought Bruce was the detective,” he quipped, though the moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. His voice softened as he added, “...Sorry.”

“That’s quite alright, Master Jason,” Alfred replied evenly, though there was a faint edge of concern in his tone. “Are you going somewhere?”

Jason hesitated, his fork scraping the bottom of the pan. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Alfred pressed, his brow raising slightly.

Jason set the pan down with a clatter and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “...I’m going to get some help,” he said at last. His voice was firm, but there was something raw underneath the words. “I’m going to the Watchtower.”

Alfred’s eyebrows shot up, his usual stoicism faltering for a moment. “The Watchtower, sir?” he repeated slowly, as if testing the idea on his tongue. “And you are certain that’s wise?”

Jason bristled, his hands curling into tight fists on the counter they rested against. “It’s our only option, Alfred!” he snapped, his voice cracking under the strain of suppressed frustration. “Everyone else is out of commission! They’re unconscious, injured-- hell, most of them can’t even stand right now, let alone march up to the Justice League and beg for help!” He stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “They don’t even know he’s gone yet!”

His voice broke on the last word, and Jason clenched his jaw, willing himself to stay composed. He turned away, his fists still trembling at his sides. “I... I have to do this,” he said after a moment, his tone quieter but no less intense. “I don’t have a choice.”

Alfred watched him for a long moment, his sharp eyes softening with understanding. “Very well, sir,” he said quietly. “But if you insist on doing this, might I suggest you let me tend to your injury properly before you go? It will not serve anyone if you collapse halfway there.”

Jason let out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. He nodded once, reluctantly. “Yeah... alright.”

Alfred stepped forward, placing a firm yet gentle hand on Jason’s shoulder. “You’re not alone in this, Master Jason,” he said softly. “Remember that.”

The previous night, Jason had tried breaking into Bruce’s emergency comm system for the Justice League, one of the first things he'd done when he got home. It had seemed like a smarter, safer option than striding into the Watchtower unannounced. After all, Bruce always had contingencies, and Jason had figured there had to be a backdoor into the League’s secure channels beyond the usual retinal scan that the man himself had set up-- but Bruce’s tech was infuriatingly labyrinthine, a testament to just how paranoid and brilliant the man was... had been. Jason had spent hours hunched over the console in the Batcave, cursing under his breath as he tried to bypass layers upon layers of security, before eventually giving up.

Bruce’s systems had been designed to thwart even his own allies in the event of compromise. Without Tim’s expertise, Jason’s attempts had ended in nothing but frustration-- this really wasn't his forte. Tim, of course, was in no condition to help; he was unconscious in the medbay, hooked up to machines that monitored his vitals with a soft, rhythmic beep, in tandem with the others. Jason had lingered there in the medbay for a moment after abandoning the console, staring down at the younger man. Tim was pale, his usually sharp features slack with exhaustion, and Jason had felt a pang of something he didn’t quite want to name.

He had left without another word, knowing full well Alfred would be keeping watch over the kid. That left Jason with only one option. Alfred might’ve meant well when he offered reassurance earlier, but he was wrong. Jason was alone in this.

Now, standing in front of the Zeta Tube, Jason felt the weight of that truth settle heavily on his shoulders. Inputting the Zeta Codes had been easy-- Jason could’ve done it when he was twelve. But after entering the final sequence, he hesitated, his finger hovering over the activation panel.

He stood there for what felt like an eternity, still and contemplative. His damaged helmet rested under his arm, its HUD still flickering sporadically from the abuse it had taken the night before. Jason’s reflection stared back at him in the glossy surface of the console, and for a brief moment, he barely recognized the man looking back.

As a child, he'd fantasized about one day joining The Justice League. Being a real hero, not just a sidekick. Having his own Batcave (he'd always wanted to call it The Bird's Nest, which he admitted to Dick once during a late night of tequila-fueled conversation, for which he was made fun of quite brutally). He'd dreamed that someday he'd have his own Zeta system, and he'd be allowed to use it all on his own, that he'd be allowed to wander the halls of The Watchtower without hiding inside Batman's cape. 

And here he was. In a way, he got what he wanted. That was a rarity for Jason Todd. 

With a soft sigh, he slipped his pistols out of their holsters and began spinning them on his fingers, a nervous habit he couldn’t seem to shake. He hated this. He hated asking for help, especially from the Justice League. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to turn around, to find another way, to not go groveling to the self-righteous gods of the Watchtower. But there was no other way. No alternate plan-- and God, how he hated not having an alternate plan. He was his father's son. 

"Get it together," Jason muttered to himself, shaking his head. He pressed through the last several safety checks, his thumb hovering over the confirmation button. He took a deep, steadying breath. The thought of standing in front of them-- Superman, Wonder Woman, all those perfect, untouchable icons of his childhood-- it made his skin crawl. But Gotham needed him to do this. The family needed him to do this.

And Bruce... Bruce needed him to do this.

With a final exhale, Jason slipped on his helmet and activated the sequence. A beam of light enveloped him, his surroundings dissolving in a blur of blue and white as the Zeta Tube hummed to life. The sensation of being deconstructed and reassembled wasn’t entirely pleasant, but Jason had endured worse.

When he reappeared on the Watchtower, the quiet hum of the satellite greeted him. The air felt sterile and cold, a stark contrast to Gotham’s ever-present grit and grime. The floor beneath his boots was pristine, the walls sleek and futuristic. He stood still for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the sharp artificial lighting.

“Unauthorized transport detected,” a mechanical voice rang out, calm but authoritative. Jason grimaced. Of course, the damn AI would call him out the second he stepped foot on board.

“Yeah, yeah, unauthorized. Bite me,” Jason muttered under his breath, striding forward with purposeful steps, glancing around. He hadn't been here since he was a kid, and the new upgrades made him oddly melancholic. He hadn’t made it more than a few feet, however, before a familiar voice cut through the silence.

"Red Hood," it said lowly, menacingly. Superman. Wonderful. "You're a long way from Gotham, son." The Kryptonian floated several feet in the air, his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed as he stared Jason down. For a brief moment, Jason was almost confused at the tension between them-- but he quickly recalled that he'd refused to let Bruce take him off the most wanted list when he came back to the family, mostly for his own ego (how many people can say that they caught the attention of the JLA the way he had?). That would make things more difficult. 

Jason groaned slightly. "Okay, listen Boy Scout--"

"Remove your weapons at once and put your hands in the air," a new, feminine voice came from behind him, one he knew in an instant. "Now."

"Wonder Woman," he smiled, unable to help himself. "I was hoping you'd be part of my welcoming committee--"

Before he could say another word, he was rushed from behind, disarmed, and suddenly found himself on the ground. Fucking speedsters...

"Alright, buddy, if you're looking for Bats-- since I'm pretty sure you're one of his-- he's not here right now," Flash's foot was pressed into Jason's back, and he growled lowly in annoyance. 

"Yeah, I'm aware of that," he shot back bitterly. "He's dead." 

That got their attention. 

"What did you do to him?" Superman sneered, his eyes glowing red. Jason tried to sit up, but suddenly the pressure against his back had increased significantly. 

"I didn't do shit!" He replied defensively. "Listen, I know I'm on your list or whatever, but I've actually been going straight for a while now-- I just asked Bruce not to update the list cause it helps maintain my reputation-- can you get off me, Barry?!"

The air was sucked from the room suddenly. 

"... How do you know my name?" Flash asked lowly. 

Shit. That wasn't good. 

Diana had a sword against his neck suddenly. "And who is this Bruce?" 

Oh.

That...

That was worse.  

Chapter Text

Ra's had shattered a vase when his newly returned prodigal son had begun to fight the servants while they attempted to prepare him for the ceremony.

It was an old porcelain thing, one he'd picked up centuries before in some little bazaar near Constantinople as a present for his wife, painted with irises and jasmine blossoms by hands long dead, and when he tossed it to the floor in blind rage it crumbled to a brittle ash as if it had wanted to all along. The man said nothing of the vase or its origin as he broke it, nor did it have anything to do with the source of his rage-- it was simply available and unfortunate, a willing target not of its own volition but simply by the dictation of nature; a feeling that The Daughter Of The Demon knew well.

Bruce snapped and growled like a rabid animal whenever anyone tried to touch him. His green eyes-- poisonous, luminous, and wholly unlike the ice-blue gaze Ra’s had come to respect-- were wide with unhinged fury, and as he bared his teeth, his hands clenching into fists, and it would start again-- out he would go, swinging and scratching and biting with a sort of desperate terror usually reserved for street dogs and children who've seen too much. He moved not like the man Ra’s had once admired, the man Ra's had once trained, but like something primal and broken and dangerous. Something who's every breath was pure instinct.

“Enough,” Ra’s hissed when he finally regained hiscomposure and returned to the chambers where Bruce was being kept, though he made no move to intervene. 

One of the servants, emboldened by desperation rather than bravery, made the mistake of reaching for Bruce’s arm. Bruce responded instantly, twisting the man’s wrist with a force that elicited a sharp yelp. A second servant tried to restrain him from behind, but Bruce’s elbow connected with his ribs before he could get a firm grip. Ra's was almost proud to see his previous student keeping such pace with trained assassins even in the state he was in, but the embarrassment over the current failures who couldn't apprehend what he saw as a child having a tantrum seemed to overwhelm that pride. 

And then, as if summoned by some unseen force, Talia entered.

Her presence was like a gust of cool air in the stifling heat of the cavernous room. She moved with measured grace, her face calm but her eyes weary... the eyes of a woman in mourning.

The moment Bruce saw her, the tension in his body seemed to drain away, leaving him trembling and vulnerable. His feral gaze softened, the green fading just slightly, and with a guttural sound that might have been a sob, he stumbled toward her.

“Talia,” he rasped, collapsing into her arms as though she were the only tether keeping him from dissolving into madness.

She held him without hesitation, her strong, dark arms wrapping around his broad shoulders, her hand threading through his dark hair as she shushed him gently. He clung to her, burying his face in her neck, his breath ragged and shallow. For all his strength, for all the years he had spent standing as a pillar of justice in Gotham, here he was-- reduced to a man who could find solace only in her embrace.

Ra’s watched this display in stony silence, his jaw tightening and his eyes growing narrow. He had intended to keep them apart unless it was of a personal advantage to him to do otherwise, but it appeared now that he had no choice... And that was not a feeling that The Demon's Head knew very well in the slightest. 

This-- this dependency Bruce displayed toward his daughter-- this was not part of the plan. Bruce Wayne was supposed to rise from the Lazarus Pit a warrior, a leader, a weapon honed to perfection-- he was supposed to rise as Ra's tool, the second coming of something that once almost was, something that could have been great, that would be great once more... Instead, he had returned fractured, his mind caught adrift in a stormy ocean. And somehow, inexplicably, Talia had become his anchor.

The two of them had loved each other before. Of course they had. Anyone with eyes could see it-- the way Bruce and Talia had looked at each other, even as reckless teenagers barely finished with their training, when he'd still had that light of optimistic determination in his gaze, and she'd still cut her hair in bangs straight across her forehead with a single chop of a blade. It was a well-spoken truth that had lingered between them, visible in stolen glances and subtle touches, in the way Bruce’s stoic demeanor softened ever so slightly when she was near, and in how her ever-poised confidence faltered only in his absence. 

Ra’s al Ghul had always observed this bond with a mix of fascination and disdain. He, who had lived through centuries of human folly, had always been skeptically intrigued by the notion of... soulmates. The idea that two individuals could be cosmically bound, fated to find one another across the span of lifetimes-- it seemed ridiculous, even to a man who had seen corpses claw their way back from death, who had summoned demons from the depths of hell, and who had bent the arcane forces of magic to his will. Compared to those tangible displays of power, the concept of a predestined connection seemed naïve, a delusion reserved for poets and fools-- of which Ra's Al Ghul was neither. 

And yet, there was something about Bruce and Talia that unsettled him.

Their connection was not born of coincidence or convenience; it was forged in flame, tempered like metal. She had always been his weakness, just as he had always been hers. They had balanced each other. Bruce’s unyielding moral compass challenged Talia’s pragmatic ruthlessness, while her fierce determination reminded him of the humanity he often tried to suppress. They were, in a sense, the purest form of balance there could be; yin and yang, push and pull, the moon and the tides, opposites yet unable to exist without the other.

Ra’s had underestimated it at first. He had seen their affection as a fleeting distraction, something that could be extinguished or exploited when the time came. But time had proven him wrong. Their love-- no, their obsession-- with one another had endured, defying logic at every turn.

And now, as Ra's watched Talia cradle Bruce’s fragile form in the same way she'd once cradled his son, her fingers brushing through his dark hair with an almost unbearable tenderness, Ra’s felt the bitter sting of his miscalculation, his nostril twitching into a snarl.

Bruce Wayne, the man Ra’s had once admired as a worthy heir, lay before them, a shadow of his former self. His mind, fractured by some mistake in the pit that Ra's himself couldn't even quite understand, clinging desperately to the only thing it still recognized: Talia. Her voice, her presence, her touch, her scent-- it was the only thing keeping him from slipping into complete madness.

Ra’s al Ghul, the Demon’s Head, conqueror of death and scourge of corruption everywhere, felt a pang of something uncomfortably close to envy. Not for their love-- he had long since abandoned such trivial desires-- but for the power it held. For all his centuries of wisdom and might, he could not command the loyalty or devotion that Bruce gave to Talia so freely. Ra’s could not ignore the weakness in it, either. Love, for all its strength, was still a vulnerability-- a flaw to be exploited. He had taught Talia that lesson well, or so he had thought. But as he turned away from the intimate tableau before him, he could not shake the feeling that the bond between Bruce and Talia was not something he could control as well as he'd once thought.

Perhaps it was a cosmic joke, a punishment for his hubris. Or perhaps, though he avoided the thought like a plague of locusts, he feared it was something more.

Something real.

Because that... would be much worse.

Ra’s turned on his heel, his cape billowing behind him as he strode toward the exit, his voice low and venomous as he barked orders to the servants still recovering from their failed attempts at subduing Bruce. “Prepare the chamber for the ceremony. And keep it under control.”

He didn’t wait for a response. As he ascended the stairs and left the room, his thoughts churned. Control was everything to Ra’s al Ghul. And if he couldn’t control Bruce Wayne directly, he would have to find a way to control him through Talia. Once, perhaps, that had been easy-- but now... she had grown into her own woman. Few things scared the Demon's Head, but if he had to name something, that fact may well be it.

The clicking sound of Ra’s boots fading into the distance was like a release valve, easing the suffocating pressure of his presence there. It was always like that, when he stormed out of a room the way he did. It was something that had become more frequent lately, as he and Talia's arguments grew more common-- everyone in the compound knew the energy well, and knew to avoid it like a raging tempest. 

“You are dismissed,” she said, her voice low and steady.

The room stayed still. The servants hesitated, shifting uneasily, their gazes flickering between Talia and the empty doorway. They weren’t accustomed to defying direct orders, but neither were they accustomed to leaving without explicit permission from Ra’s al Ghul.

Talia’s patience snapped like a taut string. Her head lifted sharply, and her eyes burned with a fire that was unmistakably her father’s.

“Now.”

That single word cut through the air like a blade. The servants scattered, nearly tripping over themselves in their haste to retreat, and the heavy chamber door groaned as it closed behind them. Silence returned, wrapping the room in an uneasy stillness.

Talia exhaled softly, the tension draining from her body as she leaned back into Bruce’s hold. His arms were heavy around her, more like the clutching grasp of a drowning man than an embrace. He was feverishly warm, his body trembling as if some invisible storm were raging inside him.

“My poor, sweet boy...” she murmured, her voice breaking slightly as her fingers traced soothing circles along his back. She leaned in, her nose brushing against his temple as she inhaled deeply, catching the faint, lingering trace of his cologne. It clung stubbornly to his skin, a ghost of the man he had been.

“Talia...” Bruce’s voice cracked as he spoke her name, barely above a whisper. It was the only word he seemed capable of saying, repeated like a prayer, a lifeline. His tears soaked into her silk shirt, warm and unrelenting. “… I don’t understand…”

“I know, Beloved. I know,” she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. In truth? She didn't either. Her hands slid into his hair, cradling his head as though it might shatter if she held him any less carefully.

For a long while, they stayed there, huddled on the cold stone floor of Bruce’s chambers. The room, sparse and bare, seemed to fall away until only they remained, wrapped in their fragile bubble of stolen intimacy. Talia rocked him gently, humming a lullaby she barely remembered from her own childhood, her lips brushing against his forehead and hairline with soft, deliberate kisses.

Eventually, his sobs subsided into quiet sniffles, and his grip on her loosened just enough for her to shift and meet his gaze.

“Bruce...? Beloved...?”

“… Yes?”

His voice was hoarse, but the sound of it-- the clarity of his response, small as it was-- filled her with a bittersweet sense of relief. She smiled down at him, the expression soft but fleeting.

“Father is going to hold a ceremony for you later tonight,” she began carefully, her tone as gentle as if she were explaining something to a frightened child. “To… initiate you into your new life.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed, the faintest glimmer of resistance flickering in his still-dazed eyes.

“We’re going to need to do some things to prepare you, okay?” Talia continued, forcing the tremor out of her voice as she cupped his face with both hands. “It will only be me, Beloved. Just you and I, and I’ll get you ready for the ceremony. No servants, no Father, just... just me.”

She smiled again, though it ached the muscles in her face to force the expression. Her fingers stroked his jawline, hoping the motion might soothe the tension she felt coiling within him.

Bruce nodded slowly, his gaze dropping back to her shoulder as he leaned against her once more.

“...I trust you,” he murmured, so quietly she almost didn’t hear it.

Her heart ached at his words. He trusted her, even now, when his world had been torn apart and pieced back together into something unrecognizable. He knew nothing. He barely knew his own name. All he knew was pain and fear and rage-- but still, somehow, he'd managed to know love. To know their love. She pressed a lingering kiss to his temple, her mind already turning to the task ahead.

It was tradition-- part of the ritual Ra’s demanded for his initiates of such an important sort. Talia dreaded it, though. She knew its true purpose, of course, its intent to strip a person of their spirit, their soul. She wanted so desperately to walk right out the doors of this room with this strangely delicate man, to carry him back to her own room and lock the doors and lay him down on her silk sheets and hold him and feel his beating heart until her love alone was enough to raise him from the fog and return him to the man she'd always known, the man she'd always loved...

But she couldn't do that. She knew she couldn't. And she resented that. Or, perhaps, she resented herself.

“Come,” she said softly, rising to her feet and helping Bruce to stand. He was unsteady, swaying like a tree battered in a tempest, but he leaned into her, letting her guide him across the room without question.

Talia led him to the chair placed in the center of the chamber, guiding him to sit down with a gentle hand. She retrieved a blade from off her person and a basin of water, setting them carefully on the table beside the chair.

“Relax, Beloved... adjust your posture...” she urged, her hands steadying him as he lowered himself into the chair.

Bruce obeyed without question, his green eyes watching her with a mixture of trust and confusion. Talia carefully guided Bruce down into the basin, letting the water soak into his hair and cover his scalp.

“This won’t hurt,” she promised, though her voice wavered slightly. “I’ll be gentle.”

Bruce said nothing, only closed his eyes as she began. Each stroke of the blade felt like a betrayal, and Talia had to fight the overwhelming urge to apologize after each one. His hair was so thick, so dark-- like Damian’s, like her own-- and she could already picture how it would grow back, defiant and unruly, sticking out in all directions. But for now, it would be stripped away, cut close to the skin, leaving him bare and exposed. He would feel the warm desert wind on his scalp as if it could sweep his very thoughts away, like scraping cream from milk.

She started by cutting the longer strands first, taking them gently in her fingers and slicing them down to a coarse, uneven stubble. The sound of the blade was almost deafening in the silence, a smooth metallic swipe that made her wince every time. When most of the dark locks lay scattered at her feet, she adjusted her hold on the knife and prepared for the next step, her hands trembling as she pressed it to his skin.

With painstaking precision, she began to shave. The blade glided over his scalp, removing what remained, and Talia forced herself to stay steady. Each pass of the knife felt like it was taking something vital from him-- and from her. She hadn’t expected this to hurt so much. It wasn’t supposed to ache like this-- a slow, spreading pain that felt like a wound even she couldn’t staunch. But even as her hands shook, she kept going. There was no turning back now. There never had been.

As she worked, her mind drifted, unbidden, to the first time Bruce had stood in this very room, a young man fresh from his training, every inch of him hardened steel, still relatively unscarred and new to the world, a child in his own right. He’d been deemed ready then, ready to become The Demon’s Heart, Ra’s al Ghul’s chosen heir. But Bruce had rejected it-- rejected all of it. He had destroyed the League’s weapon caches and vanished into the night with that other boy, the one who was supposed to be dead. He had burned Ra’s dreams to the ground, and for a time, Talia had let herself believe he would never come back, that her father would never get his chance to christen Bruce into his world.

But now, here he was, broken and silent beneath her hands. Her father had waited decades for this moment, and it had finally arrived. Quietly, Talia had always wished it wouldn’t. At first, because she believed that place, the right hand of the Demon, was hers to claim. But in time, she realized her concerns had shifted. They weren’t for herself nor for her place in the league or even her family. Her concerns were for him.

The blade nicked him at the back of his head, and Talia flinched as a bead of blood welled up, vivid against his pale skin. She dabbed it away with her finger, the motion gentle, loving. It wasn’t the first drop of blood spilled in service to her father’s ambitions. It wouldn’t be the last. Slowly, she finished the final strokes and set the razor aside, her hands lingering on his shoulders as she stepped back to look at him.

Bruce sat there, silent and still, his head bowed slightly. His face was blank, his green eyes clouded and distant. 

“Stand up, Beloved,” she whispered, her voice shaking as she pulled him to his feet.

He obeyed, swaying slightly, and Talia turned him to face her. For a moment, her composure shattered. The sight of him-- so absent, so horribly unlike himself... it hit her like a physical blow, and tears spilled hot and slow down her cheeks.

Bruce’s brow furrowed slightly as he stared at her. “You are… crying,” he said slowly, his voice thick and halting. “You… don’t like it?”

Talia let out a strangled laugh, one that broke halfway through. “No, Beloved, you look very handsome,” she choked out, forcing herself to smile through the tears. “I just…”

What could she say? The truth? That she hated this? That she hated every second of it? That she hated herself for letting it happen?

She missed him. She desperately, achingly missed him. She missed the man he had been, the fire in his eyes, the strength in his voice. Before he'd come here, in that week or two or three (who was she to tell anymore?) during which her father was off collecting him in America, leaving her there in the compound to swallow her pride and wait like a princess in some tower, she had worried that her role of complacency in her father’s scheme might drive Bruce to hate her. She’d braced herself for that anger, for that coldness, even for pure, unbridled disgust, it's not like she hadn't seen it before... But now, how she wished for any of it.

God, she wanted him to feel something. Anger, pain, defiance-- anything but this terrible, hollow absence. She wanted him to argue, to laugh, to push back against her, to remind her of who he was. She wanted to hold him and kiss him and feel his body against hers and know that they were equals, that they were in love, that they were alive.

But he wasn’t. He was like a child now, helpless and soft, stripped of everything that had once made him Bruce Wayne.

“I just…” Her voice broke, and she shook her head. “You're hurting. I don't know if you know it, but you are, and as long as you're here you're only going to hurt more, and I..." 

She pulled him close again, burying her face against his chest, and for a moment, for the first time in many years, she let herself cry.

The ceremonial hall was suffocatingly hot, the air thick with incense and the collective anticipation of the acolytes and followers of the Demon. Shadows danced across the cavernous chamber, thrown by the dim, flickering torchlight, and every face was turned toward the central stage, where Bruce sat alone, a figure both exalted and pitiful. The murmurs had quieted to a reverent silence, save for the occasional clink of ceremonial armor or the rustle of robes.

Talia stood nearby, her face composed, though her hands were tightly clasped behind her back to hide their trembling. It had taken no small amount of effort to convince Bruce to ascend the stage in the first place, most especially to do so alone. He had only agreed after she swore-- promised on her very soul-- that she would stay close and see him safely through the ordeal. Her negotiations had extended to her father as well, securing permission to take Bruce back to her chambers afterward, where she could tend to him.

“My children,” Ra’s began, his voice smooth and deliberate, a cold smile playing at the edges of his lips. “Today marks a very special day. Today, the final threat to our great new world will not only be vanquished but will be forged anew as our greatest ally.”

Ra’s words drew a ripple of murmurs from the crowd, but Bruce barely registered them. The man in the green cloak, with his sharp, ageless features, was nothing more than a distant hum of sound, a faint irritant in the periphery of his awareness. Bruce didn’t like him-- this much he knew instinctively, the same way he knew that he didn't like papaya when it had been presented to him for breakfast and had handed it over to Talia without thought. But he wasn’t listening to him, not really. His attention was fixed on the object in front of him: a sword, its golden hilt gleaming faintly in the dim light, its blade buried beneath a glowing heap of hot coals.

Something about it tugged at his memory, a faint echo from another life that he couldn’t quite place. The heat of the coals shimmered in his vision, and his mind drifted.

When Ra’s finally stepped forward and gripped the sword’s hilt, the crowd collectively held their breath. With deliberate care, he lifted the weapon from the coals, its blade glowing red-hot, the air warping around its heat.

Bruce didn’t flinch. He didn’t look at Ra’s. His eyes stayed locked on the coals, his mind prickling with an unshakable unease. There was a feeling, deep in his chest, a heavy, sinking certainty that something terrible was about to happen. It gnawed at him, insistent, a caged animal of paranoia, but he shook it off.

He had Talia here.

She wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

Servants approached, their movements practiced and precise, and began removing Bruce’s white robes. He didn’t bother to acknowledge them. As the fabric fell away, the scars of two decades became visible under the flickering torchlight, crisscrossing his pale skin like a tapestry of pain and survival. A new wave of murmurs swept through the crowd, quieter this time, almost reverent. The followers had been skeptical of him-- this strange, pale outsider with blue eyes, Talia's occasional American lover who they'd seen in and out of the years, who had once fallen to a single lucky stab through the lung. They had whispered doubts about his worthiness to succeed the Demon’s Head.

But now, seeing the scars, some of that doubt gave way to a grudging respect.

Bruce, for his part, barely noticed. The coals still held his gaze, their heat like a magnet pulling his thoughts away. The uneasy feeling in his chest tightened, constricting like a vice.

Ra’s voice cut through the haze, ringing with the weight of ceremony. “A lifetime ago,” he proclaimed, “I declared this young man The Demon’s Heart. But today, he is reborn. Gone is The Demon’s Heart. Gone is Bruce Wayne. Today, he is Sirhaan. The Demon’s Wolf.”

Talia’s lips tightened imperceptibly. Ra’s had been so proud of the title, boasting that it had come to him in a dream. But Talia saw it for what it was. Her father was no prophet, he was not Joseph and he could not determine the divine through an evening's visions. A wolf, no matter how powerful, was still only a few steps removed from a dog.

Ra’s stepped closer, holding the sword out in front of Bruce, the blade now parallel to his chest. The red-hot steel gleamed ominously, the faint embossing of words visible against its glowing surface. Bruce’s brow furrowed slightly. The letters were in a language he recognized, not as naturally as he would his native tongue, but certainly one that he knew. He could easily tell that something about them seemed… wrong.

“… Why are the letters backward?” he asked softly, his voice tinged with childlike curiosity as he turned to look at Talia.

Her heart twisted at the sight of him. There it was again. That sickening, aching absence in his eyes, the emptiness that made her feel as though she were looking at a stranger wearing Bruce’s face. She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

Before Bruce could turn back, the sword was pressed against his chest.

The scream that tore from his throat was raw and primal, a sound of pure, unrelenting agony. It echoed through the ceremonial hall, filling every corner, every shadow, reverberating in the bones of all who heard it.

Talia froze, her breath catching as the sound ripped through her. She’d heard screams before-- countless screams-- hell, she'd caused half of them-- but never like this. This one clawed at her soul, scraping away the carefully constructed walls she had built around her heart.

She had never wished for deafness so desperately as she did in that moment.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, aching to reach for him, to stop this madness, to do something. But she stood frozen, her face a mask of calm as the ceremony continued. Only her eyes betrayed her, dark and glistening with unshed tears as they stayed locked on the man she had loved.

For the second time in only days, Bruce Wayne had died. 

Chapter Text

Jason Peter Todd-Wayne was a man who had lived through an immeasurable abundance of bad days. He may argue, even, that he could be a certifiable expert in them! Had he lived long enough to continue onto higher education, perhaps he would have gotten a PhD in the subject. He kinda liked the sound of that, actually-- a nice, cushy professor job, a tenure at Gotham University, a cozy office with his name embossed on a gold placard on the door; 'Doctor Jason P. Todd-Wayne, Head of the Department of Getting Fucked In The Ass By Life, God, The Universe, etc. Office Hours: Go fuck yourself'. 

Now, should we hypothetically manage to acquire a short moment of this alternate-universe-Jason-Todd's time, and take a moment to ask for his thoughts on our Jason's correct predicament, he would shake his head seriously and take off his wire glasses to grimly pinch the bridge of his nose and say "My God. This man... He's having a really bad fucking day."

At least, that's what Jason was imagining it would be like. 

There wasn't much else to do in here, after all, aside from staring at one wall or the other and imagining what life might've been like if it was a bit less hell-bent on making Jason miserable and/or pissed off as possible. It's not like the Justice League was in the habit of keeping board games around their high security prisoner containment wing, and if he stopped thinking about anything then he'd be forced to acknowledge the searing pain of his injuries: of which he had many. 

Jason had honestly tried to talk it out-- he really had! He'd brought his weapons because civilian identities weren't allowed in The Watchtower, that was common knowledge-- and what the hell was Red Hood unarmed?! That wasn't Red Hood, Prince Of Gotham, Scourge of The Underworld!! That was just... Some guy with a bike helmet!! And it's not like the other heroes weren't armed-- Wonder Woman was allowed to have her lasso, Batman could have his utility belt, Superman had his... Self... But Jason couldn't have two Desert Eagles?! Most of the JL is fucking bullet proof!!

And to further his defense, Jason hadn't even started it. If Barry fucking Allen didn't want to get his shit rocked, he should've known better than to stand on top of The Red Hood's back like he was a fancy fucking fur rug. 

Several Hours Earlier...

“OW!”

Jason yanked the bloody Batarang out of Barry’s leg with a wet schllk, the sound almost lost in the speedster’s sharp (and, in Jason's opinion, unnecessarily dramatic) cry of pain. He didn’t waste the opportunity-- Barry’s hesitation was all the time Jason needed to bend his leg above himself in a move Dick taught him as a child, plant his boot squarely in The Flash's bright red, spandex covered balls, shove him to the ground, and flip him onto his back.

“Would you assholes listen to me for two seconds?!” Jason snarled, his voice bouncing off the cold, sterile walls of the Watchtower as he wiped the nonexistent dust from his pants. He dropped into a defensive stance, scanning the room for the next threat. “I didn’t come here to fight! I need h—”

“You just mortally wounded a founding member of the Justice League!”

The accusation came from Green Lantern, who hovered a few feet above the floor, his glowing ring already summoning a massive, hammer-shaped construct. Jason sighed. Of course Hal Jordan had to escalate things.

“Jesus Christ, it’s a flesh wound!” Jason snapped, his voice dripping with exasperation. “He’s fine! If I’d hit anything important, you’d know! I’m not an amateur!”

“Yet you behave like one,” Diana’s voice cut in, sharp and measured as ever. She stood nearby, the bloody Batarang in her hand, examining it as though she were the world's greatest detective. Her gaze shifted to Jason, her eyes narrowing slightly. “How did you acquire one of Batman’s weapons?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to--”

Jason’s words were abruptly cut off as a sharp, blinding pain erupted at the back of his head. His vision swam, and he staggered forward, instinctively pulling off his helmet to assess the damage. The once-pristine, waxed surface was now dented, its internal HUD flickering ominously.

“What the everloving fuck is your problem, Clark?!” Jason growled, turning to glare at the Kryptonian. Superman stood a few feet away, his expression mostly unreadable apart from his narrowing eyes.

"We’ve been compromised,” Superman said evenly, his voice calm but cold. "Lock down the tower."

“Oh, now you’re paranoid?!” Jason spat. “Maybe if you’d let me--”

“Look out!”

Jason barely had time to register the warning before Stargirl came hurtling toward him, her staff glowing as it swung toward his head like a battering ram. He ducked at the last second, her momentum carrying her past him and straight into the opposite wall. The impact was loud and unforgiving, leaving a sizable dent in the reinforced metal. He snorted. "Earth's greatest heroes, everybody..." He chuckled, mostly to himself.

His brief distraction was unfortunately taxing, though, as something bright and green came swinging at him.

“Stay put, Hood!” Hal barked, forming a birdcage around him. There was a metaphor in here somewhere.

“You will stand down,” Diana ordered, her voice low and firm.

“Not until you listen to me!” Jason barked, trying fruitlessly to bust through the constructed cage with his shoulder.

A gust of wind blew past him, and suddenly Barry was back on his feet-- or rather, limping dramatically, but still fast enough to land a solid punch to Jason’s gut as Hal opened up space for him to go through before closing it again, lowering himself to he ground to high-five his teammate. Jason stumbled to his knees, gasping for air.

“Oh, you absolute son of a bitch-- both of you!!” Jason wheezed, doubling over further and crumbling with his forehand on the floor.

"I will ask you one more time," Clark began slowly. "Why are you here, and what do you want?"

"Batman is dead."

The words came out as more of a strangled cough, and for a moment he feared that hadn't heard him... But they did. 

The air had been sucked out of the room, and the League simply stood there, staring in bewilderment. The cage around Jason flickered as Hal's concentration lapsed, but he wasn't able to use it to his advantage with the searing pain that radiated from his... Everything.

The League said nothing more to him. Jason was left there for some time to catch his breath and try to tough out the new bruises that were now atop his old bruises from the other night, while the League went off to huddle in a corner and discuss their next move. Stargirl and Flash were both carried off to what Jason assumed was the medical bay by Superman, and Jason tried to ignore the occasional glance shot over from the others. 

Eventually, the Justice League decided to detain Jason in the high-security wing of their prisoner containment center until they were ready to question him. It was three long, agonizing hours before anyone came to fetch him, and by the time they did, Jason’s patience was hanging by a thread.

When they finally led him to the interrogation room, he was shackled and escorted like a war criminal. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting harsh shadows across the cold metal walls. Jason’s boots scuffed against the floor as he was pushed into a chair bolted to the ground.

Superman was already waiting for him.

“I’ve taken the liberty of familiarizing myself with your file,” the Kryptonian began slowly, his tone carefully measured. “I’ve never had the pleasure of a formal introduction, and since your records in our system are unfortunately barren, I’ve learned very little.”

Jason snorted, leaning back in his chair despite the restraints. “You can thank Bats for that. He likes to keep me under the radar.”

“Yes, I understand that he prefers we avoid interaction with Gotham rogues unless absolutely necessary,” Clark replied, his voice tinged with a faint trace of annoyance. “But Batman isn’t here right now, and that mea--”

“I know he’s not here right now,” Jason cut in sharply, his voice dripping with bitterness, the humor gone from his eyes. “I told you. He’s dead.”

Clark’s expression didn’t falter, though his jaw tightened. “We’ve found no evidence to confirm that story, apart from the decrease in vigilante activity in Gotham over the past day and a half.” His tone hardened. “And that alone isn’t proof.”

Jason groaned, dragging a bound hand down his face. “Clark, I—”

“But that,” Superman interrupted firmly, his voice heavy with finality, “isn’t our immediate concern.” He leaned forward, and his eyes narrowed with an intensity that made Jason pause. “Our priority is this: how do you know our civilian identities?”

Jason barely had time to process the question before Clark’s hand clamped down on his wrist. The pressure was immediate, his bones grinding under the Kryptonian’s alien strength. Jason winced, his face twisting into a grimace as his wrist screamed in protest.

“And don’t lie to me,” Clark said quietly, his tone almost too calm. The threat was obvious.

Jason sneered, his lip curling as he gritted his teeth. “Batman told me, dipshit.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie-- technically, Bruce had given him access to all the League’s files during his time as Robin, and it had been part of his training that he memorized most of that information, and of course things had changed in the time he was busy being a corpse, so he had reread that when he came back to the fa--

Crack.

Jason let out a strangled cry as the sound of his wrist breaking echoed in the small room.

“He would never,” Clark growled, his composure fraying at the edges. His grip didn’t loosen, though his jaw visibly clenched as he struggled to reign in his temper.

“That really wasn’t--” Jason started, his voice strained from the pain.

The door to the interrogation room suddenly slammed open, cutting him off mid-sentence. Standing in the doorway was a familiar figure: long black hair, sharp eyes burning with fury, and an aura of magic that made the air around her crackle. Jason smiled softly. He'd missed his Tante Zee.

“Get your hands off my nephew,” Zatanna said lowly, her tone dangerous. “Or I swear to God, Clark, I will skin you.”

Clark froze, clearly thrown off by her arrival, but before he could respond, another voice came through the comm system above.

“I concur with the magician,” Oracle’s slightly mechanical voice sneered. “I have complete access to all your computer systems, and I'm not afraid to use any of the remote emergency explosives Batman has in the walls. Let. Him. Go.”

Jason chuckled softly at the sound of Barbara’s voice. This is why she was always his favorite sister.

And then, as if the universe itself decided to pile on the pressure, a robotic tone filled the room, announcing a new arrival through the Zeta tube system.

“Emergency Code 4-7-2. AGENT A arriving: BATMAN GUEST 1.”

Jason couldn’t help but laugh now, the sound low and mocking. One of the perks of having a paranoid father who designed the Justice League’s security systems with only the occasional help of an insomniac rich boy and a ginger with no respect for federal law was that he could add his own special emergency protocols whenever he damn well pleased. And though he had added plenty-- only a few of them allowed for Alfred to come up to The Watchtower.

Turning back to Clark, Jason smirked, his voice slipping into a sing-songy, taunting lilt.

“You’re in trouble.”

Chapter Text

It was strange, watching Bruce train in this state.

Talia had always made a point to observe him during his grueling hours of combat and strength training under her father’s watchful eye. The ritual was as rigid as clockwork, beginning at the earliest crack of dawn. An hour of meditation would start the day, where she would sit silently at his side, listening to the rhythm of his shaky breaths. Occasionally, she would dare to reach out, her fingers brushing against his to offer the slightest reassurance. She prayed each time that anyone else in the room had their eyes closed, their focus inward, too disciplined to notice her small acts of defiance.

After meditation came a short, protein-filled meal-- functional and unremarkable-- and then they would head to the sandy hell of the training grounds.

She’d always found it mesmerizing-- the way his body moved with purpose and precision, every muscle working in harmony to create something akin to a violent ballet. There was a grace to him then, an elegance in the way he fought that spoke to both his discipline and his unshakable control. His movements were deliberate, calculated, a masterclass in balance and restraint.

As a teenager, she had often been scolded for lingering too long on the sidelines, ogling at that young American with the blue eyes and the furrowed brow, her own gaze wide and unblinking, as though each strike he delivered told a story only she could understand.

And now, here she was again, watching him tear through the assassins Ra's sent after him, but this time...

Now, that poise he'd once mastered was gone.

Though she could still detect traces of the man she once admired-- the muscle memory evident in the way he swept the incoming assassins off their feet or dropped them to the ground with a well-placed strike-- those familiar elements were buried beneath a haze of desperation, something primal that twitched in his eyes. His movements were sharp but unrefined, rapid to the point of recklessness. His punches landed with brute force rather than precision, and his footwork was erratic, lacking the meticulous control he’d once wielded.

To Talia, it was painfully clear. Bruce no longer fought like a man who believed in his own invincibility. He fought like a cornered animal, lashing out with the fury of a caged tiger and the raw, trembling terror of a beaten dog.

And yet, she found that she couldn’t look away, her gaze fixed on him as he fought like his life depended on it-- perhaps because it did. 

The assassins came at him relentlessly, as they always did during training, but Bruce’s reactions were different now. He didn’t wait for their moves to come to him, didn’t take the time to analyze their attacks. He threw himself into the fray with a raw, unfiltered aggression that bordered on chaotic.

There was no artistry to it anymore, no careful planning. He wasn’t Bruce Wayne, the disciplined warrior. He was something broken, fighting not to win but to survive. Sirhaan. The Wolf. The Dog. 

Talia’s chest tightened as she watched him. She had known Bruce in his strongest moments—when his mind was sharp, his will unyielding, his body a weapon he wielded with precision. This? This was something else entirely. He looked like a man running on fumes, his body pushed to its absolute limit, his mind teetering on the edge of collapse.

It was said that The Lazarus Pits gave someone strength. 

She was beginning to wonder in what sense that was true. 

Once his training inevitably came to an end-- typically only after Bruce had dispatched more opponents than Ra's could summon to replace them-- he would retreat into a routine of his own.

It wasn’t something explicitly encouraged by Ra's al Ghul-- though it wasn’t outright forbidden either. In some begrudging way, it seemed the Demon’s Head had accepted it as an inevitability, an unspoken compromise. After all, it wasn’t as though Bruce was plotting an escape or defying his captors.

No, all he did was follow.

Though none of them had ever seen a reaction to resurrection quite like this, those more scientifically knowledge amongst them hypothesized that, somehow, Bruce Sirhaan... Had been returned to his most base instincts. His memories had been erased, to some extent, namely in specifics-- seemingly, he knew only how he felt for and of people and things. He knew that he didn't trust Ra's Al Ghul, though perhaps he knew not why.... He knew that when attacked he must defend himself, though if asked where he learned such skills he would only stare... And he knew that Talia meant warmth and comfort and peace amongst terror-- and Talia herself hadn't bothered asking why or how he knew that. If he answered the way she expected, she doubted she would handle it well. 

Like a loyal, wounded hound seeking solace, Bruce would trail after Talia as she moved through her daily tasks. His steps were heavy with exhaustion but unwavering, his posture rigid despite the obvious toll the day's brutal training had taken on him. He was silent, watchful, his piercing gaze fixated on her as though she were the only anchor tethering him to sanity in this relentless tempest of violence and pain.

Talia didn’t mind. In truth, she appreciated his quiet presence, even if she wouldn’t admit it aloud. There was something both endearing and achingly pitiful about the way he shadowed her, never more than a step or two behind, glaring at anyone who dared approach her as if they might somehow pose a threat.

It was sweet, in its own terribly sad way.

When they were alone, she would tend to him with a practiced efficiency, her hands gentle but firm as they worked over his battered form. He never flinched or complained as she replaced the bandages that wrapped his branded chest, her fingers brushing against the seared flesh with a tenderness that belied her usual stoic mask. Nor did he protest when she cleaned and dressed the countless other injuries that marred his muscular frame-- bruises blooming like dark flowers, and cuts that wept blood like tears. 

Bruce accepted her care without a word, his expression unreadable but his body pliant beneath her touch. It was as though he trusted her implicitly, as though he believed on a primal, nearly cellular level, that in her hands, he was safe.

It was a privilege-- one she didn’t take lightly. When they were younger, when they had been more human in their own ways, he had always been reluctant to accept her care of his injuries, but now he leaned into her touch with a nearly desperate longing. And when they were done, she would kiss him on the forehead and run her hands over the stubble that was growing steadily from his head and face, and she would speak to him softly, in English. She would call him by his name, his real name, the one that Martha and Thomas had chosen four decades ago, the one that meant 'from the brushwood thicket', and she would pray quietly that he would not forget who he was. She would pray he had not forgotten already. And he would stare. And say nothing. 

"...Where are we going?"  

Talia nearly jolted out of her skin at the sound of his voice. Bruce didn’t speak often anymore. If he had been a quiet man before, now he was practically mute. To him-- to them-- words were a scarce commodity, rationed carefully, like the purest saffron, for only the rarest of moments-- and always, only, for her.  

When he did speak, his voice was delicate, cracking, each syllable slipping from his lips like he was coughing flour from a dry throat. And each time, Talia had to resist the overwhelming urge to grin like a madwoman, to kiss him, to cradle his worn face in her hands and tell him how proud she was of her sweet boy... But she couldn’t. He was a grown man—even if he was a broken one. He deserved dignity, not coddling, tempting as it may be.

"We're going to the nursery, Beloved," Talia replied softly, her tone gentle, as though speaking too loudly might scare him back into silence. It probably would.

Bruce had been following her all day. He’d sat silently beside her as she read poetry in the garden, his battered hands trailing idly through the grass. He had watched her take her meals, accepting bites of food from her plate without protest when she offered. He’d even observed as she sharpened her swords, his intense gaze flickering with something like curiosity with each stroke against the whetstones. Now, he shadowed her down the hall, his footsteps light and hesitant.  

"I like to check on the new babies when I can," Talia continued. "It’s rare for children to be born into the League, but when they are..." She trailed off, her voice faltering slightly. Though she knew Bruce didn’t remember Damian-- not in the way he should, as she wanted him to, not as their son-- she sensed he carried the memory of him in another form. An impression. A feeling. An aura. Just as she often had to carry it herself. 

"Babies...?" Bruce’s brow quirked ever so slightly, and for a fleeting moment, he looked like himself.  

“We have three at the moment,” Talia said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Considering the time, their mothers should be training now. No one will mind if we visit them.”  

Bruce seemed to ponder this, his expression unreadable, before shuffling a little closer to her. She led him through the large wooden doors and into the nursery, a small, dimly lit room where three cribs sat in orderly rows.  

Children in the League, rare as they were, lived under strict regimentation from the moment they were born. By three months old, they rarely cried; if need be, they could be brought along on a stealth mission for hours. The youngest infant in the room that day was just over three and a half months old. As such, the space was nearly silent, save for the faint rustling of blankets or the occasional soft, whimpering sigh.  

Bruce lingered in the doorway for a moment before stepping inside, his movements slow and deliberate. His eyes scanned the cribs with a quiet intensity, his head tilting slightly as if trying to understand what he was seeing.  

Talia moved to one of the cribs, peering down at the small, swaddled figure inside. She smiled faintly, reaching out to adjust the blanket around the infant’s tiny form. “This one,” she whispered, “is named Ayesha. Her mother is one of my best fighters.”  

Bruce stood beside her, his broad frame towering over the crib. His eyes softened as he looked down at the baby, his features etched with something unreadable-- wonder? Grief? Longing? The baby stared up at them with sleepy brown eyes and smooth, tan skin.

“She’s...small,” he murmured, the words so quiet Talia barely heard them. 

“Most babies are,” she replied gently. "She's only six months old."

Bruce’s gaze lingered on Ayesha for a moment longer before shifting to the next crib. He moved cautiously, his fingers brushing the edge of the carvings on the wooden frame as if afraid to touch them. “They don’t cry,” he observed, his tone tinged with a strange mix of curiosity and unease.  

“They’re trained not to,” Talia explained. “Even this young, they’re expected to learn control. Damian was like this, too."

Bruce’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something dark crossing his face. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and placed it against the side of the crib.  

Talia watched him carefully, her heart aching at the sight. He reached his hand out slowly toward the chubby, pink-faced little creature who was looking up at him, the youngest of the three. 

“This is Qamar,” Talia said softly, her voice a mix of tenderness and concern. She bent over the crib, brushing a careful hand against the infant’s blanket. “The littlest. He’s been having some trouble breathing lately. I’m a little worried about him…” Her brows knitted together, the faintest shadow of a frown on her lips as she studied the small, delicate figure.  

The baby stirred at the sound of her voice, his tiny face scrunching up as if in protest to being discussed. Then, as if guided by some unseen instinct, his little hand shot out and wrapped tightly around Bruce’s finger.  

Bruce stilled, staring down at the baby’s iron grip in muted surprise.  

“He’s strong,” he murmured, his voice low and almost reverent.  

Talia chuckled softly, a warm smile spreading across her face despite her worry. “Oh, yes, he is... You should feel lucky you don’t have any hair for him to pull anymore,” she added, the joke slipping out before she could stop herself.  

As soon as the words left her lips, regret flooded her. It felt wrong--too flippant, too cruel, even if unintentional. She opened her mouth to apologize, but then she noticed something.  

Bruce’s shoulders gave the slightest jolt-- a quick, unexpected motion that made her heart catch. For a moment, she feared the involuntary twitch he’d just started to lose was returning. But then she saw it. The faintest, almost imperceptible pull at the corners of his mouth.  

He was smiling. No, not just smiling. It was the ghost of something deeper, something warm and achingly familiar. He was almost laughing.  

Talia’s breath hitched with a terribly hopeful joy, but she managed to steady herself, her voice soft as she asked, “Do you want to hold him?”  

Bruce looked up at her, his eyes wide and unblinking. For a moment, he seemed frozen, caught between hesitation and longing. Then he glanced back down at Qamar, who was still clutching his finger with unwavering determination, and gave a slow, deliberate nod.  

With practiced care, Talia lifted the baby from his crib and turned to Bruce. “Here,” she said gently, guiding his hands as she transferred the tiny bundle to him. “Support his head like this... Yes, that’s right.”  

Bruce adjusted his hold, his large hands cradling the baby with a tenderness that seemed at odds with his battered, calloused fingers and bandaged limbs. He bounced slightly on instinct, the rhythmic motion calming both him and the infant.  

The room fell into a quiet stillness, the kind that felt heavy with unspoken words. Talia had often dreamed of a moment like this, of raising a baby with him. She nearly had the chance, if only she hadn't lied to him about Damian. They both knew he would've come back for his son. 

They could've had this moment years ago if she wasn't such a coward.

Talia watched as Bruce stared down at Qamar, his expression softening with every passing second.  

Then, barely above a whisper, he mumbled something, his chin dipping against the baby’s shoulder as if speaking directly to him.  

“What was that, Bruce?” Talia asked, leaning in closer.  

“I miss my babies,” he said, the words fragile and trembling, as though they might shatter if spoken too loudly.  

Talia’s heart broke. She felt the pain of his admission like a physical weight, pressing against her chest. Tears stung the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away, refusing to let them fall.  

“I know you do, Bruce,” she whispered, her voice steady despite the lump in her throat. She placed a hand gently on his arm, grounding both of them.

“I know you do.”  

Chapter Text

Alfred Pennyworth had spent the last seventy-two years of his life as a man governed by rules. He liked this about himself, and often he found that others appreciated it as well. Alfred was nothing if not consistent; consistent in his actions, his beliefs, his words-- indeed it was rare for him to stray from routine, and while for some this may seem tiresome or perhaps even unnerving, Alfred found that it suited him just fine. 

As a younger man, his rules had been governed by his military service, and subsequent work in British Intelligence. His rules were simple there, constructive. Obey your superiors, maintain your objective, and complete your mission by any means necessary. 

Later, his rules would be governed instead by Martha and Thomas Wayne, an element of control he handed to his close friends with ease. Likewise, they weren't particularly taxing: dust the china once a day, mop the kitchen once a week, if the baby is crying he's probably hungry because he's always hungry, and always add an extra clove of garlic to dinner. 

Of course, in a decade these rules too would change, and Alfred would be forced to follow them. These rules were born of grief; born of rage and confusion and the terror of a little boy who sat in his parents blood for hours before anyone came to his aid. They were rules born of survival. Keep the bedroom door unlocked in case Bruce needs the comfort of another warm, living body close to him to remind the boy that he took is indeed still alive. Cook smaller portions than you think you'll need because he won't finish what you give him. An adult man cannot punch children who are cruel to his own, no matter how much he may want to. Oddly enough, these rules often reminded him of those he had as a soldier. 

And since then? Well. Alfred's rules now were largely an amalgamation of all the ones that had come before. He was still a man at war, in his own way, and as such the careful restrictions and dutiful goals of a soldier served him well. He was still a butler, of course, and his routine for household chores and recipes for daily meals were some of the only things that hadn't changed in the past four decades. He was still a caretaker to a traumatized child-- now several, in fact-- and though it had been a very long time since he'd been awoken by the creak of his bedroom door and the tiny footsteps of a little boy fresh from the hellscape of a nightmare (for years now, that had become Bruce's burden to cradle), he still left it unlocked, just in case. 

At their core, Alfred's rules were about protecting his family. It was that simple. That would always be his primary objective. 

He had watched his son-- his son-- leave for patrol and never return. He had seen his grandchildren, bloodied and battered, fighting for their lives in the sterile glow of the medical wing. He had watched Jason, the one still conscious, suffering in silence with a pain that seemed determined to consume him.

Alfred had followed every rule, and it still hadn’t been enough.

And so, when he went to check The Watchtower security feeds from the Batcomputer and found Jason restrained and in the middle of an interrogation, he knew in an instant it was time for Plan B. 

Contingencies were important, afterall-- where do you think Bruce learned that from?

Yes, Plan B it was. 

Plan B, of course, being Thomas's drunkenly chosen name for he double-barrel break action shotgun that Alfred kept after his service to The Queen was concluded. 

Alfred stood, the weight of the weapon settling comfortably, familiarly in his hands as he retrieved it from its hidden compartment. His movements were precise, deliberate, honed by decades of practice. He loaded the weapon with an ease that spoke of muscle memory, his expression calm but unyielding.

Rules could be bent. They could even be broken.

Because protecting his family wasn’t just a rule-- it was his law.

And Alfred Pennyworth was nothing if not a man of the law.

"I'm sorry— your nephew?"

"Adopted," Zatanna snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut steel.

Clark blinked. He’d known Zatanna for years, valued her as a teammate, even as a friend. But in this moment, something about her felt alien to him, a side of her he hadn’t encountered before perhaps not even in battle. There was no playful smirk, no coy deflection-- just a cold, unyielding rage that permeated and shifted through the air like electricity.

She stood in the doorway of the interrogation room, her stance defensive yet commanding. Oddly, he found that it reminded him of some of Batman's frequent stances in battle. Her hands were raised, and between her fingers, two spheres of shimmering, blinding light pulsed and flared. Clark had seen that light before-- but not with her. He was no expert, of course, but he'd only ever seen that kind of power from Doctor Fate. He wasn’t eager to see how it would feel against Kryptonian skin.

“Listen, Clark,” Zatanna began slowly, her voice low and vibrating with tightly controlled power. "There's a lot here that you don't know, so I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt-- but I'm telling you that you need to release Red Hood now."

“This isn’t your fight, Zatanna,” Clark replied, his voice steady, though his grip on Jason instinctively loosened. “Red Hood is a killer, a criminal-- he's on our most wanted list, and that was before he somehow broke into The Watchtower, compromised our identities, and stabbed Barry--.”

“Clark." Her voice boomed with command, echoing through the small room. "I told you-- there are things at play here that you don't know about. I trust you, and I know you're doing what you think it right, but that boy--"

"I'm twenty-one, I'm a grown m--"

“Quiet,” Clark barked, his grip on the limp joint tightening, but Jason only grinned through gritted teeth.

“Go ahead and break the other one. Might make you feel better,” Jason sneered.

“Jason.” Zatanna’s voice cut through his bravado like a blade. “Shut up.”

The grin disappeared. Jason wasn’t stupid enough to test her patience, not when her voice held that particular tone. "Sorry Tante Zee," he mumbled instinctually, and suddenly he was ten years old all over again and Zatanna's expression softened. 

"That's okay, baby-- you wanna get a slushie when we're done here?" She paused, glancing back at Clark and letting her face drop back down into it's battle hardened scowl. "You know what, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, I've got bigger... bluer... Problems right now."

"Zatanna, I'm so confused right now," Clark lamented after a moment of pause, finally taking his hand off of Jason's wrist and running it through his hair. He was about to say more when the strange, robotic voice from above returned. 

“Mr. Kent, I’d once again advise you to step away from the Red Hood,” Oracle's computerized voice said evenly. “You’ve got about a minute before the less patient member of our team arrive, and I can’t hold him off much longer.”

“Him?” Clark asked, his confusion deepening.

“Alfred,” Barbara replied, her tone laced with exasperation.

“Alfred?” Clark repeated, incredulous.

“I told you there are things you don’t know!” Zatanna growled, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

Oracle snorted quietly. "Jesus, B really hasn't told them anything, has he?"

"No," Zatanna sighed. "He hasn't."

"Alright, okay-- just... hold on a minute!!" Clark huffed his hands on his hips. "I still don't even know who you are, or how you got into our comm system!! I'm still not certain Zatanna hasn't been compromised--"

"I'm not compromised," she growled, though her comment went ignored.

"-- and as far as I'm concerned, Red Hood is still a wanted, dangerous criminal, and for the time being, he's in League custody!!

"His file explicitly states that only Batman is permitted to take action against him," the voice from above retorted. 

"How do you have access to his criminal file?!" Clark asked, exasperated. 

"I already told you, Boy Scout, I have access to all your systems. I could flood your hallways with root beer right now if I felt like it." 

Clark's confusion remained, but it was clear his frustration was mounting above it, and he reached out to grab Jason's wrist again, making the younger man squawk awkwardly in the shock of pain. "I'm tired of this," he said clearly. "I'm not going to--" 

An older man in a tailored suit stepped into the room, his expression a mix of fury and exhaustion. In his hands, he held a double-barrel shotgun, its polished barrels gleaming menacingly under the fluorescent lights.

“Who the hell are you?!” Clark exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “And how did you get in here?”

“Batman's emergency transport codes,” the man replied curtly, leveling the shotgun at Clark’s chest as though it might actually do something. The Kryptonian could feel a twitch forming in his eye, and he nearly let out an exasperated laugh. 

“Okay, well, you’re not Batman, so—”

“Worse,” the man cut him off, his icy tone sending a chill down Clark’s spine. “I’m the man who raised him.”

Jason couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. 

"Mr. Kent..." Alfred began, his voice calm and deliberate, though anyone who truly knew the man could hear the tightly-restrained fury beneath it. He had mastered the art of composure over decades of service, but now that composure was razor-thin, stretched almost to its breaking point. "You have been an ally... Nearly even a friend... to my son for nearly two decades, and for that, I am sincerely grateful. Truly, I am. And though I understand that this... situation... could have been avoided if only he trusted you and your colleagues enough to discuss his family--"  

"Family?" Clark interrupted, his voice tinged with genuine confusion. It was that single word, out of everything said so far, that seemed to floor him.  

The pressure of the shotgun against Clark's chest grew firmer, and though he barely felt the change, the intent behind it was loud and clear. Alfred’s sharp glare silenced him instantly.  

"—Do not interrupt me, boy," Alfred snapped, his tone ice-cold and unflinching. "You were raised near a barn, not inside one."  

Clark blinked, bewildered, and nodded meekly. The towering Kryptonian had faced gods and monsters without flinching, but somehow, the quiet authority in Alfred’s voice made him feel smaller than ever.  

"Thank you," Alfred hissed, the words laced with venom. He took a steadying breath, his shoulders stiff but unwavering. "Now, as I was saying-- while I have some modicum of sympathy for your position, as you are clearly out of your depth here, you hurt my grandson. And though I hate to make this about myself, I must confess that I am already having a... very difficult week."  

Clark’s brows furrowed at that, but he wisely kept silent.  

"My son," Alfred continued, his voice faltering ever so slightly, his lip nearly trembling, though his gaze never wavered from Clark’s. "My son is, in one way or another, dead. Most of my grandchildren are either unconscious or slowly bleeding out as we speak, or both. Do you know what it’s like to run triage on your own family, Mr. Kent?"  

Clark opened his mouth as if to respond but stopped himself, unsure whether any words could suffice.  

"I am furious, I am exhausted, and I am sick to death of all this spandex-cowl-cape-kevlar nonsense," Alfred growled, his voice rising slightly. "And for the past week-- Hell, the past lifetime-- I haven't done anything, I haven't been able to because he has held me back and ensured I maintain my composure."  

He took a step back, pulling the shotgun away from Clark’s chest but keeping it leveled at him. With practiced efficiency, he snapped it open, revealing two glowing green shells nestled within the barrels.  

Clark’s stomach dropped. Kryptonite.  

"But you hurt my grandson," Alfred repeated, his voice low and measured once more, though it dripped with barely contained fury. "And while I am not a violent man by nature, I am a soldier. I assure you, Mr. Kent... I will not hesitate to act if you give me no other choice. I mean not to brag, but you're looking at the three-time recipient of the Queen's Medal for Champion Shots in 1978, 1980, and 1981. Whether I take the shot now or later, I can promise you one thing: I will not miss."  

The room seemed to grow unbearably tense, the faint hum of the Kryptonite-laced rounds the only sound in the heavy silence.  

"Let. Him. Go."  

Clark’s jaw tightened, his hands slowly lifting in a gesture of surrender. “Alfred,” he began cautiously, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “We’re all on the same side here--”  

“No, we are not,” Alfred cut him off sharply, his finger hovering much closer to the trigger than it would if simply offering a threat. “Not today.” 

"We sincerely apologize for the confusion, Mister Pennyworth," Diana said, her graceful voice laced with genuine regret as they finally reached the Zeta Tube chamber. "If we had known—"

"I understand," Alfred interrupted curtly, his voice still hoarse, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he waved her off. "Batman has always been... secretive. He keeps his identity close to his chest, especially the children."

"We've noticed," Barry muttered under his breath, grimacing.

The explanation had been both long and carefully censored, delivered primarily by Zatanna, with some help from Oracle and Jason. Alfred, still pale and visibly shaken from his discussion with Superman, had sat quietly in the corner, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

“This stays between us,” Diana finally said, her tone firm as she addressed the group. “For now, this information is need-to-know. The extended members of the League will be informed in due time once we know more about the situation at hand, but until then, we proceed as usual. Agreed?”

There was a collective murmur of assent, though it was clear the team was still reeling.

“Jason,” Clark began hesitantly, stepping forward. His movements were careful, almost apologetic, as though afraid of setting the young man off. “I really am sorry-- for everything.”

Jason glanced at him, his expression unreadable. He'd put his damaged helmet back on, mostly out of spite, and Clark felt vaguely unnerved as the neutral expression of the mask stared into him, one hand tightly bandaged. After a long pause, he gave a short, gruff nod. “It’s fine,” he said quietly. “I would've done worse in your position.”

Clark blinked at the unexpected response, but Jason didn’t elaborate.

“If there is anything the Justice League can do to assist in your search for the League of Assassins,” Martian Manhunter interjected, his voice calm and measured, “you need only ask. Despite what has occurred, we are united in our desire to find Batman.”

“You’ve done enough,” Alfred hissed, the venom in his tone cutting through the air like a blade. He straightened his spine as he glared at the Martian from over the top of his glasses. Jason put a hand on his shoulder gently, and the room fell into an awkward silence, the weight of Alfred’s words hanging heavily.

Zatanna stepped in, offering a small, strained smile as she placed a hand on Alfred’s arm. “Thank you, J’onn, but we’ve got it covered. If we need assistance, I’ll be in touch, but right now…" she trailed off, but the statement was clear. This was a family affair.

Diana studied Zatanna for a moment, her piercing gaze softening as she nodded. “We understand,” she said gently. “Take care of yourselves. And if you need us, you know where we are.”

“Noted,” Zatanna replied, her tone polite but firm.

Jason stepped toward the Zeta Tube, pausing briefly to glance back at the group of heroes. His eyes lingered on Clark, and for a moment, something almost like gratitude flickered in his gaze. Then he turned back and awaited the systems scan before trudging forward into the brightness, Zatanna and Alfred close behind him.

As the light of the Zeta Tube dimmed, Clark exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair. “That could’ve gone better,” he muttered.

Diana didn’t respond immediately. She crossed her arms, her expression unreadable as she stared at the now-empty Zeta Tube chamber. “This isn’t over,” she finally said. “Not by a long shot.”

Chapter Text

It had only been two weeks of training-- retraining, rather-- before Ra's decided that Sirhaan was ready for his first test. Something small, something simple-- more a test of loyalty than skill. Despite the confidence Ra's had in his own methods, he likewise knew the transition was not yet complete. Sirhaan, the Demon’s Wolf, was still caught between two identities-- something he was beginning to quietly blame his daughter for... But that, of course, was why Talia would once again not be attending. This man's soul was split; this mission would be the decisive step toward ensuring the dominance of one side over the other. Her influence would not be nessecary.

Instead, to ensure everything proceeded without incident, Ra's himself would oversee the mission. Several seasoned assassins would accompany Sirhaan, their presence both a safeguard and a reminder of what awaited failure. When one of Ra’s advisors, a cautious man of middling rank-- who somehow had yet to understand that his role as 'advisor' was a title and not a request of opinion-- dared to suggest they might be rushing the process, Ra's silenced him with a cold glare and a curt dismissal.

"This is no green recruit," Ra’s said, his voice sharp enough to cut. "This is Bruce Wayne. My former protégé. A man who once stood at my side as my right hand when he was little more than eighteen years old. We are not creating a new soldier. We are reviving an old one."

The advisor said no more, and that night, the mission briefing began.

"You will be transported to Marrakesh tonight," Ra's began, his tone clipped yet deliberate, his piercing gaze fixed on Bruce, who's own eyes were to the ground. "Tomorrow morning, Thamir El-Ouadie will host a private dinner at his luxury villa on the outskirts of the city. This man..." Ra’s paused, his eyes narrowing as he gazed out over the golden expanse of the African desert. "He has been funding an illegal deforestation operation further southeast, near the border between the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Sudan. His greed threatens the delicate ecosystems of the rainforest itself. Should his efforts continue unchecked, the subsequent collapse of the surrounding biosphere will accelerate global environmental degradation and destabilize the entire region."

Ra’s turned back, his expression a mask of cold determination. For a fleeting moment, it seemed almost as though he believed his own rhetoric. "Your task is to eliminate this threat."

Bruce-- Sirhaan-- remained kneeling, his posture one of subservience, yet there was the faintest flicker of something in his eyes. He hesitated, then frowned, his brow furrowing as the weight of that one word hung in the air.

"...Eliminate?" he repeated slowly, his voice carefully measured.

Ra's allowed a thin, cruel smile to stretch across his face. "Eliminate," he affirmed. His tone carried a singular weight of finality that was unyielding as the stone beneath their feet. "Until now, I have permitted you to adhere to your... principles during training, choosing non-lethal methods to dispatch your opponents. A courtesy," he added, smirking faintly, "that spared my men from unnecessary fatalities while you adjusted to your new station. But, now that you've been deemed ready for real work, that courtesy has expired."

Ra's took a deliberate step closer, towering over the kneeling man. "The time has come for you to prove your devotion. In another life, this order would have been unthinkable for you. But that life is over, my son. You are not the man you once were. You are Sirhaan, the Demon’s Wolf. A man without the weakness of conviction."

For a moment, there was silence. Bruce’s mind churned beneath the surface, weighing his options-- or perhaps searching for them. But the chains of Ra’s influence held fast. It was the strangest feeling, to know nothing of a man yet fear him so much, the way one may fear the dark, or a body of water in which they cannot touch the bottom. It was an instinctual sort of revulsion, Bruce found.

Slowly, he nodded, his movements stiff and mechanical. What choice did he have?

Ra's smiled, a cruel, victorious glint in his eyes as he folded his hands behind his back. His voice softened, but the venom in his words remained. "You're much more agreeable in this state," he mused, almost mockingly. One open palm reached out, making him flinch before brushing over the stubble of Sirhaan's freshly shaven head. The touch was deliberate, condescending. The gentle stroking of a loyal hound.

"Do not disappoint me, Sirhaan," Ra’s whispered, his tone a dangerous mixture of promise and threat. Then he turned sharply on his heel, his cape trailing behind him as he strode away.

Sirhaan remained kneeling for a moment longer, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as he stared at the ground. Slowly, he rose, his movements methodical and deliberate. Whatever protests stirred within him were smothered beneath a fog that he struggled to name. His thoughts, if they had once come in sentences and words, had been molded now into shapes and tactile sort of things. Things he struggled to read, to understand, as if they were not his own. 

He blinked these concerns away and took a breath. 

The mission awaited.

Marrakesh in Autumn was ideal, Bruce found. Even from the outskirts, he found that the city held a magnetic pull, its vibrant energy brushing against him like a whisper of an old friend. He loved it-- the winding streets, the flickers of warm light spilling out from bustling markets, the faint aroma of spices carried on the breeze... It was a living place.

He yearned for it. For the rush of life. The chaos of a hundred voices blending together. The press of strangers moving with purpose, the murmur of their conversations, their laughter, their arguments. It was all so achingly alive. It was a collective of souls. 

Marrakesh wasn't quite what he imagined-- not as noisy, not as suffocatingly crowded as he quite wanted-- but it was a far cry from the rigid confines of the compound. The compound was all sandstone walls and shadowed corridors. Armed guards patrolled in pairs, their footfalls measured and silent. The air itself seemed heavier there, laden with the weight of discipline and secrecy.

Here, in Marrakesh, the air was lighter. It hummed with the rhythm of life, with the pulse of a city that had endured centuries and would endure centuries more. It was a breathing creature, watching him as he passed its outskirts. It seemed to recognize him in some intangible way, as though it sensed he too was a child some foreign urban decay, that he took vibrated on the same frequency as their their restless energy.

But there was another city, lingering in the recesses of his mind. A distant and foggy place, shrouded in shadow and memory. Its streets were colder, its air biting against the skin. Dark buildings loomed against a perpetually gray sky. It was always night there, a deep, almost warm sort of darkness. It felt familiar-- chingly so. Home. The word flickered in his mind, but its edges were blurred. He couldn’t name it.

Marrakesh was nothing like that city...

But it was close enough to make him dream. 

The caravan was modest but well-guarded, as was the League’s way. Bruce sat silently in the lead vehicle, his shoulders squared, his expression stoic, his legs crossed awkwardly over each other. One other vehicle trailed behind the one he shared with Ra's, filled with assassins who he swore could see straight through the back of the van just to stare into the back of his head. Bruce found he missed the sensation of not being watched. 

As the convoy rolled through the outskirts of Marrakesh, he allowed himself brief glances at the city. Lanterns swung gently above narrow streets, casting golden light over colorful awnings. Street vendors called out to passersby, their voices carried on the wind. Children darted between stalls, their laughter ringing out like bells. 

Bruce's gaze lingered on a small group of men sitting around a low table, sipping tea and playing a game he couldn’t quite identify-- whether from the distance, or from the smokey distortions around his thoughts, he wasn't sure. Their movements were slow, deliberate, the easy camaraderie between them almost hypnotic. For a warm, peaceful moment, he imagined himself stepping out of the vehicle, blending into the crowd, disappearing into the city’s labyrinthine streets.

But the moment passed.

The convoy turned onto a quieter road, the vibrant energy of the city giving way to the subdued luxury of its outskirts. The villa loomed ahead, a sprawling estate surrounded by high walls and lush greenery that looked out of place among the desert. It was the kind of place that screamed wealth and power-- again, something he found familiar, though he wasn't certain where from.

Bruce’s jaw tightened as the vehicles rolled to a stop just outside the gates. The assassins moved swiftly, disembarking and taking their positions without a word. One of them opened the door for him, bowing his head slightly as Bruce stepped out.

They had dressed him entirely in black, his robes fashioned from a loose, breathable fabric that whispered against his skin with each movement. The material, light and flexible, caught the wind with ease, cooling him without hindrance. Every piece was expertly tailored to his frame, striking a balance between elegance and practicality. The fit allowed for unrestricted movement, enhancing his reflexes and ensuring his instincts could flow seamlessly into action. Still, he felt... Exposed. The clothes were too light, too... He wasn't sure what, really. He simply knew that it wasn't what he would normally be wearing going some place like this. He felt like he needed something... Heavier. Even the hood and mask they'd provided him with felt wrong, like it was covering the wrong parts of his face. 

Ra’s al Ghul had stepped out of their car already and was waiting for him, standing at the head of the group with his arms folded behind his back. His gaze was sharp, calculating, as he gestured toward the villa.

“This is your moment, Sirhaan,” Ra’s said, his voice low and deliberate. “Inside those walls is a man who believes himself untouchable. A man whose greed and arrogance threaten the very balance of this world. Tonight, you will remind him that no one is beyond the reach of justice.”

Bruce nodded, his movements precise, obedient. He felt the weight of the blade hidden beneath his cloak, its presence both comforting and suffocating.

Justice. He knew that word. He knew a lot of words, of course, but that was another one he felt like had some importance, the same way that far off city he couldn't name did. 

Without another word, Bruce turned toward the gates. 

Scaling the villa walls and gliding soundlessly over the overhangs and rooftops felt like slipping into a well-worn mask. Every movement came naturally, as if he’d done this a thousand times before. Bruce embraced the shadows like an old friend, the sensation of watching from above igniting something dormant within him-- a quiet thrill at being unseen, unnoticed, yet omnipresent. Though he struggled to recall how he knew this feeling... He knew it well. 

The villa was a picture of indulgence, its ivory colored walls glistening faintly under the moonlight. Palm trees swayed gently in the warm evening breeze, their shadows dancing against the intricate latticework of the windows. Soft music and muffled laughter drifted up from below, blending with the scent of spiced meats and ripe fruits. It was a world removed from the stark austerity of the League’s compound, a realm of decadence and warmth that felt almost foreign now.

Bruce moved silently across the roof, his black robes blending into the dark shadows of the desert dusk. The fabric whispered faintly as he crouched, his senses attuned to every sound, every shift of the air around him. Below, he finally spotted the target, lounging in a lavish chair set beneath an ornate pergola. Lanterns cast a golden glow across the man’s angular features as he leaned back, gesturing animatedly to another man seated beside him. His deep chuckle rolled lazily through the air, his fingers plucking pieces of glistening fruit from an ornate platter.

Bruce signaled to the two assassins flanking him without even noticing he was doing it, then slipped over the edge, landing silently in the shadows of a column. He pressed his back against the cool stone, observing. His pulse quickened, not with fear, but with the anticipation of what came next.

Then, out of the stillness that always preceded death, came the sound of laughter.

A small boy burst onto the scene, his giggles cutting through the night like wind chimes. His tiny hand gripped his mother’s, dragging her toward the table with boundless energy. He couldn’t have been older than ten, his thobe a size too large, rolled up around the elbows and billowing as he ran. Big, expressive brown eyes gleamed with joy, and his curly black hair bounced with every step.

Bruce froze.

The boy was his father’s image-- those brown eyes, the way his crooked smile scrunched up his nose... Bruce had only seen this man, this monster as Ra's would've described him, but still, the resemblance was unmistakable. This was his targets son. The throwing knife in Bruce’s hand suddenly felt like a lead weight, its familiar grip alien and unwelcome around his calloused palms.

The target turned, his laughter deepening as he bent down to scoop the boy into his arms. The man ruffled the child’s hair affectionately, his smile wide and genuine as they spoke in fast, Dubai-accented Arabic that Bruce couldn't quite keep up with. The warmth of the moment was a sharp contrast to the cool steel in Bruce’s palm-- but still, he had a perfect shot. A single, clean throw would pierce the man’s jugular, a silent end to his role in the world’s corruption.

“Now, Sirhaan,” came a familiar, low growl behind him.

Bruce remained still, his muscles taut, as though his body were waiting for orders his mind refused to give.

“Sirhaan!” the hiss came again, sharper this time. Ra's had never been a remarkably patient man-- Bruce knew this, both from the last two weeks, but also, somehow, from what felt like a thousand years before.

That name, Sirhaan... it sounded distant, as though it were meant for someone else. It didn’t fit him, not yet. It was a borrowed identity, not his own. It didn’t pull at him the way his real name would have. Not the way it did when Talia called him Bruce with those gentle lips. 

But Sirhaan was who he was now. He had to be.

The boy’s laughter echoed in Bruce’s ears as he lifted his arm. For a split second, his gaze flicked to the child, then to the man, then back to the child. His fingers trembled. He exhaled sharply and let the knife fly.

Thwap.

It struck the back of the chair with a hollow thunk, burying itself deep into the wood just inches from the man’s head.

The target jumped, startled, as the boy shrieked and clung to his father tighter. Bruce was a good shot, excellent even-- they'd tested him with a menagerie of weaponry since he became Sirhaan, and all of them he'd taken to like a fish to water. 

Bruce didn’t move. His heart pounded in his chest, and his hands were suddenly empty. He barely heard the sound of shouting as guards rushed into the courtyard, their weapons gleaming under the lamplight.

“Sirhaan! Move, you imbicile!” the assassin behind him barked, shoving him forward.

Bruce stumbled, instinct taking over as he vaulted over the low wall into the courtyard below. Chaos erupted around him-- guards shouting, the other assassins engaging in swift, lethal combat. Bruce moved fluidly, his body reacting faster than his thoughts. He disarmed one guard with a sharp twist of the wrist, using the man’s weapon to block another’s strike.

But his focus wasn’t on the fight. It couldn’t be. The little boy’s terrified expression, the way his wide, innocent eyes clung to his father’s retreating back-- it was seared into Bruce’s mind. He had almost destroyed that innocence. Almost snuffed it out entirely. 

Where had he seen that expression before?  

Where had he felt it before?  

The memory came unbidden, like a wave crashing against him, threatening to pull him under. He didn’t know where it began, where it came from, who's it was-- but it made him sick. Bile stung the back of his throat as fragments surfaced-- flashes of a gruff voice demanding valuables, the rough shove of a protective hand against his small chest.

The deafening crack of a gunshot, then another.  

A man’s face, contorted in pain, crumpling to the ground. Sharp features-- so familiar, they looked like his own. Blood. So much blood, warm and sticky on his trembling little hands.

Why were his hands so small?  

And then a woman-- a beautiful, serene woman-- falling beside him. Her eyes wide and unblinking, her lips parted as if she had been caught with her final words still resting unsaid on her lips. Around her lay scattered pearls, glinting faintly against the filthy ground. Were they pearls? They had to be. If he thought too long about what else they might be, what else might be small and white and glimmering on the street below...

The memory suffocated him. He could hear it all, see it, feel it. The cold press of despair, the relentless weight of loss, the helpless sobs of a child in the darkness, a child that he suddenly realized had to have been--  

“Sirhaan!”  

The shout jolted him back to the present. He blinked, his vision clearing just in time to see Ra’s al Ghul kick the target to his knees. The man, bloodied but defiant, looked up at his executioner.  

Bruce’s heart froze as Ra’s drew his scimitar with calm precision. The blade gleamed in the moonlight, catching the faintest reflection of the horror about to unfold.  

“No--” Bruce breathed, but the word never left his lips.  

With one swift, practiced motion, Ra’s brought the blade down. The sound was sickening, the kind of wet, final noise that echoed in the pit of the soul.

The target’s head toppled to the ground, rolling once before coming to a gruesome stop, his eyes still blinking, his mouth twitching and muscles spasming a his nervous system began to cope with such a viscous separation. 

The boy screamed.

So did his mother.  

The piercing cries cut through the air, shattering what little composure Bruce had left. He staggered back, his legs unsteady beneath him, and retched violently onto the ground. His stomach twisted painfully, expelling its contents as his vision blurred with hot tears.  

He'd seen worse, he knew. He couldn't name it with definitive certainty, but he knew somehow that this sort of violence wasn't foreign to him-- though he couldn't name why or how or when. And, if that was indeed true, why was... Why was he crying...? 

He was crying. He hadn’t even realized it at first, but the tears were relentless, scalding his cheeks as they fell. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each one catching painfully in his throat.  

Through the haze of his grief, Bruce heard Ra’s voice, calm and authoritative, addressing the boy. He was saying something about duty-- about the boy’s responsibility to the world, about the importance of remembering this day.  

But Bruce didn’t need to hear the words to know the truth. That boy didn’t need to be told either. 

Somehow, Bruce knew. That boy would grow up never forgetting a single moment of this night.

Just like Bruce hadn’t.  

Chapter Text

"I really wish you'd called me sooner, you know. I could've helped."  

"Yeah, you've mentioned."  

Zatanna’s brow furrowed slightly at Jason’s tone. She stood there for a moment, her hands resting lightly on the edge of the Batcomputer's console controls, waiting for him to say more. When he didn’t, she spoke again, softer this time.  

"You know, Jason, I’m on your side."  

Jason could feel her gaze boring into the back of his head, relentless and piercing, and he grimaced slightly. "...Sorry, Tante."  

The apology was clipped but sincere, and Zatanna sighed, turning her focus back to the screen in front of her. "It’s fine. I get it. These past few weeks have been difficult for you."  

Jason snorted, the sound low and bitter. "You think?" He idly picked at the edges of the bandages around his wrist. The injury was healing well, thanks to Zatanna’s magic, but it still throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. Clark hadn’t held back when he’d snapped it, and even now, the memory of that day lingered like a bad taste in his mouth. There was something strange about having your as kicked by your childhood heroes, by people who knew you when you were a little boy. Alfred had insisted the joint stay wrapped, though Jason wasn’t entirely sure if it was for his physical well-being or just Alfred’s peace of mind. He admittedly bore little concern for the former, but if it made Alfred more comfortable, Jason was willing to put up with it. 

Zatanna glanced over at him, her expression unreadable. "...You’re a lot like him, you know."  

Jason stiffened slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Who?" he asked, though they both knew he already knew the answer.  

"Bruce," she said simply. "Stubborn, bitter, overzealous...but with so much love inside you. So much. He was about your age when he came to train in escape tactics and slight of hand with my father. You remind me so much of him when we were that age." Her voice softened, and for a moment, Jason almost believed she wasn’t going to twist the knife. But then she smiled faintly and added, "You’re your father’s son, Jay."  

Jason pressed his lips into a thin line, his gaze flicking away from her. There had been a time, not so long ago, when those words would’ve sent him into a blind rage, when the mere suggestion of being anything like Bruce Wayne would’ve felt like an accusation-- in some deep, angry, childlike part of Jason's mind, maybe it still was. But now...  

Now Bruce was gone.  

Maybe not dead, maybe not anymore-- no one was saying it outright, and there was too much uncertainty, too much left unspoken. But he wasn’t here, not in the Batcave, not where they could reach him. And somehow, the absence made those words feel different. Comforting, even. Some piece of the man who'd raised him had always been inside him, would always be inside him. 

Jason opened his mouth, ready to fire off something sharp and sarcastic to create some distance-- but before he could, the faint sound of footsteps reached them. Slow, uneven, hesitant.  

Both Jason and Zatanna turned, their eyes landing on the small, bruised figure making its way toward them.  

"Damian," Zatanna breathed, relief and worry mingling in her tone.  

The boy was pale, his usually sharp gaze clouded and unfocused. He seemed slightly surprised to see Zatanna there, but he said nothing of it. His movements were deliberate but strained, every step a clear struggle against his injuries. Like the rest of her siblings, Damian had been in and out of consciousness for days, a victim of the League’s new poison. Jason had avoided it by sheer luck and his preference for ranged combat, but the rest of the family hadn’t been so fortunate. Whatever the stuff was, exactly, it didn't seem like anyone had been dosed with enough to be potentially fatal, but they were still in the process of analyzing the substance, so in truth its effects were mostly unknown. All that was certain is that it was powerful enough to nearly comatose their entire family for two weeks straight.

"Look who’s up and walking," Jason said, forcing a smile as he crossed his arms. He hoped the concern roiling in his gut didn’t show on his face.  

Damian stopped a few feet away, his lips pressed into a thin line. His voice, when it came, was hoarse but defiant. "I am not so easily defeated."  

Jason’s smile softened, and he took a step closer, crouching slightly to meet Damian’s eyes. "Of course not."  

Damian’s gaze flicked to Zatanna, then back to Jason, his expression guarded but heavy with unspoken worry. The corners of his mouth quirked down, just slightly. His voice, usually so sharp and sure, came out soft and hesitant.  

"Father is disappointed in me," he stated quietly, swallowing hard as he glanced around the Batcave. "I do not blame him."  

Both Jason and Zatanna froze at his words, their postures stiffening as though physically struck. Jason’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his face tightening with suppressed emotion.  

"What the hell are you talking about?" Jason’s voice was stiff, nearly offended at the very concept that Bruce would ever think that way about Damian, his youngest, his baby. "Damian, Bruce is never disappointed in you. Never."  

The boy’s sharp green eyes darted up to meet Jason’s for a brief moment before dropping again. His shoulders sagged slightly as he spoke, each word clipped and deliberate, as if he had rehearsed them in his mind. "He has not come to see me since my injury." Damian’s jaw tightened, his voice gaining a note of steel. "He must be ashamed. He believes I failed, and he is correct."  

The room seemed to drop a few degrees.  

Zatanna and Jason both went pale, exchanging a quick, panicked glance that spoke volumes.  

Neither had fully considered the ramifications of leaving the injured members of the family in the dark about Bruce’s disappearance. They had been so focused on protecting them, giving them time to recover from their injuries and the League’s still unknown toxin, that they had failed to account for the growing silence from Bruce.  

Jason swallowed hard, trying to push down the thick, stinging bile rising in his throat. He’d been the only one to see Bruce’s body after the battle. Bloodied, battered, barely gasping for life as he insisted Jason leave to protect his siblings, most likely fully aware that by the time Jason returned for him he would be long gone. And while Jason hadn’t seen the moment Bruce was taken, there was no denying the truth that haunted him: Bruce was gone. Dead, hopefully. That was the easy answer. The good answer. Jason knew, though, deep in his chest, that allowing himself that kind of blind optimism was a foolish endeavor. There was only one reason that body wouldn't have been there when they came back, and God knew it was probably too late. 

And he wasn’t ready to tell Damian the truth.  

Zatanna broke the silence first, her voice carefully measured, though her trembling hands betrayed her. "Damian, listen to me. Your father isn’t disappointed in you. During your battle with the League--"

"He's occupied right now," Jason interrupted quickly. "He... He's occupied. He'd be here if he could." Zatanna gave Jason a look, but he refused to acknowledge her. 

Damian’s eyes narrowed, his keen mind picking up on the slight hesitation in his tone. "Occupied with what?" he demanded, his voice stronger now. "Why would that prevent him from visiting me? I am his blood son."  

Jason stepped forward, placing a hand on Damian’s uninjured shoulder. "Look, kid, it’s complicated," he said gruffly. "Bruce... he’s working on something big. Something dangerous. He doesn’t want any of us involved until he’s handled it." 

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes searching Jason’s face for any sign of deceit. For a moment, Jason thought the boy might call him out on the lie.  

But then Damian dropped his gaze, his voice low and clipped. "I see. He does not trust me."  

Jason’s chest tightened, a sharp pang of guilt stabbing through him. "That’s not it, Dami," he said, his voice softer now. "Bruce trusts you more than anyone, we both know that. You're his Robin. You and I both know what that means."  

Damian didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the floor.  

Zatanna knelt beside him, her voice gentle but firm. "You’re still recovering, Damian. You’ve been through more than most people can handle, and you’re still standing. Your father would be proud of you for that alone. But you need to give yourself time to heal. Let us handle things for now, okay?"  

For a long moment, Damian said nothing. Then, slowly, he nodded, though his expression remained guarded.  

Jason let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. "Good. Now, why don’t you let Alfred fuss over you for a bit? He’s been worried sick."  

Damian glanced at Jason, a flicker of something softer in his eyes. "I do not require fussing," he muttered, but there was no real bite in his tone.  

As Damian turned to head back toward the medbay, Jason and Zatanna remained behind, both visibly tense.  

"... You lied to him," Zatanna said lowly. There was some hint of disapproval in her voice, but there was something else there too, something that seemed to understand. 

"You said it yourself," Jason crossed his arms. "He's still recovering. I... I want to wait. Just a little longer. At least until the others are awake too." 

Zatanna looked hesitant, turning away for a moment before reluctantly sighing, running a hand through her long black hair and pulling it back into a bun. Jason recognized that as an old nervous habit of hers, and he frowned slightly. "... You know them better than I do," she said finally. "You're their brother. I... I trust you." 

Jason nodded curtly, giving her a short sort of half-smile-- but in truth, he wasn't certain he shared her sentiment. 

By the time the sun was beginning to set for the evening, Gotham's Autumn sky painted a hazy orange that floated through the grand windows of the manor, the rest of the family had largely woken up and migrated to one of the Manor's larger parlors-- albeit, with some difficulty. The toxin coursing through their systems made every movement a battle; muscles ached, limbs felt weighted, and even the simplest gesture seemed to suck dry a well of energy they didn’t have to begin with. Yet, eventually, they gathered. A family meeting was decidedly long overdue.

Jason stood near the fireplace mantel, flanked by Zatanna and Alfred. The portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne loomed over them, their painted gazes seeming heavier than usual. Jason stared at the faces gathered before him. His family, his team—they looked battered, both physically and emotionally. He cleared his throat, feeling the weight of their attention settle on him.

"So..." Jason began, shoving his hands into his pockets and glancing briefly at Alfred and Zatanna. "A lot’s happened since the sewer fight with the League."

"Really? I hadn't gotten that impression," Tim rolled his eyes. Jason sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He'd been dreading this day from the moment he saw Bruce go down in that tunnel.

Jason sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, thanks for that, Tim." He looked to Zatanna for support, but she gave him an encouraging nod instead of stepping in.

"It’s been two weeks," Zatanna said, her tone careful.

The room rippled with quiet shock, a low murmur spreading among them.

"Two weeks?" Cassandra rasped, her voice cracking from days of disuse. For a bat, two weeks was a lot of time. A lot can happen for a vigilante in two weeks, a lot can happen to Gotham. 

"You’ve all been in and out of consciousness," Alfred explained slowly, his tone measured but tired. His gaze was the same distant, spaceless one that he'd maintained for the past several days, the bags under his eyes weighing heavily. "We assumed you were aware some time had passed, but you likely didn’t know how much. You've been infected by a new toxin strain, contracted from The League's use of poisoned weapons. We're still synthesizing an antidote-- these things are a lot harder to do without..." Alfred caught himself and paused, his voice cracking slightly. 

"... Are we gonna talk about the elephant in the room?" Duke asked finally, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. 

"I think we'd all appreciate that," Dick nodded, his eyes narrowed seriously. 

"Todd has informed me that Father is engaged with other obligations, a mission of some sort I presume," Damian added, and Jason hissed quietly. 

"Yeah, that... Wasn't... entirely accurate..." He said carefully. Damian's gaze grew colder. 

"I had my suspicions," he crossed his arms.

"So, if he's not on a mission..." Tim prompted. "Where is he?" 

"Your father is dead," Alfred said bitterly, the words dropping like stones into a bottomless well, his eyes unfocused and cold. Alfred had grown increasingly jaded since Bruce's... Absence... And even more so since the incident with The Justice League. Jason didn't think he'd seen the man indulge in scotch the way he had this week in all his years of knowing him, but at least the liquor put him to sleep. 

Jason swore under his breath when Alfred shattered the silence, his shoulders stiffening. Beside him, Zatanna’s face paled.

"What?!" Dick shot to his feet, his face drained of color. His hands balled into fists at his sides, trembling slightly.

"It’s... more complicated than that," Zatanna interjected, her voice soft but strained.

"More complicated than that?!" Tim’s voice rose. "What the fuck does that even mean?!"

"Tim, calm down--"

"You're lying!" Damian’s voice cut through the rising noise, sharp and raw. His hands clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Father is not dead. I would have known-- I would have felt it! I’m his son!"

"So are the rest of us!" Jason snapped, his voice laced with frustration and grief. His fists clenched as he tried to rein in his emotions.

The room descended into chaos, voices overlapping in a cacophony of anger, confusion, and grief.

"The League took his body!" Jason’s voice boomed over the others, silencing the room instantly. He swallowed hard, the words cutting him as he said them. "So yeah, he’s dead. Technically. I watched it happen." His voice cracked, but he pressed on. "But we all know what a missing body means when it’s them."

A thick, suffocating silence settled over the room. The air felt colder, heavier, as the weight of Jason’s words sank in.

"...Fuck," someone muttered. Jason didn’t bother looking to see who it was.

"Yeah," he said quietly, his voice hollow. "It’s... Yeah. Fuck."

The family sat in stunned silence, the gravity of the situation pulling at each of them differently. Jason could feel their grief and disbelief swirling in the air, choking them out like smoke. He glanced at Zatanna, her jaw tight and her eyes glassy, and then at Alfred, who looked like he’d aged ten years in the span of two weeks.

Jason exhaled slowly, bracing himself for what came next. "Now’s not the time to fall apart," he said, his voice rough but steady. "We need a plan. If the League has Bruce, we need to figure out where they’ve taken him-- and how the hell we’re going to get him back."

"Oh my God..." Duke mumbled, burying his head in his hands. "This can't be happening..."

There was a beat of silence. The sentiment was shared. 

"But it is," Alfred said grimly. 

"But it is."

Chapter Text

It had been many years since Talia Al Ghul had felt this sort of cold, frozen rage sitting heavy in her chest, let alone toward her own father. 

Talia had been a loyal daughter, a good daughter. She submitted to the will of the demon's head, as was her responsibility. If she did, on occasion, bear any true ill will toward the man, it was quickly suffocated by a sense of duty. Of course she hated her father-- what daughter doesn't? But she was The Demon's Right Hand, she had been for years now. Those feelings would remain locked deep inside her ribcage, they would remain in her heart where they had been born and not once would they escape so long as Talia breathed enough to stop them. 

That was, until Bruce returned from Marrakesh. 

It was obvious that whatever it was that had occured on the mission had shaken him to his core-- the way he clutched to her when they were finally reunited, the way he flinched away from Ra's touch like it was a plague... She had hoped that these habits were merely part of a phase, his body's attempt at adjusting to it's first true instance of combat since his resurrection-- but it became quickly apparent that her hopes were baseless. Knowing her father, he had allowed no mercy for Bruce's already broken mind-- and while Talia herself had always had her objections to some aspects of Bruce's personal code, she did her best to respect it, she knew its importance to him. In this state, if Ra's had made him do what they both knew he wanted... Talia couldn't imagine what effects such a thing would have on his psyche.

Since that night when he'd come home, she hadn't seen him. Bruce had disappeared, seemingly, and any questions she had to his whereabouts were quickly shut down. Talia was losing her patience. 

And so now, here she was, her chest cold with fury as if her heart itself had been encased in ice, stalking toward her father's study in an animalistic prowl, seething like a mad woman. She waved off the guards that stood by his door with an instinctual flick of her wrist, but her gaze narrowed further as they remained in place, still blocking her path. 

"Move," she commanded. Still, there was no response. "I order you to move."

"We apologize, Mistress," one of them said stiffly, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. "But we’ve been ordered not to allow you entry."

Talia's expression shifted to one of near bewilderment, her lips curling into a snarl. "I am the Daughter of the Demon's Head," she hissed, her voice sharp and venomous. "You dare defy me?"

The guard shifted uncomfortably but held his ground, his gaze straight ahead. "...We have our orders."

For a moment, Talia was silent, her chest rising and falling with restrained fury. Then, with deadly precision, she struck. Before either guard could react, she dispatched them both with a series of fluid, well practiced movements. They crumpled to the floor, unconscious, their weapons clattering uselessly beside them.

She took a breath before lifting her boot and kicking open the locked door with one solid impact, the heavy wood swinging open in submission to her power.

Ra’s looked up from his desk with deliberate slowness, his piercing gaze narrowing as he took in his daughter’s fuming presence. "...That door was two centuries old," he remarked casually, his tone as calm as the surface of a still lake.

"If it was so important, you should’ve assigned better guards," Talia shot back, her voice sharp and unrelenting.

Ra’s exhaled shortly, almost amused. "Why are you here, my child?" he asked, the words dripping with thinly veiled condescension.

Talia stiffened, her fists clenching at her sides. She ignored the bait, instead forcing her voice to remain steady, even as the fury beneath it boiled over. "...What did you do to him?" she demanded. The question came slowly, laced with venom and a deep-seated dread.

Ra’s quirked an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with an air of detached curiosity. "To the guards?" he mused lightly. "Not enough, it seems. You dispatched them rather effortlessly."

"To Bruce," Talia snarled, her composure cracking as she fought back the bile rising in her throat at her father’s smug tone.

"Sirhaan," Ra’s corrected smoothly. His voice lowered, taking on a maddeningly patient quality. "If you are referring to his recent trial in Marrakesh, I made him a man. Or rather, I attempted to. He failed."

Talia opened her mouth to press for clarification, but something stopped her. This wasn’t about Marrakesh, not entirely. Fixing a symptom wouldn’t cure the disease. She needed answers from the source.

"I meant before that," she said at last, her voice quieter but no less dangerous. "I have never seen anyone react to the Lazarus Pit the way he has. Not even Jason. Something is wrong, Father, and we both know it."

Ra’s smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Everything has gone exactly according to plan, my heart," he replied, the words soft but steeped in condescension. The way he spoke to her, as if she were a child incapable of understanding the grand machinations of his schemes, made her blood boil.

"And you still haven’t told me that plan!" Talia snapped, her voice rising despite herself. "It’s been weeks, Father! I don’t know what you want him for, and I don’t know what you did to him!"

Ra’s expression darkened, his lips curling into a sneer. "Do not raise your voice at me, little girl," he said, the warning in his tone unmistakable.

Talia’s composure shattered. "I am a grown woman!" she roared, her voice echoing off the stone walls. "And I am sick of your shit!"

"Enough!" Ra’s bellowed, rising to his full height. "I will not entertain your childish whims any longer. I knew from the moment I allowed you to see him that it was a mistake. You coddle that man the same way you coddled my grandson--"

"Don’t you dare bring Damian into this!" Talia interrupted, her voice trembling with fury. "Damian has nothing to do with this--"

"Damian has everything to do with this!" Ra’s roared, slamming his fist onto the desk with enough force to rattle the inkpot resting on its surface. "That mewling creature is his father! I had respect for Bruce. I thought, in time, he would see reason. But he is weak, Talia. Weak. And I was a fool to let you wed him."

For a long moment, Talia said nothing. She stared at her father, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a suffocating fog. Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet but firm.

"...His children will come for him," she said. "You know they will. He trained them, and he trained them well."

Ra’s smirked, an expression so cold it sent a chill running down her spine. "As I trained you," he countered smoothly. "And yet, here you stand. Do you truly believe that if I wanted to take your life, I wouldn’t be able to?"

Silence fell between them, thick and oppressive.

Talia’s voice wavered when she finally broke it. "Your argument is flawed," she said slowly. "...Bruce would never hurt his children," she said, though she couldn’t tell if the tremor in her tone came from rage or fear. She bit her tongue to keep the last four words of her response from slipping out-- 'He's not like you.'

Ra’s leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. "When I’m done with him," he growled, his voice low and menacing, "he won’t even remember he had any."

The silence returned, colder this time. Evidently, a decision had been made. Talia Al Ghul had orphaned herself, and Ra's Al Ghul had lost an heir. 

"... I will find him," she said coldly. "I will save him if it's the last thing I do."

For a brief, nearly agonizing moment, they were both still. There had been a time, once, what felt like thousands of years ago, when Talia had been been her father's daughter in the purest sense of the word. She wouldn't have hesitated to kill herself if it meant it would further her father's ambition, his desires, his craving for a better world. 

And now...

Now she was her own woman. She had outgrown him, outgrown his hold on her. If it weren't such a glorious inconvenience, Ra's would've almost been proud. 

He regarded her for a long moment, his lips curling into a faint, disdainful smirk. "You truly believe you can take him from me?" he asked, his tone almost pitying. "You, my wayward child, who would never lift a finger without my blessing, think you can undo what I have done?"

Talia’s glare was ice, her spine stiffening as her hands clenched into fists. "You should have known that harming The Detective would be my breaking point," she replied, her voice as steady as she could manage. "He is the other piece of my soul."

A flicker of something passed across Ra’s face-- amusement? Annoyance? He rose from his chair with a measured grace, the centuries of his existence manifesting in his calculated movements. His towering figure cast a long shadow over her, but she refused to flinch.

"You speak like a poet," he scoffed. "Love has made you weak." His voice was low and sharp like the edge of a blade. "You would have nothing without me. No skills, no power, no purpose. You are who you are because I made you, Talia-- because you are my daughter."

Talia tilted her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I'm not afraid of you. There is nothing left that you can give or take away that will so much as shake me." 

For a brief moment, Ra’s simply stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then, he laughed-- a cold, humorless sound that echoed through the chamber like the distant cry of a predator.

"Very well," he said, his laughter fading into a sharp smile. "If you wish to challenge me, I welcome it. Let it be known that you will fail. I created you. Everything you are, you are because I allow it." 

Talia didn’t hesitate. "Then I will become my own being," she said, her voice unwavering. "I will not depend on you, nor even will I depend on him-- I will depend on myself."

Ra’s narrowed his eyes, the faintest glimmer of anger flickering behind them. "Then leave," he said, his tone suddenly cold and dismissive. "Go on this foolish quest of yours. And when you inevitably crawl back, broken and defeated, I will decide whether you are worth forgiving."

Talia’s heart clenched, but she refused to let him see it. Instead, she nodded, a small, defiant gesture. "Goodbye, Father."

As she turned to leave, Ra’s spoke again, his words cutting through the air like a dagger. "Blood cannot fade with time, my child. You are and will always be my daughter."

She paused in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim torch light of the hall beyond. "No," she said quietly, without turning back. "Not anymore."

The cold had begun seeping into Bruce's bones by now, eating him alive. It wasn’t just the physical sensation of a place so lacking in warmth that pained him-- it was the kind of cold that made its way into your spirit, hollowing you out from the inside. His knees ached like hell from kneeling on the uneven, jagged floor for so long, and his shoulders throbbed with a fiery pain that shot up and down his arms at occasional intervals, making him groan and hiccup with pain. His muscles trembled with fatigue, each moment of stillness punctuated by a faint, involuntary shiver. The metal bindings on his wrists had begun to chafe and dig into his skin, leaving raw, stinging marks that felt like open wounds against the biting air-- perhaps they were open wounds, it's not like he could see them to confirm, nor did he have any shortage of injuries across his barren chest and arms. 

He didn’t know where he was, not really. The air felt thick and dank, the lack of light only adding to his disorientation. He figured he was underground-- he could feel the faint tremors of movement above him, the muffled footsteps of Ra’s loyalists patrolling the compound. The faint, acidic tang in the air suggested wine, or perhaps a young arak. Beneath that was a deeper, earthier scent, something like sandstone, crumbling and ancient, mingling with the bitter metallic bite of rusted iron.

The room was vast-- he could tell by the way his own ragged breathing echoed back to him, and by the faint drip of water that seemed to fall endlessly from some unseen crack in the ceiling. He imagined the rivulets carving patterns into the stone floor, centuries of slow erosion tracing empty space into the rock. 

How long had he been down here?

How long would his punishment last?

His wrists were bound above his head, pulled tight by heavy chains bolted into the wall. The cold steel nipped at his skin, and each time his chest and head slumped forward in exhaustion, the shifting of his weight sent a fresh wave of agony shooting through his shoulders. His rotator cuffs screamed in protest, and he gritted his teeth against the pain, unwilling to give his captors the satisfaction of hearing him cry out anymore than they already had. 

The cold floor beneath him was damp and unforgiving, its uneven surface biting into his knees. Occasionally, a faint draft brushed past him, carrying with it the distant, almost mocking hint of fresh air. It was a cruel reminder of the world above, the world where she was, no doubt waiting for him-- a world he couldn’t reach.

His head swam with fatigue, the relentless ache of his body competing with the relentless pull of unconsciousness. There was a strange sense of instinct pulling at him, all this time. He knew what to do here, somewhere deep in his chest, he knew how to get the cuffs off, how to see through the dark, how to call out for help without alerting his enemies... But the details alluded him, and the sensation of that knowledge being so close yet so undeterminable made Bruce nauseous with rage. 

“…Beloved?”

The voice was distant, fragile, as though it had traveled across time itself to reach him.

What was that?

Was that her?

Her?

“…Tal…ia…?” His voice was barely more than a whisper, cracked and broken like shattered china. 

“Oh, my poor boy… What have they done to you?”

Her voice was soft, almost heartbreakingly so, the kind of softness that spoke of immeasurable sorrow. It was a balm to his fractured mind, a light piercing the suffocating darkness he had been drowning in for what felt like an eternity. The sound of her footsteps echoed in his ears, faint and ghostly, but growing closer with each beat of his heart.

And then, warmth.

Her hands were on his face, impossibly soft against his bruised and battered skin, their heat cutting through the cold that had seeped into his very bones. The sensation was so profound, so achingly real, that it made him tremble. None of the hallucinations he had endured had ever felt this tangible. This… this felt like salvation.

The chains binding his wrists jingled softly as she worked to free him, the sound a faint melody of hope against the oppressive silence of his prison. He forced his heavy eyes open, but the darkness was absolute, swallowing her form even as her presence filled the room. A click echoed sharply, and suddenly his arms were free.

His body collapsed forward, no longer held aloft by the unyielding chains. Gravity pulled him down like an anchor, and he braced for the pain of impact-- but instead, he fell into something warm, something soft, something achingly familiar.

She caught him.

He melted into her, his head resting into her bosom as her arms encircled him. Her scent enveloped him, the delicate fragrance of rose of taif and a sweetness he could only associate with her. It was intoxicating, but not in the sense of a drug-- rather in the sense of laying down in one's own bed. 

She felt like coming home. 

For a moment, there was nothing else. No pain, no cold, no darkness. Only her.

She gently lifted his head, her fingers brushing over his damp stubble of hair, spiky and just barely beginning to grow out once more, only just able to tickle his ears. Her touch was tender, careful, as though he might shatter if she wasn’t. A soft, warm breath ghosted across his face, and then, God, she couldn't help herself--

Her lips found his.

The kiss was gentle, not demanding, but grounding. It wasn’t passion that drove her-- it was reassurance, something to remind him he wasn’t alone. He didn’t kiss her back; he didn’t have the strength. But he leaned into her, sighing softly, letting her warmth and her love pour into the hollow spaces inside him.

She held him as though he were the most fragile thing in the world, her lips lingering against his for just a moment longer before pulling away. Her forehead rested against his, her breath fanning across his skin as she whispered, her voice trembling. His mind was too exhausted and broken to pick up her words, let alone respond to them... But the sound of her voice was all he needed. 

He could live like this, he decided. Right there, in her arms. Safe and warm and ignorant of all else in the world. 

He would claw his way out sometime, and together they would stand up and walk off into fate, whatever it may have in store...

But until then, this was more than enough. 

Chapter Text

If a blind man were to wander into the Batcave on this particular evening, he would've thought he'd stumbled into a pharmacy.

Painkillers were being passed around the cave like popcorn day and night, bottles rattling softly as hands exchanged them. It was the sound of defeat. Zatanna’s magic had done its best, and everyone silently appreciated it. Bones were realigned, torn muscles reknitted, bruises faded...

But magic wasn’t a miracle. It couldn't be, not really, not usually anyways. It left behind phantom aches and tenderness, echoes of pain that would jolt suddenly and kiss with every step. Each movement came with a subtle wince, each breath a reminder of a failure that had cost them dearly. 

And yet, the city didn’t care. She never had. Gotham was alive, breathing its foul air and spewing out sickness from its cursed lungs. It didn’t sleep; it never did, never had. And, as such... neither could The Bats.

Tim stood hunched over the Batcomputer, his eyes bloodshot from a lack of sleep and his bones aching with an unholy need for something he couldn't quite name. He’d been working non-stop since he'd woken up, running through Gotham’s endless criminal patterns until he literally wept for lack of blinking. His hoarse voice broke through the quiet hum of computers and the faint dripping of water somewhere in the cave, stiff and tired.

“Penguin is moving a big shipment of weapons across the Bowery tonight,” he stated lowly, his tone clipped, exhaustion seeped in through the gaps between his teeth. He pulled up the surveillance footage on the massive screen, data cascading across its surface. “There’s been a vacuum of power since…” He hesitated. The words caught in his throat, and for a moment, the cave felt colder. The faint echoes of their last battle, their failures, hung heavy in the air.

Tim cleared his throat, pushing through the pause with a forced euphemism. “…Since our injuries put us out of commission. And now, he’s trying to take advantage of that.”

Jason snorted from the corner, where he sat on one of the cave’s reinforced benches, lacing up his boots with a frankly unneeded ferocity. “We won’t let him.” His tone was sharp, biting. The scabs on his knuckles stretched painfully as he tightened the laces, but he didn’t care. The physical pain was nearly refreshing, a sign that he was still alive. Somehow. 

“We never do,” Dick commented, though it lacked his usual playful smile. His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of tension that betrayed him. He didn’t stop pacing as he spoke, his boots scuffing against the stone floor. He had been at it for hours, moving back and forth across the cave like a pendulum. Every few minutes, he’d stop to stretch, bending into flips or practicing aerial movements with a fluidity that bordered on compulsive, cracking bones and flipping his joints into unnatural positions that stung like a drug. 

Jason paused his lacing to watch him for a moment, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. It was an old habit of Dick’s-- one Jason hadn’t thought about in years. Back when they were younger, when Jason still didn't quite trust the strange man who'd taken him in off the streets, and trusted his bratty older son even less... when Dick and Bruce would argue, it was easy to find Dick down here, twisting himself into impossible shapes, flipping across the trapeze sets in a desperate attempt to burn through whatever emotions he couldn’t voice.

Back then, Jason thought it was kind of dumb-- just fight harder and yell louder until you got your way, and if that didn't work, run until you found some place where it did. Now... He couldn't quite say he understood, but he'd come to respect Dick's need to shift, to move, like a shark in water who can never stop swimming lest he drowns. It was in his nature. 

"I'm not sure I'd say any of you are in fighting condition," Barbara frowned, glancing up from her place at one of the secondary consoles. She'd arrived at the manor sometime that morning with little fanfare, though the additional hand of support was welcome. 

"Speak for yourself, hot wheels," Jason snorted. 

"Jason!" Dick hissed, though Barbara chuckled softly. 

"Fuck off, zombie boy," she laughed, flipping him off affectionately as she turned back to her computer for a moment before sighing and adjusting her chair to face them head on. "I'm serious, though; and I don't just mean physically, I mean..." She paused. Wayne's were known not to take kindly to emotional prodding. These were Bruce's children, after all. "You all have been through a lot. Our--... Your father's status of dead or alive is still unknown, you've recently survived massive physical trauma from the fight with The League, Jason had a run-in with a pissed off Superman, Alfred is... Not himself..." She paused. "Look, I'm just saying, no one will blame you if you let the cops handle this one." 

"The GCPD isn't remotely equipped to handle this kind of situation," Tim shook his head. "That's how all of this started-- because Gotham's police force is useless, everyone knows it." He paused suddenly, grimacing as he glanced back at Barbara. "S-sorry, Babs, I hadn't meant--"

"It's fine," she replied, her tone clipped. "Just... All I'm saying is that I don't know that you all should jump back out into action right now. Not just because of your injuries-- you all are..." She stopped herself before the word unstable slipped from her lips-- that felt harsh. 

"We can do our jobs just fine without Bruce there to coddle us," Jason said lowly, his gaze narrowed. Barbara sighed. 

"Jay, that's not what I meant--"

"Sure it's not," he mumbled, stalking off with his shoulders stiffly squared. He seemed to regress when he was under stress like this, the green in his eyes seemed a slight bit brighter, his anger a bit quicker to surface. They didn't blame him, not really, but still, there was a silence that hung briefly in the air as knowing glances were exchanged. 

"He's just looking for something to be angry at," Dick said softly, walking toward Barbara and putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

"I know," she replied automatically. 

"We'll be fine, though," Dick smiled, though it didn't quite meet his eyes, and the crooked dimples that bloomed from his cheeks when he was actually smiling remained hidden. "Gotham needs to know that there's still someone here to protect them." 

"And our rogues need to know that Father's inactivity is not a free pass to claim the city as their own," Damian added, clipping on the last addition to his utility belt. "Tonight we make an example out of Cobblepot." 

An air of determination seemed to settle into their shoulders. In spite of everything, they were still Bats, still Robins. Still their father's children. They had a responsibility. 

Tim cleared his throat and straightened up, gesturing to the screen. “I’ve tracked the shipment’s movements pretty well and I'm almost certain I know their route at this point. If we hit them from Dozier Avenue we can intercept before they get to any of their known safehouses. We’ll need to move fast-- Penguin’s guys are on high alert after the last raid.”

Dick nodded in understanding. "Alright. Pretty basic stuff. Classic mission. We really shouldn't need everyone there-- but I still think we should make this a family affair, you know?" He glanced at Duke and Cass, then to Tim. "We need to send a message that we're still here and we're still doing our jobs."

"Sounds like a plan," Duke smiled, adjusting the last piece of his armor. "Let's go-- if we're there in twenty minutes, we can make the ten o'clock news." 

"I'll be here on comms," Barbara confirmed, twisting her head and shoulders to crack her neck. "...Does Bruce still keep ramen cups down here?"

"Convoy approaching from the North East. Three trucks, all marked as seafood transport. Two nearby civilian vehicles-- red Toyota Camry and a white SUV-- Cass, you're closest to them, make sure they're out of harms way before you jump in with the rest of us. Is everyone in position?"

Tim had grown into such a natural leader in the past few years, it made Dick smile, really smile, just slightly, hearing him talk over the comms with that tone. "Nightwing reporting in. I'm in position." 

"Red Hood. Locked and loaded."

"Robin. In position."

"Signal reporting. I'm in position."

"Batgirl. In position. See civilians."

Dick took a breath, his eyes flickering between each of his siblings positions as they were confirmed. 

"All positions confirmed. Plan is a go in T-minus 12.4 seconds. Prepare to engage."

Dick glanced down at his gloved hands, and frowned slightly to see that they were shaking. The tremors were back. He'd thought he had dealt with that before he even took off the Discowing suit-- but here he was, twenty-four, recently having broken up with his therapist under the impression that he simply didn't need a head shrinker anymore...

There was a sudden, gnawing pit in his stomach. He had a bad feeling about this-- and for the life of him he couldn't figure out why. He'd been busting Cobblepot's weapon shipments since before he learned algebra, he should be able to do this in his sleep... But something about this particular night gave him a bad feeling. A childhood memory suddenly shoved its way to the front of his mind; sitting on the floor of the fortune tellers tent at the circus, watching her shuffle her tarot cards with a casual, childish interest. 

"Always trust your gut, dragă," she had said. "It's the easiest form of magic to do."

Dick quickly found he had no time for introspection. Tim's voice rang out clear and firm, cutting through the static in his mind. "Engage!!"

Without thinking, without hesitation, Dick moved. He dropped from his perch with the practiced ease of a man who had done this a thousand times, his body moving on autopilot.

The next several minutes unfolded in a chaotic blur, a storm of fists, weapons, and shadows. Often, Dick found that combat could be relaxing, almost meditative; but tonight? Tonight, his movements felt disjointed, stiff, like a marionette being yanked along by an unseen string. His usual grace was absent, replaced with something raw, almost animalistic.

He didn't taunt his opponents, didn't throw out his usual sarcastic quips or biting remarks. The flow of combat, which normally centered him, felt foreign. His fists landed where they needed to, his escrima sticks swung with practiced precision, but none of it felt like him. There was no finesse, no technique, only brute force and instinct.

It was absurd, bizarre even-- like he wasn't even the one fighting. He felt detached, watching his body move as though it belonged to someone else. The weapons in his hands felt alien, and each swing felt like an outsider's hand was guiding it. Somewhere in the chaos, he wondered if this was what it felt like to die.

That was, until he saw him.

A tall, broad-shouldered thug with a cruel sneer and a stubbly buzzcut. His steps were deliberate, almost lazy, as if he knew his size alone was enough to inspire fear. In his hand sat a thick handled, wicked-looking hunting knife gleaming in the low light, its blade catching a glint of moonlight that bounced off the wet concrete below. 

He was stalking someone.

Robin.

Damian had his back turned, currently engaged with another opponent. The thug moved closer, his heavy boots crunching softly against the scattered debris on the ground. His intent was clear in every movement, every step. He was hunting him.

Dick's mind screamed logic at him, trying to keep him grounded. 'Damian knows,' it insisted. 'He always knows. He's trained for this. He's been doing this since he was a toddler. He's probably already mapped out the guy's movements. He's already planned the counterattack.'

But logic was drowned out by something deeper... something primal. Something that snapped inside him like a wire pulled too tight, suddenly breaking without warning. 

Dick had lost so much already.

He had failed so much already.

His father was missing. Probably dead. 

His brother had been arrested by their allies in some terrible misunderstanding that could have been avoided if anyone in this family wasn't so fucking stubborn. 

Alfred was a shell of a man, somehow broken down into less then the sum of his parts. 

Dick... 

Dick had reached his limit. 

The next few seconds (minutes?) passed in a haze of crimson rage. He didn't remember closing the distance between himself and this man. He didn't remember flat palming the bones of his nose straight upward and into his brain. He didn't remember shoving him down and knocking every tooth out of his sorry, fat mouth. 

In hindsight, all he remembered... Was how good it felt to do it. 

When his mind returned to him, Jason's arms were wrapped tightly around his shoulders, dragging him backward with surprising force. 

"Jesus, Dick, stop!" Jason's voice was strained, almost panicked. Dick hadn't heard that tone from him in years. 

Dick blinked, his breathing ragged and shallow. Slow. Each inhalation a terrible effort. 

His hands had stopped trembling, but as he closed his hands he heard them squelch loudly. He looked down. 

Blood. It was everywhere, thick and sticky and dripping liberally. Everywhere. On his fists, on his escrima sticks, splattered across his uniform.

He looked down. The man lay crumpled on the ground, his face swollen and bruised beyond recognition, covered in nothing but red. Blood pooled in thick waves around his head and stomach, crawling slowly outwards like an infection. 

If there were any other Penguin thugs still standing, they too had simply stopped to stare at the one-man massacre, the slaughter that had occured right here in the middle of the street, it's culprit blatantly obvious. 

Dick stared down at the man for what felt like an eternity, eyes unblinking and still as he tried to piece together what had just happened. What he had done.

He watched for movement, for the shallow rise and fall of the man's chest that always came when gazing out at a field of downed foes. 

But never came.

The realization hit him like a freight train, knocking the air from his own lungs as if in solidarity. 

 He couldn't even look at Jason. His eyes stayed fixed on the body in front of him, his hands clenching and unclenching as if trying to rid themselves of the blood that stained them.

After a moment, a new thought finally faded into his mind, something other than pure shock. 

'... Dad isn't even here to be mad at me for this.'

Chapter Text

Talia had never been fond of traveling by sea. The unpredictability of it unsettled her-- the way the water could shift from gentle to monstrous in a moment, the way the horizon always seemed just out of reach. But discretion was worth the discomfort. A flight would have been faster, but flights had manifests and security, too many watchful eyes; and Talia had learned long ago that where there were eyes, some had to be her father's. This way, they could slip away unnoticed, vanishing like phantoms across the Mediterranean.

She had planned to take them straight to France, but circumstances forced her to adjust-- Spain first, then a train to Paris. No matter. Adaptation was survival.

Still, though, she was an Al Ghul... No. She was Talia. She did not need her father's name to give her strength or permission or hope any longer, nor would she ever again. She was cunning and intelligent and tactical all on her own without the Demon's Head having a hand on her shoulder at all times. She had to be now. For him.

It was a strange realization-- this severance from Ra’s, this independence she had never truly known, even in her adulthood. She had spent so much of her life with his shadow stretching over her shoulder, dictating her path, his voice an ever-present whisper in her ear. And now? Now she had only herself.

It really was a strange thought, that sort of independence. She pondered it as she sat on waveringly on the sickly white yacht she'd smooth-talked their way onto. 

The boy who owned the yacht-- a rich Italian heir barely past eighteen-- had been all too eager to accommodate them. He found it hilarious that The Brucie Wayne, America’s favorite self-destructive billionaire, had ended up blacked-out and barely functioning in Morocco, draped over the arm of “a Moorish girl.”

(Which, for the record, was an inaccurate assessment of her ethnicity, but Talia had forced herself to smile through it.)

She had let the boy think what he wanted. It was easier that way. Amused, he had allowed them aboard purely for his own entertainment, spinning exaggerated tales to his companions about how they had ended up here. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they were moving forward.

She glanced out over the side of the boat, looking out at the Mediterranean. She found it odd that Homer had described this very water as the wine dark sea because Talia in fact found it to be quite a soft shade of blue, nearly turquoise.

She turned back to Bruce, who was slumped against her shoulder and wrapped in some shitty slogan-ladden hoodie she'd picked up from a tourist trap shop near the docks, along with the dark blue sunglasses that covered his dull eyes. On the side, they said I'M AM MAN OF STEEL with Superman's emblem printed backwards in easily chipped vinyl plastic. She'd hoped he'd find them funny when he woke up. 

Talia reached over and carefully pulled the glasses down his nose, her touch feather-light against his clammy skin. She had been hesitantly optimistic, expecting to see more clarity in his gaze, but his pupils remained unnaturally wide, swallowing the color of his irises until all that was left was a thin ring around the blackness. Her stomach tightened at the sight. Too much, still too much. The lingering effects of the Pit still had their claws in him, threading through his body like poison, making him slow, unfocused. 

But there was a difference.

The green was fading.

It had clung to him for weeks, an eerie, unnatural glow that did not belong in Bruce Wayne’s eyes. But now, beneath the dilated pupils, she could see it-- that gentle cerulean creeping back, pushing out the unnatural hue, like the sky breaking through storm clouds.

That had to mean something.

It had to.

Talia swallowed, forcing herself to believe it. That, hopefully, Bruce was coming back. That Sirhaan-- that wild, broken, wrong thing the Pit had twisted him into-- would become nothing more than a far-off nightmare, something to be shaken off with a good breakfast and a long walk in the sun.

Hope.

The thought felt unfamiliar in her chest, unsteady-- as though she were balancing on the edge of something she didn’t fully understand.

Talia had never been one to rely on hope. She had never needed to. An Al Ghul did not hope-- they calculated, they maneuvered, they shaped the world to their will. That was their nature, their strength. An Al Ghul made their own good fortune with a sharp gaze and cunning smile. 

But she was no longer an Al Ghul.

She was simply Talia.

And whether or not Talia could make her own good fortune…

That remained to be seen.

The train from Málaga to Paris rumbled steadily beneath them, a lullaby of motion that neither of them truly paid much mind. It stopped briefly in Madrid, then Barcelona, before slipping into the vast French countryside, where the landscape seemed to stretch endlessly beyond the windows and time seemed at once to still and to move faster than light. Talia barely noticed. She spent most of the journey with Bruce nestled against her shoulder, his weight warm and familiar, his breath deep and slow as he slept. 

He stirred only occasionally, sluggish and distant, his voice barely above a whisper when he asked for something to eat. Each time, she would rise, gliding silently to the dining car, returning with whatever he had requested. And each time, he would eat only a few bites before losing interest, his movements slow and detached, as if the act of eating required more energy than he could afford.

Talia would finish what he left behind. It wasn’t hunger that drove her, but stress, really-- Talia had always found comfort in food, though she hid it well. There was something... Pleasent, she found, about a good meal, a snack-- something to occupy her senses when the world seemed to large. 

Still, she coaxed him gently.

“Can you have one more bite, Beloved?” she murmured, holding the half-eaten sandwich near his lips.

Bruce’s gaze was unfocused, heavy-lidded, but he looked at her, processing her words as if from a great distance.

Talia ignored the tight, cold feeling in her chest. She hated speaking to him like this, as if he were a child. As if he were something fragile.

Their love had never been this.

Their love had been fire-- all-consuming, passionate, obsessive-- a force neither of them could escape nor wanted to. Their bodies had fit together like weapons in perfect balance, burning and breathless, limbs tangled, lips bruised. Even their arguments had been heat, searing and sharp, fueled by their impossible, insatiable need for one another.

And now…

Now, she was feeding him sandwiches in a train car, his hands trembling too much to hold them properly himself, his mind struggling to piece together thoughts.

There was no passion in this. No fire. No urgency.

And yet, she would do it all the same.

She would do anything for this man.

Bruce took a slow bite, chewing absently. He swallowed, then paused. His brows furrowed slightly, as if something had just occurred to him.

“...Salami.”

Talia sighed softly, somewhere between amusement and sorrow.

“Yes, Beloved, the sandwich has salami on it,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “And goat cheese, olives--”

“My baby doesn’t eat meat.”

The words came suddenly, as if the thought had just landed in his mind. His voice was distant but certain.

Talia stilled.

For a moment, she could do nothing but stare at him, heart clenched tight in her ribs.

Then, slowly, a smile crept onto her face.

“Yes,” she said, her voice softer now, almost laughing with relief. “Our baby. He doesn’t eat meat anymore.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed slightly, his lips parting as if grasping at something just out of reach.

“…Bat-Cow?”

Talia nearly did laugh, but the sound caught in her throat, tangled with something dangerously close to tears.

“Yes, Beloved,” she whispered. “Because of his cow.”

She hesitated, watching his eyes, waiting. Hoping.

“…Can you tell me his name?” she asked carefully. “Our son?”

Bruce was quiet for a long moment.

The silence stretched, and she feared, feared, that he would not answer.

Then--

“…Damian,” he murmured. His voice was steadier now, a thread of something real in it, something that belonged only to Bruce.

Talia closed her eyes briefly, swallowing against the lump in her throat.

“Damian Wayne,” he repeated, more certain this time. His fingers twitched against the fabric of her sleeve, gripping weakly. “My baby.”

Talia exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Yes, Beloved,” she murmured against his skin. “Your son... Our baby."

It had been a lifetime-- or several, it felt like-- since Talia had last been in Paris. And just like the last time, she had been here with him.

She had booked them a high-end hotel suite overlooking the Seine, with a cinematic view of the Eiffel Tower. The same one they had stayed in all those years ago, with the rose-colored wallpaper and the frilly curtains around the edge of the bed. As a younger man, Bruce had scoffed at the decor, and she'd teased him about appreciating colors other than black. It had been nice, that trip. She'd thought about it often over the years. 

Stupidly, she had hoped-- hoped-- that being in that same space, surrounded by the same gilded opulence, would trigger something in him. A flicker of recognition. A thread of memory pulling him back to her.

But upon their arrival, Bruce had barely acknowledged their surroundings. He simply slumped onto the enormous bed at the center of the room and fell back into the restless sleep he had been drifting in and out of for days.

Talia had joined him for a time, pressing herself against his warmth, letting him curl around her. Even in his half-conscious state, he held her with an insistence that nearly broke he-- a desperate, possessive grip, as though she might disappear if he let go. She had stayed as long as she could, but eventually, the restlessness won.

When she slipped out of his grasp, he made a soft, barely-audible sound of protest, a whine that sent a sharp ache through her chest.

She said nothing, only kissed his forehead before retreating to the bathroom.

Stripping out of her travel-worn clothes, she ran a bath as hot as she could stand and sank into it, letting the heat leech the exhaustion from her limbs. She stayed there until the water turned cool, until her fingers pruned and her mind stilled.

When she emerged from the bathroom, steam trailing after her, Bruce was awake.

Standing at the window.

Looking out at the city.

Something in her breath caught.

He looked different. More himself. His posture was steadier, no longer weighed down by the fog that had dulled him since Marrakesh. When he finally turned to face her, his eyes met hers, and for the first time in what felt like forever, they were almost normal.

Still dilated, but not nearly as much.

And the green in his irises... it was all but gone.

"...I've been here before," he murmured, his voice rough from sleep. His gaze flickered to the suite, then back to her. "We've been here before."

Talia swallowed, her lip trembling slightly.

"Yes, Beloved," she whispered. "We have."

She stepped closer, fingers threading gently through his hair, longer now than when it had first been shorn away. He leaned into the touch, just slightly, barely perceptible—but she noticed.

"I feel... better," he said quietly. "Better than I have, anyway."

She let out a slow breath. "I can tell."

For a moment, there was only silence. The faint hum of the city outside. The distant wail of a siren.

Then--

"I... wanted to apologize," she said hesitantly.

Bruce’s brow furrowed. "For what?"

She hesitated, her hands falling away from his hair.

"When you first awoke. In the catacombs. After my father... after Ra’s... took you to Marrakesh for that mission..." She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "I kissed you."

Bruce tilted his head slightly, studying her.

"...You kissed me," he echoed after a beat, his lips twitching almost into something resembling a school-boyish smile.

Talia forced herself to hold his gaze.

"I shouldn’t have," she admitted. "You... you haven’t been yourself, Bruce. You weren’t yourself. I shouldn’t have done something like that when you couldn’t properly..." She faltered. "Consent."

Silence stretched between them.

Then--

"I felt more human when you kissed me than I had in weeks," Bruce murmured.

His voice was quiet. Honest. Unshakable.

Talia’s breath caught. She felt like crying again, but she fought not to allow it. 

"I..." Her voice cracked. "I booked you a flight back to Gotham."

Bruce stilled. 

"... Just me?"

"... Yes." 

There was a pause, and Bruce's gaze narrowed. 

"No." He hissed. Talia bristled.

"What do you mean, no?" She frowned. 

"I'm not leaving without you," Bruce said firmly. 

"Bruce it's the only way you can--"

"No," He interrupted. "I haven't had a say in anything in weeks. Let me have a say in this. Please."

"My father--"

"No!" Bruce shot back. "I'm not leaving you here. Not again." His voice cracked, just slightly. "I... I've spent so many years apart from you. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of pretending I don't need you. I'm sick of only ever seeing you in our son. I... Talia..." His hand raised to cup her cheek. "You're coming with me. I don't care what kind of demons follow us home. I'm not leaving you here. I need you." 

The stillness returned, and for a moment the only sound in the room was their breath and the wind brushing past the curtains. 

"... As you wish, Beloved," Talia choked. 

And for a moment, all her hopes had been grounded to the Earth, everything she'd yearned for all these years had come to meet her on the ground and hold her hand, every agony that had sat in her chest all her life seemed to disappear...

And that was when the arrow flew through the window. 

Chapter Text

Commissioner James Gordon had seen a lot in a decade of being in the position he had.

This was Gotham, after all-- this was the most dangerous city in the country-- hell, maybe the world, if you didn't count the ones run by hyper intelligent apes or rogue ancient Egyptians. He'd seen murdered innocents strung up and posed like puppets by a man who kept score of the death he caused in his very flesh. He'd seen people kidnapped and stripped of their humanity, turned into enslaved dolls for a madman's idea of perfection. He'd seen children with skin bleached white and smiles plastered onto their weeping faces. He'd seen a predator kidnap little girls to mold them into his storybook fantasy victims. He'd seen people frozen alive, burned to ash, limbs eaten by a man who was more beast than human... He could go on for days without batting an eye. 

But this?

Somehow, this was the thing that shook him to his core.

A beating.

A bad one, from the reports coming in. But Jim had seen plenty of beatings before, incidents that had been crueler, more methodical. Purposeful. Deliberate. Premeditated. This wasn’t sadism. It wasn’t sport. This was rage, raw and unchecked. There were worse things a man could do. Much worse. 

The officers who Jim had spoken to were short with their words and strangely quiet. When asked if they had a suspect, there would be a long beat of silence before he'd hear a quiet "... Yeah, Commish... We... We got him."

It was nearly half an hour later that Detective Montoya stumbled into his office, her eyes wide with something close to terror, her hands trembling against the case file she held, Jim felt a chill seep into his bones before she even said a word.

He had never seen Montoya shake. Not even when she was a rookie, fresh out of the academy, still holding tight to that sparkle in her eye that everyone had when they thought things could change. 

"No one wants to tell me what the hell is going on out there," He commented, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, 

She opened her mouth once. Closed it. Swallowed.

Then--

"...Nightwing’s in custody, sir."

For a long, painful moment, Jim could only stare. He almost laughed, thinking he'd misheard her, but somehow that thought was gone in an instant. He didn't need to ask to know he'd heard correctly. 

"Voluntary manslaughter," Montoya continued, her voice barely more than a whisper, her gaze distant and unfocused. "They... They just brought him in. By some miracle, the press hasn't caught wind yet, but.. you know how long that lasts, so..." She sighed quietly. "...He’s in the interrogation room now. I figured, if anyone would want to see him..."

And suddenly, Commissioner James Gordon-- who had spent decades facing down mob bosses, madmen, and the infamous sort of monsters that only Gotham could birth--... He felt his stomach churn with something he hadn’t experienced in a long, long time.

He thought he might be sick.

Batman and his family had been a pillar of Gotham for decades. One of the last, true beacons of morality in a city that rejected the very concept. They weren’t just vigilantes-- They were the closest Gotham ever got to believing in God.

The Bat had become myth, legend. A whisper in the dark that kept criminals in check. A promise that justice would always come, even in a city where justice felt impossible-- and it wasn’t just Batman, either, it never had been. Robin. Batgirl. Red Hood. Red Robin. Signal. Even the ones the world never saw, the ones that worked in the shadows, who Jim only ever heard of in whispered mumbles to a comm device or overheard conversations between the children-- they were part of it too. 

And Nightwing?

He had been the heart of it all.

Where Batman was fear, Nightwing had been hope. Where The Dark Knight was the ghost in the alley, the nightmare lurking on rooftops, his son had been the light that proved not everything in Gotham had to be swallowed whole by the darkness. The Boy Wonder. The first born son. The Prodigy.

Jim could still remember the first time he'd met him, when he was still just a little boy, peaking his head out from under the Bat's cape and grinning like the sun in the dead of night. He'd done a backflip off the roof of the station that night, and Jim had screamed like a little girl. 

"What the hell, Batman-- get your kid!!" He'd exclaimed, his skin pale and his cigarette forgotten on the ground. Batman had only given him a look, the corner of his mouth quirking up in the slightest smile. 

"He's in his element," he said simply. "And I wasn't even the one who taught him that." Jim knew that tone. He was proud.

That was why it hurt, he supposed. 

Jim had watched all of these kids grow up, but he'd watched Robin--... Nightwing... The longest. To him? They were all always going to be little kids-- his weird little nieces and nephews who made sure that Batman stayed human; but Nightwing would always be that little ray of sunshine he'd met that night.

It wasn’t just that a hero had fallen.

It was that he had fallen.

And if Nightwing-- Nightwing-- could break, could lose himself to the same rage that Gotham thrived on, then what did that mean for the rest of them?

What did that mean for the people who believed?

Every time Jim turned on that signal and watched it light up the sky, it wasn’t just a message to Batman. It was a message to all of them.

It told Gotham that hope was coming. That the darkness was ordered to recede.

And now...

Jesus Christ.

Jim clenched his hands into fists, then forced himself to release them, trying to summon the strength to reach out and open the door. He felt like he'd swallowed a stone, the heavy feeling in his gut making him wish he was back home, curled up in bed and alone. It something that felt far too much like grief. Through the two-way mirror, he could see Nightwing hunched at the table, his head bowed, his hands bound in cold steel. His raven hair, which had grown longer since the last time Jim saw him-- hung lifelessly around his head, covering his face. The pieces of his suit that usually folded over his wrists to form his gloves had been peeled back, exposing his bare hands... his bruised, bloodied knuckles.

Jim’s breath caught. He stared at those hands for a long, painful moment before turning away, running a hand over his tired face.

Slowly, he reached for the handle, turned it, and stepped inside as if her boots were made of lead.

Nightwing didn't look up. But Jim saw the way his shoulders tensed, just slightly. The way his fingers twitched against the tabletop, like he was still clenching and unclenching his fists.

Jim swallowed the lump in his throat.

"... We just got word from Gotham General," he began, his voice stiff, careful. "The vic--... Your... uh..." He exhaled sharply, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "He's in bad shape. But he's not dead. They revived him in the ambulance."

A long silence.

"... That's good," Nightwing murmured, nodding slightly. His voice was quiet, empty. His eyes never left the table.

Jim shifted, glancing at the two-way mirror before sighing. "I asked to speak with you first. Before anyone else."

Nightwing was quiet for a long moment. "... I don’t want special treatment, Jim."

He sounds like his father.

Jim huffed a dry, humorless laugh. "It can’t be helped, kid. This is a special case."

Nightwing’s jaw tensed. He clenched his fists again, and for a brief second, Jim thought he was going to lash out.

"I killed a man," Nightwing said suddenly, his voice raw.

Jim exhaled through his nose. "I just told you, you actually didn’t—"

"Would you shut up!?"

The outburst cracked through the room like a gunshot.

Jim flinched, but he held his ground.

Nightwing was staring at him now, his eyes blazing with something wild and desperate, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. But the fire died as quickly as it had flared, and in its place, Jim saw something worse.

Something broken.

Nightwing’s lip trembled. His whole body seemed to collapse in on itself as he dropped his head into his arms, his fingers curling into his hair.

"... I’m sorry, Commish," he choked out, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I-- I didn’t mean--"

Jim let out a slow breath and stepped forward, resting a firm, steady hand on his shoulder. He could feel the tension in the kid’s muscles, the way he was wound so tight he might just snap apart.

"Kid," Jim said softly, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I need you to breathe."

Nightwing sucked in a shuddering breath.

"I need you to tell me what happened out there."

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. In it's own sense, maybe it was better that way. 

"I don’t... know," Nightwing growled, his voice thick with frustration, shame... something close to self-loathing. "I-- I couldn’t--" His breath hitched. His fingers dug into his scalp. "I wasn’t thinking, I wasn’t-- I--"

The words tangled on his tongue. He made a choked, strangled noise of frustration and slammed his fists against the table, rattling the cuffs against the metal.

Jim squeezed his shoulder again, grounding him.

"Okay," Jim said gently. "That’s okay, son. Start where you can."

Nightwing exhaled sharply, his breath shaking, his whole body trembling like he was barely holding himself together.

And finally-- finally-- his lips parted once more. 

"... Dad's dead."

The air left the room. Jim stared for a moment. 

"... Batman is...?" 

"Ja-- Red Hood is the only one who saw his body, but..." He groaned. "It's... A long story... But there's this... organization that we've had... Issues with... For a while. Usually they're enemies. Occasionally hesitant allies. Occasionally more than that, for Batman..." Dick swallowed, unsure how to explain it. "They have his body. They have the ability to bring him back to life-- don't ask, I don't feel like getting into all of that right now-- and they've almost definitely used it, which... It would've broken his mind. His spirit. And even if it didn't... We have no idea where he is." 

Jim stared at him for a long time. 

"Look-- my point is..." Nightwing choked, finally looking up from the table. "I've had... A really... really fucked up couple of months. And tonight was our f-first time out in weeks, and..." He trailed off. 

"... You're not in the state to be doing this kind of work right now, kid," Jim said slowly. He had questions-- hundreds of them, probably-- but he knew that now wasn't the time. For now... He'd believe what the boy was saying. If only because he desperately needed an explanation. 

"We can't just stay home!!" Nightwing barked. "Gotham needs us!!"

"Gotham needs you at your best," Jim crossed his arms, his voice firm. 

"... Gotham needs him," Nightwing said quietly.

He reached up slowly and peeled off his mask. Jim jolted and looked away instinctually, but after a moment, he looked back. He knew this kid from somewhere, vaguely, but he did his best not to think about it. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, bloodshot with barely unshed tears, and as he looked up at Jim the older man took a breath. He had that same twinkle in his eye that Barbara had when she was younger-- that yearning for approval, that desperation to be good, to do good...

Jim sighed. "... He's proud of you, you know that?" He avoided the use of past tense, mainly for his own sanity. 

Nightwing didn't reply. 

"... He still talks about you with that same love he did when you were little," he continued slowly. "Everytime he's up there on the roof-- I give him whatever I need to give him, and..." He chuckled. "And then-- he sorta stands there, with that scowl on his face, because all he wants to do is talk about you and your siblings, but God knows he can't start a conversation-- so he always waits for me to ask about one of you, and he tries to keep it... professional... When he tells me about your work in Bludhaven, or your visits home for training, or whatever else it is that you all do... But he smiles. Every time. I don't think he realizes he's doing it, so I've never said anything." He laughed again softly. "... He once told me that he wished... wishes... That he had your strength. Your optimism."

Slowly, Nightwing looked up, tears now flowing freely down his still bloodied cheeks. 

"... Your father's a strong man, Nightwing," Jim said gently. "And everything that he is, he put into you. Even if... Even if he doesn't come back... You are more than capable to take this city on without him. But you can't do that if you're fighting these inner demons. It's not healthy. It's not helpful."

Jim reached out and put his hand back on the boys shoulder, looking him in the eyes as best he could manage. 

"What happened tonight... It wasn't you. It was your grief. I get it, I really do, but..." He took a breath. "I need to know... We need to know... That you can process that pain before you go out there."

Dick was quiet. 

Slowly, he nodded. 

"... Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah, I... Okay. I hear you."

There was more they both wanted to say, but finding the words was an act that took energy that both men lacked. 

So, instead, they let the silence speak for them, and both mourned silently. They mourned for the city, for themselves, for a man they both desperately missed... And for a past that had, somehow, been so much simpler. 

Chapter Text

It had been nice, for the time that it lasted, the sense of clarity Bruce had found in that rose-smelling room above the city. Not just as a memory, but as something deeper, something etched into his bones. The longer he sat there, allowing the space to settle into his skin with its quiet, unassuming presence, the clearer the echoes of the past became.

The view of Paris beyond the window. The scent of roses and jasmine twined in dark hair. The warmth of golden morning light against smooth skin.

A woman, young and radiant, her silken dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, her green eyes glistening with laughter, with something soft and unspoken. Her voice, sweet and smooth and cool, reading poetry to him in curling Arabic words. 

A reflection, barely recognizable now-- a younger man in the window, his own blue eyes still touched by grief, but lesser so, somehow, his heart still capable of believing in something simple, something whole. 

When Talia had returned from her bath, her skin still hot and damp, clothed only in her robe, her face cleansed of the kohl that was usually under her eyes and winged out at the edges sharply, he'd thought of another view he'd once had, of their flesh together, of her voice in his ear, of their souls sewn together so intimately that he wanted to weep just at the thought. The phantom ache of it made his breath hitch with need.

But, just as fast as she had returned to him, as this place had returned, it was gone again. 

Had Talia’s reflexes been sharper, she might have noticed the arrow before it reached her. Might have heard the whisper of its fletching as it cut through the air... But she had been too lost in those eyes.

(Blue eyes. The most wonderful shade of blue. Not tainted by green, not clouded with sickness, just blue—only blue—only him.)

By the time she heard it, the steel tip had already sunk deep into the muscle of her bicep.

She cried out-- not in agony so much as irritation, as if the pain was secondary to the sheer audacity of the attack. Even as she dropped to her knees, instinct kicking in to make herself small, to shield herself from the unknown sniper’s vantage point, her teeth clenched in something closer to anger than distress. "موظر!!" She sneered, clutching the wound tightly.

In an instant, all that beautiful clarity that Bruce had found in this room, in this place-- it was all gone. His vision blurred with a bright green Lazarus rage and he roared her name like a battlecry. 

Part of him wanted to follow her to the floor, to crouch down and kiss her and heal her wounds and tell her it would all be okay...

But a larger part of him... A greener part... The part that had been born in the pit the day that rest of him died and had lied dormant beneath his thin veil of self control... It craved only vengence. 

Bruce’s head snapped to the side like a beast caught wind of a foreign scent, his senses sharpening to a razor’s edge. His breath left him in a sharp exhale as his eyes locked onto a flicker of movement in the pale afternoon sky-- just the barest glimpse of a figure disappearing across the rooftop of the adjacent building. The silhouette moved quickly, seamlessly, their shadow stretching long against the pale, Autumnal Parisian skyline.

A low, guttural growl rumbled in Bruce’s throat, deep and unrestrained, as something inside him snapped. The green haze swallowed his vision entirely.

Before Talia could so much as call out his name, he was already moving-- his body a weapon, honed and unthinking, acting on pure instinct. If the pit had not granted him strength before, it certainly had now. He lunged forward, launching himself out the window in a single, fluid motion. His bare feet hitting the ledge for barely half a second before he propelled himself upward, fingers finding purchase against the rough stone exterior of the building. Within moments, he was scaling the façade, his muscles burning with the sheer force of his climb.

Talia groaned. This was bad. Really bad.

Bruce was still in a fragile state. She had seen the signs-- seen the way his pupils had darkened, the way his fingers had trembled against her skin, the way he had held onto her like she might slip through his grasp at any moment. He was teetering on the edge of something dangerous. Talia, only a moment ago, had been so relieved to see himself back in his eyes, to look at him and see a man and not a raging beast-- she'd been so close to having him back... If he lost himself now, if he succumbed entirely to the Lazarus that still simmered just beneath his skin, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to pull him back.

But she didn’t have time to worry about that.

Talia turned her attention to the arrow lodged in her bicep, her pulse pounding in her ears. She could feel the steady warmth of blood seeping from the wound, staining the pearly white fabric of her hotel bathrobe. She had no time to properly tend to it, but leaving it in would slow her down, weaken her in a moment where she needed to be at full strength.

Grinding her teeth, she reached up with her good hand, gripping the shaft near the head. She braced herself. With one swift, brutal motion, she snapped the arrow, breaking it off just below the steel tip. Pain flared sharp and immediate, but she bit back any sound of distress. The embedded metal was still in her arm, but the bulk of the obstruction was gone.

It was only then that she noticed the paper tied to the end of the broken arrow-- a letter of some sort, tied with twine.

Her heart clenched.

This wasn't an assassination attempt.

It was a message.

Damn it, Father.

But she had no time to read it. Bruce was already too far ahead, and if she didn’t act now, he would catch the assassin before she could intervene. If that happened-- if Bruce got his hands on them in his current state... there would be no interrogation. No strategy. No restraint. There would only be carnage.

She exhaled sharply, forcing herself into motion.

Talia didn’t waste time stripping out of the robe-- she let it slide off her shoulders as she ran, her body already moving before the heavy fabric hit the floor, not caring that the piece of it caught beneath the arrow and lodged in her arm remained-- that was a problem for future Talia to deal with. Beneath it, she was already dressed for a fight-- black shorts and a fitted top, lightweight and unrestrictive.

Her body moved before her mind caught up, muscle memory taking over. She leapt, her fingers gripping the ledge of the balcony above, her arms straining as she hauled herself up. From there, she ran, her bare feet silent against the rooftop.

She could see Bruce ahead, his powerful form cutting through the skyline like a force of nature. His legs carried him at breakneck speed, his entire being laser-focused on the figure just beyond his reach. The would-be assassin was fast, but Bruce was faster, his body coiled with an unholy rage that made him even deadlier.

Talia had spent her entire life training alongside the League’s finest assassins. She had raced through the burning sand of the Arabian desert, had sprinted across the icy caps of Tibet in the dead of winter. She had fought, and won, against warriors twice her size before the age of ten.

And yet-- watching Bruce now, hunting the way he was-- she knew that, even with all of that training, she would have to push herself to her limits if she wanted to reach him in time.

She dug her heels into the rooftop, gritted her teeth, and ran.

Bruce wasn’t entirely sure how he’d gotten here.

If you'd asked him, he couldn't have spoke, perhaps couldn't even think an answer.

No words in any human language could possibly describe his fury. It wasn't possible. 

The chase was a blur, a half-formed fever dream smeared across his senses. He barely remembered running, barely registered the sting of the frigid air biting at his exposed skin, the wind howling in his ears like a pack of rabid wolves. His feet had pounded against the rooftops, each stride a blur of motion, every muscle in his body coiled with singular intent.

He had to catch them.

And then-- he had.

It had happened in an instant, a blink, a heartbeat. One second, the assassin was slipping through his grasp, a flicker of black robes against the skyline, and the next, his fingers had found them. His hand had shot out like a viper, latching onto the back of their shinobi robes with a grip like iron.

There had been no thought-- no calculation, no strategy, only a primal need.

With a feral snarl, he ripped them backward, his strength unnatural, fueled by something dark and monstrous. The assassin barely had time to gasp before Bruce hurled them downward, sending them crashing onto the rooftop below with bone-rattling force.

Before they could even think of moving, Bruce was on them.

His knee slammed onto their chest, pinning them to the cold concrete. His hands shot forward, wrapping around their throat in a merciless grip.

The world had gone silent. The wind, the city below, the distant hum of Parisian life-- it all faded into nothing.

There was only this.

Bruce’s breathing came heavy and ragged, his chest heaving with exertion. His fingers flexed around the assassin’s throat, pressing down, squeezing harder.

And in his eyes...

There was death.

"Bruce!!"

The sound of his name cut through the haze like a gunshot. Sharp. Familiar. Hers.

His entire body went rigid.

Then-- hands. Soft but firm, wrapping around his wrists, pulling, peeling him away from the assassin gasping beneath him. He resisted at first, fingers still locked around the archer’s throat, their desperate, rattling breaths barely reaching his ears.

"Bruce, stop," Talia’s voice was almost pleading now, gentle but insistent. "Don't do this. This isn't you. You'll never forgive yourself."

His jaw clenched. His muscles coiled. His breath came in slow, shallow bursts, like a beast on the edge of a kill.

"… Hurt… You…" The words scraped out of his throat, raw and guttural, more growl than speech.

"I know, Beloved, I know," she whispered. Her lips brushed his cheek in a featherlight kiss. "But I need you to let go now."

Still, he did not move.

Talia’s hands slid up his arms, reaching his face, cupping it between her palms as she gently turned his gaze to hers. "Look at me, Beloved," she murmured. "Look at me… I'm okay. I'm alright."

She pried one of his hands away, carefully, with infinite patience. The assassin beneath them gasped, choking down desperate gulps of air, but Talia didn’t look away from Bruce. Instead, she guided his freed hand to her neck, pressing his calloused fingers against the delicate skin just beneath her jaw.

Against the fluttering pulse of life beneath her flesh.

"Feel that?" she whispered. "I'm here, Beloved. I'm alive."

The green in his eyes flickered. His breathing slowed.

Then, suddenly, he crumpled. The fight bled out of him, and his arms wrapped around her, pulling her against him, burying his face into the crook of her shoulder. A tremor ran through his entire frame, like a great structure on the verge of collapse.

"My Talia…" His voice cracked, barely above a breath. "My girl…"

She pressed a hand to the back of his head, smoothing her fingers through his hair.

"I'm here, Beloved," she whispered, holding him steady. "I'm here."

For a long, lingering moment, they remained entwined, locked in an embrace that felt both fragile and unbreakable. Bruce held her as though she were something sacred, something he might lose if he so much as loosened his grip. His arms encased her, desperate and unyielding, fingers curling against the fabric of her clothes as if trying to anchor her to him. If he let go, would she vanish? Would she slip through his fingers like mist, dissolving into memory, into dream?

His breath trembled, slow and uneven, his chest rising and falling against hers.

She’s here, he told himself. She’s real. She’s alive.

And she’s mine.

Slowly, cautiously, he lifted his head, his gaze searching hers. Her eyes were red-rimmed, shimmering in the dim light, and he realized—she was crying. Softly. Quietly. Tears slipping down her cheeks, barely visible, barely there.

His heart clenched.

"I… I was scared," she murmured, her voice barely above a breath. "I thought you… That…"

She trailed off, unable to finish. She didn’t need to.

Bruce exhaled shakily, one hand rising to cradle her face, his thumb catching a stray tear before it could fall.

"It’s okay," he whispered. His voice was hoarse, raw with something deeper than exhaustion. "I'm here too. I'm alive… We're alive."

She let out a soft, broken laugh, her lips quivering, and then-- slowly, hesitantly-- their lips met.

It was not a collision, not desperate nor hurried. It was something deeper, something that bloomed between them like firelight against the cold, warm and flickering against the biting Parisian wind. The world outside faded-- the rooftops, the city, the endless storm of blood and shadow and history that always seemed to chase them.

None of it mattered.

Not in this moment.

Not when they were here.

Alive.

"… Iz zat fucking Bruce Wayne, or am I deluzional?"

The thickly accented voice cut through the air with a sudden jolt, utterly shattering the fragile intimacy of the moment.

Bruce’s head snapped up, breaking the kiss, eyes immediately locking onto the source of the voice.

Across the rooftop-- just a few yards away, really-- stood a young man, probably in his early twenties, dressed in high-end streetwear, complete with an obnoxiously oversized Flash logo on his hoodie. A GoPro was strapped to his forehead, its tiny red light blinking ominously, and he wore the unmistakable expression of someone who had just hit the viral content jackpot.

Talia furrowed her brows. “Is that… paparazzi?” she asked slowly, voice edged with wariness.

Bruce didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the guy, as if trying to will him out of existence. Then, after a long, heavy beat, he exhaled through his nose.

"No." His tone was grim, foreboding-- one might have thought he was talking about Killer Croc or the Joker. "Worse."

Talia blinked. "Worse?"

"He's a YouTuber."

Chapter Text

Since the incident with Red Hood two weeks prior, Barry Allen had been spending more and more time in the Watchtower. Most of the JLA’s inner circle had, actually. It wasn’t a conscious decision-- more like an unspoken agreement, an instinctual retreat to neutral ground. There was something about being anywhere else that felt… wrong. Heavy. Like the weight of a secret so massive it altered gravity itself, pressing down on their chests every time they tried to move forward.

And the worst part? They couldn’t talk about it.

Some had caved almost immediately.

Clark had lasted less than twenty-four hours before telling Lois. Of course, he had. The others didn’t judge him for it-- how could they? Lois wasn’t just his wife; she was his anchor, his constant, the only person who could hold him steady when the world spun out of control. After a bad day at the Daily Planet, after a month-long battle against some cosmic horror, after every war, every loss, every nightmare. Clark always needed Lois.

And this? This was Batman.

Bruce had been his friend. A difficult friend, a distant friend, a man who kept his heart locked away in the deepest, darkest corners of his soul-- but a friend nonetheless. A brother-in-arms. They had fought together, bled together, died together, in ways few others ever had.

And now he was dead.

And worse still, Clark had hurt his son.

So, really, it wasn’t just the grief eating away at him-- it was guilt. Clark remembered Jason’s death. They all did. That was the moment Batman changed, the moment Robin’s bright laughter and reckless joy were snuffed out, leaving behind a man made of jagged edges and cold, empty spaces. They barely heard of him in those months before the third Robin arrived and gently coaxed his mentor into returning to The League.

And to think that Robin... Jason Todd... Was back? Older? Harsher? Angrier?

And to think that Clark had laid hands on him as if he were just another rogue?

It was too much.

Barry tried not to think about what that guilt must have felt like. It wasn’t just Clark who was struggling-- none of them had been the same since that day.

The rest of them, for the most part, had taken refuge in each other. What else was there to do?

Barry hadn’t told Iris. Not yet. He wasn’t sure when he would. Or if he would. Somehow, letting the truth slip past the small, fragile circle that had first heard it from Bruce’s own son…

That would make it real.

So instead, Barry stayed in the Watchtower, running endless laps around its gleaming corridors and raiding the kitchen like a man possessed. It didn’t take long to notice that the food supply wasn’t quite what it used to be. A slow, creeping realization settled like lead in his gut. Batman had been the one restocking the fridge. Of course he had.

That revelation only made everything worse.

Between aimless speed runs and stress-eating his way through the leftover snacks, Barry found himself doing what any self-respecting adult did in times of crisis-- watching an embarrassing amount of mediocre YouTube videos largely aimed at preteens. There was something oddly comforting about them, in a mind-numbing, soul-dulling kind of way. Watching twenty-somethings rake in millions of views filming themselves doing dumb challenges required exactly zero brainpower, which was perfect. Barry didn’t want to think right now.

Lately, his algorithm had started shoving parkour videos down his throat. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t fight it. There was probably some deep, psychological reason for why they appealed to him-- something about the Speed Force, childhood trauma, ADHD, whatever. He didn’t care enough to analyze it, if he really did he would've already asked Dinah. It was something to do.

At some point, he slipped into the European side of YouTube. French rooftops. Ancient stone cathedrals. Narrow alleys and high-speed chases across centuries-old architecture. That’s when he stumbled across him.

Mathieu Micheaux.

The self-proclaimed Parkour King of Paris.

Barry had to admit, the guy was good. Really good. He was fast, precise, fearless—exactly the kind of reckless that made for great content. And he posted constantly, at least once a day, which meant it wasn’t long before Barry found himself spiraling headfirst into the deep rabbit hole of Mathieu Micheaux’s thickly accented rooftop stunts.

On October 28th, at some ungodly hour of the night-- though, really, time lost all meaning in a space station-- Barry was still awake, sprawled out in one of the Watchtower’s common areas, phone in hand, eyes glazed over from hours of mindless scrolling. The soft ding of a notification broke through the white noise of his thoughts.

New video.

Without thinking, he clicked, only taking in the title once he'd arrived on the page, waiting for the ad to finish.

"I FOUND BRUCE WAYNE IN PARIS?! (GONE WRONG) (GONE SEXUAL?!) - Mathieu Micheaux - Epic Parkour"

Barry snorted. He wasn’t exactly the type to follow celebrity gossip, but the idea of Mathieu Micheaux somehow running into Gotham’s most infamous billionaire was ridiculous enough to be a little funny. He could already picture it: Mathieu’s over-the-top reactions, the vine boom every five seconds, his shitty English...

Then his brain caught up.

Wait.

Wait a minute.

A pit formed in Barry’s stomach as something clicked.

Two weeks ago. The meeting.

The room had been suffocatingly silent. The kind of silence that pressed down on you like a lead weight, filling every inch of space with unspoken dread. Most of the Justice League’s inner circle had gathered in the Watchtower’s central briefing room, seated around the long, metallic table where some of the most important discussions in the world had been had.

Tonight was no different.

Jason Todd sat at the head of the table, shoulders squared, face set in stone, his blue eyes cold and unreadable. He’d barely spoken since he arrived, only giving the League the bare essentials of what they needed to know.

And then he’d said it.

"Bruce Wayne is dead."

The words hung heavy in the air.

For a long, painful moment, no one said a word. Barry thought he saw Clark flinch, just the slightest twitch of his fingers against the tabletop. Diana's jaw tightened, her hands clasped together, knuckles white.

And then--

"Wait, wait, hang on—Batman is Bruce Wayne?! Like, playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne?!"

Hal Jordan’s voice cut through the tension like a knife.

Barry saw it coming before it happened. The second the words left Hal’s mouth, the entire room turned on him. Clark’s usually kind blue eyes darkened into something sharp and warning. Diana didn’t even look at him, but the slight shift of her shoulders made it very clear that she was not amused. Even J'onn quirked a brow slightly. 

Zatanna, however, was the only one who actually spoke.

"That’s really not the point, Hal," she said coldly.

Hal blinked. Looked around. Realized, far too late, that he had badly misread the room.

"No-- no, you’re right," he backpedaled, raising his hands in surrender. "I just… I don’t know, man. That’s just really weird. Like, Bruce Wayne? The Bruce Wayne? Brucie? The guy's in Entertainment Tonight all the time? The one who's slept with, like, half of Gotham? That Bruce Wayne? That guy was Batman?!"

No one laughed.

Hal coughed awkwardly.

"Okay, shutting up now."

Alfred, who had been silent through all of this, exhaled through his nose. A slow, controlled breath.

"The Bruce Wayne you have seen in the tabloids was a carefully crafted mask," he said, voice devoid of emotion. "He worked hard to maintain his secret identity. Batman could never be a man. He had to be a symbol... Sometimes, I think it exhausted him."

Barry felt his heart speed up a million times a minute. He checked again and, sure enough, the video had only just been posted. Assuming this wasn't even shittier click bait than it already appeared to be... 

WayneTech stock had been on a frustratingly steady decline for the past two weeks, and despite Lucius Fox’s best efforts, he found himself powerless to stop it. The company had weathered storms before-- hostile takeovers, financial crises, the occasional supervillain attack, you name it-- but this was something different. Investors were skittish, whispers of instability were circulating in business circles, and without Bruce making his usual carefully timed public appearances to soothe concerns, the situation had begun to spiral.

Alfred had done him the courtesy of a phone call shortly after everything happened-- not that "courtesy" was the right word for being told, in that clipped, vaguely apologetic British way, that Bruce was 'suddenly and apparently deceased'. This, of course, explained nothing. But Lucius was not in the business of pestering a grieving family about the apparent death of his oldest friend. In truth, he made a certain effort not to think about it. Bruce had 'died' plenty of times over the years, but something about Alfred's voice made Lucius... Uncomfortable. He hadn't heard from any of the kids either, which was only adding to the stress; at this point, the walls were closing in, and for the first time in possibly his entire career, he wasn't certain he'd be able to stop it from happening. 

Since Bruce’s sudden and unexplained disappearance from both the public and professional eye, the office had begun to carry with it an ominous sort of energy. In only a few short weeks, Wayne Tower had become a haunted house.

Now, Bruce Wayne skipping a meeting was hardly unusual. Bruce Wayne disappearing entirely, with no notice, no carefully worded excuse, and no catered apology lunch for the office staff? That was unprecedented. Even those who had no idea about his evening activities knew that, for all his tabloid reputation as an airheaded playboy, Bruce was actually quite detail-oriented. If he missed a meeting, he sent a stand-in. If he was out of town, he made sure people knew where he was (or, at least, where they were supposed to think he was). If he wasn't able to come to the office and make his usual rounds of small talk with the employees, he'd at least order catering as an apology. 

This time? Nothing. No message. No excuse. No overpriced sushi from Tanaga's awaiting his employees downstairs in his absence.

Uncharacteristic really didn’t even begin to cover it.

Which was why, this morning, when he'd been alerted that the stock had mysteriously begun climbing again with no apparent explanation, Lucius had felt… wary. Hopeful, but wary. He wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he also wasn’t one to trust when a problem suddenly solved itself without evident cause.

Still, work was work, and especially with it's CEO preoccupied with... Whatever was going on with him... Lucius needed to go in. So, he adjusted his lapels, squared his shoulders, and strode into his first meeting of the day.

“Mr. Wayne sends his regards,” he began, settling into his usual spiel, “but unfortunately--”

“He’s a bit busy, we’ve noticed,” one of the younger board members chuckled, eyes glued to his phone.

Lucius narrowed his gaze. Most of the attendees had their heads bent, screens glowing. His patience, which had already been wearing thin, frayed just a little further. “Something you’d like to share?” he asked, fully prepared to shut down whatever half-baked rumor had taken root in the office gossip mill this time.

The younger man blinked up at him, almost incredulous. “Wait. You don’t know? You haven't seen?”

Lucius didn’t bother answering, just stared in silence, waiting for someone to enlighten him.

“I figured everyone on the planet knew by now,” an older woman-- one of the senior board members whose name Lucius could never quite remember-- said with a slightly exaggerated roll of her eyes. “What was it you told us about an important business trip?”

She turned her phone around.

Lucius had seen many things in his life. He had kept a straight face through budget meetings while knowing the man across from him had wrestled a crocodile-man into submission the night before. He had explained supply chain logistics while ignoring the fact that half of their R&D prototypes ended up in the hands of a technically federally wanted criminal charged with vigilantism who also happened to own the entire company anyways. He had been a professional, a problem solver, a man who did not react to absurdity-- that was what Bruce paid him for.

But really, somehow, nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Bruce Wayne, alive, very much not dead, his head shaved, shirt off, scars on full display (scars that Lucius had personally Photoshopped out of press images for years), seated on what looked to be a rooftop in Paris, his tongue shoved down the throat of a beautiful woman who looked curiously similar to his youngest son. 

Lucius dragged a hand over his face.

God, he hated this job sometimes.

"... I don't know how I'm supposed to be doing any work right now."

Lois sighed quietly and looked up at her husband. Her first instinct was to find some snarky comment or playful jab to lighten Clark's mood, but frankly she just didn't have it in her. There was nothing she could say that she hadn't already, not really. Clark was grieving for a man he was now coming to realize he barely knew in the first place, and reminding him that there was a high likelihood that Batman... That Bruce... Had been revived in a Lazarus Pit only made him more upset. 

"I know, Smallville," she said quietly, reaching across the desk to take his hand. "... Have you been up to The Watchtower...? Your friends might want to see you."

Clark shook his head. "I don't wanna go up there," he mumbled, flexing and unflexing his fist. "Too many memories." His gaze was still distant and dissociated, staring blankly into his laptop screen and watching the cursor blink in and out of existence. 

Lois knew that her husband had never done well with loss, with grief. As much as he was that sweet Kansas farmboy she loved so much, he was also the most powerful man in the world. Faster than a speeding bullet. More powerful than a locamotive. The man of steel. He was used to being in control. There were so few things in this universe that he was legitimately powerless to stop. 

He couldn't save everyone. Still, even in his adulthood, having been Superman for most of his life... He'd never quite accepted that. 

"Lane!! Quit making goo-goo eyes at your husband, he looks the same way he did yesterday!" Perry's voice suddenly interrupted her thoughts as he marched up to her desk, shoving a phone in her face. "Human interest story; Brucie Wayne's out on the town again. Below your pay grade, I know, but it's flu season and half the building is home with the sniffles, so just get it done." 

The screen in front of her-- grainy, paparazzi-quality, but unmistakable. It was, in fact, Bruce Wayne. Alive.

Her stomach dropped.

It was him.

The buzzcut threw her off at first. The scars were new, or at least, newly visible... But Lois Lane never forgot a face.

This was Bruce Wayne.

Her mind raced, a dozen thoughts crashing into each other at once. How? Where? When? Had he even--?

She must have gone silent for too long because Perry groaned and rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t tell me you’re going catatonic too.” He threw his hands up and turned away. “Have it on my desk within the hour!”

Lois barely heard him leave. She forced herself to refocus, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she pulled up search results, cross-checking sources.

Paris.

Bruce Wayne had been spotted in Paris.

Alive.

Alive.

She felt Clark’s eyes on her before she even turned her head.

“…Clark?”

He was already staring, his expression caught between hope and disbelief.

His throat bobbed as he tried to form a sentence. “…Is…?”

She swallowed hard, nodding.

“…Yeah. He is.”

"So... you're telling me that Batman... founding JLA member, Dark Knight, scourge of Gotham... is... Bruce Wayne?"

John Stewart’s voice was slow, deliberate-- evidently dripping with skepticism. He crossed his arms as he stared at Hal, waiting for the punchline of a joke he didn't quite understand-- but it never came. 

Hal Jordan groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. "Yes, John. That’s what I’m telling you.”

It wasn’t often that Earth’s Green Lanterns had the time to meet up, let alone hang out. But every once in a while, Hal, John, and Kyle took a break from their galactic duties to reconnect. There weren’t a lot of people who knew what it was like to be a Lantern-- especially an Earth, a human Lantern. Sometimes it was nice to be around someone who actually understood.

Even if, apparently, they were going to spend the entire time arguing about whether Batman was actually dead.

"And that he's dead?" John repeated, still processing.

"Yep."

"Batman."

"Uh-huh."

"Bruce Wayne."

"Mhm."

"Dead."

"That's what I said."

John exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "...And you got this information from who, exactly?"

"Red Hood."

"The crime lord?"

"Ex-crime lord, apparently."

John narrowed his eyes. "Who is also... Batman-slash-Bruce Wayne’s son?"

"Yeah."

Kyle Rayner, who had been mostly silent up until now, finally quirked a brow. "I don’t think that’s true."

Hal scoffed, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the lunar rock they were gathered on. "The hell’s that supposed to mean? I saw the kid without his mask—he’s adopted, but he's definitely Bruce's kid. I even looked it up. He’s a Wayne.”

Kyle shook his head. “No, not that-- I mean Bruce being dead.”

Hal frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Kyle pulled out his phone, thumbs moving rapidly.

Hal sat up, brow furrowing. "How do you have service? We're on the moon."

Kyle wordlessly pointed to a glowing green construct sitting on the ground nearby.

John leaned in, staring. "...Is that a Wi-Fi router?"

Kyle barely glanced up. "Yeah."

"That... You made with the ring?"

"Not sure what else I would've made it from," Kyle snorted.

"...Does that actually work?"

"Yeah," Kyle said, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. "Have you never done that before? I do it, like, all the time. There’s no service on Oa either." He shrugged.

John and Hal stared at him, then at the construct, then at each other.

But before they could start questioning it any further, Kyle hummed and held up his phone.

"Yeah-- here it is. Bruce Wayne’s Parisian Bender." He turned the screen so they could see.

The article was accompanied by a blurry photo, seemingly a screenshot from a YouTube video. The image was unmistakably Bruce Wayne-- different, yes, certainly changed over the past several weeks of silence, but... It was indeed him.

"...Is that real?" John blinked.

"I'm pretty sure, yeah," Kyle nodded. "There’s a million other articles on it if you don’t trust Entertainment Tonight," he snorted.

Hal let out a deep, exhausted sigh, rubbing his temples. "...Now I’m really confused."

It had been nearly three days since Dick was arrested. He could have left any time he wanted-- legally or otherwise. He'd broken out of prisons twelve times worse than this before he was 15, and even if he didn't want to do it that way, Alfred had already offered to post bail, more than once, in that soft but firm voice of his, gently urging Dick to come home.

He refused every time.

"I nearly killed a man," he would hiss into the rotary phone, gripping the receiver so tightly the cheap plastic creaked under the pressure. He knew the guards were staring at him. Knew they were whispering, wondering why the hell Nightwing-- a hero, still masked and all (per Gordon's instructions)-- was sitting in a Gotham holding cell when he could be out there cleaning up the streets. But he didn’t care.

"I don't deserve to be free. I don't deserve to come home."

And every time, Jason was the one to snatch the phone next, barking in response, "Dick, you're being a selfish shit."

"Jason--"

"No, shut up, I’m serious. We need you home, you know that. This isn't the time for you to sit in jail feeling sorry for yourself."

"I'm not--"

"Yes you are, asshole!!" Jason sneered. "I get that you're hurting, I get that you feel bad cause you fucked up-- but it happens, okay?! This isn't the time!! Cope with your shit later, Dick!! Come home!!"

"...I'll come home when B is here to decide if I should."

And with that, he’d hang up.

He’d spend the next few hours staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the guilt rotting away at his ribs, eating him from the inside out. Trying not to picture Bruce in his head, standing in front of him, arms crossed, silent, disappointed.

And of course, preparing for the exact same phone call to happen all over again later.

It was some time around midday now. Dick could have asked for the time, but he didn't care all that much. 

He lay flat on the bench in his holding cell, arms folded behind his head, pretending he was asleep. He wasn’t, of course. The fluorescent lights buzzed above him, the walls smelled like cheap disinfectant and sweat, and the conversation between two guards outside was far more interesting than rest.

"Did you hear about Bruce Wayne?"

Dick sat up so fast his head spun.

One of the guards snorted, oblivious. "No one's seen him in weeks."

"Yeah, I know-- but they found him this morning."

Dick was already standing, stepping forward so silently that by the time he was gripping the bars, they hadn’t even realized he’d moved. He was right behind them, breathing hard, his heart hammering.

"Where?" he rasped.

Both guards jumped.

"J-Jesus—" One fumbled with his phone, holding it up like a peace offering, the light making Dick's eyes ache slightly. "He's in Paris...! Some French YouTuber saw him this morning...!"

Dick snatched the phone before he could think better of it.

It was blurry, pixelated from being screenshotted a thousand times, but there he was. Bruce. Alive.

But that wasn’t what made his stomach drop.

Because kneeling along with him, a hand on his sholder, lips inches from his ear... was a woman. He would've recognized her anywhere. 

Talia.

Dick’s grip tightened around the phone until his knuckles turned white.

His vision swam with rage, confusion, betrayal.

After everything. After all the pain. After Jason had been tormented. After Alfred had shrivelled up into something unrecognizable. After Dick had broken himself apart in grief--

Bruce had been alive.

And with her.

"... You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

The clocktower was suffocatingly dark, the only illumination coming from the glow of the monitors, their shifting headlines and data streams flickering against the walls in a bizarre Aurora Borealis. The soft hum of electronics filled the space, punctuated by the rhythmic clicking of Barbara’s fingers against her chopsticks as she picked at her Thai takeout, only half-paying attention to the screens.

She made a conscious effort not to work 24/7. Unlike most of her colleagues, Barbara actually believed in the concept of downtime-- no matter how rare it was. So tonight, she let herself relax, tuning out the constant churn of Gotham’s crime alerts and whispered rumors about Bruce Wayne’s disappearance.

The monitors could wait.

And then—a ping.

A soft chime from her AI system, flagging an article for review.

Barbara didn't look up immediately. She knew better. People posted garbage about Bruce and his kids constantly-- wild speculation about his absence, conspiracy theories, terribly written clickbait op-eds debating his involvement in this scandal or that. Most of it wasn't worth her time.

But something... A gut feeling, she supposed... Made her hesitate. 

She sighed, setting down her chopsticks. Her gaze flicked to the screen, expecting another recycled think piece about the Wayne family curse or some nonsense.

And then she froze.

Right there, front and center... it was him.

Bruce.

Alive.

Sitting on a rooftop in what looked like Paris, arms wrapped intimately around Talia al Ghul, the city skyline painted in the warm hues of an evening sunset behind them. He looked unbothered. At peace. Like he hadn’t been missing for weeks. Like he hadn’t let them all believe he was dead.

Barbara's breath left her in a slow, measured exhale.

She put down her food without taking her eyes off the screen, reaching for her encrypted phone. Her fingers moved on autopilot, dialing Tim. He would be awake. He was always awake.

The line clicked. A drowsy, muffled "Yeah?"

She didn’t waste time. "Check your Twitter. Right now."

Tim groaned softly, clearly already at his desk. "...Why...?"

"Just do it." Her voice was tight, sharp. No patience for questions.

A beat of silence. Then the faint sound of thumbs typing away on glass...

Then-- Tim inhaled sharply.

"...Oh, Jesus..."

Chapter Text

"Jesus... Christ..."

Bruce exhaled sharply and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, his head resting in Talia’s lap. Their new room was small, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of aged wood and livestock-- a far cry from the luxurious Parisian suite they’d abandoned just hours earlier. Outside, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on dirt roads signaled the passing of farmers and their flocks, their voices carrying in a dialect Bruce had barely registered since arriving, though he knew he probably spoke it, or had, once. If he thought hard enough he supposed he'd be able to figure out what was being said-- but since they'd arrived in Europe he'd let Talia do most of the talking, and now that they were in this tiny village he elected not to press his luck by changing the pattern. This place was... Not ideal, frankly...

But it was safe. For now.

Talia’s fingers threaded through his hair, her nails lightly grazing his scalp in slow, deliberate strokes. She could sense his tension-- the weight of the world seeming to press down on him-- but neither of them spoke for a long time. 

Finally, Bruce groaned and let his hands drop to his sides.

"It's not... that bad," Talia murmured gently, her gaze fixed on the cheap burner phone she’d purchased for the sole purpose of monitoring the media frenzy surrounding Bruce’s reappearance for the day before inevitably tossing it into the Seine once they were finished with it.

She scrolled idly, scanning article after article. "I've only seen two people try to link your disappearance to Batman’s, and no one is really taking them seriously."

Bruce let out a low, bitter chuckle. "That’s not the part I’m worried about."

Talia hummed in understanding. "The children," she said softly, finishing his thought for him. "And Alfred."

Bruce swallowed hard. His family.

"We have a phone now," Talia offered gently. "We could call them."

Bruce hesitated. His fingers twitched against the worn, slightly scratchy fabric of the bedspread.

"I..." His voice wavered. "...No. I can't."

Talia didn't press him. She simply kept stroking his hair, waiting.

"Words are still... hard," he admitted finally, frustration lacing his tone. "I won’t say the right thing if I call. I--... I just want to see them. I need to..." He sucked in a shaky breath. "To hold them... My babies..."

His voice cracked on the last word.

Talia closed her eyes briefly, absorbing his grief, his longing, letting the pain sink into her own spine and praying that it would drain from his spirit and into her. Then, she tilted her head back, staring at the bare, unremarkable ceiling.

"You'll see them soon, Beloved. I promise."

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant murmur of the village outside.

Bruce turned his head slightly, his cheek resting against the warm flesh of her thigh.

"Do you think they'll be angry?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

Talia stilled for just a second, unsure how she could possibly answer that question. 

She exhaled slowly, choosing her words with delicate care. "I think... you are a good father," she said at last. "And I believe in your ability to handle whatever comes next."

Bruce's lips pressed into a tight line.

"I don’t want anything else to come." He closed his eyes. "I just... I want a break, Talia. I'm tired of... things happening."

Talia smoothed her palm over his forehead, brushing his short, thick black hair back and admiring the spikes it formed, feeling the weight in his words settle deep in her chest.

"I... I know you want a break, Beloved..." She sighed. "Soon. You will be able to rest soon." 

The room lapsed back into a lulling silence, broken only by the distant bleating of rams and yews. Talia sighed quietly, laying down on the mattress and taking her free hand to run over the bandaged remnants of her wounded bicep. Bruce had wrapped it so gently, so lovingly-- it had been so many years since he'd been there to administer first aid for her, to care for her... She'd forgotten how wonderful it was. 

Suddenly, she paused. 

Forgotten.

... What was she forgetting...?

.

.

.

She gasped suddenly and sat back up, delivering a string of curses in Arabic that Bruce's mind had not yet sped up enough to understand-- but it didn't take a well healed mind to know something was wrong. 

"What?" He asked quickly, his brow furrowed as he sat up slightly to look at her. "What's wrong?"

"The letter!!" She exclaimed, burying her face in her hands. 

"What letter...?"

"The arrow they shot me with," she explained somewhat miserably. "I forgot to tell you. That wasn't an assassin-- if he had been, he wouldn't have missed. He was a messenger."

Bruce blinked. "A... Messenger...? From... Ra's...?"

Talia nodded, her fingers curling into fists as frustration and panic crept into her voice, her usual sophisticated, poised attitude suddenly gone in a way it only ever dared to be with him. "The arrow he shot me with had a letter attached! When I broke off the shaft, I left it on the ground-- I was in such a hurry to go after you I barely even thought about it-- but when we packed up to leave, we were in such a rush, I... I don't think I took it...!" 

Bruce stilled, absorbing the information as best he could; that whole sequence of events was a blur of green rage-- he couldn't have told you what the weather had been, frankly. His expression didn’t change much, but she could see the shift in his posture-- the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers twitched against the sheets.

"... So we have no idea what Ra's wants from us...?" He asked slowly. 

"Not precisely..." Talia sighed. "But... That specific method of message delivery, it's... Traditionally used for declarations of war. So we can assume he's... not happy..."

Bruce let those words hang in the air for a long moment, simply staring at her. Slowly, he sat up, his strong back against the smooth wooden headboard behind him, his face contoured by the midday autumn sun creeping in through past the lacy curtains. 

"... I'm glad," He announced suddenly. 

"... What...?" Talia hissed. "What on Earth do you mean by that?"

"I mean that..." Bruce swallowed. He was still struggling to verbalize his feelings, even since the strange, amnesia-like side affects of his Lazarus revival-- which Talia still hadn't managed to entirely decipher the cause of-- had largely faded. "... I mean that I... don't care what he has to say-- to either of us."

"Bruce..." Talia sighed. "Beloved, we don't know what he's planning. We don't know if he's coming for us, if he's--"

"Let him come," he said firmly. "Let him bring his whole goddamned army. I've beat him before, I can beat him again--"

"Last time you--"

"Last time he got lucky!" Bruce growled. "If he comes for me again, he won't. I know your father. He plays fair, he has to. He can't help himself-- and don't tell me he wasn't mad that he didn't get to kill me himself, I know he was."

Talia pursed her lips slightly. Bruce wasn't wrong. 

"Man to man, I can beat him," he finished stiffly. "We both know I can. Besides..." He paused for a moment, reaching out to squeeze her hand. "... The most powerful weapon he ever had against me was you... And he can't ever control you like that again. We're both free. You and I are the only two people on this planet who've ever had a chance at taking him down."

Silence settled between them again, warm and soothing. "... Okay," Talia said finally. "... Let him come."

Bruce smiled softly, a playful glint in his eyes as he licked his lips. “You know, I think I like it when you decide I’m right,” he teased, leaning in just a fraction closer.

Talia smirked in that sharp, feline way that made a chill run down his spine. “Don’t get used to it, Detective.”

He chuckled lowly. “I’ll try not to, pretty girl…”

They lingered in that warm, golden-pink space-- gazes locked, breaths mingling-- until, in a movement so natural it felt inevitable, they both leaned in. Two forces drawn together by something magnetic, something familiar. The kiss came softly at first, a slow meeting of lips that melted into something deeper, something more hungry.

Bruce’s hand slid up, threading through the ebony silk of her hair, pulling her closer as if he could meld their bodies together with the heat their touch birthed. Talia sighed against him, warmth pooling in her chest as her hands moved instinctively-- around his waist, gripping his back, flipping him beneath her with effortless precision.

Bruce barely had time to gasp before his back met the mattress with a gentle bounce and a squeak of it's old springs, but his grin broke through the moment their lips met again.

“After all these years, I can still get you beneath me with such ease…” she purred, her voice rich with amusement and passion. “Just like when we sparred together as children.”

Bruce huffed a quiet laugh, his hands finding her waist, appreciating the familiar, sculpted curves beneath his fingertips. “We were seventeen-- hardly children,” he murmured, trailing his hands lower. “And I beat you plenty of times.”

Talia’s smirk deepened as she leaned in, her lips brushing teasingly against his ear. “Only when I hadn’t distracted you…”

Her breath was warm against his skin, her words laced with something dangerous, something that made Bruce’s pulse quicken... And just like all those years ago, he found he didn’t mind losing to her at all.

She leaned down gently and started to trail her lips along his adams apple, mumbling words of appreciation beneath her breath that only the wind could have heard. 

It had been so long since they'd felt each other like this... Slowly, her hand slipped downward, her nails grazing along the evidence of Bruce's arousal. 

"I've missed you..." He breathed. "So much..."

"I've missed you too..." She responded lovingly. 

For a moment-- one perfect, fragile moment-- the rest of the world disappeared. It was just them, lost in something warm and familiar, something that felt like a dream they never wanted to wake from.

And then—

A sudden chorus of shocked exclamations from the villagers outside penetrated their private bubble and could not be ignored. 

Bruce barely had time to process the sound before the unmistakable roar of jet engines split through the quiet countryside.

Talia pulled herself away from him reluctantly, sitting up with a knitted brow. 

"I'm so sick of getting cockblocked by the French..." He mumbled. 

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Beloved."

He sat up and adjusted his pants awkwardly, shuffling over to the window and sticking his head out. 

Reluctantly, he sat up, adjusting his pants with a sigh before shuffling over to the window. He cracked it open just in time to hear someone calling his name.

“Bruce?! Bruce Wayne?!”

No.

No, not now.

Anyone but them.

A streak of red and blue shot toward the hostel, stopping just outside their window and ruffling Bruce's already messy hair with a gust of wind. 

“Mr. Wayne!!”

Bruce barely had time to flinch before Superman himself hovered into view, his face lighting up with a broad, all-American smile.

“You’re okay!” Clark exclaimed, voice thick with relief.

Bruce blinked. Stared. Deadpanned.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” A pause. “Can I help you… Superman?”

As if things couldn’t get worse, Bruce glanced past Clark’s shoulder and spotted the rest of the Justice League descending the hill toward the village, Wonder Woman's invisible jet parked in a previously peaceful meadow. 

Diana-- her armor gleaming in the sunlight-- was leading the group, speaking with the bewildered locals in flawless French as she strode forward with her usual Amazonian confidence. J’onn floated just behind her, his red eyes scanning the area with a slight suspicion. Behind them, Bruce could identify several other heroes he knew from his time in The League exiting the plane. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“You brought friends.”

“Of course I did! We thought you were dead!” Superman let out a hearty, relieved laugh, floating a little closer as he held out his arms as if to scoop the shorter man out from the window and hold him in his arms. The thought made Bruce cringe. 

There was a long, painful pause.

Bruce exhaled sharply. “… I appreciate the, uh, concern.” He crossed his arms. “But why would you...”

Then, at the exact same moment, it clicked.

Superman winced.

“… Are you gonna be mad if I say--”

“Don’t.” Bruce cut him off, voice heavy with exhaustion. “Don’t say it. Just… don’t.”

Another pause. 

"... Who told you?"

Chapter Text

For Zatanna, the past several weeks spent as an honorary member of the Wayne family had been... Straining. She'd done her best to help, to be there, to pick up the slack left in Bruce's absence. She'd cleaned and cooked and sat in silence with those who needed it and nursed broken bones and stitched wounds and issued medications...

But it never seemed to be enough.

Grief was a thing she knew well. It was a virus, a poltergeist-- and it haunted the manor like a spirit long since dead but still just as powerful. It was in the air, thick as fog, lingering in doorways, curling around corners. The weight of it settled in the dim glow of the Batcomputer, in the empty space at the head of the dining table, in the distant, hollow silence of Bruce’s bedroom. Only, of course, this was one demon she couldn't cast out with a few words in reverse and a wave of her wand.

Zatanna hated that.

She hated not being able to fix something. That was her job, wasn't it? As a hero? As Zatanna, daughter of Giuseppe Zatara-- Doctor Fate? As one of the most powerful magic users on Earth? Was it not her responsibility to cast out darkness?

What the hell was she supposed to do when that darkness wouldn't go?

Still, she did what she could. That was all there was to do. Sure, she hadn't been around the manor as much these past few years, but the kids still called her Tante Zee (or, at least Dick and Jay did) and she did what she could to live up to the title. She helped Alfred with the housework when it was needed, kept an eye on the kids, monitored the more extended members of the city's vigilante community-- even the Sirens and Birds of Prey-- who'd taken up the brunt of the work in Gotham since The Bat's disappearance...

It was a taxing, really. Zatanna made an effort not to voice that feeling-- it was inappropriate, it wasn't her place to ask for comfort when she was supposed to be giving it... But taking The Batman out of this city left a pretty big hole in his place and it was damn hard to fill. Impossible, even.

But she owed him this much, didn't she?

Bruce and Zatanna had grown up together, long before either had been known as who and what they were now-- hell, even before the death of The Wayne's. He was the closest thing she would ever have to a brother... and she supposed that all this is what a good sister was supposed to do. 

Of course, the complications had only grown since Bruce Wayne's sudden reappearance in Paris several days prior. The family found quickly that it was both a blessing and a curse.

The internet had exploded almost instantly-- Bruce Wayne was... Well, he was Bruce Wayne. Beloved socialite and philanthropist, dubbed the 'Only Billionaire We Won't Shoot' by much of the younger generation on social media (a title which Jason had quite enjoyed joking about)-- of course his unexplained absence from the public eye would be noticed, and a reappearance in the city of lights only added to the dramatism. 

But while the rest of the world revelled in the entertainment factor of finally locating Gotham's Prince, Zatanna had been left as a grief counselor-- which she soon discovered was a job far more suited to Dinah than it had ever been for her. 

"Have you been doing your homework?" Zatanna asked gently, sliding a bowl across the table toward Damian. It wasn’t much—just instant oatmeal—but it was better than nothing. She felt a little bad, really, trying to replace Alfred’s cooking with something so... pitiful.

But at least Damian was eating. That was more than she could say for most of them.

"... I've kept up," he replied quietly, reluctantly spooning a bite into his mouth.

Zatanna had always thought he looked adorable in his school uniform-- just like Bruce at that age. The resemblance was uncanny, really-- when Bruce came back from his fancy upstate boarding school and started attending Gotham Academy with her, he'd started wearing the exact same uniform that Damian wore now. The gray blazer, the shorts... The furrowed brow, thick with tension-- that, Bruce hadn't yet developed. Not for anther six months or so... Not until Crime Alley.

She reached down and adjusted his tie slightly, but he swatted her away bitterly. Zatanna sighed. 

"You missed a lot of school," she spoke carefully, as if approaching a rabid, wounded animal. "If you need help with anything, you can--"

"Dick helps me with my homework," he interrupted coldly. "Not that I need it, usually, but... That's his job."

Zatanna swallowed hard. "I... Yeah, I know," she thought about putting a hand on his shoulder, but elected not to. "I just..." She wanted to say more, but... What was there to say?

This boy had lost his father-- and yet, at once, he hadn't. She knew what that was like-- probably more than anyone else who the boy could talk to, apart from his own siblings. But still... She couldn't find it in her to speak. 

She wanted to say more, but... what was there for her to say? That she was sorry? That she knew how he felt? That she wanted to help him? True as those statements may be, she knew they were useless.

Silence settled over them, thick like morning fog and suffocating like fear toxin. It made her chest ache with unspoken words. 

It was only the two of them in the dining room that morning-- cold, empty, lonely. The others had already gone for the day, scattering like ghosts, each finding their own way to drown out the confusion, the anger. Zatanna had stopped bothering to ask where they went.

They wouldn't answer.

They never answered.

It was an unspoken thing between them, some silent agreement that the only way to deal with the gaping, bleeding wound left in Bruce’s absence was to fill it with fury. It was natural, she supposed. They were Waynes. They didn't grieve softly. They grieved with clenched fists and sharpened words, in shattered glass and slammed doors and wounds that didn’t heal properly. They were their father’s children.

Well, except for Alfred, of course.

Alfred didn't get angry.

Alfred was just quiet.

Distantly, she could hear Jason outside on the phone, wandering through the gardens as he often did while he screamed at Dick through the speaker, his face red with fury. That was the only way they seemed capable of speaking since Dick's arrest-- or, more accurately, since Dick's refusal to come home. Terrible as it might be, Zatanna couldn't entirely find it in herself to blame him for that. She wouldn't want to stay in a haunted house either. 

"... You ready for school?" She turned back to Damian reluctantly. He'd finished most of the bowl. Good. He needed the energy.

"... Yeah," he said quietly, standing up and grabbing his backpack off the floor. 

"I can drive you, if you want...?" Zatanna offered gently. Granted, she wouldn't blame Damian for not wanting to arrive at school in her sparkly purple van that proudly displayed her own name on the side-- but still, she hoped he'd say yes. 

"No," he replied, just the same as he always did. "I'd rather walk."

"It's a long ways."

"I've gone longer." He shrugged his bag over his shoulder. She wanted to cry-- he looked just like him, sounded just like him. She wasn't sure if they were tears of grief or joy. 

"... Have a good day at school, Damian," Zatanna forced herself to smile.

He didn't reply, and when she was certain he'd gone she let herself crumble to the floor and wept. 

The house was silent. Agonizingly so. No, this was not the peaceful kind of silence, not the comfortable, sweet silence of a home asleep or away of their own volition. This was the hollow kind of silence. The kind that settled into the walls, into the cracks in the floorboards, into the very bones of the manor itself.

Then, cutting through it, suddenly, was born a sound. A sound that didn’t belong.

The ringing of a phone.

The house phone, to be precise-- dusty and untouched, its cord curled like an old, sleeping snake on the side table in the hallway. No one ever used it anymore--there was no need. The family largely relied on their own personal encrypted channels for communication-- anything but this ancient relic of a landline.

And yet, it rang.

...

No one answered.

...

No footsteps came. No curious glances.

...

Distantly, Alfred could hear that something was ringing, but he didn't bother going to see what it was. No-- he'd been obsessively waxing Bruce's desk for nearly two hours now. He wasn't going downstairs now.

And then, finally--

Silence.

A mechanical click.

Then a voice, disembodied and tiny, filtered through the old answering machine.

"Hello, Mr. Pennyworth, I'm calling from Gotham Academy. This number was left as the secondary guardian for Damian Wayne, and we've had difficulty reaching his primary caregiver through his phone."

The message played to an empty hall.

"I'm calling to inform you that your student has five unexcused absences over the past week and a half-- this is a reminder to please call and excuse these absences, or they will be placed on his permanent record. His previous absence of two weeks was excused as... a family emergency... but please understand that his returning to school is vital, and excusing those absences does not excuse these new ones."

The words echoed off the high ceilings, settling in the dust like something long since abandoned.

"Damian has only been recorded as present twice over the last week, and on both instances, he was marked as truant. Please return this call shortly, or we will be forced to request a private meeting. Thank you."

Click.

The voice was gone.

The machine blinked once, twice, signaling the presence of the unheard message.

It wouldn't be played for at least another several hours-- and by the time it was, it would be too late anyhow.

Damian had found a surprising amount of comfort in riding the bus.

The idea would have been laughable to him once-- offensive, even. Public transportation? Him? There had been a time when even the thought of sharing a confined space with strangers, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Gotham’s unwashed masses, would have been enough to make his skin crawl. He was raised as a prince. Private jets, chauffeured cars, servants who anticipated his needs before he even voiced them—that was the world he was meant for.

And yet, here he was.

The bus rumbled beneath him as it groaned and lurched its way through Gotham’s streets, the seat vibrating ever so slightly under his fingertips where he rested his hand against the filthy, cold window. Outside, the city smeared past in a slow watercolor of neon signs, cracked pavement, and headlights cutting through the early morning mist.

Damian glanced down at his phone. 8:32 AM. The bell had already rung by now.

The first day he'd skipped school like this he'd been almost nervous at that idea-- he'd been eyeing the clock almost obsessively, and with the bottom of the hour finally came, he felt his stomach jolt with anxiety. 

Since then, he'd gotten used to it quickly.

His hood was pulled low over his face, the cotton fabric of his sweatshirt soft and worn at the edges, the front of it sticky with the fading HALEY'S CIRCUS logo. Belonging to the family he did, of course he had no real need for hand-me-downs... But he'd quietly slipped this sweater out of Dick's old room the night he turned himself in to the police, and had rarely taken it off since.

His headphones sat snug over his ears, muffling the world into something distant, something manageable. He wasn't listening to anything, not really, one of his father's jazz playlists-- but the sound was turned low, just enough to be an excuse to ignore anyone who might try to speak to him.

There was an ease, Damian realized, in being anonymous. Being in a place where no one knew his name. Where no one looked at him with pity in their eyes.

At the Manor, there were too many glances, too many carefully chosen words.

Are you doing okay, Damian?

Do you want to talk, Damian?

He wasn't. He didn’t.

On the bus, no one cared.

Here, people had their own lives, their own problems. No one tried to fix him. No one whispered about his father, about his family, about his mother, about what she could be doing to him, about where they'd gone, why he hadn't even bothered to call--

On the bus, you got on when you needed to and you got off at your stop. Simple. Predictable. He appreciated that.

"Next stop... Fourth and Grand Street."

Damian reached up and tugged at the worn yellow cord above to request his stop, and when it came he said nothing as he got off through the back door, his backpack slung over his shoulder and the smoggy, bitter air of the city refreshing his lungs. 

Gotham Academy was no where in sight. 

Duke had long since stopped telling him to fuck off and go back to school. The first few times, he'd tried, he really had-- shoved Damian’s shoulder, scowled at him, told him to get lost... But after the third or fourth encounter, he’d just sighed and stopped arguing.

"Daytime patrols are my thing, y'know," Duke had muttered bitterly the last time they crossed paths on a rooftop in the Diamond District. There was no real heat to it, though, he couldn't bring himself to really be mad. He knew why Damian was there. The same reason he was.

Damian hadn't answered. He just slipped off and melted into the shadows, disappearing before Duke could say anything more.

Because what was there to say?

He couldn’t sit in a classroom right now. He couldn’t stomach the thought of wedging himself into a stiff wooden desk, surrounded by kids who worried about exams and extracurriculars and weekend plans, while his world lay in splintered ruins around him.

His father was dead.

His father was alive.

His father was somewhere else with his mother-- with a woman he hadn't seen in years, who he missed and hated and yearned for.

The grief hadn’t left. It had just… rotted into something else.

So, no. He wasn’t going to school.

Instead, Robin had begun making appearances during the day, slipping through Gotham’s streets in the sunlight, much to the confusion of the occasional civilian who spotted him. Gotham wasn’t used to seeing the Boy Wonder before dark. People did double takes, muttered under their breath, exchanged puzzled looks...

He’d been careful, though. Avoided cameras. Stuck to blind spots in security feeds. Occasionally, he caught the flicker of a raised phone, some nosy passerby trying to sneak a picture-- but so far, there hadn’t been much activity on social media. No viral videos. No trending hashtags. He'd yet to be caught.

And Duke… Duke hadn’t said anything to the others. Hadn’t ratted him out to Dick or Tim or Zatanna.

For that, Damian was grateful.

He spent his days going after Black Mask’s low-level henchmen, Scarecrow’s toxin runners-- the small-time criminals, the ones with predictable patterns, who weren’t smart enough to cover their tracks.

Simple work.

No riddles to solve, no clues to examine, no evidence to document.

Just something to hit.

Something to fight until his own pain dulled to something bearable.

Damian stood motionless, surrounded by the twitching, unconscious bodies of the men he’d just beaten. Mobsters. Their groans barely registered, muffled beneath the pounding in his skull, the erratic rhythm of his own breath.

The alleyway was dimly lit, even during the overcast, pale white light of day. Neon flickers from a nearby bar sign cast jagged shadows over the walls. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and blood.

... Where was he?

Damian blinked, but the question refused to settle in his mind.

Everything felt... Distant. Foreign. 

He looked at his hands-- gloved, trembling ever so slightly, still curled into fists.

His body was here, but his mind was elsewhere, drifting, untethered.

He didn't even acknowledge the presence behind him at first. He felt it-- of course he did, his instincts were too sharp to miss it-- but there was no urgency, no alarm. Just a quiet certainty that someone had been watching. That someone had been waiting.

"You've learned to fight like your father."

The voice was smooth, deep... familiar.

Damian’s heart seized in his chest.

His breath caught, but he didn’t turn around. He knew that voice. He knew it like he knew the rhythm of his own pulse.

A hand settled on his shoulder.

Cold. Firm. Unshakable.

Damian felt every muscle in his body turn to stone.

"We shall fix that, Hafid."

Chapter Text

The cabin of the jet was warm and a bit stuffy-- but thick with a tension Bruce couldn’t quite name. It lingered in the air, settling into the quiet hum of the engines, pressing into him, thick enough to have been sliced with a blade.

Part of him was still somewhat frustrated-- his and Talia’s... moment... had been interrupted, and the comfort of pretending everything was alright had been removed, the blanket ripped away from over his head and tossed aside-- but in truth, he still found himself somewhat relieved.

He was safe here. Batman and Bruce alike where both men who ran on instinct-- and as he sat here, in some place between the two versions of himself, he found that his instinct was reluctantly allowing him to relax, just slightly.

He was among friends.

But even so... the silence unsettled him.

Talia sat beside him, her posture poised as always but her presence uncharacteristically soft. She wore something far more casual than anyone-- least of all The League-- were accustomed to seeing her in. She looked... Comfortable. Still beautiful, still naturally graceful-- but the rigidity that was trademark for The Daughter Of The Demon seemed absent. On a selfish sort of level, Bruce almost preferred her this way; her skin still slightly flushed, her usual dark makeup absent from her features... her hand was warm and grounding where it rested on his thigh, and the presence melted his aching muscles, just slightly.

Still, there were too many unanswered questions. 

The Detective inside him, The Bat-- growled and seethed. 

'Something is missing,' it whispered. 'There's something they aren't telling you.'

The most glaring omission was the matter of his identity. He had yet to discover how exactly they knew-- when he'd asked Clark at the window earlier the other man's face seemed to flush and pale all at once and he scrambled to dance around the query; Bruce had known Superman long enough to know what it looked like when he was keeping a secret.

He could feel the unspoken question hanging between them, heavy and dormant like a sleeping beast, none of them daring to address it outright.

It suddenly hit him that the sensation of sitting in Diana’s jet without his cowl was unnatural. It left him exposed. Uneasy. There was a slight shift in the sensory experience, a new breeze across his forehead that hadn't been there before. He made an effort to ignore it.

The silence stretched on.

No one moved to fill it.

Then--

“…How was Paris?”

Hal’s voice cut through the air with an awkward, stilted edge. He offered a half-hearted chuckle, but it died quickly. Next to him, Barry shot him a sharp look, his disapproval plain. The two exchanged a brief, silent conversation.

Talia lifted her chin slightly, considering the question. Her hand tensed against Bruce's thigh.

“…We didn’t stay long,” she admitted, her voice smooth but measured-- diplomatic in a way that was almost reminiscent of her father... Not that Bruce would ever tell her that. “But it was lovely, as always. I’d like to return again someday. Under… better circumstances.”

She turned her gaze to Bruce momentarily and he gave her a small, private smile in response-- just for her. It barely touched his face, but she saw it.

Barry and Hal exchanged another look.

“Well, it, uh…” Barry cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s… good to see you, Bats-- Bruce... Uh-- M-Mister... Wayne.” His face flushed slightly and he started cracking his knuckles instinctually

Bruce's eyes had already narrowed marginally.

“…I wanted to ask you about that, actually.” His voice was level, but there was an edge to it, a sharpness that made Barry and Hal both shift in their seats at the familiar discomofrt. “How did you find my identity?”

The question hit the cabin like a sudden drop in altitude.

Toward the other end of the plane, Clark and J’onn sat together, seemingly engaged in a quiet telepathic conversation. But at Bruce’s words, Clark visibly jolted, his fingers curling slightly against his knee.

Interesting. Bruce noted the reaction carefully.

Barry faltered. “It… uh…”

“It’s a long story,” Hal cut in swiftly, trying to keep Barry from embarrassing himself further.

“A... long story,” Bruce repeated, slow and deliberate. His jaw tensed. He almost wished he had his cowl right now-- doing an interrogation like this, wearing a t-shirt and sandals... The cowl would’ve made it easier to make them squirm.

Talia, still seated beside him, tilted her head ever so slightly. When Bruce looked at her, he caught a storm brewing in her green eyes.

“My Beloved guards his identity quite well,” she said smoothly, but there was something icy beneath her words. “The Justice League-- sans his presence-- does not have the means nor intelligence to discover it on their own.”

“Hey!” Barry straightened, visibly offended.

Talia ignored him. Bruce considered telling her to back down, but some other part of him wanted to watch her continue. She would've made a good lawyer... He thought absentmindedly.

“Unless one of your telepaths said something?” she continued, her gaze shifting suddenly to J’onn.

The Martian regarded her with his usual unreadable calm, but his shoulders shifted back slightly as the attention was suddenly placed on him.

“I avoid reading the thoughts of those who do not consent,” he said. “And even telepathically, Batman keeps his identity well hidden. It was never broadcast to me, nor did he ever grant permission for such a deep examination of his thoughts that would expose who he truly was.”

Bruce remained silent, the tension in his shoulders dropping just slightly.

“I discovered he was Bruce Wayne approximately one hour after the rest of the Justice League did,” J’onn added.

There was a pause, and Talia glanced Back at Bruce. The two shared a brief, silent understanding that J'onn's absence in such a moment was... Strange.

“I was not present when this information was initially exposed,” he clarified, his tone carefully diplomatic. “I was off-world, handling separate matters.”

Bruce didn’t like the sound of that, and he felt a muscle in the side of his jaw twitch.

He wasn’t arrogant-- but he knew how the League operated when he wasn’t there. And if J’onn had been gone too? That left them with…

No one thinking three steps ahead. Impulsive decision making. Thoughts being made with their fists. 

His fingers curled tighter and his posture shifted carefully. “Then explain it to me,” he said, voice low, controlled. “How did it happen?”

Silence. A beat passed.

Then another.

Clark, still tense, glanced toward Hal and Barry. Neither of them spoke.

Which meant none of them wanted to.

Which meant it was worse than he’d thought.

Diana felt at ease in the cockpit-- or, at least, more at ease than she would have been in the cabin. The tension back there was palpable, and she found herself grateful not to share Clark's super-hearing; she didn't want to listen in on whatever conversation was going on between the boys. None of them were known for their communication skills-- and neither was Diana, frankly, but at least she knew that about herself and didn't elect to try anyways like Hal or Barry frequently would, like she imagined they were doing right now.

The League had spent nearly two hours deliberating on what to do since Bruce Wayne had been found alive. Previously, The League Of Assassins had been one enemy that Batman refused to share; they were exclusively his problem, for whatever reason. He seldom even shared information on them-- so really, apart from the tiny bit of information they'd picked up from Red Hood, they had no idea what kind of situation they were going into.

And even beyond that-- The Waynes had been explicit in their instructions: Do not interfere.

Somehow, this was a family affair rather than one for the JLA to get involved in. Diana could respect that, and especially considering what their interference had case previously, she intended to maintain her distance and encourage her fellow heroes to do the same... But that had just couldn't sit well with Clark. It wasn't that he didn't respect the families privacy, but it was his nature to help. The idea of sitting back and letting someone potentially suffer at the hands of enemy forces, especially a friend? He couldn't bear it; and the minute news broke that Bruce Wayne was aline-- that Batman was alive-- she knew that Kal-El would be shortly behind it.

"We can't just sit back and do nothing!" he'd snapped, his hair still windblown from flying straight from the office to the Watchtower. "We have the means to go get him right now. We can't just ignore that!"

The debate had dragged on painfully before, finally, Clark’s expression had hardened, his blue eyes sharpening with that familiar, unshakable resolve—the look he got when he decided something was going to happen, regardless of what stood in his way. Diana always liked to think of Kal as a Golden Retriever of sorts: and that was his guard dog look. 

"Either you come with me, or I go alone."

And so, begrudgingly, they had agreed. The Waynes be damned-- diplomacy dictated that the former option was better than the latter, at least until Clark was less emotionally involved. 

His guilt over the incident with Batman's son was still palpable-- everyone could see it eating him alive. He felt he had a debt to pay... And Diana could respect that too.

A few hours later, Diana’s jet had touched down in France. Clark had taken the lead, tracking down Batman... Bruce... within minutes. Now they were hurtling over the Atlantic at 2,000 miles per hour, bound for Gotham City International Airport. A proper landing, instead of plummeting into some French village unannounced.

Diana exhaled, rolling her shoulders as she reached for the controls. A dull headache was already forming at the base of her skull.

She switched the jet to autopilot and ran a hand through her hair. There was only one person who'd served as any kind of bridge between The Wayne's and The JLA since the misunderstanding with Red Hood-- and though she had largely refused to pass on most of what The League had said to her, this was something she needed to know about sooner rather than later. 

Adjusting the comms system, she keyed in a frequency and waited.

A burst of static can, then--

"--This is a really bad time, Diana!"

Zatanna’s voice rang through the speakers, crackling just slightly as comms often did over the ocean.

The video feed flickered to life, and Diana’s brows furrowed.

Zatanna’s eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale. She was gripping the steering wheel of what Diana instantly recognized as her van, her knuckles white, hands shaking.

Diana straightened, her muscles tensing instinctively. "Great Hera-- what’s wrong, Zatanna?" Her voice was steady, but her eyes softened as she leaned forward, as if willing herself closer through the screen.

Zatanna swallowed hard. She knew she shouldn’t say. She had spent weeks carefully keeping her Justice League duties separate from her responsibilities to the Waynes, barricading herself between the two worlds and doing her best to follow her brothers wish to keep them separate... But the pressure was unbearable, crushing her from all sides. The urge to spill everything nearly overwhelmed her.

She opened her mouth--

"Actually--" Diana cut in, voice tight as she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Zatanna, but I have an emergency of my own."

Zatanna’s stomach twisted. The very idea of something else being added to her plate made her want to curl into herself and scream.

Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. “What is it?” she managed, her voice strained. “Just tell me.”

Diana exhaled sharply. “After the reports yesterday that… Bruce was sighted in Paris--”

Zatanna’s eyes flew open and she stared at the camera in slack-jawed shock. “Oh, my God—”

“We couldn’t talk him out of it,” Diana hissed, frustration bleeding into her tone. “I tried, believe me, sister, I really did-- but you know how Kal gets. Once his mind is set, there’s no stopping him, especially when it's something like this.

Zatanna barely heard the rest. Her pulse was hammering in her ears.

Diana pressed on, watching her carefully. “So… we decided the best course of action was to go with him.”

Zatanna’s head snapped up. “We?”

Diana hesitated. “The core League,” she said finally. "Myself, Clark, Barry, Hal, J'onn..."

There was a beat of silence.

Then, slowly, Zatanna turned to stare into the camera, expression incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Diana cleared her throat, visibly uncomfortable. “We’re in the Invisible Jet right now. Crossing the Atlantic. We’ll be in Gotham in about ninety minutes.”

Zatanna let out a shaky breath and looked away. She pressed her fingers to her temples, forcing herself to think.

This could be good.

She turned back to the screen, her expression firming. “Alright.”

Diana’s brow quirked with some suspicion at the easy reaction. “Alright?” In all honesty, part of her had expected to be cursed for this. 

Zatanna nodded, her grip on the wheel stabilizing. “If there was ever a time I needed him home, it’s now.”

Her stomach churned, but her voice was steady.

“Transfer my comm to the cabin. I need to talk to him.”

Diana hesitated. “I don’t know if that’s...”

“Do it, Diana.”

The cabin had grown eerily, stiffly silent when Bruce had asked for an explanation as to their learning his identity. Clearly, whatever had happened was the cause for contention among the group--possibly even for the guilty tremble in Clark's eyes, for the nervous bounce in his leg that threatened to shake the plane. No one seemed willing to offer another word--

When, suddenly, the comm screen bloomed to life. 

"Bruce?" It was Zatanna's voice, he knew in an instant. She was in her car, seemingly pulled over on the side of the road somewhere in North Burnley. Her eyes scanned her own screen for Bruce's presence and he watched her nearly melt with relief as she saw him. "Oh, God..." Her voice cracked slightly. "You have no idea how good it is to see your stupid face," she laughed, and Bruce couldn't keep a smile from forming on his face. 

"It's good to see you too. I have a lot to tell you--" He was cut off quickly.

"I know, Bruce, I know-- I have a lot to tell you too-- but it will have to wait," Zatanna's voice had an obvious urgency to it that made Bruce straighten slightly. 

"What happened?" He asked, ignoring the way that the others were staring at him. 

Zatanna's lip trembled. "I... I'm so sorry, Bruce-- I've done my best to look after them--"

Bruce's eyes widened. "Them? Who's them?" 

"The kids," She replied painfully. Bruce felt Talia tense at his side in sync with him. Had he been more capable in the moment he would have assured her that his family wasn't her responsibility-- but his fear suddenly outweighed his manners. "When you land in Gotham, I need you to come straight to The Manor. I'll be there and I'll fill you in on everything that's happened-- but..." She felt like throwing up, suddenly. "... Damian has... I'm sorry, Bruce, if I'd known he'd been skipping class--"

"What happened to Damian?" This time it was Talia who spoke up, her hands curling into fists. She was beginning to suspect she already knew. 

The arrow. The letter. The declaration of war. 

"... He's missing," Zatanna choked out finally, not bothering to question Talia's presence. "I can't find him anywhere, I...I don't know where he is."

There was a thick silence that rose on both sides of the call, a sudden flood of grief sitting between them both. 

Bruce had a strange feeling that, somehow, this was only the beginning of their troubles. 

Chapter Text

Admittedly, Bruce had felt his mind slip from the constraints of his aching body in the final hours of travel before he arrived at the manor. He floated alongside Talia with aimless neutrality, his eyes narrow and cold. Their fingers stayed interlocked as they walked side-by-side, silent, unspeaking. Perhaps since the first time they'd laid eyes on each other since this all started, there'd been an empty space lingering between them, still and soft and barely there... But it was. 

It was Damian. Their son. 

They'd never had his presence between them like that, not really, not together. He'd always been their invisible string, the sweet, distant thing that connected them across oceans. Their own little piece of each other. 

And now...

The familiar scent of red wine and old books enveloped Bruce suddenly-- Zatanna. He snapped himself out of his own head with a forceful shake of his head, the sensation of her arms around his neck pulling him back into reality. 

"--Missed you so much, you scared the shit out of me," she laughed in desperate relief, her manicured hands reaching up to hold his face. 

"I... I'm sorry," he choked out. Her face was a bit shadowed by the dark sunglasses he wore-- a precaution to avoid being recognized in the crowded airport. Her brow knitted slightly as she stared at him, but her smile remained. 

"Don't apologize," she shook her head. "I just... You have no idea how good it is to see you. You really don't." She turned her attention to Talia, who stood with her arms crossed a few feet away, attempting to give the two space. "And it's good to see you too, Talia. Well-- good to finally meet you. I've heard a lot over the years."

Bruce's face flushed slightly and Talia smirked. "Have you?" She glanced at the taller man, who huffed shortly and squared his shoulders. 

"Can we just... Get to the car? Please?" He asked stiffly, earning a short laugh from the both of them. 

"Yeah, come on, let's go," Zatanna nodded, schooling her expression. "Jason's at home waiting for you."

Bruce quirked a brow. "... Just Jason?" He asked carefully. His relationship with his second son had certainly improved over the past several years, but the idea that Jason would be the only one of his children awaiting his arrival was... Odd. That thought made Bruce feel strangely egotistical, but he couldn't convince himself to let it go. 

"He was the only one who's answering his phone right now," Zatanna said after a moment, averting her gaze as she lead them to where she'd parked her car. "The others don't even know Dami is..." Her voice cracked slightly. "... I'm sorry." 

"I don't blame you," Bruce said quickly, shaking his head. "It's not your fault. We'll find him." There was a brief, hesitant pause. "... Have you... Have you been here all this time...? While I was...?"

The van's doors creaked slightly as they were opened, Talia and Bruce instinctually entering the back seat together. 

"Not... The entire time," Zatanna sighed, easing into the drivers seat. "But the minute I found out what happened, I was there. I tried to be, anyways. I... You know. You're... you. I can't replace that, not to the kids." 

"Still," Bruce reached up to take off his glasses. "I... You didn't have to that." 

"I did," she replied easily. "You would've done the same for me." 

A beat passed. 

"... What all did I miss?"  

Zatanna tensed visibly. "That's... A loaded question," she said quietly. "I... I think it would be best you hear it when we get back to the manor."

Bruce felt Talia's hand come to rest on his own, but he couldn't will himself to look over at her. Whatever it was he would arrive home to... He had a feeling it would ask more of him than he would be able to give. 

"I need you to eat," Jason's voice was firm, but gentler than perhaps it usually would be. His arms were crossed as he stared at the old man in the corner, still waxing the same table after nearly an hour. It was practically reflective now-- shiny and smooth-- yet Alfred's steady, circular motions didn't cease. "You've been practically catatonic since I got back from The Watchtower--"

Alfred's shoulder's visibly tensed at the reminder of the events that had left Jason's wrist still wrapped in gauze even now. 

"-- You didn't even get out of bed when we found out Bruce wasn't dead--"

"Master Jason, please," Alfred growled, his gaze still down at the slick oakwood that he'd been obsessively buffing for what felt like days. 

"No-- Look at me," Jason stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder, turning the old man to face him forcefully. "You need to take a break." 

Alfred scoffed. "All I've done over these past weeks was take a break," he spat. "I've barely left my bed. I've barely spoken to anyone-- I haven't felt like that since..." His voice cracked slightly, and he found he couldn't finish that sentence. Jason's gaze softened slightly, and he cursed himself for not having the comforting touch that Cassandra always had. 

"You were grieving," he said finally. "No one blames you for it. We've all been... Less than our best selves lately," his thoughts flickered briefly to his elder brother, still sitting in GCPD Lockup downtown, alone. To Cass and Babs, holed up in The Clocktower, patrolling with an obsessive need. To Tim, doing the same in between his hours of work on the Batcomputer looking for God-knows-what. To Damian, who he'd barely seen at all. To Duke, who was still struggling with the fate of his own parents, now without the only other guardian he trusted. 

Somehow, without Bruce, it was as if the scaffolding of the house had crumbled to dust. They'd scattered like mice in his absence, afraid and avoidant. They'd always known it would come: the day his luck ran out, the day he couldn't dodge, the day The Batman finally died. He was only a man. It was just that... Jason supposed he'd always figured they would have a bit more strength than this. A bit more stability. They encountered death so frequently in this job-- most of them had died at some point, temporarily.

But something about that night in the sewers, when all it had taken was one lucky stab from a barely trained henchman... 

"I've been grieving," Alfred said finally. Jason hadn't realized how long they'd lapsed into that tense silence, and now the old man was seated in an old chair, his head in his hands. "All I do is grieve. All of this started with grief. Everything-- everything you do, everything I do, everything he does-- it is because we are grieving." His hands shook as they slowly came away from his face and settled on his boney knees, his knuckles white with the pressure of his grip. "I... I'm getting older, Jason. I can only take so much more, you understand?" He let out a shaky breath and finally forced himself to look up. "My son... I lost my son. The fact that he's coming back doesn't change my losing him in the first place."

Jason couldn't help but wonder, for a brief moment, if this was how Bruce had felt too, years ago, when he'd returned from Ethiopia with a coffin at his side. When he'd first heard the news of a new Crime Lord in Gotham with an eerily familiar skill set. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could the familiar sound of the heavy front door opening in it's slow, creaking way. Footsteps-- one set heavy, firm, distinct. Familiar. 

Before either of them knew it, Alfred and Jason had raced down the stairs stopping at the top of the last flight to take in the scene before them. 

Bruce. Alive. His hair had been cut at some point: a messy, cowlicked disarray of inky black replacing his once carefully maintained and styled locks. His eyes seemed... Different. Softer, somehow, like a wounded dog. 

Alfred let out a soft choking sort of sound as he stumbled forward down the stairs, wrapping his arms tight around Bruce's neck. The hug was quickly reciprocated, and a gentle silence filled the room. Jason glanced over at Zatanna, who smiled at him tightly. He considered, for a brief moment, allowing his eyes to pass over to Talia, but he didn't. Not yet. 

"My boy..." Alfred's voice was small, only heard by Bruce, his shaking hands gripping his shirt with a desperate strength. 

"Hi, old friend..." Bruce responded softly. He remembered vaguely, distantly, the feeling of being held by this man when he was small, when Alfred had felt so enormously tall compared to him-- and now, Bruce was over a head larger, with broad shoulders and powerful arms to match, and Alfred... 

"You... Have no idea how much I've missed you," Alfred hissed, not trusting his full voice to maintain. "You really don't..."

"I'm sorry..." Bruce found himself apologizing again, largely because he didn't know what else to say. Alfred shook his head insistently. 

"Oh, stop that," Alfred laughed softly, a smile on his face for the first time in days. He pulled away finally and took a moment to stare at Bruce through glassy eyes. "Look at you... My boy..." He reached up and ran a hand over Bruce's head. "What have you done to your hair?" Bruce couldn't help but laugh slightly. 

"It's a long story," he said carefully, glancing at Talia for an instant. 

"I imagine that's going to be a theme tonight," Alfred sighed, finally detaching himself from Bruce and adjusting his suit. He followed Bruce's eyes, finally seeing the woman at his side, who'd been doing her best to remain silent and respectful as they had their reunion. "Lady Talia," he addressed her with a nod. "It has been... Quite some time."

She smiled softly. "Indeed it has, Alfred..." She sighed. "It is good to see your face, though I do wish it were under... Better circumstances, all things considered." 

Alfred's expression sharpened and he nodded. "Indeed," he said gruffly, his soldier's firmness suddenly returning to his face. 

"Let's head to the cave," Jason sighed. "You... Uh... The two of you, I guess, if that's what we're doing... Have some catching up to do."

He glanced awkwardly between Bruce and Talia, who shared their own hesitant eye contact. They hadn't had much time to discuss the labels of their newly reborn relationship, in truth... But the idea of letting her leave now, or anytime soon, made Bruce a bit queasy. 

"The two of us," he confirmed. Talia's eyes widened slightly, her brow furrowing-- but she didn't say anything, not yet. 

Now wasn't the time.

When Jason, Zatanna, and Alfred finally finished their explanation of the previous weeks events, Bruce stayed quiet for a long, long time. Each time he thought they were done, that he'd heard the worst of it, something else would come and make him sick to his stomach. 

His babies... All alone, suffering without him, while he was overseas, barely able to remember their names, spending his days wrapped in the arms of the woman he loved...

"There's security footage from The Watchtower if you feel like watching me get my ass kicked," Jason offered casually once he and Bruce were left alone in the cave. Talia was doing her best to give Bruce space with his family, trying not to impose-- and he appreciated that, though he quietly pined for the sensation of her hand interlocked with his once more. She made any space feel a bit less cold. 

Bruce nodded after a moment. "I assumed there would be..." He swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair. Part of him wanted to stop everything and watch the footage right that second, to let the rage build up in his chest until he had no qualms about getting the Kryptonite ring hidden in the Batcave's vault and promptly flying out to Metropolis to blow off some steam-- but he knew that he had bigger things to be worried about. 

"... I'm sorry," Bruce added suddenly, finally looking up from where he'd been staring off into nothingness. 

Jason blinked, then chuckled awkwardly. "For what...?" He asked slowly.

"You... This was my fault," Bruce sighed. "I'd always had a feeling that keeping my identity... your identities... From The Justice League would come back to bite me. I... I'm sorry it got to you first." 

Jason was quiet for a moment. "... I don't blame you," he said carefully. "I don't blame Clark either. He did exactly what anyone else would've done with a stranger and a known criminal breaking into JLA Headquarters."

"But you're not a stranger," Bruce sighed, reaching out gently to cup his sons face. "They knew you, all of them did. They knew you when you were..." He trailed off, his throat suddenly tight. 

Jason exhaled shortly. "When I was Robin." He finished the sentence for him, and Bruce nodded hesitantly. 

"... When you were Robin," Bruce parroted him softly, running his hands through his hair. There was a beat of silence. "And you're not a criminal either, you know."

Jason snorted. "That's just not true," he said, crossing his arms. "We both know that's not true."

"You're my son," Bruce said firmly, standing up and taking a few steps towards him. His hands shook slightly as he reached out and took Jason's face in his hands. Jason stiffened slightly at the touch, his brow furrowing. He opened his mouth to speak, but Bruce beat him to it. "You took care of this family when I couldn't. You had every right to up and leave... But you didn't."

"... I wasn't just gonna leave them there," Jason said quietly, nodding vaguely to the Batcave's medical bay, which was still slightly messy from the triage Alfred had performed when the others had first come home, beaten and bleeding and alone. 

Bruce smiled slightly. "I know," he nodded. "I know you couldn't. They're your siblings." 

"... Yeah. They are."

The silence stretched on for a while longer before Bruce leaned forward and pulled Jason into his arms. The younger man stiffened and pulled away slightly on instinct, but Bruce didn't let him leave-- they both needed this. 

Reluctantly, Jason melted into his arms, tucking his face into Bruce's neck just the same way he had as a little boy. 

They stayed like that for a long time, still and warm. 

Finally, Bruce pulled away. 

"... You ready to go bail your brother out of jail?"

Jason smirked. "Yeah. I am."