Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bruce,

I’m sorry.

I know this will hurt you. I wish I could say something to make it easier, but I don’t think there are any right words for this.

I don’t know when it started—when it got this bad. Maybe after Jason. Maybe before. But I kept thinking it would get better. That I’d fight through it, the way I always do. The way you taught me to. But I can’t fight anymore.

I’m tired, Bruce. So goddamn tired. And I know you tried. I know you loved me in the only way you could. But Jason’s gone, and I—I can’t carry it anymore. I can’t be the one to hold everything together. I don’t know how to live in a world where we keep losing each other.

I know you won’t stop. I know you’ll keep going, because that’s what you do. But I need you to understand that this isn’t your fault.

You saved me once, when I was a kid. But you can’t save me from this.

Please don’t hate me.

I love you, Dad.

-Dick

Bruce found the note in the quiet of the manor, tucked neatly on his desk as if it belonged there—just another document among the countless reports and files that littered his workspace. But the moment his eyes landed on the first line, he knew.

He read it once, then again, the words searing into his mind like a brand.

I’m sorry.

It wasn’t the first time he had read those words in a letter.

His hands trembled slightly, the only sign of weakness he allowed himself, as he finished the note. When he reached the last line, his breath hitched.

I love you, Dad.

Bruce had been called many things in his life. Billionaire. Vigilante. Hero. But “Dad” had always been the one that mattered most, even if he rarely admitted it aloud.

And now, it was an epitaph.

Dick was gone.

For a long time, Bruce just sat there, staring at the note. The grandfather clock ticked behind him, marking time in a way that felt cruel, indifferent. The world kept moving, even as his own crumbled.

Jason. Now Dick.

Two sons. Both lost. And he hadn’t been able to save either of them.

His mind told him to move. To act. To do something. That was the rule—when grief threatened to consume him, he fought. He put on the cowl, he found a case, he hunted, he did something.

But there was nothing to fight. No criminals to track. No clues to piece together. Just an absence.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Bruce didn’t know what to do.

Alfred found him hours later, still in the study, still staring at the note. The butler’s gaze flickered from the paper to Bruce’s face, and his usual composure faltered.

“Oh, Master Bruce,” he murmured.

Bruce didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Alfred took a step closer. “Where is he?”

“The morgue,” Bruce said, his voice hoarse. “They called me this morning.”

There was a pause, heavy with things unsaid.

Alfred, ever the steady presence, exhaled softly and placed a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Would you like me to make the arrangements?”

Bruce shook his head. “I’ll do it.”

It was the least he could do. The last thing he could do.

The funeral was small.

There were no public ceremonies, no headlines. Just a few of them—Alfred, Barbara, Tim, and Clark, who had shown up uninvited but welcome.

Bruce stood by the grave, watching as the casket was lowered into the earth.

He had stood in this exact spot once before, for Jason.

That time, Dick had been the one holding him together.

Now, there was no one left to do the same for him.

He clenched his fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms.

You saved me once, when I was a kid. But you can’t save me from this.

The words haunted him. Because they were true.

He had always believed he could protect them. That if he fought hard enough, trained them well enough, loved them in his own quiet way, he could keep them safe.

But he had failed.

Jason had died in violence, in fire and blood. And Dick—Dick had died in silence.

One had been stolen from him. The other had let go.

Both were gone.

The weight of it was unbearable.

He was Batman. He had endured loss before. His parents. Jason. But this—this was different.

This wasn’t just grief. It was an unraveling.

And yet, even as he stood there, hollowed out by loss, he knew he couldn’t stop.

Because Dick had been right.

He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t.

The mission didn’t end. Gotham still needed him. The people still needed him.

But as he turned away from the grave, the wind cold against his face, he wondered if there would be anything left of him when they were done taking.

Because with each loss, each death, each name carved into a headstone, Bruce Wayne became less and less.

And Batman became all that remained.

Chapter Text

The nightmares began immediately.

Bruce wasn’t even sure he had slept. One moment, he was in his study, staring at the fireplace without really seeing it. The next, he was gasping awake, sweat-soaked and shaking, the phantom echo of laughter—his laughter—ringing in his ears.

Dick had been laughing in the dream. Laughing the way he used to as a child, perched on the railing of the manor’s grand staircase, arms out like he was ready to take flight.

Bruce had called out to him.

Dick had turned, smiling. But his eyes—his eyes were dull, hollow. Lifeless.

And then he fell.

Bruce had tried to reach him, but his feet were cemented to the floor. All he could do was watch as Dick plummeted, the sound of his body hitting the ground a sickening crack that ripped through the silence.

Then there had been blood. So much blood. Seeping across the marble like ink, staining everything.

And Dick, staring up at him with empty eyes.

“You saved me once,” he had whispered. “Why didn’t you save me this time?”

Bruce jerked awake then, breath ragged, his heart slamming against his ribs. The room was too dark, too still, pressing in on him like a suffocating weight. He pressed a hand over his face, dragging in a shaky breath.

It was just a dream.

But the nightmares never stopped.

———————————————————————

The hallucinations started soon after.

At first, they were fleeting. A shadow in the corner of his eye. A familiar laugh in an empty room. The scent of leather and sweat, the way Dick’s uniform had always smelled after patrol.

He ignored them. He was exhausted, stretched thin, and grief did strange things to the mind. He knew this. He had lived through it before.

But then he started seeing him.

It was always the same.

Dick, standing in the cave, just beyond the Batcomputer, where he used to lean against the consoles and tease Bruce for his obsessive need for organization.

“You look like hell, B,” he’d say, arms crossed, head tilted with that lopsided grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Bruce wouldn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Because Dick wasn’t real.

But that didn’t stop him from talking.

“You should get some sleep,” he’d say. Or, “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

And then, quieter—so quiet Bruce almost didn’t hear it—

“I didn’t want this.”

Bruce would blink, and he’d be gone.

He stopped sleeping. Stopped going into the manor for anything more than a quick shower and a change of clothes. The cave was safer. There were no ghosts there—at least, not the kind that spoke to him.

But Gotham didn’t stop. The city still breathed, still ached, still bled.

And Batman still had a job to do.

———————————————————————

The first time he saw both of them, he nearly collapsed.

It was after a long patrol. A bad one. A warehouse fire had trapped three kids inside. He had gotten them out, but not before the building came down. He had stood there in the rain, watching the embers smolder, the scent of smoke clawing at his lungs.

And then—

“Rough night?”

Bruce turned sharply.

Dick was there. Standing beside him like he belonged there.

And Jason—Jason was leaning against a nearby lamppost, arms folded, watching him with that sharp, assessing gaze.

He felt something crack deep inside his chest.

“You’re not real,” he said hoarsely.

Jason snorted. “No shit, old man.”

Dick just sighed. “You’re getting worse.”

Bruce closed his eyes. Counted to ten. When he opened them, they were gone.

But the ache they left behind was unbearable.

Alfred found him in the cave two nights later, still in the suit, still staring at nothing.

“Master Bruce,” he said carefully.

Bruce didn’t respond.

Alfred took a step closer. “You cannot go on like this.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

Alfred exhaled sharply. “You always have a choice.”

No, he didn’t.

Because if he stopped—if he let himself feel it, let himself acknowledge the unbearable weight of it—

He wasn’t sure he’d survive.

But he couldn’t say that. Not to Alfred.

So he just stood, pulling the cowl back over his face, stepping into the shadows like he always did.

And the ghosts followed.

Chapter Text

The hallucinations didn’t stop. If anything, they grew worse.

Bruce saw them everywhere now.

In the cave, perched on the Batcomputer like they used to be after patrols.

In the manor, standing in the hallways, half-hidden by the dim light.

In Gotham, flickering between the rooftops, just out of reach.

Sometimes, they were young—Jason in his tattered Robin cape, Dick in his old red and green uniform, bright and fearless. Other times, they were as they had been in the end—Jason bloodied and broken, Dick pale and exhausted, shadows carved into his face like something fragile and worn.

“You’re falling apart,” Dick would say softly.

“Yeah, well,” Jason would scoff. “Not like there’s much left to break.”

Bruce would squeeze his eyes shut, shake his head, and when he opened them, they’d be gone.

But they weren’t. Not really.

The nights became endless.

When he did sleep, the nightmares were relentless.

In one, he was back in Crime Alley, standing over his parents’ bodies. But when he looked down, it wasn’t Thomas and Martha lying in the street. It was Jason. It was Dick.

In another, he was trapped in the manor, hearing their voices calling for him, but every door he opened led to more darkness.

But the worst ones—

The worst ones were when they were alive.

Jason, grinning up at him, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “C’mon, B, let’s take the bike out. Just once.”

Dick, leaning into his space, eyes warm and teasing. “You need to lighten up, old man.”

Bruce would reach for them. Would try to hold on.

And then they’d disappear, slipping through his fingers like smoke.

He always woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, fingers curled into the sheets like he could still feel their presence.

And then, the silence.

Always the silence.

He stopped going to the manor altogether.

Alfred tried, at first. Brought him meals he never ate. Stood by the Batcomputer and waited for Bruce to speak.

When it became clear that Bruce wasn’t going to, he only sighed and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“You are not the only one grieving, sir.”

Bruce said nothing.

What could he say?

That grief had carved him out, left him raw and hollow?

That every time he blinked, he saw his sons dead and buried?

That he was afraid—terrified—that one day, he would forget the sound of Dick’s laughter? That Jason’s voice would fade into static?

That he didn’t know how to do this anymore?

So he said nothing.

And Alfred, with the patience of a man who had watched him crumble before, only sighed again and left him to his ghosts.

But the ghosts were never far.

One night, weeks after Dick’s death, Bruce returned from patrol and found him sitting on the steps of the Batcave.

Not really him, of course. But that didn’t matter.

He looked young. Seventeen, maybe. His Nightwing suit was gone, replaced by the old Robin uniform, the yellow cape draped over his shoulders like a memory.

Bruce swallowed hard. “Go away.”

Dick tilted his head. “You don’t mean that.”

Bruce clenched his fists. “You’re not real.”

Dick smiled—soft, knowing. “That doesn’t mean I’m not here.”

Bruce turned away.

But as he moved deeper into the cave, he could still feel him there. Watching. Waiting.

And when he sat at the Batcomputer, trying to drown himself in the work, he heard the whisper, so quiet he almost thought he imagined it—

“I love you, Dad.”

Bruce exhaled sharply, pressing his hands against his face.

He did not cry.

Batman did not cry.

But Bruce Wayne—

Bruce Wayne was breaking.

Chapter Text

It was a rainy night in Gotham when Bruce first met Tim Drake.

He didn’t know the boy’s name yet. Didn’t care.

All he saw was another ghost.

A shadowed figure standing just beyond the cemetery gates, watching him.

Bruce had been at the graves again. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there—hours, maybe. Long enough for the rain to soak through his coat, long enough for the cold to settle into his bones.

Jason’s grave.
Dick’s grave.

His boys.

Gone.

It was becoming a routine now, these nighttime visits. The manor was empty. The cave was worse. And the streets—well, the streets had always been hungry.

But here, in the quiet, with the weight of his failures carved into stone, Bruce could let himself break just a little.

Or maybe he had already broken completely.

Maybe that’s why, when he lifted his head and saw the boy standing there, staring at him, he thought—for one terrible, fractured moment—that it was Dick.

The shape of him. The tilt of his head. The eyes, wide and bright, filled with something Bruce no longer recognized.

Hope.

Bruce stood slowly, his movements stiff. He didn’t speak. Just stared.

The boy hesitated but didn’t run.

Instead, he took a step forward, cautious but sure.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

His voice was steady. Too steady for someone his age.

Bruce said nothing.

The boy exhaled, shoulders tightening like he had expected that answer. “I know who you are.” He hesitated. “I know who you were.”

Bruce flinched.

Who you were.

Because that was the truth, wasn’t it?

Batman was still here, still fighting, still bleeding into the night. But Bruce Wayne—the man who had once been a father, a mentor, a protector—was buried six feet under, right alongside his sons.

The boy took another step forward.

“My name’s Tim,” he said. “Tim Drake.”

Bruce’s fingers twitched.

The name meant something. Pulled at something deep in the fractured parts of his mind.

But it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered anymore.

“You should go home,” he said, voice rough from disuse.

Tim didn’t move.

“I know what happened to Jason,” he said carefully. “I know what happened to Dick.”

The rain was relentless. It dripped down Bruce’s face, clinging to his lashes, but it wasn’t enough to wash away the weight of those names.

Jason.
Dick.

His hands curled into fists. “You don’t know anything.”

Tim swallowed. He was nervous. Bruce could see it—the way his hands twitched at his sides, the way his breath hitched.

But he stood his ground.

“I know you’re not okay,” Tim said, voice quieter now. “I know you’re getting worse.”

Bruce’s breath left him in a slow exhale.

The boy had no idea.

He was gone.

There was no saving him. No fixing him.

Whatever he had been before—whatever good had existed in him—had died the moment Dick’s heart stopped beating.

Tim took a shaky breath. “I think you need help.”

Bruce turned away.

He had heard this before. From Alfred. From Clark. From Barbara, when she had stood in the Batcave weeks ago, voice shaking with rage, asking him why he had let Dick slip away.

He had no answer then.

He had none now.

But Tim—this boy, this stranger who didn’t know what he was stepping into—wasn’t finished.

“You need a Robin,” he said.

Bruce froze.

The word hit him like a physical blow, ripping through muscle and bone, sinking deep into the hollow space where his heart used to be.

Robin.

Jason’s laughter, wild and sharp. Dick’s acrobatics, effortless and free. Bright colors against the dark.

He turned, slowly.

Tim met his gaze, shoulders squared. He was shaking—just barely—but his eyes didn’t waver.

“I know I’m not them,” he said. “I know I can’t be.” A pause. “But I can help.”

Bruce stared at him for a long time.

A too-thin boy in the rain. Dark hair, too big coat. Eyes filled with something too close to desperation.

He wasn’t Dick.
He wasn’t Jason.

And Bruce—Bruce didn’t want him to be.

He should have walked away. Should have told the boy to go home, to stay out of the shadows, to live.

But instead, he reached out.

His hand, steady and gloved, curled around Tim’s shoulder.

And the boy didn’t flinch.

“Come,” Bruce said.

And in the downpour, in the heart of Gotham’s cemetery, in the place where ghosts walked beside him—

Tim followed.

Chapter Text

The cave was quiet when they arrived.

Too quiet.

Bruce had long since shut down the noise—the automated alerts, the comms channels, the heartbeat monitors that once tracked the pulse of a family that no longer existed.

Now, there was only silence.

Tim hesitated at the threshold, shifting under the weight of the place. The Batcave was cavernous, overwhelming, filled with shadows that stretched too long under the cold fluorescent lights.

Bruce didn’t offer him reassurance.

Didn’t tell him it was okay, that he was safe.

Because it wasn’t.

Because nothing was.

Instead, he strode forward, peeling off the cowl with slow, mechanical movements. He didn’t speak, didn’t look back, barely even acknowledged the boy standing at the edge of something he didn’t understand.

It should have been a test. A trial. A way to break Tim down and make him leave before Gotham swallowed him whole.

But Bruce didn’t have the energy for that anymore.

He barely had the energy to stand.

Still, Tim followed.

Step after careful step.

His eyes flickered across the cave—taking in the towering trophies, the endless files, the weapons, the bats sleeping in the rafters.

And then, inevitably, his gaze landed on them.

The suits.

Encased in glass.

Memorials of the dead.

Jason’s was the worst—still torn, still stained, still a frozen reminder of what happened when a child believed they could stand against monsters.

And next to it—

Dick’s suit.

The blue of it was muted under the dim lighting. The mask was still in place, tilted just slightly, as if waiting for its owner to return.

But he never would.

Tim swallowed audibly.

Bruce watched him without speaking.

Watched as the boy’s breath turned shallow, as his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

He was afraid.

Good.

He should be.

Still, he didn’t run.

Slowly, hesitantly, Tim turned to face him.

“You kept them,” he murmured.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “They were my sons.”

It was the first time he had said it aloud.

Tim blinked, something shifting in his expression. But he didn’t say I’m sorry. Didn’t murmur some empty, meaningless phrase meant to soften something that couldn’t be softened.

Instead, he squared his shoulders and nodded.

“I know.”

Bruce studied him for a long time.

The boy had no idea what he was stepping into. No idea what it meant to stand beside him, to wear the colors, to take the name.

Robin was a title carved in blood.

And Bruce had buried too many already.

Still—

Tim had found him. Had pulled him from the cemetery, from the shadows, from the grave he had been digging for himself ever since Jason’s scream had gone silent, ever since Dick had stopped answering his calls.

And maybe—maybe—some broken, fractured part of him believed that this boy might be the only thing keeping him from falling all the way in.

So he stepped forward, close enough to see the way Tim held his breath, the way his heartbeat thrummed too fast beneath his ribs.

“Why?” Bruce asked, voice rough, raw.

Tim straightened.

“Because Batman needs a Robin.” A pause. Then, quieter—almost like a plea:

“And because you can’t keep doing this alone.”

Bruce inhaled slowly.

No.

He couldn’t.

But that didn’t mean Tim had to be the one to stand beside him.

Not yet.

“Go home,” Bruce said, voice low.

Tim’s face fell, just slightly. “But—”

“You’re not ready.”

It wasn’t a lie.

Tim was smart—brilliant even. But intelligence wasn’t enough.

Jason had been reckless. Too angry. Too raw.

Dick had been fearless. Too kind. Too good.

And both of them were dead.

Tim was something else entirely.

Bruce didn’t know if that would save him or if it would just make his death slower.

Still—Tim held his gaze, unflinching.

“Then train me,” he said.

Bruce exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Go home, Tim.”

But even as he turned away, moving toward the empty hush of the Batcave, he knew—

The boy wasn’t going to give up.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

Bruce wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

Chapter Text

Even with Tim, with his Robin, the hallucinations were relentless  

Tim tried. Bruce could see that. The boy was perseverant—pushing into the cracks of his solitude, forcing himself into the spaces that Dick and Jason had left behind.

But ghosts don’t leave just because someone else arrives.

And Bruce—Bruce was starting to lose track of what was real.

It happened on patrol first.

They had split up—Tim handling a break-in downtown while Bruce stalked a known trafficking route by the docks. The criminals were sloppy, predictable. The fight should have been easy.

But then he saw him.

Dick, standing on the edge of a shipping container, arms crossed, that half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re slowing down, old man,” he teased.

Bruce’s breath hitched.

The hesitation cost him.

A pipe—rusted, jagged—swung up into his side, slamming hard against his ribs. He grunted, staggering back, but the pain barely registered.

Because Dick—Dick was still there.

Watching.

Waiting.

And then Jason was beside him. Arms crossed, looking unimpressed.

“Jesus, B, this is just sad,” Jason muttered. “You’re gonna let some asshole with a pipe take you out?”

Bruce barely had time to react before the next blow came.

Metal met flesh.

Pain bloomed sharp and hot.

And through it all, his sons just stood there.

Not moving. Not helping.

Just watching.

Mocking.

A knee caught him in the stomach, knocking the air from his lungs, and suddenly—finally—the red haze of rage cut through the illusion.

His vision cleared.

And they were gone.

The criminals were already running, their laughter echoing against the metal crates. Bruce could have chased them. Should have chased them.

But instead, he stood in the rain, breathing hard, fingers trembling where they pressed against his ribs.

He pulled his hand back.

Blood.

He stared at it.

At the bright smear of red against his glove, mixing with the water, swirling down in little rivulets between his fingers.

He barely felt it.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

Pain was just another ghost now.

The cave was silent when he got back.

Tim was waiting for him.

He started talking the moment Bruce stepped out of the Batmobile—something about the case, about the men who got away, about what they needed to do next.

But then he saw the way Bruce was holding himself. The way he wasn’t quite breathing right.

His expression darkened.

“What happened?”

Bruce brushed past him. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Tim was already following, already circling him, eyes scanning for injuries.

Bruce didn’t have the energy to fight him off.

Not this time.

“Take off the suit,” Tim said.

Bruce ignored him.

“Bruce.”

His hands were on the clasps before he even realized what he was doing. The armor peeled away, piece by piece, until he was standing there in just the compression shirt, the fabric torn, sticky with blood.

Tim inhaled sharply.

“Jesus Christ.”

Bruce barely heard him.

His mind was still stuck in the rain, still watching as Dick and Jason flickered in and out of existence.

Tim’s hands hovered over his ribs, hesitant but determined. “You need stitches.”

Bruce looked down at himself for the first time.

Deep gashes lined his side, ugly and jagged. Some of them were still leaking blood, soaking into the waistband of his pants.

And suddenly—finally—the pain caught up to him.

His vision swayed, black spots creeping at the edges.

Tim caught his arm before he could stumble.

“Jesus, Bruce, sit down.”

Bruce sat.

Not because he wanted to.

But because he wasn’t sure if he could stand anymore.

It happened again two nights later.

A knife this time.

Bruce hadn’t even noticed at first.

It was only when he returned to the cave, peeling off the suit, that he realized his arm was soaked in blood.

Tim went pale.

“Okay,” he said, voice tight. “No. Nope. We’re not doing this. What the hell is going on with you?”

Bruce barely heard him.

His gaze flickered upward—toward the suits.

Dick was there again.

So was Jason.

Watching.

Always watching.

Tim’s hands pressed hard against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but Bruce barely felt it.

Because Dick was shaking his head now, voice low, almost disappointed.

“You keep this up,” he murmured.

“You’ll be joining us soon.”

Bruce closed his eyes.

And for the first time in weeks, he wasn’t sure if that was a threat.

Or a promise.

Chapter Text

The hallucinations continued.

They weren’t just flickers in the corner of his eye anymore. They weren’t just whispers in the dark, waiting for him when exhaustion dragged him into sleep.

Now, they were constant.

Bruce stopped questioning them. Stopped fighting them.

Because they weren’t going away.

Because maybe—just maybe—he didn’t want them to.

He barely slept.

When he did, he woke up gasping, heart hammering, the echoes of their voices ringing in his ears.

In the dreams, it was always the same.

Jason, bruised and bloodied, standing in front of him with shattered bones and the scent of smoke curling off his skin.

“You let him kill me,” Jason would say. “You let me die.”

Then Dick, pale and exhausted, voice raw and aching. “I needed you, Bruce.”

“I needed you, and you weren’t there.”

Bruce would reach for them, would try to wrap them in a hug he so desperately craved from his sons.

And then—

Nothing.

Gone.

Always gone.

Tim tried.

Tried so hard.

But it didn’t matter.

Bruce saw it in his eyes—the fear, the hesitation, the uncertainty.

The way his hands clenched into fists when he thought Bruce wasn’t looking.

The way he hesitated before speaking, like he was afraid of what Bruce might say back.

The way he flinched, just slightly, whenever Bruce got too lost in something that wasn’t there.

It wasn’t fair.

Tim wasn’t supposed to deal with this.

Tim was supposed to be better than this.

Tim was supposed to run.

But he didn’t.

And Bruce didn’t know if he was grateful or furious.

The next time it happened, it was bad.

Bruce was in the cave. It was late. Tim was somewhere upstairs, probably forcing himself to sleep, though Bruce knew he would be back by morning, stubborn as ever.

He was alone.

At least, he should have been.

But the cave wasn’t empty.

They were there.

Dick was perched on the Batcomputer, legs swinging, fingers drumming against the console.

Jason stood near the suits, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line.

Bruce exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers against his temples.

“Go away.”

“You don’t mean that,” Dick said softly.

Bruce clenched his teeth. “You’re not real.”

Jason snorted. “And yet, here we are.”

“Why are you still here?” Bruce asked. His voice cracked.

Dick tilted his head. “Why do you think?”

Bruce swallowed hard.

The words from his dreams—the ones he never answered—hung in the air between them.

You let me die.

I needed you.

He forced himself to look at them.

Jason—fists clenched, shoulders tight, anger simmering beneath his skin.

Dick—tired, so tired, like he had been carrying a weight for too long, like he had been screaming for help and no one had listened.

Like he was still screaming.

“You’re not them,” Bruce rasped.

Jason’s expression didn’t change.

Dick’s did.

Just slightly.

His gaze softened. But not with warmth. Not with the light Bruce had spent so long trying to protect.

No.

There was something cold in his eyes now.

Something like pity.

Like disappointment.

Bruce took a step back.

His foot hit something metal.

He glanced down.

A batarang.

The edges were sharp.

Too sharp.

His fingers twitched.

Jason arched a brow. “You thinking about it?”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Because Jason just laughed.

Low. Mean.

Like he already knew.

And Dick—Dick sighed, rubbing a hand down his face, looking at Bruce like he was something broken.

Like he had been the whole time.

“You should,” Jason said. His voice was light. Almost casual. “Might be the first right thing you’ve done in years.”

Bruce inhaled sharply.

His hand clenched around the batarang before he even thought about it.

The metal bit into his palm.

Pain.

Sharp. Hot.

Real.

The blood came next.

Slow at first. Then more.

Dripping onto the cave floor.

His breath was ragged.

Too fast.

Too loud.

Jason and Dick just watched.

Unmoving.

Unblinking.

Waiting.

For what—Bruce wasn’t sure.

For him to stop?

For him to go further?

He wasn’t sure he even knew the answer.

His vision blurred.

And then—

“Bruce?”

The voice wasn’t Jason’s.

Wasn’t Dick’s.

Bruce turned.

Tim stood at the top of the cave steps, frozen in place, staring at him.

His eyes flicked down.

To the batarang.

To the blood.

And for the first time since he had met the boy, Tim looked scared.

Bruce opened his mouth.

No words came out.

Tim’s throat bobbed. “What are you doing?”

Bruce looked down at his hand.

At the way his fingers shook.

At the way the blood smeared against his skin, dripping onto the stone floor like something discarded.

Like something dying.

He forced himself to drop the batarang.

It hit the ground with a sharp clang.

Tim didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t do anything.

For a long, heavy moment, there was only silence.

And then, so quietly it was barely audible—

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Bruce didn’t know if Tim meant Robin.

Didn’t know if he meant this.

Didn’t know if he meant him.

But either way—

Tim turned.

And left.

And for the first time since he had buried his sons, Bruce realized that, even with Alfred, he was truly alone.