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Chapter Text

Bruce walks out. That seems to be an endless pattern in his life; walking out; walking away. The watchtower's clinical white walls grate against his over-tired eyes, and he squints behind the cowl. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he clings to the sensation; pushes it away from grief; pushes it into rage. If he's angry, he won't cry. The zeta tubes are a mere twenty steps away when an incensed Green Arrow comes barrelling down the hall and out of the lounge he'd just expertly vacated. 

Bruce comes to a standstill, and braces for a hit. Ollie shoves him hard in the chest and he doesn't move, staring unseeing back at the older man. He's grateful now more than ever for the white lenses in the cowl. He keeps his jaw set and stares menacingly at Ollie. He grips his rage like a red hot poker and does not flinch as it burns.

He cannot think about what he just walked away from or he will lose it in a way that is anything but productive. Ollie’s teeth are bared and Bruce flicks his eyes to the shine of them. He’s pretty sure they’re veneers, but they’re good ones; natural; the kind he’d have to get the other man under a black light to confirm. “I never thought you were a homophobic prick, Batman, but I suppose I’ve been proven wrong before.” 

Bruce blinks under the cowl, doesn’t let his jaw twitch even a microcosm as surprise flickers in his chest. He doesn’t know why it shocks him, this presumed deficit to his character. The world doesn’t know he’s queer, the league certainly doesn’t, not with Hal being so adamant- 

Bruce stops that train of thought, masters his grief rage, and stares at Ollie impassively. Ollie's face seems to be getting redder by the moment, Bruce observes, like his veins are actually boiling under his skin. He knows exactly what's happening in Ollie's body right now. 

Hypothalamus screaming at the pituitary, pituitary roaring at the adrenal glands, adrenaline thrumming through his veins, shunt vessels narrowing, arterioles dilating, adrenaline binding to receptors on muscle cells in the lungs, muscle cells contracting below the surface of the skin, insulin production halting, digestion slowing, heart beating a million miles an hour, pupils dilating. 

All it does is make Ollie look like a sweaty, shaky, tweaker. It makes him look dangerous, like a man too affected by rage. It makes him look like the kind of man to beat his wife. It makes him look like a college student who's been up too late the night before a big test; hopped up on caffeine and spite. It makes him look like the kind of man to kick his son out after discovering, through his own neglect, the boy had become addicted to heroin. Bruce's lips quirk, just a little. 

It's enough. 

Bruce watches, detached from his own body, as one of his oldest friends winds his arm back, and clocks him square in the jaw. His head snaps to the side, and he blinks again. He can taste blood in his mouth as he runs his tongue over his teeth, double checking they're all still in place. 

He watches through someone else's eyes as Ollie shoves him again, begins yelling at the top of his lungs, spit flying from his lips. He watches as other members of the league begin to file out into the hallway, confused by the noise. He watches their faces shift from concern to anger, to disappointment, to disbelief as they begin to take in the words Ollie is screaming. Bruce grits his teeth and bares it. 

Hal and Barry are the last to appear in the hallway. The pair radiate joy in the way their arms are slung round each other. Hal's lips just a little too pink, Barry standing just a little too close. Bruce sees Barry's face fall as he takes in the situation, the words Ollie is spewing, the way Bruce is not dissuading him.

Bruce only has eyes for Hal. He watches as, in perfect precision, Hal's face goes from jovial to impassive in a second. He watches as Hal stares at him blankly, so unlike the way he had for all those years. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Clark's disappointment and Diana's confusion and Ollie's rage, but he has only eyes for Hal. 

In films, in novels, in TV, there is often a moment between two characters where they lock eyes across a room and time slows. Sound goes from diegetic to non-diagetic, cameras move in slow motion, backgrounds blur, hearts pound, lips part, and there is love and hope encapsulated in a fraction of a second. 

This does not happen.

Instead, he sees grief flicker briefly through Hal's eyes before settling rapidly into nothing. He sees an expression of nil, of emptiness. 

Bruce knows his own eyes are likely burning with all the grief and rage and that he's been holding onto in the months since they broke up. He knows his own eyes hold everything he's felt for the other man in the eight-and-a-half years he's had Hal. He knows they're simmering with the eight years of love, and the six months of grief since Hal had walked away from the life they'd built. He's never been less grateful for the white lenses in the cowl. 

He turns back to face Ollie and the vitriolic hate spewing from his mouth. Hal was right. Bruce thinks. He was right to worry over the reaction of the League; just not in the way either of us thought. Ollie shoves him again, and it's enough to shift him this time. Bruce rocks backward and keeps staring down at the way spit sprays from the blonde's lips, at those shiny white veneers. He’s not sure he can make out what Ollie is saying, even as he tries to hear the other man’s words, read the other man’s lips. He swallows around all the words he aches to say, but can't figure out how to get out. All he can think is that Damian keeps asking him if Hal is ever coming home. 

"I did not wish to start a fight." Bruce says, interrupting Ollie's tirade. Ollie's eyes widen, expression morphing from rage to disbelief as he splutters. "You didn't want to start a fight?" Bruce almost answers, but Ollie does not let him. "So what, you got up and left? Didn't want witness that nasty gay shit in front of your fucking drink? Is that what you think every time we save someone? God I hope they aren't a fag! Maybe I should have left them to burn!" 

He can hear Clark's sharp inhale, can hear Diana take a step forward, can hear the sound of someone drawing a weapon. Ollie ploughs ahead, "Are you upset that one third of your trinity is gay? Your perfect little triangle corrupted by that gross shit. What about your sons? Is that what you think when you look at them, worried they're somehow spreading it?" 

Ollie straightens and his expression turns from disbelieving to cruel. His smile splits his face in two, the same way used to when they were kids and there was someone Ollie felt like knocking down a peg. "Maybe that's the real reason little Robin two ran off to Ethiopia, he was looking for a parent to love him for who he really was." 

Bruce can feel his skin burning as Ollie makes a show of turning to the rest of the league members present, all the founders, all the ones who had been there since the beginning. "Y'know, when his autopsy came back they said he had scars that predated his attack, scars that would have predated his time as a vigilante too. Was that all his real dad's doing or was that his new dad too? Do you like beating gay kids, Bruce? Do you like hurting them?" 

Bruce is choking. His tongue is too big for his mouth, and he cannot breathe. He can feel his chest beginning to heave, searching desperately for precious oxygen. Ollie is still performing, still speculating, still speaking. "Did you learn it from your daddy, Bruce? Word on the street was the Waynes weren't too fond of those fags, neither were the Kanes. Did your parents teach you how to hate? Did they teach you to put down your lessers? Did they teach you how to hurt kids? Y'know I heard a funny rumour that Ol' Tommy Wayne liked young boys, like to fuck them and then beat them, leave them out in the street to catch their death. Do you remember that Brucie? You didn't come by that hatred naturally, did you? It was drilled into you, wasn't it?" 

The problem with fighting with people you know, people who know you, is that they know where to strike. The problem, Bruce thinks, is that he rolled over and exposed his soft underbelly at sixteen, at twenty-four, at thirty, and Ollie has never forgotten exactly which knives are sharp enough to cut through that fat. He's suddenly aware that his whole body is shaking with rage, that now at thirty-seven Ollie has ripped through his flesh and is currently holding his heart in his hand. 

(Wait, wait! Bruce cries in his mind, But I did not give you permission to crack open my sternum and show the world my insides! I did not ask to be dripping my entrails on these shiny white floors! Ollie pushes him to hands and knees to clean his insides off the floor all the same.)

In reality, Ollie reaches to caress his cheek in the condescending way some adults do to young children, when they do not think them to be particularly intelligent. In reality, Bruce sees an arm coming toward him, sees a threat coming toward him, grips the arm at the wrist, and snaps it. 

There is a flurry of motion then. The league reacts swiftly to one of their own's screams, Bruce finds himself face down on the floor, arms behind his back before he can even blink. Clark is pressing hard on the small of Bruce's back, Dinah has her arms around Ollie as J'onn inspects his wrist, Diana has pulled another sword from seemingly nowhere, and Barry clings to Hal. 

Hal. Beautiful, wonderful, terrible Hal who is the only one who has not moved through the flurry of commotion. Barry has nothing but love in his eyes as he leans in toward Hal's ear, stroking the other man's arm gently. Hal still has that same impassive look on his face, as though Bruce is nothing to him, less than nothing, less than the shit on the bottom of his shoe. Hal is looking at Bruce as though he is the dust you cannot see, even if you know it is supposed to be there.

Eight years, Bruce thinks. Eight years, ninety-six months, two-thousand-nine-hundred-and-twenty days, seventy-thousand hours, four-million-two-hundred-thousand minutes, two-hundred-and-fifty-one-million seconds. All of it for this. 

You know my kids, Bruce thinks. You saw me at my lowest, saw me when I took Jason in, saw me when he died, you were there through adopting Tim, through Talia, through finding out about Damian, through taking him in. My kids know you. Bruce turns, presses his head into the floor. Dick kept asking me when the wedding was, he thinks. 

In spite of himself, in spite of everything happening right now, Bruce begins to laugh. It's a quiet rumble in chest, but he can tell when Clark feels it. Can feel as he stills, as silence ripples through the hallway, as the people he has fought alongside, the people he has bled for, the people he has died for, pause.

Clark hoists him to his feet, shoving him away as he does so. Bruce stumbles, can feel his ankle twist slightly, can feel pain in his ribs, in his spine from where Clark had him pressed so hard into the floor. Bruce puts his head in his hands as he laughs, squeezes his eyes shut until he can no longer feel tears pressing at the corners. 

Eventually his laughter peters out, and he looks up to face the League. There is so much rage in this space full of super-powered beings. He could be snapped clean in half again before he even thought about blinking. He locks eyes with Hal again and there is still nothing in the face of the man he has loved for nearing a decade. 

Bruce steps forward, ignores the way his whole body creaks and aches. Their eyes lock, and Bruce sees that flicker of grief again. He feels his lip curl as he snarls, "Fuck you, Hal Jordan." He spits on the ground in front of the man, and he turns and stalks toward the zeta tube at the end of the hall.

He steps inside the zeta, turns in time to see Dinah holding Ollie back, Diana sneering, Barry's crestfallen expression, and J'onn and Clark's disappointment. He doesn't dare look at Hal as he is whisked back to Gotham. 

(There is a gaping hole in his chest. Bruce has no idea what to do about it.)

Chapter Text

There’s a horrible blaring noise going off far too close to Hal’s head. He gropes blindly in the dark for the source of the screeching. He succeeds in getting a handful of both his and Bruce’s pillow, the gap between the mattress and the headboard, and a whole bunch of empty air. Bruce groans next to him, clearly still exhausted from a long day and an even longer patrol. When Hal finally finds his stupid phone he squints blearily at the caller ID before answering. 

“Dick?” Hal mumbles into the phone, voice still thick with sleep. Bruce seems to be coming around now, eyes snapping to alert at the sound of his oldest son’s name. Hal watches Bruce shift to sit up, a barely there grimace on his face. 

A rush of words greet him on the other side of the phone. Dick rambling too fast for him to keep up with. There’s a panicked tone to his words, but Hal is too tired and Dick is talking too fast for this to be any form of productive. “Hey,” Hal says, “Hey slow down, buddy. What’s happened?” 

Hal hears Dick sniffle on the other side of the line. “I’m pretty sure Roy overdosed.” Hal snaps to attention, spine suddenly ramrod straight. “What do you mean Roy’s overdosed?” Hal can hear the anxious edge to his own voice, and he can tell Bruce has noticed too. “I, uh,” Dick starts, “I, uh, went to his apartment to see if he was there, because he was super late for our hangout and he hadn’t texted. I let myself in cause I was worried, and he’s, um, on his couch. He’s uh not responding to me and he didn’t respond to a sternal rub and his pupils are tiny and uh, I’m, uh, I’m-“ Hal can hear Dick cut himself off with a hiccoughing sob, “I don’t know what to do.” 

Hal glances at Bruce to see him sitting straight up in bed, clearly listening to everything Dick is saying, even without the phone on speaker. Hal pulls the phone away from his ear and switches it to speaker anyway. “Dick,” he says, making eye contact with Bruce, “You’re on speaker with me and the Big Man, have you got Narcan on you, bud?” Dick is still hiccoughing slightly, and Hal watches Bruce stand, slipping into a pair of sweats that had ended up on the floor from the night before. Hal catches the pair Bruce throws at him, along with the t-shirt and begins shrugging them on. “Narcan, um yeah, I have some in my car.” 

Bruce is fully dressed and reaching for the phone as Hal pulls his shirt on over his head. It’s an old stretched out Gotham U shirt that clearly once belonged to Bruce. It’s a little worn and the hem is fraying, but Hal loves it because it smells like Bruce. “Okay,” Bruce is saying, “You go grab that, Dick. Hal and I are gonna hope in a zeta. Are you in New York?” Bruce gestures at Hal and then at the wardrobe and Hal nods in understanding. 

He takes off to the small room, and rips open the sock drawer for two pairs of socks. It strikes him, briefly, how unbelievably domestic the whole situation is. Two dads rushing off to get their kid out of trouble in the middle of the night. One on the phone, the other grabbing shoes and keys and water bottles and whatever else they might need. Hal snags a pair of sneakers and a jacket for each of them, and slips back into the bedroom. 

Bruce is still on the phone with Dick, coaching him to breathe, to remember his training, telling him it’s gonna be okay. Bruce passes the phone to Hal as he takes the socks and sneakers from him. Hal throws the jackets on the mattress and sits down to put his own socks and shoes on. He rests the phone on his thigh, still on speaker as Dick narrates his journey, “I’m, uh, in the stairs back up now.” Hal nods, and then promptly remembers Dick can’t see him, “Okay, good job, you know how to administer that stuff, okay. Bruce and I are on our way now okay, we’re hopping in a zeta and then we’re a two minute walk away okay.” 

Dick’s breathing is heavy on the other side of the phone. Bruce snags a jacket from the bed, and picks up Hal’s phone okay. “We love you, Chum. We’re on our way now. The call is gonna cut out when we get to the cave, but it’ll reconnect when we’re in New York. You’ve got this, okay?” Hal can hear Dick mumble something that sounds affirmative back before Bruce tugs on Hal’s shirt and the pair sprint toward the cave. “Wait,” Hal gasps as they reach the clock, “We need to tell Alfred.” Bruce shakes his head, “I flicked him a message before and he said he’d keep an eye on Jason.” Hal nods as the clock swings open and finds himself near sprinting down the stairs into the cave. Bruce steps into the zeta tube and flashes away, Hal only a second behind. 

Bruce is already down the alley when Hal steps out of the zeta. Hal jogs to catch up with Bruce, the other man already has Hal's phone pressed to his ear, speaking softly into it. "Do we know where we're going?" Hal asks as he catches Bruce. Bruce nods, clearly listening to whatever Dick is saying on the phone, and points left as they reach the mouth of the alley. Hal almost laughs to himself in spite of the situation, of course Bruce knows where Roy's apartment is. Why wouldn't he have that kind of overly personal information about one of near-estranged eldest son's teammates? 

They reach a shabby looking apartment building in what must be record time for two men over thirty doing their absolute best to look casual, even as they're walking too fast to really do so.  "Can you buzz us up, Chum?" Bruce asks. Hal doesn't hear Dick's reply but the door buzzes open and Bruce strides across the lobby toward the stairs and Hal follows. 

Roy's apartment is apparently only on the second floor, which is a blessing Hal didn't know he needed. The door is unlocked when they reach it, and Bruce opens it with the confidence of a man who couldn't be stopped by anyone short of the JL. Dick looks up when Bruce and Hal enter, shifting to reveal Roy on the floor in recovery position. Hal smiles at him in a way he hopes is supportive. He counts it as a success when Dick returns a shaky smile of his own.

"You've already given him a dose?" Bruce asks as he crouches next to Dick. Dick nods, "I only had the one, and he still isn't up. I don't really uh-" Hal watches as Bruce places a hand on Dick's shoulder, "You did everything right. Hal and I are here now." Hal watches the interaction with a mild bemusement.

It's fascinating to see the shift from Batman and Nightwing to Bruce and Dick. He watches Dick's face crumple at the words, big heaving sobs wracking his frame. Bruce wraps his arms around his son, clutching his head to the crook of his neck. Dick clutches at Bruce as though he's his only lifeline. Bruce unwraps one arm and reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants, holding out the Narcan to Hal. 

Hal takes it and tilts Roy's head back, spraying a dose straight up his nose. He checks Roy's eyes, and finds his pulse. Even without timing it, Hal can tell it's sluggish. Roy jerks up, turning to the side and immediately throwing up. Dick breaks out of Bruce's embrace to grab Roy's shoulders. 

Hal shifts out of the way of the teenagers, moving to sit next to Bruce and leaning in close. "This shit shouldn't have happened, B." Bruce nods, and turns to him, "If Oliver Queen can't see his son is struggling, he doesn't get a say in what happens from here on out." Hal nods, and sits back to watch Dick and Roy. The pair are embracing, and Hal can see tears falling down both of their cheeks. He silently laces his fingers with Bruce's, and Bruce squeezes his palm gently. Hal knows this whole ordeal is going to be a clusterfuck on his mental state when it's over. 

The teenagers are frowning at each other now. "You need to go to hospital, Roy." Roy shakes his head, "No. You know just as well as I do what would happen if the press got a hold of a story like this." Dick grips Roy's shoulders, "I don't care, man. You nearly fucking died, you need monitoring and then rehab." Roy jerks out of Dick's grip. "I'm not fucking doing it, Dick. I'm just not. I can't deal with any of the press. I can't deal with the hospital calling Ollie. I can't deal with having to look at Dinah or Barry or Hal or any of the rest of the league who decide to bestow me with their fucking pity." 

Bruce clears his throat gently and the teens jerk their heads around to face Hal and Bruce. Roy rounds on Dick immediately, "What the fuck? You called your dad? And why the fuck is Hal here too?" Dick shakes his head, "I had a single dose of Narcan in my car, by chance. Do you not get that you were dying? Not abstractly, but right here on the floor of this shitty fucking apartment. You're lucky I knew the code to your building. You're lucky I trust my gut. You're fucking lucky to be breathing right now," Dick pauses to shake his head, "And for the record, I didn't call B, I called Hal." Hal watches Roy's hackles rise, and cuts in. "Let's take a deep breath, anger isn't going to help anyone in this situation." The teens both take breaths, and Hal internally pats himself on the back. 

"I have an option that might deal with some of your concerns, Roy." Hal squeezes Bruce's hand, and Bruce squeezes back. Roy nods, and Bruce continues, "You could come back to the manor with us, we can monitor you tonight, and then we can look at getting you set up at a rehab facility away from prying eyes, under a different name, where you can detox in peace." Roy frowns, "I don't know if -" Dick cuts him off, "Roy, please. You need to be monitored for tonight at the least, please." Roy's eyes flick to Dick, and Hal watches as the boys have some kind of silent conversation. Roy turns back to face Hal and Bruce, "I'll say yes to being monitored tonight, but I have to think about the rehab thing." Bruce nods and stands, brushing non-existent lint off his sweatpants.

Hal stands with him, relacing their fingers and squeezing his hand again. Dick follows suit, standing and reaching down to offer Roy a hand. Roy grasps Dick's hand and hauls himself up. Hal notes how pale the boy still looks, hands shaking as he accepts Dick's help. 

The group of four make their way out of Roy's apartment and into the night. It's a much slower journey back to the zeta than the near sprint he and Bruce had done earlier. Dick is supporting Roy with an arm around his waist, with Bruce and Hal tailing the pair. Hal is honestly shocked that Roy is standing, let alone walking, albeit slowly, at all. When they reach the zeta Hal nominates himself to go through first, in case he needs to catch Roy on the other side. 

Hal steps through to find Alfred in the cave seemingly tidying around the medbay. Alfred approaches him as the zeta begins to whir to life again. "Everyone is okay, Mister Jordan?" Hal nods, "We've brought Roy back with us. He'll need monitoring tonight, and possibly tomorrow. Dick is trying to convince him to go to rehab and Bruce is offering him any support he'd need with that." Alfred nods briskly, "I shall set up the medbay in preparation." 

Hal cringes as the man moves to step away, "Uh, actually, is there any way you could get that stuff set up in a bedroom?" He pauses awkwardly, digging his nails into his palms, "I, uh, don't want to impose or anything, but I think Roy would feel a lot better in a bedroom, than in the medbay. Just, uh, it can be kind of terrible and disorienting waking up in a place like that after a thing like that." Hal fights to keep his tone neutral even though he can tell he's failed. Alfred's expression shifts from neutral to understanding and back to neutral in a matter of seconds. "Of course, Mister Jordan. I will see to it now." 

His tone is gentler than before, and it grates against some part of Hal that still says he doesn't deserve gentless. Not about that. He doesn't deserve gentleness about any part of that. Hal shakes out of his thoughts as Roy comes stumbling through the zeta. He moves to catch the boy as he staggers forward, grasping him under the arms to keep him upright, and steering him toward the medbay. Roy looks dazed as he slumps onto the cot and the expression burns to see. He's so fucking young. Hal thinks. God he's so fucking young, and still older than I was when I- 

His thoughts are cut off when Dick steps out of the zeta, making a beeline to where Roy is sitting. Hal smiles at him in the same way as before, prays it's just as reassuring even with the roiling emotion in his gut. Hal turns back to Roy, and looks him in the eyes. "Hey, Roy. You're in the cave right, Alfred is getting a bed set up for you upstairs okay. You're safe, and Dick is right here okay." Hal nods at Dick and the boy reaches out and grasps Roy's closest shoulder. "What Hal said, okay? You're safe man, we got you." 

The zeta whirrs to life a third and final time and Bruce steps through. Hal glances at Dick and seeing he's okay, makes a beeline for Bruce. When Hal reaches him, Bruce grabs his hand and squeezes. Hal smiles shakily at him, "Alfred's setting up a bed upstairs for him. I, uh, I was worried that he might feel, I don't know, punished, or disoriented, if we left him down here." Hal glances down at their joined hands, "Not that I wanted to impose. I, um, just thought it might help. I just, y'know, yeah..." He trails off lamely. Bruce squeezes his hand again, and when Hal looks up at him, he's smiling softly. "That's a good idea. Thank you for suggesting it to Alfred." 

By the time Bruce and Hal are getting undressed for bed again, Hal can feel himself starting to unravel. He kicks off his shoes and socks, and watches Bruce disappear into his closet for some sleepclothes for the both of them. He digs his nails into his palms again, and takes a deep breath. Bruce sits next to him on the bed when he emerges, handing Hal a set of, what are surely ridiculously expensive, pajamas. "Do you think I should talk to Jason?" Bruce asks. 

Hal frowns, "I think maybe tell him that Roy is here but I don't think he needs to know what happened." Bruce nods. "I worry that if we don't tell him, he might piece it together himself, and be upset." Hal nods consideringly. "Maybe some warning that Roy is an addict. Jason's not stupid, and he's seen enough to know what an addict looks like without you telling him. I don't think there's anything wrong with giving him a little warning." Bruce nods thoughtfully, standing to shrug into his sleep pants. Hal follows suit before climbing into the covers after him. Bruce turns to his side, and pulls him against his chest. 

"Are you okay, after tonight?" Hal blinks back tears and squeezes Bruce's hand where it's wrapped around his middle. "Okay as I can be. Not thinking about relapsing if that's what you're asking." Bruce hums and starts tracing patterns on his stomach. Hal leans into the warmth. He can hear the shake in his own voice when he speaks, "Seeing Dick like that just -" He cuts himself off as he swallows a shaky sob. "Just got me thinking about all the times I did that shit to other people." Bruce kisses the top of his head, and clutches him closer. "You're here now." Hal nods again, and lets himself be lulled to sleep by the steady rise and fall of Bruce's chest, and the unwavering thump thump thump of his heartbeat.

-

Bruce ached all over. The cave was empty when he stepped out of the zeta, and it made something sharp and fierce pang in his heart. The dark cloud that seemed to hang around his head was spitting out a torrential downpour and it had Bruce choking to breathe through the rain. 

His spine burned from where Clark had pinned him down with a knee to his back, and he could tell at least a couple of his ribs were bruised. He felt like a particularly old, bruised peach, and he scoffed slightly to himself. If Hal had been there, he might have voiced the thought outloud, might have gotten some cheeky response, might have heard 'Does that make you my sugar daddy, Spooky? Gotham's hottest silver fox and his flyboy!' 

But the cave was empty, just as it had been for the last six months. All the cracks Hal had made about the headlines or the JL catching wind of their relationship were null and void now. Instead, there was just him and Alfred alone in Wayne Manor, again; this time, Bruce was grieving alone. 

He began shucking off the many layers of the batsuit, dumping them rather unceremoniously in a pile on the cave floor. Once he was down to his undertard, he headed toward the cave showers. If there was one thing Bruce was glad he hadn't cheaped out on it was the showers. Multi-directional nozzles lined both the wall and ceilings of each shower. He hadn't anticipated the gaggle of children he'd have when he'd installed them, and so there were only two. 

It had rarely been an issue until recently. He'd only ever had one Robin at a time even though he had a veritable menagerie of children. In the past couple of years he'd begun to find a trail of vigilantes accompanying him back to the cave after a patrol or mission. When he was on-planet Hal would be waiting up in the cave for him. He'd lean in and try and coax Bruce into a bet as to which one would make it to the showers first. They'd sit back and watch them  wrestle each other for who got the first shower. 

It typically ended with Tim or Cass having snuck from the fray to slip into the showers while Dick and Jason or Jason and Damian or Dick and Damian or all three of the boys wrestled. One particularly memorable evening saw all four of the boys wrestling while Cass slipped into one shower and Bruce into the other. 

The hot water beat down something fierce on his aching back and ribs. It was soothing now, even as it burned and pulsed against his bruises. The skin on his ribs was already beginning to purple, blood vessels rebelling against the brief trauma they'd received on the floor of the watchtower. Bruce breathed deeply, testing to see if any of them were broken. His exhale spelled relief as he failed to hear or feel the tell-tale snap, crackle, pop that came with broken ribs. 

Bruce let the water beat down on him until his skin was flushed red from the time and temperature. His ankle ached slightly from his poor landing when Clark had hauled him to his feet. He chose to ignore it. Bruce toweled off rapidly and changed into the sweatpants and t-shirt he kept in the cave for when he couldn't quite bring himself to put on a suit, professional or bat. 

He lumbered a touch slower than he'd like to toward the chair in front of the batcomputer. Bruce nearly stumbled again as his aching body tried to steer him back up the stairs. It had been a long time since he'd sat up at the batcomputer when his body ached like this. Normally, there was a disapproving Green Lantern either already in the chair or directly outside of the cubicle to haul him back upstairs. Normally, there was someone to squeeze his hand, and kiss his bruises. Normally, there was someone around to tell him he'd 'done enough for the night, Bruce. Come to bed, Gotham can wait.' 

Instead, there was only muscle memory for a love that no longer existed. There was a version of Bruce that wanted to scream and cry and bite. There was a version of Bruce that wanted to cut out his heart and mail it to a man who no longer wanted it. There was a version of Bruce that wanted to scream, Don't you see! Don't you see I am nothing without you! You have split me in half and you didn't even have decency to take my heart with you. Could you not have done me that mercy at least?

Bruce settled into the chair in front of the computer tenderly. He reached into the desk drawer to his right and pulled out a support pillow for his back. Another echo of Hal that he was unwilling to part with. He pulled up the file he'd been working on before the JL mission that had perhaps spelled the end of his friendship with the league. 

Someone in Gotham seemed to think it was a good idea to go round snatching up kids and lending them out to high-rollers for the night. Bruce had pinpointed the club where the kids were being rented, but hadn't figured out who was responsible for the abuse yet. He made a note to loop Jason in. Even if Bruce didn't agree with his methods, his son was good at what he did. 

That bright little boy had grown up into a remarkable young man, with more cunning and intelligence than most cared to admit. The Red Hood had pulled the strings to orchestrate a gang war at nineteen, he'd taught Bruce more about what meaningful change for people in dire straits was than any consultant Bruce had ever spoken to, he'd been a straight-A student even with everything on his plate. 

Jason also didn't want much to do with Bruce anymore. Bruce couldn't blame him. Jason was bright, but he was also young and angry. It hurt sometimes to look at his son and see the rage that had replaced the unwavering hope that had once filled the boy. Something in Bruce quaked with his own rage when he saw what the world had done to the boy. Something far stronger and far deeper quaked with guilt and grief when he saw what he'd done to the boy. 

So, Bruce looped him in on cases. He did his best to build up the foundations of this new relationship. Bruce ached for the relationship he'd once had with the bright young boy, but he had grieved that boy a long time ago. There was a bright young man somewhere in a safehouse in Gotham with a loving partner and an adopted daughter. Every part of Bruce yearned to put trackers on him again so that he could keep him safe in a way he hadn't been able to previously. When he'd brought it up Hal had talked him down.

Hal had always been good like that; he had the kids best interests at heart. Hal Jordan was twice the man Bruce could ever hope to be. Idly Bruce wondered if that was why Hal had walked away. Perhaps, after eight long years of slogging away at a relationship that he wasn't getting much out of, barring emotional baggage, he'd finally given up. Hal had been his rock in a storm, on-world or not. He'd been Bruce's guiding light. Now, Bruce was alone in the dark, and it felt like falling down that well all over again. 

He was a better man with Hal in his life, a better parent. Now, he sat round waiting for his son to cut him out of his life again. After a long moment of agonising over what message should accompany the case Bruce flicked off the information to Jason sans note. He sat back heavily against the plush chair and pretended his body wasn't a warzone. 

Squealing tires alerted Bruce to someone's entrance to the cave. When he looked up Dick was climbing off the Wingcycle and unclipping his helmet to sling over the handlebars. "Hey, B!" Came the young man's cheery greeting, and Bruce did his level best to flick something close to a smile at him. He knew he'd failed when Dick's expression crumpled into a frown. "Back acting up again?" 

'Never let anyone tell you Dick Grayson wasn't an excellent detective' the Hal Jordan that lived rent-free in his brain muttered. Bruce grunted in response and Dick's frown deepened. "Do you know if Alfie's around? You should get him to look at your back if it's acting up," Dick smirked, "Or better yet, go see Leslie." Bruce watched Dick with an unimpressed expression as Dick quirked a smug eyebrow at him. Dick watched him with eyes far steelier than expression betrayed, eventually reading something Bruce's face that had him rolling his eyes and then cringing. 

"Actually," Dick said, "I kind of have a stab wound that might need tending to if you wouldn't mind?" It was Bruce's turn to smirk at his son. "Medbay." He gestured toward the cot and extensive medical equipment that took up a large portion of the cave. There were more beds, doubles of every piece of equipment, and triples of every medical supply tucked behind a sliding alcove in the rock. Bruce watched with concern as Dick began limping toward the cot. 

He was clutching his side far tighter than Bruce liked, so he took the arm that Dick didn't have pressed so hard against his torso it seemed like the only thing holding him together. When Dick was situated in the cot and Bruce pulled his arm away, he frowned. The slash cut straight through to muscle and was bleeding sluggishly but steadily. Epidermis, dermis, subcutaneous tissue all exposed, muscle clearly damaged. This would scar deep and true, another thick keloid splitting his son in two. It twisted Bruce's already weak heart further he'd like to admit.

'You could tell him,' the Hal in his head said, 'tell your son how much you love him.' Bruce warred against the thoughts, 'But then he would know I was cracked open. Then he would see the entrails I dripped all the way from the watchtower, he'd see the blood smeared across the cave floor and the knobs in the shower and keys on the keyboard. Then he'd feel he'd have to join me on the floor to scrape everything back inside.' 

Under the medbay lights Bruce could see how pale Dick looked. Sweat dripped from his brow and now that he was laying down it was clear just how much adrenaline had done to get Dick here. Bruce reached down and squeezed Dick's hand, "Let's get you stitched up, Chum." Bruce set about gathering the necessary supplies to stitch his son back together, washing his hands and gathering them all onto a small sterile tray. He flushed the wound and surrounding area with iodine and Dick hissed quietly through his teeth. Bruce neatly injected lidocaine around the wound site, praying that it made the pain more bearable.

Dick was uncharacteristically quiet in a way that made Bruce itch. He bit his tongue, focusing instead on his suture technique. Small bites with a manual needle driver required precision, and Bruce was careful to space each suture evenly with a marginal clearance on either side of the wound. It shook him to know that all that was holding his son together was monofilament nylon. Each suture was precise and clean, Bruce didn't think he could take it if something he did wrong left his son with infection or pain. 

He tied off the final suture and set about cleaning up the equipment. When Dick stayed where he was after Bruce had finished tidying he ducked behind the rocky alcove with their overflow medical equipment and dragged a chair out to sit next to the cot.

Bruce sat in it heavily, and reached across to grab Dick's hand, squeezing it gently. "What's going on, Chum?" Dick lay still for a few moments hand limp in Bruce's grasp. "I'm so tired, B." Bruce could hear the sob Dick swallowed around to get the words out. Bruce squeezed his hand again and waited for him to continue. Dick tipped his head to glance at Bruce before flicking his eyes back up to the roof of the cave. "I'm so tired. I've just spent my night running round after some b-grade villain as a favour to Wally," he scoffed, "when the fuck was the last time I wasn't doing something as favour to someone?" His tone was acidic, but more than that exhausted. 

"I felt like, for maybe a moment there, things were evening out, y'know?" Dick tipped his head back toward Bruce, a shaky smile plastered on his face, "I mean Jason has Roy and Lian, and Tim has Young Justice and his flavour of the month, and Damian has Jon and you and Hal," Dick's smile grew brighter at the mention of his youngest brother before flickering rapidly back into something shaky, "I mean fuck, even you have Hal and the JL. I don't need to run around playing saviour for everyone anymore. I don't need to worry about sort of co-parenting with Hal and Talia, and the Titans all have their people." Bruce squeezed his hand. 

Dick's eyes flicked back to the ceiling, "I guess it's been so long since I've had a break I don't know what one feels like," he laughed bitterly, "I'm feeling kind of like the expendable crewman right now." Bruce squeezed his hand again and waited for Dick to tip his head back toward him. Dick took a deep shaky breath and looked down at him. Bruce smiled gently at him, "You are not the expendable crewman, Chum. You are my eldest, fiercest son. I know I haven't always been there for you as much as I should have, but I love you. I know kids like to outgrow their parents, but I am always here if you need me." 

Bruce watched as Dick tried and failed to blink back tears. "Thanks, dad." Bruce smiled at his son, "You needed fluids and blood five minutes ago, do you want me to set that up down here or upstairs?" Dick laughed wetly, "Upstairs, please." Bruce nodded and scooped Dick up into his arms like he was still nine-years-old and tired from patrolling in a bright yellow cape. His back positively screamed at the weight but Bruce ignored it in favour of his son. "Not your Robin anymore, B." Dick mumbled from where he'd pressed his face into Bruce's shoulder. 

Bruce pressed a kiss gently against his forehead, "I know." He began the trek across the cave and up the stairs ignoring the way his spine screamed for relief. He settled Dick into bed and set about getting the IV set up and inserted. He tucked Dick gently under the covers and let himself pretend for a moment that Dick was still a kid who let Bruce care for him like this everyday. He let himself pretend that Hal was waiting for him just down that hall, that each of his children were asleep in their rooms in the manor and he would be checking in on them in a moment, that his back was not so wrecked the pain threatened to cripple him.

"Can I have a sedative?" Dick's eyes were wet again and Bruce nodded. He walked to his office and unlocked the bottom drawer on his desk. It was full of injectable sedatives and painkillers for days his back was particularly bad. It made him feel a little like a junkie but Hal had laughed at him when he'd said so. 'Bruce Wayne, a junkie? I have trouble convincing you to take painkillers when you need them, Spooky. I think you're okay.' 

Bruce made his way back down the hall briskly. He injected both the sedative and a painkiller into Dick's IV. He perched on the edge of Dick's bed and began brushing his hand through the boy's hair as he waited for him to slip into sleep. Bruce watched Dick's expression even out as he drifted off. He kept running his hand through Dick's hair and until he was certain the boy was asleep. 

He considered getting up to push Dick's desk chair across the room but everything in his body screamed. Instead he slipped off his perch and onto the floor. He reached into his pocket for the bottle of painkillers he'd swiped for himself and put three into his mouth dry. The pills were bitter on his tongue as he struggled to swallow the third, letting it dissolve on his tongue instead.

The bitter pill was enough of a shock to his system that it forced him to stop pretending. His spine was in agony that rivalled the pain he felt when it had been broken the first time. Excluding Damian and Dick, his children were not in their beds but instead scattered around the country. Hal was not down the hall waiting for him. 

Bruce reached up and gripped Dick's hand where it wasn't tucked under the covers and squeezed it. Evidence of Clark's rage was a persistent ache in his side. He kept one hand entwined with Dick's and pushed the knuckles of his other hand into his ribs until he passed out.

-

How could a person describe agony? There was an argument to be made for burning fire. The hot metal tip of a whip striking lash after lash against an already brutalised body. Blood oozing from wounds so hot and thick and fast it felt like a flash burn. Blood caking a face and neck and shoulder and chest and arm and hand and hip and leg and knee and foot. Exertion to the point that there was no clear difference between blood and sweat. Exertion to the point of muscle failure. Lactic acid built up in aching muscle tissues, burning hotter than the fire of a thousand suns.

Was agony vivisection? Organs oozing from an abdominal cavity, stomach and heart and lungs and all the perfunctory tissues a layman couldn't name the purpose of slopped onto the ground like feed for pigs. Hands reaching and grabbing and pulling, sorting through insides with as little care as someone searching through an unorganised sock drawer. Organs twisting around one another as they tried to resettle into the right place. 

Perhaps, agony is a gentle ache that builds. A twitch in one limb one day that compounds and compounds and compounds until the only reasonable solution is amputation. Burying your second son and slowly realising all your little quips settle into empty air now. Never packing up his things into boxes, finding a bookmark halfway through a novel you didn't know he'd picked up. Being coaxed back inside, away from the fresh dirt heaped on his grave, only to collapse at the foot of his bed and not have it in you to move, not having it in you to sleep anywhere else for months. 

Maybe agony was the knowledge that you fucked up the one good thing you had going for you. Not knowing how or why. Not knowing what to say to fix it. Knowing only that something in you is deficient, something about you makes people leave, and it is all you can do to watch them walk out the door. 

Or perhaps agony was this, Bruce mused, crawling out of your eldest son's room as quietly as possible. Desperately trying not to wake him, even when your back spasms and for the first time since your second son died tears spill silently down your cheeks. 

The carpet was rough on his hands and forearms where he pulled himself along the ground. Bruce only needed to make it thirty feet down the hallway to his study. There he could get his hands on injectable painkillers, could clamber into the connected ensuite and throw up into the toilet. The room was only nine steps away, eleven on bad days.

Bruce didn't know if he'd make it. 

It was an odd feeling for him. He'd spent years fighting impossible odds to get home to kids. To get home to his partner. Now, he didn't know if he could make it eleven paces. 

Agony, perhaps, was not vivisection or burning heat or a gentle ache, but knowing instead that the body you have brutally disciplined to hold itself up, to keep pace with super-powered beings, was maybe failing you for good this time. 

Bruce wanted to scream and he could tell he was crying steadily now from the wetness on his cheeks. It had been so long since he had been this helpless. At least this time there was brutal pain that he could cling to, something to ground him in his body, at least for now. At least this time there wasn't that horrible floaty feeling that came with being dosed. 

He reached his right arm forward and a fresh wave of agony shot through him. He swallowed a sob, tried to ground himself on the feeling on the carpet pile. He was prone on the carpet, pressed his face into the carpet fibres too, tried desperately to find anything to push him forward. He hiked his knee up and it was all he could do not to let out a whimper instead the scream that bubbled in his throat. 

Worse things had happened, he reminded himself, much, much worse things. Slowly, Bruce began to claw his way forward, minutes ticking passed as he finally reached the door of his office. The tears were no longer slipping out now, but pouring. He was barely swallowing his sobs now, every time he tried fresh agony shot down his spine. 

Bruce was stagnant now, completely prone outside his office. Perhaps, if he'd had a touch more willpower he could have kept going. He didn't. The greatest accumulation of willpower in a single person across the universe belonged to a man who hadn't spoken to him in six months. Carpet pressed into his face, carpet burn evident on his forearms and cheeks, Bruce had no will left. 

Salvation sat behind a door that he had shut last night. Salvation sat behind a door that he could not reach up and open. His whole body was spasming now, involuntary twitches wracking his frame. With the last of his energy, the last of his will, he tilted his head so he rested with only one cheek on the carpet. His body spasmed and he vomited, hot acrid bile spewing from his lips. Bruce choked on it slightly, half inhaling half swallowing his own sick.

Bruce's eyes had fallen shut at some point, the pain overriding his ability to stay conscious. It was an honest to God miracle he'd even made it this far. He could feel his consciousness slipping away now, and it was much like all the other times he'd thought he was going to die. Only this time, he knew there was no one who would even think of coming. Only this time, he knew it would stick. 

At least he'd made it out Dick's room, he mused. At least there was a chance Dick wouldn't be the one to find his body.