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❝—I've seen lives I never fell into... And every sunrise reminds me that they're not mine.❞
"Apollo bring me back
To the place I was before I met you
And Icarus leads the way
To where I need to go.
I had been lost to you, sunlight
And flew like a moth to you, sunlight."
Back to the Place Before I Fell
1.
BRUCE.
Contrary to what everyone in the League believed, Bruce Wayne—Batman—did dream. He would never admit it out loud, but he did. Every night.
After leaving behind the nightmares with Parademons and Darkseid, the dreams returned… And Bruce didn’t know whether that was a blessing or a curse. At least with Darkseid, everything was real, concrete—something he could fight.
This wasn’t.
Because in these dreams, Bruce was looking through someone else’s eyes.
Sometimes, in front of him stood a child with a melancholic expression yet overflowing energy, affectionate. He was missing a baby tooth.
“B! B!” the boy shouted, laughing, before showing him a double somersault.
Bruce understood immediately.
It was Dick. Richard.
His dead son.
For a moment he thought it was just an old longing disguised as a dream, a memory… But Bruce Wayne does not forget a face. And this wasn’t his Richard. Not entirely. This child had darker skin, a rounder face, a Robin suit with gymnast details… and none of the freckles that marked the Richard he had known.
When the boy hugged him, the body Bruce was inhabiting tensed, as if not used to that much affection. Even so, it returned the embrace. The warmth of the little Robin hit him square in the chest. It reminded him—painfully—of how affectionate his own son had been as a child.
His little bird.
Then Superman and Supergirl appeared.
Superman looked a bit younger than the Clark he knew. Different: softer features, still masculine, a suit with brighter colors, a cursive S… and a ridiculous red trunks on top of the suit. Bruce couldn't help wondering why anyone would wear that. Even Robin, with his traffic-light outfit, looked more coherent.
Supergirl was another contrast. Nothing remained of the dark-haired girl with the stern yet compassionate eyes he had begun to appreciate. This Kara had fair skin, blonde hair, a skirt and a trench coat instead of the Kryptonian suit and cape. She was mischievous, playful… yet Bruce could see the same hidden torment behind her eyes. One of his hands—the hand of the body he was inhabiting—caressed her cheek, offering silent comfort. Kara lit up softly, then shielded herself behind a teasing smile.
Superman looked at him with puppy-dog eyes. Exactly like the Clark from his world. Not that Bruce would ever admit it.
Meanwhile, Dick climbed Superman like he was a human tree, and Clark never let him fall. And judging by the gentle, loving expression on the man in front of him, Bruce knew Dick wouldn’t fall. He was safe there.
Bruce was certain that the Clark he knew would have adored Dick if he'd had the chance. Everyone loved his son. He was a ray of sunshine. Energetic and bouncy. Loving and brave. Even as an adult. There had been fights, yes, mostly because of his own fault… but Dick always forgave first.
Kara clicked her tongue mischievously, grabbed Dick by the arm, and flew off with him. The trench coat fluttered through the cave until they vanished into the exit.
Then Bruce saw himself reflected in a mirror.
It was him… and not him.
The same sad eyes, but no gray hairs. Younger. Straight, messy light-brown hair. Fairer skin. A different face.
But three voices—one playful, two affectionate—kept calling him “B” and “Bruce.”
When he woke up, an emptiness stabbed his chest.
During the League meeting, Diana noticed how he avoided Clark’s not-so-subtle glances.
And Alfred noticed how Bruce retrieved from an old box—one of the few that survived the destruction of the manor—a worn-out elephant plush toy.
Neither said a word.
[…]
2.
The next time, Bruce blamed the dreams on an exhausted mind—maybe even an unhinged one. The anniversary of his son’s death was approaching and… he would never deny that he missed him. Bruce Wayne could deny many things, bury them, silence them, but never his son.
But this time it wasn’t a young Dick. He was older. And in fact, he wasn’t even named Richard.
And Bruce couldn’t call him his son.
He wasn’t.
But he was alive.
He was a police officer. Upright, respectful, gentle. Brave.
“Mr. Wayne,” he said.
And it sounded… awful. Painful. So distant it tore something inside him.
Bruce was no longer Batman in that world. In fact, it seemed that both Batman and Bruce Wayne had died in the public eye.
But something else was happening there. Something strange. Something he couldn’t understand, even though he felt it with the clarity of a heartbeat.
He assumed that officer was Robin because he saw him wear the suit—not the same one, but similar. And he felt, from that body that wasn’t his, how he smiled. How he patted the young man on the shoulder as he showed him improvements on the suit, before mounting the motorcycle and disappearing into the cave.
Moments later, a familiar gust of wind pulled him from his thoughts. Bruce turned… and saw another Superman.
Different from the previous one, but just as gentle. And again, the damn suit with the trunks. Seriously, why?
In the Kryptonian’s arms was a boy of about eleven. Both smiled at him—warm, comfortable… as if they loved him. His heart softened instantly.
His arms extended instinctively to take the child, and a strong hand caught him by the waist, guiding him gently. Bruce would be lying if he claimed he hadn’t longed for that gesture from the counterpart in his previous dreams—that firm, steady, natural touch.
This time his body didn’t tense. On the contrary: it melted under the other’s hand.
And when he saw himself reflected in the waters cascading through the cave, he saw a serene face. Perhaps in his forties, or a bit older. But it was the face of a man who had found peace.
A flicker of envy tightened inside him. That man—that version of him—was nearly his age.
And Bruce could only think:
Why not me?
But still, he clung to one explanation: it was a dream.
Nothing more.
A product of his imagination.
It wasn’t real.
[…]
3.
Victor had a theory. Or rather, a hypothesis. Because there was no evidence, just scattered pieces that didn’t quite fit… but were impossible to ignore.
According to him, what Bruce was experiencing were vivid dreams: foreign memories, impressions from his counterparts across other planes of the multiverse.
And if the Mother Boxes had taught them anything, it was that there were forces capable of operating far beyond human understanding. To Cyborg, this was one of those forces.
Bruce hadn’t wanted to tell anyone. But these dreams were driving him mad.
And he trusted Victor. Victor never said more than he should—not without permission. The same had happened with his visions of Apokolips and the Anti-Life Equation.
This time, he didn’t just see Dick. Or a child in Superman’s arms.
He saw what Richard could have become.
He recognized him instantly: flawless acrobatics, a dazzling smile, a dark suit with a glowing blue emblem on the chest, and two electrified batons spinning with deadly precision in his hands.
He was perfect.
Nightwing.
He heard the name like an echo. Bruce wasn’t unfamiliar with it. Clark had once shared, in the mansion—now the Hall of Justice—a story about how “Nightwing” had been a Kryptonian legend, a hero who inspired hope. He’d found it in the database of his Kryptonian ship recovered from Luthor.
And now Bruce saw him… in his son. In that version of him who never got to grow up, the one the Joker blew to pieces. Had Clark given him that name?
Beside him stood a small boy. At first, Bruce didn’t know who he was, though something about him felt unnervingly familiar. He had a hard temper, a fierce gaze that reminded him of Talia al Ghul, the woman he once loved. The woman who had made him question everything.
It felt like a lifetime since he last saw her. Since he visited her resting place.
Talia al Ghul… killed by her own father when she ceased to be useful. A wound Bruce had never closed. Sometimes he still wondered what would have happened if…
If he had arrived one second earlier. If he had been faster. If he had fought a little harder.
If he hadn’t destroyed the last Lazarus Pit.
The boy’s eyes were green. Olive skin. Black hair. Too much wild energy for such a small body.
Dick ruffled his hair with a teasing grin before riding out of the cave on his motorcycle, promising to return for dinner with his girlfriend: a redhead with fire-green eyes and the power of a thousand stars, according to Dick’s own enchanted words.
It wasn’t until the boy called him father that Bruce understood.
He had a son with Talia.
A real son. A son who existed in that universe.
He wore a Robin suit different from the one Dick had ever used—more tactical… And yes, that was definitely a sword. The boy was aggressive. And Bruce recognized that rage. All too well.
Then Superman arrived. And of course: the damn trunks over the suit again.
Damian —by then Bruce already knew his name— tightened his face for a moment, until Clark undid a small bundle wrapped in his red cape.
A meow.
A tiny cat’s head peeked out.
Damian smiled for the first time. A small, shy smile. Beautiful. He cradled the little creature to his chest and happily ran toward the cave’s elevator.
Superman stepped closer to Bruce. He cupped his chin, tilting it up with a breathtaking gentleness.
Bruce knew how to anticipate a kiss. A lifetime of fleeting —and not so fleeting— romances had trained him well.
But he wasn’t prepared for the feeling. For the peace. For the tenderness.
His body relaxed. He leaned forward, seeking those lips.
That night, Bruce didn’t sleep a second.
He thought of those soft, loving lips. Of two sons: one he lost, and one he would never get to know. Of lives he never lived. Of families he could only touch in dreams.
And of the eternal, painful question:
What if…?
[…]
This body was different from the previous ones. Female.
It was strange to exist in another gender, to move within a different anatomy, but the children—all of them—called her mom.
This time there weren’t two. There were five. And there was one more boy, so much like Clark that Bruce couldn’t tell if he was his son, a clone, or something in between… But he knew that his female counterpart cared for him deeply. A warm, protective kind of affection.
Alongside Dick and Damian, there was a boy with a fierce gaze, a streak of white cutting through his dark hair. And yet, when Bruce—or she—touched his cheek, the fury dimmed for just a moment.
“Mom…” he whispered.
Jason Todd.
Alive. Hurt. But alive. The words echoed in Bruce’s mind without asking permission. Why?
The next boy was lanky, agile, with eyes that never stopped analyzing. Tim Drake.
Bruce had met him as a baby at some gala: a prodigy. Batman hadn’t been able to save his parents. In his world, the boy had been sent off to distant relatives, far from Gotham. That’s what the files in the Batcomputer said.
But here, a teenage Tim… called that female version of him: mom.
Did that mean that, in another universe, Bruce was a guardian to him? To all of them? That this woman had also failed to save the boy’s parents?
In the cave, arranged on display mounts, were several suits. And then she saw her reflection: the body of a woman his same age, streaks of gray in her hair. On her ring finger, a wedding band.
Six suits. Two Robins: one red; another similar to Damian’s from the previous dream. Dick’s: Nightwing. A more casual one, with a jacket and a full red mask. A Bat-themed suit too small to belong to her. And in the center, one larger, stronger… unmistakably hers.
Batwoman.
Bruce had had a Batwoman in his world: his cousin, Kate Kane. And once, a Batgirl. Now one was dead and the other bound to a wheelchair.
Because of him.
Then he sensed a presence. A girl. Slim body, silent, feline movements. The female Bruce smiled and turned to welcome her.
Cassie. Around twenty; she seemed to have Asian heritage. Her smile matched theirs. She signed a few gestures with her hands: Mom, Dad is looking for you.
They took each other’s hands and rode up the elevator to the mansion.
And this time, when Bruce woke, bitterness coated his tongue.
If Victor was right… could his counterparts see his life? Would it be a nightmare to them?
Because to him, it was. Dreaming every day. And now that the visions had stopped, now that everything seemed to be calming down… waking only reminded him that his reality was shattered.
Would anything have changed if he’d chosen to help the Drake boy? After all, it was Batman who failed to save his parents.
And Jason? Where would he be now in his world? Cassie?
Bruce felt mocked. As if someone wanted to torment him. And it wasn’t unthinkable… but no one in the League would do such a thing. And they hadn’t faced magical threats since Diana fought Cheetah and stopped Maxwell Lord.
Maybe—just maybe—Victor was right. It was destiny. Lives intertwined simply by being the same person.
And that only made Bruce feel even more miserable.
[…]
5.
Bruce sat in front of the Robin suit that had once belonged to his son. Resting on his legs was a photograph of him and Dick, taken just weeks before he lost him. The recent “dreams” returned to his mind; this time there weren’t just two, or four… not even six. There were many.
Some wore a suit similar to Superman’s, marked with a large S on the chest: two identical twins; an Asian boy with dark hair; a child who looked about Damian’s age but was the spitting image of Superman—bright, full of life and hope.
Others wore the bat: children he hadn’t seen in previous dreams, a dark-skinned boy in a yellow suit with a shy smile, a blonde girl in a purple costume and a defiant stare. Barbara was there too, in her wheelchair but with the same unshakable confidence as always, while Dick held her shoulder in a photograph. He also saw his deceased cousin; Lucius’s son, Luke; and a girl with blue hair.
Bruce wondered how many of them were his, how many were Clark’s, and how many were simply small birds that had flown into the life of his counterpart. For a moment, he thought that in that “world,” he and Clark were just good friends; after all, it looked like both of them had children of similar ages. That might mean that maybe one of them had gotten married…
But the eyes said everything, and that silly smile, bright as mother-of-pearl, simply denied it.
There was a photograph with each of those children and Clark in the Batcave. Even Alfred appeared in some… along with a couple of animals. Was that a cow? A dragon!?
Beneath one of the photos—just him and Clark—he read a dedication: “To my other half, the one who completes me. Happy anniversary, my love.”
Bruce chose to stop sleeping after that.
And for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to cry. He cried in front of his son’s suit, when there were no League members nearby and Alfred was off on his day off.
[…]
Bonus.
CLARK.
Clark knew something was wrong. Bruce could fool the entire world… but not him. He could hear it in his heart. Once, its rhythm had been steady and calm; now it sounded muted. Empty. There was a tension in the bat’s shoulders that didn’t belong to patrols or poorly healed wounds. It was a different kind of weight—one you couldn’t see, but could hear in each prolonged silence, each held breath, each grimace Bruce thought he hid when he believed no one was watching.
He had stopped arguing with Arthur, Victor looked at him with quiet sympathy, he treated Barry with an almost paternal softness, and he avoided Alfred and Diana. He avoided Clark too.
Not that they had ever been close. Clark didn’t know if they were friends or if Bruce simply tolerated him. His heart always beat nervously when Superman was near. Was he still afraid of him?
Clark didn’t want that. Honestly, he’d be more than happy if they could finally become good friends… even if it never went beyond that.
So he decided to get close. Maybe Clark Kent could help if something was wrong. No suit, no titles, no expectations. Just him. His mother always said she preferred seeing Clark, because Clark Kent was human, ordinary, approachable. Superman, on the other hand, felt unreachable.
He found Bruce in the Batcave, sitting in front of Robin’s worn suit. He held an aged photograph. Bruce didn’t look up, but Clark knew he had heard him descending. Bruce always knew when someone entered. Always.
But this time… there were tears in his eyes. Bruce didn’t cry. Not even from pain.
“You don’t have to talk,” Clark said softly as he approached.
Bruce didn’t answer. He gripped the photograph so tightly the glass creaked under his fingers.
Clark stopped beside him, gaze fixed on Robin’s suit.
“Richard Grayson,” Bruce whispered. Clark barely heard him, even with super-hearing; his voice was fragile. “My son.”
Clark sat to his right—close enough to offer warmth, but not intrude. He waited. Bruce spoke when he was ready, never before.
“The Joker killed him,” Bruce continued. “He exploded along with a building a few years ago.”
Clark stayed silent. He knew the story—at least the public version. The real grief, that, only Bruce carried.
“I used to think I never should’ve brought him to the manor,” Bruce exhaled. “That maybe I should’ve left him with the circus or sent him to an orphanage. Alfred says otherwise. But now I just think I’m cursed. That someone is punishing me.”
“You’re not cursed,” Clark replied.
“My parents died. My son died. And you died because of me.”
Clark inhaled deeply. His mother had told him about Bruce’s visit after Doomsday. She had hated him at first—furious at the death of her son—but she understood. Bruce lived in perpetual mourning. And she had seen in his eyes the same look she saw in her own reflection: that of a parent who had lost a child.
That was why she forgave him.
“Bruce…” Clark murmured.
Bruce kept staring at the picture.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. He met Clark’s eyes for a second. “I never apologized.”
“It’s all right,” Clark interrupted gently. “You don’t need to. We both made mistakes.”
Superman’s hand rested on Bruce’s shoulder. The expensive fabric of his suit was cold beneath his palm.
“You helped my mother,” Clark added. “That was more than enough.”
“I tried to fix a mistake,” Bruce growled, his voice filled with self-loathing. “Your mother was grieving because of me.”
Clark didn’t argue. It was useless. He simply stayed there, pressure steady and comforting on his shoulder.
“I dream when I sleep,” Bruce said, moving Clark’s hand aside with surprising softness. “And it’s a damn nightmare when I wake up.”
Clark didn’t know how to respond. He knew that if he pushed too much, Bruce would shut him out again. And he didn’t want that.
So he stayed silent, moving a little closer. Their shoulders brushed as Bruce stared at the suit.
“What was he like?” Clark asked after a long moment. “Your son.”
Bruce tensed instantly. Clark regretted the question, but after a tired sigh, Bruce relaxed.
“Happy,” he said. “Brave. He was everything I’ll never be.”
Clark frowned. He heard the self-contempt in Bruce’s tone. He hated it. He was about to protest when Bruce spoke again.
“We were preparing for him to retire the Robin mantle. One last mission and then he’d go to college.” Bruce swallowed hard, his voice trembling just a little. “That suit is a reminder of why Joker and Harley Quinn deserve to stay in Arkham.”
Anger. Grief. Sadness.
“You would’ve liked him,” Bruce added quietly.
“I’m sure I would have.”
And he meant it.
There were stories. Of how Batman and Robin had been an unstoppable duo. Symbols of hope in Gotham, a ruined city.
Everything changed when Robin disappeared and Batman darkened. The bat’s reign of terror.
Maybe in another time, another life, Clark would’ve known that hope. Things would’ve been different.
But this was the life they were given. And they had to live with it. That was one of the few lessons his father, Jonathan Kent, had managed to leave him before the tornado took him.
Carefully, Clark extended his hand and took Bruce’s. For a second, he feared Bruce would pull away, so he gave him the chance to do so.
But unexpectedly, Bruce squeezed back. His hand was cold, so Clark wrapped it between both of his.
A comfortable silence settled between them.
For a while, they just stayed there, sitting on the cold floor of the cave.
“Thank you,” Bruce murmured, his voice cracked, weak. Clark squeezed his hand gently in response. “You shouldn’t worry. Not after what I did to yo—”
“It’s all right,” Clark cut in immediately. “Like I said, we both made mistakes. What matters is moving forward. Getting better.”
No answer. But Clark heard Bruce’s heart ease, letting him keep holding his hand.
It was a beginning.