alyrewrites

[alyrewrites]

rest now in my arms (as I watch over you)

“Like he knew the sun would come up the next morning, Dick knew that Batman would always get back up, that nothing could keep him down. It didn’t matter what came at him -- loss of loved ones, false murder accusations, having his back broken, getting lost in time -- none of that had ever stopped him before. But there was no miracle coming this time, Bruce was going to die and Dick would lose another parent.” For Whumptober 2024 Day 20 - Emotional Angst/Giving Permission to Die

This is wrong. That was the thought that kept going through Dick’s mind. Bruce had always been a strong and imposing figure in Dick’s life. Even after he had grown into Nightwing and worked and led heroes with a variety of powers, Dick found that Batman had a gravitas that no other hero seemed to have. He was a rock for Dick. Like he knew the sun would come up the next morning, Dick knew that Batman would always get back up, that nothing could keep him down. It didn’t matter what came at him -- loss of loved ones, false murder accusations, having his back broken, getting lost in time -- none of that had ever stopped him before. So seeing him lying in a medical bed, barely hanging on to a fraying thread of life, was antithetical to everything Dick knew and just assaulted his senses with a sense of wrongness.

Alfred sat at Bruce’s bedside and, in a rare breach of his butler facade, was running a hand through Bruce’s hair. It was one of the few times Dick had ever seen Alfred act like the surrogate father that Bruce viewed him as and all it did was drive home the fact that Bruce was dying. There wasn’t any coming back from this. Bruce had lost a massive amount of blood by the time the Justice League were able to get him to medical, but not enough that he couldn’t recover. However, nearly every one of Bruce’s organs were either failing or on the cusp of it and were impossible to treat without putting Bruce under, an action which would almost certainly kill him. There was no miracle coming this time, Bruce was going to die and Dick would lose another parent.

Bruce kept asking about them, needing to know if they were okay, if his children were safe. Alfred and Dick kept reassuring him that they were, that he needed to focus on himself, but Bruce wouldn’t believe them until he saw his children himself. So Dick stepped out and sent out an emergency comm to all of them telling them that they needed to get to the Watchtower now. Something in Dick’s voice must have been telling because Jason only put up token protest before agreeing to come.

It was only about 15 minutes between when Dick made the call and when the Zeta tubes announced the arrival of his siblings, but, to Dick, it felt like an eternity. He just kept watching Bruce’s chest take in shallow, uneven breaths, afraid of the moment when he would see it stop, but also hating the amount of pain every breath clearly gave Bruce. Normally, someone in Bruce’s condition would have been given morphine to give them a painless passing, but Bruce was aware enough to refuse any pain relief, as he usually did, but this time, neither Dick nor Alfred had the strength to ignore his wishes this time. It was selfish, Dick knew that, but he wasn’t ready to lose his dad yet.

Clark and Diana had informed his siblings of the situation before they entered Bruce’s room, but even with the warning, Dick could see how the sight of Bruce weakly hanging onto life affected them.

“We’re all here Bruce, see? We’re all fine,” Dick said, trying to keep his voice steady.

Bruce blinked. His gaze, normally so sharp and clear, was unfocused even as he seemed to try and look at them each individually.

“It seems I can’t see very far right now, chum. Come closer so I can see your face.” His tone was completely different from earlier when he was speaking with the doctors earlier and refusing his pain medicine. It was much softer with a desperate, pleading undertone. Dick had wondered if Bruce had been aware exactly of the situation, but he should have known better. Of course Bruce did, he just refused to lower his guard around anyone. Normally, his children were included in that, but it seemed that his impending death was what was needed to take down that emotional wall.

Damian wasted no time responding to his father’s request and approaching the bed with Dick, Jason, Tim, and Cass just behind. Alfred didn’t remove his hand from Bruce’s hair and step out like he often did when . Bruce raised a shaking arm to cradle his youngest’s face. He tried to remove Damian’s mask but couldn’t seem to muster the strength to manage it.

“Let me see your faces. Please.”

Each of them removed their masks.

“See, B, we’re all here and we’re all fine. So quit worrying about us,”

“I can’t. You’re my children.” The way he was looking at them made Dick want to rage. It made him want to cry. Bruce was always so emotionally stunted and held himself back so much. He hadn’t looked at Dick like that since Jason died, with so much love and pride that it was like looking straight into the sun.

Bruce took another painful, rattling breath. “I’m so proud of you. So, so proud of you. I’m sorry I couldn’t… I didn’t say that more often. You deserved better than me, but I’m so glad… so glad that you came into my life anyways. I was so lucky to get to be your father and your partner.”

Dick felt a hot pressure build up behind his eyes. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to have his last view of his father living to be distorted through tears.

“You are all so much better than me… so much better than Batman. Please, promise me, you’ll let Batman die with me. Let that darkness die with me. I never wanted any of you to have to…to have to carry that.”

“We won’t need to if you just pull yourself together father,” Damian said, “You just need to recover and then none of us will need to take your mantle,”

Bruce smiled weakly at Damian before turning back to Jason, Tim, and Dick. “Promise me. I don’t want… I don’t want you to fight each other again. You need to stick together, take care of each other. Promise me you won’t let Batman come in the way of that.”

“You don’t control me, asshole,” Jason snarled, “If you don’t want me taking the suit again, you’re gonna have to make sure the suit isn’t empty for me to take.”

Bruce looked at Jason sadly. “Jaylad.”

Jason scoffed wetly. “Fine.”

“I-I promise, Bruce,” Tim said, “So just stop talking like you’re going to die. I’m sure Clark will find something in his Fortress soon and you’ll be fine. So please, please don’t die, dad.”

“I’m sorry, Tim.” Bruce squeezed Tim’s hand weakly.

Dick wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rage at Bruce. He wanted to tell him that he never wanted to touch the Batsuit again. He wanted to tell him that he wasn’t ready to lose him. He wanted to tell him that he still needed his dad. But he didn’t. Instead, Dick swallowed the lump in his throat and put on a small, strained smile.

“Don’t worry, dad, we’ll- we’ll be okay. We’ll take care of each other. You don’t have to worry about us. You can rest now,”

Dick could hear his siblings echo the sentiment in their own ways, but his attention was completely focused on Bruce. He watched as his dad looked to Alfred - looked to his dad - for confirmation

“It’s alright Bruce,” Alfred said, tears in his eyes, “I will watch over the family. You can rest now, son. You can let go.”

Dick watched as Bruce’s eyes closed and, for the first time, his entire body relaxed. The permanent tension that he seemed to carry finally released along with his last rattling breath. Bruce’s chest was still. The heart rate monitor showed a flat line and with the other monitors showing numbers that led to the same conclusion. Yet, Dick still couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He grabbed Bruce’s wrist and placed his fingers over the pulse point and waited.

Nothing. No warmth, no reassuring squeeze like Bruce used to do when Dick made him hold his hand as a child. Nothing at all. Bruce had lost a lot of blood already though, so maybe it was just that there wasn’t enough blood going to his extremities for Dick to find a pulse (he knew he was lying to himself, but the fact that none of his siblings stopped him was telling). He reached across Bruce’s corpse body to check the pulse point on his neck. He felt nothing, but he kept waiting, certain that he would feel something eventually. He just had put his hand in the wrong spot, just missed the artery. He adjusted his hand again and again, trying over and over again to deny the reality that was in front of him. Eventually, someone grabbed his hand to stop him. Dick found himself being gently guided into a hug by Alfred.

He sobbed.

[alyrewrites]

A Hollow Shell

Alfred had always known that he would lose Bruce to his mission one day. He had thought it would be through death. Death would have been preferable to this. For Whumptober Day 7: Magic with a Cost

“Good morning, Master Bruce,” Alfred said as he threw open the drapes in Bruce’s room.

He hoped that this morning would be different from the past twelve mornings, but he was again disappointed. Bruce did not respond to either Alfred’s words nor to the sudden illumination of the room. Alfred looked at Bruce and took in his empty expression.

There were those who were fooled by Bruce’s flat affect and tight control over his emotions and believed him to be cold and unfeeling. It had frequently fooled his closest allies and even his children. Alfred had never been fooled. He had raised the boy and knew him better than anyone, so he knew that Bruce felt so strongly it scared him. It was why Bruce did not allow himself to show what he felt and, oftentimes, attempted to be as emotionless as he portrayed himself. Alfred could always see through the facade which was why seeing Bruce in his current state was distressing.

Bruce never stopped moving, never stopped thinking. He was always running through some plan or case in his mind, and he was always, always thinking about Gotham. But now, there was nothing behind his eyes. They were dull, unfocused even as they followed Alfred around the room. There was no emotion of any kind under the flat affect and nothing Alfred or the children did had changed that.

Alfred made himself busy tidying up the unnaturally clean room. There wasn’t anything to be done as the occupant of the room hadn’t lived in it for some time now. He was simply going through the motions to avoid making the decision that loomed over him even now. An impossible decision that he had hoped he would never have to make, but fate had never been kind to the Wayne household. Something once again proven by the situation they were currently facing.

The signs had been subtle at first, but, with the benefit of hindsight, Alfred could pinpoint the beginning of Bruce’s decline into his current state to immediately following the last world-ending disaster that the Justice League had become involved in. Bruce had moved slower, spoke even less than usual, and showed less interest in his usual activities. At first, Alfred had attributed it to the many, many injuries Bruce had sustained in the course of the fighting.

It was when Alfred realized that Bruce had not, even once, attempted to leave on patrol under Alfred’s nose that he realized something was very wrong. Leslie had taken blood and urine samples and performed various imagings in order to try and diagnose whatever was affecting his charge. She found nothing that would explain this change in behavior. She was concerned that this abulia would continue to progress into akinetic mutism.

So, Alfred called on Batman’s allies for help. Even though Zatanna was quick to respond, Bruce’s condition had worsened. It took considerable effort from Alfred to get him out of bed and he was lucky should Bruce respond to anything with a grunt or even a single word.

Magic, Zatanna told them, was the cause of Bruce’s sudden severe apathy. She didn’t expound any further than that at first, seeming rather hesitant to continue. Alfred asked her what she would need in order to break this curse.

“Not a curse.” She corrected, and then explained. The magic had originated from Bruce himself. This was the result of a spell that he cast- likely during that last world-ending event.

“My father had refused to teach him any magic,” she told Alfred, “Because magic always demands a cost and Bruce had nothing but his drive left to give.

“It…isn’t a decision he would have made lightly. Magic requires surrender, something that, I’m sure you're aware, Bruce has never been good at doing. It would have been the only choice left with something important to him at stake.”

Alfred knew that someday, his boy’s crusade to change the world would take him away, but he had always thought it would be through death. Instead, Alfred was left with a breathing corpse. He wished, in his weaker moments, that the magic had taken Bruce’s life instead of his spirit. If he were able, Alfred would give his own life without hesitation to bring his son back, but Zatanna knew of no way to return what magic claimed as its payment. She promised that she would search and consult with others, though they both knew it was unlikely that she would find anything.

That was nearly two weeks ago now, and Bruce had hardly moved from his bed since that time. It was only with repeated requests and pleas from Alfred, or one of the children, that he was able to get any movement, any response from his son. More often than not, even that was not enough to elicit any response from Bruce and Alfred had to enlist that aid of Bruce’s children to lift him from the bed so that Alfred could give him a sponge bath or change the sheets.

It was torturous.

Alfred had to watch as his boy atrophied. His face and body were gaunt. He could feel every rib when he gave him sponge baths and feel every bone when he sat by the bed and held Bruce’s hand. They had been forced to insert an IV not long after Zatanna’s visit since they stopped being able to get Bruce to eat or drink anything. Alfred wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand to see Bruce like this.

It was difficult on the children as well. On more than one occasion Alfred saw Dick sitting by his father’s bed talking to him, usually reminiscing about when he was a kid but sometimes all but begging Bruce to react at all. Jason would show up and attempt to provoke Bruce. He would yell at him, tell him about his criminal activities, tell him of his plans to murder the Joker or various other members of Batman’s rogues gallery, or just lob accusations at Bruce. Tim would talk to Bruce about the cases he was currently working on or what was going on with Wayne Enterprises. Cass would just sit at Bruce’s side, saying nothing, but watching him intently. She left disappointed every time. Alfred had only seen Damian at Bruce’s side once, and since then the youngest of the Wayne children had steadfastly avoided seeing his father. Alfred understood the compulsion. He could hardly stand to look at the empty husk of his son most days.

It was for that reason that Alfred was faced with his current dilemma. He knew that, despite Zatanna’s promise to search for a way to fix this, she would not find anything and had only promised to search as an attempt to comfort an old man. He also knew that Bruce, if there was still anything of him left, would be suffering in his current situation. It was why Alfred had two different IV bags with him that morning. One contained the usual cocktail of vitamins, minerals, and medication that had been keeping Bruce alive. It would have been simple to just replace the bag and continue on as they had for the past two weeks.

The other bag contained enough morphine to keep even Superman out of it for a few hours. It would be a more peaceful end than either Alfred or Bruce had ever expected for Batman to have, but it would still mean killing his son, or what was left of him. Both choices were equally selfish and both were equally horrible in their own way. It was an impossible choice with no good outcome.

In the end, Alfred made the only choice he could and hoped that he could be forgiven for his selfishness.

[alyrewrites]

trying to hide (what’s inside underground)

Bruce keeps expecting to see Jason around the manor, even a week after the funeral. Even as he attempts to scrub the blood from the torn and battered Robin uniform

For Whumptober Day 4: “You’re still alive in my head” and Angstober Day 4: Blood

Bruce scrubbed at the uniform. It wasn’t uncommon for Bruce to do so. When either his suit or Robin’s suit was excessively dirty, they would have to get the worst of the stains out before Alfred could work his magic. Normally, it was stuff like sewage, mud, and ketchup or mustard. Sometimes, Bruce would have to scrub blood out of his suit after a severe injury, but he’d never had to scrub the blood out of Robin’s suit. He’d been lucky enough to have always been able to shield Dick and then Jason from serious injury. Until now.

He’d been scrubbing at the blood for so long that his fingers felt as raw as the rest of him and there was still more. There was so much of it, far too much of it to be staining his son’s suit. It felt like this suit was too small to even hold half of the blood he had washed out (god it was so small, Jason had only been 15-years old) and yet there was still more.

He half expected Jason to come up behind him and make fun of him for being “richer than god” with a “fancy washing machine” and still have to wash clothes by hand. He’d been entertained by the fact that Bruce had no idea how to even operate the laundry machine despite the fact that Bruce could probably take it apart and put it back together without any issue. Bruce’s incompetence regarding simple, everyday tasks was a source of endless amusement for Jason.

The everpresent lump in his throat tightened as he once again realized that he would never again experience Jason’s teasing, he would never again hear his laughter, he would never again see the smile that brightened up any room he was in. And it was all Bruce’s fault. A choked sob broke its way through Bruce’s normally tight self-control, though no tears gathered in his eyes. He’d run out days ago.

It had been nearly a week since Jason’s death. Every day, Bruce still woke up with the expectation that he would see his son and, every day, Bruce was hit again with the realization that his son was dead, buried in the ground and it was his fault. If he had been a better father, Jason wouldn’t have felt the need to run off looking for his biological mother. If he hadn’t let Jason accompany him at night as Robin, Joker wouldn’t have had any reason to target him. If he had been smarter and faster, he could have realized what was going on sooner and arrived at the warehouse in time to save Jason and his mother.

Bruce knew he was torturing himself, but he thought it was well deserved. Even though nothing he did could ever be penance enough for letting his son die. He had hoped that at least he could make sure that the Joker never hurt anyone again, that his son would be the end of the misery, but he couldn’t even give Jason that much. The only penance left to Bruce was the endless streams of if only’s and the destruction of his body in his efforts to make sure no one else gets hurt from his weakness.

But even the physical pain could not distract the phantom feeling of Jason’s body in his arms, too light and too heavy at the same time. It was worse now, so much easier for the scene to overtake him with Jason’s uniform in his hands and the blood dripping from it onto his hands. The smell of explosives, hot sand, and burning flesh assaulted his senses. All he could feel was the lack in the body that he held in his arms; the lack of heat, the lack of movement, the lack of life. He was looking at Jason, at his son, but it wasn’t him, it was missing what made Jason who he was.

“Master Bruce.”

Alfred’s voice and the accompanying hand on his shoulder broke the illusion. He looked back down at the uniform he had been washing. It was mostly clean now, the worst of the blood had been removed. The rest of the sand and smoke and dust could be removed by a cycle in the wash. But that wasn’t what Bruce was fixated on. It was his hands, stained dark red against Robin’s bright colors that held his attention. It wasn’t the first time blood had covered his hands, but it felt like a condemnation, now more than ever.

Overwhelmed suddenly by the grief, Bruce collapsed into himself, dropping his head into his hands. For the second time in his life, he was stuck trying to figure out how to move on when it felt impossible; when going on felt like torture worse than anything he faced in his years-long crusade.

“Alfred…” His voice broke. He couldn’t organize his thoughts. He couldn’t speak any of what he was feeling out loud. Words were just…inadequate.

He felt Alfred’s gentle hands wrap around his head and shoulders, pulling Bruce’s hunched form to him.

“I know, my boy. I know.”

[alyrewrites]

Death kindly stopped for me

Bruce is given the chance to cleanse Gotham of her curse, all it will cost is his life. He is given a few days to prepare for his death and reflect on his life, his legacy and his regrets.

For Angstober Day 2: Countdown and Whumptober Alt Prompt: Regret

Bruce knew there was an invisible countdown hanging over his head, even more than what normally came with being a human vigilante. Bruce had regrets, things that he still wanted to do, things he wished he had done differently or not done at all, but this wasn’t one of them. Never would be. If the price he had to pay for finally freeing Gotham of her curses was to die with these regrets, then it was a price he would gladly pay.

The idea that Gotham was cursed wasn’t a new idea, but it also wasn’t one that Bruce had given much thought to. At first, it was because he didn’t believe that there was anything to the persistent rumors since, as far as he was aware, magic didn’t exist. Then he traveled the world and learned there was far more to the world than what he had thought, including the existence of magic, curses, and other dimensions. After that, he didn’t give much thought to Gotham’s curses because there wasn’t anything he could do about it. The most he could do was alleviate the symptoms, like giving ibuprofen to someone with a fever.

If that was all he could give Gotham, then it’s what Bruce would give to her, but it never felt like enough. Then he, by chance, stumbled into a wellspring of magic in Gotham. A leak in the walls of their reality, spewing cursed magic into his city. It was the first time Bruce had found real, hard evidence of the curses that kept Gotham from any real improvement. It was there that Bruce was given the chance to fix this leak and give Gotham a chance at real improvement, but as with all good things, there was a cost. That cost would be Bruce’s life.

There was no hesitation when Bruce agreed. He had already given his life to Gotham in every way that mattered, this was simply the logical conclusion to his efforts. He was informed that he would have a few days to settle his affairs, to speak with his family, and to prepare for his impending death.

Bruce had decided not to tell his children. He told himself that it was because he didn’t want them to waste time or worry about finding a solution, but the real reason was that Bruce was a coward. He knew his children would be upset, at least a few of them would, and he didn’t want his last interaction with them to be an argument. So he would selfishly keep it from them for the days that he had left. Though he knew it was possible that his kids would know something was up with Bruce in the coming days, he was fairly confident in his ability to keep the coming events from them until he was gone.

3

Bruce was alone in the cave when he returned to the manor that night. Alfred had already retired for the night and Damian had not been allowed to patrol due to it being a school night, so Bruce was alone in the Batcave. He updated his case files from the night’s work and saved his (carefully edited) report of the night’s events. Then, instead of changing out of the suit, showering, and heading upstairs for a few hours of sleep, Bruce created another report, hidden behind layers of encryption that would slow even Barbara down, with the information he had edited out of the other report. It included his discovery of the cursed wellspring, his conversation with a manifestation of Gotham, and the solution he was offered.

It was nothing more than a recap of events, a statement of facts. It was devoid of emotion, detached, even more so than his reports normally were. It showed no sign of the conflicting emotions that, even now, roiled inside Bruce like a tempest. The hope that Gotham might finally, finally improve in a lasting way. The sorrow from knowing he will never get to see it. Relief from knowing that his children will have a better Gotham than he did. Anguish knowing that he has to hurt them one last time in order to give it to them.

He didn’t regret making the choice he did, but, in the silence of the early morning hours, Bruce allowed himself to grieve.

2

Bruce finally left the cave at a time that was more early than late. He allowed himself a few precious hours of sleep before he had to prepare for his oncoming death. The first thing Bruce did was tell Alfred. He didn’t want to keep this from the man who was like a father to him and a grandfather to his children. He knew that Alfred would put the children’s grief before his own and wouldn’t allow himself to grieve if he perceived that he was needed. At least this way, Alfred would have time to prepare himself before he shoved it all down.

It was more difficult than Bruce had expected to actually get the words out; to tell Alfred that he would be dead in a few days, but Bruce managed to tell him everything that had happened the previous night. There was silence once Bruce had finished, and Bruce had never felt so much like a child again as he did in that moment, waiting for Alfred’s reaction and judgment.

“Oh, my boy.” Alfred pulled Bruce to him in a rare display of physical affection. He hugged Bruce tightly and, after a moment of surprise, Bruce returned it.

“I wish you wouldn’t do this. I wish you would be selfish just once,”

“I’m sorry,”

“You don’t need to apologize to me. It is simply no parent’s wish to outlive their child,”

“Alfred-”

“Even if you do not view me as a father, know that you are, and always will be, a son to me,”

Bruce swallowed the lump of emotion in his throat. “You’ve always been a father to me. I’m sorry I wasn’t always a good son,”

“No son is, but know that I am so unbelievably proud of the man you have become.” Alfred pulled back, but continued to hold Bruce by the shoulders. “You’ve done so much good and have raised five wonderful children who will continue to do good. Martha and Thomas would have been proud to call you their son.”

It took all of Bruce’s restraint to keep enough of a hold on his emotions to 

Bruce was already certain what the answer would be, but he had to ask. “Will you-”

“You do not need to ask, Master Bruce. I will watch over them for as long as I am able.”

“Thank you,” Bruce said, trusting that Alfred understood everything he wanted to convey with those two simple words.

After finishing his conversation with Alfred, Bruce then confirmed that all of his legal documents and preparations were in order. They were, of course. The Wayne fortune would be split between all of his children. Wayne Enterprises and The Martha Wayne Foundation would go to Tim (Dick, Jason, and Cassandra had no interest in the business), the manor would go to Dick, and his other properties. If Dick didn’t want the manor, then it would go to Jason, then to Cassandra, then to Tim, and finally to Damian. Custody of Damian until he was 18 would go to Alfred or, if something happened to Alfred, to Dick. There were only a few other small things that would go to specific children that were listed in his will, but he knew his children well enough to know that they wouldn’t have any real interest in most of his physical possessions.

He then retreated into the Batcave where he left video messages for each of his children. There were things that, even now, he struggled to say to them in person and he wanted to make sure that everything he wanted to say was said, even if he didn’t see his children before his death, though he would try. He made sure to tell each of them how proud he was of them and how much he loved them. He regretted that his own issues kept him from telling his kids this as frequently or even in-person.

He also made sure to tell all of them that he didn’t want any of them to be Batman after his death. Dick knew this and Bruce hated that, when he had been thought dead previously, his eldest had felt obligated to take up his mantle. He never wanted any of his kids to have to inherit his own darkness when they were so, so much better than he had ever been. He had hope now though, with the abatement of the curses on Gotham, that his children wouldn’t need the threat of Batman in order to clean up the city.

Bruce finished up in the Batcave with enough time to pick up Damian from school that day. Damian was clearly surprised to see Bruce driving instead of Alfred, and, though he tried to hide it, was clearly pleased.

“Father,” Damian greeted, “Is something wrong?”

Bruce winced internally at the implication that the only reason he would pick up his son from school was because something had happened. He made sure to keep it off his face, but he knew that was another regret he would take with him to his grave.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he reassured Damian, “I just had time and thought it would be nice to pick you up for once. How was your day?”

Damian then launched into a description of his day. He told Bruce all about how the coursework was too easy and that the teachers were incompetent (although he did express somewhat less derision for his art teacher). Damian also told him about the mischief he and his friends got up to. Damian did his best to put on the airs of having been forced into participating and of indifference towards his friends (because heaven forbid he feel more than tolerance for someone -another trait he unfortunately inherited from his father), but Bruce knew better. He was glad that Damian had such good friends that he felt comfortable with. It was a comfort knowing that Damian would have multiple people to support him once Bruce was gone. But, for the moment, Bruce pushed those thoughts from his mind and just enjoyed the time with his son.

1

Bruce had no plans of telling the Justice League in its entirety about his impending death. He was sure that if they knew, they, like his children, would try to help him, would try to find a way to save his life when his life had always belonged to Gotham. It was also too likely to get back to his children somehow which was something he couldn’t risk. Most of them would find out after his death, but there were two of his fellow members that he wouldn’t keep this from

Bruce pulled Clark and Diana aside after the meeting had ended, leading them both to his personal quarters on the Watchtower. They were his two closest friends, really his two only friends, and they deserved to know. He had debated whether or not to tell them. He knew Diana would likely accept his choice with little difficulty. She had lived long enough and came from a culture with different views than theirs that he didn’t foresee any difficulties with her reaction. It was Clark that Bruce worried would have a harder time accepting it.

Bruce decided that it was best to just come right out and say it. “I’m going to die tomorrow night.”

He recognized the moment the words left his mouth that it was perhaps a little too succinct and not the best way to phrase it. He was suddenly pinned by twin intense gazes from both Clark and Diana, the former likely already scanning Bruce’s body for injury or illness.

“Is someone threatening you? Or your children?” Diana demanded, “Tell us who and we will solve this at once.”

“It’s not- I’m fine, Clark, quit X-raying me- It’s nothing like that. It’s not something that needs to be fixed. Or can be. It’s-”

Bruce sighed and pulled his cowl off, running a hand through his hair. This was harder than he had expected it to be. He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, Clark and Diana joining him shortly after, and started to explain everything. It was a difficult conversation, and, while he was correct to assume that it would be more difficult for Clark than Diana, it went better than he expected. There was also a lot more hugging than he expected, but that was neither here nor there.

He spent the time until patrol with them, enjoying the company of his closest friends one last time. It was- It was good. He would miss this, or, at least, miss it as much as he could once he was dead. When it came time to patrol, it took him a little longer than normal to extract himself from Diana and Clark who just…hugged him for longer than normal. It was the closest Bruce had come to breaking down since this all started. Even more so than with Alfred the previous day. There he had known how difficult it would be and had been prepared for the overwhelming emotions, but not so much here. He managed to hold it together, just barely, as they all went their separate ways.

Batman patrolled alone that night. Red Robin didn’t patrol often with him anymore and Robin wasn’t allowed to patrol on school nights. He had hoped to be able to speak with Jason during patrol, but Jason was not in the mood for it and took a couple of shots at Bruce when he showed up on the edge of his territory. While his and Jason’s relationship had improved significantly over the years, it was still a roll of the dice whether or not Jason would be willing to talk with Bruce. The hurt between them still wasn’t healed and, now, never would have the chance to be.

It was another regret that weighed heavy on Bruce’s mind as he lay in bed, preparing himself for his final day.

0

It was the last day. Even if he didn’t know that he was afforded five days, he could feel it. It wasn’t a feeling that he could describe, it was just this sense of knowing, but it was clear to him. Bruce had to go into the office one last time for his final board meeting so he woke early that morning to get ready. It wasn’t his choice for how he would spend his last day alive, but at least it allowed him to share breakfast with Damian one final time, and it meant that he could drop Damian off at school on his way to the office.

He’d hoped that he would have the chance to see Tim between his meetings, but, unfortunately, their schedules didn’t line up. The most Bruce got was a brief “Hey, Bruce” as Tim rushed by to meet his boyfriend for lunch. Seeing Tim thriving, enjoying his time with someone he loved, would have to be enough for Bruce, was enough for him. He left the office without having said anything to Tim.

Cassandra ambushed him when he got home, having arrived from Hong Kong that morning. She latched onto him with a hug.

“Hi, B,”

“Hi, sweetheart,” He said, returning the hug, “How was the flight?”

“Long, boring.”

“Hm, better than the alternative.”

She looked at him like she didn’t agree with his assessment, but her expression quickly morphed into concern. She stepped back and examined him with sharp eyes.

“What’s wrong?” She asked.

Bruce knew going into this that Cassandra would be the most difficult of his children to hide this from. Try as he might, he can’t fully disguise his body language in a way she wouldn’t be able to see through.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” He said, trying to reassure her. He didn’t want their time together to be poisoned by worry or regret for things they would never get to do.

Her frown deepened, telling Bruce that she didn’t believe him at all, but she allowed the subject to drop. She pulled him to one of the ballrooms in the manor and showed him a dance she had been working on while she was gone. It was nice and Bruce allowed himself to push the axe hanging over his head to the back of his mind for a little while.

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Cassandra began flagging after an hour or so of spending time with Bruce and went to take a nap, so Bruce retreated to his study. It was probably telling that Bruce chose to spend most of his last few hours alive working, but everything needed to be in order. It was not at all an attempt to avoid the emptiness of manor that stood as a stark reminder of the mistakes he made that drove his children away.

A bright voice cut through his maudlin thoughts.

“Hey, B.”

Bruce looked up, surprised by the sudden appearance of his eldest.

“Dick,” he greeted. Bruce allowed himself the indulgence of soaking up the presence of his “greatest success” as Alfred so generously put it (“our greatest success” Bruce had corrected him). Seeing his son, standing before him as an adult, Bruce was always amazed by how far the boy he’d brought home had come. Knowing that Dick would still be around to help his siblings, to support them, brought Bruce more comfort in the face of his death than anything else.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you today. Did you need something?”

“Yep, need you to come down so we can eat. Alfred won’t let us until you join us,”

“I’ll be down in a moment,” Bruce promised, “I just need to finish this up,”

“Nope,” Dick said, bounding over to stand next to Bruce, “Not gonna happen. I promised I wouldn’t return without you and I’m not going to risk Alfred’s wrath. So up, we’re going.”

Bruce let Dick pull him up from his chair and shove him out of his study and down the hall. His son knew Bruce too well to let him easily escape back to his work (not that Bruce had any intention of doing so at this point) and so made sure to keep a hand on him as he shoved him towards the dining room.

Upon entering the dining room, Bruce was pleasantly surprised. He had been expecting only Damian and Cass to be joining them for dinner, maybe Tim if he was lucky, but instead all his children were sitting at the table, bickering and teasing each other. Even Jason, though he tried his best to appear as though he was there against his will.

A warmth filled Bruce seeing all his children at the dining room table. It was a rare occurrence and one he hadn’t been expecting to experience before his death. He was certain it was Alfred’s doing -he had the highest chance of success at convincing Jason to come- as something of a last gift for not only Bruce, but his children and Alfred himself. A last family dinner before Bruce orphaned four of his five children, three of them for a second time.

Cass eyed him with concern a number of times throughout dinner, but Bruce did his best to keep his melancholic musings off his face and out of his body language. He hoped that he was doing well enough that the primary thing she got from him was how much he loved her and her brothers. That’s what he hoped he could leave them with, despite his many faults and the many mistakes he had made through the years, he hoped he could at least make sure his children knew that he loved them more than anything.

After dinner, Dick and Cass teamed up to bully the rest of the family into a movie night before patrol. More time was spent actually arguing over which movie to watch than actually watching the movie, but Bruce loved it more because of it. As usual, he mostly just allowed the kids to argue amongst themselves, occasionally throwing out a movie suggestion he knows will be shot down in order to calm some of the tempers between them (there was no better way to disperse their arguments than give them a common enemy in Bruce).

Cass kept close to Bruce throughout the night, regarding him frequently with concern, but she didn’t push. When the other kids left to get ready for patrol, she stayed behind, seemingly hesitant to leave him.

“It’ll be okay, Cassie, I promise.” He said, “Go get ready with your brothers, I’ll join you in a bit.”

Cass regarded him with skepticism. “Fine,” She conceded and then hugged him, “Love you.”

Bruce felt the return of the lump in his throat that he’d been fighting most of the evening. He returned the hug, pressing a gentle kiss into the top of her head. “I love you too, sweetheart. Now go catch up with your brothers.”

Cass reluctantly withdrew from the hug and followed after her siblings to the Batcave. Bruce just stayed there for a moment watching her leave, knowing that it would be the last time he saw her and the last time she would see him alive. A few moments after she had left his sight, Bruce turned back down the hall and headed for his bedroom. He was suddenly rather tired.

That was the feeling that told him that this was the end. It was more than just the fatigue that came from a few sleepless nights or a difficult patrol. It was a profound exhaustion, something he could feel deep in his bones, but even that didn’t quite express the entirety of the feeling. It felt heavy, like all of his bones had been replaced with lead and gravity had increased about 100x. It felt like relief. It felt like freedom. It felt like regret. More than anything though, it felt right.

He had many, many regrets that accompanied him to this final rest. There were things he wished he could have said, but did not have the strength to do so. There were things he wished he hadn’t said, things he wished he had done, things he wished he hadn’t. But in the end, this, sacrificing himself, was something he would never regret. He did feel the heavy weight of guilt from leaving his children without a father (especially Damian who wasn’t even old enough to vote), but he hoped that they would understand why. He was doing this for Gotham, yes, but even more than that, it was for them. So that they would not have to struggle futilely to change a city that refused to improve, so that they would be safer than Bruce had ever been.

That thought was the comfort that allowed Bruce to finally close his eyes and let go.

[alyrewrites]

"If Bruce had a few moments, he would have pulled himself onto the narrow ledge and been able to either wait there for Bruce Wayne’s rescue to come or climb back up to the top of the cliff. He wasn’t given even that much before their ransomers threw Dick’s unconscious body over the edge of the cliff." Whumptober Day 1: "If only we could hold on"

Bruce was falling. He was falling to what would be certain death if he didn’t find some way to either slow himself or arrest his fall completely. His usual methods of doing so were unavailable; he wasn’t Batman right now and didn’t have any of his usual gear. His only hope was if he managed to find a protruding piece of cliff that he could grab onto and soon. Luck, it seemed, was on his side at this moment as he caught himself on a sturdy outcropping. He felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder as it took the brunt of his sudden stop, but was able to hold tight despite the pain.

If he had a few moments, he would have pulled himself onto the narrow ledge and been able to either wait there for Bruce Wayne’s rescue to come or climb back up to the top of the cliff. He wasn’t given even that much before their ransomers threw Dick’s unconscious body over the edge of the cliff. Bruce acted quickly, grabbing tightly to Dick’s wrist with his free hand as his son fell past. The momentum and force of Dick’s fall ripped Bruce away from the ledge and tore his shoulder from its socket. He swallowed down the cry of pain as he and Dick began falling again.

Ignoring the pain in his shoulder and wrist, Bruce dug into the cliff, hoping that it would slow them down enough to completely stop their fall once he was able to get a grip on something again. He was lucky when his outstretched hand caught on another ledge. The sudden stop nearly ripped the ledge from Bruce’s grip again, but he managed to keep his hold even as black spots danced in his vision from the pain.

Both of his rotator cuffs were definitely torn and at least his right shoulder had been dislocated. He could tell from the severe pain that there were other injuries that Alfred would likely try to bench him for, but thankfully, none of the injuries were inhibiting his ability to keep his hold on both Dick and the cliff, at least, not for the moment. He knew it was likely only a matter of time. Sheer force of will could only sustain him for so long.

He also didn’t trust the outcropping he’d caught to hold. The force of Dick and Bruce’s combined weight falling on it could have (likely have) weakened it enough that their sustained weight for any extended period of time could cause it to crumble and send Dick and Bruce plummeting again. It was too dark for him to see what lay at the bottom of the cliff, but Bruce could hear the rushing water below them, and could hear it crashing into the rocks. Even if the water was deep enough to cushion their fall, their odds weren’t great that they’d be able to survive what happened after. At this time of year, they’d be lucky not to immediately go into cardiac arrest on contact with the water.

He wasn’t sure what caused their ransomers to suddenly throw the two of them over a cliff, but he hoped it meant that rescue was coming soon. Dick had been conscious when they’d thrown Bruce over the edge and he couldn’t tell in the low light if that had changed because of injury or something else. It was concerning and the sooner he could examine his son and treat whatever caused his loss of consciousness the better.

Every moment that passed felt like hours as Bruce hung there in agony. Blood dripped down in hand and arm making the rock slick. He could feel his tentative grip slipping slowly. He readjusted as best he could, but it was difficult to do when every movement was agony. He looked around, hoping to find another outcropping he could grab should his grip slip further, but he couldn’t see one. He just had to keep holding on, even as his grip got weaker and began to slip more and more. He just had to hold on until their rescue arrived. Then he couldn’t keep hold anymore, the damage to his shoulder weakening his grip too much and the blood-stained rock too slick, and he and Dick began falling again. 

There was no way his shoulder could take anymore abuse and still hold the weight of both himself and Dick, so Bruce did what he could to protect his son from the oncoming impact. He positioned himself under Dick and braced Dick as best he could against his body as they crashed into the icy water. A rock slammed into Bruce’s ribs as he hit the riverbed, but through both the pain and the shock of cold water, he managed to keep Dick firmly held against him. He shoved off the ground and brought both himself and Dick back to the surface of the rapids. As the river carried them, Bruce made sure to use his body to shield Dick from as many of the impacts as he could while searching for a way out.

He knew they only had minutes at most before the cold sapped what little was left of his strength, likely less if the pain in the right side of his chest was anything to go by. He at least needed to get Dick to safety if nothing else. First, he needed to control their movement or stop it completely, long enough that he could take stock of their surroundings and form a plan. 

Opportunity presented itself in the form of two rocks just close enough together that Bruce could use them to brace himself. He ignored the pain in his shoulders and chest as he shoved his shoulder against one rock and his feet against the other. He then twisted, keeping Dick close to his chest so that, once he had his back against the rock, Dick was mostly out of the water.

He looked around to see if there was anywhere he could possibly get both himself and Dick out of the river and onto dry land, but the bank was rocky and required more strength and agility than Bruce possessed at the moment. It seemed that his only hope was for Dick to wake up soon. Luck, for the first time that night, was on Bruce’s side as he felt Dick stir not a minute after he realized this.

“Ugh, B?” Dick groaned as he came back to awareness.

“Dick, status.”

“Headache, mild nausea, a little lightheaded but no vertigo. We were kidnapped and they-” a barely there hitch in Dick’s breath, “They threw you over the edge. I tried to get to you and they knocked me out.

“Nothing feels broken, but feels like something in my left shoulder is torn,” Dick continued, “I should still be able to climb out of here though,”

Bruce grunted. Good, at least Dick would be able to pull himself up to the shore. Bruce just needed to ignore the growing numbness in his limbs and the pain increasing with each breath and the taste of iron filling his mouth a little longer. He just needed to hang on for a little longer and his son would be safe. Bruce relaxed his hold on Dick as the latter sat up and began carefully using the slick rocks to make his way over to the rocky bank. A few close calls later and Dick was safe and secure along the bank.

Bruce allowed himself a painful sigh of relief. Dick was safe. That was good. He was struggling to remember what kind of danger Dick had been in, but he was safe now so it didn’t matter. Bruce was no longer shivering, he knew that was bad, but thinking was becoming difficult.

“Bruce!” Dick’s voice made it through the fog that seemed to be filling his head. He sounded distressed, but Bruce couldn’t figure it out. Dick was supposed to be safe now, he shouldn’t sound like that.

Bruce opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) and tried to focus on the blurry figure that must be his son. He could hear his son’s voice, but words weren’t registering in his head. He was sure that was a problem, but Dick was safe so it couldn’t be that big of a problem. It was hard to be concerned when he knew his son was safe and he felt warm and drowsy. Surely, now that Dick was safe, he could just rest for a moment.

Just a moment.

[alyrewrites]

A Good Man

Good men don't need rules. Bruce Wayne was not a good man.

Bruce had many rules, every one of them written in blood. He didn't like the think about the trail of corpses he'd left behind with his time in the league, but, unfortunately, a past like his tended to catch up eventually.

Inspired by posts from @frownyalfred about Bruce having killed people while with the League of Assassins

Bruce Wayne was not a good man.

A good man didn’t need rules, and Bruce had many of them written in blood on the skin of those he failed. A good man certainly didn’t need a rule against killing, and a good man wouldn’t need to have a body count in the hundreds before making such a rule. However, that was what Bruce had needed before he had made a rule to never take a life again. A good man wouldn’t struggle so much to follow that self-imposed rule either, but, to Bruce, that rule often felt like a line in the sand in the face of a rising tide.

Bruce always felt like he was on the edge and that it wouldn’t take much for him to slip back into those old habits, even all these years after leaving the League. When Jason died, Bruce was prepared to kill the Joker. He thought he had, albeit indirectly, when he brought down the helicopter Joker had commandeered. Even more recently, Bruce had left KGBeast crippled in the middle of a Siberian Tundra. The broken neck Bruce had left the assassin with wasn’t necessarily lethal, but it was unlikely that he would be found and treated before he succumbed to the cold. A good man would have taken KGBeast to get medical treatment. A good man would have felt remorse for taking a life, even one as depraved as Joker’s or Anatoli’s. Bruce didn’t. The only regret Bruce had was that Joker had survived the crash and that he couldn’t guarantee that KGBeast would never again be able to harm his family.

Bruce knew he could rectify both of those regrets, but he couldn’t allow himself to actively, personally snuff out someone’s life. Not anymore. Even if he disregarded the spirit of his rule against killing, he needed to at least follow the letter of it. He knew he had no right to sentence someone to death, not when anyone would be well within their rights to sentence Bruce to the same. Clark would probably say that Bruce was being too harsh on himself, but Clark didn’t know the depths of Bruce’s crimes. Clark knew Bruce had killed before, but Clark didn’t know that Bruce had the blood of hundreds on his hands. That Bruce was the best assassin the League had ever produced.

Ra’s and Talia were the only ones who knew the details of Bruce’s actions during his time with the League of Assassins. They were the only ones who knew that he hadn’t just trained by the League, but that he had truly believed in Ra’s al-Ghul. They were the only ones that knew the “World’s Greatest Detective” hadn’t been able to see Ra’s and his cult for what they were.

Bruce had taken to Ra’s teachings like a fish took to water, it was why he had been made the Demon’s Heart and Ra’s al-Ghul’s heir. Ra’s gave Bruce a direction for his purpose, and Bruce had really, truly believed that he was doing the right thing. That by killing these criminals, he would prevent any more children from going through what he had.

By the time Bruce had come to his senses, the blood of hundreds stained his hands. He didn’t know how many of those people were really guilty of a crime other than crossing the Demon’s Head. The first people Ra’s had sent him against were the worst of the worst, but over time, Bruce stopped looking deeper into the people Ra’s had him target. He let the trust and belief he had in Ra’s and his cause lull him into complacency. He swore that he would never allow that to happen again.

Bruce returned home to Alfred and never spoke of what he did while with the League. There were some days when it almost seemed like Alfred knew what Bruce was hiding. It wouldn’t surprise him, Bruce had never been very good at keeping things from Alfred, but he could never be sure. If Alfred did know, he never brought it up. Talia and Ra’s never mentioned it either when Bruce fought them. He wasn’t sure why they didn’t, what they were planning to do with that information, but Bruce couldn’t help but be grateful. It meant that he could still keep this particular bit of his past from his children. He didn’t like to imagine what would happen if they found out, but he didn’t imagine the outcome would be positive.

Dick had never shied away from calling Bruce out on his faults, but he also always seemed to believe the best in Bruce. They had always been able to reconcile before, but Bruce was certain that this would cross the line. Dick would finally see that Bruce wasn’t the man his son seemed to believe him to be. Similarly, Cassandra would see that Bruce was no better than David Cain. They would see that Bruce was far too broken and angry and dark to ever be the father they deserve. They would both walk out and never come back.

He had considered telling Jason of his past before. First, when Jason was struggling with finding out that Two Face had killed his father. He was worried that Jason would want to repay the villain in kind, but his son was so much stronger than Bruce had ever been and let the police take Two Face to face judgment. Bruce had been so proud and also relieved that he wouldn’t have to share something that may change the way his son looked at him.

Then after Jason had died and returned to life, Bruce thought that Jason already knew about Bruce’s bloody past. He’d assumed that Talia would have told him, but it became clear that either Talia hadn’t told him or Jason didn’t believe her. He wondered, sometimes, if it would have helped his second son understand why Bruce couldn’t kill the Joker. He was a coward though and feared that revealing just how much of a hypocrite he is would just push his son even further away. He feared that it would just fuel the ever-present belief that Bruce just didn’t love Jason enough to avenge his death.

Tim’s disappointment would possibly hurt the worst. He had always believed the best in Batman, in Bruce even after having seen him at his worst. If Tim learned that, deep down, Bruce was every bit that vengeful, violent man Tim had tried to save, he would realize how many years of his life had been wasted trying to help a man no better than the one who had murdered his father.

Damian, at least, Bruce didn’t have to wonder about. He grew up hearing stories about that time of Bruce’s life from Talia and Ra’s. Bruce’s actions were the standard to which Damian was expected to measure up. He and Bruce had spoken about it some, and his ability to help his son come to terms with his past actions had been the only good thing to come from it. But in the end, even Damian wouldn’t stay with Bruce if this were revealed to his other children. There’s no way Dick would allow his baby brother to stay with a murderer.

Unfortunately, there was no more running from that part of his past. It had finally caught up to him and now he had to face his judgment. He had been spared from death by the person who most deserved to be his executioner, but he arrived home to a different jury. His children (with the exception of Damian who was still at school for another half hour) were waiting for him in his study when he arrived home.

It happened when he was Bruce Wayne, not Batman, so when the young woman pulled a gun on him, Bruce couldn’t do anything.

“Do you remember me?” 

He did. Even 20 years later, she still had the same look in her eyes as she did as a child. That pain and hatred towards the ones who had taken her parents away from her.

Dick and Jason all but ambushed him as soon as he was in the room. They confronted him with footage from a security camera. Barbara must have sent it to them, but then again, the source didn’t really matter.

“Is what she said true?” Dick asked.

They already knew the answer. This was just Dick giving him a chance, wanting to believe the best in him. Even after all the times Bruce had let him down, Dick kept giving Bruce more chances to disappoint him.

He had been sent to kill a couple. Criminals, but of what variety, Bruce wasn’t sure. All he knew was that if Ra’s was targeting them then the world would be a better place without them. It was a simple mission for Bruce, both targets were dead before either had hit the floor. He could’ve made it more painful, but the risk of discovery by one of the neighbors was too high.

“Mom? Dad?”

For the first time since the night in the alley twelve years ago, Bruce froze.

Bruce sat heavily in the office chair, too emotionally exhausted to muster up any emotion, but pure resignation.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He had been trying to prevent this from happening to any other child. These people were supposed to be criminals, the scum of the earth. Not a mother and father.

Bruce didn’t remember if the child said anything else before he fled from the scene. All he could remember was the look in her eyes. It was the same look he saw in the mirror every morning and it was because of him. And now those same eyes were burning into him from behind the barrel of a gun.

“It’s true. Ra’s al-Ghul ordered them dead and I killed them,” He said. There was no justification for what he had done, and he wouldn’t try to give any.

She couldn’t go through with it, in the end. She lowered the gun and was taken in by the police. No one believed that Bruce Wayne had actually killed her parents. Anyone who actually knew Bruce could see that he had.

“I always knew you were full of shit, but this is a new level,” Jason's voice was tight with some emotion Bruce didn’t have the energy to decipher, “Y’know, I never believed Talia when she claimed that you were the best assassin the League had ever produced. I didn’t think even you could be that much of a hypocrite. Looks like you proved me wrong.”

Jason grabbed the front of Bruce’s shirt and pulled him up, forcing Bruce to meet his eyes. Dick didn’t move to intervene. Bruce felt his gut churn.

“You’ve killed before, people who probably didn’t even deserve it. So why is that fucking clown still alive?”

Bruce heard the real question hidden behind the anger

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said.

Jason scoffed and let go of Bruce’s shirt. 

“You’re pathetic,” Jason declared and stormed out of the room, taking a piece of Bruce’s heart with him.

“I’ll go after him,” Dick said after a few moments of silence, “Make sure he doesn’t do anything too stupid. I wish you had told me B,”

Those words calmed some of the anxiety left behind in the wake of this. It signaled that maybe things weren’t completely unsalvageable, at least with Dick. He still had two other children who hadn’t made their opinions known.

“Do you two have anything you want to add?”

Bruce had prepared himself for more accusations, for anger or disappointment. But he wasn’t prepared for Cass to hug him.

“Knew you killed before,” Cass said slowly. Her face scrunched up as she tried to put together the words she wanted to say. She made a few aborted starts before stepping back from the hug so she could sign instead.

You were like me, Cass signed at him, You were a killer, but you felt shame, guilt. You stopped, like me.

“No, I was never near as strong as you, Cass,” Bruce said, making sure all his admiration for his daughter shone through in his body, “You were raised to kill and rejected it. I was raised knowing that it was wrong and I chose to kill,”

But you changed, Cass argued passionately, You changed like I changed. Like people we save. You saved yourself first, now you save others. You saved me.

“I already knew too,” Tim admitted, “I found out while I was with the League. I saw the records of your time with them, and Ra’s liked to bring it up when I refused to kill,” Tim shrugged with a feigned nonchalance, “He’s a hard man to refuse and he knew that. I think that’s why he liked to bring it up,”

Bruce knew what Tim was trying to say, but it wasn’t any excuse for his actions.

“I know it doesn’t negate what you’ve done,” Tim said before Bruce could interject, “I just meant that, I understand it. If I didn’t have you, if I hadn’t had Batman and Robin, I don’t know that I would have been able to hold out.”

Bruce was overwhelmed suddenly by awe for his children. He had been certain that none of them would want anything more to do with him. He thought that they would finally look at the broken man he was and realize that he wasn’t worth it.That both Tim and Cass had known and hadn’t immediately walked away. He needed to stop underestimating how good and amazing his children were. He pulled them both into a tight hug.

“Thank you.”

Bruce and Dick did speak later that night after they had returned from patrol. It went better than Bruce had expected and with significantly less yelling than their conversations of this type normally contained. It seemed that Dick was more upset that Bruce had kept this from him than by the fact that Bruce had killed in his past. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised, Dick and Jason’s relationship had improved significantly since where they had been when Jason had first returned to Gotham even with Jason continuing to dole out the occasional death penalty.

Jason, who Bruce, a week later Bruce still had yet to hear from. Dick had told him to give Jason some space, that he just needed some time to come around, but Bruce wasn’t so optimistic. They had come a long way in improving their relationship, but it was still incredibly shaky, owing to Bruce’s continual refusal to kill the Joker and his disapproval of Jason’s methods of cleaning up Crime Alley. Jason had pushed Bruce away for less and Bruce wasn’t sure that this wouldn’t be the final straw in their relationship.

It was nearly two weeks after the incident that Jason returned to the manor to confront him.

“Bruce,” Jason said neutrally, leaning against the study doorway.

“Jason,” Bruce greeted awkwardly, setting aside the WE paperwork he’d been reviewing, “Did you need something?”

“Yeah, matter of fact, I do.” Jason pushed off the wall and moved forward to slam his hands on Bruce’s desk. “An explanation.”

“An…explanation?” Bruce was caught off guard. Generally, Jason didn’t care for Bruce’s reasons

“Yeah, for why you won’t kill the Joker,” Jason’s neutrality melted away to reveal the anger that Bruce always managed to evoke, “The real reason.”

“I never lied to you, Jay,” Bruce said, “I can’t go back to who I was back then. I-”

Bruce paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. Jason did deserve a better explanation.

“While I was with the League, I let the anger and the pain inside drive me. I thought killing would end the pain. I thought that if I could kill all the monsters in dark alleys out there, I could finally heal. I was wrong. Killing…all it did was spread my pain with others. It didn’t heal me. It blinded me.

“Protecting Gotham, helping others, caring for you and your siblings, that’s what healed me.

“When I lost you… I lost myself again. The pain was blinding me again, I was prepared to do what it took to kill the Joker. I was sure if I did then the pain would stop. I would have killed him, if the government hadn’t called in Superman to stop me.”

Bruce paused for a moment. He needed to say this correctly.

“I was angry, at the time. I didn’t care that it would cause an international incident. All I knew was that the Joker was a monster who took you from me and that I couldn’t live in a world where your murderer got to walk free.

“I had hoped he had died when I took down his helicopter. We never fished up his body, but he was presumed dead. By the time I found out that wasn’t the case, I had Tim to think about.”

Jason scoffed.

“I did wrong by you Jason, I know that. I failed you as a father and as a partner. When Tim showed up, with the knowledge of our identities and a firm belief that Batman needed a Robin, he reminded me of you so much that it hurt. I knew that I couldn’t fail another son, that I had to be a better man.

“I wasn’t good at it. I nearly killed the Joker again and was stopped. It would have been so easy, and that’s the problem for me. I’m good at killing. I was the Demon’s Heart, the heir to the Demon’s Head, the best assassin Ra’s al-Ghul had ever trained. It would be too easy for me to slip back into that role, and I don’t want to have to kill hundreds in order to get out of it.

“So, I’m sorry Jaylad. I’m sorry that I can’t give you what you need, but my weakness has nothing to do with how much I love you, son.”

Jason’s silence hung over Bruce like the hangman’s ax.

“I still think you’re full of shit,” Jason declared after what felt like eternity, “but I guess I get it,”

Bruce found himself, once again, overwhelmed by love for his children, and their ability to forgive his many, many flaws. He wouldn’t have blamed any of them for walking out on him for any number of things in the past, but they kept giving him another chance. He didn’t deserve them. Bruce stood from his desk and pulled Jason into an awkward hug, earning an indignant squawk from his Jaylad.

“Fuck off, old man,” Jason said, but there wasn’t really any heat behind it. Jason, tellingly, did not pull away from the hug. “This doesn’t mean we’re cool or anything, you’re still the biggest fucking hypocrite on the planet. And you don’t get to give me anymore shit for killing. None.”

His biggest secret, his deepest shame was revealed to his children and he didn’t lose everything because of it. Bruce wasn’t a good man. It still haunted him, how easy it was for him to kill and how close he was at any time to crossing that line once again. Bruce wasn’t a good man, he wasn’t sure he ever would be, but he could try. He would try and keep trying, so that maybe, one day, he could be at least a fraction of the man his children seemed to believe he was.

[alyrewrites]

Ghost powers are permanent, but glitter is eternal

AO3

FFN

Summary: Written for Ectober Day 4: Glitter

Things that ghost powers help with:   • Fighting ghosts   • Pulling pranks   • Getting to school on time Things that ghost powers don’t help with:   • Glitter removal

Sam and Tucker’s muffled chuckles came through the speakers on Danny’s computer which he continued to ignore. He shook out his hair again and saw a few more spots of glitter fall out, but knew that he still had more in his hair, not to mention every other part of his body and his clothes.

This was not how he had planned on spending his Saturday. His parents were out with Jazz looking at colleges so he had the house to himself which meant it was perfect to play the newest Doomed expansion with Sam and Tucker. Once it arrived that was. Tucker had got his copy yesterday, which was when Danny was supposed to receive his copy, but something had delayed it. So he sat in the living room all morning waiting for the package to arrive.

When the doorbell finally rang, Danny was there in an instant and flung open the door. He grabbed the package and brought it up to his room where he unceremoniously ripped it open. Only to receive a face-full of glitter instead of his game.

Danny spluttered and tried to spit out the glitter that had gotten into his mount, not even noticing his ghost sense coming out with the glitter nor did he notice the box ghost phase into his room.

“Beware, for I, the Box Ghost, have discovered the power of glitter bombing. Tremble before your glittery doom,”

For once, the beating the Box Ghost received was from well-deserved aggression.

Unfortunately, beating Boxy (while cathartic) did not solve Danny’s issue of being covered in glitter. He had tried using the lint roller Jazz kept in the bathroom, and it had gotten some glitter off (and a surprising amount of Cujo’s fur), but his clothing still sparkled. He had tried showering to get it off and running his clothes through the wash, but despite his best efforts, there was still glitter everywhere.

Which left him here, trying to brush off as much of the glitter as he could with Sam and Tucker watching in amusement.

“Danny, you do realize there’s an easier way for you to take care of this?”

Danny perked up at Sam’s comment, “There is? Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?”

Sam and Tucker seemed to share an unimpressed look over their video call, before Tucker, completely deadpanned (as opposed to his earlier barely contained laughter) said, “Dude, you have ghost powers,”

It took Danny a moment to process what Tucker was saying, and then he facepalmed. It was so obvious, god, he was dumb. He turned intangible and watched as glitter fell in a wave to the floor. 

He let go of the intangibility and checked to make sure that there wasn’t any glitter left. Much to his dismay (and Sam and Tucker’s amusement) there was still glitter on him and his clothes. Danny knew getting rid of glitter was a pain in the ass but this was getting ridiculous. 

“What the- fucking- This doesn’t make any sense!?” He cried out, repeatedly turning intangible only for negligible amounts of glitter to fall.

It was at this point that what little respect for Danny’s dignity his friends had snapped and they both just burst out laughing.

“Yeah. Haha, laugh it up,” Danny grumbled, “Don’t you two have something more fun to do, like, I don’t know, play Doomed,”

“Well, we can’t really start the new expansion without you, dude” Tucker said

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, “Besides, this is way more entertaining,”

Now it was Danny’s turn to look at his friends unimpressed before he reached over and shut off his webcam.

“Aww, come on dude, we were just joking,” Tucker whined

Danny rolled his eyes. “Let’s just play already”

“Yeah Tucker, let him keep what little dignity he has left,”

Danny decided it best to not grace that with a response and grabbed his game from the box without glancing over and shoved the game into his computer.

He, Sam, and Tucker played late into the night, and Danny’s earlier troubles were soon forgotten as the three of them became engrossed in the game. It wasn’t until the next morning that Danny would even look at the game box and discover that it too was covered in glitter and consequently, so was his keyboard and mouse.

It was two weeks before Danny let the Box Ghost out of the thermos.