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There was nothing left. Nothing that felt real. Nothing that he could come home to.
An empty house with the closest thing to his father holding a look in his eyes with the creeping and growing resentment that it was all his fault.
He wished it wasn’t his fault. Wished it would’ve never happened, but goddammit, if it was fate’s plan, a certainty in a cosmic timeline that would’ve happened any which way, he wished it wasn’t his fault .
Because his son was dead. Gone, lost to the ashes of a crushed warehouse. The blood was washed away but he could still feel it under his fingernails, still see it every time he closed his eyes, his little boy turning cold in his arms and I can’t find his pulse, I can’t find it.
His world was empty and his boys either hated him or were too dead to realize they should.
Bruce Wayne was a mourning father to a public who felt validated in his pain, in proof that he shouldn't have been trusted with a child.
He felt like they were right. Read every article criticizing the billionaire playboy’s reckless adoption of children he couldn’t properly care for. Read it and let it fester under his skin because they were right, he was a horrible father, a horrible person.
And to those who truly knew him, they saw a failing hero who was becoming some kind of villain. Because he kept punching people and it didn’t make the pain go away, it just made more and more blood...more of his son’s blood that he couldn’t wash away.
And it all hurt, hurt somewhere in his heart, in his head, in his soul and he couldn’t make it stop. All he did was hurt and he wanted it to be over because he was alone all over again because it’ll never stop happening.
He got people killed, even if it wasn’t his fault, he did, over and over and over again and he had to stop it. Because the world was over and all he could do by continuing in it was drag more people to their ends.
On the edge of a rooftop, he stood, in costume, and prepared to jump. He hoped they found his body, hoped they took off the cowl and figured out who he was all along and that the world saw him for the failure he was. Not to the city, the stupid fucking city, but to his little boy, to his son.
When he had found Jason he could only almost see his face. The image was like a nearly faded memory with his broken bones and a contorted frame. He didn’t even get to see his son smile one last time. Didn’t get to hear his voice. Only found a remnant of what once was, with all the light drained leaving something hollow and cold staring back. That warmth, that once undefeatable, beautiful warmth was gone, missing and he just wanted it to come back, to come back, to please Jason, please come back.
But almost half a year had passed, and Jason was still in the ground.
He took a breath, staring at the cement sidewalk, and felt relief at the idea of closing his eyes and not knowing if he’d fallen until it was all over.
He shut his eyes, put his arms to the side and--
“Hi, Mr. Batman.”
There was a… a kid. Wait, no, a kid Bruce knew.
“I’m Tim.”
Oh, the Drake’s boy.
He hoped he’d get home safe.
“Leave me alone.”
Tim stood next to him, it was too close to the edge.
“Get off here, it’s not safe.”
“I dunno, it’s safe enough for you to do it.”
“Hn.”
Tim sat down, wiggled his feet in silence.
“Where are your parents?”
“Why don’t you have your grappling hook out?”
Bruce had no response.
“You should go home.”
“No, I think you’re too lonely for that.” Tim smiled at him with bright eyes.
Bruce sat down, buried his head in his hands.
“Can you please just go?”
“Not until I know you won’t jump.”
God, so he knows.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure ya do. But I get it, Batman needs a Robin. You’ve lost your magic.”
Bruce’s breath caught in his throat.
“And I tried talking to the last one, but I don’t think he wants to help out.”
His head was spinning. He… he found Nightwing? In Bludhaven? He couldn’t be more than 12, and he’s--
“I’m sad, too... he was my favorite.” He said the last part like it was a secret.
Bruce nodded, “He was a hero.”
“Better! He was a Gotham hero! Metropolis ones suck.”
It was the first time he’d laughed in months. Tim looked so unbelievably proud of himself. He fiddled with his hands, trying to stare at them to keep his smile hidden.
Bruce’s heart stopped.
Whenever Jason was proud of himself he’d try to hide his excitement by shuffling his feet. All the grief hit him like a thousand trucks all over again.
He grimaced as he began to cry, silently, but the tears streaming down his chin gave him away.
“I’m sorry! Did I do something wrong? I didn’t mean to say something wrong, god, I’m so stupid, I knew I’d mess this up!” Tim began covering his face, his ears going bright red.
Bruce composed himself, put a hand on Tim’s shoulder.
“Stop, it’s not your fault.”
Tim peeked out from behind his hands, “It’s not?”
Bruce shook his head, Tim calmed, his eyes were still a bit glassy from near-tears. The kid was a ball of worry and Bruce felt an internal battle of raging pain and fresh fondness that only seemed to make everything worse. This kid looked up to him, for some reason, and he was being brought to tears in thinking he was doing everything wrong.
Bruce couldn’t handle it, handle disappointing more people.
“Thank you for keeping me company, Tim, but I think it’s time you go home.”
Tim sniffled and shook his head.
“Nope. Because you’re gonna jump and if I’m not here you’ll fall and I can’t let that happen.”
Bruce had nothing to say to that, so he stared out at the Gotham skyline instead.
Saying his last night on Earth was going strangely would’ve been an understatement. He was being talked off a ledge by a child and all he wanted was to be left alone but those big eyes staring at him made a pit in his stomach wrench with guilt and everything felt like it was going to explode, just boiling, and boiling, and--
“I'm a continual failure who can’t stop making the people I love die.”
Bruce didn’t mean for it to come out, but it did. And he felt raw, like a fresh wound waiting for the sting to set in.
Tim paused, looking at him thoughtfully.
“I get it, I failed a test once.”
The sincerity in the answer was enough to bring him to tears again. Because he meant it, he meant it with everything he had .
“Yeah, yeah I guess you do get it,” Bruce sighed, “it’s been a very long few months.”
“Probably lonely out here without a partner.”
Bruce nodded.
“You know, sometimes when I’m lonely I pretend that Ja--you know, uh, someone cool, is watching over me. So maybe when you’re out you can think he’s watching over you.”
Bruce swallowed down a lump in his throat, smiled.
“You’re a smart kid, Tim.”
“My mom says my English scores could be better, but yeah. I think so.”
Bruce laughed, let fondness take precedent for a moment in his chest. It didn’t soothe the pain, but it didn’t make it worse. Imagining Jason looking after him was hard because he never ever should’ve been burdened with such a thing, but it gave him a new image behind his eyes.
Replacing the bloodied face and the ash and dust was the face of Jason, on his first night home, eyes wide with surprise as Alfred brought him fresh-baked cookies. He could see that face when he thought of his son, for the first time in a very long time.
And he missed him, missed him so much. And it still hurt and would likely never stop hurting, but it made him crave the feeling of home more than he had in quite a while. Helped him recall a world that was filled with more than pain, once... That in looking at Tim’s little face made him realize it wasn’t devoid of just yet.
Oh god , he realized quite suddenly, I’m not ready to go yet.
“Thank you, Tim.”
He stood up and stepped back onto the safety of the rooftop.
Tim followed.
“Now let’s get you home safe.”
Bruce reached out a hand, which Tim took with a bright smile, as they began their journey home.