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Bruce Wayne was not a man easily caught off guard.
Or so he liked to believe.
It was part of the mythology, the shadow that hung over Gotham’s criminals — the Batman always knew. He was always three steps ahead. He was always prepared.
But if there was one thing his children seemed determined to prove over and over again, it was that even the World’s Greatest Detective had blind spots.
And that night, those blind spots came in the form of a certain utility belt.
∞∞∞
Tim had been the first to suggest it, offhandedly and with the practiced calm of someone who could make even the most insane ideas sound rational.
“Look, I already prepared a belt with the replica gear,” he’d said, spinning casually in his desk chair. “It’s not like we’re actually leaving him defenseless. Just… mildly inconvenienced.”
Jason had leaned against the wall, smirking, arms crossed. “Mildly inconvenienced? Try embarrassed. You know how many times he lectures us about being prepared? I want front-row seats when he reaches for the grapple and it’s not the grapple.”
Damian, naturally, had scoffed. “Father will see through it immediately. He notices everything.”
“Sure,” Tim replied smoothly, tapping his keyboard. “And that’s what makes it a challenge.”
Even Cassandra, sitting on the arm of the couch, had tilted her head in a way that unmistakably meant she was in.
The only holdout, of course, was Dick.
“I don’t know, guys…” he said, trying very hard not to smile as Jason shoved a fake batarang into the pile of prepped equipment. “What if he actually needed this stuff?”
Tim rolled his eyes. “We’re not stupid, Dick. We’re not swapping out the whole belt, just the fun stuff. Grapple, batarangs, a couple of non-lethals. He’s still got some of his powers still right, his line launcher, the real weapons. We’re not sending him into a fight with… I don’t know, a rubber chicken.”
Jason muttered, “Though that would be hilarious.”
“Point is,” Tim continued, undeterred, “we’ll be near him the whole night. Nothing serious would happen, and even if it did, he’s still Batman. He doesn’t need the belt.”
Damian bristled immediately. “Of course he needs it.”
“Metaphorically,” Tim corrected with a sigh.
“The point is, he could handle himself with a stick and a cape if he had to.”
Dick dragged his hand down his face, already picturing Bruce’s unimpressed glare when he inevitably discovered the prank. “You guys are going to get us all grounded. Again.”
“Grounded,” Jason repeated, snorting. “We’re adults. What’s he gonna do, take away my bike? Tell me to go to my room? He’s tried both already.”
“And besides,” Tim added, “Bruce always says we need to understand our tools and their limitations. Consider this… a field test.”
The argument was airtight. Annoyingly airtight.
Which was exactly why Dick found himself, hours later, standing in the Batcave with the others, staring at the belt Tim had so carefully swapped out with its nearly identical counterpart.
“You’re all terrible influences,” he muttered, though the fondness in his voice betrayed him.
Jason clapped him on the back. “You love it.”
Dick pressed his lips together, failing spectacularly to hide the grin spreading across his face. “…Yeah. I kind of do.”
∞∞∞
Hours later, the belt sat ready on the rack. Perfect. Unassuming.
Bruce swept into the Cave, cape trailing like always, eyes scanning the room. His children froze in the most suspicious casualness imaginable.
“You’re all lingering,” he noted flatly. “Why.”
“Just hanging out,” Dick chirped, a little too brightly.
“Hn” Bruce said nothing more, only reaching for the belt and fastening it around his waist with practiced ease. His movements betrayed no hesitation.
The replicas had passed the first test.
The kids exchanged the tiniest, silent looks of victory.
∞∞∞
Patrol was supposed to be routine.
Tim and Cass were paired up in Burnley, Dick and Damian in the Narrows, Jason hovering wherever he wanted to be.
Bruce took the Bowery, as he often did. A warehouse near the docks had gone quiet after weeks of suspicious shipments, and Batman suspected an ambush.
He was right.
Inside, a dozen armed men waited, more organized than the usual street rabble. Their weapons were military-grade, their formation coordinated. These weren’t desperate thugs. They were trained.
Bruce entered from above, cloak drawn around him, every step deliberate. Shadows obeyed him, the way they always did.
Until he reached for his grapple.
Click.
Nothing.
The gun jammed in his hand.
Bruce didn’t falter outwardly, but a ripple of cold irritation slid through his chest. He discarded it and moved, but the opportunity to strike from above was gone. They saw him.
Gunfire lit the warehouse.
The fight was brutal.
He flowed through them as best he could, disarming, breaking bones, dismantling weapons but each move was compromised. A strike that should have been clean left him open. A feint that should have led into a grapple counter left him grounded.
At one point he reached for a batarang. The weight was right, but when it left his hand, it spun wide and clattered uselessly against concrete.
The seconds it bought the enemy were enough.
A steel baton caught him hard across the knee.
White-hot pain exploded down his right leg. He collapsed for the briefest of moments—too long. Two more blows rained down before he regained momentum, lashing out with raw fists, compensating for equipment that no longer served him.
But the damage was done. His leg gave out beneath him, bone cracked, ligaments screaming. He fought on, teeth gritted, but each step was agony. He could feel blood soaking under the armor from a deep gash along his side, the sting of bruised ribs every time he twisted.
And still the men came.
∞∞∞
The call didn’t come until too late.
Tim was the first to pick up Bruce’s emergency signal, his voice clipped as he relayed coordinates. By the time the others converged on the docks, the warehouse was chaos—broken crates, smashed concrete, bodies on the ground.
And Batman, standing in the center of it, barely.
He was swaying, one knee bent unnaturally, cape torn, blood dripping down his arm in slow rivulets. His chest heaved with the effort of breathing.
Jason swore under his breath and charged in first, gun drawn, taking down the goons still standing. Cass was beside him in an instant, silent and efficient, her fists striking with utmost efficiency. Tim vaulted from a catwalk, staff snapping outward, while Damian snarled as his blade caught one man across the shoulder.
They finished it. Swiftly, brutally.
But it was too late to spare Bruce.
By the time the last mercenary hit the floor, Bruce had dropped heavily to one knee, his right leg useless beneath him. Dick went for Bruce immediately as he helped their father stand.
His cowl shadowed his face, but they could see the exhaustion, the pain etched deep.
“Father—” Damian’s voice cracked as he rushed forward, halting just short of touching him.
Bruce didn’t answer. He only braced his gauntleted hand against the ground and pushed himself upright, staggering.
Dick caught his arm before he fell again. “Easy. Easy, we’ve got you.”
Tim was pale, frantic, already scanning vitals on his gauntlet. “He’s losing too much blood—dammit—hold him steady—”
Bruce, stubborn as ever, forced his hand up to push them away. “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t.
They all knew it.
The warehouse was silent now except for their breathing. The adrenaline that had driven their prank bled away in an instant, replaced by the heavy, crushing realization of what they’d done.
It wasn’t funny anymore.
When they finally hauled him to his feet, wedging themselves under his arms to drag him toward the Batmobile, his leg buckled. The crutches would be inevitable — if he even managed to heal fully at all.
The silence that followed them into the Batmobile was suffocating.
Bruce was in the passenger seat, rigid and hurting, his leg braced awkwardly. Dick slid into the driver’s seat without being told—he always drove when Bruce couldn’t. His hands were steady on the wheel, but his throat was tight.
The others crowded into the back, the weight of their guilt pressing into the confined space.
Jason stared at the floor, jaw tight, fists clenching and unclenching like he wanted to punch something—someone—himself, maybe.
Tim sat stiffly beside him, his reflection pale in the window, lips pressed tight against words he couldn’t bring himself to say.
Damian’s posture was soldier-straight, but his fingers curled into white-knuckled fists, small tremors betraying him.
Cass leaned forward slightly, her eyes never leaving Bruce, reading every shallow rise and fall of his chest.
Dick drove. The sound of the engine was the only thing breaking the silence, but in the rearview mirror he could see every face. He could feel the guilt radiating off them.
When Bruce finally turned his head, his eyes swept over them all.
Resigned. Disappointed.
But when they lingered on Dick, his gaze softened—just slightly, barely there, but enough for Dick to feel it like a knife twist.
He’d been the one to say what if he needs them. He’d laughed anyway. He’d let it happen.
Now here Bruce was. Broken leg. Blood loss. Barely conscious.
And Dick drove them home in silence, his hands gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles ached, trying not to let the weight of it crush him.
∞∞∞
The Batmobile’s engine roared as it descended into the Cave, echoing like a grim heartbeat against the stone walls.
The car rolled to a stop. No one moved for a moment. It was Alfred who finally broke the silence. He had been waiting by the medbay, as he always did on patrol nights, already dressed in his immaculate shirt and vest, sleeves rolled.
The second he saw Bruce, his calm cracked. His eyes widened just slightly before his voice sharpened like steel.
“Get him inside. Now.”
The kids obeyed instantly. Jason slid out first to open the back door, and Dick and Cass carefully hauled Bruce out by the arms, trying to balance him without jostling the injured leg. Bruce hissed when his weight shifted wrong, but he said nothing, face set like stone.
Alfred ushered them straight into the medbay. “Up,” he ordered, gesturing to the table.
Bruce tried to push off with his good leg, only to nearly collapse again. Dick caught him under the shoulder, guiding him the rest of the way up. Bruce hated how weak he felt in that moment, how fragile he seemed despite the armor.
Once bruce was settled, Alfred worked quickly, cutting away the damaged portion of the leg armor with practiced precision. The sight beneath made everyone flinch. The bone hadn’t broken clean, it jutted wrong beneath the skin, swollen and bruised black.
The kids stood there with various expressions of guilt.
Bruce’s jaw was set hard, refusing to make a sound, even as Alfred inspected the rest of his injuries—deep gashes along his side, ribs that would need strapping, bruises layered thick across his torso.
Alfred did not speak to Bruce. Not yet.
Instead, his words cut into the others. “Out. All of you.”
The kids hesitated, guilt holding them in place.
“Now.”
∞∞∞
The door shut behind them with a weight that made the Cave feel colder.
The heavy medbay door loomed behind them, muffling the sound of Alfred’s movements inside. Every so often came the faint clatter of metal instruments being set down, the clipped rustle of cloth, the low hiss of oxygen being adjusted. But no words. No reassurances.
Only silence.
Jason leaned against the nearest wall, head tipped back, eyes shut like if he didn’t see the others, he wouldn’t have to deal with the tight coil of guilt in his gut. His fists were shoved deep into his jacket pockets, jaw clenched so hard it ached.
Tim had folded into one of the chairs, elbows on his knees, hands over his mouth. His mind was racing with numbers, timelines, probabilities, all the endless “if onlys” his brain tortured him with. If only he had made the replicas more durable. If only he didn't proposed this shitty prank. If only he’d pulled the plug on the prank before it got that far.
Damian paced, his cape snapping with each sharp turn. His fists curled and uncurled with restless fury, but his eyes were too bright, too raw, to match the mask of anger on his face. He wanted someone to blame—anyone, everyone—but every path led back to himself. He had seen the switch. He hadn’t stopped it.
Cass sat silently on the floor, knees drawn up, back pressed against the wall. Her gaze never left the door. She hadn’t touched the prank herself, but that didn’t matter. She hadn’t spoken against it either. She had thought—hoped—that it would only make Bruce roll his eyes. But now she could still see the way he had staggered, could still hear the hiss of pain he’d swallowed down.
And Dick.
Dick was the one standing closest to the door, arms crossed tight over his chest. He hadn’t sat, hadn’t leaned, hadn’t moved since Alfred had ordered them out. He’d been silent the whole ride home, The kind that made the others glance at him and then look away just as quickly.
Because they all knew. He’d warned them.
And they’d laughed.
“Say it,” Jason muttered finally, breaking the stillness. His eyes opened, sharp and bloodshot as they flicked to Dick. “You told us so. Go ahead.”
Dick’s jaw flexed, but his voice, when it came, was low, steady, dangerous.
“why the fuck would I even say that? You know as well as I do that I didn't really refuse the idea” he spat.
Jason looked away, his teeth grinding.
Tim’s voice was quiet, frayed. “We didn’t think it’d—” He stopped, the words strangling in his throat. “We didn’t think.”
No one argued with him.
The Cave hummed around them—machines, servers, the echo of their own breathing. The Batmobile sat cooling in the background, a reminder of the silent ride, of the weight of Bruce’s eyes on them.
From the medbay, a muffled sound made them all freeze—Bruce’s voice, low and pained, though they couldn’t make out the words. Alfred’s voice followed, calm but sharp, and then the noise of movement again.
Jason shoved off the wall and began pacing, harsh footsteps echoing. Damian stopped pacing only long enough to glare at him.
“Stop moving,” Damian snapped.
“You first, demon.”
“Enough,” Dick cut in, his voice sharp enough to snap both of them to silence. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing heavily, shoulders tight. “God. We really screwed up this time.”
Tim’s head dropped into his hands. “Yeah.”
The seconds dragged. Minutes, maybe. None of them checked the time.
When at last the medbay door clicked open, every single head turned.
Alfred stepped out, wiping his hands with a towel already stained dark. His sleeves were rolled higher now, and though his posture was composed as always, his expression was thunderous.
He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to.
His eyes swept over each of them in turn, a quiet judgment heavier than Bruce’s stare in the Batmobile.
“Stable,” he said, his voice clipped. “For now. But the damage is extensive. The leg is broken badly. Multiple cracked ribs. Deep lacerations.” He folded the towel, his movements precise, his eyes never softening. “And pain he should never have endured if his equipment had been in proper shape.”
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Dick looked away as Jason shifted on his feet, but didn’t speak. Tim’s breath hitched, guilt weighing on him like chains. Damian’s fists clenched so tightly his knuckles popped. Cass’s head bowed.
Tim swallowed hard. “…Crutches?”
“Yes,” Alfred said curtly. He folded the cloth neatly, his every movement sharp with restrained fury. “And you are fortunate it was not a stretcher in a morgue.”
No one spoke.
Alfred’s eyes softened, just slightly, before hardening again. “He has not asked for any of you. I suggest you consider why.”
With that, he disappeared back inside.
∞∞∞
Usually after patrol there was a rhythm — Alfred tending wounds, Dick hovering close, Jason cracking some joke too loud for the space, Tim pulling up reports, Cass perched somewhere above, Damian hovering protectively in the corner.
But not tonight.
The kids didn’t go back down to the medbay. None of them even tried. They lingered in the Cave until Alfred returned, his expression warning them all to keep their distance. Then one by one, with leaden steps, they made their way upstairs, each carrying the same weight pressing down on their chest.
It wasn’t fear of punishment.
It wasn’t even anger.
It was the silence. The silence of Bruce’s eyes in the Batmobile. Disappointed. Resigned. A silence that had cut deeper than any lecture or shout ever could. Yet tim couldn't bring himself to follow them as he sits in front of the batcomputer with the cowl footage on the screen.
By the time the video ended and finally went upstairs Tim found himself in his own room. staring blankly at the wall, mind replaying everything — the fizzled smoke pellet, the grapple snapping midair, the way Bruce had hit the ground and not gotten back up fast enough.
Tim didn’t sleep. Not really. His body drifted in and out, head foggy, but his mind stayed locked on the same images, looping endlessly. Every time his eyes closed, he heard the sound of his useless equipment failing in Bruce’s hands.
When the gray light of dawn finally filtered in through the curtains, Tim couldn’t stay still anymore.
His feet carried him back down into the Cave almost without his permission, the silence of the mansion pressing against his ears the entire way.
The medbay door loomed. He hesitated outside it, hand hovering just shy of the handle. Alfred’s warning echoed in his head. He has not asked for any of you. I suggest you consider why.
But Tim couldn’t take it. Not anymore.
He pushed the door open.
∞∞∞
Bruce lay on the cot, propped against the pillows. The harsh fluorescent lights had been dimmed, shadows softening his face, but the injuries stood out stark against his skin. The bandages wrapping his thigh were fresh, thick with layers of gauze, and his chest was bare except for the heavy bruising across his ribs.
At his side, leaned against the wall, rested a pair of crutches.
Bruce wasn’t asleep. His eyes opened the moment Tim entered.
For a second, Tim froze in the doorway, all the words caught in his throat.
Then his body moved on its own. His feet carried him closer until he was standing beside the cot, staring down at his father with wide eyes. His chest was tight, his throat burning.
“...b” His voice cracked. He swallowed, tried again. “I—”
The words didn’t come.
He couldn’t force them out, not past the lump swelling in his throat. All he could do was stare, vision blurring as tears threatened to spill.
Bruce watched him quietly. His gaze, sharp as always, softened the moment he registered the rawness in Tim’s expression. Not the practiced calm he usually wore, not the strategist’s mask — just guilt. Unfiltered, crushing guilt.
Tim’s lips trembled. His hands balled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He wanted to explain, to apologize, to promise it would never happen again. But his voice failed him, and all he could manage was a broken whisper
“…I almost got you killed.”
The silence stretched.
And then, slowly, Bruce lifted one hand from the blanket. The movement was sluggish, heavy with the ache of his body, but deliberate. He rested it on Tim’s wrist, grounding, steady.
“Tim.”
Just his name. Quiet. Weighted.
And in that single word, Tim heard everything Bruce wasn’t saying, the pain, the exhaustion, the resignation but also the understanding.
Bruce didn’t need to yell. He didn’t need to scold. His eyes, softened against the bruises and exhaustion, said more than words could
I know you didn’t mean for this to happen. I know you regret it. you’re still my son.
Tim’s breath shuddered. The first tear slipped free, then another, falling fast before he could wipe them away. He bowed his head, shoulders trembling, his free hand gripping the edge of the cot as though anchoring himself.
Tim couldn’t take it anymore.
The steady warmth of Bruce’s hand on his wrist cracked something inside of him — and before Bruce could say anything else, Tim lurched forward. His knees hit the edge of the cot, and then he was burying himself into Bruce’s chest, arms clutching tight as though to anchor Bruce to the bed, to the world, to him.
The breath left Bruce’s lungs in a low grunt — his bruised ribs protested violently at the sudden weight but he didn’t push Tim away. His arm came up, slow and trembling from the ache, but still wrapping carefully around his son’s back.
And Tim broke.
“I did it—” The words poured out in a ragged rush, muffled against the torn fabric of Bruce’s chestplate.
“It’s my fault—god, Bruce, it’s my fault. I made them. The replicas, all of it. I thought it was just a joke, just—just stupid, harmless—” His breath hitched, his whole body shaking as the tears spilled fast and hot. “And then you—you almost died because of it.”
Bruce’s hand rested between Tim’s shoulder blades, not firm, not restraining, just there. Silent. Steady.
Tim’s rambling only quickened, as though the dam had broken and he couldn’t stop the flood.
“You reached for the smoke pellets and it fizzled out. I saw it. I saw it fail, because I built it that way. Because I thought it was funny. And the grapple—it snapped—and if it hadn’t—if it hadn’t—you wouldn’t have gotten this hurt, you wouldn’t have—” His words broke on a sob, his fingers fisting in Bruce’s blanket like he could claw the night back and fix it.
“I put you in that position. I gave you shitty replicas and you trusted us and I almost got you killed.”
The words tumbled, faster and faster, raw and uncontrolled in a way Tim never let himself be. The guilt was eating him alive, spilling out in frantic, desperate gasps.
“You always say we have to be prepared, to know our tools, and I knew. I knew what I was doing and I still—I still did it anyway, and if we’d been a minute later you’d—you’d be—”
He couldn’t finish. He couldn’t even say the word.
Dead.
The silence swallowed it anyway, heavy and suffocating.
Bruce’s chest rose slow and shallow beneath him, the dull thrum of his heartbeat steady against Tim’s ear. He could feel the strain of every breath, the ache in every twitch of muscle — but Bruce didn’t let go. Didn’t tell him to stop. Didn’t tell him to get off.
Instead, Bruce’s hand moved, heavy, warm, threading slowly through Tim’s hair, careful despite the bruises and bandages weighing him down.
“Tim.” His voice was quiet. Gravelly, but softened in a way Tim rarely heard.
It didn’t stop the boy’s rambling.
“I should’ve stopped myself—I shouldn't have proposed it—I should’ve—I should’ve protected you instead of setting you up to—” He choked, his voice breaking completely. “You always protect us. And I just—failed.”
Bruce closed his eyes, the ache in his ribs sharpening with each shudder from the boy pressed against him. He held him tighter, ignoring the pain flaring in his leg, ignoring the burn in his lungs.
“Breathe,” he murmured at last, his tone calm, firm, like an anchor dropped in stormy seas. His thumb brushed through Tim’s hair, grounding him. “Just breathe son”
Tim clung tighter, the sobs still breaking through his chest. His guilt wouldn’t let up. But the steady rhythm of Bruce’s voice, the faint press of his hand, began to cut through the panic— not erasing it, but tethering it.
Tim didn’t move, his face pressed against Bruce’s chest, fists still clutching at the blanket like if he let go, Bruce would vanish. His body shook with every breath, every broken word spilling out of him, but eventually the flood slowed.
Bruce took the silence as his opening.
“Tim,” he said again, quieter this time. His hand smoothed once more through Tim’s hair, slow, deliberate, steady. “Listen to me.”
Tim shook his head against him, muttering, “I can’t— I can’t just—”
“You can.” Bruce’s voice left no room for argument, but there was no bite to it, no edge. Just a tired, grounding calm. He waited until Tim stilled just enough, until the boy’s ragged breathing slowed enough to hear.
“This wasn’t your fault.”
The words hung heavy, like an anchor dropping through the storm.
Tim jerked, pulling back just enough to look up at him with wide, wet eyes, disbelief written all over his face. “How—how can you say that? I made them. I—”
Bruce didn’t let him finish. His hand came up, thumb brushing gently across Tim’s temple, brushing damp hair back. “You were trying to play a prank. All of you. That’s all. You weren’t trying to hurt me. You weren’t careless. You weren’t cruel.” His tired eyes softened further, every bruise and line on his face making the look hit harder.
“You were just being kids.”
Tim’s throat closed, fresh tears threatening to spill, but Bruce kept going.
“You couldn’t have predicted the ambush. You couldn’t have known.” Bruce’s voice was softer now, his hand still steady on Tim’s head. “You were messing around, the way I’d want you to be able to. That’s not a crime, Tim. That’s not something to carry like this.”
Tim swallowed hard, his lips trembling. “But if we hadn’t—if I hadn’t—”
Bruce cut him off with a faint shake of his head. “Then it would’ve been something else. Gotham always finds a way. What happened wasn’t because of you. It wasn’t because of them. It wasn’t because of some replicas.”
His hand shifted, cupping Tim’s cheek this time, thumb brushing just under his eye where the tears clung. His voice dropped to a rasp. “You hear me? None of this was your fault.”
Tim broke again, his shoulders shaking, but this time he wasn’t rambling. The guilt was still there, clawing at him, but Bruce’s words dug in deep, steadying him.
“You’re allowed to mess up. You’re allowed to joke. You’re allowed to be a kid with your brothers and sister. I want that for you.” Bruce’s hand stayed firm, grounding.
“I don’t blame you. I could never blame you.”
The words hit Tim harder than any lecture could have. His tears finally spilled over, silent this time, rolling down his cheeks as he leaned back into Bruce’s chest, trembling but holding on like his life depended on it.
Bruce winced as the weight pressed against his ribs, but he didn’t let go. He held Tim tighter instead, his own breath uneven, his body aching — but his hand never left the boy’s back.
For a long while, there was no sound except Tim’s quiet sobs and Bruce’s tired heartbeat beneath his ear.
And for the first time since last night, Tim felt like maybe — just maybe — he could breathe again.
∞∞∞
Tim hadn’t moved from his spot, half-curled into Bruce’s chest, his breaths uneven as he blinked back tears that refused to stop. Bruce’s hand rested lightly against the back of his son’s head, fingers carding gently through the messy strands of hair. His breathing was slow and steady, the kind of calm rhythm that lulls others to sleep.
For thirty minutes, the silence stretched, broken only by the faint murmur of Bruce’s quiet reassurances when Tim’s guilt would bubble up again.
Then, footsteps echoed lightly on the medbay floor.
Alfred paused at the doorway, taking in the sight before him—Bruce resting against the raised bed, still looking pale but more alive than last night, with Tim practically folded into him like a much younger boy. Bruce’s arm protectively looped around his shoulders, and Tim, who was usually so composed, so methodical, was clutching onto his father like he was afraid to let go.
The butler’s lips softened into an almost amused sigh. He’d seen his family in many states, bloodied, bruised, broken. but this? This vulnerable knot of guilt and comfort? That was what made all the exhaustion worth it.
He gave it another beat before clearing his throat gently.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred said in that warm but ever-practical tone, “as endearing as this is, I must insist you wake properly. Breakfast is ready.”
Bruce’s tired eyes cracked open fully this time, confusion flickering across his face. “Breakfast?” His voice was gravelly, low from both sleep and the strain of injury. “Where—”
But before he could finish, the faint shuffle of feet in the hall grew louder. The sound of hesitant steps, like children rehearsing bravery before entering the lion’s den.
A moment later, they appeared.
Dick was the first through the doorway, leading the quiet procession. His usual easy smile was gone, replaced with something subdued—eyes down, shoulders slightly hunched, guilt written in every line of his posture. In his hands was a tray, carefully balanced, with steaming food arranged the way Alfred might have, though less perfect, less refined.
Behind him came Jason, hands crossed in front of his chest, looking anywhere but at Bruce, jaw tight like he was daring someone to call him out. Cass trailed close after, silent but observant, her gaze flicking between Bruce in the bed and Tim pressed into his side. Damian, surprisingly, brought up the rear, his movements slower than usual, lips pressed into a thin, almost nervous line he refused to admit to.
They stopped just inside the medbay, an uncharacteristic hesitance cloaking the usually formidable group.
Dick finally spoke, his voice low but steady as he stepped closer and lifted the tray just slightly, like proof of his intent.
“We, uh…” His throat bobbed as he glanced at Bruce, then quickly looked away again, like meeting their father’s eyes might shatter him.
“We know you shouldn’t get up yet. So… we brought breakfast.”
The words hung there, quiet, raw in their simplicity.
And for a moment, no one moved. Tim stayed tucked against Bruce, unmoving, still fast asleep. Jason shifted his weight from one foot to the other, scowling at the floor as if it had personally wronged him. Damian’s fists clenched at his sides, and Cass, though calm, stood like she was waiting for Bruce to pass judgment on all of them at once.
Bruce’s tired eyes softened. He looked at the tray in Dick’s hands, then at the way his oldest son wouldn’t quite look him in the eye. His gaze drifted to each of them in turn, lingering longer than usual, searching past the guilt to the obvious truth. they were here because they cared. They were here because they thought they’d nearly lost him.
And though his body ached, though disappointment still simmered under the surface, Bruce felt the familiar, stubborn warmth of his children in this one gesture.
He shifted slightly under Tim’s weight, wincing at the pull in his side, but kept his voice quiet, steady. “…I see.”
The kids waited, tense, like they weren’t sure if he was going to scold, or sigh, or say nothing at all.
Instead, Bruce glanced once more at the tray of breakfast in Dick’s hands, then back at his children, and for just a flicker of a moment, something softened on his face that looked dangerously close to gratitude.
Bruce let out a tired chuckle under his breath, the faintest curl of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he reached for the tray. But the moment he tried to steady it, his hand trembled. The sprained wrist twinged, and the other, still raw and bandaged, barely obeyed him. His jaw tightened—he hated how weak he felt but the defeat in his shoulders told its own story. With a soft exhale, he leaned back against the cot, gaze dropping.
“…I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words heavy in the silence. He lifted his eyes to Dick, Jason, Damian, and Cass. “Could you… bring it to the portable table? I can’t…” His voice faltered before he swallowed the rest. “I can’t hold it steady.”
Dick nodded immediately, face tight but determined. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it, Bruce.”
He carried the tray carefully over to the small rolling table and slid it close to the bed. Jason shifted his weight, arms crossed, pretending not to notice how pale Bruce looked just trying to reach for the fork. Damian lingered near the foot of the cot, tense and silent, like a soldier guarding a fallen general. Cass tilted her head, her dark eyes watching Bruce with quiet worry.
Bruce let his gaze drift down to Tim, still curled against him, hair mussed, face tucked against his chest. A soft warmth replaced the earlier sigh in his eyes. Gently, his fingers moved, carding through Tim’s hair with slow, soothing strokes, coaxing him awake.
“Tim,” Bruce murmured softly, thumb brushing at his temple, “wake up.”
Tim stirred, shifting slightly but burrowing deeper into his father’s chest with a muffled noise. Bruce huffed the faintest chuckle through his nose, a tired, fleeting warmth. He carded his hand again through Tim’s hair, this time a little slower, more insistent. “its breakfast time”
At that, Tim blinked awake, bleary-eyed and confused, before realizing where he was. His face flushed with embarrassment, especially when he saw his siblings standing there. Bruce caught the others’ reactions. His children—grown warriors, trained vigilantes, people who had stood against gods—looked just a little bit jealous. Not in a petty way, but in the way that said they wished they had been the one Bruce was holding close, the one he was soothing after a night of guilt and fear.
Bruce had to bite back a small huff of amusement. Of course they were jealous. They were his children, every one of them, and as much as they might argue or roll their eyes, the need for comfort never really left.
He rubbed Tim’s scalp gently, just enough to anchor the boy before glancing back at the others. “Have you eaten yet?” he asked quietly.
The question hung in the air.
Cass shook her head first, her dark eyes firm but soft. She raised her hands, signing slowly, Not yet. You first. You’re hurt.
Bruce frowned, lips pressing together in quiet disapproval. He was about to say something, but Tim finally pushed himself upright fully, sitting back on the edge of the cot. His voice cracked a little, still heavy with emotion, but he spoke anyway.
“…We’ll eat at the dining room in a minute,” Tim said, his tone uncertain but carrying that stubborn undertone he got when trying to take care of someone. His gaze flicked toward Bruce, almost hesitant. “You… you have to finish your food when we’re done, okay?”
The request, half question, half plea hung between them, fragile as glass.
Bruce’s tired eyes softened, a spark of pride shining there despite everything.
Bruce studied him for a long moment, then nodded once, a silent agreement.
The kids glanced at one another, before making their way to the manor.
∞∞∞
Bruce sat propped up against the raised cot bed, the half-finished bowl of chicken porridge pushed carefully to the side. His shoulders sagged—not in exhaustion alone, but in that quiet resignation that came from knowing his body wouldn’t let him do more. He hated it, hated the helplessness in his hands as much as the gnawing ache in his ribs. His pride might have bristled, but the sight of Tim curled against him earlier had softened the sting, reminded him of what mattered more than his frustration.
He’d managed to eat about half before the fatigue got the better of him. His hand trembled again when he tried to lift another spoonful, and he finally sighed, setting it down.
A shadow fell across him.
Alfred approached with that same steady stride he had carried for decades, the tray balanced effortlessly in his hands. He gave Bruce one of those long, knowing looks before setting the tray aside on the small counter. Then, with a gentleness that contrasted his words, Alfred reached forward and brushed Bruce’s damp hair back from his forehead.
“None of them slept last night,” Alfred murmured, his voice low but firm.
“Not a wink. Each and every one sat up in their rooms, pacing or brooding, wallowing in guilt. I dare say I found Master Damian on the stairwell twice, and Miss Cassandra only pretended to read. All the while, Master Richard sat at the kitchen counter like a condemned man, until Master Jason took to polishing his helmet so aggressively, I feared he’d break it.”
Bruce’s lips tugged at the corner, though the smile was weary. He didn’t look up, only stared at the blankets pooled in his lap. “Alfred—”
Alfred didn’t let him continue. He leaned closer, pressing his hand briefly to Bruce’s shoulder. “I do believe this was a tad too much for a mere prank, Master Bruce.” His tone sharpened just slightly, though his eyes still carried warmth.
“One does not nearly cripple their guardian simply to learn the consequences of replacing actual weaponry with replicas.”
Bruce chuckled, soft and hoarse. He tilted his head, looking up at Alfred with tired but steady eyes. “Don’t be too harsh on them. They didn’t mean it. They were just… being kids. Messing around.”
“Messing around,” Alfred repeated, arching one brow.
“Most children their age choose card games, or dare I say, a harmless trick with salt in the sugar bowl.” He let out a quiet huff that was almost a laugh, but still held a note of exasperation.
“Your brood, on the other hand, replaces batarangs with forged replicas similar enough to fool the Batcomputer.”
Bruce’s smile softened further, almost affectionate despite the weight of his injuries. “That’s on me. They… they were trying to be clever. I can’t fault them for that. And the guilt they’re carrying right now— it’s heavier than any punishment.”
Alfred gave him a long, measured look, one that spoke of decades of shared history. He didn’t argue further, though his sigh carried the weight of all the words he might have said. Instead, he lifted the half-empty bowl, setting it carefully back on the tray.
As he turned, Bruce’s gaze followed him, lingering. “Alfred,” he said softly.
The butler paused, tilting his head just enough to show he was listening.
“please Make sure they eat,” Bruce murmured. “All of them.”
Alfred’s eyes softened, but his response was crisp as ever. “They’re eating upstairs now, Master Bruce. Chicken porridge, the same as you.” His lips quirked, almost imperceptibly.
“Though Miss Cassandra nearly refused until mentioned how you’d scold her for missing a meal”
That drew a quiet chuckle out of Bruce. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the pillows.
Alfred lingered a moment longer, watching the way Bruce’s breathing steadied, the way his hand curled loosely against the blanket as though he were still reaching for something to hold onto. Then, with the kind of care only he could manage, Alfred picked up the tray and slipped out, the faint aroma of chicken broth trailing behind him as the medbay door clicked softly shut.
Upstairs, muffled voices carried—Damian’s sharp complaints about being rushed, Tim’s distracted fumbling with his bag, Alfred’s calm insistence that both eat at least a few bites before leaving.
A few minutes later, the elevator whirred faintly, and Bruce’s ears caught the unmistakable shuffle of boots against the cold floor of the cave. He didn’t look up right away—he didn’t have to. He could feel their hesitation, their quiet weight hovering like shadows pressed close to the medbay’s edge. When he finally lifted his eyes, he was met with three pairs staring back at him. Dick, Jason, and Cass stood there.
Each of them betrayed something different in their silence. Dick’s posture was slouched, shoulders rounded forward, arms loosely crossed as if he didn’t know what to do with them. Jason stood a little apart, jaw tight, eyes down, fidgeting with the edge of his jacket like he’d rather be anywhere but here, and yet couldn’t force himself to leave. Cass lingered closest, her head tilted the slightest bit, dark eyes soft but burning with something unspoken—regret, maybe, or guilt.
They didn’t say a word. They just… hovered. Bruce suppressed the small huff that wanted to rise in his chest. Their guilty shuffling, the way they kept glancing between each other as though silently deciding who should speak first—it was almost endearing. Almost.
“Am I,” Bruce said, his voice quieter than he intended but still steady enough, “supposed to guess what you’re all thinking, or are you planning on telling me?”
Three heads immediately snapped toward him, like startled children caught doing something they weren’t supposed to. The silence stretched another beat, heavy and awkward. Finally, Dick’s mouth twitched—the beginnings of a smile that didn’t quite make it. “We… uh. We were just—checking on you. Again and we wanted to tell you dami and Tim went to their school (or college for Tim in this au) ”
Jason snorted under his breath, muttering something that might’ve been ‘real smooth, Goldie’ before crossing his arms tighter and refusing to look up.
Cass, though, only stepped forward, dragging her chair with her before setting it carefully at Bruce’s side. She sat down, close enough that her presence was grounding, and fixed him with that unreadable gaze of hers. Bruce met her eyes, then flicked his gaze back to the other two. They were still shuffling like guilty teenagers caught red-handed. The corners of Bruce’s lips twitched despite himself. He masked it with a sigh, adjusting slightly against the pillows.
“You don’t have to stand there like the condemned. I’m not about to scold you.” That only made Dick shift more. Jason finally looked up, his brows furrowing
Jason finally looked up, his brows furrowing deeper, jaw working as though he had to force the words out through his teeth.
“…Why?”
The single word hung sharp in the sterile air, startling in its softness. He wasn’t mocking, wasn’t biting, wasn’t hiding behind the armor of sarcasm that usually kept his brothers and sisters at bay. This was bare, stripped down—unguarded in a way Jason rarely allowed himself to be.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion but in a kind of quiet focus, like he was trying to study a puzzle he already knew he didn’t have all the pieces for. “Why what?” he asked carefully.
Jason’s shoulders rose, tense and hard, his hands curling against his sleeves until the leather of his jacket creaked. He swallowed, throat tight, before pushing the words out.
“Why are you not mad?” His voice cracked, just enough to betray the storm behind it. He lifted his chin a fraction, as if daring Bruce to contradict him.
“You should be. We screwed up, Bruce. Bad. You almost—” His breath stuttered. “You should be furious. You should’ve chewed us out the second you could talk, because it was our fault you nearly got yourself killed down there.”
The rawness in his tone made Dick glance sharply at him, startled, and even Cass shifted in her chair, eyes flicking from Jason back to Bruce.
Bruce stayed still, letting the silence carry the weight of Jason’s words. He didn’t rush to answer. He didn’t retreat behind the cold, cutting anger they all half-expected. Instead, he studied Jason—his son, his lost boy who had once come back from the grave carrying a fury hot enough to burn the world.
When Bruce finally spoke, his voice was low, deliberate. “Would you rather I be angry?”
Jason’s eyes widened, then narrowed immediately, as though bracing for some kind of trap. “no, I— don’t make it sound like I want you to rip into us. I just—” He broke off, chest rising and falling unevenly.
Dick stepped in then, voice softer than Jason’s but tight at the edges. “Jay’s saying what we’ve all been thinking. You… you almost didn’t make it out. And it wasn’t just bad luck— it was us. Our choices. We didn’t cover each other the way we should’ve, and you paid for it.”
Cass didn’t speak, but she leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, hands folded loosely like she was holding herself back from reaching out. Her silence was heavy with agreement.
Jason turned back to Bruce, his expression raw, stripped of all the bravado he usually wore like a shield. “So why aren’t you mad? Why aren’t you yelling, or—hell, even disappointed? Because I can’t figure out why you’re just sitting there acting like—like we didn’t almost lose you because of us.”
Bruce let out a breath, long and quiet, before answering.
“Because being angry with you wouldn’t change anything.”
Jason flinched as if struck.
Bruce’s gaze softened, his voice steady but not sharp. “You already carry enough weight. I can see it in the way you’re standing there, the way you can’t even look at me without expecting judgment. You think you failed me. All of you.” His eyes flicked to Dick, then Cass, before settling back on Jason. “But I’m still here. That’s because of you.”
Jason shook his head fiercely, almost violently. “No. No, don’t—don’t do that, Bruce. Don’t give us credit we don’t deserve. We were assholes and you know that”
Bruce’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment he looked older than any of them wanted to admit—tired, worn down, but not weak. His voice, when it came, was quiet but iron-strong.
“I don’t measure you by your mistakes. I never have.”
Dick’s throat bobbed as he looked away, eyes stinging. Cass’s fingers twitched against her knees. Jason’s face twisted, torn between disbelief and something that might’ve been relief if it didn’t hurt so much to hear.
“You should,” Jason whispered, almost to himself. Then louder, harsher, “You should, because if you don’t—then what stops us from screwing up again? What stops me from screwing up again? I’ve—” His voice faltered, and the edge cracked just enough to show the guilt beneath.
He stopped, jaw clenched so tight it shook.
Bruce moved—not much, just enough to lift one hand from the blanket. His fingers trembled faintly with the effort, but he extended it toward Jason, palm up, steady in its intent.
Jason stared at it like it might vanish if he blinked.
“You don’t need my anger to punish yourself,” Bruce said softly. “You’ve been doing that to yourselves for years.”
The words landed like a weight none of them had been ready to hear.
Jason’s throat worked, his fists clenching at his sides. His boots scuffed against the floor once, twice, before he finally took a single step closer.
∞∞∞
“Come,” he murmured, shifting forward carefully, his voice rough but gentle. “Why don’t you help me move to my room?”
He was already pushing himself off the cot before any of them could object, steadying his weight with his good leg and reaching for the crutches leaning against the nearby cabinet. His movements were slower than usual, deliberate, and his jaw tightened once when his balance faltered. The sharp white cast around his right leg was stark against the dark fabric of his sweats, a reminder that he wouldn’t be walking unaided for weeks.
Jason was the first to step forward, hand hovering just near Bruce’s elbow. He didn’t say anything, but his stance was protective, ready to catch him if his father tipped too far.
Cass was quieter, already moving to take the crutches before Bruce could grasp them. She adjusted the height quickly and slid them into his hands with practiced efficiency, her dark eyes flicking up toward his face. He gave her the smallest nod of thanks, lips twitching in that tired smile again.
Dick hovered a step back, torn between letting Bruce assert his independence and wanting to wrap both arms around him to stop him from pushing himself too hard. In the end, he compromised by trailing close, one hand lightly on his father’s back as Bruce steadied himself on the crutches.
Together, they made their way out of the medbay. The click of crutches against tile echoed down the hall, steady but slow. Bruce kept his shoulders square, as if he could somehow disguise the limp, but the three of them could see the effort in every measured step.
The walk wasn’t long, but it felt it. Every turn of the manor’s corridor stretched into something careful and deliberate. Jason shifted ahead once to nudge open the heavy doors, Cass close at Bruce’s side, and Dick just behind in silent support.
When at last they reached his bedroom, Bruce exhaled—not quite a sigh, but close. The familiar space was dim in the morning light, curtains drawn halfway.
He paused at the threshold, casting one more glance over his children. Despite his obvious fatigue, there was warmth in his expression, a small, weary smile pulling at his mouth as though the weight of disappointment had already begun to loosen.
“Thank you,” he said simply, voice quieter now, as they helped him inside.
∞∞∞
Inside the room, Bruce paused to adjust his grip on the crutches before lowering himself carefully toward the edge of the bed. His movements were slow, deliberate; the faint hitch of breath when his right leg shifted was impossible to miss. Jason immediately stepped forward, steadying the crutches as Bruce eased down.
Cass was already moving—quiet, efficient—as if she had anticipated what needed to be done. She tugged at the pillows, fluffing them up and arranging them against the headboard so that when Bruce leaned back, he wouldn’t have to strain his shoulders
Dick, meanwhile, busied himself with the blankets, tugging them loose at the corners and pulling them back neatly so Bruce could slide in without effort. He smoothed the edge out with more care than was strictly necessary, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Jason lingered a second too long with the crutches, crouching down to place them neatly against the nightstand where Bruce could reach them. It was practical, thoughtful—and Bruce’s eyes softened as he watched.
There was a glint there, the faintest trace of amusement tucked behind his tired gaze, as though seeing his three eldest coordinate around him like this was its own kind of quiet reward.
Jason caught it. Of course he did.
“What,” he muttered, glancing up, his ears warming even as his voice stayed gruff. “Stop looking at us like that. You’re being sappy, old man.”
Bruce’s mouth curved, just barely, into a small smile, “Maybe I am,” he said, voice soft with fatigue.
Jason groaned under his breath and looked away, but his hand stayed on the crutches a moment longer before finally letting go
When Bruce leaned back against the pillows Cass had arranged and the blanket Dick had set was pulled over his lap, he settled with a quiet exhale. The ache in his leg hadn’t lessened, but for the first time in hours, there was something else threading through it, something lighter.
∞∞∞
When the last of the footsteps faded down the hall, the room finally stilled. The low hum of the manor seemed louder in the absence of his children—distant creaks of old wood, the faint sigh of the wind against the windows.
Bruce shifted slightly against the pillows,
His hand brushed past the crutches Jason had placed there, and he allowed himself the faintest, private smile before letting his arm fall back to his side.
The painkillers were working their way deeper into his system, tugging heavy at his eyelids. The dull throb in his leg blurred at the edges, softened into something distant, almost manageable.
He closed his eyes.
For a moment, he thought of the way Jason had flushed when chiding him, of Dick smoothing out blankets with almost childlike thoroughness, of Cass tucking pillows into place without needing to be told. He thought of Alfred’s quiet scolding, of the hushed voices of his children upstairs, of how very lucky he was to still have this—to still have them.
His breathing evened, deepened.
Sleep found him swiftly, pulling him under with little resistance, and the last thing he registered was the warmth of the blanket over his lap and the faint echo of laughter from somewhere far down the hall.
∞∞∞
Bruce stirred awake slowly, the haze of painkillers still lingering like a heavy fog in his mind. The room was dim, the curtains pulled just enough to let in the pale light of early afternoon. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what had woken him. Then he felt it—small fingers clenched tightly in the fabric of his shirt, pulling it taut against his ribs.
He turned his head slightly, blinking down, and found Damian pressed up against his side. The boy’s eyes were open, fixed on the bed sheet below with a sharp intensity that looked forced, as if he was trying not to meet Bruce’s gaze. His small frame was rigid, shoulders taut, but his hand was trembling ever so slightly.
“Habibi?” Bruce’s voice was still rough from sleep, softer than usual. He shifted his free hand, laying it gently against Damian’s back. “What’s wrong?”
For a moment, Damian didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, lips pressing into a thin line. Bruce could see the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, struggling with something unspoken. He knew that look, his son was wrestling with words too heavy for him to carry, too dangerous to release.
Damian wanted to say it—Bruce could feel it in the boy’s grip, the almost desperate way he clung to him. He wanted to admit that the fear had taken root in him, that he had watched his father crumple in pain, nearly broken because of a prank he himself had helped orchestrate. Bruce saw the raw guilt in the boy’s eyes, the uncharacteristic hesitation, the way he looked so young in that moment despite all his pride and training.
His voice was muffled when it finally came out, quieter than Bruce was used to hearing from him, but laced with a weight that made Bruce’s chest ache.
“I apologize… for my childishness yesterday, Baba.”
Bruce stilled, then exhaled slowly, his hand moving up to rest against the back of Damian’s head. He let his fingers sift through the boy’s hair in slow, careful strokes.
“Damian,” he said gently, tilting his head so he could glance down at him, “you don’t need to apologize.”
The boy didn’t answer, only pressed closer, his shoulders shaking faintly even though no sound escaped him.
Bruce closed his eyes briefly, feeling the ache in his leg, the heaviness in his chest, and the overwhelming surge of love for this stubborn, guarded child who carried his guilt like armor. He kissed the top of Damian’s head, lingering there for a moment before pulling back just enough to speak.
“You’re allowed to be a child sometimes. That’s not a crime,” he whispered, keeping his tone steady, soothing. “And nothing you did almost killed me. Don’t put that weight on yourself.”
Damian’s grip only tightened, his silence louder than words.
Bruce let it be. Sometimes forcing Damian to speak only pushed him further into retreat. Instead, he simply held him, one arm carefully wrapping around his small frame, letting the boy feel the solid steadiness of him, the reassurance that he was here, that he wasn’t going anywhere.
Minutes passed. The boy’s breathing eventually began to slow, the tension in his body easing little by little, though his hand never let go of Bruce’s shirt.
Bruce stared at the ceiling, his own eyes heavy again, and thought, not for the first time—how deeply his son feared losing him, and how much harder it was for Damian to admit than for any of the others.
And so Bruce stayed awake, silent and patient, letting his presence say what words couldn’t.
∞∞∞
The kitchen was quiet in the early morning, only the faint hum of the refrigerator filling the air. Bruce stood by the counter, his crutches leaned awkwardly against the cabinet within reach. He was half-balanced, one hand pressing against the counter while the other struggled with the coffee tin. His movements were careful but clumsy; the crutches made him slower, and his still-mending right leg forced him into a rhythm that looked more frustrating than fluid.
He finally managed to scoop the coffee grounds, though the tin wobbled dangerously, and he muttered under his breath, a low sigh slipping out.
“Dad?”
Bruce looked up. Tim was standing by the doorway, dressed in a soft hoodie, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, but his sharp eyes didn’t miss the way Bruce’s weight shifted precariously, the slight tremor in his hands.
“Morning,” Bruce said, trying for casual as he reached for the kettle.
Tim frowned and crossed the room in a few strides. “You’re on crutches and you’re trying to make coffee? Really?”
“I’ve had worse battles,” Bruce replied, but there was the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.
Tim rolled his eyes but stepped forward, gently nudging his father’s hand away from the kettle.
“Yeah, and you’re also supposed to be recovering. You don’t get points for stubbornness.” He took the kettle, filled it with water, and set it on to boil, his movements quick and efficient.
Bruce leaned against the counter, watching his son with a mix of amusement and something warmer, quieter. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” Tim interrupted, not looking at him. His voice was soft, but firm. “You’re still healing, Dad. Let me.”
There was a beat of silence, filled only by the sound of water running. Bruce studied him closely, noticing the tension in Tim’s shoulders, the way he avoided eye contact.
“Tim,” Bruce said gently, his voice lower now, “I can manage small things. You don’t have to carry the weight of all of it.”
Tim set the kettle down with a quiet clink and finally looked up. His eyes were sharp, but they carried a tired edge, a guilt that still hadn’t left him since that night. “I know. But… it feels like the least I can do. After everything.”
Bruce’s lips curved in a soft, almost imperceptible smile. “You’ve already done more than enough.”
Tim looked away again, busying himself with the coffee filter, but his movements slowed. His throat tightened at the quiet, steady reassurance in Bruce’s voice.
When the kettle whistled, Tim poured the water carefully, his hands steady where his father’s had trembled. He pushed the finished cup toward Bruce, then glanced at the crutches leaned against the counter. “Next time,” he said, almost sheepish, “just call me. I’ll come.”
Bruce took the cup, his fingers brushing Tim’s as he did. His voice was soft, almost hoarse from sleep and the weight of everything unspoken. “Thank you, Tim.”
Tim let out a small, genuine smile.
∞∞∞
That night, when Bruce finally made his way down to the cave, the kids almost stared like they were seeing a ghost. He wore one of his dark turtlenecks and a pair of pants. Crutches clicked faintly against the floor as he descended the last step.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Bruce said, his mouth quirking just slightly. “I’m not going out. Just handling comms tonight.”
“Comms?” Dick’s eyebrows shot up. “Bruce, you should be in bed—”
“I was in bed,” Bruce cut in dryly, settling carefully into the chair by the main console. “For weeks. I can sit here as well as there.”
Jason crossed his arms. “You shouldn’t even be sitting here. You’re one sneeze away from cracking another rib.”
“I’ll be fine.” Bruce’s tone was calm, resolute.
There was a long silence before Cass came up beside him, her hand brushing lightly against his shoulder. “on one condition,” she signed, hesitating before adding "don't exhaust yourself too much.”
Bruce gave her a small smile. “of course.”
The others shuffled closer, still wary. Finally, it was Tim who spoke, his voice breaking the tense air. “We’re… we’re sorry, Dad.”
The others glanced at him, but no one interrupted.
Tim’s hands curled against his thighs. “If we hadn’t messed with your gear—if we hadn’t thought it was funny—your leg, your ribs… it wouldn’t have happened.”
Jason let out a heavy sigh, muttering, “Yeah. We screwed up.” Dick nodded tightly beside him, guilt evident even after all this time.
Bruce looked at each of them in turn, his gaze steady but not harsh. “You’ve already apologized. More than once.”
“Not enough,” Damian said stiffly from where he leaned near the chair, his voice softer than usual.
Bruce shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It was a prank. Poorly timed, yes. Reckless, yes. But it wasn’t meant to hurt me.” He paused, watching the way they all stood, still heavy with guilt.
"You’re my children. I don’t measure you by your mistakes. If I did…” He let the sentence fade into silence, the unspoken weight clear.
For a moment, none of them spoke. Then Bruce leaned back, hand brushing the console as though it grounded him. “Now go. Patrol won’t wait for my speeches.”
The kids exchanged hesitant glances, but in the end, they obeyed. Bruce sat there watching them move out into the night, and for once, let himself relax into the chair. The cave hummed around him, familiar and steady.
The night unfolded in the rhythm they knew well, though it had been weeks since Bruce’s voice had filled their ears during patrol.
The cave was dim, and his body was far from whole, but his tone was sharp, unwavering, protective.
For the Batkids, it was as if nothing had changed.
Every warning, every correction, every measured word reminded them why Bruce had always been the one at the center of it all. Not because he demanded control—but because he couldn’t help protecting them.
The night carried on, crime kept at bay beneath their coordinated hands, When the comms quieted at last, his eyes drifted half-shut, exhaustion tugging at him—but his voice lingered steady until the very end.
“Good work. All of you. Come home.”