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Bruce tries not to think about the day. Not this one. Not any other, for that matter, but especially not this one.
With every second that passes, he drifts farther and farther away from his center. He’s thrown off balance, like gravity has made him an exception. No one tries to console him, and that’s just fine because Bruce doesn’t want to be consoled. Alfred tries on occasion, but Bruce isn’t the only one hurting too deeply to reach. The manor exists in a fog, silent and riddled with cracked pieces. It’s too empty now.
Nearly everyone has called. When Bruce wouldn’t pick up, they started texting. Eventually Bruce turned his phone off. Just seeing the words spelled out ached like a screwdriver to the gut.
If this were any normal day, Alfred would be bringing Bruce his lunch right about now. But he knows better than to disturb Bruce when he’s in Damian’s room.
Bruce is aware of the poor taste he exhibits now, drinking a bottle of whiskey in a ten-year-old’s room. He’s setting a bad example. God, how he wishes he could still set a bad example.
“Honestly, Father,” Damian said when Bruce took his glass of champagne away. “I’ve been allowed to drink wine before. My mother even encouraged it at formal events. Maturity garners respect.”
“Well, I don’t encourage it. You’re still a child, no matter how sophisticated you think you are.” Not to mention the fact that a ten-year-old drinking champagne at a Wayne gala would certainly turn heads. Bruce downed the champagne himself, laughing at Damian’s scowl. “Come on, son. Let’s get you a juice box.”
That was only four months ago. Four months ago, back when the beast that is tragedy was locked tight in its cage, things were good. Things were perfect. Bruce had everything. Now he has nothing left.
He takes a swig, closing his eyes as the alcohol burns his throat.
“It’s a little early, don’t you think?” Bruce opens his eyes and finds Tim standing in the doorway, his fingertips clutching the frame. It brings Bruce back to the early days when he would creep to Bruce’s room in the middle of the night after a nightmare, uncertain if he was welcome to enter. He’s just as wary now, watching Bruce. “The whiskey, I mean. You’ve never been much of a day drinker.”
“It’s a special occasion.”
“That it is.” Tim steps closer, cautious. Bruce wonders, is his fear kindled from stepping into his dead brother’s room, or from Bruce? “How are you doing?”
“How do you think I’m doing?”
Tim scratches the back of his neck. “Okay, yeah, bad question. I’m...not very good at this.”
“Did you need something?” He can’t do this. Not with Tim here. Not ever. That was the whole point of coming to this part of the house in the first place.
“I wanted to wish you a happy Father’s Day. And...to give you this.” Tim holds out his hand, uncurling his fingers to reveal a small piece of metal with a chain on it. Bruce takes it, turns it over in his fingers. The flat piece shows a chibi-like depiction of Batman and Robin. “Damian picked it out.”
Bruce’s insides crumble, folding in on themselves like botched origami. “When?”
“A couple weeks before. He saw it when we were at the mall and thought it was stupid, so I bought it for him to give to you as a gag gift. Thought he might want you to have it.”
It takes every ounce of Bruce’s strength to keep his voice from shaking, to keep from falling apart altogether. “Thank you.” He closes his hand around the keychain. “I thought you were with the Titans today.”
“I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone.”
“That’s not your job. You don’t have to—” Bruce swallows. Takes a breath. “It’s not all on you.”
“Isn’t it? I’m the only one left.”
Bruce is about to disagree, to tell him that there are others, but he keeps his mouth shut. Because Tim is right. Damian is dead. Jason hasn’t checked in with anyone in weeks. And Dick…
“I’m here for whatever you need, Bruce. That’s why I joined up in the first place, right?” It’s supposed to be a joke, but it falls flat. Tim’s arm twitches like he wants to do something, provide some sort of comfort, but he keeps his distance. “I’m here for you. No father should have to lose two sons.”
Bruce should tell him the truth. He should come clean, tell Tim that he need only mourn one brother, that Dick is out there somewhere alive and well. But he can’t do that. Besides, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Bruce brought on his own suffering, and it’s spread to the entire family like a virus. They’re all hurting, every one of them. All because of Bruce.
“Thank you, Tim. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Tim’s expression doesn’t change but for a dimming of his eyes, a sag in his shoulders. He sees the dismissal for what it is. “I’ll...leave you alone.” He goes without another word, closing the door behind himself.
Bruce turns the keychain over in his palm. It’s small, cheap. Worth next to nothing. Worth everything.
He needs more whiskey.
Half a bottle later and the pain hasn’t numbed any, which he should have expected. This isn’t the kind of pain that any sedative can treat. Not even sleep takes the hurt away—if anything, it amplifies it. Bruce’s dreams now consist of a little boy with a sword shoved through his chest, crying for his dad to come save him. Food has lost its taste, the stars have lost their glow. It’s as if the whole world dimmed once Damian was taken out of it.
“I miss you,” Bruce whispers to the empty room. “God, I miss you so much. It hurts more every day.”
When Bruce’s parents died all those decades ago, it tore something inside of him seemingly beyond repair. Then, by some miracle, it healed. Dick healed it. So did Jason, Tim, Cass, Damian—they all healed him, each in their own way. Jason’s death tore open the scar and taught it how to bleed again. And now Damian has razed the land, made it unsalvageable. Barren. A wound can only be opened so many times before the flesh can no longer be stitched.
“It’s a scratch, Father. I am perfectly capable of taking care of it myself.” Damian’s face was twisted in a scowl, more indignant than hurt despite the bloody rivulets coursing down his forearm.
“I’m not disputing that. But just because you can do something yourself doesn’t mean you have to. Turn your arm for me?” Bruce swabbed the cut in disinfectant. Damian bit down on his bottom lip until the skin turned white. “Sorry. The anesthetic should kick in soon.”
“I’m fine.”
Bruce sighed. “How long before you accept that you’re allowed to express pain?”
“Four million years.”
Bruce chuckled. “Okay. Then I’ll just have to stick around with you for four million and one.”
What Bruce wouldn’t give for those four million and one years. He would take an eternity of pain, anguish, agonizing sacrifice up to his knees if it meant he got to hold his child one more time. If he could tell him how much he loves him. Loved him.
Orphans lose parents. Widows lose spouses. But there is no word for when a parent loses a child. It’s such an unimaginable tragedy that no one has dared to name it. There are not enough words in the English language to describe the depth of this feeling, of losing one’s entire world. Bruce wouldn’t wish it on his greatest enemy.
“I loved you so much, Damian. More than I deserved to love anyone. And I should have told you that when I had the chance.” His eyes burn. His lip trembles. “There shouldn’t have been a day that went by when you didn’t feel loved without conditions, without a single exception. You were perfect.”
He doesn’t stop the tears as they slide down his cheeks, warm and salty. The chasm in his chest widens, expands to the edges of his body until there is more emptiness in him than flesh. He is a black hole.
“I had so many plans for today. It was supposed to be our first Father’s Day together.” Bruce was dead for the last one. And now death has stolen his child from him without warning, without mercy. Without reason.
Bruce’s next breath gets stuck in his throat, makes him shudder. Damian didn’t deserve this. He should be home, safe, alive. He was just a boy. Just a baby, guilty of so many horrors but still so innocent. God, he was just a baby.
“I should have been there for you. You needed your father to save you, and I was too late. I couldn’t keep you safe. But I’m going to get you back, Damian.” The whiskey bottle lies on its side on the bedspread, empty. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to bring you back, even if it kills me. I won’t fail you again.”
He would say more, but his vocal cords refuse to work. Bruce buries his face in his hands, sobs wracking his large frame. What a sight he must make—the Batman, sitting on his son’s bed, crying like a child himself.
For god’s sake, Father, Damian would say if he were here now. If I’d known that my death would turn you into a sniffling mess, I would have tried harder to stay alive. You’ll never intimidate criminals like this.
But Damian isn’t here to say that. He isn’t here at all, and that’s on Bruce. So he cries, sobs, hoping it will do something to alleviate the ache that has set into his body. But if anything, it just makes the ache worse. Makes it grow and grow, forcing it to the forefront of his mind, demanding to be acknowledged.
Your fault. This is all your fault. You don’t get to take it back.
Bruce’s son is dead. His baby is dead.
He won’t stop until he finds a way to take it back.