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Bruce accompanies Batman back to the cave, and isn’t that a sentence he never thought he’d need to say?
It’s a tense drive home, along streets that are familiar in a way that makes Bruce’s chest ache. There’s the old ice cream shop he used to take Dick to that was destroyed during the Cataclysm, there’s the jewelers his mother favored that was burnt down by the owner in an insurance scheme not long after Damian came into his life.
His younger self keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead. Bruce knows he’s fighting the instinct to analyze himself for clues to his own future.
Wise, although likely unnecessary - based on his analysis in his own time, the artifact splits the timeline, it doesn’t loop it. Once his own Justice League is able to recover him, he should return to a reality exactly as he left it no matter what he does in this time.
Still. His former self asks no questions, and Bruce offers no answers but for the ones relevant.
They pass Drake Manor on their way towards home. Bruce twists slightly in his seat to take it in before it disappears from view.
The rose bushes along the front driveway are still perfectly groomed, not yet run wild with neglect. Far away along the distant drive, the light on the front porch is on.
He swallows. “Is Tim at hom- at the Manor?” he asks.
Batman’s mouth flattens into a thin line. Bruce wonders if he still looks that constipated when he’s unhappy about something. “I sent him back to the cave when we picked up your signature.”
There’s no warmth in Batman’s voice, no hint of happiness in his expression.
Something cool and heavy sinks into Bruce’s stomach.
In his time, it is so difficult to coax Tim into coming home. Often impossible without the use of careful pestering and guilt tripping under Alfred’s name or excuses for ways Tim can be helpful - the only thing he won’t try to say no to.
What Bruce would give to still be able to simply tell his son to go home and know that he would be there, safe and happy when Bruce returned.
The coolness in his stomach burns as they pull into the cave. He gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him a little harder than he needs to.
Batman shoots him a curious look. It’s hard to say what conclusions he’ll draw - almost certainly not the correct ones.
The cave looks somehow barren compared to what he’s used to. There’s all the usual precisely organized clutter - tools and monitors and suits, the dinosaur and the penny.
But so many of the little touches are still missing, much of his family missing from the spaces in between.
Dick’s discowing suit isn’t on display, having not yet been retired and then dredged again from storage by a delighted Steph. The area that will someday be Jason’s favored spot to tinker with his bike is occupied by a batsnowmobile that will be completely totalled in a fight with Mr. Freeze in about six months. The aerial silks Bruce got Cass for her birthday two years ago haven’t yet been added to Dick’s gymnastics area, and Damian’s swords are missing from their display in the armory.
There’s a crime scene board set up off to one side. Bruce wanders over to examine it while Batman goes about preparing the tests he’ll want to complete to make sure Bruce isn’t going to tear the fabric of spacetime apart.
He vaguely remembers this case. It was already a cold case even by the time Dick arrived, a murder whose trails had gone nowhere. It was one of the files he’d dusted off and given to Tim to practice his skills.
He hums approvingly as he studies the board. Tim’s getting close - once he finds the witness Bruce had overlooked the first time, he’ll have the lead he needs to crack the case.
Then he frowns, absently touching one of the photos of the building. It’s not one of the original crime scene photos, nor one of the ones Bruce himself had taken when the crime was fresh. Tim must have gone himself to take them after Bruce gave him the case.
Pride sparks in his chest, twisted with shame.
“Have you looked at this?” he asks, raising his voice enough for his younger self to hear him over by the monitors.
Batman grunts, glancing over and then away again. “It’s a cold case,” he says. “Robin’s been working on it.”
“I know that,” Bruce responds. “Have you looked at it?”
This time, Batman looks at him properly. He’s taken off the cowl, revealing his furrowed brow and fewer gray hairs than on Bruce’s own head. “It’s a cold case,” he says slowly, like he thinks Bruce may simply be a bit stupider than he used to be. “It’s hardly urgent.”
Bruce closes his eyes briefly. He’ll get it eventually, he reminds himself. It doesn’t help much. “That’s not the point,” he responds levelly. “He’s nearly cracked the case.”
Batman regards him for another moment. Then he turns back to his analysis. “He’s Robin. Being a detective is part of the job. If he can’t solve a common murder, he shouldn’t be in the suit.”
Bruce releases a slow, heavy breath through his nose. “You couldn’t,” he says quietly. “You didn’t expect him to be able to either.”
Batman’s hands stutter over the keyboard. Bruce just turns away again, disgusted by himself.
He really didn’t expect Tim to be able to solve them in those early days, did he? Eventually his expectations shifted, after Tim had proven himself over and over again, until Bruce looked forward to seeing whether he’d be able to crack them or not.
But at this time, he was setting Tim up to fail and he knew it. He expected Tim to be frustrated and discouraged.
The same way he did with every brutal training session he put the boy through. With every time he sent him away afterwards to dwell on his mistakes, telling himself it was for Tim’s own good and not merely the cowardice of a man desperately trying to protect his own heart.
He had no hand in the fact that Tim was strong enough to keep coming back and trying again.
What did he even say to Tim when he handed over the proof Batman needed for the police to make an arrest? He tries to remember as Batman draws a blood sample from him for analysis.
If it had been Dick or Jason who’d solved a cold case that had stumped Bruce, he would have taken them out for ice cream or to pick out a new book.
Did he even tell Tim to his face that he was impressed?
He can only remember thinking it.
He drags himself out of his bitter reminiscing to go over calculations with his younger self, once he’s collected a sufficient amount of data from him. He has a sizable advantage - he and his Justice League have been studying the artifact and its effects for weeks using computers that have gotten quite a few upgrades between now and… now.
It’s not hard to fill in most of the gaps in his calculations where he sees him.
After a couple of hours, Batman leans back in his chair, satisfied and managing to not look particularly happy about it. “It seems you’re correct about the split in our timelines. Do you have an estimate for how long it will take for your team to recover you?”
“We were already close to completing a counter device, based on research collected during a similar event a few years ago. Assuming that time passes for me at the same pace as it does for them - which, given these readings, seems likely - I think a day or two is a reasonable expectation. No more than a week.”
Batman nods, frowning deeper. Bruce thinks wryly that he would have preferred an answer closer to oh, I’ll be out of your hair in the next ten minutes or so.
Not that he can blame him, considering it will be his future ruined if they’re wrong.
But perhaps he’s gotten a bit better at taking the hits as they come in his later years without quite so much fear. At least for now, the concern is quiet, something easy enough to acknowledge and then set aside on the shelf for as long as there’s nothing he can do with it.
“You should stay in the cave until then,” Batman grunts. “I’ll have Alfred bring you anything you need -“
“I’d prefer a guest bedroom, actually,” Bruce replies cheerily, covering up the sharp pang that Alfred’s name pricks through his chest.
Batman gives him a look, and Bruce smiles amiably back at him. “The cots in the medbay are a little rough on my back, these days. You’ll understand.”
He wonders curiously if he’s stubborn enough to argue with his older self.
But his younger self’s shoulders slump a fraction after a moment. “Fine,” he says tiredly. “You will confine yourself to the Manor.”
“Of course,” Bruce responds easily. He hadn’t planned on anything else.
The Manor is different in many of the same ways the cave is. He passes family photos on the wall, and thinks with a melancholy joy that they’ll be far more crowded someday.
He glances over at himself as they turn down the hallway towards the guest rooms.
He wishes he could tell him. He wishes that at this time, he wasn’t still so broken that trying to shake some sense into himself would risk him sabotaging it for himself before he was ready to have it.
Tim’s door is shut, but Bruce knows in his heart that Tim isn’t behind it. He never was at this stage of things. He’ll have walked back to Drake Manor to spend the night alone in his parents’ empty manor.
Bruce turns his face away from the closed door, his heart aching.
The door younger Bruce leads him to will one day be Cass’s. It’s on the East side, and the bedroom within is a spacious, airy room with large windows that flood the room in light in the mornings.
It’s the last room Bruce would pick for himself.
But he doesn’t show any reaction to the obvious passive aggressiveness. “Thank you,” he says, stepping past himself into the room, which is at least dark enough to feel cave-like for the next few hours.
Batman grunts. “Alfred will have retired to bed by now, but if you need anything, I’ll be down in the cave.”
Bruce gives him a look, coupled with the slightest raised eyebrow. “Yes,” he says. “I’ll know where to find you.”
He doesn’t bother asking if the younger man plans on actually sleeping tonight.
He knows the answer.
Batman shuts the door behind him, leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts in the skeleton of what will one day heal into a proper home again.
There will be proper pajamas in the dresser, but Bruce doesn’t bother with them. The shirt and sweatpants Batman gave him to change into downstairs will suffice.
He crawls under the covers, turning away from the windows in the vain hope that the sunlight won’t wake him up by hitting him in the eyes.
He’s tired. Usually, he’s trained himself into being able to push it aside so he can focus on the work that must be done, but right now there is no work. He can have no hand in trying to fix this world - he’s already had that chance.
And besides. Since coming back from the timestream and the extensive recovery that came with his return, he’s been trying to be better about recognizing his own limits when he reaches them. Trying not to destroy himself when his children will be the ones forced to pick up the pieces. Trying to be strong enough to be there for them in ways he hasn’t always been.
He closes his eyes, and dreams of second chances.
***
He wakes up a little after dawn, the sunlight piercing directly through his lids.
He shoves his head under his pillow with a groan.
Within fifteen minutes, he accepts defeat. He crawls out of bed to change into some fresh leisure wear, pulling on one of his favored house robes that’s been hung in the closet - one he is quite confident they have never stocked for guests.
He smiles to himself. Perhaps his passive-aggressiveness isn’t so strong after all.
Or, more likely, perhaps Alfred is simply a miracle.
He pads downstairs, abruptly nervous and aching and eager all at once.
He can smell coffee brewing, the scents of breakfast. He steps into the kitchen and is greeted by the pop and crackle of bacon, and a figure in front of the stove.
For a few seconds, he’s frozen there in the doorway, drinking in the sight.
Then Alfred turns to look at him, and he is there and warm and alive and Bruce thaws in the same way that stone cracks.
“Good morning, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, and there’s a tenderness in his tone. “It is a pleasure to have you here.”
“Hey, Alfred,” Bruce rasps. He smiles, and it is true even though it makes his face hurt. “You too.”
Alfred taps the spatula against the edge of the pan. “If you would like to take a seat, breakfast will be ready in just a moment.”
Bruce takes his usual seat at the table, not taking his eyes off the butler for even a moment.
He makes a satisfied little hum when he sets the egg, cooked to the perfect temperature, on the bread. Bruce had forgotten he did that.
It’s terrible and merciful, the things you forget.
Alfred lays a plate down in front of him. Then, to Bruce’s surprise, he sits down with him at the table.
Bruce should try harder to have a poker face, he knows. But he can’t find it in himself to tuck his emotions away again the way he used to.
“Eat, my boy,” Alfred says gently, with a nod towards his plate.
The eggs are perfect. Breakfast is perfect.
Alfred stays with him the entire time.
They don’t talk much, just quietly enjoying each other’s company.
He’s nearly done with his meal by the time Alfred finally asks.
“I understand that there’s not much that you can tell me,” he says quietly. “And I will not ask you for details before their time.” He falls quiet, and Bruce waits patiently as Alfred seems to study his face. After a few moments, he finally asks,
“Are you happy?”
The question surprises Bruce, but it really shouldn’t. Alfred has always put his family first.
Bruce smiles. “Yes,” he says, and means it, truly. “Nothing will ever be perfect. But it gets better, I promise. I get better.”
He extends a slightly shaking hand across. Alfred takes it without hesitation, clasping Bruce’s thick, scarred fingers between his own papery but strong ones. “Thank you,” Bruce murmurs. “For sticking with me. I know I haven’t ever made it easy for you.”
Alfred’s mustache twitches. “No,” he says wryly. “You certainly haven’t.”
He squeezes Bruce’s hand tightly. Bruce realizes he can feel him trembling too.
They stay like that for a long while. The sun comes up, and for a little while the world turns the way it used to.
***
The younger Bruce avoids him throughout the day. At least Bruce thinks he does. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that he’s simply thrown himself back into work to escape having to actually think about anything and has more or less forgotten Bruce is even here.
It’s odd, having nothing to do at all. He can’t do anything for WB, can’t lend a hand on any current cases. He watches some Netflix, turning a case from his own time over in his brain, unable to write anything down and risk leaving it in the past. He reads a book that Lucius had gifted him that’s been sitting in his office for nearly a decade. He takes a walk around the garden, says hello to the old oak tree his grandfather planted that would finally die and need to be removed just a few years from now.
He has a quiet lunch with Alfred. He even savors the cucumber sandwiches Alfred serves with his tea, the ones that his family had once been very skilled at politely disposing of without Alfred noticing.
Around late afternoon, he hears voices floating up from downstairs.
He leaves his room, making his way over to the bannister and looking down into the foyer. There’s two figures, but for a moment he doesn’t see the second one past Alfred.
God, Tim was so small.
As though he’s sensed him, Tim pokes his head forward to see past Alfred up to the banister, meeting Bruce’s eyes with his own curious blue ones.
He waves tentatively up at him. Bruce raises a hand off the banister and waves slowly back, still feeling a little gut-punched.
Tim trails away after the butler, his backpack slung over his shoulder.
Alfred will feed him an afterschool snack, Bruce thinks, and then Tim will go down to train and review their caseload before patrol. It’s a reassuring routine.
Bruce remembers the way Tim’s arrival grounded him in time again back then. Afternoons became distinguished from days, weekdays separated from weekends. It was one of his first steps back to sanity.
He wonders if his other self has reached the point yet where he keeps an eye on the clock for when Tim will arrive, or if he’s still trying to pretend that Tim won’t come back if he just doesn’t think about him.
He retreats back to his room with a lump in his throat.
There he remains until about half an hour later, when Alfred knocks crisply on his bedroom door.
“Some good news, Master Bruce,” he says when he opens it. “It would seem your team has managed to establish a communication link with us. They’re preparing to recover you shortly.”
Bruce follows him briskly through the halls, falling into step beside him in muscle memory.
As Alfred presses the button for the elevator, he says, “I don’t suppose there’s anything in my future that I ought to know?”
Bruce looks down at him, at the second father he’s lost in his lifetime. He thinks of a cold spring morning, of an uncooked breakfast, of finding a frail body still in his nightclothes tucked peacefully away in bed as though still asleep. “Take care of yourself, please,” he murmurs. “Take a vacation. Take one every year, take five if you want to. We can afford it.”
Alfred looks up at him with pursed lips and gentle, too-knowing eyes. Bruce thinks he has probably known since breakfast. “I see,” he murmurs back, tipping his chin in acknowledgement. “I shall do my best, my boy.”
The other him is waiting in the cave, in front of the monitors typing furiously.
Tim is over by the tools, half of a grapple gun prototype disassembled across the worktable in front of him. He glances between Bruce and Bruce, looking like he can’t decide whether to be delighted or terrified.
His expression promptly settles on terrified when Bruce beelines towards him. “Hey, what - eep!”
Bruce’s arms close tightly around him.
Tim takes a hug the same way he always has - like someone who’s never had one before. He stiffens up in Bruce’s arms, holding perfectly still as though terrified that any wrong move will mess it up.
He can feel his own eyes on his back, can imagine their anger and horror and fear at the inevitability he has not yet come to terms with. He tightens his grip hard enough for Tim’s breath to leave his lungs in a soft oof before releasing him.
He steps back, but doesn’t remove his hands from Tim’s shoulders. “Tim,” he says quietly, warmly.
The boy looks positively shell-shocked. He stares up at Bruce, jaw agape. “Hi,” he manages weakly after a moment. “Um. Are you okay?”
Bruce chuckles. It really isn’t funny. “I’m fine. I’m just… glad to see you.”
The words clearly don’t scan for Tim. He has that look in his eyes that he gets when he’s trying to decode some sort of puzzle or trap.
Another little piece of Bruce’s heart quietly breaks off and crumbles.
He turns away from his son to face himself. The younger him’s jaw is clenched so tightly Bruce thinks this future’s Bruce is going to need to worry about cracked teeth. “How much longer?” he asks coolly.
“They’re working on pinpointing your signal now,” he grits out. “If you stay still, only a few more minutes.”
Bruce nods, mostly to himself. Perfect.
He kneels down in front of Tim, taking his small hands in his. He can feel Bruce and Alfred’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t care. This is so much more important. He looks Tim in the eye.
“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much.”
Tim sucks in a soft gasp, and Bruce plows forward. “I’m sorry. I know things are rough right now, and I wish -“ he falters briefly, his younger self a shadow in the corner of his eye. “I wish I could fix it,” he says hoarsely. “I wish I had that time back.”
Tim’s gaze flickers over his shoulder. Bruce knows his shadow has moved closer, listening. Good, he thinks, a sharp, desperate pang of fury.
“Things are going to get better,” he whispers. “I can’t promise how soon. “I just need you to keep being you, okay?”
There’s a prickling feeling across his skin, little sputtering sparks of magic, like standing too close to a firecracker. He lets go of Tim’s hands, but leans forward to press a kiss to his forehead before sitting back on his heels, putting a bit of space between them. “You’re a good Robin,” he says fiercely, the edges of the world burning away before his eyes.“And you’ll always be my - ”
There’s a pop, a sense of weightlessness, an unbearable squeeze of pressure that he is regrettably familiar with. Stars burst in the blackness of his vision.
And then just as suddenly, the cold stone floor is under his feet again. He crumples forward onto his knees, his joints feeling like they’ve been replaced with play-dough. Voices murmur out around him as his ringing ears slowly come back online.
Someone crouches down in front of him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
Tim’s face comes into focus. Not the round, shocked baby-face he was looking at mere moments and nearly a decade earlier, but the young man he’s since become. He’s in his Red Robin suit, sans mask, eyes raking over him.
He notices Bruce coming to. “Hey, B,” he says, cutting off someone else off to Bruce’s right. “How are you - eep!”
Bruce lunges, wrapping his arms around his son’s shoulders and pulling him in against his chest.
For a few moments, Tim is stiff and uncertain in his arms. Then he relaxes, leaning into Bruce’s touch. He huffs a laugh against his shoulder. “You okay there, B?” he asks, muffled, but not muffled enough for Bruce to miss the real concern in it.
Bruce pulls back, knowing his son will need to see his face to believe him. “I’m okay,” he says sincerely, watching Tim relax slightly. “I love you. You’re my son, and I love you.”
Tim’s cheeks turn pink, his shoulders hunching. “I love you too,” he says quickly, like he’s worried Bruce is going to get distracted before he can finish. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re being weird.”
“Yes,” Bruce says, and leans forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “Just making up for lost time.”