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It was a Thursday evening in late spring, and the five of them were in the kitchen of Wayne Manor
Alfred had been gone for almost two years by then.
The house had never quite recovered.
Bruce had taken over most things after the funeral. He refused to hire a full-time housekeeper, saying that it wasnt needed. The boys knew it was grief. Alfred had run the entire household. with him gone, it felt like a gaping hole that refuses to close.
Bruce tried to fill in the silence the best he can. But sometimes, years of grief and tension made things feel a lot more complicated than it was.
It started innocently enough with Dick forgetting to get the groceries. Jason ate the last of the cookies Bruce had specifically told him were for his office. Tim reorganized the kitchen cabinets according to “efficiency metrics” and nearly caused Bruce to have a mild heart attack when he couldn’t find the tea Alfred always kept in the same drawer. Damian criticized the new house florist Bruce hired and fired him without asking.
It was nothing. It shouldve all been nothing.
But grief has sharp edges.
That Thursday, Bruce found the grocery list crumpled in the trash. He had written it in careful block letters. Yet the list wasn’t crossed out. It hadn’t even been looked at.
He bought groceries himself the day after.
At dinner, Bruce said they’d agreed to split responsibilities. He said the Manor required coordination. He said Alfred had trusted them to handle simple tasks without being reminded twice.
And then it turned. No one could ever pinpoint how. Old grievances resurfaced like they had been waiting for an excuse. About birthdays missed. About how Bruce left dinner halfway through more often than he stayed. About how he still scheduled them like appointments instead of sitting with them because he wanted to.
Jason said Bruce was trying to replace Alfred.
Dick said Bruce was acting like the only one who was allowed to grieve.
Tim said they were drowning in his rules.
Damian said Bruce was suffocating them with expectations that no one asked for.
The kitchen lights felt too bright and Bruce fired back without meaning to.
He told them that he was trying to keep this family from falling apart. reminded them of the homes he’d given them. The schooling. The stability.
The worst part wasn’t what was said.
It was that none of it was entirely wrong.
And none of it felt entirely fair.
Someone said, “ Well we didn’t ask you to be him.”
Even later, none of them could remember who said it.
It didn’t matter.
Bruce’s next words were clipped and cold.
“If you can’t handle this house, why dont you find somewhere else then?!”
He didnt mean any of it. It was born from frustration, but pride is a fragile thing.
They left within the month.
Dick moved back to Blüdhaven permanently. He stopped coming by the Manor for a full month after that. And even if he did, it was purely for buisness. Leaving immediately after. He stopped calling Bruce “Dad” even jokingly.
Jason found an apartment in Crime Alley and refused financial support. When Bruce sent an anonymous donation to the building’s repair fund, Jason returned it in cash to Wayne Enterprises with a note that read: “Not a fuckin charity.”
Tim transferred to a downtown penthouse closer to work and buried himself in projects, rarely stepping foot outside his office. Bruces office became a place he walked past rather than entered.
Damian left last.
He said nothing dramatic and simply packed. He took his swords. His sketchbooks and Alfred’s old fountain pen. When Bruce asked where he would stay, Damian responded only that he was capable of securing accommodations.
Bruce couldn't find it in himself to stop him.
He told himself he was giving them space.
The Manor expanded in their absence.
Empty rooms echo louder than shouting ever did.
Bruce kept their bedrooms untouched. Laundry folded. Sheets clean. Windows opened in the mornings so the air wouldn’t go stale.
For the first three months, he expected one of them to return after cooling off. A late-night knock. A reluctant apology masked as sarcasm.
It didn’t come.
By six months, he tried to bridge the gap.
He began small.
Dinner invitations. He learned recipes Alfred used to make from memory and trial and error. The Yorkshire pudding collapsed the first four times. He kept practicing.
He sent Dick tickets to a circus performance and attended himself. He did expect for Dick to not show up, but it still hurt when the seat beside him stayed empty.
He showed up at Jason’s apartment with a toolbox when the plumbing failed. Jason didn’t let him in at first, but Bruce sat in the hallway for an hour before Jason opened the door with a scowl and held the door open wordlessly. They then fixed the sink in silence.
He approved Tim’s latest Wayne Enterprises proposal personally instead of letting the board debate it to death and attended Damian’s school art exhibition. He stayed until the end of the event while looking at his son with a smile on his face from a distance as damian gets surrounded by his siblings.
Forgiveness was not a door that swung open. It was a wall they were slowly deciding when to dismantle.
——————————————
The fight had stopped being about groceries months ago. Even longer since anyone remembered the exact trigger.
It had become about grief handled poorly.
About Bruce mistaking control for stability.
About the boys mistaking distance for strength.
They didn’t forgive him yet.
Dick still kept conversations surface-level. Jason still bristled when Bruce offered help. Tim still maintained emotional firewalls. Damian still measured Bruce with calculating restraint.
But they answered his messages now.
They didn’t ignore invitations anymore—even if half of them were denied.
Jason lets Bruce buy him takeout once a month. Tim accepted coffee meetings under the guise of “corporate updates.” Dick lingered at the Manor one evening after a quiet night of missing the had beens, looking around like he was visiting a childhood home that no longer felt entirely his. Damian doesnt avoid him when Bruce asks to spend time with him anymore.
Bruce did not demand reconciliation.
He did not remind them they were family.
He simply kept showing up.
Repairing what he could. Replacing lightbulbs in rooms no one slept in. Keeping their favorite cereal stocked. Leaving the porch light on.
Now, when Bruce stood in the hallway outside their old rooms, he no longer felt like he was guarding a mausoleum.
It felt like he was waiting for something good that was about to happen.
And this time, he was willing to wait as long as it took.
——————————————
It started with fatigue.
He dismissed it for months. Blamed long meetings. Travel and sleep patterns that had never been ideal. But then came the tremor in his hand one morning while pouring coffee. Almost imperceptible yet still enough to make him pause.
He saw a specialist privately.
Then another.
Then one outside Gotham entirely.
The results that came were all the same nonetheless.
A degenerative condition. Aggressive and malignant.
There were diagnoses, Projections, apologies spoken with professional neutrality. They said he only had one month at most, perhaps a little more.
Bruce listened without interrupting. Asked the necessary questions. Requested digital copies of the scans and thanked them.
He walked out of the clinic alone.
The sky that day was unbearably bright. He thinks it's because Gotham was happy Bruce’s gonna be gone soon too.
He decided not to tell the boys.
The choice settled into him almost immediately, solid and sure. They were only just beginning to let him stand beside them again. Just beginning to allow room for him to try.
If they learned he was dying, the fragile distance between them would collapse—but not because they were ready.
But because they would feel obligated.
He would not bind them to his bedside with it.
If forgiveness came, it would come freely.
Not because time was running out.
The illness progressed quickly.
A persistent cough that worsens every day and a constant, aching chest pain that leaves him breathless every time he breathes too deep, coughs, or laughs, as well as pain in his back and shoulders. He learned how to brace his hands on furniture before standing without making it obvious. When he couldn’t steady the tremor entirely, he began wearing gloves more often under the pretense of colder weather.
The boys noticed something. After all, they were far too perceptive not to.
Bruce deflected gently. Smiled more. Redirected conversations toward their work, their projects, their lives.
.
The illness did not allow him the dignity of stillness. Some evenings were spent gripping the edge of his desk while waves of nausea passed. Others were spent on the floor of the bathroom, breath shallow, waiting for the room to stabilize.
He edited several drafted documents more than once since the diagnosis.
There were practical matters to arrange. Legal documents updated. Will reviewed. Personal letters begun and abandoned.
Three weeks.
He could feel his body betraying him. No longer something he could control freely. Still, he continued the dinners.
Still, he showed up when Dick invited him to lunch in Blüdhaven, though he left early under the guise of “early morning obligations.”
Still, he visited Jason’s youth center and stayed just long enough to see a group of kids laughing before excusing himself.
Still, he spent time with Tim as he helped him plan a date with his boyfriend. The boy a blushing mess when Bruce made a possibly embarrassing comment infront of Kon.
Still, he played chess with damian until late afternoon after the sun had set..
He did not cling.
He did not ask for more.
Because he knew, if they sensed desperation, they would look closer.
And if they looked closer, they would know.
One afternoon, after a board meeting, Bruce’s vision blurred mid-sentence. The room tilted. For a split second he thought he might collapse then and there— an undignified unraveling in front of directors and investors.
He steadied himself by gripping the table.
Tim noticed and their eyes met across the polished wood surface.
Bruce held his gaze calmly until Tim looked away first.
Later that evening, Bruce sat alone in the study. His phone rested in his hands, showing a picture of his children. The smiles in their face frozen in time.
He traced the screen lightly.
He would not have enough time to see them fully forgive him yet that truth did not frighten him as much as he expected.
What unsettled him was the thought that they might forgive him after.
He did not want their reconciliation shaped by grief.
He wanted it to grow slowly. He wanted it to be earned.
Even if he would not be there to witness it.
Two weeks.
Walking up the staircase now required pauses. He concealed it poorly once, pausing halfway. Damian, descending from the upper floor, halted abruptly as their eyes locked.
“Are you unwell father?” Damian asked, voice controlled.
“I’m fine,” Bruce replied evenly.
It was not entirely a lie. He was still standing.
Damian studied him with barely concealed suspicion before Bruce stepped aside, allowing him to pass. The moment closed.
Time thinned.
Sleep became fragmented. Pain sharpened. The tremor worsened.
And still, he could not find it in him to tell them.
Because love, he had learned too late, should not demand repayment through tragedy.
If they came to forgive him, it would be because they wanted to.
Not because he had only a month left to live.
There were twelve days remaining when he quietly canceled his remaining public engagements.
Nine when he gave up climbing the stairs altogether and decided to sleep in one of the guest rooms.
Seven when he began sorting through Alfred’s old things out of nostalgia.
And all the while, his children remained just within reach.
Not fully his again.
But closer than they had been in over a year.
Closer than he deserved to be.
——————————————
A week had passed.
Bruce’s birthday arrived without announcement. No one had mentioned it out loud in the family group chat. No dramatic reminders. No nostalgic photos sent at midnight. But around noon, Dick texted a single message.
Tonight?
He was met with three thumbs up as a reaction.
They decide to gather at jasons apartment that same night.
The place still smelled faintly of motor oil and strong coffee. Dick had his boots kicked up on the edge of the coffee table. Tim sat perched on the arm of a chair with his laptop half-open while Damian stood near the window.
Jason leaned back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “So,” he said gruffly. “It’s tomorrow night.”
Tim didn’t look up. “We’re aware.”
Dick blew out a slow breath and glanced between them. “What if,” he began carefully, “we made a small birthday party for him this year?”
A short silence followed.
Jason glanced toward the window, jaw tightening just slightly. “Well he is being off these days.”
Tim’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. “Yeah.”
Damian folded his arms. “It would be strategic to observe him in a controlled environment.”
Jason gave him a look. “We’re not exactly running surveillance, demon spawn”
“Tt, I am aware.”
Dick straightened. “So we’re doing this?”
Jason shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Fine. I’ll handle the cake.”
Tim nodded once. “I’ll keep him busy for the day. Get him out of the house.”
Damian adjusted his cuffs. “The Manor will require preparation.”
Dick smiled faintly. “Then it’s settled.”
——————————————
The day came quietly and by late afternoon, Tim had already inserted himself into Bruce’s schedule under the guise of reviewing Wayne Enterprises R & D projects.
“You’ll have to call a meeting with the board today, B” Tim reminded him. “There are discrepancies in the budget allocation.”
Bruce frowned faintly. “Now?”
“It’ll only take a few hours.”
Bruce hesitated only briefly before nodding. “..Okay.”
The moment the car cleared the gates, Dick got out of his hiding place and entered the living room with a roll of tape and a folded banner tucked under his arm. Damian followed, not far behind
They moved quickly.
“Higher,” Damian instructed from beneath the archway between the foyer and living room.
“I am not getting a ladder,” Dick replied from where he was balancing precariously on a chair.
“The asymmetry is aggravating, Grayson.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“It is crooked.”
Dick sighed before adjusting it a fraction. A large banner now stretched proudly across the wall.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BRUCE!!
In the kitchen, Jason puts down the ingredients and tied an apron around his waist.
“You’re baking?” Dick called from the hall.
Jason shot him a look. “Say something and I’m frosting your face instead.”
The mixer whirred to life as he began making the dough.
In the living room, Damian adjusted the drapes just enough to let the evening light filter in. The Manor beginning to feel warmer and lived in.
After an hour, Jason pulled the cake from the oven and set it on the rack to cool. He leaned against the counter, watching the surface settle as heat escaped in slow waves.
Dick stepped into the kitchen. “Smells good.”
Jason shrugged. “It’s fine.”
Tim sent a brief update on the group chat.
Meetings ending. Be back in thirty minutes.
Dick typed back: Got it.
Damian entered the kitchen, scanning the cake jason was decorating..
“It is acceptable,” he said.
Jason snorted softly. “High praise.”
By the time the sun began to dip lower, the Devil’s food cake was frosted and ready to be eaten.
The living room glowed softly as they waited. When the front door finally opened, the house was dim and quiet except for the faint glow from the dining room.
Footsteps paused in the front of the living room.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Dick flicked the lights as the others gathered to the middle of the room.
“Happy birthday!!”
The words overlapped, uneven but sincere.
Bruce stood near the threshold, momentarily still. For a second, something softened across his expression. Surprise and something dangerously close to tears glistened in his eyes.
He looked at the table, cake and decorations. All his kids together to congratulate him without bruce having to invite them at all.
Jason tried to look unimpressed and failed.
Tim shoved his hands in his pockets as he swayed in nervous energy.
Damian stood straight, his eyes searched Bruce with quiet intensity.
Dick stepped forward first. “It’s nothing big. But… we made you cake”
Bruce’s gaze moved between them and a shaky smile made its way to his face.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
Yet it seemed that it was enough to quiet the room.
They sat closer than they intended to. Conversation started cautiously before slowly loosening.
Jason cracked the first real joke.
Tim countered with dry commentary.
Dick laughed too easily. His smile so bright, it lit up the room
Damian tried hard to cover the amused snort.
Bruce listened contentedly as his sons bicker around him. The sound like music to his ears after the manor went quiet the past few months .
They cut the cake with smiles on their faces, jason sticking frosting on tims face and the latter yelping in surprise.
——————————————
Dinner laste dlonger then they had expected as chaos bgan to unfold once more when Jason made an offhand comment about a young woman who’d tried to flirt with Dick at the gala the week before.
“It wasn’t flirting,” Dick said, already smiling. “It was networking.”
“It was absolutely flirting,” Tim cut in. “She asked if you preferred ‘hands-on partnerships.’”
Damian looked faintly unimpressed. “Your inability to distinguish manipulation from admiration remains concerning, tt.”
Dick stared at him. “You’re sixteen.”
“I am observant.”
Jason snorted into his drink.
Bruce’s lips twitched before he could stop it.
The sound that followed wasn’t restrained or polite. It wasn’t the small exhale he offered at board meetings. It was fuller. A low unguarded laugh made its way out of his mouth.
The table stilled for half a second before Bruce leaned back slightly in his chair, hand resting loose against the table, eyes softened in amusement. There were fine lines at the corners that hadn’t been there years ago. They deepened as he let out another quiet laugh when Jason added, “Next time charge a consultation fee.”
It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t measured.
It was easy.
Tim watched the expression linger instead of disappearing immediately. Jason’s usual commentary faltered for a fraction of a second, thrown off by how natural it looked. Damian observed the sound the way one might study a rare occurrence—committing it to memory without seeming to.
Dick didn’t realize he was grinning until his cheeks hurt.
It had been a while since they heard Bruce laugh without restraint. Not the clipped acknowledgment of humor. Not the quiet, private huff behind a hand. This was open.
The conversation flowed on as Bruce listened, interjecting at moments.
When Jason made a particularly dramatic reenactment of an argument with a contractor, even Damian’s composure broke, and Bruce laughed again.
Dick caught Jason’s eye briefly.
A quiet acknowledgment that even tho they hadn’t fixed anything, everything was gonna be okay.
——————————————
The evening softened gradually.
Plates sat half-finished on the table. The cake had been cut unevenly, icing smeared slightly along the knife where Jason had rushed the second slice. The lights in the dining room dimmed as Tim adjusted them lower, easing the room into something quieter.
No one seemed eager to leave.
Dick leaned back in his chair, watching Bruce from the corner of his eye. The older man looked… lighter. Tired, yes— but the tightness that had defined the past year wasn’t as pronounced tonight. His posture had relaxed into the back of the chair instead of holding rigidly upright.
Damian was halfway through a complaint about Tim taking his cake slice when Dick stood and rounded the table.
Bruce glanced up.
Dick reached out and tapped his shoulder gently.
“Almost forgot,” he said, and held out a small box wrapped in paper that had clearly lost a fight with tape.
The edges were uneven and the corners weren’t folded quite right.
Bruce stared at it for a second, then up at Dick.
“Did you wrapped this yourself, chum?” he observed quietly.
Dick huffed. “Be grateful.”
A faint smile curved Bruce’s mouth as he accepted it. "Of course"
Jason made a dismissive sound but pushed back from the table, digging into his jacket and producing a slimmer package. “It’s not sentimental,” he warned.
Tim stood next, retrieving a carefully wrapped rectangular parcel from where he’d hidden it under a side console. Damian approached last. He did not bother with paper at all. Instead, he handed over the small velvet box he’d brought earlier, “This is my gift for you, baba” he said, face a little red with embarrassment..
For a moment, Bruce simply looked at the pile forming in his hands and felt his heart tingling.
He hadn’t anticipated this. He set the gifts down carefully on the table, fingers lingering for half a second too long over the wrapping.
The first tear of paper was deliberate.
Dick’s gift was a handmade photo album. Pages filled with prints from over the years. Grainy shots of late-night takeout after events. Blurry training sessions. A crooked selfie taken by Tim that caught Bruce mid-scowl.
There were handwritten captions in the margins. Some sarcastic. Some simple.
Bruce’s thumb paused over the photos and cleared his throat lightly before moving to the next gift.
Jason’s was a hard copy of a book bruce had mentioned he wanted a year ago, right before the day of their fight.
Bruce’s mouth twitched faintly at that.
Tim’s was a leather-bound planner. The first page already had certain dates marked. Family dinners. Performances. The youth center’s anniversary. Damian’s upcoming tournament.
Damian’s velvet box held a pair of cufflinks. The Wayne crest etched into the metal. “I had heard that your favorite one was broken and hadnt had the time to fix it, father” Damian said evenly. “I figured you wouldnt mind if i made you a new one”
Bruce’s fingers trembled almost imperceptibly as he held it.
He smiled then and a cough followed, light but persistent enough that he had to turn his head slightly, pressing a fist briefly to his mouth.
Bruce straightened after a second, dismissing it with a small shake of his head.
“I’m fine.”
They let it pass.
But none of them entirely believed it.
He looked back at the gifts laid out in front of him and lets out a shaky sigh.
“You remembered,” he said softly.
For a year, he had prepared himself not to expect anything.
Not to assume they would show up.
Not to assume he still occupied that space in their lives.
And yet they had come.
His eyes lowered briefly, tears finally dropping down slowly. Bruce stood from his chair, gathering himself, and without preamble, he pulled them in. Arms wrapping around all four as far as they could reach. Shoulders pressing together. Jason stiffened for half a second before relenting. Dick folding in easily. Tim careful but firm. Damian pouting but not pulling away.
Bruce held them tighter than he probably should have but he could bring himself to care when his sons were here and not pushing him away.
“I love you,” he said quietly, voice thick but controlled. “All of you.”
Bruce closed his eyes briefly allowing himself to feel how deeply, painfully grateful he was that they had remembered.
——————————————
They were still standing close when it happened.
Bruce’s arms were around them, shoulders pressed together, and for a moment he let himself lean into it—into the warmth, into the rare simplicity of being held and holding in return.
Then he felt a sharp, burning pull low in his throat like a warning. A tightening that climbed upward, hot and invasive.
He stilled.
The sensation deepened, prickling along his airway. His breath hitched.
Dick felt the subtle shift before he saw it. Bruce’s grip faltering. His chest moving with uneven breathe before he pulled back abruptly, one arm coming up to his mouth as a cough tore through him. He turned his head away from them instinctively, as if privacy still mattered.
When it subsided enough for him to steady, Bruce slowly lowered his hand.
Dark red streaked across his palm.
For a second, the world seemed to suspend itself.
Bruce stared at it. His eyes widened as though a final line he had been hoping would not be crossed had just been quietly erased.
Jason stepped back half a pace without meaning to. Tim’s mind tried, absurdly, to fit the image into something logical—injured gums, bitten tongue, anything that wouldnt have been too serious.
But the blood wasn’t a smear.
It was too much.
Bruce exhaled slowly. His shoulders dropping. His body felt distant now. Heavy in strange places. Hollow in others. The ache inside him sharpened, spreading outward like cracks under pressure. His legs weakened beneath him like support beams giving way after too much strain.
He swayed.
Dick reached out.
“B—”
Bruce didn’t finish turning before his knees buckled.
They caught him—or tried to. His weight was more than they expected. The fall was clumsy, his body hitting the polished floor on one side, Jason and Dick bracing his descent as best they could. Tim dropped immediately to his knees. Damian froze only a second longer before moving in, rigid precision dissolving into urgency.
“Dad.”
Jason’s voice was sharp, stripped of any sarcasm it could’ve had before.
Bruce was barely conscious. His breathing was shallow, each inhale rasping slightly. A faint tremor ran along his body before stilling again. Tim’s hands hovered near Bruce’s shoulder, unsure whether to lift him or leave him flat. “What is this? Bruce, what is happening?”
Dick gripped his father’s shoulder. “I’m calling 911.”
Damian’s voice was shaky as he tried his best to hold it steady. “Father. Speak.”
Bruce’s gaze moved between them with an unnerving calm. He understood, bitterly, that there was no hiding this anymore.
“It’s alright,” he said, though the words barely held shape.
It cost him to speak. They could see that now. Every syllable drawn through resistance.
Jason’s hands were shaking despite himself. “No, it’s not. Since when do you cough up blood and it’s fine?”
Bruce’s lips curved faintly.
“...I gues thats true. The doctors say It’s terminal.” Another wave of weakness rippled through him. His fingers twitched against the floor, then fell still again. It was getting harder to focus. The edges of the room blurred.
The word sat in the room like something solid.
Terminal meant months. Years, sometimes.
Not this.
Tim shook his head. “That doesn’t— You’ve been fine. You’ve been at meetings, you—”
Dick leaned closer, voice cracking despite every effort to steady it. “Since when?”
Bruce swallowed carefully.
“A while.”
“How. long?” Jason demanded, the fear clear in his voice.
Bruce’s answer was barely audible.
“About a month.”
Damian recoiled as if struck.
“And you—” His composure fractured visibly. “You chose to remain silent?”
Bruce looked at him.
He wanted badly to reach up and hold his son’s face. But his arm felt impossibly heavy.
“I didn’t want…” He paused, fighting for breath. “I didn’t want you staying because I was dying.”
Tim’s eyes were bright now, glassy with disbelief. “We’re here because we want to be.”
Bruce smiled faintly, a mixture of disbelief and hope present. His chest tightened again. This time the inhale didn’t fully come. His hand instinctively pressed against his sternum as if he could steady it from the outside.
“I thought,” he continued softly, forcing the words through thinning air, “maybe you’d forgive me eventually.”
Dick’s grip tightened. “We already are B. so if you could just— be alive till then, it woul be really appreciated,” he says with a strained smile and barely concealed tears making his eyes go red.
Bruce lets out a soft chuckle. There was something almost boyish in the relief that flickered across his face.
“...I’m sorry,” Bruce said.
Jason shook his head sharply.
“For not… fixing it in time.”
His voice wavered from lack of strength.
Tim pressed trembling fingers lightly against Bruce’s wrist. The pulse was there, but irregular. Fading in and out like a signal losing power.
“Stay with us,” Tim whispered.
Bruce’s breathing grew quieter. Each inhale shallower than the last.
His body felt like it was slipping sideways, like he was trying to remain tethered to something unable to hold. He looked at Dick’s open fear, Jason’s fury collapsing into desperation, Tim’s silent calculation breaking apart, Damian’s pride shattered cleanly down the center.
He wished he had more time.
His eyelids lowered halfway.
“Thank you,” he managed.
“For tonight.”
A faint exhale left his lips before his body relaxed in a way that no sleep had ever achieved.
Too still.
Tim pressed harder at his wrist.
Nothing.
Jason leaned down, hand at Bruce’s neck, searching for any sign of movement.
Damian’s voice broke entirely. “Father.”
Dick’s breath shuddered violently as reality settled over them.
There was no dramatic final word left unsaid nor a surge of strength at the last second. Only a quite goodbye and a final breath from a body that left far too soon.
They remained there on the floor around him, unwilling to move.
Unwilling to accept that the man who had always seemed immovable had simply… stopped.
Bruce Wayne had waited for forgiveness.
And when it finally came, he had not had enough time left to accept it.
Now they were left holding him instead.
And there was nothing left to fix.