Chapter Text
Tim listened to him speak, let the voice burn itself into his bones. This would be the last conversation they ever had and he wanted to remember all of it. The rest of the family wouldn’t speak to him once they knew. He’d have to tell them; he owed them that much.
He let the words slice him open, defenses down, let himself bleed where they wouldn’t see.
“It’s okay,” he said in a gap of silence. “I won’t be here if you come back.”
He had accounts, real estate not in Gotham. He could go down south, work to forget.
Next to him, Damian was quiet, warily still.
“It’s okay,” Tim repeated to them both. The hollow space in his head told him otherwise.
The gap stretched, widened into a chasm. Tim drank them in, engraved their faces into his memory, then turned. He left his back open, walking towards the stairs at a slow and steady pace. Neither Bruce nor Damian moved, silent, watching him go. Tim didn’t look back.
Seattle was always too windy for his tastes.
Jason adjusted the binoculars, zoomed in a little further. His target stopped on the side of the street, head turning to look a pair of women that walked by. Jason made a note without looking, flipped the page. In his pocket, his phone buzzed.
On the street below, the man stepped away from the wall, made his way down the street. Jason followed, moving from rooftop to rooftop, never losing sight.
His phone buzzed again, didn’t stop buzzing. Jason growled, watched the man as he slipped into a cafe. Hopefully, he’d be there for a while.
He opened his phone and frowned at the twenty texts waiting for him.
I found him, Tim’s read. Go home
Then, another one.
Please. They need you.
Jason groaned, low in his throat and set the binoculars down. He cursed under his breath for a few moments before dialing Tim.
The phone rang, rang and rang, voicemail picking up after five rings. Jason ended the call, tried again, again, again.
He cursed, dialed Dick, tapped his fingers on the phone.
“Pick up damn you”
“Hello,” Dick said and Jason’s phone case cracked a little. Dick sounded tired.
“What the fuck is going on,” he said, tone loosing its edge just a bit.
Dick sighed and Jason felt it in his bones.
“Tim’s gone,” he said.
They’ll need you, Tim’s text had said.
“Where?”
Already his hands were disassembling the rifle and tucking it inside his bag. He had driven here, had needed the space and time to clear his thoughts, would need that time again.
“We don’t know,” Dick said. “He and Bruce had a fight. Then he left.”
Jason could hear him breathe over the phone, quiet and near tears.
“Gimme a few days,” he said, zipping up the bag. “I’m on my way."
Damian scratched the dog behind the ears, other hand tapping the pencil against his sketchpad. The house had finally fallen silent, yet unease still swam through his blood.
Next to him, Titus whuffed, nudging his cold nose against Damian’s hand to get him to scratch the top of his head. Damian closed his eyes, traced a memory of Titus trapped in a tree in spring, tensed up as the door opened.
Father stepped out and abruptly Damian realized that he could see the bones in his wrists jut out sharply. He shuffled over, tugging Titus’s collar back as the dog tried to lick at his father’s hand.
"Can I sit,” his father asked and Damian nodded, widening the gap between them even further.
His father glanced at the space, at Damian’s grip on Titus’ collar and his shoulders slumped. Next to Damian, Titus whined and strained forward, dipping into a bow as he tried to wriggle out of Damian’s grasp.
“Titus,” Damian said sharply, tightening his grip. “No!”
Across from him, his father swallowed, before carefully reaching out a hand.
“May I?”
He gestured towards the collar and Titus stilled, blinking up at them with wide eyes. Silently, Damian let go of the collar and Titus bounded forwards, tried to lick at his father’s face.
His father flinched and moved backwards, squeezing his eyes shut as he inhaled harshly. Titus whined, shuffled backwards before slowly lowering himself to the ground, nearly flat, looking up with large eyes.
His father sighed, exhaled slowly, inhaled again; repeated this for a few more moments before lifting his hand and stretching it out slowly to stroke the top of Titus’ head.
Slowly, carefully, Titus rolled over, exposing his belly. His father swallowed, scratched Titus’ belly, slowly moving up to stroke his throat and then down again.
Damian swallowed tears and turned back to his sketchpad.
“I wasn’t going to stay up there forever,” his father said quietly and Damian’s pencil made a dark slash across the page.
He looked up, leaning forward and setting the pad aside. His father’s gaze was fixed on Titus, the dog flat on his back, paws in the air. His father hummed a little and Titus rolled over to lean against him, carefully licking at his hand.
“Alfred locked me out of the computer and I….”
His father broke the silence again and Damian squeezed his hands into his knees, leaning a little into the space between them before pulling back and straightening. His mind filled in the blanks in the silence, the sentence left unfinished.
“The cave on the moon is not sustainable for long-term use.”
“He hasn’t been taking them,” Tim had said, pointing at the pill bottle.
They had brought it with them to the island, had put in the bag Alfred had packed. He’d probably thought it was tampered with, after waking up alone, the remnants of the drugs still in his system.
Damian’s stomach churned and he swallowed down bile as he rose, gripping the pad tightly. His father tensed and Damian gripped the pad tighter as he walked past him, careful to keep some empty space between them.
“I have assignments to do,” he said. “Please bring Titus in when you’re finished.”
The door shut behind him and Damian leaned against it, letting himself shake. He peeled his fingers away from the pad and looked at the beginnings of the sketch. The dark line sliced it unevenly separating his father from the house. He swallowed again, let his face fall into his palms and tried to breathe.
In the cold light of dawn, the house’s shadows seemed ready to devour him. Carefully, he stepped into the kitchen, the wood floor of the hallway creaking beneath his feet.
He stilled, breath heavy in his chest, house still quiet. Alfred would be up soon.
“You can’t even protect yourself Master Bruce! How do you expect to protect the city?”
He shook his head, an ache starting up just underneath his eyebrows and took another step forward, exhaling slow and soundless.
He stepped up to the cabinet, floor numbing his toes, and stretched upwards to quietly swing the door open and retrieve a bowl.
The only open box of cereal in the pantry was the “sugary death trap” that Tim insisted on eating; Damian’s words not his. He poured it into the bowl, the sound echoing in his bones. Carefully, he put the cereal back, hand lingering on the box.
There was a creaking sound in the direction of the staircase and his head snapped up, neck twinging as he twisted to face the door. The stair light was on, diffusing into the still dark hallway. It was time for Alfred to prepare for the day.
He picked up the bowl and glanced around. Footsteps came from the hallway and quickly, he slipped through the other door, closing it softly behind him.
He inhaled, stale guano, stone and darkness coating his lungs. Cold crawled upwards, starting to numb his knees.
In the kitchen, the light switched on, it’s glow diffusing onto the landing. The stairs behind him dropped sharply, darkness retreating deeper down.
The sound of the door opening, of boxes being moved around.
“I thought none of you touched this stuff,” Jason grumbled, slamming the door shut.
Bruce knew he had heard the sound of an engine in the middle of the night.
“Go back to bed Master Bruce. It’s nothing.”
Alfred’s body blocking his way out, watching him as he shuffled off to bed. He was still locked out of the computer.
“We haven’t”
Dick’s voice, confused sleepiness. He was never properly awake until after the sun had fully risen.
“The only one who eats it is….”
He trailed off, the sound of a yawn cutting off his words.
“Well he’s not here,” Jason snapped, shaking the box, plastic crinkling, accusing. “You said he hadn’t been here since last week. The box is empty.”
“So?”
“Yesterday,” Jason hissed, “was Monday. Alfred always goes shopping on Mondays.”
Bruce leaned on the wall, where plaster met stone, and slumped, the stone leaching away some of the tension in his temples.
The argument continued, voices rising and falling and his eyes closed, body sliding down. Here, in the space between the manor and the cave, it almost felt like being on the moon.
Then, his grip loosened, the bowl falling with a thunderous crash, cereal clattering down the stairs. He jumped, nearly overbalanced, wound up on his knees.
Light poured into the room, door bouncing against the wall, Jason’s hand slapping against it.
Dick stepped in, blocked the light.
“Bruce,” he said, inhaling sharply.
Broken ceramic filled the gap between them, a tumultuous ocean.
Jason propped the door open with a foot and leaned forward.
“Shit,” he said.
“I’ll get Alfred.”
Dick turned and he shot to his feet, skin catching on jagged edges and ripping.
“No!”
Broken shards made their homes in his skin, blood outlining his feet. Dick turned back, stopped, swallowed down what he wanted to say.
His pulse squeezed through his arteries, a rushing sensation moving downwards. His feet felt hot.
“Hold this” -Jason rapped on the door- “I’ll get the broom.”
Dick moved back, gripped the door. He took a step forward, slipping.
“Stay still,” Dick snapped, fear injected into every syllable.
“You’ll make it worse,” he continued in a gentler tone.
Part of him wanted to keep stepping forward, to let the ceramic embed itself in his skin, embrace the sparkles of pain that temporarily split the velvet that coated the world.
The other part of him stayed still, kept an eye on Dick, measured each and every shift in his breath.
“What have you gotten yourself into this time Master Bruce?”
Alfred
His throat locked, mouth clamped shut, teeth digging into his lower lip. He stepped backwards, slipping on the floor, fresh blood glistening.
“Whoa,” Dick said, taking a step forward and Bruce froze. Dick was barefoot and his blood and ceramic were all over the floor.
“Don’t,” he snapped at Dick, arm sweeping out to encompass the debris. “It’s dangerous!”
He hadn’t been taking his pills; how dangerous would his blood be?
“Your blood is tainted. You are tainted.”
Words that he had to convince himself that Clark never said, real as they were.
“I’ve got the broom,” Jason said, tossing a pair of slippers to Dick.
Bruce swallowed, leaning against the wall and pressing his fingers, hard into the rapidly warming stone.
Jason stepped into the room, boots crunching on the floor as he started to sweep with gloved hands.
He opened his mouth, shut it, watched Jason sweep. The house pressed onto him, intangible weight solidifying with every passing second. It burned against his skin, callused and slick with sweat. Dust and stale paper mixed with the faint scent of gunpowder.
Far away, something dripped.
This far south, the sun burned. Tim stared at his skin in the mirror, bare bulb flickering over his head. Red and puckered, the burn peeled away at the edges, skin rising up in torn flakes.
His hands shook as he applied the burn cream, a pulsing beginning on his left eyelid.
A sharp sting, then coolness, served to wake him him better than coffee.
A ringing emanated from within his closet, muffled by layers of clothing and sheets. The phone, one of the few things he had taken with him.
It rang again, louder and more shrill. His teeth ached from the sound as he shut off the bathroom light and stepped into the bedroom.
In the darkest reaches of the room lay the closet. The floor creaked as he walked, the carpet emitting a musty smell that rose in his wake.
Dust sank into his lungs when he opened the door. The phone’s shrill tone sending another spike of pain through his head. The eyelid twitching grew stronger and he groaned as he bent over to dig out the phone.
It stopped ringing just as he picked it up and he growled at it, moving to fling it back into the pile. Instead, he unlocked it as it buzzed in his hand.
He’s not looking for you, Jason’s text read. He told us to stop too. Said you needed space or some shit.
Tim blinked, hard. Even after everything, Bruce had respected his wishes and he couldn’t do the same.
Bile churned in his stomach, splashed against the back of his throat as it got harder to breathe and he closed his eyes tightly, taking a deep breath.
Does he want me, he typed with shaking fingers, staring at the phone for a long time before squeezing it tightly and dropping it on the bed.
He didn’t notice as his thumb pressed down on send, instead walking away from the bed and pulling on his shoes, casting a brief glance before stepping out of the room and locking the door.