Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bruce was used to pain, but that never made the first moments of consciousness any easier. 

An iron ache leaned through him, heavy as lead and clinging to his bones like rust. It devoured his entire left side, from sole to scalp, but centered most strongly in the middle, near his lungs. He thought of Two-Face, of Harvey, and it was more than the pain that summoned a low groan.

Soft, soothing hands caressed him, one cradling his cheek as the other pressed cool, moist heaven to his fevered brow.

“Hush, Beloved,” whispered a familiar voice. “You have no reason to fear. All is well.”

Talia…?

Bruce forced his aching eyes open and took in the otherworldly beauty at his bedside. Talia al’Ghul looked just as he remembered her, slim and dark and gorgeous as though the decade since their last meeting had never passed. Her painted features, framed in flickering green, would give Aphrodite a run for her money. And when she smiled that sweet, serene, adoring smile, it melted like a balm into the folds of his aching brain.

She leaned over and pressed a tender kiss to his fevered brow. “Rest, my hero. Your battle is won and the world is safe once more. Now sleep.”

Relief carried Bruce back into darkness, where pain could not follow.

When next he returned to the land of the living, Talia and the worst of his pain were both gone. He might have thought them a dream, if not for the chamber in which he lay, which could not have screamed more League influence if it tried. 

Bruce forced himself through the groggy weight of painkillers and pushed tentatively with his arms until he could use the many decorative cushions to prop himself up. He took personal stock first, trailing fingers down a bare torso until they at last settled on the wound beneath his left ribs.

It had been expertly tended, a few dozen neat stitches that he could just feel through the layers of cloth bandage. He traced its shape, vaguely recalling a humming blade that burned through armor and flesh alike. He took a few deep, measured breaths to check his lung capacity. They seemed untouched, if slightly sore.

Once he’d confirmed that there were no other injuries of note, he turned his attention to the surrounding room. The brickwork walls spoke of Tibetan monasteries – not one he recognized from his training, but a similar construction – as did the bone-gnawing chill he found pressing his fingers to the nearest wall. No doubt the lack of windows were intended to shut out the cold, as were the fine hanging tapestries, the piles of fur on his bed, and the large, beautiful hearth in the corner, where a green flame fed with incense and herbs burned.

By the time he looked to the door, it had begun to open. Talia stepped through, carrying a tray of medicine and warm food that steamed visible in the chill. She did not seem surprised to see him awake.

“Beloved,” she said instead, closing the door behind her and crossing to sit once more at his bedside. “How do you feel?”

“Well enough.” Bruce accepted the cup she passed him, taking a moment to savor the warm, sweet green tea inside. It quenched a thirst he hadn’t quite realized he had and infused his body with warmth from the inside. “How long was I out?”

“Since last we spoke, only a few days. Since your injury, two weeks.” Talia returned the cup to the tray once he’d finished, shifting her attention to a dish of thick, fresh soup. “How fortunate that you did not require the Pit’s assistance, this time. Do you recall what happened?”

Bruce furrowed his brow, considering his own memory. “There was a Justice League threat. Alien— no, extra-dimensional. An invasion with mystic roots.”

Talia nodded, blowing on a spoonful of soup before she offered it to him. “You came to my father for information. He offered allies as well, to defend this world. The battle was quite fierce.”

“But we won.”

“Indeed. And those responsible received their just rewards.”

Bruce recalled distant screams, a far-off terror that had nothing to do with anything earthly or mortal. He pushed them away. “And my teammates?”

“All safe. Their powers and protections served them well.” Talia fed him a few bites more before setting the food aside and, with it, her usual mask of uncaring distance. True anguish shown through her dark eyes as her fingers caressed his cheek. “Most mortals would not have survived what you did, Beloved.”

“But I did.” Bruce covered her hand with his own, leaning his cheek into their combined touch. “I survived, thanks to you.”

He turned his face toward her skin, breathing deep of her favorite perfume; chai and jasmine, saffron and water lilies. It took him back to his training and those few, brief, wonderful nights swaddled in furs and passion. How had ever found the strength to walk away from this, from her? He had his mission. But now the mission had returned him here.

Perhaps it was fate.

He kissed the pulse-point on her wrist. She shivered and slid onto the bed, silk robs caressing his bare skin. He cupped her chin with his other hand and kissed her, slow and deep. She kissed back. Their-half eaten meal lay forgotten, framed in the flickering glow of green fire.

They did not sleep together that night, nor the next, nor the next. His wound, even with the miraculous care of the League, was still too freshly healed. But she stayed with him in warmth and comfort, leaving only to answer the call of her responsibilities and returning to his side each day.

In the end, they lasted a full week before Bruce could no longer resist her. They fell together into the furs and became one in a burst of passion and flame.

After, as their naked bodies basked in the afterglow, Talia draped herself across his back and brought her lips to brush one ear. “I would keep you with me, beloved. For now. Forever. Will you stay?”

And Bruce…

Hesitated.

He had a reason to say no, a reason beyond his mission. He must. And yet, he couldn’t remember. What else was there, what had been hold him back all this time?

Talia’s nails traced his spine, diverting all higher thoughts straight to his loins. Bruce turned his mouth into his arm and groaned.

“Think on it, my hero. Think of all we could have here, together. All you could do with the League of Assassins’ resources at your disposal.”

Painted lips trailed over sensitive skin, peppering kisses into the hallow of his throat.

“But there is no need to answer now.”

Bruce rolled over, sliding Talia with him until she lay on his chest, her head pillowed under his chin. He stroked her hair, watching their shadows in the flickering green, and considered the offer. After all, outside these hallowed walls, what had he to lose?

“Wonder Woman to Batcave. Come in, Batcave.”

The calm, steady voice through the speakers startled Alfred from a daze he hadn’t meant to fall into. He took a moment to straighten in his chair – the one conspicuously sized for Master Bruce’s larger frame – and coaxed a crick from his aching back before pressing the switch to answer.

“Batcave here. I’m receiving you, Wonder Woman. This is Agent A.”

“I just delivered the last of tonight’s petty crooks to the GCPD.” The soft crackle of air across the mic let Alfred guess that the Amazon princess was currently in mid-flight, no doubt somewhere far above the city with one hand guarding against the worse feedback. “The streets seem quiet and I’m almost at the end of the planned patrol. Any trouble at Arkham?”

Alfred’s fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up security alerts and monitored feeds. “None. It seems utterly secure, and Blackgate too. Looks you’re free to go. Thank you again, Your Highness, for the most gracious assistance.”

“No thanks needed, Agent A.” The slightest smile came through in her tone, along with an unspoken ‘It’s the least I could do’ that neither of them would acknowledge. When next she spoke, it was soft and full of concern. “How are the children?”

Alfred sighed, sinking back into the leather chair that he could never hope to fill. “They are…managing.”

He could offer no other words to properly describe four children, all under the age of twelve, whose beloved father had been missing for two months and counting. He couldn’t bear to tell Diana of their fear, their confusion, their distress, and their anger. He could barely stand to face those turbulent emotions in himself.

Diana didn’t push him. She let him gather his thoughts, accompanied by only the sound of her flight and the distant squeak of lingering bats.

“Master Dick has once more requested to be sent on patrol.”

“He’s too young.”

Alfred nodded, though Diana of course could not see. “Now has he completed his training. He hasn’t even the proper accoutrement. Yet, I fear that these substitutions may be aggravating his sense of familiar responsibility.”

Diana made a thoughtful noise of concerned sympathy. Those League members not currently occupied with the search for their missing comrade had been taking turns covering Batman’s patrols in an effort to minimize the effect his disappearance had on Gotham. It was not an ideal solution, even with a few trusted friends borrowing the Bat’s costume for added effect, but it was all they could do until the master himself returned.

Assuming he even could.

“There’s something else that I should tell you,” said Diana. “I slew a Minotaur today, on the outskirts of Bristol.”

Alfred’s blood ran cold.

“It was sniffing around the edge of Zatanna’s barrier. Without Br—their father present in his home, her magic won’t be sustained forever.

“Please, A. Allow me to take the children to Camp Half-Blood.”

Alfred steepled his fingers, setting his jaw tight against the pleas he knew were about to come.

“They’ll be safe there, protected and trained to defend themselves among their own kind…”

“…and ripped away from the only home they’ve ever known.” Since he was alone in the Cave, Alfred allowed himself a visible tell of his anger, lacing his fingers and squeezing until his joints cracked in protest. “No, Your Highness. Your concerns are noted, but I will not consent to abandon my charges until there is absolutely no other way to ensure their safety.”

Diana sighed, but at least he acceptance when it came sounded sincere. “I understand. I’ll be heading out then. May the Gods watch over you all.”

Her com shut off with a click, leaving only the sound of the bats. Alfred watched her tracking signal do a final loop around the Wayne property before turning away from Gotham and flying beyond the range of their short-wave trackers. He closed his eyes, brought the joined fists to his lips, and breathed slowly to collect his thoughts.

Once the well-honed professional mask was secure, he set the Bat-computer to standby mode and ascended the stairs to the Manor. At this late hour, the ancient house stood eerily silent, with only the pale moonlight to guide his way. Alfred secured the master’s secret with the usual protocols, then made his way though the familiar halls to the family’s private chambers.

His body ached with exhaustion, yet he would not rest easy without first checking in on his charges, who had each been tucked into their own beds hours before. But he’d barely rested a hand on Master Jason’s doorknob before he noticed the odd sliver of golden light that spilled across the running carpet. It wasn’t much brighter than the moonlight, but it flickered like a candle and danced as though trying to catch his attention.

It came from the master bedroom. Master Bruce’s bedroom.

Breath caught, Alfred nudged open the heavy oak door. The light came from further in, between the half-pulled curtains of the ancient four-poster bed at the room’s heart.

There, Alfred found the children.

They’d made in the nest in the center of the huge bed, built half of their own favorite blankets, pillows and stuffed toys and half from the clean linens that awaited Master Bruce’s return. Tim and Cassandra held the center, where the little girl cradled her toddler brother like one of her precious secrets. Jason guarded Tim’s back, his hand fisted in Cassandra’s nightshirt and his lip twisted as though to challenge any approaching threat. Dick mirrored him from Cassandra’s side, one long limb – thin and knobby from his growth spurts – flung across all three.

A fifth child watched over them. She was the source of the light, as soft and flickering as a candle’s flame. It radiated from her skin and hair as she knelt against the headboard, stroking dark hair with her tiny fingers.

She looked barely older than Master Dick, but Alfred knew at a glance that she was so much more than she appeared. When she met his eye, he could only return her slight smile with a bow.

“My lady Hestia.”

“My own.”

The goddess of hearth and home offered her hand. Alfred took it, helping her step from the bed without disturbing the sleeping children.

Of all the gods, Alfred knew and trusted Hestia best. She had come for tea on many occasions, provided the occasional drops of nectar that best soothed colicky demigods, and had (as was tradition) been the first invoked in Zatanna’s spell of supernatural protection.

In all that time, Alfred had never seen her appear older than twelve, nor had he yet observed the barely-restrained fire that burned in her golden eyes as she glanced back over the children.

“They need their father,” she said softly, still holding Alfred’s hand.

His heart ached. For a moment, he had almost forgotten. “Yes. They do.”

He attempted to retract his hand, but Hestia grasped it with both of hers and held his gaze with iron conviction.

“He lives, my own. Your master lives.” Her hands warmed around him, growing fire-hot until it should have burned but didn’t. “He has been waylaid, distracted, hidden. But he lives, and he will remember. I promise you.”

She rose up on her toes, wrapped her arms around Alfred’s neck, and drew him into a hug that should not have worked in the physical sense of her current form. Golden flame flickered in Alfred’s gaze and he quickly shut his eyes, remembering the fates of Semele and other mortals who had gazed upon the true form of gods.

When he opened them again, Hestia was gone. Only the lingering warmth of his hands and the faintest whiff of smoke remained; a reminder of her presence and the promise that rekindled the hope inside.

Chapter Text

Despite Talia’s objections, Bruce threw himself back into daily work-outs the moment he healed enough to have the stitches removed. He’d dedicated his life to this simple mortal form and wouldn’t dare to risk it over something as fleeting as minor injury. 

He’d cleared the space between the hearth and his bed for this purpose, rolling the fine rugs to one side so there was nothing between his bare skin and the cold stone floor. Between it and the green flame ever licking from the hearth, it was a study in contrasts that he found engaging. It helped to narrow his thoughts as he pushed through a fifth set of push-ups, focusing on the itch that had haunted him now for days.

Talia wasn’t due to return for hours, yet already he anticipated the night they would spend together. Her scent, her acceptance, the soft brush of her skin…it was all he had ever dreamed of, all he could imagine desiring. And yet, he still could not bring himself to accept her offer and promise to stay. Why? What was holding him back? He could almost see…

But the thought was like grasping at a stream and slipped away as quick as it’d come. Bruce growled in frustration, finished his set, and rolled over onto his back so the two halves of his body could return to equilibrium. He closed his eyes, listened to his pounding heart, and heard a voice in the distance.

“Beloved…”

He sat up. The call seemed to be coming from the chamber door, but it remained closed as it had since Talia left and had not been disturbed. Bruce rolled to his feet, padded to the door, and was about to dismiss the voice as a figment when it came again; barely more than a whisper but calling the same soft word.

He pushed the tapestries aside and peered out into the dark, frozen hall. Like his room, it bore no windows, only the occasional open doorway and a lone sconce in which a small torch burned. The only other light came from around the bend to his right; golden and flickering like an inviting flame.

“Talia?” he called, half-expecting to find her, but no answer came. He frowned to himself, took the torch from its sconce, and followed the light to the end of the hall.

There, he found a simple room – servant’s quarters, he guessed, though they were long unused – where a tiny hearth burned with an orange-gold fire. He set his torch into the sconce outside the door and stepped in, drawn to inviting warmth, so like and yet unlike the one in his room. The fire seemed to sigh as he approached it, beckoning with tongues of flame until he knelt beside it.

“Oh,” whispered the flame, now that he could hear its voice in the crackle and pop of burning wood. “Beloved One. Treasure of my own, favored of my heart. Oh, father of heroes, you have been deceived.”

He reached for it without thinking. The flames licked at his palm and should have burned him, yet his skin remained uncharred. Shapes and shadows danced across the fire, drawing him in as the whisper echoed in his ear.

“Remember, dear one. Remember. Remember.”

All at once, he did.

Within the flames, he saw the image of a boy – his boy, his Jason – throwing himself into a schoolyard brawl, furious tears in his eyes as he bellowed, “Shut up, shut up! Don’t you dare talk about my dad like that you son of a…”

The image shifted in a blink, this time to Cassandra, his little girl, silently wandering the halls of the Manor. Her arms were full of things he’d left behind – a necktie, a batarang, a pair of tattered shoes – which squirreled away into a nest beneath her own bed, a secret trove of treasures she hoarded as though afraid they’d disappear.

Another shift, and then it was his baby, little Tim, crying late into the night after a bad dream, inconsolable despite the best efforts of an older man – Alfred, father – at his bedside. He cried and cried, calling for a Daddy that wasn’t coming, and those cries faded one last time into…

Dick. His eldest, his precious boy, standing in the Batcave in a half-finished costume of red and green. He clutched a yellow cape to his chest as he begged, “Please! It’s our city too, you have to let me go out…” But he was too young, too small, not ready, he couldn’t, he had to—

Bruce wrenched his hand away, scattering straw from the floor as he fell back. The flames that had been about to consume him lashed back into the hearth, wrapping up tight upon themselves like wringing hands until, with a final gasps, they self-smothered in the ashes, leaving only a whiff of smoke behind.

Sprawled upon the cold stone floor, Bruce lay in the remnants of heat and remembered everything.

The next warmth to find him was the white-hot spark of pure rage.

When Talia returned that evening, it was to find Bruce dressed for travel and packing up the last of his stolen supplies. The room was dark, lit only by torch light and an oil lamp. The green flame of the hearth, he’d doused with water the moment he returned. 

If she was surprised by his actions, she didn’t show it, only stood in the doorway and watched until he finally spoke.

“Was it only the fire? Or did you work it into my food, too? The medicine? The tea?”

“I have no idea what you’re on about.”

Bruce dropped his final bag and turned on her, grasping Talia by the lapel and shoving until her back hit the wall and she was pinned beneath his strength. They’d been this position just yesterday, for something much more enjoyable. Today, he snarled and barely resisted the urge to break her pretty nose.

“Don’t play with me, Talia. You used magic to make me forget my children.”

She leveled him with a dark gaze, not a single flicker of emotion or regret passing across her face. “You suffered a debilitating wound. Unnecessary stress would have only aggravated…”

Bruce’s fist hit the wall, catch her hair but not her cheek. He cursed her in every language he could think of, though none held a candle to the black speech of the League. He wanted to hate her for everything she’d done, to break her and make her suffer the way they had.

But that would go against his code, and she knew it.

He let her go.

“I’m leaving.” Without turning his back on her, he picked up his prepared bags and slung them across his shoulders. “Don’t try to stop me.”

She made no move to stop him. Yet, when his hand reached the drapes at the door, she called after, “So you would abandon our child, Beloved?”

He stopped dead. Turned back. By the dim torchlight, he could just make out the curve of her stomach, upon which she rested her delicate hands.

She was lying. She had to be.

But what if she wasn’t? To leave a child, his child, with the League of Assassins…!

Talia watched him with only the whites of her eyes catching the dim light. In them, he could read nothing. But he knew her ruthless ways. Pregnant or not, she would set upon his other children the second they were vulnerable, clearing the way for her own young like a wild bear.

He would sacrifice anything to prevent that. Anyone. He had sworn to it years ago. 

It took him three days to hike down from the mountains and return to civilization. Another two got him to Lhasa, where a branch of the Wayne Foundation allowed him to connect with the Justice League systems.

He was back in Gotham before the end of the day, leaving only a recorded message calling off the search parties. It broke over a dozen protocols for rescue and recovery, but he didn’t care. He thought only of his family. His home.

The cave was silent when he teleported in. It must be dusk; after the bats left their roosts but before anyone who might take over his patrol could arrive. For anyone else, the tepid humidity of the cave might have been unpleasant, but after so many weeks of fire-and-ice extremes it felt only like home.

He savored it a moment, eyes closed to indulge in the scents of limestone and iron. Then he startled back to alert when his ears caught soft footsteps on the metal floor.

A dark-haired boy padded out of the locker rooms, preoccupied with his own thoughts and the string of yellow patches in his hands. Bruce’s heart banged against his ribs as he stepped down from the transporter pad and forced himself to walk, not run, towards his eldest son. The last thing he wanted to do was startle or scare him, no matter how desperately relief claws at his lungs.

Dick glanced up at his approach and stopped dead. The utility belt tumbled out of his hands.

“Dad!”

He leapt. Bruce made it only two more steps before catching the boy’s mid-air hug, sweeping him up and into his arms as all four gangly limbs wrapped around his waist and shoulders. Dick clung tight enough to bend steel, buried his head in Bruce’s shoulder, and sobbed.

“I’m here, chum.” Bruce raked his fingers through those dark locks, pulling them aside to press kisses to his son’s temple. “I’m here. I’m really here. Gods, I’m so sorry.”

He held his son until his arms burned, and then held longer, because the thought of putting him down was like severing his own limb. Dick calmed after a bit and shifted to take the weight off his father’s spine, but made no move to release his hold. Bruce humored him even as they climbed the long stairs back to the Manor. He itched to see his other children, to hold them and know that they too were safe.

They’d barely stepped through the secret passage before Dick wiggled out of his grasp and bolted, first through the study door and then up the central stairs. He pounded on doors and walls as he ran, shouting, “He’s back! Alfie, Timmy, Cassie, Jay! It’s Dad! He’s home!”

The banging continued down the hall, echoed by a door flying open and little footsteps on the plush carpet. Tim appeared first, dressed in pajamas, hair still wet from his evening bath. He peered through the banister, gasped, and ran for the stairs; but he was only three years old, and his feet couldn’t keep up. He tripped.

Bruce lunged, snatching the toddler in mid-fall. He clutched Tim to his chest, soothing both the sniffling child and his own pounding heart. When he felt Cassandra’s little hand slip into his own, he pulled her up too, cradling a child in each arm.

Alfred soon followed, his outer layers discarded and his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. What little remained of his professional demeanor gave way to relief, partially masked by the hand that came up to cover his mouth. Dick reappeared with him, hanging off the banister like he thought losing sight of his father would make him leave again.

Jason came last, pulled along by Dick and sporting a heavy shiner on his left eye. He scowled at Bruce from the second floor before wrenching his arm out of Dick’s grip and vanishing again. The sound of a slamming door soon followed.

Bruce’s heart sank. He finished climbing the stairs, passed Tim to Dick and Cassandra to Alfred, and followed his second-eldest back to his room. He knocked, with no answer. The door was locked.

“Jason?” he called through the wood. “Jay, chum…I’m so sorry.”

Ear turned into the doorframe, he heard what might have been rustling clothes and might have been a muffled sniff. Either way, it was close. Only the door between them.

“Just go away,” Jason muttered. “You’re gonna do it anyway.”

Bruce’s chest tightened. Every heartbeat ached with guilt. “I’m not. I promise.”

“You were gone three months. The fucking news noticed. The tabloids. They said—” Jay choked. The sound that followed was unmistakably a smothered sob. “They said you abandoned us. Ran off with some floozy. And then the stupid kids at school said it to Dick. And to Cassie. And I had to shut ‘em up. I had to.”

“I know.” In the back of Bruce’s mind, he knows they’ll have to talk, later, about that violence. About how wrath is second only to pride. But that can come later. Tonight, he needs his children back in his arms. “I know you did, Jay. And I’m so sorry. But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere. So please…”

Forgive me. Come out. Let me help.

Bruce held all the possibilities in with his breath and waited.

The door opened.

Jason came barreling out and Bruce sank to the ground to hold him. Dick and Tim soon joined in, followed closely by Cassandra. In a few years, they would all be too big for Bruce to hold them all at once; but for tonight, at least, he could gather them all.  

Batman did not patrol that night. Instead, he slept in the master bedroom in front of a roaring fire, surrounded by blankets, pillows, stuffed animals and all four his children in a tangled nest of growing limbs and sprawling bodies.

They were all fast asleep before Alfred returned from putting out the lights in the Manor. When he again entered the room, he found Hestia perched upon the hearth, watching over his sleeping family.

She smiled at him as he approached. He returned it, just before dumping an entire plate of fresh scones into the fire as an offering of thanks.

In the next blink, the Goddess was gone. But the feeling of home remained.