Work Text:
When the clock in the living room struck 2 o'clock in the morning Bruce Wayne emerged as a shadow in the darkness of the empty Wayne Mansion. Not much had happened in the city that night. There had been no movement, no special case that required his attention. No other watcher at night other than him. Alone, just like at the beginning of his crusade as the knight of the night.
A sigh filled the hollow place with sound. He had once thought that working alone was more efficient, less distractions, more efficiency . Now ... after so many years, having worked together with others for so long, Bruce couldn't help feeling a deep hole in his chest every time he went out at night without any restless voices ringing on his intercom. No small laughs or sarcastic comments.
That was when he realized that the Manor was empty for the first time in years. There was no whispering in the rooms, nor the tapping of Tim's computer keyboard, or the slight scratches of Damian's pencil on the paper. Not even Duke's video games or the crackling of the stove in the kitchen.
The place was deserted. Lifeless.
For the first time in his life, since the death of his parents, Bruce felt lonely. He had not noticed that he had become accustomed to the chaos that the mansion had become, which had become his home. His family.
He could see, deep inside his memories Dick hanging from the entrance lampstand hanging recklessly in the ceiling; Jason reading in the huge library, Charles Dickens, his favorite. He saw Tim in the kitchen, right in front of the coffee maker making a good cup of the darkest coffee he could make. Damian sitting on the couch in front of the window, drawing some landscapes on a sketchbook. Cass and Stephanie in front of the fireplace, with nail polishes of countless colors scattered all over the floor. Duke in front of the TV, control in hand shooting CGI zombies...
Now he was alone. The house empty, the television off, no nail polishes on the floor, no boys in the library or the chandelier.
Without thinking about it, he had taken a tour through the whole house, seeing in each room his children, those people he had proclaimed as his, those who he had taken care of for a long time. Those who had filled his heart with emotion when he needed it most. And also ... to those boys whom he had disappointed.
He had done terrible things. He had hit Tim, he had almost killed Jason with his fists ... he hadn't trusted Damian enough ... Dick ... he was gone, Stephanie and Cass had left after the incident with the third Robin, they had gone away and took his eleven year old son with them. Duke stayed with Jason, for the same reasons.
He had really ruined it this time. They had fought before his children and him, and had reconciled countless times. But it was like stretching a rubber band, after the first stretch it returned to its original form ... but after so many times ... it was no longer the same, and he had probably stretched it more than the band could handle, maybe even to the point of snapping it.
Without noticing it, from one moment to another, still absorbed in his thoughts, he reached the room wing. The paper signs were still placed on the doors. Each "Do not enter" written and decorated with the signature of each of the boys who had occupied them. He gave himself the luxury of ignoring them and entered each of the rooms, and looked at them, standing in the doorway. Looking at each unique imprint left by its former owners.
Dick's old bed still had the same superman cover, the posters of the Haley circus pasted on the walls ... a photo on his nightstand of Bruce and him as a child. It had been the first time they had both come out in front of the press together. It was just an old photo, a mere clipping of the newspaper, but it was a beautiful memory. A hint of the time his life had taken a full 360 degree turn.
Jason's room ... was almost empty, the bed cover was beige, like those in the guest rooms. Of the boy who had once lived there only a few books remained, as well as some sweatshirts in the closet. But still, the room was full of memories, both good and bad. He remembered mostly the times when, without Alfred knowing, he locked himself there and mourned the loss of his second son. Now he only came in from time to time, waiting for Jason to come home ... but he had wasted all his opportunities. Hadn’t he?His son would not return, not after ...
He closed his eyes, his chest contracted at the thought of his second child and what he had done to him. His eyes threatened to shed stubborn tears.
He continued on his way down the hall with slow steps, adding to the silence of the old manor. Tim's room ... was a complete mess. About that there was no doubt. The boy had never worried about tidying up the room. There were empty cups of coffee everywhere, dirty clothes on the floor ... newspaper clippings of old cases, an old Nickon camera that lacked the lens. Bruce remembered that camera. He had given it to Tim on his first Christmas at the mansion. Damian and Tim had ended up tearing it apart in one of their fights. He smiled bitterly as he remembered the rivalry of his two youngest children ... there seemed to have passed centuries since he had last heard them.
Cass's room was the tidiest of all. The girl was not very often in her bedroom, she only used it to sleep and change. But still, there was something unique about her. In a small corner there were candy wrappers, probably treats that Stephanie had introduced to the mansion one night without Alfred knowing. He also noticed that it was the darkest room of all. Cass liked the darkness, it was as if she hugged her, just as he did being Batman.
Duke's room did not yet have a specific thing to identify it. The boy hadn't spent much time in the mansion after all, but still, the scent of his old deodorant was still staining the air in the room, there was a Nintendo control on the floor and a vast amount of video games in alphabetical order.
The next room in the corridor belonged to Damian ... and it was ... practically a copy of Bruce’s own, except for the pile of sketchbooks on the desk and the dog bed that lay hidden under the child’s bed. There were some drawings attached to the wall, several of Titus and Alfred the cat, and surprisingly some portraits of Dick and Damian. He looked through them, but just as he was about to get out a particular drawing caught his attention. It was a kind of family portrait, with Bruce sitting in Thomas Wayne's old armchair, and all his children around him, including Tim. A sad smile appeared on his lips. Surely Damian had thought about giving it to him at some point ... but there would be no chance for that right? He had screwed everything up big. Now he noticed. There was a reason the entire mansion was empty, dead.
All his mistakes ... he knew that one day he would have had to pay for them ... he just didn't imagine ... he didn't imagine losing his entire family in the process. And not at his own fault.
While Bruce lay on his bed that night he couldn't stop thinking. He couldn't stop seeing his mistakes, everything he had done wrong with his boys. And he couldn't help missing his smiles either. Tim's laughter, Jason's dry laugh, Stephanie's little giggles when they teased him for being too old to understand any meme ... God. He really wanted to see them again, tell them ... tell them that he was sorry ... that he would do anything to ... fix everything.
But what had he done? He was supposed to be a hero. A member of the Justice League, the protector of Gotham City ... He was supposed to protect his family ... but he had done nothing but destroy it, again and again incessantly.
And it was his fault. Batman's fault. Blame that damn cloak that he had indoctrinated himself to wear. Batman had become nothing more than a shadow that covered everything that was Bruce Wayne. An alter ego that despite proclaiming to be good ... had ended up doing evil.
He had buried himself too deep under the mask. He had let it take control of his life and now ... now ...
When sleep finally took him away from reality his dreams were empty. There were no nightmares about the Joker or about the death of his parents. No. Even in his mind he was left alone, in an empty and hollow space...
But ... there must be something ... something he could do ... Something to fix it all. There was always a way. Wasn’t it?
~~~~~~~~~~~ * ~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In front of him in the fireplace, the embers danced and sizzled eagerly.
He had thought to call Clark. He had thought it would be easier if Superman did it. But a part of him knew that it was not right. It would not be honest. It would be too easy. No. He should do this himself. Bruce Wayne had to do this.
He held the heavy layer of kevlar in his hands. It was strange to think that for years he had carried that weight on his shoulders. Thinking that maybe taking it could solve all the bad things in the city, all the bad things that had happened since his parents died.
Bruce took a look at the suit one last time. The mask looked back at him with a hollow anger, a meaningless darkness.
He closed his eyes.
And in an instant, in a small and agonizing moment his arms felt light again.
Slowly he opened his eyes from the darkness and looked at the fireplace in front of him. Inside, the thick black suit caught fire slowly. The mask the first thing to melt.
He watched the fire swallow his past until only unrecognizable pieces of molten metal remained
He stared even after the fire went out. Even when the ashes dried completely.
His knees gave way under his weight after long hours of not moving. His eyes fixed on the fireplace now without light.
Hours later, in a strange lethargy, he found the strength to get up and go to his room, where, closing his eyes this time, Batman died slowly and Bruce Wayne was born again.