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“Again,” Bruce grumbled. He used the back of a fist to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead. Supergirl grimaced, and Bruce nearly sighed in frustration. “We’re not done until you get it right. But this is a good start, Kara.”
If he and Clark the Justice League had once represented the hope for a brighter future, Supergirl, and the new League, literally were it. But for that future to be secure, it needed somebody… not to defend it— because that mentality had led to good things— but to believe in it, and be skilled enough to put that belief into action. Intelligently.
In the back of Bruce’s mind lurked the knowledge that there was a deadline to securing this future. Batman was mortal, and someday, he would be too old to do his part. Therefore, Bruce needed to teach Kara, and the others, all that he knew before it was too late. If there were one lesson Batman had taken away from defeating the Regime, it was that power could not rest in the hands of one, or even a few.
True, he had believed that before, and yet… And yet, Bruce had still allowed an aura of mystique to form around himself, Diana, and Clark. The Trinity. The Big Three. His hubris, and arrogance, had led Bruce to pay heed to that part of himself that thought that this mythologization was for the best, that this was a way to protect himself, his family. Let them be bigger than life, he had decided. Let everyone think them gods— and maybe that would discourage opposition. Well, he’d been right. And look where that got them: a near cult-like following and a Superman who literally thought himself a god.
After the world had been destroyed (and rebuilt), Bruce decided that a radically different approach was needed to craft the next generation of heroes. For, he knew, there would be more heroes. Nobody was ready to breach the awkward topic of what to do with those established heroes, and so no one would stop young people from becoming heroes, either. Therefore, he had spent many a long, restless night making the best of his insomnia. Bruce had stared out at the night sky, and asked himself: What can I do to avoid repeating the past?
He thought back on Batman’s long career, considered all his mistakes, the few things which had gone well. And he had come up with: belief tempered by honesty.
Kal-El had believed he was doing right, and Bruce had too; his belief in justice was what ultimately allowed Batman to prevail over his once-best friend. But when he woke up in a cold sweat, found himself pulled into a recollection of better times, or was reminded of blue eyes, and a blinding smile, Bruce regretted the things he had not said to his former friend more than those he had. Looking back on his other mistakes, Bruce began to see a pattern: most of the problems in his life had been caused by deceit, omission, or arrogance.
Bruce liked to think of himself as blunt, and rational. Batman was never afraid of wounding someone’s pride, of telling them how they had fucked up. But what Bruce had gotten wrong was that ‘bluntness’ and ‘rationality’— sticking to the facts, and the facts only— did not equate to openness. He had always made his plans and stratagems clear to the Justice League, but never the reasons behind them.
This was not honesty— it was a (milder) form of dictatorship.
So Bruce had been forced to conclude that his personal philosophy, as a man, as a hero, had been flawed for nearly his whole life. And he suddenly— too late, far, far too late— understood what Dick had been angry at him about for nearly his whole life. Why he seemed to have the same fight, or same archetype of a fight, over and over again, regardless of whom he was fighting with. It was a sobering moment. Were it not for Kara’s presence, he may have done something quite reckless.
But Kara Zor-El was the future, and she was alone, as alone as him. And Supergirl, if not exactly a child, was close enough to it that he felt compelled to defend her. So Bruce told himself: remember Kara on the bad days. Like Dick once had, she gave him a reason to live. If he were not happy many days, or even fine, Bruce was at least determined to carry on.
After his little epiphany, he had also determined that the world did not need Batman.
Or, rather, the world needed his experience, the sum total of his mistakes, and how it could avoid repeating them. Bruce was part of the old guard, a relic. One remaining pillar in the ruins. So he had decided to implement his new philosophy by being honest. By teaching the new heroes, or those who wished to be part of the new order, to believe in justice— while also knowing that they were expected to question the scope of their actions, expected to make sure no one was doing injustice in the name of justice. Belief and accountability, that was the way forward. Too many believers, not enough dissent— that was partly what had allowed things to get as bad as they had before.
Things would be different now. The new heroes would not fear difference of opinion as the old Batman once had. Pride would not come before their fall. But, first, the new heroes had to be good enough to actually defend the world. “Again, Kara. If you can’t get me to the mat with finesse, you won’t be able to do it against equally-powerful opponents.”
Kara huffed, then charged him— using her super speed.
To those not in the know, the sight of a (roughly) sixteen-year-old girl flipping a sizeable adult man would be quite surprising. To Bruce, the feeling of being flipped was not novel, though it hadn’t happened like this, peacefully on the mats, in… a number of years. No, he felt more irritated that Supergirl had forgotten herself by using her powers, than anything else.
That is, he felt annoyance until he hit the mat with a thump, and something pulled in his back. Right over where Clark had broken it years ago.
For a moment, Kara stood over him, blinking as if in shock. Then she hastily stepped back, as if fearing the lash of his anger. Goddamn, Bruce cursed mentally. “Very—” he grunted as he slowly rose to his feet, “impressive. Congratulations. We’re done for the night.” Fuck, that hurt.
“O-okay. Thanks, Bruce. See you upstairs,” Kara said uncertainly. He grunted again, and made a show of walking normally. But every step sent another lightning bolt of agony shooting through Bruce’s back. Shit, shit, shit. Something was definitely pulled.
He made it to the locker room and collapsed onto the bench with a stifled groan. “Fuck!” Bruce closed his eyes, took several steadying breaths, and hobbled into the shower, fumbling until he managed to turn the water to ‘boiling hot.’ He stood perfectly still, teeth gritted, until the agony lessened. After a far longer time than usual, he stepped out of the shower and dressed while his muscles were still relatively loose and warm. Like a fucking old man, Bruce thought grumpily. God damn it.
“Bruce?”
“Yes, Kara?” he asked, pausing with his hand white-knuckled on the banister as another near-spasm rocked through his nervous system, leaving Bruce’s ears ringing.
“I was thinking we could do Thai for dinner. Is that okay?”
“Sure,” he grunted, “sounds fine. My wallet should be somewhere in the study.”
“Thanks!” Bruce listened for the sound of Kara’s retreating footsteps and allowed a shaky exhale to escape. All he needed to do was get to his bedroom, take a few pills, and make use of the heating pad quickly. And Kara would never need to know that she’d accidentally injured him. Perfect.
There was a difference between being honest and cruel. Being honest would be telling Kara that she’d hurt him. Being cruel would be reminding her— them both— about the original source of Bruce’s injury.
He managed to make it to his bedroom and half-collapsed on the bed. A white-hot flash of pain went through Bruce’s back and he grit his teeth, fumbling for the pill bottle which he kept on the bedside table for times like this. He took two, and, after giving himself a moment to recover, slowly got to his feet and shuffled over to where he’d put the heat pad. Then came the process of making his way back to the bed, plugging the device in, and finding a good position.
When he did, Bruce nearly groaned in relief. He closed his eyes and tried his best to hold still, praying that the heat would work quickly.
“Bruce?” Kara’s voice, and her knock, startled him awake. Bruce jolted, wincing as the movement caused a (thankfully dull) stab of pain. “Bruce, I’m coming in— I’ve got dinner.” Kara floated into the room, two plates held awkwardly. She closed the door with her foot, then turned around.
Bruce froze, half-off the heat pad. He watched as Kara’s quick eyes took in the scene, and her brow furrowed. But she said nothing, so he relaxed. Supergirl floated over to him and handed Bruce a plate. Then she moved to the other side of the bed and put her plate down. With ease, Kara grabbed the leather armchair from the corner, dragged it closer, retrieved her plate, and propped her legs up on the bed.
Bruce switched off the heat pad, pushed it off the bed, and shuffled backward slowly until his back was supported by the headboard. Then he grabbed his food and began eating.
“I put your wallet back on the desk,” Kara said, after a few minutes.
“Hn.”
Kara laughed. “You’re welcome, Bruce.”
Despite himself, Bruce chuckled. “I’ll have to hide it in lead next time; give you more of a challenge.”
Kara smiled, and, he noted pleasantly, it looked like a little more light came into her eyes with the expression. Good. She deserves it. That was something which had worried Bruce, at first— immediately after. If she would turn out to be like him. He had enough issues for the both of them, and if there were any way he could avoid fucking up Kara Zor-El more than she’d already been, Bruce would count it as a job well done.
“Did— did Kal do that, originally?”
Bruce blinked, and the chopsticks froze halfway to his mouth.
Kara’s blue stare was piercing, and almost achingly familiar. “And did I hurt you?”
Fumblingly, Bruce set aside his plate, no longer feeling hungry. He looked down at his socked feet. “Yes.” Yes, he did. And yes, you did, too. But Bruce couldn’t make himself elaborate. He would be honest, but… but there were some things that he could not say aloud. No matter how he tried.
Briefly, Bruce looked up. Kara was frowning down at her plate.
“It’s not your fault. I should have made sure you had the form down before—”
“But it is my fault!” Kara exclaimed. “It is. I wasn’t careful enough, and you paid the price. I’m not a kid, Bruce! I know my actions have consequences… more than most.”
He froze, again, feeling struck to the core. Those words… so similar to— to Dick’s. From what felt like a lifetime ago, the memory of Dick’s last patrol as Robin replayed in Bruce’s head. Dick was just a boy, he remembered thinking. A brave, foolish, stupid boy who was brash, passionate, and not afraid. So unafraid, it terrified him.
“Bruce?” He snapped back to the present, only to see Kara looking worriedly at him.
Bruce swallowed, inhaling shakily. “Sorry. I— that… reminded me of something Dick once told me when he wasn’t much older than you.” He swallowed again, fighting against the tightness in his chest. Even after all these fucking years. Still feels like I’m being strangled. But though it hurt, Bruce knew that it was the good kind of hurt— like pouring alcohol into a wound. Cleansing.
“Nightwing— the original, right?” Kara asked.
He smiled briefly, though the tightness in his chest grew a little more. Kara had never had a chance to meet Bruce’s eldest son. “Yes. He was… Dick was special. Determined. Like you. And I- well, I often forgot just how special, how mature, he really was. Look, Kara, I know I’m not—”
“It’s okay, Bruce.” Kara set her plate aside, and floated out of the chair, coming to sit next to him. Hesitantly, she opened her arms. Bruce carefully shuffled closer, and indulged the teen in a quick hug. Kara released him, and moved a few inches away.
“Thanks for telling me.”
“Anytime.”