Chapter Text
He could not leave.
Not that he was still needed—by now, Batman was superfluous. A droplet in the sea of Gotham’s protectors. There was a time when the Bat prowled Gotham, alone, the Dark Knight; the lone paladin who stood between Gotham’s old bones and total anarchy.
Then, he committed his first offence.
Of course, he could never regret taking Dick in. Raising him, loving him, helping him fly. But he would always resent what it meant for the boy. The traumatised child he had seen himself in; a darkness, a kinship he could not resist.
He offered that vulnerable child sanctuary and Robin was born. Any hope of Dick Grayson living a normal life was snuffed out by his selfishness—his vapid need to take everything good in the world and mould it for the mission.
Robin was born, and Robin was wonderful. For a time, Bruce imagined that he was doing a good thing. He had stopped Dick from falling into vengeance—stopped Dick from becoming him. But in doing so, he had created a different monster entirely.
He had become a fool who allowed a child to fight crime by his side; racing across rooftops when he should have been in bed for school.
And Bruce did not stop with Dick Grayson.
He should have; if it had to be born with Dick, then Robin should have ended with him.
Instead, with Dick off living by himself, comfortably situated in Bludhaven— free of Bruce, he found another child soldier to take Dick’s place.
Jason had been a complete surprise; an opportunity to make up for his past mistakes with Dick, yes, but he had been more than that. He had been the light in darkness. He had been magic in the ordinary.
And Bruce killed that child.
His son; bright and happy and so innocent it made Bruce want to cry.
Bruce had gotten him killed—and there was nothing he could ever do to atone for it.
It should’ve ended with Dick. It should’ve been over after Jason.
And then there was Tim.
Smart, sweet, enduring Tim.
Looking back, he had been so small—ah, who was he kidding? They all were. So small. And he had them out fighting the worst of the worst—whatever Gotham had to offer.
Tim had come to him, earnest in his belief in the good of Batman. His necessity, his worth. He had determined to become Robin, and Bruce did not stop him. He tried— of course he fucking tried —but training and ruthless beatings walked a fine line then.
The worst part was that Bruce thought he was helping the boy. He was teaching him how to fight—and if it was too much for him, then he was all the better for it. After all, Gotham’s nightlife was no place for a child.
Fat load of good his training had done for Tim—Jason returned from the dead and he’d just been so angry. Angry at Bruce, angry at the Joker, angry at the world.
He had taken that anger out on Tim, and all Bruce could think as he held his son’s broken body was ‘not again’.
Robin was out on the streets again in a mere matter of months. Again couldn’t come soon enough.
And because Batman could apparently not be without his child partner, Robin was born again; this time a little blonder and a lot snarkier.
He had loved having Stephanie by his side just as much as his son’s—that didn’t stop him from correcting the girl at every turn, from failing to protect her when she needed it.
He always failed to protect what truly mattered—but Batman carried on.
And now a new child was burdened with a mantle that never should’ve existed.
Damian, his youngest, still practically a baby. He had never gotten the childhood he’d deserved under the League, and Bruce had done nothing to give it to him. He came back from the timestream to find Damian in the mantle, Tim shuttered off and traumatised, Dick reeling from his stint as Batman and he had done nothing.
He had resumed his role, taken his new sidekick in stride and could not, for the life of him, piece together the shattered remains of his attempt at having a family.
Perhaps the only child he had not failed was Cassandra, and that might only have been because he could not possibly have done worse than David Cain—a low bar, if ever there was one.
Or maybe it was Barbara who rescued Cassandra from his unique brand of ruining all that was good and pure in the world.
Barbara, Jim’s daughter, who he had failed to protect—because he was too late, always too late— swept in to take Cassandra under her wing and had succeeded where Bruce would always fail.
Cassandra was happier now, through no action of his own.
And now these children operated alongside him, protecting Gotham better than he ever could.
Nightwing, Oracle, Red Hood, Black Bat, Red Robin, Spoiler and Robin.
His children; his worst sins, his greatest achievements.
So, yes. He could afford to leave.
Gotham would not suffer his loss. She would likely not even notice.
But he would not be able to leave. He could not sit idly by, even as the rogues were handled swifter than he had ever managed. His competency was nothing compared to the might of his children, he knew this, yet he would never be able to leave.
He could not give up the Batman. Bruce would die in the suit and only then would his children be set free from this monster.
He could not give it up. He could not leave Gotham.
But that did not mean his children had to suffer his presence.
Wayne Manor was large, and often empty. He did not need to bother anyone. He would see them on patrol, and he would not bother them outside of it. They did not deserve even that, but until he was inevitably taken down, until he breathed his last, Batman would persist.
Bruce Wayne, however, was unnecessary.
He would go to the galas; he would dance and play the fool, grin until his face threatened to collapse. He did not need to do anything for Wayne Enterprises—Tim had succeeded him in every aspect of the company. He did not deserve to have Bruce lording over the brilliant work he’s done as CEO.
But beyond this, Bruce Wayne was not needed. He would not bother anyone else, if he could help it. He would never again ruin what had never been his in the first place.
Nightwing, Oracle, Red Hood, Black Bat, Red Robin, Spoiler and Robin.
If it was the last thing he did, he would never ruin them again.
They were never his to have in the first place.