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Bruce was barely paying attention; he was a shell of himself lately, even colder and quieter than usual. He couldn't focus on the meeting they were having at the Watchtower, not when Clark had the audacity to be resting his elbows on top of a newspaper detailing his son's tragic death. They didn't know, so he couldn't blame them for going on with their lives as if nothing had changed, but for him, everything was different. His home was darker, emptier, like every bit of warmth had been sucked dry.
He reached for his coffee, his hand trembling slightly as his whole body had been doing ever since news of Jason's death went public. Seeing it in print somehow made it real. It had been days since he slept, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get his hands to stop shaking. It was taking all his energy just to stay upright and move around, pretending like everything was fine. He didn't want anyone to know how much pain he was in or how it felt like his chest was collapsing on him every moment of the day, crushing him under the weight of his guilt.
"Batman," A voice said, hazy and disoriented. "Batman," it repeated. "Are you listening?"
Suddenly, Bruce snapped out of whatever grief-induced hypnosis he was under, pushing away from his chair as he dropped his coffee mug to the floor. The sound of it shattering echoed through the room, deafening it.
Bruce stared at Hal, who had been the one calling him, the one who startled him. Everyone stood there, frozen. Bruce was acting weird, even for him. Allowing himself to be taken by surprise, especially in the middle of a bright room when everyone's presence was already known, was quite alarming to them. They didn't want to ask if he was alright, since it was clear he wasn't, so instead, they just stayed where they were, waiting for him to say something.
Instead of blaming Hal, lashing out, or straight up leaving the way he usually did, Batman stilled, staying so quiet they could all hear a pin drop from the next room. Without saying a word, he took off his gloves, something he'd never done before, and bent down, slowly gathering the broken glass in his bare hands. When he'd picked up all he could, he stood back up, avoiding eye contact as he picked up his gloves from the table and walked out.
Behind him, he could hear whispers of concern and jokes about the reasons why he was off his game. They faded into the background though as he stared at the shattered glass in his hand, walking into the kitchen and sprawling them across the table. He was always good at solving puzzles, so he should be able to fix this with some glue.
At least, he would be able to if it wasn't for the fact that trembling in his hands was making it hard to even match the pieces together, let alone glue them in place. Sitting down, he sorted the pieces, his mind going blank as he let the quietness of the room consume him.
He rarely let people into his life; it was a rule of his. If he didn't care about anyone, he could never get hurt. But he'd let Jason in, cared for him like a son, then gotten him killed. That was on him, no one else. Just him. He had a responsibility and he failed.
There was a soft knock at the frame of the door, and Bruce looked up, once again startled by Hal, who now wore a confused, perhaps even kind expression. He despised it.
"What?" he asked, looking back down, trying to steady his hand as he lined a large shard of glass with glue.
"I wanted to-" Hal didn't finish his sentence, seeing the slight tremor in Batman's hand and pausing. "Are you okay?"
Bruce didn't respond verbally, just gave a quiet grunt that seemed to imply a yes, despite everything else about him screaming no. Hal walked closer, scrutinizing the way he held one hand in place with the other to calm his tremble. He never saw Batman shake, ever.
"Are you sure?" He questioned, not believing for a second that he was truly fine. He had been acting odd all day. The first day in over two weeks that any of them had seen him at all. He'd been out of the paper and news for nearly a full fortnight.
"I'm fine," Bruce told him, just before his hand shook so hard he dropped a shard of glass on the table, splitting it into two smaller pieces. He stopped, suddenly tucking his hands under the table so Hal couldn't see them. "Go away," he whispered.
Whatever was going on had truly rattled him in a way no one had ever seen from Batman before. He was usually the most stoic, cold-hearted person in every room. But now, with his shoulders hunched over and his hands tucked in his cape, he looked as frail as any man. One wrong word, and the glazed look in Bruce's eyes would turn to tears. That was why he kept his gaze focused on the broken mug in front of him.
Hal, as usual, ignored him. Without saying anything, he sat down, staring at the collection of pieces for a moment before reaching for the glue. "Which one fits here?" he asked, pointing to part of the mug that he'd already reassembled.
Bruce looked up, not saying anything for a moment. He had a hard time trusting that Hal would ever do anything out of the kindness of his heart, but he was desperate to see his mug put back together, and he wouldn't be capable of doing it with his hands shaking as badly as they were. "That one," he whispered, tilting his head to the correct piece.
He picked it up gently and put some glue on the edges of it, fitting it into place and blowing on it lightly. "Which is the next one?" he questioned softly.
With a shy, hesitant hand, Bruce reached for the piece, his hands shook as he picked it up and handed it to Hal. It felt like handing him a piece of his family's history, a piece of his son's memory, practically. He hated it.
"Why are you doing this?" Bruce asked after another minute had passed.
Hal blew on the glue to dry it quicker, only barely glancing at him before looking for another piece of the mug. "You needed help," he stated. "I didn't think you'd ask."
Batman may be able to work with a team, but he didn't do friends or favors. He wasn't the kind of person to want help or need it. Or, at least, admit to either.
Bruce picked up a fragment of glass, holding it in his hand, tracing the edged absentmindedly while he watched Hal glue the mug back together. "Here," he muttered, handing him the shard.
Hal took it, hesitating to ask him a question as he quietly put the piece in place. "Why does this mug mean so much to you?" he asked at last, his curiosity getting the better of him. "Seems like it would be easier to replace it with another mug. Something more tasteful."
He looked ready to punch Hal after that comment. His mug might not be pretty, in fact, it was quite a mess by most people's standards. After all, it was bright red, green, and yellow, with little bird-shaped doodles drawn across it.
But it was his favorite.
It was an ugly, cheery mug which Bruce cherished more than anything else at the Watchtower. No one knew why.
"I can't replace it," Bruce told him eventually. "Ever."
There was a somber note in his voice, a pain that replaced his usual gruff, unyielding tone.
"Why not?" he questioned. He knew he was pushing his luck, but he couldn't help but be curious about what could be so special about this mug that it made Batman of all people sentimental.
Bruce hesitated before revealing the truth. "My son made it for me."
His confession startled Hal, and if he wasn't so damn focused on fixing the mug in his hand, he would have likely dropped it, breaking it a second time. He set it down carefully, suddenly getting the urge to not hold it anymore. Batman wouldn't hurt him for touching the mug, surely, since he was doing so for several minutes, but it felt wrong now.
"You have a son?" Hal repeated, unsure if he had truly heard him correctly.
Bruce nodded. "Two," he admitted quietly as the faintest remanence of a smile hung on his lips. But as soon as it appeared, it was gone, making Hal wonder if perhaps he'd imagined it.
Bruce hadn't told anyone in the Justice League about his children. He was afraid dragging them further into this kind of life could get them hurt. Clearly, keeping them separate had no effect on their safety. It was him, that was the link between the people he loved meeting their demise sooner than intended.
"I really didn't take you for someone who likes kids," Hal confessed.
It wasn't that he thought Batman would be a poor father, because frankly he had no idea who he was outside of these walls and this job. For all he knew, Batman could be warm and caring or loud and annoying, the exact opposite of what everyone assumes. Still, having this job was hard enough alone. He couldn't imagine doing it with a family involved.
"No one ever does," Bruce responded, not taking it personally.
Sometimes it was hard for him to believe himself. After bringing Dick home there were several days where he walked past his room, somehow in disbelief that there was truly a child living in his home.
"With fair reason though, right?" he noted, daring to pick the mug up again. "You are pretty spooky."
Bruce typically took it as a compliment, but for some reason, the name got under his skin today. He wondered if that had been how Jason saw him, or if it was how Dick still sees him. Was he really nothing more than a grumpy old man masquerading to everyone all the time?
To the public, he was a playboy. To the league, he was a killjoy. To his sons, he was strict. And to himself, he was just a miserable, pathetic excuse of a man who would never be good enough to save the people he loves
"Not all the time," Bruce defended mildly. "Sometimes I'm fun."
He wasn't going to go out of his way to defend to anyone, especially not Hal of all people that he was capable of being nice or having fun. But the thought of how he was perceived lingered in his mind for a moment, the fight he and Jason had, coming to the front of his mind.
"Yeah, maybe, but lately you-" Hal hesitated, looking for the best way to phrase it. "You seem off," he eventually said, trying to downplay his concern, He knew everyone else was equally as concerned as well.
Hal was sure there was a reason for it. A simple one that explained all his recent odd and increasingly concerning behavior. He just didn't know what it was, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Whatever could be bad enough to rattle a nearly unshakable Batman was something he was frighted to hear.
"My son," Bruce said slowly, his voice weak and hesitant as he pointed to the mug in Hal's hands. "He died recently."
He froze, unable to respond to his words. That was not what he had been expecting, but that explained everything. Of course, he had gone missing for a while, he was grieving the loss of his child. It explained it all, why he was quiet, and his hands were shaking. It also explained why he seemed to not be focusing or even really comprehend half of what anyone was saying to him today. The first day since his son died that he had come to the Watchtower or tried to be around any of them.
Hal couldn't believe that they were all joking just a little while ago about his behavior, kidding that he was having girl trouble or let a rogue escape.
"I-" he said nothing, since sorry seemed too small a word.
No apology would ever bring his son back to life, it would bring him no comfort. It would only be another halfhearted apology made from guilt and given by someone who didn't have permission to grieve his child.
Hal had never even met this kid, he didn't know his name or his age, or anything about him. He didn't even know he existed, but the sorrow he felt came crashing down anyway. Batman had always been a symbol of hope, a savior to an entire city, keeping everyone safe. But he had lost what was most precious to him. To say he felt horrible about that realization was an understatement.
"This mug," Bruce told him. "Was the first gift he ever made for me."
Hal couldn't speak even if he wanted to, his mouth had gone dry as the words fled his brain, rendering him incapable of communicating, He held the last piece in place with his hand, too afraid to move it in case the glue was still wet. Then, without warning Batman reached for it, taking it from him. He was terrified that the glue wouldn't hold, that the glass would slip, and he would be responsible for ruining his favorite mug a second time.
Bruce admired the mug, his eyes reflecting the sadness he felt so deep in his soul. The cracks were prominent, but the feeling of having it back, even if it was fractured, brought him a small sense of peace. "Thank you," he whispered, setting it down gently to let it finish drying on the table.
Hal nodded, still speechless as he watched Batman tug his gloves back on. He knew that if anyone asked, he would deny this ever happened. But that was okay, because Hal didn't intend to tell anyone about this anyway.