Chapter Text
1.
Before answering, Damian's toes traced a half-circle on the ground. For a moment, Bruce's heart tightened slightly, torn between which dreaded answer he feared more.
"After three weeks of independent care, Ace's condition has returned to normal," Damian replied, chest puffed out as usual, though his gaze dropped to avoid Bruce's. "During this time, I didn’t administer any medication beyond routine deworming. Ace’s diet and feeding logs have been sent to your email."
"Oh," Bruce said. "...Thank you, Damian."
An awkward silence filled the apartment’s living room. Bruce opened Damian’s email, silently wishing he could put on his helmet. There was nothing to check—before asking Damian to take Ace, Bruce had exhausted every possible examination method, even asking Clark for a full-body scan. All results showed that, aside from the minor ailments that came with age, Ace was perfectly healthy. The dog had no history of separation anxiety, but just in case, Bruce had spent 50% more time with him over the next two weeks. Yet, Ace’s lethargy and loss of appetite only worsened.
That was when Bruce began reconsidering Cass’s words.
"Bad feelings," she said, tapping Bruce’s chest with a somber expression. Bruce had brushed it off. True, he’d endured several catastrophes over the past year, but now his body had fully recovered, and his mind was entirely his own again. He might be tired, but he was undoubtedly in the best shape he’d been in for a long time.
"So?" Damian finally broke the silence.
*Stay professional*, Bruce reminded himself. *You’re facing a problem. You have to solve it, or it might ruin the work you’ve fought so hard to get back on track.*
"Based on the current evidence, Ace’s mental state is highly likely influenced by my own. However, I’ve also conducted thorough self-examinations—there are no remnants of another entity in my body or mind." Bruce took a deep breath. "In conclusion, I believe I’m dealing with a purely psychological issue."
2.
Bruce Wayne hadn’t had anything to do with mental health since he was eight years old. He’d long since accepted that fact and treated his brain like any complex mission—methodically deconstructing it. Of course, just like physical healing, human mental resilience had its limits, and Bruce knew that too. His life was steeped in violence and the darkest facets of humanity. There were always moments when the pressure became too much, which was why he needed friends and family.
"What really frustrates me is the timing," Bruce muttered, tapping the table irritably. "Gotham just settled down. I’m in a new phase of adjusting with the others, needing positive collaboration to rebuild trust. But ever since Ace’s issue, I’ve become as untrustworthy to myself as they are."
Lois Lane frowned slightly at that. She’d secured an exclusive interview with the former CEO of Wayne Enterprises and current private investigator of Wayne Investigations—and, almost as keenly as Cass, had picked up on Bruce’s underlying emotional crisis. She swore this part of the conversation wouldn’t be quoted. From both a professional standpoint and as one of the few people who knew Bruce’s double life without being entangled in it, Bruce valued her perspective.
"I want to recommend a therapist," Lois said. "Hear me out—around six months after returning to work, I went through a pretty severe crisis. Dr. Blacklock helped me a lot with identity issues and maternal guilt."
That was something Lois would struggle with, Bruce mused. Not only had she crossed into another universe, but she’d also merged with a younger version of herself—one who’d never fallen in love with Clark—inheriting her career and life. The adjustment must have been brutal, and while finding her true self, she also had a family to care for, including a Superman still wary of the Justice League and a superpowered child with a temper.
"That therapist... knows?" Bruce asked. Lois nodded.
"Clark agreed. My issues were too tied up with your whole superhero mess. If I kept dodging the hard parts, nothing would get solved," she said, and Bruce suspected she knew she’d just summarized most of his past failed attempts at professional help (not counting the times he’d deliberately sought out therapists linked to terrorists). "I wanted to return to my work and family at my best, so I gave it everything. And it worked out."
Bruce studied her. "You think my issues are similar?"
"Maybe. Gut feeling." Lois shrugged. "You’re Batman, aren’t you? You’ll figure it out."
3.
Cass settled beside him, legs dangling over the rooftop edge—a sign she wanted to talk, whether in signs or words.
"Still bad feelings?" Bruce asked. She nodded, touching her chest.
"Alright." Bruce pulled out two energy bars. She took hers without hesitation, which gave him a flicker of comfort. "I’ve had three sessions over the past two weeks. Doesn’t seem like a miracle cure."
"But continue?" Cass asked, peeling back part of her mask to nibble at the bar like a rodent.
"I think so." Bruce chewed his bar—no preference, so his were whatever flavors the kids left behind. This one was Dick’s oatmeal. He wished he’d only brought Cass’s raspberry today. "I told the therapist... the sunk cost is too high. Unless continuing poses serious risks, I should stick with it."
Being honest with Blacklock went beyond his secret identity, so he’d emailed the others about his plans. Steph and Duke had encouraged him. Damian assured him in person that he’d take care of the animals and protect Gotham in his absence. Dick had texted, "For real?"—still the last message in their thread. The rest hadn’t replied or acted to stop him, so Bruce assumed they consented.
"You like it," Cass noted. "A little."
"Can’t hide from you." Bruce smirked ruefully. "First impressions matter in therapy... When she said, ‘I understand how agonizing this guilt must be,’ I actually felt understood. Even though logic says her résumé makes real understanding unlikely—it’s just professional phrasing. I’m... tired, I guess. I don’t know what progress looks like, but I want to try."
Cass saw right through him. She’d spotted his issue and sat with him when he needed it. Complaining, "I haven’t felt understood in too long," would be ungrateful. She was one of the few family members who still spent time with him. Bruce didn’t want to burden her with his problems.
"Wouldn’t work. For me." Cass shook her head. "Pity. Confusion. That stuff."
"Your situation is uniquely special." Bruce couldn’t help but feel for her—and that sadness saddened him too, because he knew she sensed it. Sometimes, opening up to someone who you sees too clearly is harder than confiding in a stranger.
"It’s fine." Cass gave a thumbs-up. "Ballet’s good. Healing."
"Reading?" Bruce joked. She pursed her lips into a bitter expression.
4.
"I want to repair my relationships with my children."
That had been Bruce’s stated goal during his first session with Dr. Blacklock. But as he repeatedly failed at her suggested family tasks—small interactions like "make a simple request" or "take a ten-minute walk"—he knew revising his objective was inevitable. Aside from Cass, Damian and Duke were manageable: Damian was confused and stiff, Duke awkward but trying. Steph might be next, but Bruce wanted to tackle the core issue. Yet even with Dick, he couldn’t manage anything beyond vigilante work.
It took time to accept he *couldn’t*. Dr. Blacklock waited patiently, guiding him toward the truth until he finally admitted:
"I’m afraid of them—my oldest children." His hands felt icy; the floor seemed to sway. "No... not just fear. Every time I expect to interact with them, my stomach twists. I feel sick."
Bruce stopped there, mind blank except for the shock of the words. He sat, breathing unevenly, staring at his clenched fists as Dr. Blacklock calmly guided him to ground himself—just as he’d done for countless victims and witnesses.
"Mr. Wayne, can you feel the floor beneath your feet? Let’s take three deep breaths together."
"If I had to specify... it’s close to facing the Joker." Bruce forced the dissection forward, eyes shut, sweat trickling down his back. "The Joker is unique among my enemies. He *knows* me, fixates on my existence as a person, aims to push me past that line..."
He grabbed the wastebasket just in time, vomiting into it. Dr. Blacklock handed him tissues and water.
"He creates tragedies, hurts innocents, makes me believe killing him is the only *better* or *less bad* choice. Either I become like him, or I refuse to break my code—and his crimes become my fault." Bruce rasped, head hanging over the bin. "Recently, I realized my oldest children keep forcing me into the same dilemma... Maybe that’s part of it."
5.
This feeling had been accumulating over time. Perhaps it began when Jason, as the Red Hood, first forced him to choose between the Joker and his son—or maybe it started much earlier. In truth, the "no-kill rule" hadn’t existed at the birth of Batman, or at least not absolutely. It had grown alongside him—a vow made at his parents' grave, his personal bulwark against the darkness, Commissioner Gordon’s condition for collaborating with Batman, the line he swore to hold after allowing his wards to step into violence... Dick and Barbara had once understood it perfectly. Jason had reminded Bruce that it wasn’t a given, and Bruce had even abandoned it for him once. Later, after twists and turns, Jason agreed to treat killing as a last resort. Tim came to Bruce specifically to stop him from crossing that line, and their understanding became even firmer.
Choosing not to kill when you *could* was often harder and more painful than the alternative—Bruce knew that better than anyone. The resentment from his family was deserved; better they vent at him than turn it inward. As long as they still followed the rule, Bruce knew they understood its importance. There was no louder guarantee than that.
"A long time ago, I realized that when I’m not around, the Red Hood isn’t so fixated on killing the Joker. Even when they all thought I was dead—when I could no longer help or stop them—the Joker survived." Bruce paused, a flicker of shame surfacing. "When I confirmed that, I felt... relieved. Guilty, but relieved. Jason isn’t the person he claims to be. I can’t reassure him of my love the way he needs, but maybe I can help him in other ways. He’s always been in pain, lost... and I failed him. I have no right to demand he express his love better."
Yet now, he could no longer be certain if that so-called love existed only in his imagination. Bruce stared at Alfred’s name on the gravestone, picturing the sorrowful yet gentle gaze of the man who’d been more a father to him than anyone.
"You’d tell me they never stopped loving me, wouldn’t you? Logically, I believe it, Alfie... but lately, my heart keeps whispering the opposite. Or even if they do love me, that love is too painful."
Bane had killed Alfred. Yet capturing Bane—or any other criminal—had still ranked below beating Bruce bloody and condemning him for refusing to kill the Joker. The moment criminals escaped while identical accusations spilled from different mouths, Bruce’s mind had buzzed, dazed as if watching an entire ocean close over him. He realized that with this family, he could no longer be certain of *anything*.
6.
"You know they have a betting pool, right?" Barbara said, and the familiar nausea surged instantly.
"No idle chatter on comms, Oracle," he replied, landing on a warehouse roof in Gotham’s southern docks and activating thermal imaging.
"They’re all guessing who’s next for the ‘father-son bonding exercise.’ Nightwing’s the favorite, though he’s betting on Red Hood," Barbara continued, undeterred. "No one’s revealed the answer yet. The pot’s growing."
Vomiting at a crime scene would leave bio-evidence. Bruce hoped his symptoms hadn’t escalated to somatization—that would complicate Batman’s work. Barbara wasn’t attacking him. In fact, Bruce was fairly sure this was a lighthearted attempt at camaraderie. He should have laughed it off as an inside joke. After all, his past half-failed family therapy had involved taking turns with each child, doing activities they enjoyed, creating some genuinely good memories. The ones later in the rotation would joke, "Finally, my turn!" and laugh at Bruce’s explanations.
But instead, Bruce’s mind flashed to blades, clubs, and gun barrels aimed at him—to the overlapping accusations, to how long it took the others to realize he was being besieged by alternate personalities in his own mind... Faced with Barbara’s casual mention of their guessing game, he couldn’t muster a smile.
"Of course, we all know this time’s different—you actually telling your therapist is borderline unimaginable," Barbara added, and Bruce’s composure shattered.
"Is that why no one objected?" he snarled. "Because you thought it’d make me grovel for forgiveness? Extract concessions I wouldn’t normally make? Already decided what to demand?"
"*What*—? What are you—?" Barbara stammered, then fired back, furious. "*Who*—?"
Bruce cut the comms, took several steadying breaths, and refocused on the mission. Gotham came first. Always.
7.
Clark looked puzzled by the question.
"Being cast as the villain? Huh. I’m not sure if we’re on the same page, but... well, I usually pretend not to hear how Jon complains about me to Damian. Or the Titans, Young Justice chats." Clark tossed a chicken bone neatly into the nearest trash can and twirled his fork in lo mein. "For teenagers, the people enforcing rules are always villains, aren’t they? Especially kids in our line of work. Balancing their autonomy and their safety is a tightrope—and both are our responsibility."
"Yeah," Bruce said. "I figured as much."
"Though your name does come up more. You’re... well, *you*. And your kids lead different teams." Superman slurped greasy noodles. "Does it bother you?"
"During my last session, I brought up something I thought I’d forgotten." Bruce skipped the preamble. "When Dick was Robin, he once brought the Titans into the Batcave without permission. I found out, ordered them to leave. He cried like I’d mortally wounded him, and his teammates immediately rallied against me, accusing me of forbidding him from having friends before storming off. I was stunned. I encouraged Dick to make friends—he was welcome to bring them to Wayne Manor anytime. I just required advance notice and no outsiders in the Batcave to prevent leaks or damage. I thought he understood the Batcave’s sanctity as our workspace. But he and his friends reacted like that... Maybe my tone was too harsh. Or my... image."
"Maybe the Batcave’s why Dick chose it," Clark said sympathetically, plucking a piece of orange chicken. "You know your rep among young heroes is basically a dare, right? And if our timelines match, you were even more mythic back then. Dick must’ve flaunted that access."
"Painting me as the villain was one of his team-building strategies. For teen heroes, bonding over shared gripes about mentors is effective—and I do have control issues." Bruce stated it flatly, but Clark didn’t laugh. Instead, he watched Bruce with concern, a drop of sauce at the corner of his mouth. "I never minded. The League does it too. But... I’ve realized Dick’s grown *reliant* on that method. He brought it home, passed it to the others. Now they’re always ready to unite against me. Give them any halfway reasonable excuse, and they’ll turn on me, fists and all, refusing to hear me out. I’m their shared enemy. Fighting me—or being ‘hurt’ by me—tightens their bonds."
"I hate saying this, but that sounds awful, Bruce," Clark murmured.
"The therapist offered a new angle—she asked if, when I guilt-trip myself over child soldiers, I’d level the same accusation at Dick or Jason. I nearly leapt from my seat, demanding how she could imply such a thing. Dick and Jason were victims, they were *kids*—" Bruce met Clark’s gaze, and Clark closed his half-open mouth. "—Except they *weren’t*, were they? Not for a long time. Dick left after turning eighteen. He chose to pass Robin to Jason. He backed Tim as Robin years into his own solo career. He appointed Damian while thinking I was dead. Jason, too—once sane, he never protested Robin again. Even Tim, after emancipation, trained a team of Robins."
They finished their takeout in silence. Clark bagged the trash while Bruce stood, rechecking his microcomputer for alerts.
"How can I blame them for supporting each other? Their solidarity was all I ever wanted. So when it happened, I never thought to question how it formed or sustained itself." The night wind billowed Bruce’s cape, reminding him of the bats that once terrified—then carried—him in dreams. "The problem is *me*. I thought I’d adjusted, but fundamentally, I never truly treated the adults in my family as *adults* responsible for their choices. I signaled, consciously or not, that they could—should—demand I keep paying their dues. That let them infantilize themselves where I’m concerned. It’s a mix of paternal inertia and my own flaws. I’m not sure if they realize it, but they stayed. Growth stalled. Conflicts festered like dough, swelling until there’s no room to breathe. How we treat each other grows more extreme. In the end, we all pay."
*You haven’t grown since your parents died.* Bruce would never get used to Jason weaponizing the Joker or death—but those were predictable. This? A dagger slipped between armor seams, straight to the artery. If they could hurl *that* at each other, could they even call themselves family?
"I don’t believe they blame you for Robin, Bruce," Clark said firmly. "At least, Dick won't."
Bruce shook his head. "I’m talking about *my* guilt, *my* separation anxiety. I set a bad precedent. But the other adults in this family haven’t handled it well either. They accuse me of refusing to communicate, but they shut me out just as often—especially after we lost Alfred. I’m trying to believe I’m not solely responsible for this mess. I can’t fix everyone. Just myself. For now, I’m done factoring in their reactions."
"Oh." Clark looked surprised—maybe even pleased. "You know I’m on your side, right? Not that I’m picking fights, but I’ve got your back. Unconditionally."
"Thank you, Clark." Bruce meant it. "That matters."
"Wow. Uh. Honored." Clark scratched his head, utterly un-Superman-like. "But you’re all still patrolling Gotham, right? Work’s... okay?"
"Unless it’s with Robin, I work alone now. No Oracle. No Batcave access."
Bruce kept the bitterness from his voice. He’d once believed, unshakably, that he’d never be alone again. But like preserving his parents’ old room couldn’t bring them back—let alone now, with Wayne Manor gone, and not even a *room* left to cling to, things changed.
"If cases overlap, I collaborate strictly on professional terms. Conflict gets handled like with GCPD." He continued, "Dual relationships are another long-term issue. Teams must follow orders in combat, or people die. But in a family? That’s toxic. Recent crises proved the blurring lines are crippling our efficiency. This isn’t the ideal solution, but until one emerges, I need distance."
8.
Bruce didn’t even see the pile of cookies disappear—but after years on the same team as the Flash, he was used to it. Wally had vanished like a hurricane the moment Bruce started on his third cookie, only to return moments later with six tubs of ice cream. Speedsters’ metabolisms left them with no concept of "too sweet."
"Dark chocolate flavor, one scoop—" The whirlwind deposited two Starbucks venti cups. "—is enough."
"Don’t hold back!" Wally grabbed a spoon, his cup instantly piled high with rainbow-colored scoops. "Thanks for the cookies, Bats! They’re amazing!"
"Thanks." Bruce couldn’t help but smile. "Though we both know you’d praise any food."
"No, no, these are legit, just like…the ones you used to bring us." Wally’s tongue seemed to somersault in his mouth. "So, what brand are they?"
"I baked them." Bruce replied, perhaps with a hint of pride. "Followed a recipe. It’s not hard."
Wally’s eyes went as round as the cookies. "But... you cook?"
"Started a few weeks ago. I used to avoid it—or burn everything—because I always thought I had more important things to do. As long as food served its purpose, taste didn’t matter. I’d multitask, replying to emails or analyzing intel, and suddenly whatever I was making was ruined." Bruce explained. "My family banned me from the kitchen for years. But now that I live alone, I’ve been practicing. It’s... part of recognizing that my comfort matters too. I’ve found cooking can be healing, if I focus. Now I feel worse about all the ingredients I wasted before."
"No, no, no apologies to food—I swear on my stomach and the space-time continuum." Wally’s spoon became a blur. "Seriously, you should bring these to the Watchtower. We’d all be proud. And you have been looser lately."
"Have I?" Bruce asked. "That obvious?"
"A little." Wally constructed another ice cream mountain—no danger of it melting before he finished. "Not enough for a PR crisis. But y’know, even if we’re not as fluent as Supes, us founding members all speak some *Bat*."
"Good to know." Bruce grumbled, deciding to table the "Bat-language" inquiry until he was further along in recovery.
9.
Bruce had been nervous for a while, worried someone would storm in before he was ready and shove his therapy records in his face—they might respect his medical privacy, but the odds of everyone doing so were slim. Yet by the time he returned to his apartment with case files from his day job and found Tim waiting inside, that fear had faded.
*Deep breath. You’re not his guardian anymore. You’re allowed to ignore his opinion. If he attacks, fight back. Like any other assailant. You handle this daily. You can manage.*
"Mr. Wayne." Tim nodded, a little like their old Wayne Enterprises days when they’d downplayed their relationship in public. But now Bruce couldn’t address him by his corporate title anymore, and ‘Red Robin’—his vigilante alias—was even less appropriate.
"Mr. Drake." Bruce settled on, and Tim’s lips pressed thin—clearly prepared for this. His plan was to talk to Bruce from a distance.
Bruce set his files on the entryway console and took the chair across from Tim at the dining table. Tim looked healthy enough, if pale—maybe just from sitting here. He wore an old hoodie Bruce vaguely remembered seeing on Steph or Cass. At least the kids—the *others*—got along.
"So... that’s it?" Tim’s voice cracked, mountains of rehearsed words crumbling into that single phrase. Bruce’s chest ached violently; in his mind, he lunged forward, apologizing unconditionally, confessing how much he missed having them near.
But they couldn’t repeat the past. They had to build something new—even if that path led to nothing* between them.
"I don’t know." Bruce answered honestly. "I’m still figuring out what I want. I don’t expect you to wait. You shouldn’t."
"We’ve been... working. Business as usual." Tim swallowed. "But your role... the person who *decides* between us? No one’s filled that yet. Sometimes we can’t convince each other, or there’s no time to debate."
"That happened when I was here too. Once you fully rule me out as an option, you’ll find a way." Bruce said, guilt spiking at Tim’s flinch. "Batman was the team’s starting point, not its destination. I’ve always had faith this could continue without me."
"Team." Tim repeated. "Is that the final definition?"
"I don’t know."
"Is that really your answer, or are you just sparing me the truth?" Tim bit out. "That after all of this, after so many years, your conclusion is... you’re better off without us?"
"I don’t know, Tim. I don’t." Bruce’s certainty ended there. "But I want the answer to be no. The good days we had? They still give me strength sometimes. I can’t make promises. I want those days back—but if they’re truly gone... then I want us both to move forward with dignity. Let our paths cross naturally, if they’re meant to."
Tim’s gaze slid to the kitchen window—his entry point, Bruce guessed. Tim had always been meticulous.
"I think I’ll use the door this time." Tim stood, unexpectedly offering a hand. "Hope to see you again, Mr. Wayne."
10.
"Are you certain?"
"You can ask again after it takes effect."
Diana made an Amazonian expression of dry amusement and looped the Lasso of Truth twice around his wrist. Bruce’s muscles tensed instinctively; it felt like his soul was floating inside his body, singing hymns to honesty.
"Are you truly certain, Bruce Wayne?"
The lasso glowed. When Bruce spoke truth, it rewarded him with springwater clarity.
"Yes." Bruce said. "I need to hear myself say it."
Diana nodded. "Then what answer do you seek?"
"I am Batman." The words left him effortlessly, nearly drawing a laugh from Diana. "My mission is my greatest joy, until my last breath. And as Bruce Wayne... my first priority is my own health and peace."
He sucked in a sharp breath, half-expecting condemnation for such selfishness. But the lasso sang that this was right, and Diana—she released it, wrapping her arms around him instead.
"Oh, Bruce," she sighed. "I’m so happy for you."
A tremor ran through Bruce’s bones. He felt relaxed, yet exhausted—like stumbling through an endless alleyway all night, only to finally see dawn.
Softly, he said: "Me too."