Archive of Our Own ^beta

To say that Bruce was having a bad week, would be an understatement. 

He had been consumed by a case, one with missing children. He had pushed himself until every waking hour bled into the next. Bruce barely left his desk, his world shrank to the glow of the screen in front of him. For a few days he was motionless, silent, only speaking to request to be left alone.

He knew he was being an asshole, aware of how his blunt dismissals were undeserving because they only care about him and want him to rest. Even Clark had been texting him more often— if that was even possible, asking him how he’s been doing. And Bruce was tired, fatigue pressed against his skull like a vice. 

But every time his eyelids grew heavy and his mind started to drift, the faces of the victim’s families bled through. Grief-stricken mothers, fathers clutching empty chairs, siblings too young to understand the emptiness their loved ones left behind. The case consumed him, but it was more than just the facts; it was their pain, it seeped into his thoughts and lingered in his conscience. In the quiet of the cave, he could almost hear their cries and pleas. Bruce’s mind was shrouded with a darkness, a viscerality. Each missing poster, each victim’s face etched into his dreams, accusing and demanding more from him. The desperation and the guilt clawed at him, sharper with every day until the lines of night and day blurred into a haze of fuelled determination, until the only thing that mattered was solving the case. 

No more would go missing, not on his watch, not as long as he had a chance to stop it. He never needed things to be easy, he only ever needed there to be a possibility.

So when he finally had a lead, Bruce sent the information to Gordon, threw himself into the batmobile and sped out of the cave. The night sky stretched infinitely above him as he tore down the quiet streets of Gotham. And when he neared the old apartment building and kicked down the doors, the hope within him rose like a tide. Bruce was going to put a stop to this and return all these kids home.

*

Just like that, it was over. They caught the culprits. They’d won. But victories like this never came clean, not with Bruce at least. Not everything had gone according to plan, and he should’ve known better. He should’ve been better.

When it happened, Bruce was crouched, murmuring quiet words to the children clinging to him. Then came the sharp, unmistakable click of a gun. His body reacted before his mind could register and he pushed the kids behind him, shielding them with what he had left. But he was slow. Sluggish. Sloppy.

The shot cracked through the air like thunder and Bruce braced himself for impact, his suit could take it, it always did. But before he could even process the moment, before the words could leave his mouth, there was a flurry of movement. A blur, a shape and–

“Batman!” 

Bruce watched as the bullet cut through the air, and a small body folded to the ground before him. A little girl. Chaos erupted around him as officers rushed the other children to safety, others shouting as they dragged a man from the shadows, someone Bruce hadn’t seen. Hadn’t noticed. 

He knelt beside the girl, his hands moving gently, searching for something— anything. But her eyes didn’t flutter and her chest didn’t rise. She was still and he was too late. 

Bruce stood there, motionless, as the officers led the children away, back to their homes and families. He was silent as Gordon had his phone pressed to his ear, voice low and soft to deliver the kind of news no one should ever have to say out loud. And when tiny broken wails, raw and human, leaked out from the phone and into the night, Bruce got back into the batmobile. The drive back to the manor blurred past him, he barely remembered turning the key, barely noticed the road. 

The case was closed and the children were rescued. And yet, there was a weight in the air. It sat in his chest, impossibly heavy and unmoving. All Bruce could think about was how he should’ve heard the man. He should’ve been faster. He should’ve saved her.

Bruce didn’t fully register it then— but subconsciously he knew, that this was the same fateful week, all those years ago, when he lost his son. 

*

After stripping off his gear and cleaning up in the cave, Bruce made his way into his study, his head somehow heavy and weightless all at once. He expected darkness and silence, but instead was met with light and the voices of his children. 

Bruce stepped into the room and was faced with the presence of his entire family. Just the sight of his children, and Alfred, was enough to ease the weight in his chest, if only by a little. 

But before he could speak, Dick spoke up. “Yeah, this is an intervention Bruce.” And that was when Bruce looked, really looked at his family and realised they all had varying looks of disappointment, anger and irritation on their faces. 

“This is the first time this week I got to talk to you, face to face.” Tim scowled, his glare icy and filled with ire. 

“Do you really think you can keep pushing us away forever?” Damian butted in, with a hard edge to his voice. 

The knot in his chest seemed to cinch down another notch as Bruce moved his tongue to form the words he wanted to say. “I was working on a case,”

“And what are we here for? Ask for help Bruce!” Tim interrupted, his outburst only fuelled the building tension in the room. 

He was right, he was always right most of the time. But yet the thought that any of his children could have carried this impossible weight, shook Bruce more than he cared to admit. 

Before he could process it, his mouth moved on instinct, his tongue shaping a response he knew all too well. “I had it handled.” And Bruce knew that the moment those words left his lips, he had made another mistake that night. 

“This bullshit again.”

“Do you think we are incapable?” 

“You always do this.”

“Next time we just won’t give a damn about you.”

“We’re right here Bruce!”

“God forbid we worry–”

“Even Clark was asking about you,”

“God forbid, we care! ”

“It seems like all you know how to do is push people away!” 

In the heat of the moment, there was a flurry of movement. A blur, a shape and Jason now stood before Bruce. 

“So every time you said you’d let us help, it was all just a fucking lie, huh?” At that, the cacophony of noise had settled into a silence. “How much of what you say is fake? Just tell us, was any of it ever real?” 

The tension in the room was palpable, and Bruce could feel their anger like a physical presence, settling around him like a shroud. But whether it was the heaviness in the room or the weight of two hours’ sleep, the words wouldn’t come. Pressure swelled in his chest, rising like a slow tide, a dull ache that spread through his ribs as he struggled to find the words to bridge the gap between them. 

“Do you even care about us?” Jason spat, and Bruce was stunned. Of course he cared. Everything he’d ever done, was for them. But before he could open his mouth to respond, Jason growled out. 

“Maybe it would’ve been better if we all just stayed dead.”

Bruce felt like he just got shot. 

The silence that followed was suffocating. Jason’s words hit harder than any hit Bruce had taken and for a moment he could only stare at his son’s face as he grasped at the words he said. He would never, never wish that. Not for their suffering, not for their absence. Not when their cries had etched themselves into him. And he knew, no matter how many years passed, no matter how much noise came after, he would still hear it echoing in the quiet.

Bruce would shed blood, sweat and tears to prevent anything like that from ever happening again. He loves his children. 

But just then, the weight of a realization crushed him and it felt like a physical force was bearing down on his shoulders. Every hurt, every injury, every death that his kids had suffered all came flooding back, and with a dawning horror, Bruce saw himself at the center of it all. The broken smiles, the whispered cries in the dead of night, the blood, it was all because of him. His mistakes, his failures. His own darkness had seeped into their lives, poisoning the very air they breathed. 

It felt like the oxygen in the room had thinned, and the pressure in his chest increased tenfold.

Bruce tilted his head downwards. He knew that Jason was standing in front of him, but all he could think about was the little boy cradled in his arms as the world around him crackled and burned. The little girl that had stepped out from behind him, the bullet meant for him had found her instead. She must’ve been so frightened, so confused. 

Both limp, lifeless and dead because Bruce was too late.

Oh god, what is he doing to his children?

Bruce could feel his shoulders start to tremble as he tried his best to hold back the tsunami of emotions, and swallow the lump in his throat. But like glass under strain, a single fracture. Then another. And the weight in his chest felt like it shattered. 

He pressed his lips together, trying not to make a sound but god it felt like his airways were constricting with each second that passed. And then, out of his control, his breath hitched— a sharp, ragged inhale, and all the noise around him vanished, like the air had been sucked out of the room. Bruce felt rather than saw the change in the room, the tension bleeding into apprehension and shock as his shoulders caved inwards.

His tears came before Bruce even knew he was crying and they fell, hot and heavy, down his face. Even as he brought a hand to wipe his eyes, they were relentless and unyielding.

Finally Bruce looked up, because he had to answer Jason, his son, his family. 

“I would never–” His breath hitches. And although his vision was a blur through the messy unstoppable tears, Bruce tried to meet every face in the room. 

“Never want that. I–” He chokes on his words, it was getting harder to breathe past the tight grip around his chest. 

“Bruce–”

“I would rather die–” The air wheezed in and out of his lungs in shaky gasps.  

“Master Bruce,” A hand gently gripped onto his shoulder. Bruce turned to Alfred and through blurry vision, he could make out the furrow in his eyebrows and the frown on his face. He eyed the rest of his family in the room only to find out they dawned the same range of expression on their faces. Shock, alarm, horror.

Bruce felt like there was a hammer hammering against his skull and his heartbeat was pounding in his ears as he clenched his jaw and fists, fighting to maintain his composure. But it felt like he was fighting an impossible battle. So he shrugged Alfred’s hand off, mumbling something incoherent about needing some air. Bruce turned and walked out, the sharp echo of his footsteps the only sound filling the empty hallway as he made his way to his room. 

It wasn’t until he locked the door, sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, that he finally let go. 

Tears split down his cheeks, dripping down onto the floor beside his feet. His mind began to unravel, thoughts spun out of control like a thread pulled loose from a sweater. God what is he doing? To his children? To his family? Bruce’s heart pounded in his chest, a deafening drumbeat that seemed to grow louder with each passing moment. The air seemed to thicken, becoming heavy and impenetrable, refusing to fill his lungs no matter how hard he drew in his breath. 

His children, his family, hurt. Bruce drew in another laboured breath, it felt like something had gripped his chest, squeezing tight like a vice. He pulled at his hair trying to still his shaking hands, and clenched his jaw to control the violent tremble that had drilled itself into his form. He felt like he was drowning, his head pounded furiously and his eyes throbbed with each tear that he shed. 

Injured and broken. He choked on his own gasped breath as more tears dripped onto the floor. His chest heaved, his throat constricted, raw and aching as he drew in another short ragged breath. His foot had started to tap vehemently against the floor. His shoulders jerked, his whole upper body shuddering as his breath hitched and convulsed. He squeezed his head tighter, pulling harder at his hair as if to hold himself together. Bruce swallowed and coughed, curling tighter into himself. God, he can’t breathe.

They had died because of him. The edges of Bruce’s vision began to grey, and it felt like he had been plunged in a cold shower. He sucks in another sharp, uneven inhale until he is left panting and wheezing. 

Dead. Tears continued to drip and his foot continued to tap. Bruce’s hands were tingling with numbness and there was an incessant ringing in his ears now. 

Because of– It felt like his lungs were burning.

Him.

“Bruce,” A low, soft voice and a warm touch on his knee. Clark.

He looked up in surprise and Clark was kneeling in front of him, looking at him. He reached his other hand to Bruce’s head, quietly detangling his fingers from his hair. Clark gazed at him with his kind, gentle eyes and god–

“Clark,” Bruce gasped. The crushing weight in his chest lifted, if only by just a little bit. And Bruce could feel his shoulders shake as new tears filled his eyes. 

“Clark, I–” The words are caught in his throat and he wheezes. 

Clark grabbed both of his hands, the warmth of his touch seeped into the frigidity of Bruce’s skin. “Breathe Bruce, breathe.” 

Bruce clenched his hands tightly, fingers digging deep as his breaths came in short, rapid bursts. He tried to slow them, to pull in something deeper, steadier, but the weight on his chest refused to lift. It pressed down hard, suffocating and unrelenting. His heart pounded in his ears, and a wave of lightheadedness washed over him, unmooring everything. He looked at Clark as a sense of helplessness surged like a tide within him. 

“It’s okay, love.” Clark said quietly. There was a shift before Clark wrapped his arms around Bruce, loose and unrestrained. It took a few seconds for him to register and then Bruce wrapped his arms back around him, tight and seizing. 

Clark tightened his hold on him, comforting, holding him close. “I’ve got you,” He whispered softly as Bruce buried his face in the crook of his neck, his breaths coming in shaky pulls while silent tears soaked into the fabric of his shoulder.

Clark stayed with him, his voice a low, steady hum of comfort as he drew slow circles across Bruce’s back. His touch was grounding, calm and solid, and Bruce could feel the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat beginning to ease. That calm seeped into him, quiet and warm. A presence like an anchor in the storm, like hope pressing gently against the edges of despair— and Bruce clung to it. The tight coil in his chest began to loosen. He drew in a deep shaky breath, the fire in his lungs dimming and the pounding in his chest finally starting to fade. 

Clark’s touch was a steady warmth, a soothing pressure that seemed to hold Bruce together, quieting the mad cacophony in his head. And he sank deeper into his presence as the worst of the moment began to ebb. 

When Bruce finally pulled away from Clark’s warm embrace, he looked down as Clark laced their hands together, and stayed silent as he collected his thoughts. God, what a mess.

But Clark seemed to think otherwise. One hand rose to the side of Bruce’s face, his thumb gently brushing away the tear tracks beneath his eye. Then he leaned in, pressing a soft, warm kiss to his cheek. Bruce looked at him, startled, and Clark kissed him again. Then again.

His nose

His forehead.

The corner of his eye.

Each one gentle and deliberate.

Clark kept going, scattering quiet pecks across Bruce’s face until, finally, Bruce let out a breathy, reluctant laugh, small but real.

At that, Clark broke into a radiant smile, eyes full of so much affection it nearly stole Bruce’s breath, and then he leaned in, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to his lips.

“What happened Bruce?” He asked as he leaned back, hands twisted in his. Bruce felt his chest constrict again. His stomach dropped as his realization crashed back into him like a cold, dark tide. Clark stayed silent, patient, as the words Bruce wanted to say danced on the tip of his tongue.

Finally, Bruce mutters. “There was a little girl, she got shot,” Bruce swallowed the rising lump in his throat. Clark was looking at him with an expression of shock and sadness. “I was too late.”

“My family, my kids, they get hurt because of me.” His eyes felt hot again, his throat constricting as guilt and hatred swirled together in a toxic stew that threatened to consume him. It seemed that no matter what, Bruce could never run from the feeling that he had irreparably damaged something precious. Something pure. He met Clark’s gaze, eyes full of warmth and quiet strength, and a thought whispered through him. What if, one day, that light faded, because of him?

“I’m always too late.” Bruce’s heart rate ticked up and his breath got caught in his throat. And as Clark looked at him in alarm, he chokes out. “And what if, one day, you–” The tears that brimmed his eyes ran down his face again as Bruce looked at their intertwined hands. 

There was a pause before Clark spoke, soft and quiet. “Oh, Bruce.” His hands caressed the side of his face again. He shouldn’t have this. He doesn’t deserve it. But yet, Bruce leaned into the touch as Clark wiped away the tears trickling down his cheeks.

“It’s not your fault, it never is.” Clark said and Bruce couldn’t help but let out a huff of disbelief. But before any thoughts could cement in his head, before he could speak, Clark continued. 

“And I know there are many you think you need to seek forgiveness from,” He brought his hand to his chin and gently tilted his face upwards until Bruce was looking at Clark’s big passionate eyes. “But the one you truly need to forgive is yourself.” 

Bruce widened his eyes in surprise.

“You’re the strongest man I know.” Clark smiled sadly at him. “And I wish that you could see the person I see.” 

Clark looked down for a moment as if gathering his thoughts before looking back at Bruce with eyes of certainty and faith. 

“I will always be here. If not, I will do whatever it takes to return to your side.” Clark hands have grasped onto his again, the pressure tight and reassuring. “I promise.”

Bruce’s eyes locked onto Clark’s, drinking in the calm reassurance that radiated from him. His words were like a gentle rain and it sank into Bruce like heavy stones dropped into a silent, bottomless well. It was warm, soft and he clung onto it as it wrapped around him like a blanket. He didn't entirely believe it, but he wanted to. And that want was enough for him to lean in, just a little, into the warmth of Clark’s claims. 

Bruce closed the distance between them, his lips brushing Clark’s in a soft, quiet kiss. For a moment, there was a small sound of surprise, before Clark met him in return, gentle and tender, as if the world had stilled around them.

Bruce pulled back and cracked a smile, small but genuine. “Thank you, Clark.” 

“I love you, Bruce,” he said, his smile shining like the sun and Bruce felt his heart swell with so much warmth and affection that it practically overflowed. Without thinking, he smiled back and whispered, “I love you too.”

Clark wrapped his arms around him again, warm and safe. Bruce listened to his heartbeat, steady and strong, as it lulled him further into comfort. He leaned into the hug, his muscles releasing their tension as his eyelids grew heavy. He could feel Clark holding him closer as his body succumbed to the exhaustion that had been building all week. 

The last thing Bruce felt was the warmth of Clark’s embrace, followed by a soft kiss pressed to his forehead.

*

Consciousness returned to Bruce in a soft, warm cocoon. His eyelids fluttered open and he blinked in the sight of his bed. Before a thought could solidify, a low voice interrupted him. 

“Master Kent had to leave for work, but he sent his regards.” Alfred said, and in his hands was a tray of tea. 

Bruce let out a small smile. “Thank you Alfred.” He took a sip of the tea and his smile grew wider. It was his favourite. 

“Of course Master Bruce, glad to know that you have slept well.” Alfred looked at him with a small smile. No other words were said, but Bruce received them nonetheless. 

As he rose from the bed, the door suddenly flew open, and he was met with the sight of all his children standing there. Bruce’s heart sank at the sight of their solemn expressions. But before he could say anything, they swarmed him in a fierce, unspoken embrace. 

The room erupted with shouts of love, and affection and Bruce couldn’t help but break into a full smile as he struggled to return their embrace. In that moment, he knew he’d fight forever to protect this feeling. But to do that, he had to start being kinder to himself.