Chapter Text
It's been decades since Bruce lost his parents and has now lived longer missing them than knowing them. Looking back at it, the first years were the easiest, not because they were painless but because the memories of his parents were still all around the mansion. He'd stare at the paintings and be able to point out what was wrong or what was missing. Some days he'd wake up certain that his mother would come through his bedroom door to greet him; the soft hum of his father's laughter still echoed on halls that hadn't seen happiness since that awful night.
As sad and depressing as it was, it felt easier to mourn someone you could clearly remember.
But as years passed and memories faded, his parent's faces were now depicted as their portraits in his mind, if not as their lifeless ones which were forever resting against that cold, blood splattered ground. Bruce tries to ignore that certain memory even if it was the last time he saw them. The human mind is funny in the way it only remembers clearly what hurts the most.
And Alfred… the poor man did his best when he was suddenly thrown into a role that he wasn't ready for, and no matter how hard he tried, there is no protection from grief for a kid. Bruce was always a sharp child who had grown into a smart man, and he saw the butler's quiet mourning, how it pained him to clean their room, even if there wasn't anyone to mess it up again. Most importantly, he saw the hurt in the old man's eyes whenever Bruce recalled a memory wrong. Alfred hid it quickly, pretended that Bruce was right to avoid him the reality of forgetting his own parents.
But painful as it is, Bruce knew, he always did. Slowly he stopped remembering what the lyrics to his mother's lullabies were and even how she hummed them, then his father's laugh stopped resonating in his mind. Bruce couldn't recall many days with them, couldn't remember exactly what they liked or what they talked about. His parents became a ghost of a memory, mixed with the many tragedies he saw as Batman. They somehow became only grief, only a mission as the sound of pearls falling muted their voices. Not because Bruce doesn't love them, but because he can't seem to remember anything else besides that.
Bruce Wayne grew up and changed in a million ways. He became a man his parents, and sometimes Alfred, wouldn’t recognize. And then one day, he realized that his last connection to them, in a way, was Batman. He tries to ignore that thought too.
—
He had once dreamed of seeing them again as he hugged Talia, chose baby names and asked Alfred for lullabies. He wished that maybe this child, his child, would inherit some of his parents’ traits, perhaps his mother's eyes or maybe his father's hair. Of course, nothing is ever perfect, especially when the Al Ghuls are involved. Sooner than later he was leaving, and he found himself mourning a baby that had yet to take his first breath. He buried it, as he usually does, and pretended to forget all about it, feigned that he didn't have dreams of raising his son alongside Talia, that he didn't look at kids running happily in a park and think back to that baby.
Instead he focused on the children he already had, Dick and Jason, he hadn't even told them about the baby. He had hoped to make it a surprise, Bruce had been so excited at the idea of having them around, seeing Jason grow up and learn to be an older brother. In the end, Jason did turn out to be an older brother eventually, to Tim, but by that time he was dead too, and as time progressed, it all just became too complicated.
Between being Batman, mourning Jason and dealing with his life, Bruce stopped thinking about it much, stopped turning to his parents' portraits and wondering about the million ‘what ifs.’ He could never forget for too long, go many nights without nightmares, but now their graves seemed smaller next to the others.
By the time he got to meet his son, Damian, who was only ten years old and still so small, all he could see was Talia. Her dark skin, her family's eyes, curled hair and formal speech. Sure, he saw himself too, in the kid’s eyebrows that pinched just the same as him when something confused him. Or in his hunger for justice, although due to his raising, they both showed it quite differently.
Alfred apparently could see more than Bruce did. One quiet night, when everything was finally done and somewhat peaceful, the old butler mentioned that Damian was so much like his own younger self that it felt like he was looking at another version of Bruce.
Damian really was his kid, that same baby he daydreamed about, who appeared in his dreams next to Talia. But the grief had never gone away once he met Damian, it simply changed its form. Now Bruce could stare at his son and wonder what it could've been like to take care of Damian, to see his first steps and he wonders what his first words were or if he ever dreamed of meeting his father.
—
It took months until Bruce saw more than Talia and him in his son. Had he paid more attention, he could've noticed earlier, maybe, but Bruce had to admit that it took him a while to really look at his kid and see a Wayne. A guilty part of him still couldn't bridge that connection between that baby he never got to hold and Damian.
Dick had bought the kid a sketchbook, surprisingly, Damian likes to draw. He talked about it once on patrol, distracting himself from a concussion, something about an old man named Ravi, who quietly praised his paintings before losing his sight. Damian looked almost guilty for a second when he mentioned it, but Bruce was far too busy driving to the batcave to take a closer look. The next day Dick greeted Damian with the sketchbook in hand, wrapped as a gift.
Bruce isn't a perfect parent, he will admit that, he honestly doesn't know much about his son, but he wanted to find something to stir a conversation with the child. At least that's what he told himself as he took hold of the sketchbook while Damian was away for school. Just one quick look to discover more about his son and he eased his mind by making up the excuse that surely many parents do this.
It took his breath away for a moment, until now he had never seen Damian's art, and it was… beautiful. Not that he ever doubted his son's ability, but it was simply impressive. Each line was precise, Damian seemed to lean into a realistic but stylized type of art. There's still-lifes of objects around the manor, portraits of the family and many animals, even one of Titus, with various names to choose from at his side. It made Bruce smile a little, as he examined each page with amazement. It was like watching the world through his son's eyes.
By the fifth page the it became a mix of a journal and a sketchbook. He didn't read much, Bruce might be curious but he made a point of respecting Damian's privacy, a little. One page depicts what it looks like a beautiful island, an old man, and something to what Bruce could decipher as big and fluffy far away. Both had names by their side: Ravi and Goliath. There were mentions of something called The Year Of Blood. He had to stop himself from reading that page, noticing his son's writing was different than usual and it wasn't right to read more of something Damian had clearly put his heart into, not when he didn't have permission.
Something was scratching at the back of his mind as he held the book and admired his son's art. And suddenly, like water rushing over him, he remembered himself at seven or maybe eight years old, secretly looking through his father's journals so his mother wouldn't catch and scold him.
Although being a doctor, Thomas Wayne had always loved to sketch, it was a shared passion with his wife, while Martha usually painted. His father kept journals with sketches around the world. He liked to do portraits of Bruce as he grew up, his mother painting and even Alfred calmly playing chess. His father's words came to his mind, as Bruce’s hands shook ever so slightly.
“It's like forever keeping a piece of my day alive, I like to think that one day I'll be old, my memories all blurry, and be able to look back at these books to remember.”
Bruce had forgotten that part and he never realized that piece of memory was missing. His father's journals were somewhere well stored, being cared for by Alfred, probably. He was never able to fully read them, and each time that he had tried, it made his heart ache too much and it became too painful to remember. He never realized he forgot that part of him, and it amazes him how he could forget something seemingly so small but so important for his father.
Carefully Bruce placed his son's sketchbook right where it was, carefully making sure Damian wouldn’t realize someone ever touched it. He had to close his eyes for a second, holding back tears. It felt like ages since he last cried over the thought of his parents, since he last remembered anything so small, so soft of them, instead of their bloody hands slowly freezing on the alley. It's been so long since he remembered his parents, instead of their corpses.
—
It's midnight when he approaches Alfred, he feels too grown to feel this anxious about asking something so simple and it makes him feel eight again.
“Alfred, do you happen to know where my father's journals are?” To his defense, Bruce did try to find them himself, but it's a big place, and Jason's stay had meant that their book collection duplicated.
The butler's hands paused what they were doing only for a second, his face turned back from him, but Bruce knows what he looks like right now, even as he professionally turns back with a blank expression. Honestly it doesn't surprise him, Bruce doesn't talk about or mentions his parents often, much less something so seemingly mundane as journals. For a moment Bruce feels stupid for asking, maybe he should've looked better for them beforehand.
“I believe they are still in your father's study, they are all sorted by date.”
Oh.
Bruce hadn’t been there since... Well he can't remember since when, in his last memory almost all the furniture was taller than him and the desk chair felt more like a throne. It really had been a while.
“The keys must be somewhere around here” He walked alongside the butler, as he stopped by a small hidden room filled with old keys.
“If I may, sir, what's this sudden interest in your father's journals?” Alfred likes to pride himself on his professionalism, always keeping his emotions to himself, but as he looks at Bruce, keys in his hand, he seems almost concerned.
“Nothing important, really” He thinks for a moment, he can't quite admit to snooping in Damian's sketchbook that threw into a memory of his fathers own journals, and honestly, talking about his parents has always been awkward with Alfred.
“I guess I'm feeling nostalgic, that's all.” Bruce explains, and with that the butler gave him a nod and resumed with his tasks, not wanting to get in the middle of Bruce's sudden interest any longer.
—
Bruce has to admit that it took him almost twenty minutes to finally walk into the study. And when he did, he instantly felt like a child again as he walked slowly and quietly, not quite believing that his father would never sit in that chair again. It's a testament to Alfred's efforts that the room didn't smell old and musty or had much dust anywhere.
Bruce stood in the room like his father would come in at any moment and scold him for snooping. And it's been so long since Bruce felt so nostalgic for his parents. Not for the first time, as he walks to the bookshelf, he wonders what Thomas could think of Bruce now. Is he taller than his father? Smarter? He wonders what traits of his father he grew into that went unnoticed by him.
His hands shake as he takes a journal from the shelves, it's black and elegant. His father was always so formal with his journals. Thomas wrote down all the dates and made sure to use each and every page wisely. Maybe that's why this one makes Bruce tear up a little. The book is unfinished, a half made sketch of his mother brushing his own hair is the last thing there. Dated to his parent's last day alive.
“Little Bruce over here is ecstatic, we'll be taking him to watch a film tonight. I'll admit it's not often my dear Martha and I get to spend so much time with him, although we are planning to change that from now on. This will be a night to remember.
Each day I wonder who my boy will grow into. I'm divided between wanting to freeze time right here and being impatient to watch him grow.”
Bruce’s fingers carefully brushed over the words and over the sketch. He didn't cry, he wouldn't allow himself to after so long. His father never got to finish this journal, there's no dramatic poem written on the back of the book like his father normally did. It simply stopped abruptly, his father closed the journal for one last time without knowing it would be his last. His father never got to grow old and look back at his books or draw his son as an adult. Now Bruce is older than Thomas ever was.
But Damian can, and there's nothing he's more grateful for. Somehow, his son that never got to meet his grandfather, never even heard any stories of him, shares the same habits. And surprisingly, Bruce isn't plagued by grief but nostalgia instead.
He held the book as he closed his eyes, silently thanking Damian. His son might never know, but it's thanks to him that he remembered this small hobby of his father. Damian might never know, but he gave Bruce the strength to remember his father with more nostalgia than bone crushing grief.
And now, as a father himself, as a person completely different from the child once depicted in these books, Bruce wonders what Damian will grow to be. He just hopes he can live to see it.
He once more thanks Damian in his mind. Thanks to him he feels a new connection with his father, not as Batman, but as Bruce Wayne, father of Damian Al Ghul Wayne.