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The cave had been silent for a long time.
Even after the toxin was flushed out of their systems, a kind of uneasy quiet lingered. Itsettles in after you’ve seen something you shouldn’t, felt something that leaves its mark in your chest.
They had all been gassed. A routine sweep through the city had turned into chaos when Crane’s new dispersal device detonated in an enclosed lab. Gas filled the air before anyone could react, burning into their lungs and eyes before masks could deploy. Everything after that blurred into choking breaths, distorted voices, and bodies heaving as they hit the floor.
Alfred had the antidotes waiting in the medbay. He always did since the base cure for the toxin wouldnt have been enough. The man had learned long ago that a contingency wasn’t paranoia, especially not when it came to Bruce and his hoard of children.
The process had been efficient, years of experience making it feel like just any other day. Alfred injected them one by one and by the time the toxin’s effects began to fade, exhaustion had taken their place.
It was Bruce who insisted they all go upstairs after showering, and to rest. His voice had that low, grounding calm that always made them listen even when they didn’t want to.
Now, they were all gathered in the manor’s living room. Damp-haired, wrapped in blankets, sinking into the silence. The fire crackled. Damian’s head rested against Bruce’s shoulder while Jason sat at the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, staring into the flames. Dick leaned back, one arm behind Bruce, the other resting across Tim’s shoulders.
No one said anything.
Fear toxin always left its scars in different ways. For Damian, it came as quiet trembling he didn’t acknowledge. For Tim, it was the way he kept wringing his hands without noticing. For Dick, the way he couldn’t quite stop the sounds of bodies hitting the ground. For Jason… it was the stillness. The lack of his usual restless energy.
And Bruce was tired.
His head leaned back against the couch, eyes half-lidded, breathing a little too shallow. The faintest sheen of sweat clung to his temples. He’d felt it earlier in the cave too, the pounding deep in his chest, the way his pulse had struggled to find rhythm after the antidote. He thought it would settle. It always did before.
He’d been careful, thought he’d been careful with the heart medication. But the antidote must’ve reacted poorly with his heart. His chest felt tight, heavy, like his lungs couldn’t quite expand enough. He’d hoped it was just after-effects. He’d hoped the medication had settled. He’d hoped the antidote wouldn’t interact with it.
He hoped many things. Too many things.
Still, they were safe. That was all that really mattered.
Tim shifted closer, pulling his blanket tighter around himself. “You think he’s gonna stay in arkham for awhile?” he murmured yet Bruce didn’t answer.
Dick opened his mouth, but the words never came. He just reached across, squeezing Tim’s shoulder, grounding him in silence.
Jason sighed, rubbing his face, “We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. There was always a tomorrow to deal with the aftermath.
Damian’s breathing slowed, head drifting lower against Bruce’s shoulder. He looked impossibly young like this, a blanket draped around him, fingers curled in the edge of Bruce’s shirt.
Bruce’s breathing hitched again. Just a small, sharp intake, barely noticeable. A pulse of heat ran down his arm. He took a quiet breath, hoping none of them noticed the way it caught in his throat.
He blinked hard, trying to focus on the fire. But the edges of his vision blurred, dark spots forming and spreading. His heart stuttered once, twice. A skipping rhythm that sent a dull pain down his left arm.
He tried to shift, to sit up straighter, but his limbs didn’t respond fast enough. His fingers twitched, trembling against the couch cushion.
Jason was the first to notice as he sat up.
“Bruce?” His voice cut through the quiet, uncertain.
Bruce inhaled to answer, but the world tilted instead. His hand slipped off the couch cushion. His coffee mug slid from his fingers, hit the rug with a muffled thud, remains of coffee spilling from the cup.
Then he collapsed.
“Dad?” Dick’s voice cracked, the word bursting out before he could think. He caught Bruce just as his body went limp, sliding sideways. Damian jolted upright, eyes wide and disoriented, while Tim froze, a sharp, terrified inhale caught in his throat.
“Bruce! Bruce— hey— come on!” Dick’s hands were on his shoulders, shaking him lightly, desperately.
But then Bruce’s body jerked violently. his back arching, muscles locking tight as a strangled sound tore from his throat.
Jason swore, jumping forward. “Shit, he’s seizing—”
“Get something under his head!” Dick barked, already moving to ease him onto the floor.
Tim tore the blanket from the couch, sliding it under Bruce’s head with shaking hands. Damian scrambled backward, staring in shock, his father’s name breaking out in a whisper
“Father—”
Bruce convulsed harder, limbs jerking against the rug. His jaw clenched so tightly the muscles trembled. His eyes rolled back until only white showed. The seizure came in waves as Bruce’s limbs spasmed against the rug, breath stuttering between clenched teeth.
Jason’s hands hovered helplessly over him, trying to keep him from hitting anything, but not restraining. He remembered that much from Alfred’s drills.
Dick pressed two fingers against Bruce’s neck. His pulse was erratic, faint, skipping. God, it’s not slowing—
“Alfred!” Tim’s voice was sharp, terrified, echoing down the hall. “ALFRED!”
The butler was already on his way. The man had heard the commotion, the thud, the panic. He entered with the kind of steady urgency only decades of crisis could teach.
“Move aside, Masters— give me room.”
He knelt beside Bruce, professional calm masking the fear in his eyes. The tremors were slowing, but Bruce’s breathing was shallow, erratic. Alfred’s hand went to his chest. The beat beneath was unsteady and strained.
“He needs to be moved to the medbay,” Alfred said, voice tight, already checking for airway obstruction. “Now.”
Dick and Jason moved without hesitation. Together, they lifted Bruce who was limp and unresponsive into their arms, moving quickly but carefully.
Tim led the way down the hall and clearing the path. Damian followed close behind, silent as he clutched Bruce’s hand in his as though letting it go would mean losing him entirely.
The manor echoed with the rush of footsteps and labored breaths. There was no time for words. No time to process the fear clawing at their throats.
Just the sound of Alfred saying, “Hurry.” and the unspoken terror that maybe this time their father wouldn’t make it to tomorrow.
————————————
The world came back to him slowly.
First as a muffled hum, the low thrum of a machine breathing quietly somewhere nearby. Then came the warmth pressing against his side.
Bruce blinked. His eyes adjusted to the dim light of the medbay ceiling, the sterile white edges blurring and then sharpening into focus. The familiar smell of antiseptic. The quiet hum of equipment. The ache deep in his chest.
He exhaled shakily. He was alive.
It took a few seconds before he registered the small weight resting against his arm. When he turned his head slightly, the sight hit him in a way he hadn’t expected.
Damian.
His youngest had dragged a chair right up against the cot and somehow fallen asleep there, head pillowed against Bruce’s forearm, his small hand curled loosely near Bruce’s wrist like he’d refused to let go even after exhaustion caught up.
His hair was tousled, a dark curtain over his face. The blanket draped over his shoulders had clearly been placed there by Alfred. Bruce could tell by the neat way it was tucked in.
For a long, quiet moment, Bruce watched him.
There were faint traces of dried tears at the edge of Damian’s lashes. His breathing was soft, even now that sleep had claimed him, his face finally unguarded. It made him look younger, not the soldier he’d been raised to be, but the child he still was.
Bruce’s chest ached, but not from the injury.
He lifted a hand and carefully ran it through Damian’s hair, fingers brushing through the dark strands with slow, deliberate gentleness.
He’d done this when Damian was younger, when nightmares still chased him from sleep and he’d pretend they didn’t. The boy had always leaned into it without thinking, instinctively, like touch meant safety.
The movement of his hand was enough to stir him.
Damian’s brows furrowed, his hand twitching against Bruce’s arm. Then, in an instant, he jolted upright, the chair scraping lightly against the floor as he blinked blearily, eyes wide and disoriented.
“Baba—?” His voice cracked, rough from sleep and something else — fear.
Bruce’s tired smile softened the lines of his face. “Easy,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but steady. “It’s alright, habibi.”
Damian’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. For a heartbeat, he just stared. He swallowed hard, shoulders stiffening in that way he did when emotion threatened to show.
“You— you weren’t waking up,” he muttered, voice dropping to something tight and fragile. “Your heart— it stopped.”
Bruce’s hand, still resting in his son’s hair, gave a faint squeeze. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
Damian looked at him like he wanted to argue, to say that a sorry wasn’t enough, yet the words never came. Instead, he reached out, hesitated, and then carefully placed his hand back over Bruce’s wrist, as if to reassure himself that the pulse there was real this time.
Bruce let the silence settle between them again. The caves quiet hum filled the space, the steady rhythm of the heart monitor syncing with the faint, trembling breaths of a boy who’d spent too long pretending.
Bruce exhaled slowly, the corners of his mouth lifting. “You stayed.”
“Of course I did.” Damian’s tone was clipped, defensive. But his grip didn’t loosen.
Bruce’s tired smile deepened. not because he found it amusing, but because it was so Damian. Stubborn, proud, fiercely loyal even in silence.
He reached up again, brushing a stray strand of hair from his son’s forehead. “Thank you,” he murmured.
Damian looked away, jaw tightening, eyes glistening faintly under the medbay light.
“You should rest, Father,” he said instead, voice quieter now. “Alfred said your heart needs time to— to recover.”
Bruce hummed in response, eyelids growing heavier. “I will.”
————————————
Damian sat there, quiet except for the faint tapping of his thumb against Bruce’s wrist, a steady, unconscious rhythm that matched the pulse beneath his fingers.
He didn’t say anything for a while. Bruce could tell he was thinking; he could always tell. The way his brows knit, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the faint downward tilt of his gaze. All the tells Damian thought he hid so well.
Bruce let him have the silence.
His own breathing was heavy with fatigue. His heart still ached faintly, each beat dragging just a little too much effort from him. It wasn’t until Damian’s thumb stilled completely that Bruce knew something was coming.
“Father.”
Bruce opened his eyes again, turning his head slightly toward him. “Mm?”
Damian hesitated. It was subtle, a shallow inhale, a flicker of something uncertain in his eyes but Bruce caught it.
“Why,” Damian began, and then paused, his voice quieter now. “Why did you not tell us?”
Bruce blinked slowly. “Tell you what?”
“That you have… a heart condition.”
There it was
Blunt, but not cold. Not angry. It was question that carried weight behind it. Fear, frustration, hurt.
Bruce didn’t answer right away. He studied his youngest son’s face and the way his hand hadn’t left Bruce’s wrist. He sighed softly, a tired sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” he said quietly.
Damian’s brows furrowed deeper. “That is not a reason. That is an excuse.”
Bruce almost smiled.
“You already have enough to carry,” Bruce murmured. “All of you do. I didn’t want to add to it.”
“You think not knowing is better?” Damian’s tone sharpened — a flicker of emotion breaking through the tight control he usually wore like armor. “Do you think watching you collapse in front of us is—” He stopped himself abruptly, voice catching. His hand clenched slightly, gripping Bruce’s wrist harder than he meant to.
Bruce winced faintly from the look on his son’s face.
“I apologize,” Damian muttered quickly, loosening his grip. He turned away, his gaze fixed on the edge of the bed. “I just— we could have done something. We could have—” He stopped again, biting down on the words like they physically hurt.
Bruce reached out, slow and steady, his hand settling lightly against the side of Damian’s neck. “I know,” he said softly. “And you did. You always do.”
“That is not the point.”
“I know.”
They sat like that for a long time, Bruce’s thumb brushing gently along the edge of Damian’s hairline, Damian’s breathing uneven but steadying with every quiet second that passed.
Finally, Damian spoke again “You could have died.”
Bruce’s eyes softened. “I didn’t.”
“That’s not—” Damian stopped himself, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t hide things like that from us.”
“I know,” Bruce admitted. His voice was quiet, rough. “You’re right.”
Damian looked back at him, searching his face for any sign of evasion. For the usual way Bruce deflected questions with reassurance and half truths. But there was none of that now. Only exhaustion and sincerity.
“I’ll try,” Bruce said, after a pause. “I promise.”
Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. It wasn’t forgiveness yet. But it was something close.
He nodded once, curtly, and then shifted in the chair, tugging the blanket higher over Bruce’s chest in a movement so gentle Bruce barely felt it.
“Good,” Damian muttered. “I will personally see to it that you do.”
Bruce huffed a quiet, amused breath. “Duly noted.”
The faintest ghost of a smile tugged at Damian’s mouth. Bruce let his hand fall back to the bed, and Damian’s stayed where it was, still loosely holding his wrist, still counting each heartbeat like he needed to memorize it.
The sound of footsteps reached them before anything else did.
Damian’s head turned at once, his posture instinctively straightening. Bruce could tell he recognized the rhythm immediately; there was no mistaking the light, quick tread of someone trying not to run but failing miserably at it.
Then came the others. the heavier, more deliberate steps of Jason just behind, and the quieter ones of Tim trailing close.
Bruce didn’t have time to say anything before Dick appeared in the doorway.
For a split second, he just stood there, still, wide eyed, breath caught somewhere in his throat. His gaze darted from the monitor, to Bruce, to the faint rise and fall of his chest.
Then the air left him in a choked exhale.
“Bruce…”
He crossed the room in three long strides and dropped to his knees beside the cot, wrapping his arms around Bruce before anyone could say a word. The hug was desperate,hands sinking to bruces shirt in an attempt to hold on. Bruce grunted faintly at the sudden weight, but he didn’t pull away. His arms came up slowly, wrapping around Dick in return. He could feel the tremor running through him and the wet patch slowly forming on his shoulder, sniffles making through.
“Hey,” Bruce murmured, his voice rough. “I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not,” Dick said, voice breaking mid-sentence. He pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes wet, jaw trembling. “You had a heart attack, Bruce. You— you collapsed. We thought—” His voice faltered. “We thought you were gone.”
The words hung heavy in the air.
Jason stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed but shoulders tense, jaw tight. Tim was beside him, pale and quiet, eyes red behind his glasses.
Even Damian had gone silent again, standing near the bed, watching with the guarded expression of someone trying not to let himself unravel.
Bruce took a slow breath,. “I didn’t mean for any of you to see that.”
“You don’t always get to pick what we see do you, old man?” .Jason said roughly, stepping closer. His tone was sharp, but his voice cracked on the last word, betraying something raw beneath it.
Bruce looked at the fear that still lingered in their eyes, the exhaustion carved into their faces.
“I should’ve told you,” he admitted quietly. “About my heart.”
Tim pressed his lips together, exhaling shakily. “You think?”
Bruce gave a faint nod, guilt weighing heavy in his expression. “I didn’t think it was really worth mentioning with all the things you have on your plate”
“Don’t give us that,” Dick cut in, shaking his head. His voice was pleading. “You can’t protect us from this, Bruce. You can’t just hide something like that.”
Damian’s gaze flicked to his brothers, then back to Bruce. His voice was low, but certain. “I told him the same thing.”
Jason let out a humorless huff. “Good. Maybe he’ll actually listen when the kid says it.”
Bruce sighed. tired, but not fighting it. The silence that followed wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t heavy either. just filled with the weight of fear, relief, and the lingering ache of almost losing him.
Dick finally eased back, his hand still resting over Bruce’s shoulder like he was afraid to let go. Jason dragged a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath, “I’m not exactly keen on digging another grave yknow B.”
Tim shot him a look, but his voice was softer. “You scared me too, Bruce. We all thought we’d lost you.”
“I know,” Bruce said again, and this time, his voice cracked faintly. “And I won’t let that happen again if I can help it.”
Dick’s hand tightened over his shoulder. Jason looked away, jaw clenched hard. Tim wiped at his eyes like it was nothing. Damian stayed close, his hand still resting near Bruce’s wrist where it had been since the moment he’d woken.
Bruce leaned back against the pillow, exhaustion settling deep in his bones, but his smile didn’t fade.
“I’m here,” he said softly, mostly to reassure them.
Dick sniffed, brushing his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “Yeah,” he whispered. “You are.”
————————————
Hours passed quietly. The cave settling into that half-asleep stillness that came only after fear had worn itself out. The boys hadn’t gone far; Dick had dozed off in the chair nearest the cot, head tilted against his arm. Tim had ended up half asleep at one of the chair, an empty mug of hot tea— courtesy of Alfred— beside him gone cold long ago. Jason sat on the other cot with arms crossed, pretending he wasn’t keeping watch. Damian had refused to move from Bruce’s side.
Bruce stayed awake longer than he should have. part out of habit, part because he didn’t want to disturb the peace that had finally settled over them. His chest still hurt, a dull, tight ache under his ribs, but it was manageable. He could breathe. His heart beat steady and not the erratic rhythm it had been before.
When the faint click of polished shoes echoed against the concrete floor, Bruce didn’t need to look to know who it was.
“Master Bruce.”
Alfred’s voice carried that quiet, firm edge that could cut through even the worst kind of exhaustion. He appeared from the lift, still in his vest, his posture as proper as ever. He crossed the cave with unhurried pace, his expression equal parts relief and disapproval.
Bruce managed a faint smile. “Alfred.”
“I see you have decided to defy my explicit instruction to rest.” Alfred’s tone was mild, but the look he gave him wasn’t. “I leave you for three hours under mild sedation, and what do I find? My patient awake, upright, and likely calculating how soon he can return to patrol.”
Bruce’s lips twitched. “I was just sitting up.”
“Indeed,” Alfred replied dryly. “And I was born yesterday.”
The faint noise made Jason snort quietly from his perch. Dick stirred at the sound of voices, blinking blearily awake. “Alfie?” he mumbled.
“Back to sleep, Master Richard,” Alfred said without missing a beat. “Your father and I need to have a word.”
That woke Jason fully. He leaned back, smirking faintly. “Oh, this’ll be good.”
Alfred ignored him, folding his arms as he reached the side of the cot. The light above cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the weary lines under his eyes. proof that the scare had taken a toll on him, too.
Bruce met his gaze with quiet resignation. “You can yell at me. I deserve it.”
“I assure you, sir,” Alfred said smoothly, “if yelling would improve your cardiovascular condition, I would have started hours ago.”
Even Damian cracked the faintest hint of a smile.
Alfred sighed. a long, weary exhale that came from somewhere deep. He stepped closer and adjusted the blanket across Bruce’s chest with the same care he’d shown him since he was a boy. “You gave us quite the fright, Master Bruce.”
“Im aware,” Bruce said softly.
“You should have told them.”
“I know,” he repeated, quieter this time.
Alfred’s hand stilled for a moment over the blanket. “And me.”
Bruce’s chest tightened. “I didn’t want—”
“To worry us?” Alfred finished gently. “You’ve used that excuse since you were twelve, and it hasn’t grown more convincing with age.”
Bruce closed his eyes briefly. “I thought I could manage it just fine.”
“You always think that,” Alfred said, voice soft but firm. “Until you can’t.”
The words hung in the air. It was the kind of truth only Alfred could deliver without cruelty.
Bruce opened his eyes again. “You were the one who saved me.”
“I did what I’ve done a thousand times before,” Alfred said. “I picked up the pieces and prayed you hadn’t shattered beyond repair.”
That drew silence from everyone. Alfred studied him for a long moment, then his expression softened. “We’re all quite relieved you decided to stay among us, sir.”
Bruce’s lips quirked faintly. “I didn’t plan on leaving.”
“No,” Alfred said with a hint of dry humor. “You simply neglected to inform your body of that decision.”
That earned a tired, quiet laugh from his kids. Bruce exhaled, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “I’ll be more careful.”
“You will rest,” Alfred corrected firmly. “You will take your medication. You will refrain from suiting up for at least a week—”
“A week?” Jason interrupted, eyebrows shooting up. “Good luck keeping him in bed that long.”
“—and you will follow orders, for once in your life,” Alfred finished pointedly, giving Jason a look.
Bruce raised his hands in surrender. “Alright. I’ll rest.”
“Good.” Alfred’s tone softened again. “Because I’ve no intention of explaining to your children — or to myself— why I allowed you to drive yourself into an early grave.”
That silenced whatever protests Bruce might’ve had.
Alfred gave him one last lingering look before turning his attention to the rest of them.
“You may all stay for the night,” he said. “But quietly.”
He started to walk back toward the lift, but paused at the bottom of the stairs. “And, Master Bruce?”
“Yes?”
“I’m very glad you’re still with us.”
Bruce’s voice softened. “So am I.”
Alfred gave a faint nod that meant I forgive you, but we’re not finished talking about this and disappeared up the stairs.
Bruce leaned back into the pillow, eyes flicking briefly to his children scattered across the room in various states of exhaustion and relief.
He exhaled slowly, letting his eyes drift half-closed.
This time, when sleep began to pull him under again, he didn’t fight it.
His family was there.