Chapter Text
Gotham’s winter mornings are steeped in a leaden gray that no amount of light can wash away, like an old newspaper left to rot in water.
In this universe’s Wayne Manor, there exists a connection known only to Bruce—a secret he carries alone.
The first time Bruce took Dick Grayson’s hand into his own, and silently promised to give the boy a home, a bond was formed, quietly and irrevocably.
It is an unequal mark, running only in a single direction. It does not manifest as runes or sigils etched into the skin, but as a shared sense—a communion of pain. Whenever the children are injured, Bruce feels it in kind; his body faithfully bears wounds and bruises that do not belong to him. The children themselves remain unaware.
He never intended to tell them. There was no need.
To Bruce, this is the tax he pays for the title of father—even though he knows full well that no father in the world should be required to suffer this way to deserve the name. It is the only bond he shares with his family beyond his duty to protect Gotham.
He does not deny the pain. If anything, he accepts it as a form of recompense. As their guide, if he cannot keep his children from being hurt, then at the very least, he can endure the pain alongside them.
Upon waking, Bruce stands before the dressing-room mirror and slips out of his robe.
His body bears the record of every battle, both present and absent—a ledger in disarray.
Some of the scars are his own doing—the marks the Batman has carved into himself in darkened alleys. But far more of them are smaller things, warm to the touch—lingering echoes.
A dull ache settles into his shoulder, the skin blooming with a faint red mark. It is the residual warmth of a cut Dick suffered two nights ago while on patrol in Blüdhaven, now slowly dissipating through the bond between their souls.
A mild, throbbing pain pulses along the back of his hand. He knows it comes from Tim, who struck it against a piece of equipment during training the night before.
Even his knuckles itch faintly. That one belongs to Alfred.
The old butler has never once voiced a complaint, but Bruce knows the ache for what it is—arthritis earned through decades of gripping irons and tending the garden.
When the morning air grows heavy with damp, his fingers carry that labor for Alfred.
Alfred is the origin of the mark’s lineage—the only pain Bruce ever received from the generation meant to protect him, carrying the faint scent of freshly brewed tea.
These sensations are slight, yet they pull at his soul like fine threads drawn taut.
To him, they have never been a burden, but a form of confirmation.
He checks these marks out of habit, like an old captain inspecting every rivet of his ship after a storm.
As long as the marks continue to stir, it means his children are still somewhere—breathing, moving, alive.
However, when Bruce’s fingers pass over the skin beneath his left ribs, the motion stops abruptly.
It is the smoothest part of his body, and yet the most incomplete.
The skin there is pale to the point of translucence, unmarked by any wound, untouched by any sensation.
A few years ago, it was the loudest place on his entire body.