College has been kicking my ass these days. I had no choice but to put all my fics on hold😓😓😓 anyways, if any of you kind souls want to help donate to my Throne🙏🙏🙏
I swear I'll do anything, make a doodle, write a one shot, a poem, what have you
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The manor halls were eerily silent, a charged tension wafting through the air. Silent battles fought, a distant door slams shut, and footsteps fade into the sunrise. The kitchen was the only room with a sign of life, and for the first time in years, Bruce Wayne's bedroom door was locked.
Bruce Wayne is tired.
Bruce ever-so-stubborn Wayne was tired. It was the type of tiredness that seeped into his skin, settled itself in his bones, and weighed down his entire being. He's grown tired of the fights, the screaming matches, the constant tension his children seem to bear whenever he's around.
He tried— tries to be a good parent. He's doing his best, but he's never had a parent during his tumultuous teenage years, and while Alfred was as much of a father—if not more—than Thomas was, it was different. And he's just tired.
He blinked his thoughts away, his blankets swallowing him whole— tempting him to stay in bed the entire day. But Alfred makes breakfast in the morning. Alfred cherishes mealtimes, and Alfred would be upset if he didn't go down and eat. And he didn't want to upset Alfred on top of already upsetting kids.
With a heavy grunt, joints aching and bones cracking as he righted himself, he forced himself out of his room and padded down the hallway, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.
He glared at the open windows, curtains fluttering in the gentle breeze and sunlight streaming in—burning his eyes in all its shining glory. Alfred greets him with a good morning as he sits down at the head of the long table. Only his plate was set out. "Master Duke and Master Damian have set out for school. Master Tim is downstairs finishing up a case," He informed him as he set down his breakfast, tone evidently disappointed. At what, Bruce couldn't muster the strength to figure out.
He stared at the food, watching the steam dissipate as it emerged from the dish. His eyes moved to Alfred, who stood beside him, face trained blank but with evident worry. Bruce cleared his throat, ignoring the pounding in his heart and the cold in his fingertips. "Eat with me?" he ignored the shake in his voice, the crack at the end of his sentence.
Alfred huffed fondly, "very well, Master Bruce. I will go retrieve my breakfast."
They ate in companionable silence, his gaze landing on Alfred ever so often, watching him eat.
"Master Bruce, might I remind you that staring is rude," the butler chided, the barest hint of a laugh in his voice. That broke Bruce out of the stupor he didn't know he fell in, clearing his throat at the awkwardness as he hung his head low and continued eating.
"Sorry..."
"My, you've been clearing your throat a lot. Are you perhaps sick, Master Bruce?"
He answered with a grunt. Because he didn't know. He felt sick, but feeling it didn't mean he was; his temperature was normal—he had made sure to check—and the room wasn't spinning with every move, so he was definitely fine. Breakfast ended with the subject dismissed, plates were cleared, but he remained frozen in his seat, lost in his thoughts.
A few moments later, his pondering was cut short by the sound of light footsteps emerging from the hallway, which stopped right by the double doors leading to the dining room. The door opened with a groan, revealing a well-dressed Tim. He faltered when he saw Bruce on the table, but ultimately ignored him in favor of heading to the coffee machine. The cold shoulder wasn't a shock to him; they had fought just last night over a case after all. With Bruce wanting to take over and Tim being stubborn and possessive over it. He only wanted to help, he noticed that his son was losing sleep over the complex clues and dead ends he was getting to, he didn’t understand why Tim would rather hurt himself than allow him to assist. The night ended with a screaming match and a slammed door.
He watched his son, watched his shoulders tense up as he filled his to-go cup with coffee, the apprehension in his steps as he fixed himself breakfast, and the barely concealed attempts at sneaking glances at Bruce. Not wanting to further agitate the boy, he walked out of the dining room— barely missing the way the boy flinched when he did.
Timothy did not come home that night.
That afternoon, Bruce decided to finally stop working (brooding) in his office, much to Alfred's relief, and finally went out. Finding himself on the way to the garden.
The usually perfect garden was still a wreck. His mother's roses were trampled and muddy— left to wilt in the aftermath, his childhood tree barely a pathetic stump, the swing his father had built for him splintered off and shoved to a corner. It had been the combined work of Jason's misdirected tantrum and Damian's rowdy pet keeping that resulted in this mess, which led to a massive fight with Jason fleeing, never to be heard of for weeks, and Damian running off to the Kent's farm. Superman flew him back a day after and he soon resorted to locking himself in his room.
Jason hasn't returned to the manor, nor did he patrol with them for weeks.
Damian accompanied Red Robin and Spoiler on patrols.
Dick was a whole other conversation. The man seemed to have made it a life goal to have at least three screaming matches with Bruce every week. They already reached the max yesterday. It was only Wednesday.
Dick refuses to stay over.
Steph and Cass stay with Barbara. Bruce would admit it was his fault, bringing up Steph's father in that manner. It had been such a low blow that even Cass had run off.
Cass doesn't want to come home.
Duke gave him the mercy of never fighting, but the growing distance between him and the boy was worrying. He'd closed himself off after Bruce's fight with Stephanie, having been a witness to his blow-up. He feared that he would be the target of his ire next, and with his parents permanently hospitalized, it wasn't a risk he wanted to trip over.
Duke starts visiting his parents alone.
Bruce dropped to the ground with a sigh, running a hand over his face. He didn't know when it started, but his family was falling apart. And falling apart fast. It wasn't the kind that chipped away at the edge. It was like a fire, all-consuming and quick. He settled himself right by where the roses used to be, finding the stone he used to sit on when he was young. Where he watched his mother crouch down to plant the flowers, dirt coating the gloves she wore, and sweat dripping down her face, but with the serene and ever-present smile gracing her lips.
"I don't know what I'm doing anymore, Mom," he whispered into the air, voice low and lost in the summer breeze. "Am I too much? Haven’t I done enough?" He sighed, slouching further into himself, "It's pathetic, really. I'm pathetic." And just for a moment, one fleeting moment, Bruce could imagine Martha Wayne in all her warmth, wrapping her arms around Bruce, squeezing her love into his very core, her words a distant whisper in his ear, "rest, my love. Take a step back." That's what Martha used to remind him whenever he was frustrated with a puzzle or conflicted about his painting. It felt inconsequential back then, the advice merely shallow words of comfort to him— but now that’s exactly what he needed.
And so, rest he did.
He discarded his usual routine the next week. Instead of working in his office after breakfast, he went up to the watchtower to take over the day shift— much to the League’s confusion. He didn't speak to his children, aside from the usual pre-patrol debrief or the short updates on his ongoing cases. He patrolled alone, leaving the cave earlier than any of his kids and coming back hours before they did. He leaves the cave as soon as they arrive and comes back the moment they're gone. It felt like a constant game of hide and seek, Bruce wanting to give them space, and his children seeking nothing but his shadow.
No one questioned him; he thinks no one even noticed his slow disappearance.
Dick was feeling restless, his weekly screaming match limit just refreshed, so he was strutting up the Manor with his usual wound-up energy— preparing arguments to scream at Bruce in his head, only to find Alfred and Damian its sole occupants.
Jason snuck in, fully intent on antagonizing Bruce with misdirected anger, but snuck back out when he entered the desolate cave and quiet manor.
Cassandra came home with no one to greet her. Alfred had smiled at her when she entered the kitchen, but the Manor was missing a certain heartbeat, and she couldn't bring herself to ask.
Tim was drowning in work on both his daytime and nighttime personas. He found himself battling sleep as he filed report after report. He would catch himself calling for his father, half expecting the man to materialize out of thin air and finish his work for him, but would always be met with silence. There was no Bruce nor Batman to force him away from the computer.
Damian and Duke were the most disturbed by his ghost-like presence in the manor. Having been the two other occupants, they’d often try to tune him in. They found themselves hanging in the family room more often, hoping to catch a glimpse of their Father and Guardian. It reached a point where they would sometimes forget he was even there with them.
The head of the table was always empty. No plate ever set down. Alfred was tense yet resigned.
Batman stays in the Watchtower during the day shift more often than not. And if his friends linger a bit longer near him, that's none of his business. And if he prolongs their meetings with idle chatter, that's none of theirs.
Damian gets hurt during patrol— Bruce wasn't there to save him.
Tim is struggling with a case— Bruce was nowhere to be found
Cass had a recital— her invitation remained unanswered
Duke's dad almost went into cardiac arrest— Bruce wasn't there to comfort him
Jason had a nightmare after Joker broke out— Bruce wasn't there to arrest him, nor was he there to sit with him in the library
Steph almost died— Bruce wasn't the one who held her
And Dick... Dick just missed his Dad.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
ok but DID I come back wrong, or did you build up an idealized version of me in your head that was easy to love while I was dead? but now that I'm real and alive and complicated again, you resent me for not being as simple and compliant as a mere memory?
do you resent me for coming back "wrong," or for coming back at all?
i see we are all feeling completely normal about my tags:
#did i come back wrong or were you just bad at loving me from the start? #did i come back wrong or is my crime that i came back the same #did i come back wrong or did you decide on your own that there was always something wrong with me? #and now you're frustrated I survived the traumatic death that was somehow supposed to fix me
I'm casting a spell at you that makes you get five hundred billion thousand dollars. this is not a "reblog and you will get five hundred billion thousand dollars" post. I am just telling you that I have cast the spell, it's happening
I have an outline for a Bruce angst hurt (no comfort— yet) fic and it's hard to decide whether I should continue it or not because I'm just hurting myself at this point
Q. A. B. by jihnari and specifically this chapter of Walking Study in Demonology by ijustwanttodestroy are both great examples of the insane shit you can do on AO3
