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The warehouse had been a trap from the start, but Bruce hadn’t realized just how deep it ran until it was too late.
It had been standard intel, Scarecrow operating out of a derelict building on the East End, rumored to be stockpiling new weaponized toxins. Bruce had gone in alone, as he often did when the night seemed quiet enough to handle by himself. The irony wasn’t lost on him later. how "quiet" could lead to something so deafening.
The fight was short, too short. A few henchmen, a rigged bomb, and nothing more than the lingering sense that something was… wrong.
He disabled the bomb easily enough, tearing through the goons like shadows beneath his fists. It wasn’t until he stepped outside, the cold air cutting through his suit, that the world began to shift.
It was subtle at first, the sky seemed too dark, the city’s familiar hum fading into an oppressive silence. He shook it off, blaming exhaustion, maybe the adrenaline come-down.
But then he heard it.
"Of course you made it out," a voice. sharp, bitter, unmistakably Damian’s, cut through his mind, "because you always survive while everyone else pays for your mistakes."
He froze, eyes darting toward the comm, only to find silence.
"Still playing hero while pretending you’re anything but a monster." Jason’s voice, dripping with venom, twisted in his head like barbed wire. "How many graves do you need to fill before you realize you’re the reason we’re all broken?"
His heart pounded, cold sweat forming beneath the cowl.
They weren’t there. He knew they weren’t there.
But the voices kept coming. Tim, quiet but laced with disappointment. Dick, his usual warmth gone, replaced with hollow frustration.
"You were never a father," Tim’s voice echoed.
"Just a man playing dress-up in the ruins of his own guilt," Dick added, and that’s when Bruce’s knees buckled.
Fear toxin. It had to be. He never saw it, never smelled it.
Crane had gotten better at hiding it. Or maybe Bruce had gotten worse at noticing the things that mattered.
The voices followed him home.
They haunted him through the Manor’s empty halls, lingering behind closed doors and creeping into the corners of his thoughts until every mirror reflected not the man he thought he was, but the monster he feared he’d become.
————
Hours blurred. Sleep never came.
The guilt— real or not— gnawed at him until he was too hollow to fight it. His phone was in his hand before he could stop himself, thumbs moving on muscle memory, the family group chat opening like a wound.
"I’m sorry I was never a good father."
He didn’t even realize he sent it until the screen dimmed, and by then, he was already on his way out the door.
———
Wayne Tower loomed against the Gotham skyline, cold wind whipping at his coat as he climbed higher, past the levels meant for business, past the private floors, all the way to the rooftop. The city stretched beneath him. dark, unforgiving, and yet, for once, unbearably quiet.
A fitting place for a man to finally admit defeat.
His phone buzzed. once, twice, again and again— but he ignored it. He couldn’t face them, not after everything they said…or after everything he thought they said. He wasn’t sure anymore. He wasn’t sure of anything besides the crushing weight pressing down on his chest, demanding release.
He stood at the edge, looking down at the streets below. streets he had sworn to protect, a promise that felt so heavy now. So pointless.
The rooftop door slammed open behind him.
“Bruce!"
A familiar voice— desperation tearing through the wind— cut through his haze.
Dick.
He didn’t turn around. He couldn’t.
There were more footsteps, quick, panicked. scattered shouts of his name. He felt them before he heard them, each presence a tether he didn’t feel worthy of anymore.
"Father, please— step away from the edge."
Damian’s voice cracked, something raw beneath the commanding tone, but Bruce only swallowed the lump in his throat.
"I’m sorry," Bruce whispered, his voice barely carried by the wind. "I thought I could be something better for you all. I thought…"
His grip on the ledge tightened.
"You are better!" Jason’s voice, uncharacteristically frantic, cut in, boots skidding on the rooftop gravel.
"Bruce, whatever’s going on, just talk to us," Tim pleaded, somewhere between calm and terrified. "Please."
He let out a soft, hollow laugh, the sound swallowed by the wind.
"I’ve failed you all," he murmured, "over and over again."
He could feel them getting closer—careful, cautious—like approaching a fragile piece of glass on the verge of shattering.
"That’s not true," Dick said, and Bruce could hear the tremor in his voice.
But the voices, those cruel whispers born of fear and guilt still rang in his mind. Monster. Failure. Burden.
Bruce turned his head slightly, offering them a small, tired smile over his shoulder. The kind that held too many unsaid words.
"I’m sorry," he said one last time.
Then he leaned back, letting the world fall away beneath him.
———
The moment Bruce tipped backward, time fractured.
“NO!"
Dick’s scream tore out of him, raw and broken, as he lunged.
Jason was faster, sprinting forward like a man possessed, boots hammering against the rooftop, but it wasn’t fast enough.
None of them were.
They all watched— helpless—as Bruce's black-clad figure fell.
The world narrowed to that moment, the faint sound of the wind rushing past him, the awful, gut-wrenching feeling of gravity ripping him away.
Tim was the first to react, mind snapping into action through the horror.
"Grapnels— now!" he barked, voice slicing through the shock like a blade.
They moved as one—years of training overriding panic.
Dick's grapple hook fired first, a shot straight down the building, Jason's following a second later, grapple line securing immediately to follow Bruce’s fall.
His cords sang with tension, the rooftop groaning under the sudden pull.
Dick’s heart slammed against his ribs as he plunged down the side of the skyscraper, vision narrowed on the dark figure still tumbling through the night air below.
“Come on, come on, come on—” he gasped under his breath.
Bruce was falling like a marionette with its strings cut, body limp, cape flaring uselessly around him.
He finally caught up, slamming into Bruce midair and latching onto him with both arms.
"Got you— I got you" Dick hissed through clenched teeth, face twisted in panic and effort as the added weight wrenched on his grapple line.
The tension almost snapped their shoulders from the socket, the harness biting viciously into his chest and ribs, but he didn’t let go. Couldn’t let go.
Between the two of them, they slowed Bruce’s fall, the cords creaking under the combined strain.
They slammed into the side of the building hard— Jason taking the worst of the impact— but they were alive.
Bruce was alive.
Jason clung to him like a man drowning.
"You’re okay. You're okay," he kept muttering, even though Bruce was unconscious. His skin was pale, frighteningly pale.
Tim’s voice, thick with emotion, cut through the comms
"Pull up. We need to get him up now."
Dick fired a second grapple to another ledge, reeling himself and the others in. They weren’t gentle, there was no time. but Bruce barely reacted, his body heavy and unresponsive.
————
When they finally stumbled onto the rooftop again, Jason tore off his helmet, gasping for breath.
Dick lowered Bruce carefully to the ground, his hands trembling so badly he almost dropped him.
The rest of them crowded around, armor scraping against concrete as they knelt in a protective circle.
"Bruce," Dick whispered, patting his cheek lightly. "C'mon, wake up. Please."
No response.
Damian dropped onto his knees beside him, hands hovering uselessly. His mouth opened like he wanted to bark an order but nothing came out. Just a soft, broken noise he strangled in the back of his throat.
Tim was already pulling out a med kit from his belt, his hands precise even though his eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Tim pressed his fingers against Bruce’s neck. “his breathing's stable ."
Jason sat back on his heels, blood smeared across his gauntlets, breathing hard through gritted teeth.
There was a beat of silence as the wind howled around them, the city oblivious to the tiny battlefield atop Wayne Tower.
———
It took all four of them to get Bruce down the stairs, Tim stabilizing Bruce’s injuries as best he could, Dick and Jason carrying Bruce, Damian leading the way down the stairwell that was thankfully empty.
When they finally reached the car parked in an alley nearby, Bruce still hadn’t woken.
Dick slid into the driver’s seat with white knuckles on the steering wheel.
"Hold on, old man," he muttered, voice thick.
Tim sat in the back, cradling Bruce carefully, murmuring nonsense under his breath— the same way Bruce used to whisper to him after nightmares when he was little.
"You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re okay."
Jason sent out a rapid-fire text to Alfred:
Code red, Prepare medbay.
(Just imagine it's for when someone does a suicide attempt or smth)
He didn’t wait for a reply.
The Batmobile roared to life, tires screaming against wet pavement as Dick floored it.
No one spoke on the way home.
———
The drive back to the Manor felt endless.
Dick pushed the Batmobile harder than he ever had before, tearing through red lights, skimming turns, ignoring the screech of horns behind them. The only thing that mattered was the quiet, labored sound of Bruce's breathing from the backseat.
Every now and then it hitched.
Every time it did, his hands twitched like he was about to wrench the wheel clean off.
Tim sat hunched forward, eyes fixed on Bruce with brutal intensity, checking his pulse every few seconds like he didn't trust his own hands.
Tim cradled Bruce's battered body against his chest, rocking slightly with the motion of the car, whispering under his breath like a prayer.
Damian didn’t speak at all. He simply sat, one small, gauntleted hand wrapped tight around Bruce’s limp fingers, his head bowed so low his forehead brushed Bruce’s knee.
The dread hung thick in the cabin, pressing down on them harder than the Gotham night pressing against the windshield.
———
When they finally roared into the Batcave entrance, Alfred was already waiting.
He must've been standing there for a while, medical gear arrayed around him, sleeves rolled up, face pale but composed.
Dick carefully shifted Bruce into his arms. For one awful second, Bruce’s head lolled back and the sight of his father's face so slack and lifeless nearly undid him.
Tim was already beside him, helping steady the weight.
They hurried across the Batcave, footsteps echoing sharply off the stone walls.
Alfred met them halfway, his hands steady, but his voice rough with emotion they didn't want to name.
"Bring him here"
They laid Bruce down on the medbay cot, the lights above flickering on harsh and cold.
The moment Bruce was secured, Alfred got to work, muttering orders that none of them dared disobey.
There was nothing they could really do but stand back and watch.
Watch as Alfred carefully cut away the ruined sections of Bruce’s suit, revealing the bruises already blooming across his chest. Watch as he inserted an oxygen tube into Bruce’s nose, and setting up IV lines.
The steady beep of Bruce’s heart filled the cavernous space.
Jason stood stiffly against the far wall, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. His jaw was set so tight it looked like he might crack a tooth.
Tim perched on the edge of another cot, hands trembling in his lap. He was staring without blinking, like if he looked away, Bruce might disappear.
Dick stayed closest to the table, still hovering protectively over Bruce, refusing to move even when Alfred barked for space.
Damian stayed on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tight around them, his cape pooling around him like spilled ink.
No one spoke.
The only sound was the soft hum of the machines and Bruce’s rasping, shallow breaths.
———
And then, like a dam bursting, it all hit at once.
"Why didn't he tell us?" Jason’s voice barely concealing the frustration beneath it, "Why didn’t he say something? We would've—we would've—"
His voice gave out.
Tim pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, shaking his head over and over.
"We should've known," he rasped. "We should've known. He was... he was acting weird after the warehouse. He kept— he kept flinching whenever we got too close. He thought—" Tim’s breath hitched, tears sliding down his face. "He thought we hated him."
Damian jerked his head up at that, his green eyes wide and horrified.
"No," he whispered, voice so small it was barely audible. "No, father couldn't have thought—"
But he had.
Bruce, drugged with fear toxin and guilt, had truly believed he was a monster, a failure, and that his children wanted nothing to do with him.
So much so that he tried to—
Damian buries himself into Dick’s side like he was six years old again.
Dick, already halfway broken himself, caught him automatically, pulling his brother close, running a shaking hand through Damian's hair.
"I don’t understand," Damian gasped against his brother’s chest. "I told him he was a good father. I told him—"
"I know, kiddo," Dick whispered, voice thick with grief. "I know you did."
Tim scrubbed at his face, leaving red marks.
Jason paced in a tight, dangerous circle, the fury bleeding out of him until he looked just tired and Devastated.
"We almost lost him," Jason muttered under his breath, like a broken record. "he almost—"
He stopped mid-sentence, breathing hard, his hands curling into his hair.
Alfred, bless him, said nothing. He simply stood near them as a silent sentry, providing comfort through calmness and presence.
———
The heart monitor continued its slow, fragile beeping.
Somehow, they were still breathing.
Somehow, Bruce was too.
But none of them, not a single one felt whole anymore.
Not after tonight.
Not after seeing the way Bruce had smiled at them, apologized, and let himself fall.
The minutes bled into hours.
At some point, Alfred handed out sandwiches and drinks, but none of them touched them.
It was Tim who finally broke the suffocating silence.
"You guys should sleep," he said quietly His voice was weak from exhaustion, barely recognizable. "I'll stay here."
Jason scoffed under his breath from where he sat slumped against the wall.
"Yeah. Like hell you’re staying alone."
Dick rubbed a hand over his face, looking exhausted beyond words.
"We can take shifts," he offered. His voice was rough, frayed at the edges
"I'll take first," Damian said immediately, stepping forward, his small frame rigid with stubbornness. "I should take first. He's my father."
Tim shook his head vehemently.
"No— no, it should be me. I’m the one who missed the signs first. I should've seen—"
"You're all idiots if you think I'm leaving him now," Jason snapped. His voice was low and dangerous, like a growl from deep in his chest. "You didn’t see how close he was to actually—"
He broke off suddenly, chest heaving.
Dick stood slowly, still steadying Damian with a hand on his shoulder.
"Then maybe we can all stay tonight"
There was a pause.
No one argued.
Not even Alfred.
———
They dragged spare chairs and cots closer around the medbay bed until they were practically forming a shield. No more than a few feet from Bruce at any point. They stayed in costume except for the masks and helmets, too exhausted to bother with full debriefs.
Damian perched at Bruce’s left side, his hand curling loosely around Bruce’s wrist, as if grounding both of them.
Tim sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, arms locked tightly around himself.
Jason refused to sit; he paced instead, prowling back and forth like a caged animal, his eyes never leaving Bruce for more than a few seconds.
Dick settled in the chair nearest Bruce’s head, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles were white.
Every so often, one of them would glance at the heart monitor.
Every so often, one of them would hold their breath, waiting for another beep.
No one spoke.
No one slept.
The fear was too thick, pressing down on them like the darkness itself.
———
It was nearly dawn when it happened.
A quiet, broken sound, a breath hitching painfully.
All four of them froze.
Dick shot to his feet so fast the chair clattered to the ground behind him.
Damian leaned forward, so close he was practically on the bed.
Tim scrambled upright, hands fisted in the bedsheets.
Jason stopped pacing, his whole body rigid with tension.
Bruce stirred.
His eyes fluttered weakly, lashes trembling against pale skin.
"B—" Dick choked out, voice cracking in the middle.
Bruce’s brows knitted together, as if confused, as if in pain. His head turned slightly, a low, confused groan escaping him.
"Easy, master Bruce" Alfred said from somewhere nearby, his voice tight but calm. "I assure you that You're safe, sir."
Bruce’s eyes finally cracked open.
They were glassy and unfocused, swimming with confusion and fear.
His gaze darted between their faces, breathing shallow and fast.
"Where—?" he rasped, the sound so raw it was barely more than a croak.
Dick stepped closer, reaching out but hesitating just before touching Bruce’s shoulder, terrified of spooking him.
"You’re in the Cave," Dick said as gently as he could. "You’re safe. We got you back."
Bruce stared at him like he didn’t believe him.
Like he was still lost in whatever nightmare the toxin had built in his mind.
His mouth moved again, and they barely caught the whisper.
"I’m sorry."
Jason let out a sharp breath through his nose, like he was barely keeping it together.
"Don’t," he said hoarsely. "There's no need to apologize to us."
Bruce’s gaze slid away, hollow and ashamed.
Damian reached up and gripped Bruce’s hand tightly, ignoring the way it trembled in his.
"You are not allowed to leave us," Damian said fiercely, his voice cracking despite himself. "Do you understand me, Father? You are not allowed. especially by flinging yourself off a building"
Tim cringed at the memory, “yeah b…, that was not cool”
Bruce blinked slowly, and a single tear slipped down his temple into the pillow.
It undid them all over again.
They stayed like that for a long, long time.
Crowded around him, unwilling to move, unwilling to let even an inch of distance settle between them.
Like if they held on tightly enough, they could keep him tethered there.
Keep him breathing.
Keep him theirs.
———
Bruce drifted in and out for hours, the rise and fall of his chest still uneven, but steadier than before. The Batkids never left. Even Alfred couldn’t convince them to.
When Bruce stirred again, it was different, his eyes opening wider, a flicker of awareness shining through the haze. His jaw clenched faintly, a familiar stubbornness creeping back in.
Dick noticed it first. He’d seen that look his whole life.
“Bruce,” he said softly, “don’t.”
But Bruce had already started to move. His hands pressed weakly against the cot, trying to push himself upright, every muscle trembling.
Jason’s voice cracked like a whip across the room.
“No. Sit. Your. Ass. Down.”
Bruce froze, startled at the sheer worry lacing Jason’s tone.
Tim was already on his feet, pressing firmly on Bruce’s shoulder to keep him in place.
“You’re in no condition to move. Alfred told you to rest, so that's what you'll do”
Damian climbed half onto the cot itself, his small frame crouched over Bruce’s chest as if to physically pin him there if he had to. His hand tightened around Bruce’s wrist.
“You’re not allowed,” Damian said flatly, eyes glistening. “Not after what you just—” He broke off, swallowing hard, then repeated, more quietly, “You’re not allowed.”
Bruce stilled, caught between bewilderment and guilt. His lips parted, his voice rough and low.
“I’m sorry.”
The words landed like a hammer.
“Stop it,” Jason snapped, pacing a few steps before turning back. His voice broke at the edges despite the anger. “stop fucking apologizing like that’s supposed to make this okay.”
Bruce’s gaze fell to the side, shame written across every line of his face.
“No.” Dick’s voice was sharp, final, as he dropped to his knees beside the cot so Bruce had no choice but to look at him. “You didn’t fail us. You scared us, Bruce. You—” His voice cracked, tears slipping down his cheeks now, no matter how he tried to stop them. “You almost left us willingly.”
Jason’s anger gave way to grief all at once, his hands fisting at his sides. He moved closer, leaning over the cot, his expression raw.
“You’re not a monster, old man. You’re not some… some broken thing we can’t stand to be around. You’re ours. And if you’d jumped—” His voice shattered completely, and he had to look away, chest heaving.
Bruce’s throat worked, his eyes wet now, though he tried to fight it. He reached a trembling hand towards them.
Dick caught it, wrapping his own around it firmly. Jason’s gloved hand landed over both of theirs, rough and grounding. Tim added his a moment later, silent but desperate, squeezing like he’d never let go. Damian’s hand was still clutching Bruce’s wrist on the other side, refusing to release him.
Bruce let out a shuddering breath, his voice breaking.
“I don’t deserve this.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” Dick said, voice thick with tears but steady now. “You’re ours. And we’re yours. No toxin, no fear, or twisted thought in your head is gonna change that.”
The Cave was quiet for a long time after that. Just the sound of the heart monitor beeping in rhythm, steady and alive.
Bruce’s hand slowly steadied beneath theirs. His eyes finally closed from exhaustion, comforted by the weight of his family anchoring him to the world.
The Batkids stayed exactly where they were. Not one of them moved.
For the first time all night, the fear lifted, just a little.
They were still shaken. Still broken in places. But they were together. And that was enough to keep Bruce alive.