Chapter Text
It had been a rough week for everyone.
Gotham’s crime rate had surged relentlessly, as if the rogues had collectively decided to test the Bat family's limits. Attacks overlapped, plans collided, and chaos stacked upon chaos in what felt like a deliberate attempt to exhaust the city’s vigilantes or catch them off guard. Arkham’s population swelled as a result.
Their lives behind the masks weren’t the only things unravelling. Each of them faced obstacle after obstacle in their civilian lives as well, responsibilities piling up until there was barely room to breathe.
Alfred noticed immediately.
He noticed the tension in their shoulders, the way conversations shortened, how exhaustion clung to them like a second skin. And so, he insisted, with a firmness none of them dared challenge, that everyone stay the night at the manor and remain for a warm, proper breakfast in the morning.
Dick could not stop laughing as Tim hunched over a sudoku puzzle at the dining table. He snorted outright when a message from Jason popped up on his phone, revealing that Jason had discreetly whited out several numbers and replaced every one of them with threes.
Dick could not remember the last time he had eaten breakfast with his family. Stranger still, he could not remember the last time he had eaten a real breakfast at all.
He paused, letting himself take in the scene before him.
Tim sat to his left, head bowed and jaw clenched, gripping his pencil so tightly it looked ready to snap as he muttered under his breath, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. Across from him sat Jason, staring openly and doing a terrible job of holding back his laughter, waiting impatiently for Tim to finally realize what had happened. To Jason’s right, Damian ate quietly, occasionally glancing up at Jason with something close to suspicion.
Dick’s gaze finally drifted to the head of the table.
Bruce sat there with the morning paper folded in his hands, though it was clear he hadn’t read a single word. His attention wasn’t on the headlines but on the people around the table, absorbing the moment with a stillness that spoke louder than any smile.
Their eyes met.
They shared a quiet, knowing smile, one that said everything neither of them voiced.
“Hey, Tim,” Jason leaned forward, grin wide and unapologetic. “Have you tried three? You always forget—”
“There’s nothing but threes on this damn thing!”
Tim finally looked up, realization crashing down as Jason burst into laughter.
And for the first time all week, the manor felt warm.
Dick laughed so hard his sides hurt. Nearly falling out of his chair. It felt good. Easy. The kind of laughter that didn’t come with an adrenaline crash afterward
Tim whipped his head toward Jason, glaring hard enough to make his point without saying a word. Bruce even let out a quiet chuckle, while Damian giggled outright at Tim’s growing frustration.
Tim responded with a long, drawn-out groan, letting his head drop into his hands. The pencil he still clung to came dangerously close to poking him in the eye, and he barely had the energy to correct it.
When the laughing quieted down Bruce dared to ask what everyone was up to.
Both Tim and Dick groaned as they re-called all the paperwork waiting for them.
Jason mentioned needing to meet up with Roy to go over plan for a case.
“I meant to tell you Bruce, the academy art club was invited to go an exabit tonight, can I go?”
Tim’s pencil finally snapped, the sharp crack echoing through the room.
Bruce froze, the fork in his hand clattering softly against the plate. His jaw tightened, and for the first time all morning, his voice wavered. “Excuse me?”
Damian repeated the words, calm and precise, without a flicker of hesitation. “Bruce. The academy art club was invited to an exhibit tonight. May I go?”
The room fell into stunned silence. The word hung there, heavier than anything spoken at the table that morning.
The older boys froze. Tim’s eyes widened the broken pencil still clenched in his hand.
Dick shocked dragged his eyes away from Damian to glare at Jason about to give out to him for promoting or tricking Damian into he’s schemes. When he looked over Jason mouth was wide open in clear disbelief as he started down at Damian.
“Damain” Bruce began. Dick could practically see the gears moving in his head.
“What did you call me?” he asked.
He didn’t yell. His voice was low, even, but every word was tight, wound so carefully it felt like one wrong breath might snap it.
Damian did not flinch.
“Bruce,” he replied calmly. “Like everyone else calls you.”
The manor no longer felt warm.
What had once been filled with easy laughter and golden morning light now felt icy and tense, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. The sunlight that had streamed through the windows only moments before had vanished, replaced by heavy clouds pressing close to the glass, dark and swollen, waiting to break. It felt like the calm had shattered all at once, leaving behind the promise of a storm no one was prepared for.
Bruce’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped along it. “I am not everyone else,” he said quietly. “I am your father.”
The word lingered, heavy and deliberate.
Tim sucked in a sharp breath. Dick felt his stomach drop. Jason shifted in his chair, suddenly very aware that this was not teasing territory anymore.
“Yes, you are,” Damian agreed.
For a fleeting moment, Dick felt a spark of hope. A fragile, desperate hope that Damian would laugh it off, admit he had gone too far, apologize. That it was just a poorly timed attempt at humour, something they could all brush aside and move past.
‘Please’ Dick thought. ‘Just say you’re sorry’.
“But I’m older now.”
Silence stretched through the room as they all tried to make sense of Damian’s words. I’m older now echoed again and again, hollow, and wrong, especially coming from a boy who hadn’t even turned thirteen yet.
Tim shifted in his seat, unable to stand it any longer. “Sooo…?” he prompted carefully.
Damian lifted his chin. “I am at the age where I no longer need a father.”
The words landed like a physical blow.
That’s” Dick started, then stopped. He scrubbed a hand over his face, searching for the right words, for any words that would not sound like he was scolding a child who clearly didn’t think of himself as one. “That’s not… Damian, that’s not something you age out of.”
Tim tried next, slower, careful in the way he always was when emotions ran high. “Damian… that’s not how that works.”
Damian’s gaze flicked between them, unimpressed. “It is how it has always worked for me.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened, his grip on the fork turning white-knuckled. He didn’t bother trying to hide his anger now.
“Where is all of this coming from?” he demanded quietly. “You were twelve yesterday. You called me Father yesterday.” His voice roughened despite himself. “So, what changed?”
The question hung heavy in the air, edged with something dangerously close to betrayal.
Everyone felt it.
Tim flinched. Dick’s shoulders tensed. Jason went very still.
Damian didn’t look away.
“I changed,” he said simply.
Bruce let out a sharp breath. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” Damian insisted. “I have been thinking about this for some time. I only decided to say it today.”
Bruce stared at him, eyes dark. “You decided,” he repeated. “Without talking to me. Without warning. You just—” He cut himself off, swallowing hard. “You just took it away.”
Damian frowned, genuinely puzzled now. “I do not understand why you are reacting this way,” he said. “It was always going to happen. Everyone eventually stops calling their parents those names.”
The words hit Bruce like a slap.
“Everyone?” he echoed quietly.
“Yes,” Damian said. “It is a natural progression. Children grow up. They outgrow—”
“Outgrow me?” Bruce snapped before he could stop himself.
The room flinched.
Damian stiffened. “That is not what I said.”
“But it’s what it sounds like,” Bruce shot back, anger bleeding into something sharper, uglier. “You make it sound like calling me Father was just a phase. Like it didn’t mean anything.”
“It meant something,” Damian said, voice tight. “It still does.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re discarding it so easily?” Bruce demanded.
For the first time since the conversation began, Damian paused.
He had no defence ready. No carefully constructed answer. He sat there, suddenly very still, and painfully small compared to everyone else at the table. Dick could not help noticing how Damian’s feet still didn’t quite reach the floor where he sat, how they hovered uselessly above the ground.
“I—” Damian’s hands clenched in the fabric of his light green top, fingers tugging hard at the hem. His voice wavered despite his effort to control it. “I just did what everyone else does. I thought… I thought that was what you wanted.”
The words barely finished leaving his mouth before Damian shoved back from the table. His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he hopped down, not looking at anyone.
Before anyone could stop him, he ran.
The doors to the gardens swung open, letting in a rush of cold air before slamming shut behind him.
Silence followed, thick and suffocating.
And for the first time since Damian spoke Jason finally decided to speak.
“The fuck was that?”
Dick’s jaw tightened. He shot a glance at Bruce, whose eyes were still fixed on the closed doors, jaw tight, knuckles white around his fork.
Only because Tim was sitting beside him did he hear the younger boy mutter under his breath, barely above a whisper:
“I’ve never heard him talk so much during a meal before…”
The manor was freezing.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the panes, and the first drops of rain began to streak the glass, hammering softly against the windows.
Inside, the silence that followed Damian’s departure felt almost heavier than the storm itself.
Damian didn’t appear for lunch. Nor for dinner. Not even when Alfred called him, insisting he get ready for his art exhibition.
Bruce did not join them either, leaving the dining table empty at the head where he normally presided.
The silence at mealtimes was oppressive, heavier than any storm outside, and Jason could not help but notice the painful symmetry.
Father-like son, he thought bitterly. The words hovered in his mind, sharp and unavoidable. Both retreating, refusing to engage, each locked in their own stubborn pride and wounded feelings.
Dick and Tim pushed through their meals quietly, glancing repeatedly at the empty places, aware of the tension seeping into every corner of the manor.
Jason finally broke the silence, muttering under his breath, “You know… this is exactly what I expected from those two. But damn… it’s brutal to watch.”
Outside, the rain came harder, hammering against the windows, matching the cold weight that had settled over the house.
Even Alfred paused, his face tight with worry, as though he could feel the emotional storm raging in the manor as much as the weather outside. He looked out the kitchen window squinting he’s eyes in hopes of catching sight of Damian.
He didn’t tear his eyes away when Bruce stumbled into the kitchen, shoulders tense, face pale and tight.
“I don’t understand how you’re letting a child, your child, may I add be out in this storm,” Alfred said, his voice controlled but sharp, each word heavy with concern.
For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the steady patter of rain against the windows. Bruce’s hands were clenched at his sides, jaw tight, as though the words he was holding back were burning inside him.
Finally, he spoke, voice low and hesitant, but urgent. “Did you hear what he called me?”
Alfred slowly turned from the counter and met Bruce’s eyes, calm but alert. “Of course,” he said softly.
Bruce’s shoulders slumped slightly, a mixture of relief and pain in his expression. “He called me… Bruce, Alfred. Bruce.”
Alfred studied him for a moment, letting the words hang in the cold kitchen air. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “He did. And that is not a slight. That is a choice.”
Bruce closed his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath. “A choice…” he repeated, almost to himself, the weight of it pressing down on him. “He chose to call me by my name. Not the title. Not… not Father.”
Alfred didn’t know what to say. After all these years, he believed he could answer back to anything Bruce said, no matter how sharp or complicated. But at this moment, he was at a loss.
“I hadn’t seen you this upset in years”
When Alfread looked at him, he didn’t see the man that toward over in size and muscles instead he saw a young eight-year-old boy with the emotion no one that young should feel so deeply. Grief.
Bruce was carrying himself with grief. But grief over someone who was very much alive this time. Someone he could still hurt, someone he could still lose, and yet, he had already felt that loss.
“I hate her.”
Alfred froze, hand half-raised as if he could catch the words before they landed.
He had expected anger, frustration, maybe even grief but never that. The intensity in Bruce’s voice, the absolute conviction, made the words feel like shards of ice cutting through the kitchen air.
“God, I hate her! Why did she do this!”
Alfred’s hand froze in midair, the silver tray he had been carrying forgotten.
He had heard Bruce angry before he’d endured threats, shouting, and frustration but this… this was different. It wasn’t just anger. It was grief, fear, and helplessness all tangled together, spilling out in a raw, uncontrolled roar.
“Sir,” Alfred said carefully, his voice even but firm, “I understand your frustration, but—”
“No, you don’t.”
The words came out as a laugh, cracking, harsh, almost painful to hear. It ricocheted off the walls of the kitchen, raw and unhinged.
In the doorway, Jason and Dick poked their heads in, drawn by the noise, uncertain what they’d find.
Bruce’s laughter grew louder and more frantic, shaking his entire frame. He slammed his fist down onto the counter with a deafening bang, making Alfred jump back, startled. Silverware clattered to the floor, and the echo of the impact lingered in the kitchen like thunder.
The clack of silverware hitting the floor seemed to snap Bruce out of his trance.
He leaned heavily against the kitchen island, hands buried in his hair, pulling at the roots as though trying to unravel the storm inside him. His shoulders slouched, knees slightly bent, as if he needed the counter to hold him up, to keep him from collapsing entirely.
For a long moment, he just stood there, breathing hard, chest heaving, the sound of the rain outside mingling with the echo of his own frustration.
“I’ll never forget the day she told me she was pregnant,” Bruce said, his voice low, almost strangled with memory. “I didn’t think I could feel as excited as I did. I felt… complete.”
Alfred paused, giving him space, letting the words settle in the heavy kitchen air. He had known Bruce carried a lot of weight, but this this was something different. This was raw, unguarded, a glimpse into a man who had loved and hoped and dreamed in a way he rarely allowed himself to show.
“And then…” Bruce let out a long, shuddering sigh, as if the words themselves were heavy stones in his chest. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes staring past the rain-streaked windows, unseeing.
“It felt like my heart was ripped out when she told me she had lost the baby,” he whispered, voice breaking, raw with a grief he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.
Dick and Jason now standing in the kitchen could only look at him. eyes locked on Bruce.
Both boys remembered the day Talia had burst into the manor years ago. They had never seen her like that. The woman who was always composed, with not a single hair out of place, had come undone in minutes.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, her breathing shallow and scattered. Words came in broken fragments, stuttered and almost unintelligible. “They’re… gone…” she had barely managed to say, and Bruce powerful, unflinching Bruce had been unable to calm her.
“I was overjoyed at the thought of being there for all his firsts,” Bruce continued, voice low and trembling. “I always wished I had been there for Dick’s first steps, Jason’s first bike ride, Tim’s first day of school… All those milestones I missed, I thought it would be okay because we would all be able to experience Damian’s firsts together.”
He paused, chest rising and falling unevenly, as if the weight of years pressed on him all at once. His hands flexed into fists at his sides, then relaxed, trembling slightly.
“But he was gone before I could even meet him.”
Bruce slowly lifted his face from his hands. There was pure rage in his eyes, a fire fuelled by loss, regret, and helplessness. His chest heaved as he swallowed, struggling to keep his composure, yet the anger leaked through, sharp and undeniable.
“I’ll never forgive her,” Bruce spat the words, his voice raw, trembling with fury. “For her lies. For keeping me away from my child. From him.”
He slammed a fist against the kitchen island, the sound echoing through the manor. His chest heaved as his eyes burned, focused on the closed doors to the gardens, as if willing Damian back through sheer force.
Alfred, standing nearby, took a careful step closer, though he remained silent, sensing that words might only inflame the storm further.
Dick and Jason, frozen in the doorway, exchanged a glance. They had seen their father furious before, but this… this was different. This was grief and rage tangled together so tightly it made the air itself heavy.
Bruce took a shuddering breath, jaw set, muscles coiled like springs. “I will not lose him again. I will not.”
The rain outside hammered the windows, drumming a relentless rhythm that mirrored the turmoil inside Bruce, a storm no one could calm but him.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed, fixed on the closed doors to the gardens as if he could pierce through them and find Damian with sheer will. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white, and every muscle in his body tensed like a coiled spring ready to launch.
“I will not let him shut me out,” he muttered, low and feral, more to himself than anyone else. “Not now. Not ever.”
The rain hammered the windows, a relentless drumbeat echoing the storm raging in his chest. Every flash of lightning painted the kitchen in stark white, throwing long shadows across the floor and the walls, shadows that seemed to mimic the turmoil inside him.
Dick stepped forward cautiously, his voice quiet but firm. “Bruce… maybe we should—”
Bruce cut him off with a glance sharp enough to stop the words midair. “No. I go now. Alone.”
Jason smirked, but it was brittle, nervous. “Right. Because running into a storm after a pissed-off kid is always the smartest move.”
Alfred cleared his throat but didn’t intervene. He knew better than to try to reason with a man possessed by fear, regret, and the need to protect his son.
Bruce grabbed his coat and moved toward the door, each step deliberate, every ounce of him burning with a single thought ‘I will not fail him again’.