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“Nightwing!”
Bruce sprinted across the rooftop, heart in his throat.
“Nightwing, don’t!”
Please don’t, please don’t… They were forty stories up…
Nightwing stepped onto the ledge. He suddenly looked small, young, Robin once more, but not Bruce’s Robin. The Flying Grayson Robin. Eager to fly. Not yet afraid to fall.
“Dick, there’s no net!”
But he jumped.
“NO!”
Bruce lunged over the side, but some force jerked him backward, tumbling onto the cement. He jerked away from the hold, desperate, he had to save his son –
“-man, Dad, I’m here, I’m fine!”
That… that was Dick’s voice. He hardly dared to hope, but-
“Dick?”
“Codenames,” came a weak chuckle. “It’s ok, B.”
Bruce blinked a few times, and though the edges of his vision remained hazy, he could now make out his eldest's masked face in front of him, smile slightly strained.
“Thank God.” Bruce lurched forward, dragging Dick into his embrace. His son made an aborted squeak, but then hugged back. Bruce ran his hand through Dick’s hair, grounding himself. “Never scare me like that again, Dickie.”
Dick pulled back, looking confused. “What did I do?”
“What…” His boy, not even his boy yet, but about to be, on that platform, ready to fly… only to fall… falling… He clutched Dick tighter and breathed, “You jumped. You weren’t using your grapple, you were going to…”
A soft “oh.” Dick relaxed. “B, I think you got hit with fear toxin. I got up here just in time to stop you from jumping over.”
Bruce didn’t remember fighting Scarecrow, but Dick might be right. No, probably was right. Dick was an adult now, not the child he’d just seen fall. He breathed in deep and let it out slow. Hallucinations. That’s all.
Dick was speaking to someone on comms. He said something about heading back to the cave, then added a ‘Be careful, Hood’ and Bruce’s anxiety skyrocketed.
“Jason,” he gasped, mind filling with red, so much warm, slick red, and smoking rubble, and a body broken horribly beyond repair, almost even beyond recognition, except he could never not know his son, his boy, oh, Jay…
“Where is he? Is he alright? Jason, wait for me! Don’t go with her alone, Jay, promise me.”
“B…”
He gripped the boy’s shoulders tighter. “Promise me! I can’t… don’t…”
The wrong son's voice was urging him to calm down, but he couldn’t, not when Jason was in danger, when he was going to die.
He lurched upward and started for the warehouse, he could see it, he was so close… He would not be too late this time, he couldn’t be too late…
Boom.
Fire. Smoke. Blood.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no, Jason! Jason!”
Someone was speaking, but Bruce couldn’t hear the words. He dropped to his knees and stared at the burning, crumbled building.
His son's deathbed.
Too late. He was always seconds too late.
A figure burst out of the flames, jogging closer. A figure that was tall and armored, with a blood-red metal helmet.
“Jason?”
Did he dare hope? No, no, he couldn’t. No one could come back twice. He was dreaming.
The dream came closer and closer, until it stood right in front of him.
Tears dripped down Bruce’s face. Jason looked so real.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked. “I’m sorry, Jay, I’m so, so sorry…”
“Holy shit.”
“Jason!”
“I tried, I swear, I… I failed you, Jason, I’m so, so sor--"
The dream yanked the helmet off -- revealing a mask and curly hair and the face of his son – and punched Bruce hard in the shoulder.
“Jason! What the hell?”
“Jay? You… you’re alive--"
“Yes, I’m alive,” the not-dream snapped. “You’re high as the fucking Watchtower on toxin, I’m fine, so you can stop… whatever the hell you’re doing.”
The tightness across Jason’s shoulders and in his jaw showed his discomfort, but Bruce was too relieved to care. He stood and clutched Jason to his chest like a babe, feeling his warmth, his pulse, his curls not matted with blood and ash, and tried not to sob.
“Right,” Jason muttered, awkwardly patting Bruce’s shoulder. “Okay, yay, I’m… not… whatever you thought, can we move on now?”
Another hand on his shoulder, and Bruce pulled back to see Nightwing there, stance careful, but open.
“Okay, B?” he asked. “I’m fine, Hood's fine. Let’s get back on the ground, and we’ll all head home, and get working on an antidote for the toxin.”
Bruce started to nod, but Hood said, “Well, I’m still --"
“No,” Bruce gasped, latching onto Jason’s hand, seeing so much blood – “No, you can’t - not on your own – please, Jay.”
“I’m a grown-ass man, I’ve got four guns and seven knives, I will be fucking fine--"
“Jason.”
Even Bruce started at Nightwing’s tone. The glare he was aiming at Hood was impressive, enough so that the other groaned dramatically and spat,
“Fine. Set me back two weeks on my prime case, but fine.”
“Thank you,” Bruce choked.
“Nng, whatever.” He jammed his helmet back on and stalked toward the roof door.
With Hood always in sight just ahead, and Nightwing nearly touching him at his side, Bruce managed to reject the images of blood and death that lurked in every shadow. The cries, whimpers, screams coming from nowhere were harder to ignore, but every time he started to follow, Nightwing caught his arm and murmured, “We’re all ok, B.”
The semblance of peace lasted until he got outside, saw Robin by the Batmobile, saw Damian… with a bloody hole in the center of his chest.
“No,” he choked.
“B?”
“Father?”
The voice wavered. Damian’s hand shook as he pressed it against the darkest red. He looked from the wound to Bruce, eyes wide and terrified.
‘Father, I- I’m sorry…’
“Father, I am perfectly well.”
Damian’s knees gave out. He dropped, reaching out with his free hand. Blood dribbled over his lip.
Robin stepped closer, scowling. His arms were folded across his chest. The only red was his suit.
Bruce grasped at air for a moment before he caught Nightwing’s wrist.
“Is… D-"
“Yes, B,” Dick said gently. “Robin’s fine.”
“That’s what I just said,” Damian sniffed. “Really, Father, we need to get home before the lowlifes see you like this. You’ll never be able to frighten them again.”
Bruce nodded dumbly, too relieved to argue. He stroked a hand through Damian’s hair as he reached him, then moved toward the driver’s seat only to be blocked by Jason.
“No way in hell,” his son said flatly, “are you driving a car while you’re fucking hallucinating. Get in the back and cuddle the brat or something.”
“Cuddle Nightwing,” Damian complained.
“I’ll cuddle you both,” Bruce decided, abandoning the wheel to Jason and sliding in the back between his other sons. He deliberately ignored Jason’s exasperated swearing and clutched Dick and Damian against his chest, comforted by the warm puffs of breath against his neck.
Dick was here, safe. Jason was here, alive and safe. Damian was in his arms, complaining, but alive and unharmed. But something still felt wrong, felt like danger, and Bruce could feel his heart pounding, but why, what was. . .
“Tim!” he gasped, starting so violently that Damian tumbled off his lap. “Tim, where’s Tim? Someone, anyone, help him –”
A hail of red light, and Bruce was running, but he wasn’t fast enough. ‘Thank you for everything, Bruce,’ echoing in his head, Tim’s face, so determined, so brave, so damn young…
“Timmers, just talk, he's hyperventilating. “
“Hi, B. Um, I—”
“Tim! Tim, no, don’t, please don’t, don’t say it— hold on, Tim, please—"
“Dad! Dad, it’s, it’s ok—”
It’s ok, Dad. Robin out.
“NO!”
“B! Bruce, you have to calm—”
“B, I’m right here, I swear, I’m ok, I’m ok—”
“Father, no one is in danger—”
“For fuck’s sake, Bruce, breathe!”
There was a heartbeat under his palm. Steady, even, right. His hand lifted and fell with someone’s breathing.
He followed that rhythm, determinedly thinking of nothing but the steady counts. The vague shadowy-ness of the world was receding, and did not leave too much red in its place. He blinked again, seeing deep blue layered over black.
“—‘s it, just keep breathing, B,” Dick coaxed. “In, out.”
“Tim…”
“I’m right here,” he answered immediately. “I’m right here, I’m already back in the Cave. Just hang in there five more minutes, B, ok?”
“Ok,” Bruce whispered shakily. “Ok…”
Dick’s heartbeat under his hand. Tim’s voice in the air. Jason just ahead, driving, tense an expressionless in the way that meant he was feeling too much. Damian carefully climbing back up onto the seat and pressing against his side.
All of them were safe.
Bruce pulled his eldest and his baby close once more, watching the road as it became a tunnel, reminding himself every five seconds that everyone was alright, and that his terror was irrational. Tim continued chattering over the comm, something about a street performer? Bruce was only half paying attention to the actual words, at least, until Tim said,
“And I turn to look at Steph, and she’s –”
“Stephanie!” he gasped, because how could he forget Stephanie? She was his Robin, too, his daughter, his brave, stubborn little girl—
“Now you’ve fucking done it, Red!”
“Brilliant move, Pretender.”
God, was there any part of her not bleeding or bruised? How was there nothing he could do but hold her hand, watch her fade? How could he let this happen?
‘Was I a good Robin?’
“It’s two in the fucking morning, Tim, you’d better have a good—”
“Bruce got hit with fear toxin.”
“Steph, no, don’t… just hold on, it’s ok, stay with me, Stephanie,” he pleaded.
Her eyes slid closed. The line went flat.
A piercing shriek, not going away as her hand went limp, slowly beginning to cool.
Tears slid down his face.
“Hey, Boss-man.”
“I’m sorry,” he croaked. “Stephanie, I’m—”
“Nuh-uh, none of that, B. You are never getting rid of me, you hear? I’ll be a pain in your ass until the end of time.”
It… was Steph’s voice, not weakened by pain and death, but…
He looked at Dick, whose face was very painful and raw.
“That’s really Steph, B,” he promised softly. “She’s at home with her mom right now. It’s just the toxin.”
“Gotta say, I’m touched to know you’d miss me that much.”
“Babe, not the time.”
“More than I could say,” Bruce whispered.
There was silence just for a moment until the tunnel opened up and became the cave. He could see Tim there, waiting, on his two feet and unharmed, next to Alfred.
Alfred is fine. Alfred was untouchable. He was a stronger man than Bruce could ever dream of being.
Damian squirmed out of Bruce’s arms and slipped out of the car as soon as it stopped. Dick gently pulled Bruce out after himself, and Bruce staggered to crush Tim into a hug.
“I’m so glad you’re alright,” he whispered.
The side of Tim’s mouth turned up a little. “Just fine, B,” he promised.
“Soo… can I go back to bed, now?” Steph called.
Bruce nodded, forcing his breathing slow as he clutched Tim, unwinding one arm to wrap around Dick’s shoulders, letting himself be herded towards the medbay.
“Get your beauty sleep, Blondie, we got this,” Jason said.
Four out of five children surrounding him, and his father Alfred standing by with gentle reassurances. As the antidote took effect, Bruce felt the last of the terror and adrenaline fading away, writhing shadows replaced with warm light. He looked around him, at his family, with no blood, and no tears.
Damian, with a cute, crabby frown, half on his lap and half on Dick’s. Dick, weary but faintly smiling, leaning against Bruce’s side. Tim, pensive and quiet, curled against Bruce with his head on his shoulder. Jason pretending to be busy but always within sight, and nearly within reach.
Stephanie home and sleeping. Alfred suggesting tea.
Everything as it should be.