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Night in Gotham was never silent. Even this far from the city’s jagged skyline, the hum of it carried. sirens, engines, the restless churn of a place that never really slept. But standing at the gates of Wayne Manor, the four of them felt something different pressing down on their shoulders.
It had been years.
Years since they’d crossed this threshold, since they’d called this house theirs. Years since the last shouting match, the slammed doors, the words none of them could take back. Bruce had apologized in his own clipped, awkward way. But apologies hadn’t fixed what was broken. Too much resentment had calcified between them, too much silence filled the spaces where family should have lived. So they had left. Blüdhaven, apartments, rooftops, anywhere that wasn’t here.
And now, somehow, they were back.
The knock was tentative, Dick’s hand against the heavy oak door. He was the one who always tried first, who always believed in second chances. Jason stood half a step behind him, hands buried in the pockets of his leather jacket, jaw tight as if daring himself not to bolt. Tim lingered slightly apart, his eyes flicking up at the windows as though expecting shadows to move behind them. Damian stood straight and defiant, chin lifted.
The door opened.
They’d expected emptiness. Or at least some faceless staff answering for him. Instead— it was Bruce.
For a moment, the world stopped.
He filled the doorway, but not the way he once had. His presence was still there, yes, commanding and unmistakable. But time had settled on him like an unshakable weight. His hair was more silver than black now, streaks catching in the dim porch light. The lines around his mouth and eyes were deeper, etched not just from years of frowns but from exhaustion. His shoulders, once impossibly broad, carried less strength and more weariness. And yet, his eyes softened at the sight of them.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see you standing here again,” he said. His voice was steady, low, but beneath it lived a rasp, a fatigue that clung to every word.
He stepped aside. None of them moved at first.
Damian was the one who broke the silence. “You look… different.”
The boy’s blunt honesty landed like a blade. Jason almost scoffed, Tim looked away, and Dick sent Damian a look meant to rein him in. But Bruce only chuckled, low and dry, shaking his head.
“That happens with time.”
Inside, the Manor felt like walking into a memory you weren’t sure was real. The same paintings, the same tall ceilings, the same smell of wood and old stone. Yet everything was quieter somehow, more hollow.
They gathered in the living room. The fire was already lit, crackling softly. The same chairs, the same long couch. Familiar territory, but it wasn’t comfortable. Not yet.
The conversation started cautiously. A remark from Dick about the city’s skyline. A muttered jab from Jason about the state of the furniture. A few short words from Tim, analytical and sharp, as though testing the air. Damian sat nearest to Bruce, arms crossed, and posture straight..
Slowly, slowly, words began to string together. Not laughter, but the threads of something that might lead there someday. Still, beneath every sentence, unease coiled.
They had come back. But none of them knew what, exactly, they were coming back to.
And Bruce— Bruce smiled at them, proud and aching and tired all at once. He didn’t say it aloud, but in that moment it was written across his face: he hadn’t expected them to return, not after everything. Not after all the ways he’d failed them. And yet here they were.
——————
The silence didn’t last forever. It never could with this family.
Dick was the first to bridge the gap. He leaned forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, and asked Bruce how he’d been sleeping lately. gentle, cautious, like he was stepping onto thin ice. Jason snorted, muttering something about Bruce probably surviving on caffeine and sheer spite. Tim followed with a quiet chuckle, offering to help with whatever bruce needed since hes an old man now. Damian, of course, couldn’t resist adding a dry remark about everyone’s atrocious habits.
It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t easy. But it was something.
The air grew lighter with every word exchanged, awkward pauses giving way to small smiles and the occasional laugh. The fire burned low, soft light flickering over faces that hadn’t shared a room like this in far too long.
Bruce, unexpected as ever, broke the rhythm with a quiet offer. his voice rough but sincere.
“Stay for dinner.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Dick’s smile widened, Jason rolled his eyes but didn’t get up, and the others exchanged faint, almost shy glances.
And just like that, it felt— if only for a heartbeat—like home again.
Jason arched a brow, leaning back in his chair. “What, you cooking now? Because I am not risking food poisoning.”
The jab might have been sharper if it weren’t for the faint curve of his mouth.
Bruce shook his head, almost smiling. “No. I… keep some things prepared. Just in case.”
“In case what?” Tim asked, but the answer was already written in Bruce’s eyes. In case you came home.
The kitchen felt smaller than they remembered, though maybe that was just because it had been so long. They didn’t eat with the formality they once had when alfred was alive. Instead, Bruce set out what he had, and they gathered around the counter and smaller table. Roast chicken, reheated but still good. salad, bread, nothing fancy.
Damian ate quickly but without complaint, clearly hungrier than he’d admit. Tim picked at his food at first, distracted, then warmed into the meal. Jason took seconds with a muttered, “Not bad, old man,” which earned him the ghost of a smile from Bruce. And Dick kept trying to draw out the conversation, tossing questions around, laughing when the others grew sarcastic, trying to stitch the cracks closed with his voice.
Bruce barely ate. He sat among them, listening, drinking them in. His gaze lingered far too long, tracing the lines of their faces, the way Jason’s hair curled a little too long over his collar, the sharpness of Tim’s posture, the way Damian’s scowl softened when no one was looking, the ease in Dick’s grin when he managed to get them all laughing at once.
He had missed this. Missed them.
Afterward, it was Tim again who suggested a movie.
“Like old times,” he said hesitantly.
“Yeah, come on B.” Dick adds while grinning.
Jason groaned, but didn’t actually object. Damian muttered something about a waste of time, but when Bruce gestured toward the couch, he took the seat closest to him without hesitation.
The movie flickered to life on the big screen. It was a half forgotten comedy Dick picked at random.
And it worked. Slowly, grudgingly, they eased into it. Jason heckled the bad dialogue until Tim snapped at him, which only made Jason do it more. Dick laughed too loudly at jokes that weren’t even funny, but it loosened everyone else’s shoulders. Damian rolled his eyes, arms crossed, but Bruce felt the boy lean imperceptibly closer against him as the night stretched on.
Bruce didn’t watch much of the movie. Hed be lying if he said he wasnt watching his kids more.
Jason, who claimed to hate being here but hadn’t left. Tim, who he hadn’t seen smiling like this in years, soft and unguarded. Damian, who still carried his pride like armor but had allowed himself to stay pressed to his father’s side. Dick, who was trying so hard to make it all feel normal again.
The laughter, the bickering, the warmth of the room. it ached in Bruce’s chest. His sons, here, alive, laughing, home. He hadn’t dared to imagine this. Hadn’t let himself.
When the credits rolled, none of them rushed to leave. The fire had burned low again. They sat there, the movie’s glow fading, the quiet settling around them making them want to drown in the comfort of their family..
For the first time in years, Wayne Manor felt alive again.
And Bruce sat among them with so much love and so much yearning, wishing he could hold this moment forever, knowing in his heart that even if it only lasted tonight, he had missed them more than words could ever reach.
——————
The credits faded to black, leaving only the soft crackle of the fireplace and the hum of the projector cooling down. Jason leaned back with his arms folded, pretending to be bored but not getting up. Tim stretched his legs out, blinking tiredly but refusing to look like he’d enjoyed himself. Damian was still pressed against Bruce’s side, though he quickly shifted when he realized it. And Dick, of course, was grinning faintly at all of them, like he’d just pulled off a miracle.
Bruce sat there, his hands folded loosely, staring at them as if memorizing the sight. A Part of him didn’t want to break the spell. But another part, quiet and desperate, wanted to hold onto this for longer than a single night.
His throat felt tight. The words stuck there, almost too heavy to voice. He’d said so many orders in his life, so many plans, so many commands that came without hesitation. But this was different. This was fragile.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “You… don’t have to leave right away.”
Four sets of eyes turned toward him. He swallowed and forced himself to continue, his voice lower, hesitant. “The rooms are still yours. If you wanted to stay… the night.”
The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t shthi. It was heavy, uncertain. Jason arched a brow, skeptical but not mocking. Tim blinked, caught off guard. Damian’s frown softened, something unspoken in his gaze. Dick’s expression gentled, and he leaned back with a small nod, like he’d been hoping Bruce would ask.
“I’m not—” Bruce stopped, exhaled slowly, then tried again. “I’m not asking for more than that. Just… one night. But of course, if you don't want to, i understand—”
Dick quickly cut in. “Yeah. Yeah, I think that sounds good.” His voice was soft, sure.
Jason muttered about not having packed anything, but agreed either way. Tim shrugged, trying for casual, but his shoulders eased in a way Bruce hadn’t seen in years. Damian didn’t even bother to hide his answer. he simply rose, brushed imaginary dust off his shirt, and said, “it is most acceptable, father,” as though the choice had already been made.
Bruce felt something warm unravel in his chest, and before he could stop himself, a smile broke across his face. Not the small, fleeting curve of his mouth they were used to seeing. This was different. brighter, unguarded, almost boyish in its sincerity.
“Thank you,” he said simply. His voice steady yetl full, carrying more weight than the two words should have. “For staying.”
The boys exchanged quick looks. Jason rolling his eyes to cover the flicker of surprise, Tim ducking his head like he wasn’t sure how to take it, Damian watching intently, and Dick grinning back at him like he’d been waiting for this all night.
Bruce cleared his throat, grounding himself again. “Go on. The rooms are ready for you. Settle in, get some rest.” He glanced toward the kitchen and added, almost casually, “I’ll take care of the dishes.”
Jason snorted. “You? Doing dishes?”
Bruce allowed himself a small smirk. “I’m capable of handling soap and water.”
“Debatable,” Jason murmured, but his tone was lighter than it had been in years.
Dick laughed quietly, shaking his head as he stood too. “Come on, guys. Let him have this.”
And as his sons began to drift toward the grand staircase, carrying their tired bodies and their complicated feelings with them, Bruce lingered a moment in the living room. He listened to the sound of their footsteps on the floor above, the murmur of their voices were familiar, precious sounds he thought he might never hear again.
Then he turned toward the kitchen, sleeves already tugged up, smiling to himself as he went. He would scrub every dish twice over if it meant giving them even one more reason to stay.
——————
Bruce rolled up his sleeves a little higher and turned on the tap. The water ran hot, steam curling faintly into the air as he reached for the first plate.
It was almost absurd, how ordinary it felt. Him, standing here, washing dishes while his sons— his sons— were upstairs settling into their old rooms.
He smiled to himself, the expression tugging at his face before he even realized it. It had been so long since he’d felt something so simple.
Soap, water, rinse, repeat. The rhythm of it was almost meditative. His hands moved automatically, but his mind kept circling back to them. They were here. Under this roof. Together.
He paused with a wet glass in hand, staring at the reflection of the kitchen lights dancing in the water. His reflection looked older, yes, but tonight, there was a softness there he hadn’t seen in years.
It didn’t matter how many patrols he’d led or how many times he’d stared down death. nothing ever compared to this. To the sound of his family breathing under the same roof. To the sight of their empty plates waiting to be cleaned because they’d eaten together.
Bruce let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head at himself. “Look at you,” he muttered under his breath. “Getting sentimental over dishes.”
But even as he said it, he didn’t stop smiling.
He stacked the last of the clean plates, dried his hands, and leaned against the counter for a moment, just listening. The faint creak of floorboards upstairs. The low hum of the heater. The sound of life.
For the first time in years, Wayne Manor didn’t feel like a mausoleum.
And Bruce stood there, hands still damp, eyes soft, a quiet happiness filling the space where grief used to live.
——————
The warmth of the moment lingered. quiet and golden, as Bruce reached for another plate. The water had cooled a little, and the soap bubbles had thinned, but he didn’t mind. His hands moved slowly, unhurried. The kind of stillness he rarely allowed himself.
He’d forgotten what peace could feel like.
A sudden pressure bloomed in his chest like someone had driven a steel fist straight through his ribs. His breath caught. The plate slipped a fraction in his wet hands, and before he could steady it, the pain spiked again, deep and radiating outward, clawing up toward his throat, down his left arm, tight and suffocating.
His vision blurred at the edges. The strength drained from his grip.
The dish fell.
It hit the tile with a piercing crash, shattering into pale shards that scattered across the floor, the sound slicing through the silence of the manor.
The sting in his chest deepened, folding him forward, one hand clutching instinctively at his shirt as he stumbled back a step, then another. The room tilted, narrowing, the lights dimming and flashing in fragments of gold and white. His lungs refused to expand. His heart— his heart was pounding, wild and uneven, each beat a jolt of agony.
He tried to steady himself against the counter, but his arm trembled violently. The strength that had carried him through a lifetime of battles, of scars and impossible nights, was failing him now. The floor swayed beneath his feet, cold tiles biting against his knees as he fell.
The only sound left was the uneven rhythm of his heart. slowing, stuttering, until even that seemed to fade beneath the pounding in his ears.
The darkness consumed him as he let out a breath.
——————
The crash tore through the quiet of the manor like a gunshot.
It didn’t register at first, just a sudden, distant sound from downstairs, sharp and unmistakable. Then the silence that followed stretched too long. Too empty.
Dick froze halfway through unpacking an old duffel bag in his room, head snapping up toward the door. The echo still clung to the air, ceramic shattering against tile, a sound he knew too well from a lifetime of fights and broken things.
He was already running before the others fully reacted.
Jason’s door opened across the hall, his boots thudding heavy against the wooden floor. “What the hell was that?” But he didn’t wait for an answer either as his instincts kicked in, sharp and immediate. He took the stairs two at a time, overtaking Dick halfway down, both of them moving with the same urgency they’d once carried into battle.
Tim was right behind them, heart racing, mind already cataloguing possibilities. intruder, malfunction, injury, but none of them prepared him for the truth he was about to see. Damian trailed close, eyes sharp and wide with worry.
They reached the kitchen and felt as if time itself stopped.
Bruce lay sprawled on the floor amid shards of white porcelain and a thin spread of soapy water that glistened beneath the light. One of his hands was still clutching his chest. The other hung limp against the tile. His face was pale and his lips had taken on the faintest shade of blue.
He wasn’t moving.
He wasn’t breathing.
For a fraction of a second, none of them could make a sound.
Then Dick dropped to his knees beside him, fingers instantly pressing against Bruce’s neck, searching desperately for a pulse. Jason swore under his breath, low and ragged, backing up a step as if the sight physically hit him. Tim was already scanning the counters, looking for a phone, a kit, something, while Damian’s voice broke the air.
“Baba?”
But Bruce didn’t stir. His chest stayed still.
The steady presence that had carried all of them for so long lay motionless on the cold tile, the sound of their hurried breaths the only thing filling the room.
——————
Dick’s knees hit the tile hard, but he barely felt it. The world narrowed to the still figure in front of him. The body that couldn’t be still, not like this, not now. Bruce’s eyes were half closed, unfocused, his chest unmoving. The color had drained from his skin so fast it didn’t seem real.
“Dad,” Dick whispered, but it came out broken, his voice trembling even as he pressed harder against Bruce’s shoulder. “Hey, come on… Bruce, wake up.”
He shook him once, gently, then again, harder this time. Nothing.
His breath hitched. It couldn’t be happening. They had just been talking an hour ago, maybe less. Bruce had been smiling, teasing, alive in every way possible. He’d been happy. They all had.
“No, no, no…” The words tumbled out under his breath as he leaned closer, his hands moving automatically, tilting Bruce’s head back, checking for a pulse again, finding nothing but stillness. His fingers were shaking so badly it made it hard to tell if the faint movement he wanted to feel was real.
“Come on, Dad. Please.”
He pressed his palm against Bruce’s sternum, as if he could will his heart to start again. The same heart that had carried so much. through battles, through grief, through all of them. It couldn’t just stop. Not after tonight. Not after finally getting them back.
Jason was pacing just behind him, jaw tight, breathing hard, but Dick barely noticed. The edges of his vision blurred; the sound of his own pulse drowned everything else.
He pressed his forehead against Bruce’s shoulder for half a heartbeat before forcing himself upright again. “You’re not— you’re not gone. You can’t be.”
The silence didn’t answer.
It was impossible, unbearable, how quiet the room had become.
——————
The flashing red and blue lights painted the walls of Wayne Manor in color that didn’t belong there. Sirens wailed somewhere beyond the gates, too loud and too far all at once. The ambulance had arrived quickly, faster than any of them could process, but the world felt sluggish, muted, like time itself had faltered.
The paramedics moved with practiced urgency, voices clipped and calm as they worked over Bruce’s body. Gloves snapped. Bags opened. Machines beeped. But none of it seemed real.
Dick stood off to the side, his hands still stained with soap and water from the sink, chest heaving. He couldn’t remember dropping to his knees, couldn’t remember how long he’d been doing compressions before the sirens reached the driveway. He only knew his father hadn’t opened his eyes.
Jason’s back was pressed to the nearest wall, hands buried in his hair, eyes fixed on the paramedics but not really seeing them. He didn’t move when one of them brushed past him. Didn’t react when a voice shouted for space. His jaw worked silently, clenching and unclenching like he was trying to bite down on the reality unraveling in front of him.
Tim stood nearest to the kitchen counter, phone still in his trembling hand. His voice had broken halfway through the emergency call. now it was gone completely. His knuckles were white, his eyes glassy. He kept watching the rise and fall of the paramedic’s shoulders, counting every motion like it would add up to something. like it would make sense if he just focused hard enough.
Damian was the closest. He hadn’t moved since they’d pulled Dick back to give the medics space. His face was blank, but his breathing was shallow, uneven. He watched as the defibrillator paddles pressed against Bruce’s chest, the sound of the shock cutting through the air like a gunshot. The jolt made Bruce’s body lift slightly, then fall still again.
Each command echoed through the kitchen. Each shock carried less hope than the last.
The machines continued to beep, flat and steady, and the paramedics’ calm began to crack just slightly around the edges. tiny shifts in tone, in posture, in the rhythm of their movements.
Dick’s heart dropped every time they paused. Every time they exchanged glances without speaking. Every time the seconds stretched too long between one instruction and the next.
The sound of latex gloves. The whine of the monitor. The thud of footsteps. It all blurred together.
The lead paramedic straightened, eyes soft with the look they all recognized from too many nights on rooftops and in alleys. He murmured something to his team that none of them heard, then reached down to turn off the machine.
The sound it left behind was sickening.
They watched in stillness as a white sheet was draped carefully over Bruce’s body. The movement was gentle, reverent. The care you give when there’s nothing else left to do.
For a long moment, no one breathed.
They had only just come home. Only just started to remember what it felt like to belong again. And now, just like that, it was gone.
Bruce Wayne was gone.
The four of them stood there in the dim kitchen, surrounded by broken porcelain and cooling water, unable to move, unable to believe it. still waiting for their father to take another breath that would never come.