theknightshift | inbox (etraya)

( five words. five little words — if you can't handle this — is all it takes for the parts of him there to crack. )

All I've ever done since coming here is handle this. Handle your messes.

( with damian, mostly, as it had been the two of them for a year together almost, before he left and came back... smaller... different. but then there'd been jason who he'd taken in — who he'd made the effort to try and bring around so as not to be on his own given how much of himself and his anger he saw in the kid. anger over things the bruce wayne he knew had done or said or hadn't. )

Trying to fix what you and him broke in these children.

( damian, jason. the things he's heard about their fathers — the bruce waynes they know. )

[ It's subtle, but Bruce's jaw tightens. His messes like this man had any right to judge him when he's not even taken off the training wheels. Like he knows what he's talking about when this life hasn't squeezed him until he broke. He's not had his back broken across Bane's knee. He hasn't sucked down Ivy's pollen or Crane's toxin. He hasn't had his heart broken over and over and over again and been expected to keep going.

He doesn't know shit. ]

Then why are you here whining to me? Go fix them. Since you seem to know how.

[ He has a suit to repair. Run along, baby Bruce. ]

( this is pointless. he doesn’t even know why he bothered coming here. why he thought this man — this other version of himself could offer even the slightest bit of help with this — with their son that isn’t just deal with it.

so his own jaw tightens, hand curls into a fist at his side and it takes everything within him to not lash out with all that anger and guilt and heartache boiling over through the cracks in his armour right then and there. it takes everything within him to not and yet, as he turns, cape billowing behind him and steps heavy as he starts to leave, he can’t help but say and with such vitriol: )

Yeah. While I’m at it, I’ll be sure to save Alfred, too, since you couldn’t even do that.

[ Bruce had been content to let this argument go. He'd been content to let this man walk out of here without another insult because it was pointless to keep speaking with him when he was letting his emotions cloud his judgement. He's still young. He hasn't learned how to stop doing that. So he gets back to work, picks up his tools and tries to forget this conversation happened at all.

Then he says that and Bruce's grip on the tool in his hand tightens. He had a million ways to drive in the knife. It seems he chose the worst one. In an instant he whirls around and throws the tool in his hand, aiming for where the suit connects, where it's typically weakest. Bruce would make him eat those words, if he had to punch them back into his mouth. ]

( he knew the reaction his words would spark the moment they left his lips. that had been the point after all. to twist the knife between the cracks of his armour just a little harder — make him really feel it as a sort of screw you for everything that’s happened. he knew the topic — the loss of alfred would be too difficult of a pain to ignore or swallow down and it’s why the moment he feels that tool lodge itself between the weak spots of his suit, he accepts it, even if he stumbles forward from the impact.

the sound that leaves him is sharp and gargled and he wastes no time in throwing a batarang of his own back towards his counterpart, hearing the way it slices through the air for him. the tool is pulled out — clatters to the ground the moment it’s dropped, and he’s coming at him. fast. heavy. filled with an anger and a heartache that neither of them ever truly admit to. not even with themselves. it overrides the pain from the injury, an adrenaline all on its own. but he comes at him regardless. intending to throw a punch at him even if he knows it’s charged with emotion. just like at the subway station. just like in the alley. )

[ He hates himself for it because he recognized it for what it was the minute it seeped into his brain: bait. He wanted a reaction and Bruce, stupid, silly, emotional Bruce gave it to him. But those words had cut deep and this man had the audacity to say them like he understood that kind of pain. Like putting on the cowl gave him permission to judge when he'd barely even scratched the surface of what this life meant.

And Bruce couldn't let him get away with it.

The batarang slices into his shoulder, cuts deep across the skin and some of the muscle before he embeds itself into the wall behind him. But Bruce didn't care, not about the pain or the blood seeping out of the wound and soaking his shirt. He only cared about pushing forward. The punch lands against his wound as Bruce pivots his body toward it, aiming to drag the other man close so he can use his weight to send him into the workbench. ]

( they've done this dance before. an intimate one of unchecked emotions and exchanged blows against bone and batsuit, some even landing deep across broken hearts. because for all he says about their children being broken in ways neither of them are so sure they can fix, they're both just as broken themselves, if not worse, and their inability to either admit or compromise that with one another is a surefire way for this right here to always happen at some point.

it's a strange and jarring form of self-loathing no one should ever have to endure, yet if anyone would, it would be bruce wayne. of course it would.

he's knocked into the workbench, materials scattering to the floor as he falls over onto the other side of the bench and hits the ground hard. there's a gasp — a possibility of something having lodged itself between the spaces of his suit, but he ignores it as he reaches up to grab the workbench and just barely pulls himself up. spitting out a mouthful of blood, he allows himself a few breaths before he's looking up to his other self, blue eyes shining with a mix of everything there beneath the thick greasepaint. )

Why do we keep losing them?

( he manages to get the words out despite how difficult it is. )

Everyone we care about... why can't we protect them?

( and there's genuine pain there in his voice as he asks that. not from any physical injury having been endured, but from a heart that still breaks every time he deals with a loss. )

[ The worst part is he doesn't have an answer. The question hits him square in the chest and Bruce doesn't know what to say. He can't explain why he can't keep the people he loves more than life itself safe. Knowing that he's not fast enough, good enough, that he can't stretch himself thin enough to cover them all eats away at him like a parasite. It's why he pushes himself so hard. So he can do better. So he can be better and so they won't ever have to suffer again.

The question hits and bites deeper than the batarang had and it takes the fight out of him. He looks at the other Bruce, almost envies him because he hasn't had to live with this gnawing sense of guilt for nearly as long. He still has the choice to keep this life a lonely one. It isn't the same without them. Bruce won't ever say it would be better without them. But at least he'd be spared the heartache. ]

I don't know.

[ the words fall out of his mouth as he presses a hand against the bleeding wound. ]

But I wouldn't trade them. Not any of them. Not for anything.

( one of the many reasons he became batman was so he would never have to go through this again — that he could protect those around him and those who need someone in their corner. because no one else was willing to do it and if he needed to be the one to do it, then he would. even if it seems pointless sometimes with how much the city eats itself and the good people in it. he had to try. yet somehow it seems for all his training, for all the sleepless nights he spends on the streets of gotham, it’s never enough. he’s never enough, and he’s been wrangling with that possibility, that disappointment in himself for awhile now.

he pulls himself up — spits another bit of blood out and wipes at his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. he gives himself a moment. a few slow breaths. arm resting on the workbench he leans on before he’s looking up to his older counterpart. )

I’m sorry… about Alfred. ( he looks down as he says that, eyes falling shut. ) I almost lost him when I returned to Gotham briefly. ( silence. ) I know the fear of that pain and I’m sorry you have to live with it.

( because he understands despite the loss having not happened. the fear itself and the pain that had ripped through him from the sheer possibility of having not been able to save him… he understands.

with a wince, he completely pulls himself up and away from the workbench, reaching back and pulling out another tool that managed to wedge its way between the soft parts of the suit. looking it over, he sets it down on the workbench, bloodied as expected. )

Every time one of them comes here, it seems all I see is how I potentially fail them. How no matter what I do, it’s not going to be enough and I want it to be. Because they deserve that. ( a beat. ) Maybe that’s just being a parent.

( and batman. )

They’re good kids though. ( well. ) A little more than frustrating at times, but. Life’s definitely been different since coming here. Not all bad either.

Edited 2026-01-08 15:43 (UTC)

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