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After Tim’s missing spleen came to light, Bruce mandated complete physical workups for every single Bat once every six months. Just in case any of his other children were also secretly missing organs and lying about it.
It was how he found out about Damian’s spinal grafts. And whatever was going on with Cass’s hormones. They still hadn’t figured that one out, actually.
Everyone was lectured for not informing him.
There were no excuses accepted for missing the physical. Alfred and Leslie endorsed this policy wholeheartedly, and they were very effective enforcers.
Unfortunately, “every Bat in Gotham” includes Bruce himself, despite the fact that he knows he isn’t missing any body parts. Apparently he to “set a good example” and “not be a massive fucking hypocrite.”
He stood on the scale in Leslie’s office boredly. It was rare to be there, without any of his family having a life-threatening emergency. Well. It used to be rare.
Now he comes every six months.
Leslie frowned. “You’ve lost weight,” she said. “Thirty pounds. How’s your appetite been?”
Bruce ate when Alfred placed food in front of him, truthfully, and he often didn’t even finish that, too caught up in his work or his children’s discussions. Several people had taken him to task recently over his habits. “Hrn,” he said. “Lackluster, I suppose.”
“I’d like to run some blood tests,” Leslie said.
“You already drew blood.”
“That was for different tests. Now I need more blood.”
Bruce’s lips thinned.
“What about pain? Does anything hurt?”
As usual, Bruce’s body was just large bruise, and he was contentedly ignoring that, as he had for the past twenty-five years.
“As you know, I received a concussion three days ago,” he started. “I have several healing lacerations and contusions. There is some slight pain remaining from my previously broken arm.”
“You took the cast off too soon.”
“In your opinion.”
“In my licensed, medical opinion, yes,” she said. “Anything else?”
“Just my usual aches and pains.”
“And what are those?”
“My spine,” he said easily. He knew what a miracle his healing there had been. He didn’t take it for granted. “My knees and shoulders. And a bit of stomach pain.”
“Stomach pain?” she asked. “Can you describe it?”
“Just under my ribs. It starts at my back and wraps all the way around. I believe it’s related to my spinal injury.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, I’ll be the judge of that. Lay back.”
She palpated the area, identifying precisely where the pain was, asking him further questions all the while. Was it stabbing or throbbing? Did it hurt when he ate? When did he first notice it? Are there times when it’s worse?
Leslie’s face grew paler with every word he spoke.
Bruce started to think maybe he should have come in earlier.
The blood tests came back.
Cancer. Pancreatic cancer. Stage three.
The five-year survival rate was 13%. If it was caught early, in the best case scenario, before the disease had really started to spread. Up to 10% of people even lived to one day become disease free.
But Bruce didn’t have the best case scenario. He had caught it late. Attributed all his symptoms to his lifestyle. Ignored weight loss, wrote it off as lifestyle and stress. Ignored the slight yellowing in his eyes, wrote it off as too many late nights. Ignored irregularities in bathroom excretions because he did not tend to think deeply on that topic.
And now he had a tumor instead of a pancreas.
He called all of his children. Asked if they could please make it a point to come to Sunday brunch that weekend. Implied it was important without outright saying it. It wasn’t an unusual request for him, and he didn’t want to scare them. Not before he had to.
Alfred served his favorite on Sunday. He didn’t know yet, either. But he suspected, Bruce thought. Nothing specific, but Bruce had been withdrawn since his physical. He had called off patrol twice.
It hadn’t been safe. He had been too up in his head to focus. An unfocused vigilante was a dead one.
Though he’d be a dead one soon anyway, he thought morbidly.
The children—adults, mostly—they were all adults now except for two (three, but he’d given Helena to Selina this weekend. She was so young. He would tell her separately)—piled into chairs at the big dining room table, chattering amiably. Bright and happy and carefree. Everyone was actually getting along for once. In a good mood and present.
Even his Jaylad was here.
Bruce fought back tears. He couldn’t cry. Not in front of them. He had to be strong.
He was their father.
Alfred served up food, a homey dish that was actually an old recipe of Thomas Wayne’s, biscuits and gravy, and Bruce touched him just above his wrist.
“Alfred,” he said. “Will you please sit with us?”
“Yeah, Alfie, please?” Jason said.
The older man looked around seven pleading faces. “Very well,” he said. “Just this once, I suppose.”
The kids cheered. Dick rushed off to the kitchen to bring out spare plateware. Alfred took one of the remaining empty seats.
The main dining table could seat ten. There was a larger one in the proper dining hall that could seat twenty-two, but they only used it on special occasions. Holidays and the like. Or whenever his children brought entire crowds of their friends over. They all had so many friends. Bruce could never keep their names straight.
Damian and Tim fought over the bowl of croissants, as if there weren’t plenty of croissants for the both of them. Dick was making bad puns and chatting excitedly about his work at the gymnastics center. It suited him so much more than any of his other many jobs had. Bruce was proud of him.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
Everyone at the table snapped to attention.
“What the hell, old man, you dying or something?” Jason asked. Duke elbowed him.
Oh.
Hmm. It was the perfect opportunity…
No, he should wait until after dinner.
“…I know I don’t express this enough,” he said instead. “But I am immensely proud of all of you. You’re all such wonderful children, wonderful people. I am honored to have known the people that you’ve grown into. I love you all.”
Dead silence.
Was he truly so bad a father? That such a statement from him was so shocking?
What a wasted life, if so.
His children were the only thing that mattered.
Dick was blinking rapidly. “Thanks,” he croaked out. “Thank you, Bruce. That means a lot.”
He nodded, and the conversation moved on. Duke had an upcoming science project. Damian was angling to create his own junior hero team, and was debating who to recruit, as if it wouldn’t end up being all of his friends and then some. Tim wanted to discuss the absorption of a small tech company by Wayne Enterprises with him.
Cass had just been offered the spot of prima ballerina by the Gotham Ballet. Everyone congratulated her. She would be performing as Odette in Swan Lake two months from now. Everyone swore they would be in attendance.
Two months. Bruce had more than two months. He would get to see his little girl have her shining moment in the spotlight at least one more time.
Dick was talking about how Mar’i was finally learning to fly, bumbling around his and Kory’s house like an awkward little bee. He had bought his toddler an unreasonable number of butterfly and fairy and bumble costumes. He had hundreds, if not thousands, of pictures.
The only one who didn’t have any civilian news to share was Jason.
“Jason,” Bruce said, trying to keep his voice gentle. “Have you ever thought about going back to school?”
Once again, the table quieted. Bracing for a fight. An explosive argument between the two of them.
Bruce wished he could talk to his children normally, like other fathers did. It was easier for him to defuse a bomb than to navigate a conversation. Why couldn’t he be…
Jason rolled his eyes. “I’m not putting any of my aliases through college. If I need to fake a degree, it’s easier just to forge the documents.”
“Not one of your aliases,” Bruce said. “As Jason Peter Todd.”
“I’m legally dead, B, remember? Or you going senile in your old age?”
“You don’t have to be,” he said. “I could have you resurrected.”
The table was dead silent.
“Like, for real?” Jason asked. Guarded. Cagey. Why?
Hadn’t Bruce offered this before? He could have sworn he had. The papers had been sitting in his desk for years.
He nodded. “Of course,” he said. “I know… you have your problems with me, so if you don’t want to be publicly associated with the Waynes, I have ways of keeping the matter discreet. If that’s what you want.”
“Oh,” Jason seemed to deflate.
“But you’d be ecstatic if he’d come back publicly as Jason Wayne, right?” Dick said tightly.
Bruce nodded again. “Of course,” he said. “I don’t want you to feel any pressure. I know you always hated galas—”
“Bruce,” Jason said, strained. “Fucking bring me back to life. What’s the cover story? What do I have to say?”
“I have curated three main options,” he said. He spent the next ten minutes discussing them with his son. The rest of the table moved on, filled with side conversations and sibling teasing.
Finally, the meal started winding down.
Dick stood up to stretch, and Bruce held up a staying hand.
“Before you all go,” he said. “I have something to announce.”
Dick sat back down, face grim. Everyone’s face was grim. Alfred set the stack of plates he had been clearing down, sitting back in his seat as well. Hands folded in his lap, eyes seeming so old at once.
He knew, didn’t he?
“I have cancer,” he said.
And he had thought the table had gone quiet before.
“Pancreatic. Stage three,” he continued. “Leslie has referred me to an oncologist. He estimates that I have between six and eleven months left.”
It felt like no one was breathing.
“Does anyone have any questions?” he asked.
Cass got up and walked over to him. She crawled into his lap and wrapped her arms around him, laying her head on his shoulder. He returned the hug.
Jason stood up too, but he looked angry.
“Jay—”
“Don’t,” he said. “I need to be alone right now.”
And then he was gone.
No one said a word.
It was on Bruce to keep going. This was an important discussion. He had to take charge.
He was their father.
“I’m going to be having a pancreatectomy next week,” he said. “It should remove the entire tumor and most of my pancreas. I will take the night before off patrol, as well as the weeks following—”
“You’re retiring,” Dick cut in. It wasn’t a question. “Effective immediately.”
He paused.
He had considered the same. But a transition plan was necessary.
“We can discuss the transition at a later time,” he said.
“No,” Tim said. “No, Bruce, Batman is done. You’re done.”
Cass hugged him tighter.
Damian was glaring down at his empty plate. Duke looked terrified.
He supposed the idea of him risking his life every night just became a lot scarier.
“Fine,” he said. It was something he could do for them, at least. As one final gift.
“I’ll be Batman,” Cass said quietly.
And that was that. The transition plan decided.
“I’d appreciate it if you all kept this quiet for now,” he said. “Just until I tell Helena and Selina.”
He could practically see Dick’s mind whirring. “I’ll take custody of Duke and Damian.”
Duke shook his head. “You already have your own kid to worry about. I’m sixteen. I’ll get emancipated. Like Tim did.”
Dick nodded. “Alright. I’ll help with the process, at least. Damian?”
Damian continued to stare at his plate. “I would be amenable to living with you. If it is not too much trouble.”
“Never, little D. Never.”
“Thank you,” Bruce said. “You’re a wonderful father, Dick. I appreciate you doing this.”
He saw his son’s heart shatter. “Thank you.”
Alfred stood quietly. He picked up the stack of dishes again.
Like that, they cleared out.
Telling Helena was hard.
He told Selina first. So that she could at least be prepared to comfort their daughter.
“Cancer?” she said, knuckles white around her teacup.
He nodded. “I have less than a year.”
She took a quick sip.
“Will Dick… am I going to have to fight for custody here?”
“No. No, of course not,” he said. “Dick is already taking in Damian. Duke is getting emancipated.”
“Good. Good. I mean, not good, but—” she drew in a breath. “Thank you.”
He smiled wryly. “Everyone keeps thanking me. I haven’t done anything.”
“They’re thanking you for being you. For being a part of their lives,” she explained. “Thank you, Bruce.”
They were quiet for a moment. Selina sipped her tea. Bruce basked in the quiet. It was never awkward, with her.
“How do you want to tell Helena?”
“I was thinking of doing it tonight.”
Selina shook her head. “No. She has school tomorrow. You’ll do it on a Friday, so she has time to process.”
He nodded. “Any other specifications?”
She thought. “Spend the day with her. Before. I’ll take her out of school for the day.” Her mouth quirked. “Certainly won’t be the only day she’s missing anytime soon.”
“She has a college fund,” Bruce said. “Separate from her trust fund. And her inheritance. I’ve contacted my lawyers to revise my will; make sure it’s up to date. She’ll be taken care of. So will you.”
“I don’t need your money, Bruce,” she said softly. “I need you.”
He had nothing to say to that.
He took one of her hands in his own.
They sat like that, quietly, for long minutes.
Bruce took Helena out to Amusement Mile. They rode the rollercoaster, the merry-go-round, the Ferris wheel. They played dozens of different carnival games. Bruce showed her how to win despite the rigging, when it was possible.
She picked out a giant Batman plush.
They got corndogs and funnel cake.
“I can’t wait to be Robin,” Helena said dreamily. “I’m gonna be the best partner you ever had. You’ll see.”
“We can’t talk about that right now,” he said quietly. His heart panged. Helena would never be his Robin. He had promised her. Years ago. Everyone had promised her; even Damian had sworn to pass on the mantle when she was ready and he was an adult.
She had just begun her basic self-defense training last year. She was going to be granted Cave access on her tenth birthday.
She would never be the Robin to his Batman.
Bruce was sad. He was also… grateful.
His little girl deserved better. She deserved to be kept safe. He never should have let Dick go out as Robin in the first place; never should have started this horrible tradition.
Bruce took Helena’s hand. He shifted the giant Batman plush under his other arm. They left the amusement park.
Helena cried.
She was the first to do so. Bruce didn’t know what that said about him. About his family.
She kept trying to stop her tears. Muffling herself and trying to keep a stiff upper lip.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay, sweetheart, you can cry. Let it all out.”
She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. Bruce sat next to her on the couch, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She burrowed into his side. Latched on viciously.
He rubbed her arm soothingly, murmuring reassurances. He wasn’t sure what good it did.
Bruce stayed at Selina’s the whole weekend. Helena practically followed him from room to room.
It was his week, next, and he bundled her in his car and brought her with him to the manor.
The pancreatectomy snuck up on him. He wasn’t sure how a week had already passed.
Time was flying so quickly. It was terrifying.
Dick, Cass, and Tim came with him. For support.
The surgery itself went well. He was encouraged to walk laps around the hospital halls immediately after, to get his blood flowing and kickstart his new digestive system. Dick came with him. If he leaned on his son a bit, no one commented.
He just felt so weak. It was so foreign. He was Batman.
Had been Batman.
When he returned to his room, Tim was interrogating the doctor. Taking notes on his phone. Cass was staring at the poor man like he was a bug under a microscope.
“—Potential diabetes,” the doctor said.
“Any other warning signs we should watch out for?” Tim asked.
“A pancreatic leak is a concern,” the doctor said. “But that will heal itself on its own, typically. Watch for pain. If it hasn’t gone away within a week or so, contact us. Other issues could be oral thrush, which is white spots in the mouth. We’re going to prescribe pancreatic enzyme replacement therapy. These are tablets that your father will take with his food. They should help with digestion in the way the pancreas is meant to.”
Bruce sat back down in his hospital bed. He would be getting a printout of all of this when he was discharged, he knew. And Tim had done plenty of research. He probably already knew all of this.
Cass continued to stare like she was dissecting the doctor with her eyes. “You are… smart?”
“Uh,” the doctor laughed nervously. They were young. Early thirties, Bruce estimated, around Dick’s age. “Well. I did graduate in the, uh, top ten of my class at John Hopkins. I assure you, your father is getting the best possible care in Gotham.”
“Not the world?” Cass asked. “Where is better?”
“Cassandra,” Bruce said. “Leave him alone. This is a good hospital. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“You mean this is your father’s hospital,” Tim muttered. Bruce probably wasn’t meant to hear it.
It was true. They were in the Dr. Thomas Wayne Memorial Wing of Gotham Mercy, in a private room with Wayne splashed above the door. Bruce had a team of ten doctors on his case. The Chief of Surgery had performed his operation personally. He had spoken with the hospital CEO twice.
Nevertheless, Bruce had faith in their treatment capabilities. Gotham Mercy was world-renowned. And, well, if he did have to go to an outside specialist, then he would cross that bridge when he got there.
Bruce was diagnosed with diabetes two weeks later. He was put on a strict, specialized diet.
It was a struggle to follow it. Not because he wanted to eat different foods. But because he didn’t want to eat anything. A spoonful of oatmeal was enough to fill him up now, rather than multiple bowls for an active, vigilante lifestyle. He could barely stomach anything but the blandest foods.
Alfred kept making him dozens of tiny snacks throughout the day, hoping they would be easier to consume. And they were, after a fashion. Bruce ate between 5-10 “meals” per day, but each meal was the portion you would give to a toddler, not a grown man.
Alfred kept cooking. Baking. The kitchen was overflowing. The kids kept coming by and taking away leftovers to their own houses, and they still had to donate the excess to local food pantries.
The entire Manor was spotless as well. Alfred was running himself ragged.
Bruce decided to broach the subject with him. Gently. Carefully.
“Alfred,” he said. “Have you ever thought about… retiring?”
“Retiring?!” Alfred asked, scandalized, like Bruce had just suggested he strip naked and dance through the streets. “I assure you, Master Bruce, no such thought has ever entered my mind! To think that I would abandon you in your time of need is preposterous! I am insulted that you think so lowly of me. If you attempt to force me into retirement, I will sue for ageist discrimination, and I’ll have you know—”
Bruce held up his hands placatingly. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said. “I just meant that perhaps you could… slow down. Take some time off.”
“Time off?! Is my work unsatisfactory to you, sir?” he asked, voice dripping ice.
“No. No, of course not. And you would be welcome to continue living in the Manor. I… I think of you as a surrogate father, Alfred, and I hate to see you pushing yourself like this. You should know the Manor is deeded to you when I die. It’s always been more yours than mine, anyway.”
He looked shocked. “You aren’t leaving it to one of your children?”
“No. They’ll come visit, anyway,” he said. “You’re their grandfather.”
Alfred had nothing to say to that.
Alfred started taking Saturdays off. Everyone was relieved and ecstatic. The children made it a point not to even enter the Manor on Saturdays, learning quickly that he would feel compelled to take care of them.
Bruce tried to be as unobtrusive as possible.
The two of them watched tv together in their pajamas, or laid around in the library, reading.
Bruce, for the first time in his life, got to make Alfred tea.
He was in the Batsuit for the last time in his life. He stepped out of the zeta tube and strode down the Watchtower halls, the picture of confidence and strength. Batman, indomitable.
Cassandra was at his right hand. The new Batman, waiting to be announced.
J’onn had been the first to arrive. Bruce took his seat at the head of the table. Other members filtered in. Bruce had limited this meeting to the founders and a few other core leaders. An official announcement would have to be made later, but the League’s leadership would need to decide as a group how to handle that. It was a delicate subject.
“Alright, Batsy, what’s this about? Quarterly expenses again?” Hal asked, feet up on the table and crossed at the ankles. Bruce frowned.
“No,” he said. “I am resigning from the Justice League, effective immediately.”
“What?!”
Many people were talking all at once. Everyone was protesting and throwing out questions, accusations.
Bruce held up one hand. “I am not finished,” he said. “I have also retired from active duty as Batman in Gotham. This took place three weeks ago. I apologize for not telling you until now.”
“Bruce, why? What’s going on? Did something happen?” Clark asked.
“I have cancer,” he said bluntly. “Terminal. I will be dead within the year.”
Faces paled and eyes widened. Oliver sucked in a breath.
“Batgirl has assumed my Gotham responsibilities, as well as the mantle of Batman. I would appreciate your supporting her in this endeavor.”
Cass stepped forward out of the shadows. “Hi,” she said. “I am the new Batman.”
“So, what? She’s taking over your role in the Justice League as well?” Barry asked.
Both Batmen—current and former—nodded.
“Look forward to working with you all,” she said.
“Would you prefer to be called Batwoman or Batman?” Diana asked gently.
“Batman,” Cass said. “Batwoman is something different. Different duties. I am Batman.”
“Well, she’s already got her lines down,” Hal said. “I can’t believe this. Cancer? Is there anything we can do?”
Bruce shook his head. “Even if you discovered the cure for cancer today, mine has already progressed too far,” he said. “It’s been an honor working with you all. I am proud to have fought at your sides. Thankful that you allowed me to take part in such meaningful work. To take a leadership role, even, despite my limitations. I hope you will extend my daughter the same courtesy.”
“We will,” Diana said firmly. She turned to face Cass—to face Batman. Took one of her hands in her own. “Welcome to the Justice League, Batman.”
Bruce went home after the meeting and hung up the cowl for the last time.
He crawled into bed.
The cancer progressed to stage four. It was in Bruce’s stomach and his lungs.
Six to eleven months became three to eight months.
He had more surgeries. A Whipple procedure. They started chemo and radiation. The treatment plan was highly aggressive and diversified. His doctors were attacking the cancer from every angle.
It had been five weeks since his diagnosis when Bruce’s hair started falling out.
He spent a lot of time in bed, these days. It was hard to find things to do. He consulted on casework, but didn’t take any cases on himself. He didn’t want to stumble onto anything big on accident and then not be around to finish it. He wound up watching the news a lot.
His children were over constantly. Bruce didn’t think he had seen them this much even when they all actually lived with him. Dick brought over Mar’i frequently as well. Bruce didn’t go more than a few days without seeing his granddaughter, now.
He loved it. He was bored out of his skull, but he was so happy.
Clark and Diana were over a lot as well. Half the Justice League turned up at his house, at one point or another. “Batman has cancer” had well and truly made its way through the rumor mill.
The League had decided to send out an internal announcement to all members, but nothing had been said to the public. Not yet. Though people were asking questions. Batman had been seen fighting aliens and saving the world and going out in space numerous times already, noticeably almost a foot shorter and female. People had linked Batman to the former Batgirl. They had questions.
The old Batman is dead, long live the new Batman.
Jason had blurted that out the other day, then paled and clapped a hand over his mouth. Bruce had laughed.
He was right. Long live the new Batman.
It was one of Bruce’s dearest hopes.
They had to take out his stomach and part of his left lung.
Bruce had lost well over fifty pounds by now. He was thin and bony. Weak as a kitten. A strong wind could blow him over.
He looked like he had cancer.
Between the frailty and the hair loss, he looked like he had aged twenty years in the past two months.
He was constantly nauseous. There was a touch of internal bleeding after the stomach removal, but the doctors were able to fix it. He also had issues with bile reflux. It was minor, in his opinion. Just some heartburn and stomach pain. And, of course, the nausea.
Eating was so hard, these days. Even just the sight or smell of food made him sick anymore. Typically, the only things he could manage now were the blandest of options: plain oatmeal, noodle soup, jello, things like that.
He was so tired.
He was so tired of everything.
He spent a lot of time sleeping. Jason would sit next to his bed sometimes and read. Like how Bruce had done for him when he was little and sick.
Bruce was so proud of him. Coming legally back to life had done him wonders. He was in college for nonprofit management. Tim had tapped him to head up the Wayne Foundation once he graduated—it was separate from the business, and it was perfect for Jason. It would do him so much good to be making a difference outside of the mask. And it made Bruce’s heart warm to know family would be in charge of the Foundation again.
That hadn’t been the case since Martha passed. The Foundation had been her passion project. She had created it wholesale. Firmly believed that a business with as much money as Wayne Enterprises should be doing good in the world, and then set out to make it happen.
His mother, the philanthropist.
His son, the philanthropist.
He tripped and fell walking down the stairs. Tumbled down the last three steps.
His children rushed him. Dick was already helping him up.
“Are you okay?” Steph asked. Cass was clutching her hand with white knuckles on the couch.
“That’s the third time you’ve fallen,” Tim said.
“I’m fine,” he huffed. Dick helped ease him into a nearby seat. “I have cancer, not osteoporosis. I’m not gonna break a hip.”
“You could,” Cass said.
“Have you thought about using a walker?” Jason asked casually.
“I don’t need a walker.”
“That’s the third time you’ve fallen,” Tim repeated. “That we know of.”
“I just overexerted myself. Don’t have the lung capacity I used to. I get tired,” he said.
“So tired you fall down the stairs?” Jason asked. “What if that had happened at the top of the steps, Bruce? What if that’s what happens next time?”
“I’ll start using the elevators. Is that fine with you all?” he asked. His children nodded, hesitant. “Good.”
Two days later, he was in a walker.
They had to take out more of his lungs.
Bruce started using supplementary oxygen. A cannula in his nose and an air tank he had to lug around. It was on wheels.
Thank god. He was a little afraid he was no longer strong enough to push or carry the thing.
Four months into his diagnosis, Bruce moved out of the master bedroom. It was too far from the elevator. The walk was too long, too much for him.
He moved into a downstairs bedroom. No one used the downstairs bedrooms, ever, but they existed. It was technically servants’ quarters, but spacious nonetheless.
He rarely went out anymore. Mainly he moved from his new bedroom to the bathroom to the kitchen to the library. Him and Alfred. Like it used to be.
The kids were over every single day now. Saturdays or not. Their worry was palpable.
Bruce didn’t have long, now.
It was in remission.
It was in remission.
They removed all the cancerous cells. The chemo and radiation were working.
Bruce took fifteen different drugs in a single day. He had eight alarms set on his phone and tablet to remind him what to take and when. Alfred had the same, and most of his children had snooped and found the list and pestered him constantly about it. He couldn’t go one hour without being reminded to take something or asked if he had taken it earlier.
He would deal with it. He would deal with it all. The retirement and the oxygen tank and the walker and everything.
Dick threw a party after his second PET scan came up clean.
He fitted his father with a brightly colored party hat. “You have to be festive,” he said. “You’re the guest of honor. It’s your party!”
“Dick, we all know this is for your benefit,” he teased.
Dick gasped in faux shock, hand over his heart. “How dare you, sir! Accusing me of throwing a party just for fun—the audacity!”
Jason lobbed a spoonful of cake at the back of his head. Damian retaliated for his big brother, and Jason was all too happy to wrestle the little squirt.
Bruce smiled.
He didn’t even try to intervene.
The cancer was back not even two weeks later.
“…The next few days, probably,” Dr. Wilson said.
Bruce’s heart panged.
Cass and Tim and Damian and Helena had tears in their eyes. Selina pulled Helena to her chest. The others looked as stoic as ever, grim and carved from stone.
Alfred sat down heavily. Dick moved to comfort him.
“I would say your goodbyes,” Dr. Wilson said. She nodded solemnly and excused herself, closing the door softly behind her.
He tried saying goodbye. He couldn’t do it.
He wrote everyone letters instead, to be opened after his death. He just… he just couldn’t. He couldn’t get the words out. Couldn’t even think of all the myriad things he wanted to say when his family was actually in the room with him.
Dick,
You were the first light of my life. I love you. You made me realize that life could be worth living. That there was something for me outside of the Mission. I can never thank you enough, for all you’ve done for me and for your siblings. I put too much on you. I see that now. I won’t make excuses…
Tim,
I love you. Never forget that you were my son and I loved you. You have made me immensely proud over the years, in ways I never expected. I am so grateful that you came into my life and chose to stay…
Cass,
You’ve always been the child most like me. Please never let the shadow of Batman darken you. You’re better than that. Better than me. I have faith that you can keep yourself whole. Don’t be afraid to rely on others and put yourself first. If you have to put the Mission on hold or drop it entirely, do so. You’re more important. I love you…
Jason,
I am so sorry for all the ways that I’ve failed you over the years. I’m sorry, most of all, for the fact that the we only reconciled in the final years of my life. Life without you was not worth living. You’re my son. Above all else, I love you…
Duke,
I know you still feel like you don’t fit in with the family, but please don’t push your siblings away. I consider you my child just as much as them, and I know they see you as an equal sibling. Our family will always be there for you, no matter what happens with your parents. I love you, and I hope you know…
Helena,
You may not remember me well, but I hope you keep this letter. Your siblings and your mother have probably told you a lot about me. I know we only had a short few years together, but I loved every second I got to spend with you. I love you. Never doubt…
Damian,
Know that no matter what you do with your life, I will be proud of you. Just you being yourself makes me immensely proud. I’m sorry I wasn’t a bigger part of your life. Watching you bloom into the great young man you are today has been one of my greatest privileges in life. I love you…
Alfred dropped the plate. Bruce resisted the urge to stoop down and help clean. He’d just be shooed away.
“You’re out of bed,” Alfred said.
“I am,” he said. “I’m feeling… well.”
“I’ll call Dr. Wilson immediately,” he said. “Children! Come! Your father’s up!”
The streak lasted seven days. Then Bruce was back in bed.
They had five more scares. Five more times they were told it would happen in “the next few days.”
Bruce pulled through every one.
He was in a lot of pain, anymore. The painkillers didn’t work. Not strong enough. And opioids rendered him unable to even recognize his children, let alone speak to them.
Though his head was getting foggier and foggier, no matter what he did. He was losing time. He was in and out of sleep constantly, living off broth, breathing through the pain, mumbling at the vague figures of his loved ones.
The Last Good Day came and went without anyone recognizing it for what it was.
Bruce laid in bed, eyes half-lidded. He was too weak to hold Alfred’s hand anymore.
His entire family was gathered around him. They had been told “any day now” again, two days ago.
It wasn’t fair to them. This constant swinging back and forth, toying with their emotions. Bruce wished he could just die already so they could finally move on and get started on healing.
He wouldn’t do anything. Of course. He would never. But.
But.
He closed his eyes.
On October 17th, Bruce Wayne closed his eyes and never opened them again.