Chapter Text
The wind blows through his ears and his crouched form remains hidden within the shadows, palms of his hands pressing into his eyes and all he can think is: ‘Did it work?’
The earth, his earth, had been destroyed. Shattered into pieces beyond saving, the planets having been pushed against their axes, the stars colliding in moments, thrust against the natural gravitational pull and then it was only nothingness. Something beyond comprehension; matter did not manage, energy could not transfer for it lacked an origin, and existence itself did not exist. It happened, and yet he was the only one to survive when it wasn’t initially supposed to be him.
They’d known beforehand, prepared the best they could, contingency plans upon plans put in place for every scenario but one. The one that took Bruce’s friends, confidantes, and kids. That extinguished hope for any future, be it good or hell.
The wind whistles once, then the device floating in front of him beeps twice, and Bruce blinks three times until the shapes before him materialise into solid objects. It’s dark, as it often is within the alleys of Gotham, be it day or night. Bruce looks down at his own hands and notices the familiarity of the gloves, feels the weight of the cowl on his face. He frowns at the details, at the offputting nature of the material and the design - almost but not quite his own.
A bout of dizziness forces him to suck in a tight breath, head falling back onto the wall. He cringes at the sensation of blood sticking to his side, but feels relief at the fact he feels. He now knows the conversion has been made, the coalescence finalised. Bruce, of another earth, time, and existence, has become one with the Bruce of the world he will come to know.
‘Transfer to Earth-2A8B1O has been completed. Time is currently 03:47. Now commencing self-destruct sequence.’
The device vibrates for a moment before frying its own motherboard, hinges breaking apart and pieces falling to the ground. He stares at the parts for a moment, grabbing what he can and shoving the pieces into a pocket. He stands up, heaving with the stark taste of bile climbing up his throat, and leans against the wall.
“Your counterpart will have died before you could transfer to their body. The device will specifically search for a you that had died within the last thirty minutes.” He remembers the words that he himself had spoken during a league meeting, staring at blue eyes too bright and hopeful for what they all knew would come.
“Despite the fact this is a last resort, you have to be aware that it’s one we possibly have to make so you need to be prepared. For anything. Do you understand?”
“I do, Batman. But honestly? I think we can do it. We’ll save our earth, our galaxy.” Clark had smiled then, grin so large it fired up everyone’s spirits, pushed everyone to want to reach for the stars.
He’d said that a mere three days before he was overpowered and left for dead. Body slammed into the ground, leaving it shattered and concave, leaving Bruce shattered and concave, watching through a screen hundreds of miles away. None of them had been anticipating a being powerful enough to take down the league with ease. Something so mighty it killed them off one by one, leaving Batman for last. Not for his skill or talent, but by pure coincidence alone, and that he hated more than anything.
For it wasn’t his humanity it was after (he figured that out when it killed his kids before he could blink - before he could realise it was even there), nor did it go after the most powerful first (it went after Green Arrow first, amused all the while as his arrows hit the target perfectly and yet fell to the floor to leave behind no mark).
The Anti-Monitor. A cosmic entity born with a need to conquer and destroy - born in a universe not his own and yet he had somehow forced himself into the universe Bruce knew. Towered over it, held it in his hand like it was nothing, overpowered Superman like the man was only a fly to swat away.
Bruce thumbs at the motherboard in his pocket for a moment; knows he should insert it into the computer to figure out what he can about this earth, but a sense of anxiety pulls at him from deep within.
He expects that he will have to mourn. Mourn people he once knew who may not even exist now, mourn memories that may have never occurred and perhaps never will.
His thoughts pause at the feeling of blood between his fingertips, suddenly all too aware of how much blood he’d been losing and just how quickly. He presses a finger under his jaw, against the button that connects him to the comms in the Batcave, letting out a breath when the click rings out. Someone has managed to answer.
“Master Bruce?” A voice crackles in his ear and he startles, breath hitching in surprise at just how quickly the tension leaves the base of his skull at the mere familiarity.
“A?” He whispers, voice rough and forced with the promise of tears. His heart stutters in his chest at the voice of one of the people he considers closest to him, almost hopeful that his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. He has no expectations of this world, no understanding or comprehension of how similar or different it may be. Who may still be alive, what the relationships were amongst others, if they were even in each other’s lives.
“You had me worried, Master Bruce. Your system shut down, the last update that came through said your heart stopped 53 minutes ago.” Alfred’s voice wavers as he speaks, as though he’d been stewing within thoughts too painful to know. The wind howls again through Bruce’s ears, and despite the worried tone he cannot help but smile at the fact that Alfred is still alive - still a figure in his life.
“Just a system malfunction, A.” He stresses through teeth clenched by cold.
“Return to the manor nonetheless. I understand you may wish to patrol for an hour more, however, I am quite reluctant to have you outside of your nest at the moment.”
“I’ll be there soon.” Bruce whispers and drops his hand, pressing his other deeper into the wound at his side. He looks around, stumbling out of the alley and grumbles as he recognises the area and realises his distance from the manor. To have died in an alley so far from home, so unreachable. Bruce almost feels sympathy for his counterpart.
He raises his arm and calls for his car, listening in as it races through secluded streets and stops before him. The door of the car opens. He walks towards it, tripping over his own feet once the support of the wall disappears, and falls in unceremoniously, groaning as the wound pulls. His head falls back and he closes his eyes, autopilot working quickly to close the door and take him back to the manor.
“Master Bruce?” The voice echoes through the car as it speeds, disregarding all traffic lights and signals - there are few cars out at this hour anyway.
“I’m in the Batmobile.” Bruce whispers, eyes shut, tongue pressed between teeth.
“I’ll be awaiting you in the cave. Any injuries?”
Bruce hesitates for a moment before sighing. The injuries his counterpart sustained in addition to the phantom pains he still carries from his fight in his universe have left him exhausted.
“A stab wound. Maybe a concussion.” He huffs, blearily blinking open his eyes and staying still until the pixelated kaleidoscope vision blurs away.
“Then I’ll have a med kit ready as well. See you shortly.” There’s a distinct click! as Alfred seemingly walks away from the computer and rushes to prepare all the materials needed.
Bruce stares at the interior of the car and frowns at the padding layered under him that he definitely wouldn’t have chosen himself. He clicks his tongue and stores the knowledge for later, perhaps this Bruce had preferences for certain materials. His mind wanders to the words Alfred had said; nest, as though Bruce was some bird with a home made of sticks and litter.
The vernacular is different, he surmises, perhaps a nest is simply another word for home. And how nice does that sound, to know that he is heading home.
He reaches out for his phone, glad to know it’s been kept in the same compartment he would’ve placed it in, and types out a name.
Bruce Wayne.
Immediately several news articles come up, spewing rumours about his relationships and recent activities - his eyes pause on one particular title.
‘Gotham’s Beloved Omega Now Considered Undesirable?’
He frowns at his screen, thinks over how the word omega was used on his earth. Knows it only from an alphabet and from several formulas he has learned through his time - none make sense within the context of the article. He reaches into his pocket and at last pulls out the motherboard and inserts it into the computer he’d hidden away under his cape.
‘Information on Earth-2A8B1O now available.’
He reads through the information provided, eyes widening as they skim over the word dynamic. The computer is efficient, information simplified yet descriptive - terms explained in ways that Bruce can logically understand but not emotionally. He reads through the general expectation of every dynamic, of sensitivities to smell amongst alphas and to taste amongst omegas - with betas varying on a scale of two extremes. His breath stutters once he finally reads over who omegas are (he can get what?!), what heats are (he does what?!), and how the anatomy apparently works (just- what?!).
He lists the attributes in his mind - laughs self-deprecatingly when his eyes skim over expected etiquettes of both omegas and alphas, wherein omegas are told to act quiet and feminine (he knows already he never would’ve acted like that, and the proof in the form of video recordings show just that; he is loud and argumentative in this universe, never one to hide away during a gala).
Most articles speak of him as a disgrace, the worst omega imaginable - he raises an eyebrow when the next article calls him the Prince of Gotham and the most beautiful bachelor. He smiles when he finds the article speaking of his children; Dick, Cass, Tim, Damian, they exist though a bit younger than they were on his earth. He finds records of Steph and Duke. He holds his breath when he finds old certificates of Jason Todd (a death certificate that makes him bite his finger so hard it breaks skin through the glove), but nothing else, eyes clenching shut at the possibility of him being truly gone in this world. He decides then that he knows enough for the moment, enough to efficiently pretend to be his counterpart. He turns off the computer and hides it once more, looking to the side instead.
His eyes follow the line of buildings as the car drives past, the moon the only light along a certain street where many of the lamps have long since stopped functioning.
‘I’ll need to get those fixed.’ The thought passes through his mind as the car turns and drives into another street - better equipped for late night strolls. Gotham at least, he infers, looks the same as always.
What isn’t the same however, is the immediate stench that overwhelms him as soon as the cowl comes off.
The car comes to an abrupt stop in the cave and the door opens automatically. He drags himself out of the car with difficulty only to come face to face with Alfred. Alive. Much younger than he was in his own timeline, but alive. Just as he feels the emotions bubbling up in his chest, his cowl is ripped off by the man before him and he takes his first lungful of actual air, unmodified by his cowl, and his eyes immediately clench shut at the smell of pure stress, worry, regret. He doesn’t understand how he can tell through smell alone, how it seems to tell him exactly how Alfred feels (he doesn’t even understand how it is that he knows that it is telling him how Alfred feels). The only thought in mind is criticism towards his own character, at the fact he hadn’t continued reading through the information to realise just how strong and important these scents were.
“Master Bruce.” Alfred’s hands pull him into a quick embrace, and Bruce takes that moment to hide his face in Alfred’s shoulder; where he can block the smell by pressing his nose hard into the other’s bone, breathing through his mouth alone. He thinks he can almost taste the smell when his head spins and he’s pulled away into another set of arms that wrap tightly around his waist.
Fear, worry, stress.
The smell is different and yet communicates such similar feelings, hints of something almost rotten, almost burnt, within the scent.
“Mama. You had us worried.” Bruce’s head spins for a different reason; Mama? His eyes drop down to see a familiar head of hair that curls around the ears and neck, Dick’s face buried in Bruce’s neck.
“Chum?” He whispers softly, hand in Dick’s hair, brushing carefully through the strands.
“You’re hurt.” Dick pulls away and looks up and down with a frown, eyes widening at the hand Bruce holds tightly against his side, at the blood that threatens to drip to the ground from in between calloused fingers.
“Only slightly.” Bruce smiles and gasps in pain when Alfred’s hand falls over his own and presses harder into the wound.
“Not quite, Master Bruce. I believe you may require some stitches.” Alfred’s voice rumbles from behind as Dick pulls Bruce forward towards a pile of clothes in the corner of the cave. Bruce frowns, confused at the bone deep relief that settles within him, within his ribs, the moment he’s placed in the middle of the pile ( Is this a nest? He asks himself).
“Stay here, mama. I’ll let the pups know you’re okay. They were near hysterical at the system malfunction.” Dick smiles softly and brushes away the sweaty strands on Bruce’s forehead.
Bruce only stares in confusion at Dick’s hurried retreating form, eyebrows furrowing as he takes in the word. Pups.
“Master Bruce? I believe you were right about that concussion. You don’t smell right.” Alfred whispers as he settles just outside the pile, head tilted to the side to reveal his neck.
Questioning. Worry. Permission?
A small purr bubbles in Bruce’s throat and it comes out before he even realises, before he can think of a way to stop it. Alfred smiles and slowly settles next to Bruce, on the side of the injury, and pulls away at the hand pressed into the wound. Alfred takes his time to pull away at the Kevlar plates automatically, looking over the wound to ensure it’s stopped bleeding heavily.
Confusion builds within Bruce’s mind - at the words being said, at the smells he can perceive, the sensation of calmness that waves over him at merely being in this pile of laundry, the sound he had just released from his own throat not of his volition. He hadn’t realised just how strong these omega instincts were - worries for a moment that this behaviour is not usual for his counterpart, but Alfred isn’t surprised. Seems the behaviours are ones normal for him here, perhaps his omega nature has allowed him to be more open with his feelings. He will have to study through experience and cannot depend on academic books alone.
Once Bruce is left in an undershirt and leggings Alfred grabs at the med kit and prepares a needle and thread, surgical spirit placed within sight. He pulls up the undershirt only enough to let him work, and Bruce notices the compression against his ribs. Something under his shirt, over his chest and shoulders.
“Master Bruce.” Alfred speaks softly as he finishes the stitches, placing a bandage over the wound. Bruce’s head snaps up and he realises he was falling asleep, sighing as he drops his head back against the wall.
“I cannot allow you to fall asleep. We need to check the severity of that concussion.” Bruce hums, feeling awfully placated and relaxed at the scents that surround him from within the pile. He recognises a few items - not because they’d been bought in his universe but because they so obviously belong to certain people. Dick, Cass, Tim, Damian, and Alfred. He even recognises a few items of Steph’s and Duke’s. Almost convinces himself that one particular maroon leather jacket belongs to Jason. If he pays attention he thinks he would be able to distinguish every scent from the other, be able to tell precisely what every person in this universe smelt like.
The following silence is relaxing, Bruce’s face pressing deep into the clothes around him. The scents overwhelm him but only because he now knows, with some certainty, that several of his children are alive. Dick’s face had shocked him enough that he’d forgotten to react, had acted just as he would’ve any other day before, like he hadn’t watched his oldest son die before his eyes.
“Master Bruce?” Alfred’s voice softens and Bruce lifts his face up, noticing the wetness along his cheeks, the tears that fall down his face. He feels confused at the state of his heightened emotions - he’d expected himself to feel pain, but this overwhelming pain is one he’d only ever once had to experience at such a level (not even when his parents died, he realises, did he feel so bone deep mournful).
Worry. Love. Assurance.
Alfred’s palm settles along his cheek and fingers wipe away at the tears. He offers a smile and Bruce’s breath pauses at the sight - of his family, alive and well.
“You’re okay, Master Bruce. The injury is not grave.” Bruce knows that Alfred is aware the injury doesn’t even hurt, that Bruce has long forgotten it was there, had been so relaxed he didn’t even comprehend the pierce of stitches into his flesh. But Bruce nods because he doesn’t know how to explain that that is not the reason for his tears, doesn’t know how to phrase that he’d missed his family when this universe’s Bruce likely saw them a few hours ago.
Bruce feels more emotions than he had in a long time, feels them bubbling and threatening to escape in sounds he didn’t know a human could make. The hint of a whine escapes his lips before he can clamp it down and he looks away ashamed.
“Master Bruce, if I may be honest?” Alfred whispers quietly as he packs everything and places it just outside the pile of clothing. Bruce nods once.
Alfred takes a deep breath.
Worry. Betrayal. Anxiety.
“Your scent, it…it smells of mourning. And I cannot understand why. Unless the system was correct, and you died, even if only for a moment, and you are mourning yourself.”
Bruce pauses, only just realising that if he can smell them then they could smell and decipher him just as easily. He takes a deep breath, trying to hide his feelings just as he would’ve before, debating if telling the truth could help in any way - if it would be his logic speaking or his emotions. Before he comes to a conclusion however, he hears the padding of several sets of feet. Rushed. Loud. Running.
“Mama!” One distinct voice shouts and Bruce’s eyes widen immediately, breath hitched, heart beating painfully within his chest. He looks in the direction of the voice and feels a sob in his throat, tastes it just the same as the bile.
“Jaylad.” Bruce whispers as he looks at the man standing just outside the pile, feels a whine build in his throat and he finds he does not have the energy to swallow it.
Jason immediately drops to his knees and climbs into the nest, looking over Bruce with the care of someone who loves him. Bruce stares at a face that had only ever looked at him with disgust or disappointment up until the moment it was too late to apologise and start anew. At a face long matured, still covered in too many scars, that now stares at him panicked and concerned.
“Mama. We-we thought-” Jason swallows and looks Bruce in the eyes, staring wide. He takes a deep breath in and frowns worriedly, leaning forward to press his face into Bruce’s neck. He wraps an arm around the back of Jason’s neck, brushes through the small curls at the base.
“Jay. Give mama a moment. He might have a concussion.” Tim.
Bruce stares at the rest of the figures. Dick sat squat staring at him just an arm’s length away, Tim and Cass stood just behind, heads tilted, and Damian already crawling into the pile and settling against Bruce’s uninjured side.
Bruce grips tightly at Damian’s arm, stares at all the faces before him, remembers vividly how he’d seen them last. Remembers the screams, his own children’s blood painting the ground, their bones in positions they shouldn’t be allowed to settle into. Their own home turned into rubble, into a cemetery that held the cold corpses of his children. The fact that out of all of them, he was the one to survive. A failure weighing more than any of his successes, a scale tipping one way so far it promises him hell.
Dick’s face appears in view, softly shushing Bruce, his fingers wiping away tears that fall. Jason rubs at his legs and thighs, almost like he’s trying to soothe the tension out of the muscle.
“Mama?” Cass whispers. A whine like no other leaves Bruce, a painful rattling against his ribs, and the children all stare wide eyed for a moment before clambering into the pile, trying to be as close to Bruce as possible.
Damian and Tim sit on his lap, heads leaning on Bruce’s chest. Jason settles closer on one side, splaying a hand on Bruce’s thigh. Dick is on his other and throws a leg over Bruce’s. Cass quickly slithers behind him, settles Bruce’s head against her own lap and brushes away at his tangled, sweaty hair.
Their scents bury into him.
Love. Worry. Care.
Alfred watches softly from the sidelines, hand wrapped around Bruce’s ankle.
“Mama.” Dick presses a kiss to Bruce’s cheek. “You’re okay. Everyone is here.”
Jason lets out a rumble, pressing his face into Bruce’s neck. “You have to tell us what happened.” He noses under Bruce’s jaw.
“You stink.” Damian says bluntly, looking up at Bruce worriedly.
A soft trill pushes forth from Bruce’s mouth, a call for his children to come closer. They stare amongst each other, gaze flickering worriedly between each face and then settling on Bruce once more whose eyes are clenched shut. He’s breathing heavily, chest rising unnaturally fast, hands wrapped tightly around the wrists of his two oldest sons.
“Mama.” Cass whispers softly, nuzzling worriedly at Bruce’s cheek, hands wrapping gently under his jaw. His eyes open and look at her softly, contrasting with the erratic way his heart beats under Tim’s hand.
“You have to calm down. You’ll send yourself into a drop if you panic so much.” Dick lifts Bruce’s hand and settles it on his own chest. “Deep breaths.” And Bruce easily follows along, slowly settling down as he copies his oldest’s breathing. His eyes are slightly glazed over as he stares at the ceiling, the faces of all his children around him like a circle of flowers.
“I’m okay.” He whispers though his voice is hoarse and he realises that annoyingly the tears have come back, flowing down his cheeks in never ending streams, staining Cass’s leggings and yet she says nothing as she carefully wipes them away.
Bruce settles in amongst the clothes, pressing his nose against Jason’s shoulder, reminding himself that all of his children were alive. That he has to hold himself together to avoid suspicion, he has a chance at changing everything in this universe.
“Master Bruce. We need to check if you have a concussion before you can relax.” Alfred’s voice sounds out with a tight squeeze around Bruce’s ankle.
“No concussion. Just tired.” Bruce whispers out. His children look down curiously.
“Tired? You?” Dick says with a small smile. Bruce huffs and looks up at him before rolling his eyes.
He knows how long it’s been since he’s slept - 73 hours and 57 minutes - but he knows his children do not. His exhaustion is purely mental from weeks of standing post and fighting, sleep coming in the form of hour long naps whenever he could afford it; he hasn’t slept since Cass was killed, the last one who had been left of his little birds.
He’d stayed up working with Hal Jordan of all people, Black Canary, and Supergirl, trying to come to a conclusive plan that could work amongst the last of them standing. The four of them and a handful of magic users - three of whom were students of Zatanna’s.
He’d stayed up for nothing ultimately, as within the week everyone but him had been plucked one by one, killed no matter how powerful or resilient. His only choice became to transfer himself in the hopes of saving another Earth from his same fate.
“Master Bruce?” He blinks, realising that they’d all been calling him, awaiting a response for a question he didn’t hear. He hums softly and looks at Cass for guidance. She merely smiles when Alfred repeats his question.
“I was asking if you’d like a shower before going to bed, Master Bruce.” Bruce hums and nods, feeling the phantom dirt of weeks without a proper shower on his skin.
“Very well.” Alfred smiles and squeezes his ankle one last time before walking upstairs. The rest of the children take that as the perfect opportunity to start pressing closer, tittering about and whispering amongst themselves.
Damian presses against his chest and hums, lifting his head expectantly. Bruce smiles and brushes a hand through coarse black hair, trailing a finger down the boy’s small nose.
“The wound?” Cass gestures with her head at Bruce’s abdomen.
“Superficial. As long as I don’t pull at the stitching it will be fine.” Bruce smiles softly. Cass nods slowly as her eyes trace over Alfred’s handiwork.
“You shouldn’t have gone out on patrol today.” Tim has his phone in hand, looking through something with scrutiny. “Your heat only ended two days ago.” Dick whines softly and lays his head on Bruce’s shoulder.
“Why wasn’t I told? I would’ve come.” Dick pouts as his words come out in a childish voice.
“Because we didn’t want you there.” Jason sticks his tongue out teasingly before smirking when Dick lets out a shrill squeal.
Bruce only looks on lovingly, eyes fluttering shut as the background noise and the soft smell of playful loving scents lulls him to sleep. He feels safe, comforted, and for the first time in weeks he’s hearing the voices of his children when not shrouded by screams or the cracking of bones.
“Mama.” Cass nuzzles against his ear. “Bath is ready.”
Bruce presses his nose against her cheek and nuzzles her. He opens his eyes once Tim and Damian crawl off his lap, the two of them looking expectantly at Dick and Jason.
The two oldest boys help Bruce sit up and stand as Cass settles a hand against his back, helping stabilise and keep balance. Bruce huffs a laugh when they all hover around him, trying to help him walk where he doesn’t need it.
“It’s only a small stab wound.” He whispers as they walk up the stairs - Bruce first, Jason, then Dick and Cass falling in step with each other, and lastly Tim and Damian side by side.
“A stab wound nonetheless.” Damian grumbles.
He eases off his shirt with Dick’s help when they make it into his bathroom, realising his arms hurt too much to raise. Dick nuzzles his cheek and immediately disappears out of the bathroom after dropping the shirt in the laundry basket. Bruce stares at his reflection for a moment in confusion, looking at the binder he has on - looser than the ones he had worn in his own youth. Seemingly one meant to support rather than hide. His eyes follow down to the stretch marks on his abdomen, the singular surgical scar just above his pubic bone.
He knows he’s read all about what omegas are capable of, but he didn’t realise he had already experienced it. His fingers trail over the stretch marks and scar almost fascinated - saddened for a moment at the fact he has no memory of carrying, that the experience was once more robbed from him.
From having his eggs stolen in one universe to now being here where he did carry - he shakes his head and forces himself to forget about it. The only thing that matters is that they are all alive.
The bath water is hot once Bruce finally settles into it, feeling his muscles relax and the crick in his neck finally easing away. He tries to find a comfortable position for his back and sighs when he finally finds a way to ensure it doesn’t hurt to lean back on the ceramic walls.
Alfred has even added bath salts, some soap, and a small rubber duck in the corner that looks like Wonder Woman and has Bruce’s eyes crinkling in amusement.
When the water starts turning cold, he stands up and turns on the shower, letting the water drain away as he washes himself off. He scrubs at his skin until his mind finally deems him clean enough, until it’s decided that he’s finally washed away weeks worth of (imaginary) grime and the blood of all his children (which still stains his skin pink, he thinks later, when he looks into the mirror).
“Mama!” All his children scream once he comes out of the bathroom with a pair of sweatpants and a loose shirt, towel wrapped around his neck to catch any drops of water. Dick grins and pats at the space between his legs on the bed, waiting until Bruce has settled to help dry his hair.
Once done, the towel is thrown to the side onto the armchair close to the window, and his children grab at him until he lays in the center of his bed, a child grabbing on every limb.
Jason has seemingly made it his mission to get as much of his body on Bruce, despite the fact he is almost bigger in size. Dick is wrapped around Bruce’s middle and leg, nuzzling at a sliver of skin revealed when his shirt lifted during the struggle. Tim is sitting with his back to the headboard, computer on his lap, and yet his leg is wrapped around Bruce’s arm. Cass presses herself into Bruce’s side until the arm wrapped by Tim’s leg wraps around her as well. Her hand is on his chest, as though she is ensuring his pulse stays steady. Damian is sitting on Bruce’s thigh with his sketchbook over his lap, grumbling about how easy it is to pull stitches especially when the skin is as damaged as Bruce’s.
Eventually, light conversation arises amongst the pups and Bruce is all too happy to remain silent (save for the few purrs and chuffs that leave his lips) and instead listen to how they all are.
Mourning. Grief. Betrayal.
“Mama.” Tim interrupts everyone’s conversations suddenly, his scent blooming within the room, eyes lifting off of his screen and onto Bruce. “Why didn’t you tell us?” Tears well up in his eyes, bottom lip being bitten to stop him trembling. Bruce’s eyes widen as he immediately scrambles to get to Tim, shuffling everyone into a random position until he gets his arms wrapped around Tim. He croons and chirps, trying to comfort and calm instinctively.
“Timbit?” Jason whispers worriedly at the same time a whine leaves Tim’s throat.
“Y-you lied! You said it was a system malfunction!” Everyone freezes immediately at Tim’s words, staring at Bruce as he continues trying to calm his pup. Tim glares at Bruce and nuzzles against his neck.
“We need to get you to a hospital. Your heart might again-“ Bruce shushes him softly, pressing his face into Tim’s hair.
“I’m okay. I promise.” A purr rumbles through his chest, strong enough to vibrate through Tim until he settles and relaxes against Bruce’s chest.
“You lied.” Tim whispers. “Did you forget the cowl has a recording function?” He had. Amongst the exhaustion, the anxiety, the relief at seeing his children, seeing Alfred, the pain, the grief that still carried itself over his shoulders like a gargoyle, he had forgotten his own protocols. He had forgotten that Tim had a habit of checking it as soon as it was available in the system.
Damian growls lowly as he looks at Bruce in anguish. “You lied?! Why?”
“I didn’t want to worry you all. I’m okay after all.”
Dick stares at him in shock as Jason wraps a hand around Bruce’s bicep.
“Your heart…actually stopped?” Dick asks, sitting on his knees just a breath away from Bruce, staring at his hands between his legs in pure agony.
Bruce winces slightly and sighs, sitting up carefully with Tim still in his arms. His eyes glance at the computer screen still open to the footage from the cowl, hand raising to close it but Cass is faster, swiping it away and closer to herself. She turns it around and looks intently at the screen, trying to make sense of what she sees, the perspective from Bruce’s own eyes.
Damian is looking over her shoulder as Dick settles next to her and Jason crawls his way over with a warning glance at Bruce to stay put. Jason’s teeth are clenched as the recording shows a fight even Bruce doesn’t know of, hadn’t experienced himself - he only knows the result. A sad death in a disgusting dark alley that no one walked by.
Dick’s face is scrunched, holding back tears, lip trembling, hands clenched on his thighs and he stares up at Bruce as though he’s been betrayed.
“H-how? How were you so…” easily defeated. Is what he wants to say but refuses to admit, and Bruce himself finds he doesn’t have an answer because he doesn’t know.
Tim has started to settle down against Bruce’s chest, ear carefully listening to his heart beat, making sure it’s healthy, and feeling surprised at the fact it sounds so strong.
“What is that?” Cass whispers, pointing at the computer screen. Jason leans closer and narrows his eyes, staring questioningly at the object in front of Bruce in the recording.
“It’s floating?” Jason questions and looks up at Bruce weirdly, like he isn’t sure he’s seeing it correctly. Bruce sighs and nods, looking away to stare at the wall shamefully.
“Mama.” Jason starts softly, voice wavering slightly. “What happened?” It’s posed as a question but Bruce shows Jason well enough to know that it’s a demand. That, and the scent coming off of him says Tell me. Tell us.
“Nothing. Just…” Bruce breathes in deeply, trying to think of a way that would explain away everything that has seemed off about him up until this very moment, but he’s tired of lying. He has tried it before, time and time again, and it has failed him every time.
“I don’t know how…” he hesitates, staring at the wall, as though the words would be carved in for him to say. Dick whines and crawls next to Bruce, grabbing the man’s hand to rub circles into Bruce’s wrist with his thumb. Tim huffs and hides in Bruce’s neck, hands tightening where they’re clutching at the man’s shirt. Jason sighs but crawls closer, sitting behind Bruce and leaning forward to press his forehead against Bruce’s shoulder. Damian and Cass look at each other for a moment before nodding and making their way in front of Bruce, sitting patiently.
Bruce knows they’ve done this for comfort, but also so he has no way of escaping this, of running away to hide. But he also finds himself not wanting to cause any misunderstandings, realises he doesn’t actually want to run away, that he wants them to know.
“We have time, ma.” Jason murmurs, closing his eyes and settling in comfortably.
“Start with the facts?” Tim asks carefully, looking at Bruce as though the man holds all the answers to the universe.
“I am not…” Bruce grits his teeth, scared at whatever reaction may come, that the knowledge of the fact he is not this universe’s Bruce will result in him being alone once more.
“When I got hurt,” he starts, closing his eyes to avoid looking into any of theirs, “I did die.” He feels the way everyone freezes immediately, knows that none of them like hearing the admission out of his mouth (as if he’s admitting he committed a grave sin), and believes for a moment that maybe he shouldn’t continue.
“More specifically, your Bruce died.” He murmurs out with a defeated tone.
Damian grabs at Bruce’s pant leg, grips firm enough the cloth threatens to rip, and growls quietly deep within his throat.
“What are you-?” Damian stops and stares, betrayed and saddened.
“I am from…another universe. Where you all died. Where everyone died.” Bruce forces the words out, refuses to keep any of his kids in the dark of a potential future enemy.
“I am here because I’m trying to stop the same thing from happening again.” He emphasises in case any of them do not believe him, because he doesn’t know how he could prove it if they don’t.
“I am still the same. I am still Bruce. I will always…be your father. I hope.” He pauses for a moment and chews over the words that cling to his teeth like caramel, the words that threaten to come out like bile, but he swallows them and stops himself. There’s only so much he can say before it turns into nonsense.
Bruce hears shuffling but stays still, teeth creaking within his mouth, heart battering along his throat.
“Mother.” Dick says finally and Bruce turns towards him suddenly, eyes staring into the other’s wide and confused.
“Our mother,” Dick reiterates. “You will always be our mother.” He corrects.
The purr leaves Bruce’s throat immediately at that, forcing itself past the sob that bubbles in his throat. Dick smiles sadly and presses his wrist to the man’s, scent glands rubbing and sharing scent.
“Every version of you is still annoyingly vague,” Jason whispers, hiding his face in Bruce’s neck. “Still ma to me.”
The sob leaves then - the ugly, loud, painful thing it is - and the pups make it their mission to surround Bruce, to hold onto him as though there is a chance of him ever breaking apart.
“Explain more.” Cass mutters, lips pressed to Bruce’s forehead. “So we can understand better.”
Bruce grits his teeth and forces himself to calm down, forces his emotions down and lets his strategic mind take control: “In my universe,” he starts, “a being called the Anti-Monitor appeared. We weren’t able to stop him.” His words leave his lips as though scripted - it is information he knows by heart, it is a vision seared into his eyelids, it is sounds he will hear whenever it becomes too quiet.
The pups only listen quietly, staring unseeing at something if only to process every word, every moment described to them in perfect imitation. Every crack of a bone, every blood stain, every scream, every horrible image that Bruce will never be able to bury - not with the bodies of his children still lying amongst the rubble some universe far away.
“So you…” Tim pauses and stares at Bruce’s chest, hand over the man’s heart. “You took over once mama’s body was…”
Bruce nods mournfully. “The device was made to only occupy the body of someone who had recently died.” He swallows and pushes air out of his nostrils. “Your…mother would have died regardless.” He says softly.
“What about your heart now?” Jason grips at Bruce’s shoulder, head peeking from behind the man’s neck.
“It’s fine. I believe. All functions should have restarted once I…converged.”
“We need to check!” Damian grits out, staring at Tim expectantly, who only nods back in agreement.
“We need to monitor. Double check all functions.” He pipes up, staring up at Bruce. The man sighs but nods, brushing a hand through Tim’s hair, tucking a strand behind the boy’s ear.
“What kind of memories do you have of us? What were we like there?” Dick tries to change the subject once the scent of mourning starts filling the room.
“Very different. There were no scents in my universe. We weren’t so close. I was never…able to communicate.”
“You communicate fine now.” Jason huffs.
“I’m…trying.” Bruce chuffs, half self-deprecating, half mournful of limitless possibilities (of ways he could have been better).
“Good.” Damian mutters, arms crossed, eyes staring at a spot on the wall over Bruce’s head.
“What about designations then? Since there were no scents?” Dick asks curiously, head leaning on Bruce’s shoulder, hands entertaining together to play with the older man’s fingers.
“None of that. The entire population was equivalent to…betas?”
The pups nod and hum, thinking over several questions they need to ask - both for the sake of curiosity and survival.
The pack bond has cracked, not by anyone’s fault, but it has become a tightly spun thread threatening to break at any moment. It is up to only them now, to learn to adapt and fix what breaks can be filled - to reimagine memories made with a person who is no longer there, but always will be.
It’s still him, but it’s no longer a version they knew so intimately.