Chapter Text
Bruce sat in the dark driveway staring at the manor’s single lit window, shoulders aching from the tension he’d been holding all night. The earthy smell of ocean air still lingered on his suit.
He rubbed at the pocket of his utility belt.
The concrete was still warm from the traffickers' exhaust when he’d arrived at the warehouse.
In the center of the floor, surrounded by scuff marks where small shoes had been dragged toward the cargo holds, lay a pink ribbon.
The moment his glove had brushed the velvet, he heard voices. Small, panicked whispers echoing from the back of the building. He had shoved it in his belt and ducked between two wooden crates. For several minutes he sat there, listening, waiting, hoping. Nothing.
He was too late.
Bruce pressed his forehead against the thick steering wheel. If he had just taken the main roads instead of the alleys…
The car keys jingled as he flicked at them, his mind elsewhere. Finally, he grasped them and pulled them out. The dashboard went dark, the engine noise cut, and Bruce sat for just one extra minute in the damning silence before he forced himself to open the door.
Outside, the air was warm, the wind mild, like it was any other summer day. He dug his hands into his pockets and paused at the bottom of the steps. The cave would be too much right now, too similar to the warehouse. He just needed a minute.
Then the front door swung open. Dick stood in the entrance in his superhero pajamas, wide awake and bouncing on the balls of his feet. In his arms, he clutched an overstuffed binder with loose paper spilling from every side.
"Bruce! You're home!" Dick held the binder out in front of him and shook it like an award. A purple triangle of paper fell out from the bottom and Dick’s face scrunched up for a second before he flipped the binder right side up. "I stayed up this whole time! I made you something. Wanna see?"
"Not tonight, chum." Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose and guided Dick out of the doorway with his other hand.
“But Bruce, look!" Dick insisted, stepping back into Bruce's path and planting his feet. He lifted the binder up high. It was a homemade scrapbook, held together by construction paper and what appeared to be half a bottle of glue. “I've been working on it all week. It's really cool, and technically it’s Father’s Day now ‘cause it’s after midnight, so you’ll get to open your gift before all the other dads."
Dick’s tongue poked out between the gap in his teeth, and he grabbed at Bruce’s arm and pulled. Bruce forced his mouth into a smile and let Dick pull him towards the couch. He could look for five minutes.
"Alright. Show me."
Dick's face lit up, puffy eyes crinkling, as he scrambled to the couch, patting the cushion beside him before flipping the cover open.
The first page was colored paper covered in crayon-drawn #1’s and silver star stickers. At the top, thick black marker spelled out Bruce & Me above a photo from a gymnastics meet—Bruce standing beside the podium, Dick holding up his gold trophy.
Bruce stared at the other kids in the background of the photo. Safe. Standing with their parents. If he'd ignored the informant's lead, if he'd just gone straight to the docks…
“Okay, so I got this idea when I was thinkin’ about how Father’s Day was comin’ up and I never really got you anything super special before.” Glitter flaked off the page and onto his pants as he wiggled in his seat. “So then I was like ‘hey my mom liked scrapbooks, so probably all grown-ups like them’, right? See, look at this cool bat I put here, Alfred helped me make a stencil. And look at this-”
Where did they find child-sized cages? If he could find out where those had been purchased, he could get the payment records…
“This next one's really funny ‘cause see it's us at that weirdo guys charity gala,” Dick started before having even flipped to the next page. "Remember they gave me this ribbon? You laughed when they gave it to me and were all like ‘Who gives a kid their old awards to play with’.”
The ribbon. His hand rubbed at the pouch on his utility belt. "It's nice, Dick. I'll look at it tomorrow when I have more time.”
Instead of closing the book, Dick flipped to the next page. A ticket stub from a movie they had half-watched was taped in the corner. “I can go fast, I promise."
"Not tonight. I’m very tired.” He pressed himself up to a stand and rolled his shoulders, back aching with the motion. “It’s been a long night.”
“What if I just skip to the best parts? Like this one, look-” he started to flip ahead two pages at a time, chewing at his bottom lip.
“Dick, please.”
Dick turned another page, then stopped. His gaze rose to Bruce’s eyes then back down to the decorated page in his lap. “Right. Yeah. Sorry, I just thought… yeah, tomorrow, that’ll be better.” He closed the binder and pulled it up to his chest, edges crumpling under his grip.
“Thank you,” Bruce murmured. Then he patted his head twice and ruffled a hand through his soft hair before walking away. He'd make it up to him after he ran the evidence and got some sleep. “Get some rest, chum.”
“Okay… love you. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
The clock door opened with a quiet click. Keeping one hand on the rail, Bruce descended the stairs and went right to the computer. He pulled off his gloves and tossed them on the desk, then reached into his utility belt for the ribbon.
The moment he touched the velvet, an aggressive chill snapped through him, permeating his skin to settle directly in his blood.
Bruce grabbed for a batarang on instinct, but his body refused the order, muscles locking tight against his will. The children’s voices from the warehouse returned, rushing into his mind like a tidal wave. They didn’t sound scared anymore. They sounded angry.
He tried to open his mouth, but it was as if his jaw was wired shut by his own stiff tendons. His mind raced, screaming into the silent room. What’s going on? Why me?
The cave lights began to flicker rapidly as the overlapping whispers faded and an older, clear voice manifested directly in his consciousness.
“You couldn’t save them. But he can still be saved."
The cave went dark.