Gifts From the Sea, a Batman fanfic by Raberba girl
Batfam Bingo 2019: AU: Zoo
Chapter 23 - Abyss (rough draft 2)
The traffickers were caught and arrested two days later. They were a smaller branch of the organization that had kidnapped Jason before, struggling to continue their operation after the main hub had been gutted by the Justice League.
Bruce raced down to the station, feeling sick and hollow at the news that they'd been found in a warehouse full of seal skins. No one would let him past the lobby, but as he paced, waiting for a detective to meet with him, two officers came out, escorting a familiar blonde woman.
Bruce immediately stepped to block their way. She smiled fiercely at him, triumphant despite her black eye and the handcuffs. "He's dead," she spat at him.
Something inside Bruce broke and crumbled away. The shell that was left growled, with emotion in its voice that Bruce felt none of, "Why?"
"Because you've won. You people have conquered the earth, there's no fighting you. I burned my own coat and became one of you. I burned my coat and was free." The officers holding her looked at her like she was crazy. "The fools who value a poisoned sea above their own lives deserve to die; but that little bastard? I would have killed him regardless. He's just like his father."
"HE WAS NOTHING LIKE HIS FATHER, YOU MURDERING BITCH!" and the only reason Bruce was thrown out of the station instead of arrested was because he was a Wayne in Gotham City.
He tried to cry on the way home, but couldn't. He couldn't...fucking...feel anything, except churning self-loathing because he had let his son die.
Jason was nothing like Willis Todd, and he was nothing like Bruce Wayne, either. He wasn't an abuser, and he wasn't a failure. He'd been a beautiful little boy, bright with promise and goodness, revealing more and more of it as he'd slowly shed his wariness and started to bloom. He'd been perfect.
...
...
And now he was gone.
o.o.o
There was no point. Staying in Gotham anymore. No point. None. And Dickie needed the sea.
So they left.
o.o.o
"Dad?"
His head hurt. His mouth felt simultaneously slimy and cottony, he was crusted with sand and half-naked. His gut hurt. His feet hurt.
"Daaaad!"
He was lying at the edge of the water, waves reaching up past his waist, mostly-empty bottle still clutched in his hand. He had no recollection of how he'd gotten here. The last thing he remembered, he'd been trying to write a book at three in the morning, but instead of an emotional, tragic story about how he'd taken in a lost selkie, the words his fingers typed had been along the lines of Jason Jason Jason Peter Todd *backspace backspace backspace backspace* Wayne. No, because Waynes are terrible people who deserve to die, except for Martha and Thomas. Jason Peter. What a good boy. They should have cut my skin off and then shot a bullet through my head. That would make a good story. Then he'd stopped for a drink break.
Now it was clearly at least midmorning and he had a hangover on the edge of the sea, and the little merboy who should never have trusted him needed something but he had nothing left to give.
"Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad," Dick whined, poking at him.
"Don't call me that. Go away."
"B, you went away. You look like you're here but you're not, you're gone, and I'm scared. I'm sad for Jay and there's no one to be sad with me, just you being scary. You are not dead, so get up and be alive!"
"No." Bruce rolled over, his back to Dick. Maybe he should call Arthur. Dick kept saying he didn't want to go every time Bruce tried to send him to a functioning adult who could take care of him, but the king of the sea could make him go. Bruce didn't have the energy.
"What's wrong with you?!"
Bruce thrashed to face him again, scattering sand and sending pain crackling through his head and body. "MY SON FUCKING DIED. THAT'S WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME."
"...Were you like this when you left me in Atlantis?"
"No." He'd been able to write a book then. He'd gotten drunk, but not this drunk. He had left Dick safe and happy. He had left Jason scared and tortured and dead.
Dick's face closed off. "You love him more than me."
"I don't love anyone." Because his heart was dead, along with everything else about him that mattered.
Dick flicked his tail. "Okay," he said through gritted teeth. "You don't want me anymore. I'm going to Atlantis."
"Don't get killed on the way." Bruce flopped back into the sand and buried his face in his arm.
When he looked up again, it was hot and the sun was searing; the tide had lowered enough for the sand around him to be dry. He was badly sunburned. It had only felt like about ten or fifteen minutes, but he had to have been lying here for hours. "...Dick?"
He forced himself to his feet, which took a long time and hurt, but he deserved all the pain. He had to pull hard to get the bottle out of the sand. 'Don't litter. It'll fill up the sea and kill Dick someday, and then he'll be dead like Jason. My son is dead. My son is dead.'
Bruce lurched up the beach to the house, but Dick was nowhere to be found. He called Arthur. "Dick...left..."
"He's here, Bruce." The king's voice was gentle. "He arrived a little while ago. He's safe. Are you all right?"
"My son was murdered by his own mother."
"I'm sorry, Bruce. Stupid question. I'm sorry. I meant, Dick was very upset, it took him a while to calm down and he only just told us about...you a few minutes ago. I can send someone-"
"No," Bruce snarled.
"What about Clark, or Dian-?"
"LEAVE ME ALONE, STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME," Bruce shouted, slamming the button to disconnect the call. He'd just wanted to make sure Dick was safe, that he'd only killed one son instead of both of them.
He sat there for a while, his head hanging. Then he went to go hit his punching bag for a while.
o.o.o
Perhaps Bruce should have expected it, but he wasn't exactly in good working order. He blinked blearily up at the worried face hovering over him, and he figured out that he was curled up at the base of a large potted plant by the pool before he finally recognized the alien. "Clark. Go away."
"Bruce, I- What-"
Bruce shifted around the plant, hiding from the sun.
Clark cautiously followed. "I'm so- I know it's nowhere near enough, but I'm so sorry, Bruce. I wasn't even on Earth for the past few weeks, I got back and Arthur told me Jason-"
"SHUT UP."
"Bruce-"
"SHUT UP. GO AWAY."
There was a long silence, then Bruce sensed the other man settling down nearby, presumably to keep him company. Bruce willed himself back to sleep to escape, hoping Clark would be discouraged enough to leave.
He thought, when he next woke, that it had worked, but it turned out that Clark had actually moved him to his bed and was now cleaning the living room. A pot in the kitchen filled the downstairs floor with the smell of warm soup.
"GET OUT."
"Bruce-"
"GET OUT."
"We're worried about you, Bru-"
Bruce hurled a book at him, and as if it had flipped a switch, he started seizing everything he could get his hands on and throwing them at the alien. Clark tried to catch them all and set them down fairly gently, but then Bruce got close enough to throw a punch. Clark tried to dodge, but he was caught off guard and Bruce's clenched fingers still grazed him. A moment later, the fingers started to throb in dull pain, and Bruce stared at them.
"You'll break your own hand if you hit me," Clark said, almost apologetically. "Bruce, come on, let me-"
Bruce swung out again, harder this time. Then Clark was struggling frantically to stop Bruce from shattering his own body against him, and they finally ended up with Clark fully restraining him on the floor. Even then, Bruce wrenched at the iron-firm grip as if possessed, and Clark, alarmed at the sounds he could probably hear his friend's muscles and tendons and joints making, flew upward and hovered by the ceiling.
Bruce stared up at him. "If I owned a gun," he said in a dead voice, "I'd shoot you."
Clark believed him. He also knew that Bruce was smart enough, even in his grief, to know that he himself would be the one at risk from ricocheting bullets. "...All right. I'll leave, for now. But we're your friends, Bruce, and we're not going to let you kill yourself."
He flew away then, and Bruce thought that was the end of it. But then he started getting texts a few times a day, mostly from Clark but also from the rest of the Justice League. He found that it was easier to reply to them, pretending to be doing all right. If he ignored the messages or lost his temper, he'd get visitors trying to bully him into doing things he didn't want to do, like eating or changing into clean clothes or sleeping in a bed. Typing i'm okay and a made-up detail or two about what he'd presumably accomplished during the day was easier.
We are here for you whenever you need us, Bruce, Diana messaged more than once.
thank u. appreciate it, Bruce messaged back. "Fuck you all," he said out loud, tossing the phone away and relieved to have a few hours of respite before the next text.
o.o.o
He cried a little as he sat there on the kitchen floor, eating a protein bar. The hunger had finally been too strong to resist, and as he thought back, he realized that he hadn't eaten anything in at least five days. Twice he had found himself lying in bed with literally not enough energy to move, and he realized he might really die if he kept this up.
There was no one else here. No one to take care of and make sure he took care of himself as well. If he didn't do something, he might actually die.
It took at least an hour or two, but Bruce was finally able to force himself to write up a schedule.
8:00 - Eat something
After that - Brush teeth
9:00 - Train
11:00 - Shower
12:00 - Eat something
12:30 - Train
17:00 - Do one household chore
18:00 - Watch The Gray Ghost
20:30 - Brush teeth
After that - Go to bed
The schedule worked for one day. He skipped lunch, did only half a chore, and ended up marathoning The Gray Ghost until three in the morning, but more or less, he stuck to the schedule.
The next day, he couldn't get out of bed, so he went back to sleep and started his day at 13:00. His training was half-hearted, he stood under the shower spray but couldn't lift his hands to wash himself, ate two bites of food, then went back to bed.
A crack of thunder woke him up. Bruce squinted through bleary eyes for a while before finally registering the lightning and heavy rain visible through the window. A while later, he managed to drag himself upright, then just sat there on the edge of the bed for a while, listening to the wind pummel the house.
Then he shuffled to the kitchen for a drink. He could never seem to make it to the mainland these days, so he'd arranged to have his mail and supplies delivered, left in boxes on the dock so he wouldn't have to see or speak to whoever brought them.
Setting down the bottle, Bruce lurched out the front door and down the beach, not pausing when waves broke over his feet except to stumble. He walked as far as he could, hammered on every side by the force of angry water. He closed his eyes and pushed off every time his feet touched the bottom. His throat and nose stung, and he wondered if he'd have second thoughts about this when he started drowning.
He did, sort of, or rather his body did, struggling desperately to find air, but emotionally, he felt nothing. He gasped whenever his head broke water, and his throat burned even more fiercely when he practically inhaled rain. The ocean kept sucking him back under, and eventually, he died.
o.o.o
Or, he thought he did. He squinted in the harsh sunlight, throat and nose still on fire. He was once again lying half-naked on the beach, storm long over, and he was supposed to have drowned by now but somehow he hadn't, and now he had to live another day with no children.
Dick was gone.
Jason was fucking dead.
Bruce closed his eyes again.
o.o.o
He was sunburned again when he woke up, and he sighed as he dragged himself upright. His stomach roiled; his whole body hurt. He stared despondently down at himself, then frowned in confusion.
There were...tracks, a line of strange bruises running across his chest and upper left arm. Twisting, he could see that they continued on behind him, presumably across his back. Each individual mark was almost perfectly round. He wondered idly if he'd been abducted by aliens and then returned when they were done with him.
It took him maybe an hour to drag himself up the beach into some shade. He ended up falling asleep again on the front porch.
o.o.o
Bruce spent the next morning building a raft like a castaway in a novel. He pushed the cluster of wood into the water and hopped on top. He went out into deep water, then threw the plank he'd been using for a paddle as far as he could. He curled up on his raft and waited to die. He knew it would probably take a very long time, but he had plenty of that. Time was all he had left.
o.o.o
He wasn't sure what woke him up, but once his eyes were open, he couldn't go back to sleep. He rolled the other way and sighed. After a while, he frowned and sat up.
It felt like the raft was moving. Not drifting; moving, slowly but purposefully. Bruce stared, trying to figure out whether the sensation was real or imagined. He tore out his pocket and set the scrap of cloth in the water beside the raft in order to have something to gauge by.
The raft was moving, as if it had a silent, invisible, weak motor. Bruce frowned and stuck his hand in the water, dragging it around the whole perimeter, but he couldn't feel anything solid. He sat there in disbelief and watched the shore grow gradually closer and closer. There was one last, extra thrust, and the raft ground to a halt as it hit the sand, bobbing gently.
After a long moment, Bruce stood up. He turned and faced the sea, which was apparently sentient and refused to indulge his death wish. He raised his middle finger, then stomped up to the house to see if he had any alcohol left.
TBC
Gifts From the Sea, a Batman fanfic by Raberba girl
Batfam Bingo 2019: AU: Zoo
Chapter 24 - Courage (rough draft 2)
Useless had to go up on land, and he was scared. No one went on land except to die. But Dick(ie) and Robin/Jason/Jay did not die, so maybe Useless wouldn't, either.
But he was still scared.
Useless rode the waves to the bare sand and then lay there, fingers scrunching into it. He crawled, pushing with his tentacles and pulling with his arms. He crawled and crawled, feeling light and bare and unsafe. There was nothing here to protect him, nothing to hide in.
He traveled past the reach of the waves and the sand started to...stick. To his fingers, his belly, his tentacles; itchy grains sticking and not going away, no water to wash them off.
He hated the feeling, and he was scared. But...he had to keep going, because B/Dad/Bruce was too sad, and he did not want B/Dad/Bruce to be sad and die.
After a while, the sand stopped being just uncomfortable and started to make him feel sore. His hands hurt, dragging along, and his tentacles hurt, trying to stick to and explore things and getting scraped. 'Keep going,' Useless thought. It would be okay (probably...) once he found B/Dad/Bruce.
There was the tall thing, the not-rocks, so colorful and strange. Useless paused and stared at it, quivering. 'Humans are inside.' One human. B/Dad/Bruce was inside. B/Dad/Bruce was a human. There were supposed to be humans in the thing. Useless already knew he was going to a place with humans, so it was stupid to be so scared.
He crawled and crawled. His tentacles were so tired and hurt that they were dragging now, limp. His fingers and palms hurt, his skin was raw and itched and hurt. He hurt.
The brown stuff was worse than the sand. It bit little tiny teeth into him that wouldn't let go. Useless whimpered and looked at his scratched up hands and tentacles and belly. He touched the opening-thing, but it didn't open. He wanted to cry because he was so stupid.
The not-rocks thing made lights when there were people inside. Useless dragged himself back to the sand, stinging and sticking, and looked up, searching for lights. There was a light, up. High.
He lay his head down on the sand, wanting to die. He couldn't reach. He had come to stop B/Dad/Bruce from dying, but now he was dying instead. He really was useless, useless.
He made his arms move again. He pulled himself under a bit of shelter, curled up, and waited to die.
TBC
A/N: They are technically called "arms," but I need a way to distinguish his human arms from his mer ones, so I'm going with "tentacles" for the latter.
