A/N: I apologize for the long absence! I've been extrememly busy. Junior year is hell, especially when this idiot decided to take AP classes. I've been tired constantly, so my motivation has been down. But I got the idea for this one-shot so I went ahead and wrote it. I hope you guys enjoy my sleep-deprivation fueled angst.
It had been two weeks to the day.
Two weeks since Bruce had slept soundly.
Two weeks since he could close his eyes without being assaulted by images of his son's bloody corpse.
Two weeks since he last held Damian in his arms.
Two weeks since it happened.
Alfred can barely look him in the eye these days. Bruce doesn't blame him, really. He can barely look himself in the eye. The stubble beginning to bloom on his cheeks is evidence enough of his recent disdain for mirrors.
Dick won't pick up his phone or respond to emails. Even Babs can't be ahold of him. Bruce's best guess is that he's on a downward spiral of self-blame. It's something that was instilled in him from an early age.
Another fault of Bruce's.
Tim and Jason have been kind enough to pick up some patrol shifts in Gotham in Batman's absence. Not from Bruce's asking, though. The two have avoided the Manor like the plague, even more than usual. They've avoided their communicators even more. Their extra patrols in Gotham are an unspoken agreement between the two, a quiet act of selflessness.
Bruce knows he has to get back into the field soon. Two weeks was far too long to shelve Batman. Criminals might start to get too bold in his absence.
But he secretly fears going back out into the field without his Robin by his son. Not because he fears jumping into battle without his Robin there to protect him; he's not deluded. What he fears is seeing his son's death become real to him.
He turns onto his side, the couch creaking with his effort. He's not usually one for resting in the afternoon, but he can't seem to muster up enough energy to get up today. He's stuck in a constant state of restless limbo; not able to sleep, not able to move, not able to eat, not able to do much of anything but just be.
What right does he have to be happy when he's the reason his son died?
The clatter of nails on the hardwood floor signals the presence of Damian's Great Dane, Titus. Lately, the dog has been restless, searching for the master who would never come home.
Bruce reaches out and pets Titus behind the ears, earning a pleased sound from the massive dog. He nudges Bruce's forearm with his wet nose, trying to snuggle closer to him like he used to do with Damian. The dog is one of Bruce's last tethers to his son, and he's not about to let that go. He knows Damian would never forgive him if he didn't take care of his pets in his absence.
The dog whines and gently nips at Bruce's sleeve, appearing agitated. Bruce furrows his brow, sitting up on the couch.
"What is it, boy?" he asks, his voice hoarse from lack of use. Titus just continues pulling at Bruce's sleeve with his teeth, trying to pull him off the couch. Bruce finally catches on that Titus wants him to follow, most likely to Damian's room to search for him again. He knows that what Titus was searching for could never be found, but still, he humors the dog each time.
It takes an embarrassing amount of effort for him to lift himself off the couch to follow the dog. Stars swim across his vision when he finally gets to his feet. It's been at least a week since he has used any of his training equipment. His eating and sleeping habits have also take a turn for the worse, if that's even possible. He'll have to get back in routine soon, or risk Alfred killing him.
Tomorrow. He'll do it tomorrow.
Titus takes him down the hall, towards the last door on the right. Bruce's heart stammers in his chest as Titus claws desperately at the heavy oak door. He's been avoiding the room like the plague ever since… well, ever since.
He's terrified of going into the room and seeing Damian's too small bed, his too small clothes, his too small shoes, all of Dick's old shirts that he'll never grow into now. He's terrified of seeing his son's room and imagining what could have been, if only Damian had been allowed to grow up, only to the thrown back into the cruel reality. But most of all, he's terrified that he'll start crying.
Because if he starts crying, he's not sure he'll ever stop.
With a sigh, he pushes the door open for Titus. The dog slithers in through the crack in the door, and Bruce follows after him. He expects to see Damian's too small bed. His too small shoes laying beside it. His too small shirt draped over a chair. But what greets him instead makes his blood boil.
Damian's bed sheets, his chair, his curtains, are all torn to shreds. Titus obviously dug into them earlier that day to search for his boy. This game of hide and seek had gone on long enough, and Titus just wanted his master back. The dog laid on the carpet, his eyes drooping in sadness.
All Bruce wanted was to capture Damian's room in the exact place where he left it. Like a picture, everything in place. As if Damian never left in the first place. Maybe that way, he could have pretended that Damian was coming back to him. But that damn dog destroyed his shrine.
Bruce growls angrily.
"You stupid dog!" he yells, swiping at Titus's nose. The dog gives a pitiful whimper and backs away from Bruce's wrath, settling into the shredded curtains.
"Can't you see he's gone?!" Bruce continues to shout. "Damian is dead, and he's not coming back! Do you get it now? He's dead!"
His own words hit him like a punch to the stomach. It's the reality he's been trying so hard to avoid. His son is dead. His youngest child, his little boy, his baby is dead, and it's something that he can't change. He'll have to live with it every day for the rest of his life.
He'll never get to watch Damian grow up. He'll never get to give him advice when he gets his first crush. He'll never hug him again, hold him again, tell him how proud he is to be his father just one last time. He'll always be burdened with the knowledge that Damian died scared, in pain, and alone on the edge of a blade. And he wasn't there.
He failed his son even in his final moments, and failed as a father Damian's entire life.
Before he can stop himself, Bruce falls down to his knees. His body feels so heavy, like his limbs are made of lead. Titus slowly edges his way towards him, fearing another punishment. As a test, he nudges his wet nose against Bruce's knee.
Bruce looks up at the dog. Damian's constant companion. Though he's barely a year old, his whiskers seem to have turned white overnight. His eyes droop constantly; from sadness or exhaustion, Bruce can't tell. Logically, Bruce knows that a dog's concept of death is very vague, and Titus may always think Damian is coming home one day. But he wants to pretend, just for a second, that they're suffering this loss together. It makes the pain slightly less suffocating.
He reaches out, lightly petting Titus's head.
"He's gone, Titus," he whispers. Almost as if Titus can understand him, he lets out a painful howl and lays down on Bruce's lap.
When Bruce feels the tears sting at the corners of his eyes, he allows them to fall.
"Our boy is gone."